(story) The Grey Wolf

[DanBiddle]

The steady thump was unavoidable, filling every compartment with a rhythmical beat. The ominous sound allowed none of the men to relax, or forget what the noise was, and each and every one of them took hurried glances at the chart as they passed through the control room. They all willed each and every mile to pass that bit faster, wished to be that bit nearer to safety.

Kapitänleutnant Max Donath sat on his bunk, his hand poised over the logbook now resting on the desk in front of him. He had taken a look at the chart just minutes ago, and countless times since first light. The battered U-boat was only fifty miles from the French Biscay coast, but to Donath, it felt as if it was nearer five thousand. He had been nursing the stricken boat back towards France for the last few days, and the pumps had been working over every single mile.

Donath sighed and looked down at the logbook once more. He raised a hand and flipped back the pages, his eyes glancing down at the scribbled notes telling their own brief, yet personal account of the war. The last few months had been pretty much the same, entries accounting yet more crashdives to escape aircraft or destroyers, depth-charge attacks and then the steadily rarer entry detailing a ship sunk or damaged.

He flipped back the pages to the current date. Already the year of 1941 was drawing to a close, another year of war almost over. The Atlantic was fast becoming a graveyard. No longer were the escorts crewed by novices, or equipped with relics that were obsolete a few years ago. The Battle of the Atlantic was fast becoming even, and if they weren’t careful, then the Allies would gain the upper hand Donath thought to himself.

He looked up as a voice intruded on his solitude, “Captain, I’ve got some more news.”

Donath looked up as Oberleutnant Hans Vogel, the Engineering Officer peered into his small cabin. “Come in Hans.”

Vogel ducked and moved into the compartment. “It’s the pumps, sir. They’re finally going under.”

Donath closed the logbook. “They’ve stopped?”

“No. The flow is too much for them.” He shrugged. “They’re working fine, there’s just more water coming in than they can chuck out.”

“Very well. I’ll take a look.” Donath stood up and followed the big Engineer through the control room. Already the water was climbing above the deck plates, the pumps muffled by the sea. Faces stood out, searching his expression for a sign. Assessing their chances. He was the Captain; the one they turned to. Donath could feel nothing but the sense that he had let them all down.

Further aft it was the same, but the water was just deeper. The wounds the boat had incurred after the last attack were finally too much, the valiant pumps finally overwhelmed. The deck had a noticeable tilt to it now, and Donath could no longer shrug off his duty, or forget what he owed these men. He strode back into the control room and picked the handset off the wall. There was a click of static and then he spoke.

“This is the Captain speaking….”


-----------------------------


There was not room for them all on the two rafts. Some sat or lay on them whilst others gripped onto the ratlines that hung down from the sides, and others just swum around in circles hoping to conserve heat that way. Donath looked over the scene from one of the rafts. The bobbing red lights seemed to converge on the rafts, and Donath could faintly hear their grunts and gasps as they dealt with the fear and cold, whilst trying to stay above the icy waves that hit them in the face, or avoid the oil that burned their throats.

The swimmers quickly lost feeling in their extremities as the cold probed deep within them. They thrashed about to stay warm or fought amongst themselves to grab a place alongside a raft, all the time crying out for help, the desperate pleas affecting Donath more than he thought possible. So many times he had observed this scene from a periscope, yet he had never thought it would be he who would be experiencing it. He knew what would start to happen, and could even see it himself as men began to drift away from the rafts, the pleas begin to die down.

He shuddered to himself and thought back on what had happened, what he had been through with the boat. He remembered the event of only a few hours ago; the calm, ordered evacuation from the sinking submarine as Vogel had opened her scuttles and they had all watched the bows sink below the waves. U-31 had made her last dive and the icy December sea had claimed her.

He thought back further to the convoy battle, the silent attack though the fog before the dark had been shattered by a destroyer’s searchlight as she had pounded in from close abeam. Donath had managed to avoid the ram, but the following depth-charge attack had nearly done for them. Despite being in command of a Type VIIB U-boat, as agile as they came, Donath had needed to use all his cunning, all his skill to escape the escorts. Their attack had crippled U-31, the propeller shafts leaking more and more with each passing mile.

He though back further, to the day he had attacked and sunk HMS Rangoon, one of the large Queen-Elizabeth class battleships. He had won the Knight’s Cross for that patrol, and the attack had gone down as one of the most successful in the war so far. It had been one of his earlier patrols, and luck had smiled on him that day. When the hydrophones had picked up the distinctive revolutions Donath had already found himself in the prime attack position. It had been almost textbook – moving silently just below the waves, the periscope only rarely emerging above the scattered wavecrests as he stalked the proud ship. A salvo of four torpedoes had followed, streaking out and all hitting the Rangoon firmly on her flanks. Donath had dived deep, smiling as he listened to the depth-charges exploding harmlessly far away. The Rangoon had sunk within minutes, he later found out. One of his torpedoes had started a fire which had reached the main magazine. The rest was easy to work out.

