Arctic Sea, 28th March 1942

Empire Ranger was the first to fall.

Billy saw it all— a single German bomber had penetrated through a wall of antiaircraft fire in a low-level bombing.

Presenting an easier target due to its close

proximity, it served as a diversion as the convoy’s guns focused on the single plane.

From his place above Trinidad’s conning tower, Billy observed an uncountable

number of holes lining its frame as it shrieked overhead, pulling for the clouds.

Sinking fast into the cold, he saw no more than eight people jump from the deck. The

closest ship, the destroyer Gremyashchiy, cut its engine for two minutes, allowing

the survivors to have a measly chance at rescue. Not a single other ship stopped or

fell out line, not for a second.

None could afford to slow.

The Trinidad was already cruising at full speed, and even from the vessel’s highest

point Billy could hear the ship’s four boilers wailing, unstopping hum berating the

Arctic breeze’s melancholy song. Cutting a right to avoid a collision course with a

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

British destroyer astern, he saw the main guns firing at a blistering rate; despite not

even being supplied with the shells to down aircraft, they put up a desperate defence

that seemed to pale as another wave of German bombers broke through the snowstricken horizon.

Before Trinidad’s gunners could catch even a second of respite, a resonating crack

split the noisy atmosphere, immediately causing Billy to jerk his binoculars to the left.

Already sinking from a direct bomb hit, the American cargo vessel Raceland was

tipping bow-first, its now visible propellers flailing like the fins of a gutted fish.

Ninety-one souls.

“Billy. Billy.” His eyes were still glued on the Raceland, its crew making a desperate

attempt to unhitch a lifeboat, the sinking deck now at a thirty-degree incline. “BILLY!

How many planes? HOW MANY MORE PLANES?”

The radio operator was behind him, screaming above the din of Bofors and

Oerlikons cracking the sky with orange flickers. Billy fumbled on his binoculars,

scrambling to respond. “I CAN’T SEE ANYMORE!”

As the radio operator scrambled away, he watched the sky, the drone of the

bombers disappearing slowly into the horizon.

The anti-aircraft guns stopped as ships began falling into formation. Oil from ruptured

tanks intermingled with the icy water, secondary explosions causing small fires to lick

the ocean surface, riding the waves like hallowed ghosts. Specks of black— sailors

flailing, some with life jackets and some without, swam to the ships, but none

stopped for them. None could afford to— U-Boats, surface raiders, more planes—

every minute would only breed further danger. Billy stared onward, the Arctic Sea

now cloaked with the warm hue of fire and destruction, the licking of flames and

groaning of metal hulls the only thing disturbing a renewed silence.

It was so cold, so quiet.