How Six “Suicidal” Torpedo Riders Crippled Britain’s Mediterranean Fleet in One Night

At 2043, on the night of December 18th, 1941, the Italian submarine Skare slid beneath the surface of the Mediterranean, leaving behind the dim orange glow of Laspetsia’s dockyards. Inside her forward compartment, six men sat side by side in silence, their backs pressed against the cold steel hull. They had trained for 2 years.
They had rehearsed in secret pools, in flooded dry docks, in the black water off Lagora. And now, for the first time, they were heading for an actual target. Not a hulk, not a derelict merchant ship. A living harbor defended by the strongest navy in the world. The men wore thick rubberized suits that trapped the smell of sweat and oil.
Rebreathers strapped tight across their chests. Their faces were calm, almost unnaturally so. They had learned early that panic underwater kills faster than bullets. The youngest among them was 22, the oldest 27. All of them volunteers, all of them chosen from dozens who washed out in training. The Italian command called them wamin nigama.
The British called them human torpedo riders. Their own instructors had a different term. Dead men in waiting. The submarine crept south, running silent, engines barely humming beneath the waves. In the control room, Commander Junior Valerio Borgazi watched his plotting table with a focus that bordered on obsession.
He had orders, “Deliver the six riders to within four miles of the British naval base at Alexandria. Avoid detection at all costs. Surface only when absolutely necessary. The Mediterranean was hostile water. British patrols were constant, radar was improving, and if a destroyer caught sacred on the surface, no one aboard would live long enough to regret it.
At 2210, Borgaz gave the quiet order to continue submerged. Depth 60 m, speed 2 knots. The six riders barely moved. Luigi Duran Deppa, the senior diver among them, leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark hair was cropped short. His eyes were steady. He had joined the Royal Italian Navy in 1935, long before Mussolini dreamed of an empire.
He had served on destroyers, cruisers, and training vessels. But he was bored. He wanted something more. When the Navy opened recruitment for an experimental undersea assault unit, Deepen had been the first to apply. It nearly killed him. The first prototype torpedo exploded in a test pen, throwing him against a concrete wall.
His second attempt, flooded and sank beneath him. He passed out, was revived, and asked to try again. The instructors had looked at each other, nodded, and stamped his file with one word, approved. Beside him sat his partner, Emlio Bianke, shorter, leaner, with an expression that almost never changed.
Bianke was a mechanic by trade. He understood every bolt inside the male, every wire, every valve. When something went wrong, and something always went wrong, it was Bianke who repaired the damage beneath 20 ft of water while Deppen steadied him. Across from them, Lieutenant Antonio Marclia adjusted the strap on his rebreather. He was younger than Dilapena, but with sharper features, a faster temper, and a gift for navigation.
He could memorize an entire harbor layout after a single glance at a map. His partner, Spartico Sherot, noticed him fidgeting. “You’ll wear that strap out before we even get there.” Sherot whispered, “Marsea didn’t smile. He rarely did before a mission.” At the far end of the compartment, Captain Vincenzo Martalot and Petty Officer Mario Marino checked their waterproof bags.
Both carried the tools they would need if they had to cut through nets, remove obstructions, or detach the warhead manually. Martella had been in the Navy for nearly a decade. Marino, a fisherman’s son from Toronto, had learned to swim before he could walk. The submarine rocked slightly as currents shifted. No one spoke.
The only sounds were breathing and the soft metallic groan of stress steel. At 2351, Borgaz ordered the crew to prepare for periscope depth. 20 minutes later, Scare rose slowly toward the surface. The Mediterranean above was pitch black. Alexandria lay far beyond the horizon, its lights invisible, but British patrols were always near.
The crew unlatched the forward hatch. Cold air rushed in. Borgis climbed halfway out, scanned the sea with binoculars, and lowered himself back down. “All clear,” he said quietly. “Begin operations.” The divers moved with mechanical precision. They slid their torpedoes forward on rails toward the open hatch.
The were monstrous things, 6 m long, fitted with electric motors, magnetic clamps, depth regulators, and detachable warheads. Each weighed nearly two tons. Each had enough explosive power to tear open the keel of a battleship, but they were slow, unstable, often unreliable, and dangerously loud when bumped against anything solid.