He thought too of his very first patrol in command back in April 1940. He had taken part in the Norwegian campaign, and almost sunk the Warspite as she had attacked Narvik. Donath, like almost every other U-boat commander in that campaign had suffered disastrous torpedo failures. The torpedoes had all detonated prematurely, and it was only the actions of the German destroyers that had enabled U-31 to escape and regroup. He had been disheartened then, but his luck had soon changed. Over the years Donath had sunk more and more ships, his reputation placing him in the limelight. He would never have believed that he would become an ace, talked about throughout Germany.

Donath remembered his interview with Admiral Donitz himself. The Commander of the U-boat force had ushered him into his office the day he had been promoted. Donath had found himself in awe of the man, as most did once they spoke to him at length. Donath had been in the Navy long enough to know that interviews with senior officers took time. Donitz, it seemed, was no exception to the rule. Each had his own way, but all seemed to result in being kept hanging on a thread of uneasy expectation. Donath had struggled with his thoughts, his mind racing to try and work out why Donitz would want to see him. He had tried to ignore the man’s bowed head as he had read over Donath’s report. Would he be reversing his unexpected promotion? Donath had forced himself to look away and observe the room instead.

Donitz had said suddenly, “Your Captain speaks quite well of you.” He had rustled the papers in front of him. “Yes, quite well.” Donath had tried not to swallow and betray himself to the heart of the U-boat arm. It was strange, but Donath had never understood his captain. Sometimes Donath had felt his captain had disliked him, and at best only tolerated him, yet now, on this desk, under the eyes of Donitz himself, his captain had shown him in a different light.

Donath had remembered what had happened next in vivid detail. Donitz had looked up and fixed him in a gimlet stare. “I see every man promoted to commander, Donath. From now on, it will be up to you to prove your worth. You will be given orders, but those orders will only tell you what to do. How you achieve success and carry them out will be your burden alone.” Donitz had stood up and stared out of the window. “I have held many commands over the years. The first was, of course, the most exciting, but also the loneliest. No more could I ask for help from my companions in the wardroom, nor could I seek freedom outside my hours of duty. In earlier days I had always imagined my captain to be some kind of god, put on earth to command and leave the worry to subordinates. Now, I know different, as will you.”

Donitz had turned back to look at Donath. “You will think you know better than everyone else, which is as it should be. But somewhere along the way, in the teeth of a gale, or facing a relentless depth-charge attack with your crew going to pieces around you, you will know the true meaning of command. You will know it when you need help and advice the most, and there is none. You will know it when all others are looking to you, and you have the power of life and death in your hands. Then you will know, believe me. In this trade command is everything! Our seamen face too much to have to deal with those that abuse the right to command. You are about to embark on an eight week course, where men will teach you the technicalities of commanding our newest weapon of war. But if you ever forget the message I’ve imparted to you today, then I can assure you it will be the last thing you ever do in the U-boat arm.” He had added shortly, “You may wait in the room by the entrance.”

Donath had never forgotten that moment, nor the message Donitz had imparted to him that day. Now was one of those moments Donitz had mentioned. And now, Donath was experiencing fully what that word command meant. He gathered his thoughts and stared out over the dark sea. With a sudden decisiveness he threw himself into action, dragging his men with him. For the rest of the night, Donath encouraged, berated and forcibly roused his crew into action. None of them on the rafts rested that night as Donath threw them from one activity to another, always keeping them and their minds active.

When dawn finally found the rafts, Donath was shocked to find how few men were left. The wind chilled their bodies even as the ice-cold waves washed against the rafts, causing the harnessed men to bob around disjointedly. The dark had masked all of this, and now, in the weak sunlight, the devastation was fully revealed to him. Oil and wreckage covered the sea, and bodies drifted amongst it all. Only eight men climbed aboard the German destroyer when it picked them up an hour later. Eight men from a crew of fifty one. Donath shook his head sadly as he climbed up the rope ladder, and found that his voice would not respond to the simplest task of acknowledging the destroyer’s captain. He knew what command meant now. And there was no doubt in his mind that he had failed them.

************************************************** ************

Hope you like it!

Cheers,

Dan

[azn_132]

Very Great Read!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:up:

[Brag]

A good read -- Start working on the next one :D

[Lagger123987]

Be like the Laughing Swordfish guy!!!!!!!!!!!!! Good Read!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A must for you bookworms in this forums.

[azn_132]

Be like the Laughing Swordfish guy!!!!!!!!!!!!! Good Read!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A must for you bookworms in this forums.

Ur sugar high again Lag?

[bookworm_020]

Be like the Laughing Swordfish guy!!!!!!!!!!!!! Good Read!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A must for you bookworms in this forums.

