"How the hell did they get through our perimeter?!" Roland shouted, staring through the seawater-streaked windows.

In the distance, beyond the destroyer, an orange glow flickered against the dark horizon.

Burning ships.

"We don’t know, sir!"

"Well, I don’t care!"

Roland turned sharply.

"All men to fighting stations!"

The alarms screamed throughout the entire ship.

Everywhere, men sprang from their bunks, abandoned half-eaten meals, or stumbled out of cramped washrooms, uniforms barely fastened.

Dozens of boots hammered against the steel deck.

Voices erupted across the corridors.

"Get me more ammo!"

"Adjust the firing angle!"

"Move, move! Get those guns up!"

"All men to fighting stations!"

The USS Harlan, flanked by several of her sister destroyers, sliced through the gray water and took up defensive positions around the convoy. While the main formation tightened, smaller groups of ships peeled off to rescue survivors. Desperate cries echoed across the waves as sailors from the merchant vessels screamed for help.

Roland gripped the rail of the bridge wing, binoculars pressed to his eyes.

"There it is!" he shouted, lowering the binoculars. "Periscope, bearing two-zero-zero! Submarine periscope, distance three thousand yards!"

His voice was filled with adrenaline.

"Full speed ahead!" Roland barked. "Four degrees west! Helm, steady on two-zero-zero! Depth charge crews, stand by!"

The engines roared louder as the destroyer surged forward.

Men scrambled to their battle stations with urgency, faces grim. Roland’s voice rang out again, filled with such raw enthusiasm and fire that it seemed to electrify everyone around him.

"Ready the underwater bombs! We’re going to send that bastard to the bottom!"

The USS Harlan pressed onward.

Roland gripped the railing of the bridge wing so tightly his knuckles turned white. He bit down hard on his lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

That was when his eyes widened.

The deep, grave voice of his old comrade echoed loudly in his mind, as clear as if the man were standing right beside him:

"The Germans always come in a pack. Never alone."

The Harlan had nearly reached the target when the one thing he dreaded most happend...

"TORPEDO!"

It was Harrow. His eyes were glued to the starboard side of the destroyer.

"Bearing zero-four-five!" he shouted with panic. "Coming straight at us!"

Roland shook his head.

"A pack..." he muttered darkly.

Then his voice roared across the bridge:

"Evasive maneuvers! Full rudder to starboard! Now!"

The USS Harlan turned brutally, tilting hard to starboard as the rudder slammed over. Loose crates, equipment, and men rolled violently across the wet steel, sliding toward the edge and nearly kissing the sea before desperate hands grabbed railings and lifelines.

"Come on... Come on..." Harrow whispered under his breath, his eyes locked on the foaming wake where the torpedo was. He kept glancing sideways at Roland.

Both men leaned forward, tracking its path with wide eyes as if they could somehow push it away by sheer will. The long, pale streak raced closer... closer...For a few heart-stopping seconds, it looked like it would still catch them.

But it didn’t.

The torpedo hissed past the Harlan’s hull with only yards to spare, so close they could hear the sound of its propeller slicing through the sea.

Roland clenched his jaw tightly, veins bulging on his forehead. His eyes darted sharply between the last known position of the first U-boat and the bubbling wake of the one that had just tried to kill them.

He spun back toward the helmsman, pointing aggressively toward the second submarine.

"On course for that U-boat!" he roared. "The one that fired on us! We will drop the depth charges on my command!"

The Harlan’s engines thundered louder as she surged forward once again.

"Wait... wait..." Roland muttered, eyes locked on the sea.

He tilted his head toward Harrow, who was already holding the telephone receiver tightly in his hand. A terrifying, almost mad smile slowly spread across Roland’s lips.

"DROP ’EM!"

"Drop them, boys!" Harrow shouted into the receiver, his voice raw with excitement.

On the stern, a burly sailor with hair drenched in seawater and sweat received the order.

He let the phone dangle in the wet air and shouted across the deck with all his strength:

"Now!"

Plunk... Plunk... Plunk.

One after another, the heavy depth charges rolled off the stern racks and plunged into the sea behind the Harlan. The crew fell deathly silent, gripping rails and holding their breath.

Then came the explosions.

Massive columns of white water erupted violently into the sky, one after another.

From a small, dimly lit porthole another man watched in silence.

"Carry, did they hit?" a nervous voice asked behind him.

Werner did not answer. He hated that fake name with every fiber of his being. It reminded him of James. He simply continued staring out through the thick glass, yet his hands trembled slightly despite his efforts to keep them still.

His eyes seemed to pierce the dark, surface of the sea...

Around 170 metres below the surface

Inside the red-lit control room of the Type XXI U-boat Grey Wolf, the only sound was heavy, ragged panting. Dozens of lungs fighting for air that grew thicker and hotter with every passing minute.

BOOM.

The hull shuddered violently. Tools rattled, lights flickered, and a fine rain of condensation fell from the pipes above. Another explosion followed, closer this time.

It thrashed the U-boat like a toy in a giant’s fist, slamming men against bulkheads

In the centre of it all stood Kapitänleutnant Günter Prien. Eyes closed, hands clasped behind his back, he remained almost unnaturally still. While the men around him gasped and breathed like frightened animals, Prien kept his posture rigid, jaw set, shoulders squared. Yet even he could not hide everything. A thin film of sweat covered his forehead, and his clenched fists were bone-white at the knuckles.

The air was stifling, reeking of diesel, sweat, urine, and fear. The hull creaked and groaned under the terrible pressure. Some of the younger crewmen were panting openly, chests heaving, while the veterans tried to control their breathing and failed.

Prien slowly opened his eyes and met the wide, terrified pupils of a young sailor no older than twenty. The boy’s breathing had become completely ragged, his chest heaving in short, hysterical bursts. His face was twisted in pure panic.

Prien knew that gaze all too well.

He gave the young man a stern, commanding look and slowly shook his head, a silent warning.

But it was too late.

The young sailor’s mouth suddenly opened wide as he drew in a sharp, trembling breath, about to scream.

At the exact same moment, the First Lieutenant noticed. He lunged forward and clamped his hand roughly over the boy’s mouth, muffling the cry.

"HMMM!"

The muffled cry vibrated against the Lieutenant’s palm as the boy struggled wildly, eyes bulging with terror.

Prien clenched his jaw, a flash of pain crossing his face. He knew it was too late, so he averted his head for a brief second, as if the sound had struck him physically. Then his expression hardened.

"FULL POWER!" he roared.

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