Kapitanleutnant Gunter Rabe stepped aboard his new craft, his crew stood to attention... everything was prepared. All he had to do was to give the order, mooring warps would be slipped and they’d leave the ship’s birth place; but first he wanted to savour the moment. After all, it’s not every day a young 20 something would take command of one of the most sophisticated weapons of war the world had ever seen. As for the regime, well, his thoughts on that were best left private.

It was 1943, the location was Willshelmshaven, and S130, his Schnelleboot of the 9th Flotilla had performed well in her sea trials, reaching an outstanding 42.5knots. He knew the British Royal Navy had nothing, absolutely nothing, that could come close in terms of speed and power; the thought gave him a thrill and he felt proud of this technical tour de force, achieved despite and because of the punishing Treaty of Versailles. The designer, Herr Benje, had done well; the Kreigsmarine’s leading edge engineering had delivered him this incredible craft; an unintended and unforeseen consequence.

On this somewhat dank October morning, the harbour was an unbelievably busy and noisy place with repairs, building, victualing and loading of munitions; water taxis and service craft buzzed around from wharf to wharf, ferrying personnel hither and thither. Smoke from funnels added to the fug and various hoots and toots from ships’ horns punctuated the general mayhem as they signalled their intentions to manoeuvre this way and that; two blasts for port, one for starboard and once a startled five “what are your intentions!”, or to put it in the vernacular “get of of the bleeding way!”.

He gave the command to slip, and took the helm. He didn’t have to, but he enjoyed boat handling in confined quarters. He sprung the bow out, reversing on a stern spring, the crew worked well together; the hard graft of the training showed, each crewman in their allocated stations. They picked their way gingerly through the crowded inner harbour to the massive locks through which they would enter the bay and from there the North Sea. As he supped on a mug of fresh coffee he thought about das blonde Madchen he’d been seeing, the dance they’d shared the previous evening, idly wondered whether they’d ever meet again, vaguely hoped so, then dismissed her from his mind.

S130, herself 115ft long, was dwarfed by the lock, a sleek and deadly tadpole in a bathtub. Through these very gates, these gargantuan gates constructed by Krupps, had passed that immense Teutonic titan Tirpitz, sister vessel of the ill fated, fatally flawed yet heroic Bismark; Rabe’s thoughts were with those 1,995 lost souls, downed and drowned some two years previously. Grim news indeed.

Like every sailor he longed to be free of life on land; those lock gates opened onto more than just the Jadebusen; life at sea was so much simpler, so much less complex and impenetrable, so much more vivid in every detail and somehow more meaningful. As the lock gates slid shut behind them, the air seemed purer, the unbreakable bonds between the crew began to make themselves felt, wreath-like fingers wrapping themselves around each of them, from the lowly but essential Matrosengefreiter, or Seaman First Class, to himself as Skipper; the dangers of enemy submarines, aircraft and ships added a piquancy that could be felt by all and being “on watch” really had meaning.

His orders were pretty straightforward: to join the rest of the 9th Flotilla, led by Korvettenkapitan von Mirbach on S150, in the French port of Cherbourg. Other than perhaps dodging the enemy, he didn’t expect any trouble on the way there; the forecast was OK, not the best, but she was a dry boat in a seaway, even at speed, so if it cut up rough they’d still make good time. A distant droning became louder and louder and they were buzzed by a Fieseler Storch reconnaissance plane; he gave the order to cruise at a fuel efficient 17knts, the course chosen taking them outside of the chain of low-lying islands to port.

As he pulled a fine long light browny blonde hair (was she Dutch, perhaps or Swedish?) off his sleeve and let it flutter away in the breeze, he heard the radio operator working the Enigma machine, an incoming message. It was from his friend and brother in arms, skipper of S207, Hans Schirren. It read “Happy Hunting”: no one then knew just how successful that hunting would prove to be.