The cold North Sea wind howled through the rigging of the Kriegsfischkutter Seeadler as it cut through the frothy waves, its wooden hull creaking with each swell. It was December 1944, and Lieutenant Karl Weiss stood on the bridge, his hands gripping the worn wheel. The war was turning against Germany, and the Seeadler, a small yet versatile vessel, had been assigned a perilous mission: escort a supply convoy to Norway under the constant threat of Allied submarines and aircraft.

Karl glanced at his ragtag crew. There was Günther, the grizzled engineer who could coax life from the aging diesel engine with a mere glance. Beside him stood Otto, the youngest member of the crew, barely 18, manning the 20mm anti-aircraft gun mounted on the stern. The rest of the crew, hardened sailors and fishermen pressed into service, prepared the depth charges secured along the deck.

“Enemy subs reported in the area,” the radio crackled, breaking the tense silence. The convoy, consisting of three cargo ships and two other KFKs, formed a tight formation. Karl scanned the horizon through his binoculars, the steel-gray waves offering no sign of danger.

Then it happened.

A distant explosion rocked the convoy as one of the cargo ships, Nordlicht, listed sharply to port. A submarine had struck. “Battle stations!” Karl shouted. Otto swung the anti-aircraft gun into position, though the threat was beneath them. Karl pushed the Seeadler to its limit, the engine groaning as it surged toward the spreading oil slick where the Nordlicht had been hit.

“Sonar contact!” yelled Dieter, the sonar operator, his voice taut with urgency. “Bearing 120 degrees, closing fast!”

Karl barked orders. The Seeadler turned sharply, its small size giving it an agility the larger vessels lacked. Günther released the first depth charge. The crew braced themselves as the sea erupted behind them. Moments later, another explosion followed, this one closer. A faint plume of oil and debris bubbled to the surface.

“Did we get it?” Otto asked, his voice trembling.

“Hold steady,” Karl replied, scanning the water. Suddenly, a periscope broke the surface, no more than 50 meters off their starboard bow. The enemy submarine had surfaced, desperate to make a torpedo shot. Karl seized the opportunity.

“All guns, fire!” he ordered. The Seeadler’s small deck gun thundered, joined by the sharp rattle of the anti-aircraft gun. The submarine’s conning tower shuddered under the assault, and its crew scrambled to abandon ship. A deafening explosion followed as the submarine's torpedoes detonated in its sinking hull.

Cheers erupted from the crew, but Karl’s focus remained sharp. “Back to the convoy,” he commanded, turning the Seeadler toward the remaining ships. As they regrouped, Allied bombers appeared on the horizon, their engines a low drone that promised destruction. The Seeadler, already battle-scarred, faced its next trial.

“Man the guns!” Karl shouted. The small vessel swung into action once more, a tiny yet fierce defender of the convoy, determined to hold the line against the storm of war.