The Afric steamed out of Liverpool beneath a hard sky, her single funnel pouring coal smoke into the winter air. The deep throb of her engines reverberated through her hull, a steady iron heartbeat that carried across the water. The sea slapped against her black plates with a rhythmic hiss and boom.

She had once been the pride of the White Star Line, her decks filled with emigrants bound for Australia. Now she bore another duty: His Majesty’s Transport A19, laden with munitions, stores, and horses.

On her bridge, boots tapped against planked decking as officers shifted, scanning the grey horizon with binoculars. The wind whistled against rigging and stanchions, snapping at greatcoats. Below, sailors hauled lines that creaked under strain, checked lifeboats whose ropes rasped and squealed through davits, and spoke in terse mutters nearly lost in the low moan of the Channel wind.

Every sound — the clang of a hatch, the clangor of coal shovels below, the hiss of escaping steam — seemed amplified in the knowledge that silence might mean safety, but sound could draw death.

In the belly of the sea, the UC-66 moved like a steel predator. Inside her, the air throbbed with the low rumble of diesels, a constant growl that shook rivets and bulkheads. Drops of condensation plinked into bilge water.

Men worked in cramped silence broken only by the squeal of valves, the rattle of chains, the groan of ballast tanks adjusting trim. The submarine smelled of oil and sweat, of damp clothes never fully dry.

Kapitänleutnant Herbert Pustkuchen stood at the periscope, gloved hands resting on cold metal. He rotated it with a slow screech of bearings, seawater dripping from its head. His breath fogged the eyepiece as he peered.

Then he saw it.

Through the watery haze, a liner loomed, grey on grey, smoke billowing like a signal fire. The sound of the Afric was not heard but imagined — her propellers churning a steady pulse through the deep, a resonance that carried into the steel bones of the submarine.

“Ziel gesichtet,” Pustkuchen snapped. Target in sight.

In the control room, pencils scratched against notepads. Officers muttered in clipped German, the words sharp, mechanical. A helmsman twisted the wheel; the submarine groaned as she altered course.

In the forward torpedo room, sailors checked the tubes with nervous precision. Metal clanked, gears clicked, levers clattered into place. A man wiped sweat from his brow, his hands shaking despite the chill. Another whispered a prayer, his words drowned beneath the thump-thump-thump of the boat’s pumps.

The Afric pressed on. The Eddystone Lighthouse stood pale against the sky, its foghorn’s distant moan lost beneath the roar of wind and sea.

On her bridge, binoculars swept the horizon with the scrape of glass against gloved fingers. “Every bloody wave looks like a periscope,” an officer muttered, his voice carried off by the wind.

“Keep sharp,” the captain replied, his voice roughened by the cold. His boots rang hollow against the planks as he paced.

Down on deck, sailors stamped their feet against the cold, the sound dull against steel. They spoke in low tones, voices breaking into nervous laughter. Every creak of rope, every slap of wave, every groan of her hull was magnified in their ears.

Inside UC-66, the atmosphere grew taut. The Afric’s sound filled the submarine — a thudding vibration through steel, a presence felt rather than heard.

Pustkuchen hunched at the periscope. “Auf den Bug zielen,” he said coldly. Aim for the bow. “Erster Schuss nur zum Lahmlegen.” Disable, not destroy.

The words carried like hammer strikes in the confined steel. The torpedo crew stiffened, then bent to their task. The creak of hatches, the clank of locking bolts, the hiss of pressurized air filled the compartment.

“Feuer!”

The submarine boomed as compressed air hissed. A torpedo surged forth with a metallic screech, vanishing into the sea. The only sound after was the fizz of bubbles and the pounding of blood in men’s ears as they waited.

Above, on the Afric, came the thunder.

The explosion tore through her bow in a roar that split the air, a sound like a cannon magnified a hundredfold. Steel screamed, rivets popping like gunfire. A geyser of water erupted with a deafening crash, drumming across her deck in sheets.

Men staggered, some thrown down hard against planking. Pipes shrieked as they burst, steam hissing and whistling into the air. Orders rang out sharp against the chaos:

“Abandon ship!” the captain shouted, his voice a clarion against the din. “Lower the boats!”