This is one bookworm who's reading it!:up: Bring on the next installment.

[azn_132]

Be like the Laughing Swordfish guy!!!!!!!!!!!!! Good Read!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A must for you bookworms in this forums.

This is one bookworm who's reading it!:up: Bring on the next installment.

Im also a bookworm too, well, a former bookworm, too into comps now.

[DanBiddle]

Thanks for the comments guys!!! Glad you liked it :D

The next installment will be on the way soon!

Cheers,

Dan

[Jimbuna]

Nice read Dan :rock: :up:

[DanBiddle]

Here's the next part! Enjoy :D

************************************************** ***************

In November 1940, shortly after the successful invasion of France, Admiral Karl Dönitz had moved his Headquarters and the whole of the BdU staff from Paris to a requisitioned mansion just outside Lorient. Kernevel was a striking building, and would have once been very beautiful without the large Nazi banners suspended from windows.

Kapitänleutnant Max Donath had been escorted to a waiting staff car almost as soon as the destroyer had docked in Lorient. He was still wearing the same dirty, oil-stained clothing and had barely been able to speak a few words to the survivors of his crew. The driver had not hung about, and Donath could scarcely remember a faster trip to the house.

As he climbed out of the Mercedes onto the gravelled drive, Donath looked grimly at the SS sentries before walking between them and into the carpeted hallway. A young lieutenant escorted him up the stairs and then down the long hallway to the double doors at the end. A small desk and a couple of chairs were outside the door, and Donath was confronted by a bespectacled lieutenant seated at the desk. He had white cloth between his gold stripes.

He snapped severely, “I’m Merkel, Admiral’s secretary. He’s waiting.”

The inner office had once been the master bedroom. Now it was cleared of all the previous furniture and the wooden floor was covered by a large rug. The walls were panelled in dark mahogany and bookcases covered one wall. A table and chairs sat in one corner of the room and a large balcony dominated the other wall. Dönitz was stood with his back to a radiator, his eyes fixed on the door as Donath entered. He waited until Donath had crossed the room and then thrust out a hand.

“Glad to have you back, Donath.” He gestured to a chair and then crossed to a decanter and glasses.

Donath watched him warily. Dönitz was just the same as he had always been. He was very close to his commanders and men, and Donath had known no better leader. Yet, despite all this, Donath had never been more nervous about an interview with the Admiral.

Dönitz offered him a glass. “Nice drop of brandy.” His eyes were fixed on Donath’s, very clear in the enclosed room. “The French certainly know how to make it!” He added dryly.

Donath sipped it slowly, waiting for Dönitz to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.

“I suspect you’ve learnt more about command in the last two days than the rest of your time in U-boats combined, eh?”

Donath nodded slowly, his hand gripping the glass tighter. It was empty, but he had not remembered drinking the brandy.

“Yes, sir. There was nothing more I could do. The escorts…”

Donath stopped as the Admiral held up a hand. “Stop yourself, Donath. I hold you responsible for the loss of U-31, as it should be, but in no way do I blame you. No matter how experienced or how skilful a commander is, eventually the odds are going to turn against him. Three of our greatest aces were lost nearly a year ago now. I don’t blame them either. Talk me through what happened, eh?”

Donath nodded again as Dönitz refilled his glass. “We had been ordered to attack the convoy, and when we received the order we were set up perfected to intercept. A couple of hours steaming and we dived and picked up their tracks a few thousand metres away. It was exceptionally foggy that morning, and we crept in on the surface, on electric motors to keep the noise down.” Donath stared into space as he relived the experience. “We had just fired a salvo of four at a large tanker in the central column when a destroyer came sprinting in from abeam and fixed us in her searchlight. We scarcely had time to avoid the ram, but avoid it we did. I steered hard a port at ahead flank on the surface to clear the destroyer and then crash-dived once we had some room.” He looked up and looked straight into Dönitz’s eyes. “I have no idea how he found us. There was practically no visibility, and we were silent, yet he came for us as if we were highlighted against the sea.” He shook his head. “It was uncanny.”

Donath took another sip of the brandy. “We went deep quickly, and had a moment’s respite before the depth-charges came. We were kept under for six hours, and one of the last charges ruptured the seals on the propeller shafts.” He spread his hands. “After that, it was game over. We managed to surface, but every time the shafts rotated, they enlarged the leak slightly more, made the pumps work even harder. Then, last night just before dusk they were finally overcome, and we could no longer keep the water out.” He took another gulp of the brandy. “I ordered Hans the signalman to send off an SOS and then put the enigma and codebooks in the weight bag. I dropped them over myself after everyone had got out. One of the rafts burst, so we only had two to use, and as you know we couldn’t all fit on them. We were picked up at dawn.” He lapsed into silence.

