No one bothers to look at the temperature gauge anymore. It is just plain hot and the ever-present drop of sweat on the end of the chief's nose reminds you of it. Here below in this tropical tin can, cruising shark-like in search of prey alert for the sound of a ship above. Three months and not a ship sunk and only two sighted then lost in the menacing swells. Three months of breathing in each other's smells so that all you can think of is clean air. Your ears buzz constantly under the pressure-just a thin sheet of metal between you and oblivion. On course, twenty fathoms below, in this mock silent world where every creak and groan of the hull seems like you are scratching along a rock face.

The captain orders "take her up", but first the submarine glides just below the surface to sneak a look. "Horizon clear in all directions". The command is given and the metal tube breaks nose first into the twilight sky and straightens to a steady speed skimming the half swells. "Hatch opening". All hands gulp in the salty spurts of air that are forced down into the control room. Now at its most defenceless, the sub waits for darkness.

Suddenly a shout from above; the alarm button punched by the chief. A voice yells "Go |below"; bodies hurtle down a narrow passageway; then "Dive". The hatch is locked with a rush of water and the sub dives to escape the approaching destroyer. The sound of propellers overhead is deafening, a crack sounds, then fades, the radio goes dead and everyone breathes again. The destroyer has clipped off the radio mast but otherwise all is intact. The captain shouts to get the hell out of here and only thirty minutes later there is again quiet and the smell of stale air. The chief smiles and the bead of seat reforms on cue at the end of his nose.

An hour of searching but the sub has escape. So close the destroyer had come, hidden by its zig-zag of paint. Just as you thought you had it the submarine dived like a swimmer under a wave. Something was hit but no debris or oil had found the searchlight beam. Your watch ended, you climb down to the lower decks, down to your slab of bunk. Deep in the belly of your Dazzleship you dream of the next chance or the next torpedo.

Reproduced from the original 1983 Dazzle Ships tour programme.