He looks up at U-553, entirely too much of which is above him. His basic impression is that it’s hollow, more colander than warship. The hull is perforated with rows of oblong slots arranged in swirling patterns like streamlines tattooed onto the metal. It seems impossibly flimsy. Then he peers through the slots—light is shining all the way through from more slots in the deck—and perceives the silhouette of the pressure hull nested inside, curved and much more solid-looking than the outer hull. She’s got two triple-bladed brass propellers, maybe a yard across, dinged here and there from contact with who knows what. Right now they are thrust up into the air, and looking at them Waterhouse feels the same absurd embarrassment he felt looking at dead guys in Pearl Harbor whose private parts were showing. Diving planes and rudders stick out of the hull downstream of the propellers, and aft of those, near the apex of the stern, are two crude hatchlike slabs of metal which, Waterhouse realizes, must be where the torpedoes come out.