The men who rode them accepted this risk because there was no other option. At 001 on December 19th, the first Male was eased into the sea, disappearing with a silent ripple. Thesecond followed, then the third. The six riders climbed out next, lowering themselves into the freezing water. The shock hit their skin instantly, but none reacted visibly.
They had trained for this. Pain was irrelevant. Mission was everything. Borgis leaned out of the hatch. “Bona Fortuna,” he whispered. “They vanished beneath the surface. The submarines submerged again, leaving the six men floating beside their silent torpedoes in the middle of an enemy controlled sea. For several minutes, nothing happened.
The water was black, cold, featureless. Then Deen reached out and touched the handle of his torpedo. He gave a signal. Bianke nodded. The propeller began to turn, its electric hum faint, barely audible. The riders descended together, forming a tight formation. They moved slowly, five knots at most.
Above them, the distant shapes of British patrol vessels crossed the surface like sharks in the dark. At 0047, the men saw the first obstacle, the outer anti-ubmarine net. British engineers had stretched a steel mesh across the harbor entrance, anchored deep into the seabed. It was designed to stop submarines, mines, or anything larger than a fish.
No one believed a man could guide a submersible through it. But the Italians weren’t trying to go through. They were waiting for someone to open it. The faint thrum of diesel engines echoed through the water. A British destroyer, likely returning from patrol, approached the entrance. Through the gloom, the divers saw search lights sweeping ahead of the ship.
When the destroyer reached the barrier, signal lamps flashed. Moments later, the steel gate began to open. The destroyer passed through. The Italians followed. Delipen pushed his machine forward, keeping low inches above the seabed. Bianke held tight to the frame, watching the gate begin to close behind them. They slipped through just before the steel mesh slam shut again.
Inside Alexandria Harbor, the darkness thickened. Silt clouds drifted around them, stirred by the slow movement of water. The silhouettes of anchored warships cast massive shadows beneath the surface, floating fortresses of riveted steel. The riders slowed. Somewhere above them were the most heavily guarded ships in the British Mediterranean fleet.
the battleships Queen Elizabeth and Valiant, the destroyers, Jervis and Nubian, tankers, cruisers, auxiliary vessels, a forest of hulls, each alive with sailors, lights, and weapons. But underwater there was only silence. At 01 26, Delapena tapped Bianke’s arm and pointed ahead. A massive shape loomed out of the darkness like a cliff rising from the seabed.
Lights shimmerred faintly along its underside. The first battleship, Queen Elizabeth, 40,000 tons of steel, eight 15-in guns. The ship that had bombarded Italian positions, escorted convoys, and supported every major British operation in the Mediterranean. Delpena circled beneath her slowly, assessing her keel, mapping her contours from memory.
The warhead needed to be placed at the exact point where the armored deck met the inner hull. Too high and the blast would disperse upward. Too low and the mud would soften the blow. They moved in closer. At 0141, disaster struck. The male’s motor coughed, sputtered, and died. The torpedo went dead beneath Deen’s hands, its lights flickering out.
The two divers froze. A drifting object beneath a battleship was nearly always detected. A metallic scrape, a change in buoyancy. Anything could reveal them. Bianke slid off the saddle, reaching for the motor casing. His fingers found the problem instantly. A flooded valve. Pressure had forced seaater into a compartment that was supposed to remain dry. He shook his head.
The motor was gone. They would need to move the warhead by hand. The charge weighed nearly 300 kg. Removing it in open water was difficult. Dragging it along the seabed beneath a battleship was nearly impossible. But impossible was the standard assignment for the Wani Gamma. At 0153, they unclamped the warhead and began the slow, grueling task of hauling it into position. Every meter took effort.
Every minute drained oxygen. Above them, the battleship slept. Below them, the timer ticked. Dilapena checked his gauge. Their oxygen supply was dropping fast. He glanced at Bianke. No words, no hesitation, only work. At 02 24, after 30 tortured minutes, they positioned the warhead directly beneath the forward magazines.
Delipen reached for the timer switch. He hesitated. Once he activated it, they would have 3 hours. three hours to escape the harbor, evade patrols, and reach the rendevous that almost certainly no longer existed. But hesitation had no place here. He turned the switch. The charge was live at 0224 with the warhead armed and the timer ticking.
