Still alive and writing.
Toying with six novels, actively working on three, making way-less progress than I ought in these 'fun' times. Slid Nod Blake's second sequel aside for a few days to put some finishing touches on the opening chapter of my haunted U-boat novel. For those interested, here's that first chapter... just to prove I'm still alive and writing.
Chapter 1 – Tuskar Rock
The dark of night. A blustery wind. A swirling fog stabbed there, and there, and there by blades of pale moonlight. The tropes of a Gothic mystery were all in place. But this was no Gothic mystery. It was a true tale of terror with quite a different setting, for this mystery would unfold at sea.
Seven miles off the southeast coast of County Wexford, Ireland, a collection of jagged rocks jutted menacingly from the sea. The Vikings, in the Old Norse, called this island Tu Skar. Meaning, simply and precisely, 'Large Rock'. The Irish had never changed it. Since man first sailed, Tuskar had crushed passing ships for pleasure and drowned their crews for sport. When men fought back, with the October 1812 start of construction of a lighthouse, the elements conspired with a tempest that killed fourteen workers and washed away their barracks. The few survivors clung to the wet rocks for days praying for rescue. But men persevered and a granite lighthouse arose on Tuskar. Standing 120 feet tall, it began operation in June 1815. Still, ships continued to meet their doom. By the start of The Great War, known now as World War I, over one hundred vessels had gone to wreck and ruin near craggy Tuskar. Seafarers sailed those waters in fear.
Well they might.
On Halloween night, 31 October 1917, three years into The Great War, something more terrifying than rocks lurked beneath the waves of the Irish coastal waters, threatening hazard to passing ships and Heaven or Hell to vulnerable sailors.
The men aboard the Skagul were ignorant of danger as they sailed from the Irish Sea into the foggy moonlit waters southwest of Tuskar. Suddenly, off their port bow, the ocean surface churned.
It is not recorded which among the sailors first noticed the behemoth emerge from the depths. One soon did. “Sea monster!” he shouted (in their native tongue). The ship’s startled compliment raced on deck in alarm. Their captain called the men back to stations to restore order, then, “Hard to starboard!” in hopes of escape. In the seconds it took for his crew to respond the captain found his binoculars and strained through the swirl of gray for his own look at the thing in their way. He focused his lenses and realized escape was impossible. That first cry of “Sea monster” had been joined by others and echoed about the deck of Skagul. The captain shook his head miserably. If only the leviathan before them were a mythological horror; if only!
The reality was far worse. The nightmare's square black head rose above massive shoulders sluicing seawater like rain as the behemoth settled on the surface. A real monster on the war-time sea, a U-boat of the Kaiserliche Marine, the Imperial German Navy.
The only hope for his crew, Skagul’s frightened captain knew, was immediate surrender. With trembling lips he ordered his men to drop anchor and lower their sails.
The wheel in the hatch cover atop the German submarine’s conning tower rotated. The hatch came open with a heavy clank. A sailor appeared from below; the boat’s first officer (an Oberleutnant zur See by the rank on his cap). He climbed up and out into the night. Rumpled and unshaven, dark and rugged, he stepped to the command station at the forward bulkhead, lifted a pair of binoculars and gazed through the fog and moon glow at the waylaid ship.
Echoes arose below; voices the first knew to be the shrill exclamations of the submarine’s war pilot interrupted by the terse replies of their commander coming up the ladder. The captain appeared in the hatchway, climbed out, and joined the first up top. He was a handsome opposite, blond and bold, hard and humorless. Coming abreast of his first officer, the captain took up his own glasses.
“Skagul.” The war pilot, still jabbering, arrived behind them. “A Swedish barque. Neutral.”
