(SA) 70-02-14 (x) HMS Suicide

Tonight's story is entitled, HMS Suicide by Alan Campling. It was well into 1943 when I got my orders at Brooklyn Navy Yard to report at Scapa Flow

off the north coast of Scotland to a vessel called S-54. I made the crossing in a very uncomfortable aircraft and landed to find that S-54 was a British craft, which was bad enough, but also a submarine, which was worse. Still, Lieutenant Commander, excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Dougie Haig and his boys eventually got over

the shock of meeting an American, and by the time we were pulling into Gibraltar Harbor, everybody was relaxed and friendly. We were really buddies by that time, or so I thought Anyway. Alright, pilot. Left hand down.

Save the juice. Take her in. Hi, Arthur. Three degrees to four pound head. He's off, big sir. Say, Captain, I think your boat swims full on your leg. Grish is me, Yank. When are you going to learn to call him Boseon, like every other human being in this sub?

You're a great one to talk about using the proper terms. What's this, uh, left hand down stuff anyway? Well, I thought it would help a land lover like you to feel more at home. We don't often have a soldier aboard, you know.

But you know, seamen traditionally think that's bad luck. And from the way you've been going through my whiskey, ration, I'm inclined to agree. Okay, I get it. The fact is, the only other time I was on a boat was when we broke in a ship, if you don't mind.

Have you say zoos, Giver? Anyway, that was a US vessel, and they're dry. Dry, I think they would be. They never go to sea to them. Oops. I should have said T-total. Yes, I know one of the American fleet takes so long to get into war that they're going to rum ration.