Delipen tapped Biankey’s shoulder and signaled for retreat. They pushed off from the hull and let the gentle current carry them into deeper darkness. Their bodies achd. Their oxygen was dangerously low, and with themile dead on the seabed, their only path out of the harbor was through British patrols, steel netting, and 3 mi of open water.
For 10 minutes, they swam silently beneath the keel, following the shadow of the battleship until it faded into black. The water tasted of rust and fuel. Their limbs felt heavy. Every breath from the rebreather was a reminder that time was running out. At 0238, Delipen surfaced briefly among the mooring shadows, raising only his mask above the waterline. He froze.
A British patrol boat drifted 30 m away, its silhouette faint against the glare of harbor lights. Two sailors smoked cigarettes on the deck. One laughed quietly. The sound echoed across the water like a warning. Delipen slipped beneath the surface again and signaled for a silent dive. They descended until the boat vanished above them.
But the harbor was no longer empty. British sailors had begun moving across the decks of nearby ships, shifting cargo, checking lines, preparing for morning inspections. Their lanterns cast shimmering patches of light into the sea. Every sweep of illumination risked catching a glint of metal from the divers’s gear.
Every shadow threatened discovery. At 0252, as they crept between two anchored destroyers, fate intervened. A sudden current slammed the divers sideways. Delipen struck the underside of a destroyer’s build with his shoulder. The clang rang through the water. A sound so sharp, so unnatural that he felt it vibrate in his bones.
Above him, a voice shouted. Then another. A lantern beam cut through the water, scattering silvery lines across the seabed. Deepen Yamianki dove downward at once, flattening themselves behind a concrete support block. A rope splashed into the water. A hook followed. Another lantern joined the first. The British knew something was there.
The divers stayed motionless, lungs burning, eyes fixed upward. After several agonizing seconds, the lights swayed away. The rope was pulled up. The voices faded. They had escaped detection for now. But Delipen knew the truth. They were deep inside the harbor. Their mayol was gone. Their oxygen was low. Their bodies were failing.
And there was still one more barrier between them and open sea. They would not make it. At 0309, they surfaced again near the stern of Queen Elizabeth, hoping to catch a moment of darkness. But before Dilipen could blink, a search light swung across the water. Its beam sliced through the night, landing directly on the ripples they created.
“Oi, who’s there?” a voice shouted. A whistle blew. Another search light locked onto the same patch. Then a third. Delipen ducked under the surface, but it was too late. The light had followed the disturbance. Boots thundered across the battleship’s deck. Orders rang across the harbor. A small boat detached from the side of Valiant and headed toward them at speed.
They swam hard, fast, no more stealth, but exhaustion overtook them quickly. The boat closed the distance. Its engine roared above their heads. A hook struck the water inches from Bianke. Another splashed near Deen. Hands reached down. The two Italians were dragged upward, thrown onto the deck. Flood lights blinded them.
Dozens of rifles leveled at their faces. Sailors shouted over one another, demanding to know who they were, what they were doing, whether more divers were in the water. Neither answered. They didn’t need to. The British already suspected the truth. As Delipen and Bianke were hauled aboard Queen Elizabeth, the other two pairs were still deep inside the harbor, navigating through the chaos unfolding above.
At 0317, Antonio Marclia and Spartico Shurgot eased their beneath the hull of the tanker Sigona. The ship floated motionless, its dark bulk towering above them. Two destroyers were morted alongside it. Jervvis and Nubian, their gangways connected by lantern lit planks. Sailors crossed between them, shadows flickering across the water. Marsegia pointed upward.
The underside of Sigona was flat and broad, perfect for anchoring a charge. He carefully steered beneath the storage tanks, following the faint outline of the frame. Shergonut unlatched the warhead clamps. They worked fast, too fast. Every passing second risked another patrol boat drifting overhead. Another sailor peering into the water.
At 0329, the charge locked into place beneath Sigona’s forward hold. Marseglia set the timer. 3 hours. They slipped away, but their escape route collapsed almost instantly. Search lights ra the water behind them. Sirens wailed. The British had begun sweeping the harbor for intruders. Dozens of smaller craft maneuvered between ships, their spotlights stabbing downward into the sea.
Patrol boats zigzagged unpredictably. The Italians could not risk surfacing. At 0346, Marseia tapped Serget. Their oxygen was critically low. They had minutes, not hours. He pointed toward a dark corner of the quay, a narrow space between the stone wall and a mored barge. They swam silently into the gap, but a Britishsailor noticed movement.