The captain grunted, acknowledgment and annoyance. A war pilot was often vitally important. But not this one, not now. Now, like a gnat, the man buzzed relentlessly in his ear; telling him things he already knew. He’d seen the masts and rigging, knew she was a barque. He’d seen her flag, knew she was Swedish – and certainly knew Sweden to be neutral. He’d guessed her crew to be unarmed civilians. Still the irritating war pilot prattled on. With more important considerations, the captain ignored him. What to do with these Swedish merchants, supplying the enemy, was an easy answer. How to do it was the question. Torpedoes cost real money, were hard to come by three years into the war, and were best saved for armed targets. There were cheaper ways to deal with enemy enablers. “Man the deck gun.”
The first reached past the binnacle, grabbed up the speaking tube, and repeated the order. Seconds later, the boat’s forward hatch opened and three men hurried up and onto the deck. They took their places at the ominous black gun and rotated the weapon toward the barque.
“Shall we signal her, sir?” asked the first.
The captain nodded. Of course. He was a warrior, not a monster. “Tell them to abandon ship.”
The first aimed a signal light into the gray swirls and shifting moonlight and, across the distance separating their boat from the Swedish ship, flickered his captain’s message.
A shout of alarm in response. A central figure on the Swedes' deck gesticulated. Those around him went into motion, phantoms in and out of the fog.
“Their captain,” the war pilot said. He lowered his binoculars and lifted his Ship Book, a page already selected. “The last known master of Skagul…”
“No!” the U-boat captain snapped. He glowered at the war pilot, then his first officer, telling each with his eyes he didn't need the enemy humanized. “What difference his name? We are at war. There are U-boats and there are targets, that is all. You will identify targets and relate their tonnage. Nothing else matters.”
Chastised, the men knew better than to share a glance. Each took his medicine alone. “Yes, sir,” replied the first. “As you say, captain,” said the war pilot.
The captain returned to his binoculars. His frown grew more severe. The barque's crew were responding to his warning, uncovering and righting a skiff; making it ready to put to sea. But were, in the German captain's eyes, doing so lazily. They were taking their sweet time abandoning his target. Their sloth needlessly exposed his boat to danger, took advantage of his good nature. The rules compelling submarine commanders to allow the crews of merchant ships an escape before their vessels were scuttled, adopted at the start of the war, had been abandoned as impractical and idiotic. The German captain no longer had any such obligation. He was being a gentleman and, for his trouble, was being made a fool of. That would not do.
The captain nodded curtly to his first. “Open fire.”
The first repeated the order to the men on the fore deck. The gunner crew acted. The deck gun spit flame.
The shell hit the barque at her waterline with an explosion and shower of water. The ship's hull opened and the sea rushed in. On her top deck, their jeopardy finally dawning on them, the barque’s captain shouted and his lackadaisical crew began to rush as well. The Swedes scrambled now to get their small boat afloat.
The hint of a smile played at one corner of the German captain’s thin lips.
While most of her crew struggled to lower their boat, several of the more frightened Swedes elected not to wait. They leaped into the sea and swam for their lives. The skiff hit the water behind them, as the U-boat’s gun sounded again. The second shell struck and the already-wounded barque listed hard to port. The deck gun boomed a third time. The shell streaked over the Swedes, hunched in terror atop their oars, and a third explosion followed. The sailing ship creaked and groaned in pain and impending death.
The Swedes rowed awkwardly away and, as they came upon them, began to collect their scattered mates. The soggy cowards were hoisted aboard to join the rest in their over-packed skiff. With all aboard, the boldest among them turned back to watch their ship sink at the bow while her rudder reached high to touch the eerie fog-shrouded moon. Then all turned away as the sea gulped and Skagul vanished into cold black silence. The shaken Swedes, eight in all, bent to their oars, stroked the waters, and turned their bow to the northwest, toward the Tuskar lighthouse (several miles distant) and Ireland (seven miles further on). They returned to rowing. What else could they do?
