“Very good, sir,” Smyth said.

Prothero sipped the tea and stared at his chart. The thought of German submarines was never far from his mind. They hid in wait off the ports until the ships had cleared and were in deep enough water to make salvage impossible. To reduce their losses, the Allies had taken to traveling in convoys with gunboat escorts, zigzagging through the water like snakes and running their vessels at the fastest possible speed so they might outrun any torpedoes that were fired. Even so, hardly a day went by when a ship was not sunk or fired at. The battle in the North Atlantic was a watery war of attrition.

A beam of light pierced the clouds and lit a patch of water directly ahead of U-55. Commander Gerhart Werner stared at the patch of sea through his binoculars. U-Boat 55, like most in the German fleet, spent a great deal of time above water— in fact, as much as was safely possible. Batteries could be recharged while it surfaced, fresh air allowed into the always foul-smelling hull.

No matter what Werner and his crew tried, there was no way to wash away the smell of diesel fuel, sweaty bodies, and fear that permeated every square inch of the inside of U-55. The smell was part of the duty, and the duty was hazardous at best.

Werner turned his binoculars from the spot of light and scanned the horizon. Five days before, U-55 had managed to board a small cargo ship at sea off Cork, and he was hoping for another. Before scuttling the vessel, the Germans had raided the stores for fresh food. Ham and bacon, potatoes, and some dairy. The confiscated food was a welcome change for his crew. For the most part, they survived off tins of meat and cans of vegetables from their pantry. At times the cook could make fresh bread, but it was not often — flour soon went bad in the galley, and yeast grew a strange fungus that looked like fur.

Submarine duty was not for a budding gourmet.

Swiveling in the conning tower, he turned to the stem. There a seaman was reeling in a perforated barrel they had been dragging behind on a line. The crew’s clothes were inside, along with a measure of powdered soap. After being agitated by the current and rinsed by the seawater, the barrel was being brought back on deck so the clothes could be unloaded and hung from a line running from the conning tower to a stern support.

Wemer stared to the west, where the sky was clearing. Hopefully, the weather would hold and no ships would approach. Then the clothes would have a chance to dry some before they needed to dive once again. Just then, Second Officer Franz Dieter climbed through the hatch in the conning tower with a folded slip of paper in his hands. Saluting Werner, he handed him the paper.

“There is a convoy assembling off Liverpool,” Werner said.

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

“That means they are still several hours away,” Werner noted. “Have the men check the torpedoes and the batteries, and mop the inner deck. Then allow them to rotate topside four at a time. Provided no ships pass by, each group will be allowed to spend ten minutes in the fresh air.”

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said, climbing below.

Carpathia steamed through the Irish Sea approaching Carmel Head. In the next few hours, she would enter St. George’s Channel, then follow the curve of Ireland along her southern shore. Once past Fastnet Rock on the southeast tip, the convoy would set a course west for Boston.

Captain Prothero stepped from the bridge and glanced back at the stern. Now that they had reached cruising speed, the powerful twin-screws of his command whipped the water into a foamy froth that trailed behind the vessel for nearly a mile. Far to the rear, past six other ships of the convoy, was a trailing British destroyer. Far to the front, nearly a half-mile distant, was the leading destroyer. The destroyers would stay with them through St. George’s before turning back.

After that, the convoy of seven needed to rely on themselves. Carpathia had been selected as commodore ship for the trip across the Atlantic Ocean, and with good reason — Prothero was a skilled captain who had made the crossing many times before. Last year, while captain of Carpathia, he’d had the honor of transporting the first American troops to Great Britain to join the Great War. After safely dropping off the soldiers, Carpathia had been on her way to London to replenish her stores when a torpedo had fired off Star Point. Prothero had ordered an evasive action and the torpedo had run past Carpathia, instead striking a U.S. oil tanker running nearby.

Another incident bears noting. Not long after the near miss by the torpedo, Prothero saw what he thought was a lifeboat on the water. Watching through his glasses, he was surprised to see a German U-boat surface nearby to retrieve the object. Prothero reported that the Germans were using decoys, thus saving a few more ships.

In short, there were few captains with the breadth of experience possessed by Prothero.

Commander Werner had yet to leave the conning tower. His people were farmers, and his ancestral genes were used to open spaces. The cramped inner hull of a U-boat was as foreign to him as Chinese fireworks, so he spent as much time abovedecks as possible. Even with his dislike of confined spaces, Werner was a competent leader.

He and the crew of U-55 had more than a handful of kills under their belt.

“That’s the last of the rotation,” Dieter said. “The men are now being fed in shifts.”

“What’s our location?” Werner inquired. “Still approximately a hundred miles off Fastnet Rock,” Dieter noted.

“It will be night soon,” Werner said, “so we might as well remain above water. Why don’t you take the first watch?”

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

“Unless we see something that makes me change my mind,” Werner said, “we’ll just wait for the next convoy to happen along.”

Werner began climbing down the ladder in the center of the conning tower.

“Sir?” Dieter said.

“Yes, Dieter,” Werner said, pausing.

“We’re down to four torpedoes.”

“Duly noted,” Werner said.

When Carpathia passed Fastnet Rock, it was 11 P.M. and pitch black.

Already, there had been trouble. One of the ships in the convoy was having problems maintaining speed. She could make the prescribed ten knots, but when she did, the huge volumes of smoke from her funnels could be seen nearly twenty miles away.

Prothero knew that at sunrise they would be sixty miles into the Atlantic Ocean, and if the skies were clear, the plume of smoke would be a beacon to any nearby U-boats. The captain of the vessel reported that his engineers were working on the problem with little result, and Prothero knew it was a lost cause. Most likely the ship’s bunkers were filled with bad coal. There was no way to change that while at sea.

Prothero walked Carpathia’s passageways toward his cabin.

He would deal with the problem in the morning.

It smelled like feet. Werner’s pillow smelled like feet. Rolling over on his back, he stared at the deck above his hammock bunk. As soon as these last four torpedoes were expended, U-55 could make her way back to the submarine base at Bremerhaven for a long-needed cleaning and refit. Hopefully, he would receive enough liberty time to go home and see his wife. His wife was a fine cook and housekeeper — her house never smelled of feet — and she had yet to serve Werner meat from a can.

On the conning tower above, it was as dark as a madman’s moods. Franz Dieter stared skyward, waiting for the stars to appear. Tonight they were hiding behind the clouds. Some nights the air was playful and fresh, but tonight it had all the comfort of a lead blanket. Dieter reached into the tin pail by his side and removed a slab of slightly moldy cheese and a hunk of blood sausage. Taking his pocketknife out of his uniform pants, he sliced the food, then nibbled it slowly.