“Something’s in the water,” he shouted. A flare arked overhead, turning the harbor bright as day for six terrible seconds. The red glow reflected off the divers’s masks. A shout went up. A rope ladder slapped against the barge. Sailors descended, lanterns swaying. The divers had nowhere to go. They surfaced slowly, hands raised just above the surface.
Moments later, they were dragged onto the quay, coughing seawater, surrounded by rifles. They had been caught, but their charge was already ticking. On the opposite end of the harbor at 0402, the final pair, Martaloda and Marino, approached HMS Valiant. The battleship’s hull loomed overhead like a steel mountain.
Flood lights along her deck made the surrounding water shimmer with reflections. Sailors moved constantly across the gangways, their footsteps a rhythmic pulse. Martellada slowed their myali and circled beneath the keel, studying the structure. Valiant’s design was older than Queen Elizabeth, its hull slightly narrower, but still heavily armored.
They needed to find the weak point, the shallowest portion directly beneath the boiler rooms. At 0411, Martella found it. He pointed to the sweet spot, a flat section 3 m forward of the build strike. Perfect. Marino eased the warhead free. They attached the clamps, adjusted the depth, secured the final latch. Then they armed the timer. 2 hours 45 minutes.
But as they pushed away into deeper water, disaster struck from above. A British guard leaning over the rail saw a ripple. Nothing more than a slight disturbance, barely visible. But in a harbor on high alert, that was all it took. he shouted. Another sailor joined him. Lanterns swung downward. A command whistle shrieked across the deck.
Martellada and Marino dove fast, but they were tired, their legs cramped, their arms shook. A launchboat peeled away from the battleship and sped toward the disturbance. Its engine roared, churning the water violently. The divers swam deeper, but another light found them, then another. A hook struck the water beside Marino.
He twisted, but his foot caught a rope trailing from the myal. The tug pulled him sideways. He struggled to free himself, but exhaustion robbed his strength. The British reached them in seconds. Martalot was yanked upward first, then Marino. Both were thrown aboard the launch, wrists bound, rebreathers ripped off.
They lay gasping on the deck as officers shouted over each other, demanding to know how many more Italians were in the harbor. They said nothing. At 0437, all six divers were inside Alexandria Harbor, but none were free. Deepeni and Bianke were held aboard Queen Elizabeth. Marsegia and Shurgut were locked in a store room near the Quay.
Martella and Marino were detained inside a small barracks near Valiant. And yet at 0442, as the first hint of dawn colored the sky, a strange calm settled over the harbor. The British believed the danger was over. The Italians knew the truth. The danger had only begun. Delipen sat alone in a cramped steel compartment deep inside Queen Elizabeth, hands tied, uniform soaked, his head pounded, his ribs achd from being slammed against the hull.
A British lieutenant entered, flanked by two marines. He demanded names, ranks, mission objectives, the location of any additional explosives. Deppen kept his eyes down. The lieutenant slammed a fist onto the table. Are there more of you? Are there additional devices? The lieutenant leaned closer. What did you put under this ship? Delipen finally looked up.
His face was calm. Too calm. I put something, he said, and you should move your men, the lieutenant blinked. For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then his expression hardened. Move them from where? Deppen replied, “You will know it was the truth. The timer was ticking beneath their feet.” At 0512, Delpen heard footsteps approach again.
The door to his compartment swung open. A British officer he hadn’t seen before entered. older calm, his uniform immaculate, despite the chaos sweeping the harbor. He studied the Italian diver for several seconds before speaking. I’ve been told you placed an explosive under this ship. Deppen said nothing.
I’ve also been told you refused to say where. Still nothing. The officer exhaled slowly. Very well. We will move the ammunition crew to the bow. If you are lying, you will answer for it. If you are telling the truth,” he paused, then we will deal with that as it comes. He left the compartment without waiting for a reply.
The Marines followed him out and locked the door behind them. For the first time since being captured, Dipen allowed himself to close his eyes, not to rest. There was no rest to be had, but to listen. the faint drone of generators, the distant clank of boots on steel, the low hum of the ship’s ventilation system, and beneath it all, almost imperceptible, the soft pulse of the harbor.