The gunners, the war pilot, and the first officer of Unterseeboot-65 were dismissed to disappear back inside her iron hull. The captain, alone at the conning tower command station, issued his next orders. He brought his boat about and, without a thought for Swedish jetsam, engaged his diesel engines and, riding the surface of the sea, headed southwest for the deeper waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Chapter 1 – Tuskar Rock
The dark of night. A blustery wind. A swirling fog stabbed there, and there, and there by blades of pale moonlight. The tropes of a Gothic mystery were all in place. But this was no Gothic mystery. It was a true tale of terror with quite a different setting, for this mystery would unfold at sea.
Seven miles off the southeast coast of County Wexford, Ireland, a collection of jagged rocks jutted menacingly from the sea. The Vikings, in the Old Norse, called this island Tu Skar. Meaning, simply and precisely, 'Large Rock'. The Irish had never changed it. Since man first sailed, Tuskar had crushed passing ships for pleasure and drowned their crews for sport. When men fought back, with the October 1812 start of construction of a lighthouse, the elements conspired with a tempest that killed fourteen workers and washed away their barracks. The few survivors clung to the wet rocks for days praying for rescue. But men persevered and a granite lighthouse arose on Tuskar. Standing 120 feet tall, it began operation in June 1815. Still, ships continued to meet their doom. By the start of The Great War, known now as World War I, over one hundred vessels had gone to wreck and ruin near craggy Tuskar. Seafarers sailed those waters in fear.
Well they might.
On Halloween night, 31 October 1917, three years into The Great War, something more terrifying than rocks lurked beneath the waves of the Irish coastal waters, threatening hazard to passing ships and Heaven or Hell to vulnerable sailors.
The men aboard the Skagul were ignorant of danger as they sailed from the Irish Sea into the foggy moonlit waters southwest of Tuskar. Suddenly, off their port bow, the ocean surface churned.
It is not recorded which among the sailors first noticed the behemoth emerge from the depths. One soon did. “Sea monster!” he shouted (in their native tongue). The ship’s startled compliment raced on deck in alarm. Their captain called the men back to stations to restore order, then, “Hard to starboard!” in hopes of escape. In the seconds it took for his crew to respond the captain found his binoculars and strained through the swirl of gray for his own look at the thing in their way. He focused his lenses and realized escape was impossible. That first cry of “Sea monster” had been joined by others and echoed about the deck of Skagul. The captain shook his head miserably. If only the leviathan before them were a mythological horror; if only!
The reality was far worse. The nightmare's square black head rose above massive shoulders sluicing seawater like rain as the behemoth settled on the surface. A real monster on the war-time sea, a U-boat of the Kaiserliche Marine, the Imperial German Navy.
The only hope for his crew, Skagul’s frightened captain knew, was immediate surrender. With trembling lips he ordered his men to drop anchor and lower their sails.
The wheel in the hatch cover atop the German submarine’s conning tower rotated. The hatch came open with a heavy clank. A sailor appeared from below; the boat’s first officer (an Oberleutnant zur See by the rank on his cap). He climbed up and out into the night. Rumpled and unshaven, dark and rugged, he stepped to the command station at the forward bulkhead, lifted a pair of binoculars and gazed through the fog and moon glow at the waylaid ship.
Echoes arose below; voices the first knew to be the shrill exclamations of the submarine’s war pilot interrupted by the terse replies of their commander coming up the ladder. The captain appeared in the hatchway, climbed out, and joined the first up top. He was a handsome opposite, blond and bold, hard and humorless. Coming abreast of his first officer, the captain took up his own glasses.
“Skagul.” The war pilot, still jabbering, arrived behind them. “A Swedish barque. Neutral.”
The captain grunted, acknowledgment and annoyance. A war pilot was often vitally important. But not this one, not now. Now, like a gnat, the man buzzed relentlessly in his ear; telling him things he already knew. He’d seen the masts and rigging, knew she was a barque. He’d seen her flag, knew she was Swedish – and certainly knew Sweden to be neutral. He’d guessed her crew to be unarmed civilians. Still the irritating war pilot prattled on. With more important considerations, the captain ignored him. What to do with these Swedish merchants, supplying the enemy, was an easy answer. How to do it was the question. Torpedoes cost real money, were hard to come by three years into the war, and were best saved for armed targets. There were cheaper ways to deal with enemy enablers. “Man the deck gun.”
