November 16, 1939
Wilhelmshaven, Germany
Pier 7
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"We spent thirty days at sea this time around, three more than our last." The weary twenty-seven-year-old looked the interviewer in the eyes.
The interviewer couldn't help but notice the dark bags underneath Norst Nennhaus' piercing blue eyes. Even though Nennhaus was a captain of a U-Boat in the Kriegsmarine- where he was far away from the combat in Poland- the interviewer still saw the same stoic look he had seen in troops returning from the frontlines. Perhaps the officer had seen more this time around, something that ate away at him just a bit more this time. Quickly writing his thoughts down on his notepad, the interviewer returned to the conversation with the captain.
"Mr. Nennhaus, what were those thirty days like for you?" The reporter asked keenly waiting for an answer.
"Son," Norst Nennhaus said as he buried his hands and face deeper into his dark gray peacoat, "out of thirty days, we spent at least fifteen of them fighting our way through North Atlantic gales. The wind, waves, and rain were nothing like you'll experience on land. If it weren't for the fine engineers that put together the submarine, we would've never returned home! However, we weren't worried about the storms at all. We were constantly looking for a British destroyer to appear like a ghost out of the fog."
"When you weren't fighting through the gales, what were you doing?"
Suddenly, Norst became somber. His face turned even darker than it had been before.
"Trying not to die. We didn't care that our food was moldy or that we hadn't had a single pair of clean underwear for twenty days. All we cared about was making sure that we didn't end up as the next boat lost in this war."
"I see the loss of your comrades has affected you heavily, sir." The reporter remarked.
"Well, Gelhaar's and Beduhn's boats were all lost in the past couple of weeks. That's sixty-six young boys right there. All gone. Mr. Beduhn was in my graduating crew. He was a fine fellow gone too soon."
"Surely, you made up for it!" the reporter grinned foolishly and pointed at the Iron Cross pinned right below Norst's left breast pocket.
Norst Nennhaus fell silent as he recalled all he had killed for the glory.
"Mr. Nennhaus, the Admiral told me you sank just shy of 29,500 tons of shipping. That is a lot, no?" The reporter inquired once more, this time with less ignorance.
"Yes, it's a lot. We sank one freighter just outside of Scapa Flow that burnt for hours. We first detected the freighter just at sunset and tracked her for ten kilometers before engaging. I fired two torpedoes at her from less than one thousand meters away. Both torpedoes hit her amidships and a brilliant fireball erupted from her hull. Searchlights immediately came on and I could see an oil slick on the water. A fire burned for hours upon that oil slick as her searchlights combed the sea for us. Once she went down, I surfaced the submarine and saw no survivors. Just burnt-up, bloated corpses. There was only one survivor, but he died on our deck. His face was burned so badly there was no way he could've made it back alive."
"I see, I see..." the reporter said as scribbled the word "GRUESOME" in his notepad. "How would you say the war is going?"
"It's too early to say for certain. Both sides are making gains, but I'm positive that our Fuher will lead the German Fatherland to victory." Norst said, almost robotically.
The reported reached for his briefcase and stuffed the notepad inside. "Forgive me, but I must leave. I'll let you know if I decide to publish your story." The reporter said as he reached out his hand for a handshake.
Norst willingly obliged in the gentlemanly gesture, returning the handshake with a "Goodbye, sir."
Now, he waits for his next voyage to sea.