He pictured the charge anchored below them, the warhead, the timer, the cold steelof Queen Elizabeth’s hull. He imagined the moments ticking away, second by second, carrying the British fleet toward a disaster none of them yet understood. At 0519, he felt the floor vibrate slightly. Not an explosion, just the engine of a small patrol craft passing close to the battleship’s hall.
Voices shouted from above. A ladder clanged against metal. More men boarded. The ship was waking up for the morning watch. No one on deck had any idea what was coming. Across the harbor in the storoom where Marseglia and Sherut were held, dawn lights slanted through a small square window. The two Italians sat back to back, wrists tied, listening to the muffled sound of boots marching past outside.
They knew their charge under Sigona would detonate soon after the battleship charges. The tanker was loaded with fuel and munitions. The shockwave would slam through the water like a hammer. The destroyers mored beside it would not escape unscathed. Marsegdia turned his head slightly. How long? He whispered. Shurggot closed his eyes listening to the rhythms of the harbor. Not long.
On the opposite side of Alexandria in a barracks near Valiant, Martellada and Marino sat on the floor, backs against a wall, guarded by two British Marines. The younger marine paced nervously, glancing at the clock every few seconds. The older one sat with his rifle across his lap, watching the prisoners with tired eyes. “What were you doing in the water?” the younger marine demanded.
“Were you cutting nets, planting charges? Are there more coming?” “Neither Italian answered.” The younger marine swore under his breath. “We should have shot you in the water.” The older one shook his head. “Orders said, “Bring them in alive.” The younger one snapped. Why? They’re saboturs. The older marine didn’t answer.
Martellota shifted slightly. He could smell diesel from the harbor. He could hear the faint metallic ringing of ship crews preparing for morning inspection. He knew Valiant’s charge would detonate sometime after the others. He didn’t know how strong the warheads effect would be, but he did know one thing. They were too close.
What? At 0527 aboard Queen Elizabeth, a boat swain mate shouted for silence as crewmen prepared the gangway for inspection. The deck glittered with dew. The horizon glowed faint pink as the first sunlight crept over Alexandria’s eastern ridges. Fishermen moved across the inner harbor in small wooden boats, unaware of the danger beneath them.
A supply barge chugged slowly toward Valiant, its engines sputtering. A patrol boat crossed the stern of Sigona, leaving a wake that rippled across the surface. To anyone watching from shore, Alexandria looked peaceful, routine, utterly normal. And then, at 0535, the sea erupted. There was no warning, no tremor, no sound building up to it, just violence.
Water heaved upward beneath Queen Elizabeth, lifting the battleship stern by nearly a meter. The explosion was muffled, trapped beneath the hull, but the shock wave slammed through steel like a hammer hitting glass. The ship lurched sideways. Men on deck stumbled. A column of froth and debris shot upward beside the hull.
A split second later, compartments deep within the ship went dark as water poured in through ruptured seams. De La Pen felt the blast through the floor before the noise reached him. a deep gut-level concussion that shook every bolt and plate in the compartment. The light overhead flickered. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
A siren began to wail somewhere above. The door burst open. The same British officer from earlier stood in the frame, gripping the handles so hard his knuckles were white. “What did you put under us?” he demanded. Delen looked up slowly. A charge big enough to your ship. The officer swallowed hard. Then the second explosion hit.
Sigona detonated like a fuel drum, struck by lightning. A column of orange fire erupted from beneath her forward hold. Steel plates buckled outward. The tanker’s deck lifted. A shock wave tore across the harbor surface. The destroyer Jervis mured alongside, rolled violently as water surged beneath her keel. Nubian’s railing shattered under the pressure.
Shrapnel rained across the quay like hail. Inside their storoom, Marcia and Shergot were thrown sideways against the wall. The window shattered. Smoke poured through the gap. The guard outside shouted orders, his voice barely audible over the ringing in their ears. A second blast shook the building, likely the destroyer’s depth charges cooking off from the heat.
Men ran in every direction, shouting over alarms. The smell of burning fuel flooded the air. On the far side of the harbor, Martella and Marino felt the floor beneath them lift for a split second. Plaster rained from the ceiling. The young marine dropped his rifle in surprise. Outside, a ship’s horn blared endlessly.