The first reached past the binnacle, grabbed up the speaking tube, and repeated the order. Seconds later, the boat’s forward hatch opened and three men hurried up and onto the deck. They took their places at the ominous black gun and rotated the weapon toward the barque.
“Shall we signal her, sir?” asked the first.
The captain nodded. Of course. He was a warrior, not a monster. “Tell them to abandon ship.”
The first aimed a signal light into the gray swirls and shifting moonlight and, across the distance separating their boat from the Swedish ship, flickered his captain’s message.
A shout of alarm in response. A central figure on the Swedes' deck gesticulated. Those around him went into motion, phantoms in and out of the fog.
“Their captain,” the war pilot said. He lowered his binoculars and lifted his Ship Book, a page already selected. “The last known master of Skagul…”
“No!” the U-boat captain snapped. He glowered at the war pilot, then his first officer, telling each with his eyes he didn't need the enemy humanized. “What difference his name? We are at war. There are U-boats and there are targets, that is all. You will identify targets and relate their tonnage. Nothing else matters.”
Chastised, the men knew better than to share a glance. Each took his medicine alone. “Yes, sir,” replied the first. “As you say, captain,” said the war pilot.
The captain returned to his binoculars. His frown grew more severe. The barque's crew were responding to his warning, uncovering and righting a skiff; making it ready to put to sea. But were, in the German captain's eyes, doing so lazily. They were taking their sweet time abandoning his target. Their sloth needlessly exposed his boat to danger, took advantage of his good nature. The rules compelling submarine commanders to allow the crews of merchant ships an escape before their vessels were scuttled, adopted at the start of the war, had been abandoned as impractical and idiotic. The German captain no longer had any such obligation. He was being a gentleman and, for his trouble, was being made a fool of. That would not do.
The captain nodded curtly to his first. “Open fire.”
The first repeated the order to the men on the fore deck. The gunner crew acted. The deck gun spit flame.
The shell hit the barque at her waterline with an explosion and shower of water. The ship's hull opened and the sea rushed in. On her top deck, their jeopardy finally dawning on them, the barque’s captain shouted and his lackadaisical crew began to rush as well. The Swedes scrambled now to get their small boat afloat.
The hint of a smile played at one corner of the German captain’s thin lips.
While most of her crew struggled to lower their boat, several of the more frightened Swedes elected not to wait. They leaped into the sea and swam for their lives. The skiff hit the water behind them, as the U-boat’s gun sounded again. The second shell struck and the already-wounded barque listed hard to port. The deck gun boomed a third time. The shell streaked over the Swedes, hunched in terror atop their oars, and a third explosion followed. The sailing ship creaked and groaned in pain and impending death.
The Swedes rowed awkwardly away and, as they came upon them, began to collect their scattered mates. The soggy cowards were hoisted aboard to join the rest in their over-packed skiff. With all aboard, the boldest among them turned back to watch their ship sink at the bow while her rudder reached high to touch the eerie fog-shrouded moon. Then all turned away as the sea gulped and Skagul vanished into cold black silence. The shaken Swedes, eight in all, bent to their oars, stroked the waters, and turned their bow to the northwest, toward the Tuskar lighthouse (several miles distant) and Ireland (seven miles further on). They returned to rowing. What else could they do?
The gunners, the war pilot, and the first officer of Unterseeboot-65 were dismissed to disappear back inside her iron hull. The captain, alone at the conning tower command station, issued his next orders. He brought his boat about and, without a thought for Swedish jetsam, engaged his diesel engines and, riding the surface of the sea, headed southwest for the deeper waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
No comments have been added yet.
