But all those men seem to be here again. Their presence can be felt. Their souls have been recalled by the eagle, perched high up on the shores of Laboe, who looks out over the waves of the Seven Seas and watches over them. Now their presence at this place is overwhelming. They must be here, for at home I hardly ever think of them and now, here, I see my own feelings expressed in everybody's face. Thinking of my comrades I feel my throat constricting and work hard to suppress a choking sob. Many names here are those of my comrades, men I shared my food and fears and exchanged jokes with. At this place all had come alive again.

My winged thoughts bridge time and space and re-unite us all again. Once more I find myself in the steel enclosure of our U-boat. There is no sadness here, although it is already mid 1944 and the U-boat war is lost. The bottom of the Atlantic is already plastered with the wrecks of sunken U-boats. Blissfully and unaware we sail over them on our ill-fated voyage. With our long-range boat we sail down along the west coast of Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope and then up north like once the romantic clippers did a century ago.

There is nothing romantic about our presence. Kill or be killed, sink or be sunk is the cruel motto which these times have impressed on us. All of God's creatures at sea are divided into THEM and US, but we waste no thoughts on this. We are hunters and like hunters we jubilate when we are successful.

Continued ...