Das Boot Page #2

Bow planes down 15. Stern up 10.

The boat is rated to 90 metres,

but of course we could go deeper.

There's a limit somewhere.

We can only take so much pressure -

before the boat will be crushed.

Check all valves.

Check all valves.

- The pressure.

- Yeah, sure.

Deeper.

- She must take this depth.

- 150.

- That'll do for now. Surface.

- Bow up 10. Stern up 5.

Our journalist is sweating.

Your girl?

French girl?

Do you know the flower shop

beside Caf A I'Ami Pierrot?

- A I'Ami Pierrot.

- Sure, I know it.

The two pretty salesgirls.

Jeannette and...

Francoise.

Nobody knows... but we're engaged.

Unofficially.

Can I see?

Very pretty. Really.

What's wrong?

She's pregnant.

Don't you know what that means?

If the resistance finds out?

A German baby.

I told her,

but she wants to have it.

- She wants a baby.

- You've got problems, friend.

Our masters spend all their time

finding Churchill new nicknames.

What's the latest?

Drunken pig.

Fat boy.

Paralytic.

For a drunken paralytic

he's putting up a damn good fight.

We'll cut the swine to shreds.

That is my firm belief.

Listen, smart guy. Mr. Churchill

is a long way from shreds.

I'd like to know how many

of his ships are getting through -

- while we sit on our behinds

waiting for orders.

Our patrol planes.

Where are they, Herr Gring?

The British have plenty of them.

Talking big is all he's good for.

Big heroes.

Nothing but hot air... all of them.

Put that one down. It'll make

exciting reading in your epic.

The Propaganda Ministry

will love it.

Music we need.

Do you think our Hitler Youth leader

might put a record on for us?

The "Tipperary" song

if you have no objections.

- That stuff makes me puke.

- Now we're in the Royal Navy.

A record won't make you

into the king of England.

- Shut the door, you lazy pig!

- Stupid jerk!

They should use him as a doorstop,

his rear end's big enough.

One day he'll stick it in the can

and he'll never get it out again.

- Good morning.

- Good morning, Lieutenant.

- It stinks in here.

- Sweaty feet and hair grease.

Pilgrim's specialty.

Smells just like old socks...

these rotten eggs.

- Baby poo-poo.

- Pilgrim needs a chicken house.

Right. Ducks in the bilge.

Sweet little ducklings.

We could fatten them up

with jam from your filthy feet.

They'd have good fun

feeding on Frenssen's toe jam.

Aid to cleanliness, four letters?

Bath.

Thank you.

A desert animal with two humps?

- Camel.

- Perfect.

Intellectual starvation I would say.

It's completed, sir. Signal decoded.

One moment.

It could just about do it.

Five, six, seven...

- Eight.

- New course, sir?

One minute.

What's the signal position, sir?

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