* * * * *
Back again, and I haven't written a word for three weeks.
My billet last trip was off Finisterre. I sighted two convoys, but
there were destroyers there; they are so black and swift I don't go
near them.
I don't want to die in a U-boat. It's not worth while. It is easy to
avoid these convoys. I dive and make a great fuss of attacking, then I
steer divergently. Nobody knows where the enemy is except me; I am the
only one who looks through the periscope--I take good care of that. And
then how I curse and swear when I announce that the convoy has altered
course, and there is no chance of getting in to attack. None of them
are so disappointed as I am!
The mines get on my nerves, there is no way of dodging them, and Lord!
how they sprout on the Flanders coast.
I am to go out in six days. It is very little rest. I believe they want
to kill me. But I won't die! Not I.
I went to her grave yesterday for the first time. I had thought I
should weep, but I did not; in fact it left me quite unmoved. I feel
she's not really dead; she comes to me sometimes, always at night when
I am alone and when we are at sea. There's nothing very tangible, but I
catch an echo of her voice in the surge of the sea along the casing, or
the sound of the breeze as it plays along the aerial. And so I will not
die until she calls me, for up to the present her messages have told me
to live and endure.
* * * * *
A very awkward incident took place last night.
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