It was going to be a long night.

As though in a maze with no barriers, the convoy zigged and zagged as it made its way west. So many minutes at this heading, then a change. So many minutes at that heading, then a turn. To a plane passing overhead, the wakes of the convoy looked like the jagged steps from lightning flashes. To those on board, however, the constant changes meant safety.

Carpathia carried a total of 215 passengers and crew. At this instant, half of the crew and most of the passengers were asleep in their berths.

“Captain,” Dieter whispered.

Werner bolted upright, rubbing his eyes. Dieter’s breath smelled of sausage.

“Yes, Dieter.”

“Destroyers in the distance.”

Wemer stared at his watch; it was just past 1:30 in the morning.

“Have you ordered a dive?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Dieter said. “They’re still far in the distance.”

“What’s our position?” Werner asked.

“Approximately a hundred and ten miles from Fastnet,” Dieter said.

“The destroyers will be turning back soon,” Werner said. “Stay above water and maintain a safe distance. Stalk the prey until the time is right.”

Then Werner rolled over and went back to sleep. The hunt would take hours.

Breakfast was served on Carpathia at 8 A.M. Oatmeal porridge and milk, fried fish and onions, bread and butter and marmalade. Tea or coffee to drink. The passengers and crew ate their meal in leisure, never knowing a wraith from below was slowly stalking them.

Captain Prothero stared back at the smoking vessel. The repairs had made little difference in the emissions from the stacks. A black rope trailed in the sky far behind the ship.

“Mark,” he said.

The helmsman changed course and began a zag to the north.

On U-55, breakfast was powdered eggs and coffee that tasted like diesel fuel.

“The lead vessel has a single stack and ample beam,” Werner said. “If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say she might be Carpathia.”

“The Cunarder?” Dieter asked.

“Yes,” Werner said.

“Is she your intended target?” Dieter asked.

“She’s the lead vessel,” Werner said, “and the largest. We might as well try for the best.”

A crewman handed Dieter a slip of paper.

“The latest position, as you requested, Captain,” he said.

“What is it?” Werner asked.

“Forty-nine degrees, 41 minutes north,” Dieter said. “10 degrees, 45 minutes west.”

“Good. Sound the alarm and have the torpedoes readied,” Werner said. “It’ll be a twin shot from the surface.”

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

Wemer scanned the ship in the distance with binoculars.

“Fire two,” he shouted into the speaking tube a few seconds later.

Nine-fifteen in the morning. Captain Prothero was scanning the water with a pair of binoculars, but he didn’t see the wake of the first torpedo until it was almost upon them. He sounded the alarm only seconds before the first torpedo struck Carpathia just below the bridge. This was followed a minute later by a second explosion directly in the engine room. The second torpedo would be the one that claimed five lives.

“Sound the alert,” Captain Prothero said loudly, “and get me a damage report.”

“Yes, sir,” Second Officer Smyth said.

Five minutes passed before the voice of Smyth called from the engine room.

“Sir,” Smyth said into the speaking tube, “we have five dead — three firemen and two trimmers.”

“Damage?”

“It’s bad,” Smyth said, “but it might be contained. The engineer has the pumps operating, and he’s attempting to fill the hole below the waterline so we might have a chance at port.”

“Good,” Prothero said, “keep me posted.”

Scanning the water with his binoculars, he caught a glimpse of the German U-boat in the distance. One of the new types, five hundred feet in length.

Prothero considered firing the deck guns, but the U-boat was too far away to hit.

“They can see us,” Werner said. “Dive.”

U-55 slipped beneath the waves and moved closer to Carpathia.

Raising the periscope, Werner studied his prey.

The torpedoes had run true. One had struck below the bridge, the other where Werner felt the engine room was located. Even with the fine shooting, the steamer was still afloat. Through the periscope, he could see the pumps below dispelling water over the sides in ever-increasing amounts. If this continued and they could get another ship alongside Carpathia for a tow, they might be able to pull her back to port.

“Prepare to fire another,” Werner ordered.

“That will leave us only one for the trip home,” Dieter noted.

“Then you’d better hope that puts her down,” Werner said, “or I’ll fire that one, too, and we’ll have none.”

“Yes, sir,” Dieter said.

“Loose it as soon as ready,” Werner shouted.

“I think we’re gaining,” Smyth shouted through the speaking tube.

“A ship will be alongside in minutes,” Prothero said. “We’ll try to make Ireland.”

“I could use a few more seamen down here,” Smyth said.

“They’ll be down directly,” Prothero said.

Then he scanned the sea again.

To see it coming is sometimes worse. A bulge on the top of the water as the torpedo raced toward them just below the surface. Lines like a bullwhip, with a sting that went far deeper. A visible death with nowhere to hide.

“Straight and true,” Werner said. “That should finish the job.”

He held his breath as the torpedo drew closer to Carpathia. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. The twin propellers of the torpedo bit at the seawater and moved the weapon forward. Her nose cone was packed with explosives, and her fuselage was filled with fuel that would burn. Yards, then feet, then inches. Slamming into the hull at the gunner’s room, the charge exploded and shredded the iron like a paper bag blown full of air and ruptured.

The explosion ignited the powder and shells in the hold. It made the hole in the hull larger, and much more water than the pumps could ever handle flooded into the hull. Carpathia settled lower in the water.

No one needed to tell Captain Prothero the seriousness of the situation, but they did.

The order was given to abandon ship.

Those still alive aboard Carpathia were rescued, and at just past 11 A.M., she slipped below the waves for the final time.

I’ve always been amazed at how the obituaries of ships of historic significance end up lost and forgotten. No curiosity seems to exist over what happened to them after their moment of tragedy or triumph. Mary Celeste was like that, and the ship that performed what is perhaps the greatest rescue in the annals of the sea, Carpathia, was another. Few of the marine enthusiasts whom I contacted knew what had happened to Carpathia after her intrepid dash to save Titanic’s survivors. Most simply thought she had outlived her time and was sent to the scrappers like so many of her ocean liner sisters.

Intrigued by a ship whose story has never been fully told, I decided to delve into her epilogue, along with that of the Californian, the cargo ship that has come down through legend as the ship that stood by, silent and unresponsive in the ice floes, as more than fifteen hundred souls perished in the icy Atlantic water a few miles away. Her failure to come to Titanic’s rescue has all the makings of a classic mystery.

Both ships are irrevocably linked with the most famous ocean liner in history. No story of Tetanic is complete without Carpathia and Californian. Unlike Captain Smith of Titanic, Captain Stanley Lord of Californian was more cautious. Rather than navigate through the huge ice floes at night, he prudently stopped and drifted among the bergs until daylight. After midnight, members of his crew saw flares rising across the ice pack to the south. Tragically, the ship’s radio operator had gone to bed and did not receive Titantic’s frantic SOS. Alerted by his crew, Captain Lord ignored the flares and chose to believe they were simply fireworks fired during festivities on the passenger liner and lamentably failed to see a calamity in the making.