Dönitz cleared his throat heavily. “Donath, thank you for reliving it for me. It can’t have been pleasant.” He raised his voice suddenly, making Donath sit up with a jolt. “But now is not the time for brooding! I need all my men now, and experienced commanders are hard to come by these days. If I allow you leave, then you will come back a wreck, totally unsuitable for combat operations. I need you out there, Donath, at least for the next few months. What do you say? If you don’t feel up to it then I will pull you off combat duties.”

Donath sat up straighter, and looked Dönitz in the eye. “I need a command, sir, now more than anything.”

Dönitz nodded sadly. “Yes, everyone in the service heard about your loss, and we are all saddened by it. Now your boat has been lost as well." He paused. "Chin up, lad, you’ve got a lot to give yet.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “I’m posting you to the 11th Flotilla in Bergen.” He held up a hand again. “I know, you haven’t heard of them. It’s a new flotilla, and still working up. The commander of U-335 was unfortunately shot by an over anxious sentry last night. It’s Norway for you, Donath!”

As Donath left Kernevel in another staff car, all he could think about was the new boat. A fresh start. He had never needed it more.



************************************************** *************



Cheers,



Dan

[Kpt. Lehmann]

Good stuff Mr. Biddle.:up:

[U-104]

:rock::rock::up::up:

[Lagger123987]

More!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[azn_132]

:up: :up: Keep on comin, dont stop now.

[DanBiddle]

Thanks for all your comments guys! They make all the difference - it's nice to know it's being appreciated. The next installment will be along soon - although to be honest, Norway in January does sound decidedly cold!

Cheers,

Dan

[Chock]

Whenever I see threads on forums where someone has written a story, I always hope that reading it won't be a disappointment. Unfortunately it very often is.

But not in this case Dan, I was really very pleasantly surprised by how good both of your installments were. You clearly have some talent for writing, and since I spent ten years writing for a newspaper - still do it as a job now as well as teaching a copywriting course - I'd like to think I know what I'm talking about.

You have a great opportunity here too; whenever anyone is writing historical fiction, especially historical fiction that has to include technical details, there are numerous pitfalls awaiting the author. Not only do they have to consider dramatic structure, dialogue, pacing etc, they've also got to be a meticulous researcher, as one slip of detail in an historical story, and they've broken the spell, and lost the reader.

I suspect that if any errors had cropped up in your story, the rivet-counters would have been on it in a flash! Which means you've probably got some of the best technical proof-readers available to you. So here is a great place to hone your work, and when you've done that, go for the big one - write a novel.

There was always a joke going around the writers at the newspapers and other places I've worked with writers that went like this: There are three kinds of writers, those who are in the process of writing their big novel, those who are waiting to start writing it, and those who sit there thinking 'I bet I could write something better than that', but who never start it. I'm in the former group, having been working on mine for approximately the past three years, largely because it too is set in the past and requires tons of research. :rotfl: So it's nice to see another writer who has got off his ass and actually started doing it!

Keep it up Dan, it's good stuff.

:D Chock

[DanBiddle]

Kapitänleutnant Max Donath stepped down from the staff car and turned towards the fjord. He heard the base commander giving instructions to the driver about something, and wished he could have been alone for these last free moments. Taking command, even joining a ship for the first time, was a testing business. All the way from Lorient, changing trains, holding on to solitude even in crowded compartments, he had thought about it. Then again on the transport as it flew him up to the fjords.

His new company would be much more worried about what their new captain might be like. Why couldn’t he accept that nothing would ever be the same? U-31 was gone. All the faces, the weaknesses, and the rough camaraderie that made any ship were gone. Eight survivors.

He passed the journey north going over the brief notes Dönitz had handed him, putting names to people ho would soon become an everyday part of his life. Whenever he glanced up from his papers, a ruddy-faced major had tried to force him into conversation about the war. What the navy, ‘the blue jobs’ as he called them, really thought about it, while he took occasional sips from a silver flask that certainly didn’t contain coffee. He had not offered it to Donath. He felt his mouth relax into a thin smile. Just as well. I’d probably have told him!

The base commander was speaking again.

Donath turned towards him. “What is it?”

The base commander replied, “Nothing, Donath. Just a young lad joining. Asking about boats. I told him to report to…”

“I’ll take him.”

He caught sight of a young lieutenant with a pile of ill-assorted luggage and an instrument case. He had a solitary star on his sleeve, denoting the rank of Oberfähnrich.

“Great! Thanks!” The man stared in dismay as he saw the oak leaves around the peak of Donath’s cap. “God, I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t realise!” He added helplessly, “I’m joining U-335, you see.”

Donath nodded, and then smiled. “So am I, as it happens.”

The lieutenant slipped the raincoat off his shoulder and saluted. “Meier, sir. Coming aboard to join.”

Donath returned the salute and then turned as the base commander started speaking again. “The tender is here, Donath.”