Damaged wiring, sending it into a continuous scream. Marino closed his eyes. Valiant’s charge would follow soon, two minutes, three at most. Aboard QueenElizabeth, seaater surged into the lower compartments, flooding engineering spaces. Pumps roared to life. Damage control teams sprinted through the corridors.
Officers shouted commands, but the ship was losing the battle. Her hall had been blown inward beneath the boiler rooms. She settled slowly into the harbor mud, listing slightly to starboard. Deppen stood as two Marines rushed into the compartment, grabbed his arms, and hauled him up the ladder. The British officer followed.
They emerged onto the deck just in time to see smoke rising from the direction of Sagona. Flames licked the sky, pieces of metal rain down, clattering across the deck. “What else did you do?” the officer demanded, voice cracking. Delipen didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. At 0543, Valiant’s charge detonated. The blast lifted the battleship stern almost a meter off the water.
Men on deck were thrown to their knees. The shockwave knocked two sailors overboard. A plume of white spray shot upward, carrying fragments of steel and wood. The fuel barge beside Valiant capsized instantly, spinning in the air before slamming back into the water. Inside the barracks, the explosion shattered every pane of glass.
The younger Marines slammed into the wall, dazed. The older one grabbed the two Italians by their collars and dragged them toward the exit as debris fell around them. Outside, the harbor descended into chaos. Smoke rolled across the water. Sirens wailed. Officers shouted over each other, trying to coordinate firefighting crews.
Destroyers cut their mooring lines and attempted to move into open water. Tugboats darted between ships, spraying hoses into the flames. The air tasted of diesel, burning rope, and hot metal. At 0558, the damage was clear. Queen Elizabeth crippled, settled on the harbor floor. Her engines flooded, her boilers offline.
She would not move for months. Valiant severely damaged. The blast ruptured fuel tanks. tore through engineering compartments and jammed several bulkheads. She was immobilized. Sagona wrecked, burning heavily, listing to port. Jervis and Nubian, both damaged by the tanker’s explosion. Hull plates buckled, internal compartments flooded.
Six men, three charges, one night. They had done what an entire airwing could not. At 0611, as British officers struggled to understand what had hit them, the six Italians were reunited under guard near a damaged warehouse. Their hands were tied, uniform soaked, faces stre with salt and harbor grime. Delipen glanced at Bianke.
Marseglia gave a faint, exhausted nod. Martalot allowed himself a thin smile. They had succeeded. A British commander approached. his uniform scorched from the fires, his face stiff with disbelief. He looked at the six saboturs for a long moment. “You realize,” he said quietly, “that you’ve changed the balance of the entire Mediterranean.
” No one answered. “There was nothing to say. The British transported them to a temporary internment facility outside Alexandria. Doctors treated their exhaustion, dehydration, and minor injuries. Guards watched them with a mixture of anger, awe, and something else, respect. News of the attack spread across the fleet within hours.
By noon, senior officers from the Mediterranean Command inspected the crippled battleships themselves. The scale of the damage was unmistakable. Two of Britain’s most powerful capital ships were out of action for months. The Eastern Mediterranean naval balance had flipped overnight. Inside their cell, Delpen finally allowed himself to sit back and exhale.
The pain in his legs throbbed. His shoulders burned. His fingers were raw from struggling with the macholet’s controls. But none of it mattered. He had done the impossible. 6 months later, the British exchanged prisoners with Italy. De La Penna and the others were released. When Italy switched sides in 1943, the British Navy awarded him the Distinguished Service Medal, the same Navy he had crippled.
He accepted it with quiet dignity years later during a ceremony in London. The British officer who had interrogated him aboard Queen Elizabeth approached him and extended a hand. Deen shook it. “You warned me,” the officer said. “I did, Deen replied. You could have said more. Delipen smiled faintly. I said enough.
The officer nodded and for a moment, just a moment, the war between them felt very far away. And the raid on Alexandria remains one of the most daring acts of underwater sabotage in history. Not because of the explosives, not because of the technology, but because six men on three slow experimental machines penetrated one of the best defended harbors in the world and shattered a fleet.
Not by chance, not by luck, but by skill, endurance, discipline, and a kind of quiet, focused courage that almost looks unreal when you read about it 80 years later. If this story moved you the way it moved us, do us a favor, hit that like button. Every click tells YouTube to show this story to someone new. And if you haven’tsubscribed yet, consider it.
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