Ropes creaked and squealed as lifeboats swung out. Boots pounded against steel. Men’s shouts overlapped: “Steady there!” — “Hold fast!” — “Cut her free!”

For nearly an hour, UC-66 lingered. Inside her, silence pressed down. Men barely breathed. The only sounds were the faint drip of condensation, the slow tick of a watch, the creak of metal under the sea’s crushing weight.

At last Pustkuchen gave the order. “Zweiter Schuss — Mitte des Schiffs.” Second shot — amidships.

Another hiss of air, another steel tube unleashed.

On the Afric, there was no warning — only the detonation.

The blast thundered across the sea, a crack like the sky itself splitting. Steel plates tore with a shriek that echoed for miles. Decks buckled with a groan like a wounded giant.

Men screamed, voices drowned beneath the roar of the sea surging in. Steam howled from ruptured boilers, pipes shrieking like banshees. The ship heaved, her stern rising, propellers thundering as they lifted free of water and spun uselessly in the air.

With one last metallic bellow, the Afric plunged. Water roared across her decks, smashing lifeboats, hammering steel. The sea swallowed her with a rushing, booming finality.

Then — silence.

Only the slap of waves against wreckage, the hiss of oil upon water, the groan of lifeboats as they rocked.

The silence was broken by a new sound: ballast tanks venting with a furious hiss.

UC-66 rose, her hull bursting through the surface with a crash of displaced water. She gleamed black and wet, a leviathan breaking into daylight. The rumble of her diesels carried across the water, low and menacing.

From the lifeboats, oars creaked as men froze mid-stroke. A hush fell, broken only by the slap of waves.

The conning tower hatch clanged open, the sound harsh as a gunshot. Pustkuchen emerged, boots thudding on wet steel, binoculars clinking against his chest. His voice carried across the water, hard and sharp:

“Dorthin! Das Boot mit dem Offizier!” That boat. The one with the officer.

The submarine’s engines growled as she drew closer, water slapping against her hull in heavy crashes. Lifeboats creaked and knocked as men huddled within, staring up at the black shape towering over them.

“Alle Männer aus dem Boot!” Pustkuchen barked. All men out of the boat. His words rang across the water like rifle fire.

The Afric’s captain stood tall in his lifeboat, the wind tearing at his greatcoat. He raised one hand, futile defiance. Then, boots thudding against wood, his men began to climb.

Hands slapped against wet iron as Germans hauled them aboard. Rifles clattered against the conning tower. The deck rang with the scuff of boots, the rattle of orders in guttural German.

The captain mounted last, each step of his boots against the ladder echoing in the hushed silence. The hatch slammed shut with a metallic bang.

Moments later, the submarine’s diesels roared alive. With a hiss of ballast and a crash of waves, UC-66 slid back beneath the surface, leaving the lifeboat bobbing empty, the sound of its timbers creaking forlornly on the swell.

For hours, the Channel was a wasteland of silence broken only by the creak of oars, the groan of timbers, the hiss of wind. Survivors rowed, their breath wheezing, the splash of oars the only rhythm left to them.

Then came salvation: the distant thrum of engines. At first faint, then growing louder, a pounding beat upon the water. Destroyers emerged from the haze, their bows cleaving the swell with booming crashes, funnels roaring smoke.

Lifeboats erupted in cries, voices hoarse but jubilant. Arms waved, coats flapped. The destroyers slowed, the grind of anchors rumbling down, the splash of cutters hitting water. Nets slapped against hulls. Boots thundered on wooden decks as sailors leaned over rails shouting encouragement.

Survivors were hauled up, their boots scraping, bodies collapsing against steel decks. Blankets rustled, mugs of steaming tea clinked into shaking hands. The air was filled with coughs, sobs, the murmur of disbelief.

Yet whispers spread. Some swore they’d heard the metallic clang of the U-boat hatch, seen the rifles glint. Others murmured in hushed tones that the captain had been taken. The only sounds were the wind, the sea, and the low mournful blast of the destroyer’s horn as it turned for home.