Donath nodded. “Right on time.”

The base commander replied, but Donath barely heard him. He was feeling in his pockets, half expecting to find his pipe there, but that had gone too, probably when they had picked him up. All the time, he had been trying to hold on to the other man, hearing his voice. Help me. Somebody help me. And another voice, a stranger’s. “No use, sir. He’s gone.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“What?” He swung on the young officer almost blindly. “What is it?”

“I just realised what a stupid goddamn fool I am. Who you are. What you did.” He shook his head. “And all I do is…”

Donath held out his hand. “Don’t say it. This is an important day for both of us.” He turned as the tender’s engines coughed astern, and the hull came to rest against the jetty’s fenders with barely a shudder.

A lieutenant scrambled ashore and saluted. “Ready when you are, sir.”

Donath turned to shake hands with the base commander. “Thanks for your help, sir.”

“Good luck, Donath.” The other man saluted.”

The lieutenant was staring at Meier, confused, angry perhaps, that something unrehearsed was happening. He was gathering up his bags, and lastly the instrument.

“After you, sir.”

Donath did not raise his voice. “It’s not vital, Mr Meier, but senior officers go last, right? And you’ll have to leave the instrument and one of those bags behind. There’s no room for anything more.

More confusion, until a seaman ran to carry the unwanted bags back to the hard. Donath could feel the scrutiny, the curiosity, perhaps the understanding, too. The navy was a family, after all. He touched the peak of his cap and stepped down into the boat.

“Bear off forrard! Let go aft!” The boat tore away from the jetty and caught Meier off balance; Donath heard a yelp and a bang as he fell in a crumpled heap on the deckplates. A face he would get to know, and the man behind it, like all the rest of them. He gripped the safety rail until his hand throbbed. But not too intimately. Not again.

He looked around at the high valley sides that enclosed the fjord. They were certainly majestic, and had a sad beauty about them. His gaze fell on the partially completed bunker. That would spoil it, he thought. The launch turned a corner and Donath saw her for the first time. U-335, a type VIIC submarine. Almost brand new, she had been commissioned at Emden in early December.

The launch was slowing down but Donath did not move, although his reefer jacket was shining black with spray.

The young lieutenant, Meier, stared at him, wanting to understand, needing to remember this moment for all of time. A senior Kapitänleutnant, he thought, yet so youthful himself. A face you would trust. Believe. He saw the ruffled brown hair playing in the wind underneath the gleaming white cap and smiled. He could hardly be older than 30.

The launch pulled up alongside the U-boat, her decks wet with spray. Meier made to move but the lieutenant pulled him aside. “Seniors in last, out first! Got it?” Meier nodded vaguely, watching as Donath climbed out of the launch and saluted the second-in-command. Meier could see them exchanging words, and then Donath climbed up into the tower and then disappeared through the hatch.

Meier stared in confusion as he found the officer on the U-boat yelling at him. “You there! If you’re joining, then get a bloody move on!” He scrambled hurriedly up onto the casing, ignoring the grins on the faces of the launch crew. As the launch moved away he climbed down the ladder. He had a lot to learn, he thought grimly.

************************************************** *****************

“Sit down please.” Donath was seated in the centre of the wardroom bench waiting for his officers to get settled before beginning the introductions. It was a tight squeeze around the table; Dönitz had already mentioned that U-335 would have a full complement of officers.

He looked around at each one of them before beginning. “Very well. I don’t believe I’ve ever met any of you before, but some of you may know me from Lorient or earlier in the war. Some of you are as new to me as you are to the service.” He let his gaze rest on Meier, who grinned at him. “Later we shall get to know each other better, all I can say for the moment is to look to your departments and make sure they’re all up to scratch. We will be heading out on patrol this afternoon, so make sure you’re all sorted.” He smiled at them. “Now, I’m sure we will get along fine.” He looked to his right, “And now if the first lieutenant could introduce you all I’ll be able to put names to faces!”

Donath looked at his first lieutenant as he began to speak. He was tall and thin, and had the slight stoop all submariners acquired after a time. He held an arm out and motioned to the officer sitting directly to Donath’s left. “Oberleutnant Ludwig Altern, Engineering Officer.” Donath had a quick impression of dark curly hair and a broad grin. He nodded, aware of Donath’s scrutiny. The first lieutenant moved along to the next man. “Leutnant Wilhelm Hartmann, Navigation Officer.” Hartmann nodded, “Sir.” Donath looked at the man who would become a key member of their little community, yet he seemed vaguely out of place. Handsome and well-bred, with the easy drawling tone of one who could be slightly contemptuous of those around him. His grave features betrayed no emotion, and his pale grey eyes were calm and assured. A hard man to know, Donath thought to himself.

