PREFACE

I was sitting on the conning tower smoking a cigarette. Then the splash of a wave soaked it. I tried to draw another puff. It tasted loathsome and frizzled. Then I became angry and threw it away.

I can see my reader’s surprised expression. You had expected to read a serious U-boat story and now such a ridiculous beginning! But I know what I am doing. If I had once thrown myself into the complicated U-boat system and used a bunch of technical terms, this story would be shorter and more quickly read through, but you would not have understood half of it.

Seriousness will come, bitter and pitiable seriousness. In fact, everything is serious which is connected with the life on board a submarine and none of it is funny; although in fact it is the hundred small inconveniences and peculiar conditions on a U-boat which make life on it remarkably characteristic. And in order to bring to the public a closer knowledge concerning the peculiar life on board a U-boat I am writing this story. Good—therefore my log-book! Yes, why should I not make use of it? To this I also wish to add that I not only used my own log-book but also at many places had use of other U-boats’ logs in order to present one or another episode which is worth the while relating. Thus, for example, the story of the many fishing-smacks, which are spoken of in the chapter called “Rich Spoils,” is borrowed, but the happenings in the witch kettle, the adventure with the English bulldog, and also most of the other chapters are my own feathers with which I have adorned this little story. This is the only liberal right of an author which I permit myself. The style of the story from a log-book is simple and convenient, and one buys so willingly such stories. See there two valid reasons for making use of it.

The Author.

CONTENTS

THE ADVENTURES
OF THE U-202

I

OUR FIRST SUCCESS

At the hunting grounds North Sea, April 12, 19— Course: northwest. Wind: southwest, strength 3-4. Sea: strength 3. View: good. Both machines in high speed.

We were very comfortable in the conning tower because the weather was fine and the sun burned with its heat our field-gray skin jackets.

“Soon we will have summer,” I said to the officer on guard, Lieutenant Petersen, who was sitting with me on the conning tower’s platform. I felt entirely too hot in my thick underwear.

Petersen, who, like me, was sitting with his legs dangling in the open hatch on whose edge we had placed ourselves, put his hand on the deck and loosened the thick, camel’s wool scarf, twice wrapped around his neck, as if suddenly he realized it was too hot for him, too.

“I think I’ll soon discharge this one from service,” said Petersen, and pulled at the faithful winter friend as if he wished to strip it off.

“Don’t be too hasty, my dear lieutenant,” I replied laughing. “Just wait until to-night, and then I am sure that you will repent and take your faithful friend back into the service.”

“Are we going to keep