The others were Leutnant Manheim Brezinka, Torpedo Officer; a dour looking man with sharp features and darting eyes. He seemed on edge, and Donath wondered if his nerves were betraying him. The last member was Oberfähnrich Hans Meier, who Donath had already met. As junior officer, he was assigned the task of decoding and coding up their signals and generally learning everything he could about submarines. Fresh-faced and with almost delicate features, it was hard to picture him as a man of action. He still wore a broad grin, obviously not too upset that his luggage had been cut down to almost a third. Donath knew from his documents that Meier had passed his submarine and gunnery courses at the top of the list. There was obviously more to him than was instantly recognisable.

The last member was Oberleutnant Rudi Frenzel, the first lieutenant. He had been watching the man during the brief introductions, and his even tone suggested that he was a dependable man. He was the most experienced officer on board aside from Donath, and he was also one of the oldest.

“Very well, men. Prepare the boat for sea. We leave in two hours.” Donath nodded to them as they stood up and left the wardroom, departing to their particular parts of the boat. Hartmann was no doubt going over his charts and specialised equipment, Frenzel off to make some last check of the stores.

As first lieutenant, he was responsible for the trim of the boat at all times. He had to supervise the loading, and take account of the tiniest addition of weight. He would be kept busy for the entire cruise, and had to be totally on top of his game; it had been known for a U-boat’s bow to rise right out of the water when a torpedo was fired, all because the first lieutenant had forgotten to take into account their loss in weight. Frenzel looked like a pro, and Donath was quite content in trusting him to get the job done.

Meier was the only one who hadn’t moved. He was no doubt curious, and as Donath watched he could see Meier’s eyes roving all over the wardroom, taking in all the new sights and smells. He had seemed quite incredulous when he had first come aboard; most are shocked at the cramped conditions. He seemed happy enough about it now though. Donath stood up and walked slowly to his cabin. He sat down and brought out the orders he had been given by the base commander a few hours earlier.

It seemed the 11th Flotilla was to be engaged well up in the northern reaches of the Atlantic. U-335 had been given orders to patrol grid AD78, approximately 5000 kilometres away, bang in the middle of the Denmark Strait. Donath hoped BdU had seen fit to equip the crew with cold weather gear, or it would be a very unpleasant cruise.

Two hours later he stood at the front of the bridge, watching as Meier’s deck party took control of the mooring lines. He heard the diesels rumble into life behind him and saw Meier wave to him as the last line was cast off. He bent down and uncovered the voicepipe. One last glance around and then he spoke to Frenzel down in the control room.

“Take her to sea, Number One.”

He was back.



************************************************** *************



Cheers,



Dan

[Jimbuna]

AWESOME!! :rock: :up:

[Lagger123987]

:rock: :rock: :rock: :rock: :up: :up: Keep up the work!

[bookworm_020]

All these great stories to read and now another one. Keep it up!:up:

[DanBiddle]

Donath listened to the immediate response from the engines. Throaty, deeper than before, the screws lashing the water into bright froth astern before settling into a steadier pattern.

“Steer two-nine-zero.” He waited until the order was passed down the voicepipe and added, “Tell Number One to train the periscope on our guide. She’ll show her stern light in a moment. He can conn the boat on that.”

It had happened very quickly. The boat was sliding away from the large buoy, her sharp stem throwing up feathers of spray whilst the bow wave sluiced aft along the fat saddle tanks. He heard one of the lookouts whispering excitedly to his companion and said, “Keep silent! Watch your prescribed areas and save the chat for later!” Harsh perhaps, but Donath didn’t want anything to spoil the moment.

Brezinka was Officer-of-the-Watch, and he straightened up from the voicepipe and called, “First lieutenant reports all well in the control room, sir.”

“Good.”

A cluster of gulls floated abeam, clucking irritably in the frigid waters of the fjord, trying to decide whether it was safe to remain on the surface. It was only three pm, yet light was already fading quickly, and the gulls looked like a discarded wreath in the twilight. He shivered. It was much colder and darker than France had been, and Donath knew that if U-335 were to sink before reaching the port, there would not even be eight survivors come morning. The engines sounded very good indeed, probably hadn’t even been worn in yet.

He stooped over the voicepipe. “Watch her head, ‘Swain. There’ll be a stiff cross-current in about fifteen minutes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Stoeker, the coxswain, sounded miles away, yet was just below his feet at the wheel.

“Launch to starboard, sir.”

Donath trained his powerful glasses and watched it for several moments.

“Well done. Disregard it now and carry on with your sweep.”

“Yessir.” It was the lookout he had previously reprimanded for gossiping, but his voice sounded slightly mollified by the brief praise.

U-335 moved on down the fjord, with the swell growing more noticeable as they ploughed towards the sea. Frenzel seemed to have no difficulty in holding the escort’s sternlight in his periscope. Meier’s round face appeared above the bridge screen, shining with spray.

“All wires secured and stowed, sir!” He sounded breathless.

“Very well. Fall out your people and send them below.” He hesitated. “Then check the fore hatch again, Sub.”

The boy vanished and Brezinka said, “I think he’s enjoying all this.”

Donath glanced at him. “Probably. It’s all new to him.”

Feet scraped on the ladder and a man tried to scramble onto the bridge even as the first of Meier’s casing party crowded over the rear of the conning-tower.

Donath snapped, “What the hell are you doing?”

Brezinka said, “He wants to be sick, sir.”

The seamen from the casing, already cold and sodden with spray, stared at the wretched man unfeelingly. One said, “Shove over, Ginger, and let the real men get below!”

Donath added, “Send him down. If he wants to be sick he’ll use a bucket.”

He heard the man retching and bubbling as he dropped from view. He bit his lip. He had been harsh with the luckless seaman. But once at sea, with just the officer of the watch and his lookouts on the bridge at any given time, one such incident could cause disaster. A sudden attack, the need to crash dive, and men could be struggling in an open hatch even as the boat plunged under. Frenzel, who was in command of the control room, should have known better. They would soon be entering the North Sea, and there would be plenty of aircraft around that would test their dive time.

Meier came onto the bridge and shook himself like a puppy out in the rain.

“All secure, sir.” He grinned. “Really.”

Donath smiled. Perhaps he had been like Meier once. He must have been, but it hardly seemed possible.

“Right. Well done, Sub. You can go below.”

Meier asked shyly, “Can I stay here, sir?”

“Of course.” Donath raised his glasses and watched the escort lift and stagger across the first of the inshore swells. “But hold on tight.”

Brezinka looked up suddenly. He said, “I hope the torpedoes won’t let us down. I’ve checked them all until I know each one by name. All the same, we’ve had our fair share of duds in the past.” He paused. “I’ll go forrard now, with your permission, sir.”

“Yes.” Brezinka’s arrival in the fore-ends would shake them up. Keep them from pondering too much.

Donath looked abeam. The steep valley sides were almost swallowed up by the darkness now, and their jagged outline was clearly visible against the reddened sky. Nobody would see them pass. The Norwegians tended to ignore their invaders most of the time, unlike the French who seemed to be largely polarised in their emotions. He looked up as Meier spoke, “This used to be covered by ice, sir. A long, long time ago. That’s why the sides are all jagged like that.”

Donath looked at him, surprised. “Where did you learn that?”

“University, sir. I did geology at Munich. Then the war came.” He smiled ruefully.

“Any outside interests there?”

“I was a pacifist, sir.

Donath grinned at his confusion. “No comment!”

“Captain, sir!” It was Frenzel on the voicepipe.

“What is it?”

“Coming onto new course now. Two-seven-zero, that is if the escort has checked her compass properly.” A pause. “And sorry about that seaman, sir. Stupid of me.”

“That’s alright Rudi. I expect you’ve got your hands full down there.” A relieved chuckle answered him. The easy use of Frenzel’s name had shocked Donath. It was happening again, he thought. I’m getting too close. But in the close confines of a U-boat there was little he could do.

The bridge lurched steeply and brought a curtain of spray dousing over the periscope standards. It was getting wilder, and on either bow there was no longer even a shadow of the land. The blue sternlight ahead was pitching in all directions, and he guessed aboard the escort things were getting very uncomfortable. Her skipper was probably praying that the next few hours would pass without incident so that they could watch over the U-boat’s test dive and then scurry back to shelter.

Donath considered the prospect of diving. It would be an unhurried affair. The last time they would get to perform it slowly and methodically. After that….

He pushed the thought from his mind and said, “Change the lookouts. And tell the steward to send me something hot to drink.”

Throughout his command he could imagine his men sitting or standing at their stations. Watching their gauges and levers, listening to the engines’ pitch and the steady beat of the screws. Others, off watch, would have more time to think, to examine their own feelings as each minute took them further and further from home.

“Able Seaman Churchill requests permission to come to the bridge, sir.” The lookout could not restrain a grin. Churchill was a torpedoman, but was also the wardroom steward. He had be born to English parents, but was German through and through. It was an unfortunate name to have in wartime, Donath mused.

“Very well.”

The man squeezed through the hatch carrying a jug and mugs against his chest. “Cocoa, sir.” He poured some of the thick liquid into a mug and squinted outboard at the tossing whitecaps. “Bloody hell!”

Donath held the hot mug against his face. “How are things, ah…Churchill?”

The steward eyed him curiously. “Great, sir.”

Donath watched him slither into the open hatchway. One of the lookouts whispered, “Give our love to the War Cabinet!”

Churchill’s head quivered in the hatchway. “Bugger off!”

Donath smiled to himself. He supposed Churchill must have got used to the comments by now. It was certainly a unique coincidence.

He craned over the voicepipe. “Watch your revolutions. The yacht is making hard going of it. We’ll overtake her if we’re not careful.”

He heard Stoeker’s terse acknowledgement and pictured Frenzel and Altern translating his advice into action. Hartmann would be leaning on his chart table. Very little for him to do at present. Just watch everyone else, his handsome face set in a cynical smile.

Meier said, “There’s a lot to know, isn’t there, sir?”

Donath looked at him. “I suppose there is. I hadn’t thought of it like that. It sort of grows on you.” Meier was still watching him, eyes filling the pale shape of his face. This would not do at all. It sounded like some kind of awe. The birth of hero-worship. But Meier had to be independent. Stand on his own two feet.

“Watch the course, Meier. I’m going to take a look around.” Donath moved to the back of the bridge, stepping carefully into the exposed winter garden and letting Meier take responsibility of the boat.

As the submarine pushed further and further into the North Sea the motion became worse, the noise of wind and sea even louder than the engines. In uncomfortable, swaying silence the four men on the bridge withdrew from one another, gripping the wet steel, bracing their aching legs against the steep, dizzy plunges. At long last they arrived at the pre-arranged position, and as the escort rolled in the steep troughs Donath said, “This is it.” He spoke into the voicepipe; “Everything ready below?”

Stoeker called back, “Standing by, sir. Control room clock reads 1900.”

Donath straightened his back. “Signal the escort.” He waited until Meier had picked up the small lamp. “Am about to carry out trim dive.” To the lookouts he added, “Clear the bridge.” He felt strangely calm, detached. A light stabbed across the water and he thought he heard the escort’s siren give a brief blast.

Meier hurried to the hatch and Donath was alone. Slowly and deliberately he snapped shut the cocks on the two voicepipes and took a last glance around him at the faint outline of the escort. Then he lowered himself through the hatch and spun the locking wheel into place. Unhurriedly down the polished ladder where a seaman waited to slam shut the lower hatch. It made a dull thud, like someone banging on an oil drum under water.

After the stinging wind and spray his cheeks felt flushed in the ordered world of the control room. He handed his dripping oilskin to a messenger and ran his gaze over the men around him. Stoeker, small and intent at his wheel. The two planesmen, heads tilted to watch their dials. Frenzel, arms folded, standing just behind the coxswain. Hartmann by the chart table as expected. Altern leaning on his control panel, face alight in the reflected bulbs.

“All set, Number One?”

Frenzel turned towards him. “Ready, sir.”

Donath crossed to the observation periscope and swung it gently until he found the escort’s vague outline about two hundred metres clear. He depressed the periscope lens and focussed on the foreplanes. “Test fore and aft planes, Number One.”

He watched them, moving from rise to dive positions before returning to the horizontal trim. Beyond the periscope he caught a glimpse of a young stoker. Watching him like a mesmerised rabbit. He gave him a brief smile but there was no change of expression. He glanced around the control room again. It looked comfortingly warm in the glowing lights, the sweaters of the occupants still unsoiled by grease or dirt.

“Hydroplanes tested and found correct, sir.”

“Ready, Chief?” He saw Altern nod.

He turned back to the periscope. The moment had come. How quiet it was now that the diesels had given way to the electric motors. Restful almost.

“Slow ahead together. Open main vents. Take her down to fourteen metres!”

He concentrated his gaze on the foreplanes as they tilted downwards like fins. They were easy to see against the frothing bow wave. It was a fascinating sight and never failed to excite him. The bow dropping, the sea surging up the casing towards him while the deck tilted below his feet. The casing had gone now, and he saw spray leaping at him, so that as always he was tempted to hold his breath as if to avoid drowning.

“Down periscope.”

He stood back, bracing his body as he looked quickly over the depth gauges and the hydroplane tell-tales. Frenzel was doing well. Nice and smooth. He watched the big needle edging round, steadying.

“Fourteen metres, sir. Periscope depth,”

“Up periscope.”

Again a quick circling inspection. No sign of the escort, but her ragged engine beat could be heard easily through the hull.

“Down periscope.” He clapped home the handles.

“Twenty metres.”

He waited, hearing the crackle of reports over the intercom and the voicepipes as sections contacted the control room, half-listening to the ping of the echo-sounder, the smooth purr of the motors.

“Frenzel said, “Twenty metres, sir.” He wiped his face with his forearm. “No reports of leaks.”

Hartmann remarked casually, “That’s good news.”

Nobody replied.

They maintained the same depth and speed for the prescribed half hour. The hull felt exceptionally steady, and all the reports were encouraging.

Moments later U-335 surfaced and signalled the escort. Then she turned and heading out into the North Sea, quickly fading into the darkness. Her first patrol was underway.

************************************************** *************


Thanks for reading this far guys! I can definitely promise action in the next installment!


Cheers,


Dan

[Jimbuna]

This is oh soooooooooo good :up: