Albrecht Von Hesse
01-26-08, 02:10 AM
"All ahead slow."
"All ahead slow; jawohl, Herr Kaleun!"
Leaning against the edge of the watch tower I heard the command echoed down belowdeck. Moments later there came a low coughing roar at the stern as the diesels powered up. I felt the low thrum of them beneath my soles as the screws bit into the chill waters, foam frothing at the stern, my eyes twinkling as I saw the fierce grins the watch crew exchanged with each other as we slowly began easing from our berth.
Not with me, of course. Their expressions, when I caught their eyes with mine, were more sober and contained; as befitted my station, of course. But their enthusiasm and zeal were no less unbridled.
A far cry when compared to departing Kiel just two months ago. (Was it only two months ago? Amazing; it seemed much longer to me for some reason) Two months ago --October the first, 1939, to be exact-- had been their first-ever combat patrol. War had erupted, without warning (although, to be fair, there had been hints of growing discontent and conflict prior) just the month before. And for most of the crew they had graduated U-boat training in time to step right into the fire.
Worse for them, their Captain was also just as brand-spanking new to combat as they. Impossible otherwise, naturally; it was hardly likely you'd find a Captain who had completed even a single combat patrol at that point. Needless to say, that was unlikely to inspire rampant faith and confidence when your Captain was just was wet behind the ears vis-à-vis combat as you were.
Our boat was just as new as all of us. U-54 had, in fact, no sooner passed her builders' trials then had been commissioned. I still remembered coming aboard my first time: I could still smell the scents of paint, cork and leather. U-54 was my first command. I'd been Exec of U-16, a dugout, IIB, fresh from Commander training in November '38 and, after serving that stint, was assigned command of U-54.
Just in time for war to be declared.
We'd had a week to take on supplies. Bunkers filled. Our TOE now at combat-capacity and readiness. And live ordnance --not training rounds-- stored above and belowdeck. Oberleutnant z. S. Schnabl, my Chief Engineer, barely slept a wink prior to our departure on October first. He was prowling around at all hours, his nose into everything.
As a matter of fact, so had I. This was going to be no 'shake-down' cruise; no milk-run, no practice. Our orders were to patrol AN41, and that was right in the Tommies' back yard. Having something break down once we'd reached there wasn't going to be an embarrassment and inconvenience . . . it was likely to be fatal, so I certainly wasn't about to insist that Georg rein himself in.
Our first patrol had been more than satisfactory: thirteen days at sea, with six merchants and three warships under our belts, a combined tonnage of 31744 tons in all. It had also, alas, had its share of less-than-sterling moments. In fact, I'd been bracing myself to face a Board of Inquiry upon our return.
A rather understandable worry, after all, when you dock with your boat's nose a bit crumpled and stove in.
We'd just arrived on station when the watch crew had spotted an aircraft. I'd heard their echoing cries of 'Alarm!' from above then, even as they came dropping down, feet and hands just skimming the ladder, we'd gone to ahead flank and full down planes. In less than forty seconds we were fully submerged and going deep. I'd just ordered a depth-check and Leutnant z. S. Gregor had just replied with a reading of eighty-nine meters, when I heard a shocked and dismayed cry of "Herr Kaleun!" just behind me.
Whirling about I immediately saw the problem, and my belly felt as if a ball of lead had just dropped there. We weren't leveling off at sixty meters. We were already at seventy meters and were still descending.
"Back emergency!" I'd barked. "Left full rudder! Blow the tanks and surface the boat!" rapidly followed as the telegraphs rang. I clung to the ladder against the tilt of the deck, knuckles white and blanched with the intensity of my grip, a part of me striving to arrest our descent by willpower.
Between the sharp turn and the straining engines, the blown tanks and the dive planes . . . instead of striking the seafloor hard we'd just skipped and skidded along for a few seconds before leveling off then ascending. What could have been a disaster --possibly even a fatal one-- had instead been just minor damage to the light hull; the pressure hull had never been compromised and, in fact, the impact had been so light we'd never even sprung a leak.
But U-57 had now sported a pug nose, and had lost that sleek lethal look.
Much to my surprise --and relief, mind you!-- not only had there been no Board of Inquiry, but I'd been promoted!
Our second patrol was to AN59, and had lasted ten days. This time we'd returned with thirteen ships to our credit, with a combined tonnage of 32581 tons. We'd also returned with quite a few holes in the watch tower and light hull, compliments of a torpedo boat that had caught me by surprise. Actually, that hadn't been so much a matter of surprise as my underestimating the efficacy of its firepower. A mistake I assure you I shant make again.
I suppose that's the nature, after all, of 'seasoning' and becoming a veteran: you make mistakes and, assuming they don't kill you, you learn by them and become better.
Glancing back I watched our berth slowly receding behind us. "Come about twenty degrees port," I ordered, anticipating our third patrol with a fierce keenness.
Twelve days later and that keenness hadn't faded, but I'd also grown more and more irritable and short. Considering our assigned patrol area had been AN21, all of us had expected to see action both early and frequent. We'd made it to our patrol area in good time, the sea calm and weather clear. But in five days we hadn't seen a single thing, not even an aircraft (which, I might add, had neither displeased nor disappointed me!) The crew was on edge of sorts: tense and prepared, but with a growing sense of frustration that was almost palpable.
I'd considered several choices to go trolling, and had settled on heading to AN16 then cruising through the Orkney strait to AN15. I'd no intention of trying to actually creep up to Scapa Flow itself, but I'd hoped we might spot a task force on its way out or back.
Instead all we'd spotted were a passel of ASW trawlers and quite frequent destroyers that were obviously patrolling that area. I'd intended to ignore them, and for two reasons. One is that they were, to be blunt, a pfennig a dozen. The other was more prosaic and practical: attacking one of them would certainly announce the presence of a U-boat, and Scapa Flow was a bit too close for comfort for my liking.
However, on the twelfth, shortly after submerging just before dawn broke, as we were slipping our way along we'd encountered a destroyer slowly moving back and forth across our path. She was obviously patrolling her area, and while it wasn't likely she'd detect us, 'not likely' wasn't at all the same as 'not possible'. At a range of four hundred meters, ninety degrees AoB and a bearing of five . . . one torpedo under her stacks and down she went.
Rather than throw good marks after bad I'd had us circle above and around the Orkney's then slowly trawled our way down the coast. We'd had rather good hunting down Southend during our second patrol, and while I wasn't looking forward to a 1100 kilometer jaunt --especially now that the weather had taken an ugly turn-- I also wasn't looking forward to draining our bunkers dry and returning with a virtually full load of torpedoes.
Seven days later we'd finally arrived just outside of Southend and had started making search sweeps roughly in an area in line with, and midpoint between, Harwich and Dover. Along the way we'd bagged two coastal freighters and one tramp steamer. The freighters took one torpedo each, while the tramp steamer was sunk using the deck gun, the weather finally having cleared by then. In each case we'd hove to and assisted the survivors afterwards. With the tramp, she'd already been foundering when we'd spotted her, her bow practically awash. It had taken only five rounds to sink her, and one of those had been a warning shot across her bow. Her crew had taken the hint at that, and I'd waited until they'd abandoned her before opening fire.
We hadn't been on station twelve hours when Bootsman Zinke, the RO on duty, wake me up from a nap. I knew something was up the moment I'd heard his exclamation of "Herr Kaleun!" as he'd held out the decrypted message.
A contact report.
An enemy convoy. A large enemy convoy.
Grid AN79.
I felt my blood begin to heat as I focused on the grid and quadrant. They were less than thirty kilometers away, and heading virtually down our throat!
"Well," I softly chuckled. "From famine to feast I see," and Zinke broke into a huge, gleaming white grin. Rising I nodded to Zinke, dismissing him as I took the message then strode to the command room.
Indeed, once having plotted the information, it was clearly apparent their course would pass within spitting distance of our current position. I felt as if, after enduring the drudgery and disappointment of the last twelve days, we were now being rewarded. Conditions were utterly optimal: clear skies, calm seas, a partial moon and the dead of night.
As we went to action stations it felt as if an electric current was racing through the boat. The crew had instantly sprung from gradually increasing apathy and lethargy to vibrant, almost hungry, keen anticipation.
And so had I.
"Smoke on the horizon Herr Kaleun!"
I whipped the binoculars up to my eyes so fast I winced. If I didn't look like a masked ferret come morning I'd be lucky. The minutes slowly passed, the time passing glacially. More and more smoke appeared then --finally!-- the distant forms of the ships themselves. The UZO had already been brought up and bracketed, and I started taking bearings as best I could at that distance. All too soon, though, it became dreadfully apparent that the convoy had made a course change at some point after we'd received the contact report. Unwelcome news but, actually, not all that unexpected.
It wasn't until the lead ships were within six to seven kilometers that a more accurate course could be plotted, and I fiercely scowled as that was laid out. They were heading literally down my throat and not, as I'd planned, passing three kilometers in front of me.
"Take her down!" I snarled before sliding down. "Periscope depth. Ahead one third for ten minutes, then one-eighty relative and ahead slow."
Within a minute we'd silently slipped beneath the waves and had begun readjusting our course. By the time I'd determined their course it had been too late, I'd felt, to adjust our position while surfaced. I didn't want to risk being spotted. In fact, the image of ruining this opportunity was making my guts roil and clench. So I'd decided to reset our approach while submerged, then wait for the lead escort to pass by before resurfacing and making our attack.
Long minutes passed. It seemed deathly quiet. The crew spoke in low murmurs if they spoke at all. The tension spiraled higher and higher, ratcheting tighter with every passing second. Not the anxiety of fear and apprehension, but of professionalism, of eagerness and anticipation.
Bootsman Altmeier --who had, just prior to this patrol, been qualified on the hydrophones-- kept softly murmuring out contact reports, their speeds and approximate distances. Once they'd reached around thirty to forty degrees to port and within medium range I had the attack scope raised and began scouting around.
The lead escort had already passed by, and was now approximately thirty degrees to starboard. My palms started to sweat as I observed ship after ship, progressing in stately columns not four kilometers distant. Leutnant z. S. Metzker, our WO, had the recognition manual already out and open on the nav table, and I made several preliminary identifications as we slowly crept along. Those two, I was sure, were tankers of some sort. And those were definitely quite substantial cargo ships. While that one . . .
I felt my hands grip the handles so hard I was shocked I hadn't snapped them off. I screwed my eyes even tighter to the rubber guard as I strained my vision. In the middle of the columns, right near the front, was this leviathan stately ploughing along. A Goliath that seemed to dwarf the ships surrounding it.
Stepping back from the scope I took the RM from Metzker, and then the command room went utterly silent as I paged, not through the merchants' section . . . but started flipping through the warship section.
I softly whistled, feeling an almost reverence as I made a tentative ID. "That's a battleship," I murmured to Metzker, whose eyes widened as he, too, then softly whistled.
Briefings had, of course, covered the fact that the Tommies were using battleships as escorts for some of their convoys, in an effort to protect them from our commerce raiders and pocket battleships. But I'd never actually expected to run across one!
Setting the manual back down then returning to the scope I again focused on the massive warship serenely --and obliviously-- cruising in the crosshairs before me. "Bearing . . . mark," I murmured, then adjusted the stadiometer. "Range . . . mark." Then, a little bit more than three minutes later, " Bearing . . . mark. Range . . . mark. Down scope."
Within minutes we'd plotted a more accurate course and computed the convoy's speed. With a fifteen-degree turn to starboard, in ten minutes the battleship should pass within 1500 meters of us, while we'd have also interpenetrated the convoy itself. All plans for a surfaced attack had, of course, been scrubbed once I'd identified the battleship. There was no way in Hell I'd risk getting into a shootout with one: a single direct hit from a main turret would blast my boat into splintered flinders!
Part of me debated attacking the battleship. I spent several minutes doing some serious chewing of the inside of my cheek. I was, after all, supposed to attack and sink merchants. The objective of our missions were to deny the enemy supplies; to strangle their ability to fight. Yet this convoy must be critical to their effort, I mused. Why else assign a battleship to escort it? Without that escort, the convoy would, of a surety, be extremely vulnerable to additional attacks.
It was buck fever, and I knew it. I wanted that battleship.
"Flood tubes one through five," I murmured, then raised the scope again as the command was echoed. My gut felt as if punched when I focused on the battleship this time. We were so close to her now that I had to dial the magnification back!
"Set tubes one and two for nine meters. Medium speed. Open outer doors one and two. Bearing . . . twelve degrees port. AoB . . .," I swallowed, "Eighty degrees starboard. Range . . . one thousand meters!"
"Fire one!"
I felt the deck shudder as the first torpedo was launched. "Bearing . . . eleven degrees port. Fire two!"
Again the deck shuddered as number two went streaking towards the battleship. I hesitated a moment. Should I fire more? At this range I couldn't possibly miss, and at that depth they should impact below the torpedo belt armor.
Just behind and to the outside was one of the tankers I'd tentatively earlier identified. "Set number three to five meters depth. Open number three outer door. Bearing . . . mark. Range . . . mark. Fire three!"
Spinning the scope sternwards I tracked, then fired, upon a tanker passing just six hundred meters behind us. The AoB wasn't optimal --around fifty-five degrees, in fact-- but I couldn't get that battleship out of my mind. Should I have fired a third? All four?
I didn't need Bootsman Altmeier's announcements of torpedo impacts; I could clearly hear them: deep, low stentorian rumblings that vibrated the hull. Spinning the scope back again I focused on the battleship. Two clean hits, yet she seemed to have just shrugged them off!
"Set tube four at seven meters!" I snarled. "Open number four outer door! Bearing . . . mark!" The crosshair was lined up just below the number one main turret at that point. "Fire tube four! Down scope! Ahead one third, new heading forty degrees relative port."
Another impact. Then another, then yet another. Five clean hits. But were any of them mortal, yet alone fatal?
Hands atop the nav table, leaning my weight against it as I scowled down at the map I was considering what next to do. The new course was going to cut across the convoy at an oblique angle, taking us out the rear and far side. My plan was that the lead escort --who had, up until now (well, except for the battleship, of course) been the only escort I'd spotted-- would lose up as we skirted just under and across. And once out and on the other side I'd have us slowly curve around again and shadow them at a distance while reloading torpedoes and tracking any cripples. I still had five internals, after all, and . . .
"Herr Kaleun!!"
My head snapped up at the urgent strident alarm in Bootsman Altmeier's cry. Before he could even begin to report . . . it became moot.
Within moments the sound of slow steady screws abruptly rose in volume and timbre. And then a sound unlike anything I'd heard before . . . and never wished to again. The boat abruptly rocked to starboard, jarring everyone and sending loose objects sliding and flying, as a sound like a giant drawing steel nails down an iron blackboard reverberated. An almost deafening screech that went on and on and on for what seemed an eternity but couldn't possibly have lasted more than ten seconds.
My several sharp pungent curses were lost in those vibrating squeals of tortured metal. Because the depth here was so shallow I hadn't planned on going deep to evade. But I also hadn't fully considered the ramifications of our course change either. And that course change had, by ill chance --and my blatant stupidity-- taken us directly in the path of one of the merchants. By the sound of it we'd just missed a direct collision; the torturous squeals had come just aft of the watch tower . . . which didn't bode well for the flak gun stationed there.
"Take us down to twenty meters," I rasped, getting my feet back under me as the rocking gradually eased then ceased. Glancing up I happened to spot Metzker murmuring something to Oberfähnrich z. S. Deckert at navigation. Deckert's expression abruptly turned a bit sickly when he spotted me glancing their way.
Metzker turned his head when he noticed Deckert suddenly freeze and blanch. "Were you saying something Leutnant?" I inquired of the WO.
Quite matter-of-factly, and with a perfectly straight face Metzker replied, "I'd just said that we couldn't be bringing die gerodete Zehe back home without a beauty mark or two, after all."
There was dead silence in the command room. Deckert looked as if he was wishing he was loaded in a tube and about to be launched.
"Die gerodete Zehe," I repeated.
"Ja, Herr Kaleun. Die gerodete Zehe."
Turning to glare at them both, fisted hands on my hips I fiercely scowled. Metzker remained unperturbed and just met my gaze.
"Gentlemen," I rumbled. "If either of you think, for a moment, that we're going to be painting a bandage and sticking plaster on my watch tower . . .,"
Deckert relaxed as he spotted my lips twitching. "Oh no!" Metzker exclaimed. "Not that! Now, a crossed pair of crutches, however . . ."
Behind me I heard a snort as one of the planesmen desperately tried smothering a chuckle. Rolling my eyes and shaking my head I wagged a stern finger at the unrepentant Metzker before contemplating the maps again. The stubbed toe, I silently groaned.
Glancing up at Metzker again I softly murmured, "Do you think three were enough?"
He knew immediately what I was asking. Pursing his lips he pondered a few moments before replying. "They couldn't have left port more than a couple of hours ago," he replied. "That had to be an agent's report on their position, course and speed. And we're right in their backyard so to speak Sir. I doubt they were expecting anything, let alone at action stations. We've likely caught them with their pants down: unsecured for battle damage and their damage control parties not at station. Then again," he paused, "she is a battleship. Those bastards can take a lot of damage and continue slugging it out. I'd say we have a fifty-fifty shot at bringing her down."
It was obvious Metzker wanted to give better odds, but he was unwilling to be anything less than honest with me, no matter how badly it was obvious I wanted better news. I simply grunted and nodded. Damn it!
We continued for another five minutes before I ordered ahead slow. I very much doubted that lead escort had been able to detect us amidst the seething churn of all those screws out there, but there was no point in pushing my luck, after all. Now, let's see, if we continue along this cour--
"Herr Kaleun!"
It was Altmeier again and, once again, his voice was tight and anxious.
"Warship Herr Kaleun! Bearing one-three-one, close range and closing!"
What!?
Before that truly registered, moments later the ship echoed with the pounding pulse of their thrice-damned ASDIC. And by the tone they weren't seeking, but were focused on us!
"Ahead flank!" I barked. "Helm! Hard to port!"
The engines had barely reached speed, and we'd just started turning when, one after another, we were shaken and jarred by depth charges going off. The lights momentarily flickered; cork dust lightly hazed the air. Damn! Where had she come from!?
It shortly became very obvious it wasn't just one escort. There was at least two, and possibly three or four. There were times when my teeth felt as if vibrating from multiple pinging at very close range, and nothing I tried seem to shake them. After that first near-fatal DC attack I'd ordered silent running, and for the next hour I'd weaved and bobbed, creeped and crawled . . . and they doggedly clung to us.
What I didn't understand is why they weren't raining depth charges around our ears. There had been just three depth charge attacks in all, although the escorts continued circling above, like sharks scenting a wounded tuna. And as time passed, they were soon joined by those damned torpedo boats. Like mosquitoes they seemed to swarm above, seeking prey. And, like mosquitoes, although they might not carry as big a 'bite' as their bigger escort cousins, they could, most certainly, bring us down by sheer numbers if we should be foolish enough --or desperate enough-- to surface in their midst.
Time and time again I thought I'd shaken them off, only to have that infernal pinging pulse and throb against the hull. Never before had twenty-five meters seemed so shallow! Each time one of them abruptly speeded up and passed within meters of us I braced and cringed, expecting a string of depth charges to begin exploding. At our shallow depth I had no time --none at all-- to turn, to attempt writhing and avoiding that deadly hailstorm.
Yet, time and time again --save for those three early attacks-- the escorts went racing by, the sound of their churning screws deafening.
By now, almost an hour later, I'd long given up any thoughts, let alone plans, of pursuing and reacquiring the convoy. Evasion and escape were all I was considering, and so far I was miserably failing. For the first time the full weight of responsibility for boat and crew lay heavy on my shoulders, and I was finding that mantle weighty indeed.
I needed to get some distance between myself and those damn escorts. It was impossible to shake them when they were circling around me. Especially running at two knots. It was taking us almost fifteen minutes to move a kilometer, a distance they could cover in four at medium speed, and in just over a minute at their maximum. Several times I'd thought we'd finally eluded them, only to have them start sweep search pinging. And once they'd located us, within a minute once more they were circling us again.
"Herr Kaleun!"
It was Altmeier again, his voice a low whisper. This time, however, he sounded excited. Exultant, in fact.
"Yes?" I'd whispered back, ducking my head just past the hatch.
"The battleship!" he replied, struggling hard to keep his voice down.
"What about her?"
"She's down!" he fiercely grinned. "I heard her settle down and hit bottom just now. It's confirmed Sir! She's sunk!"
I rocked back at that. I'd pretty much given her up by now and, well . . . I'd had a bit on my mind lately; a wee bit too preoccupied to spend any time over 'spilt milk' as it were. A glance at the clock and I felt a bit of a shock. It had been, to the minute, exactly one hour since she'd first been torpedoed. Well. Well, well well.
Then again, that only underscored just how long I'd been being pursued by those thrice-damned escorts. Who, now that the battleship had definitely been sunk, were only going to be looking for blood of their own.
Our blood.
"That's excellent news!" I whispered, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. "Should be worth a few beers once we return to port don't you think?"
He grinned and nodded before whipping his head around, intently focused on firming up a sound contact. I left him to his work: important work too, I might add. He'd been utterly focused at his task for over an hour and it was beginning to show, but he grimly kept concentrated. Altmeier had only just been qualified at this position. I was impressed at his dedication and skill. Once we got back I'd put him in for an Iron Cross.
Time slowly crawled past as we continued this game of cat and mouse. We weren't anywhere close to being forced to surface; the batteries were still almost at full charge, we'd taken --as yet-- no significant damage, and our air still had hours left. My fear, though, was that reinforcements were on their way. Ones with full racks of depth charges. And if I were having trouble shaking two or three, I'd never elude six or eight!
Again I pondered the quandary of how to open up the distance between us. If only I could put two kilometers between us, I'd have a better chance of slipping away.
"Take us up to fourteen meters."
"Depth, fourteen meters, jawohl Herr Kaleun."
Heads popped up all around for an instant at that before returning to their tasks. I had an idea and I hoped this would work. It was obvious they were only finding me with that fiendish ASDIC of theirs. If I could only get a significant distance away . . . the further away I was, the larger the search area they'd have to ping, and the more difficult it would be to locate a fix on us. And the longer they took to get that fix, the more distance I'd continue putting between us.
The problem had been how to get that distance. At two knots it would take about fifteen minutes to travel a kilometer. But at eight knots --ahead flank-- we'd cover that in just under four minutes.
That would also generate a helluva racket. But passive detection wasn't very good at picking up sounds at very shallow depths, and fourteen meters would be very shallow indeed. Hopefully, by the time they'd realized we'd been speeding off, and went back to their active ASDIC searching, we'd be quite some distance away from them. And just to sweeten those odds . . .
"Bootsman Altmeier."
"Ja Herr Kaleun?"
"Inform me when the escorts are both within thirty degrees of our bow and closing."
"Jawohl Herr Kaleun."
Several minutes passed by. Almost ten in fact. Altmeier finally whispered, "Herr Kaleun, I can't locate the other."
Huh. I couldn't believe one of them just left. Then again . . . I shrugged. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth!
Not a minute later Altmeier blurted out, agitated and alarmed, "Herr Kaleun! Warship closing fast, bearing one five nine!"
Scheisse!
Seconds later, for the second time that night, the boat was rocked. This time, however, much more violently than before. All through the boat people were thrown and tossed. I slammed against the nav table then was tossed back and onto the deck. The lights flickered and died as a tremendous grinding grating came from the watch tower just above. Seconds later the lights flickered back on as the loud threshing of screws passed right over.
"Ahead flank!" I bellowed. Somehow I didn't think I need worry about being heard after that!
"Altmeier! Bearings!"
"Jawohl Herr Kaleun! Bearing three four five, medium speed moving away!"
"Helm! Bring us about one eight zero relative!"
Within seconds we began a steady turn to port. Altmeier kept up a rhythmic sing-song of bearings and distances. One minute. Two. Three. And still I kept us at ahead flank.
"Closest warship now bearing one seven two, medium distance, moving away!"
For six full minutes we drove onwards, then finally I called out, "New course: forty-five degrees relative, starboard. Ahead slow!"
Seconds later there was a perceptible sensation as the screws quickly slowed. Once more we were creeping along, running silent. This time, I hoped, after over two hours of pursuit, leaving the hunters behind us for good.
Only time would tell.
"All ahead slow; jawohl, Herr Kaleun!"
Leaning against the edge of the watch tower I heard the command echoed down belowdeck. Moments later there came a low coughing roar at the stern as the diesels powered up. I felt the low thrum of them beneath my soles as the screws bit into the chill waters, foam frothing at the stern, my eyes twinkling as I saw the fierce grins the watch crew exchanged with each other as we slowly began easing from our berth.
Not with me, of course. Their expressions, when I caught their eyes with mine, were more sober and contained; as befitted my station, of course. But their enthusiasm and zeal were no less unbridled.
A far cry when compared to departing Kiel just two months ago. (Was it only two months ago? Amazing; it seemed much longer to me for some reason) Two months ago --October the first, 1939, to be exact-- had been their first-ever combat patrol. War had erupted, without warning (although, to be fair, there had been hints of growing discontent and conflict prior) just the month before. And for most of the crew they had graduated U-boat training in time to step right into the fire.
Worse for them, their Captain was also just as brand-spanking new to combat as they. Impossible otherwise, naturally; it was hardly likely you'd find a Captain who had completed even a single combat patrol at that point. Needless to say, that was unlikely to inspire rampant faith and confidence when your Captain was just was wet behind the ears vis-à-vis combat as you were.
Our boat was just as new as all of us. U-54 had, in fact, no sooner passed her builders' trials then had been commissioned. I still remembered coming aboard my first time: I could still smell the scents of paint, cork and leather. U-54 was my first command. I'd been Exec of U-16, a dugout, IIB, fresh from Commander training in November '38 and, after serving that stint, was assigned command of U-54.
Just in time for war to be declared.
We'd had a week to take on supplies. Bunkers filled. Our TOE now at combat-capacity and readiness. And live ordnance --not training rounds-- stored above and belowdeck. Oberleutnant z. S. Schnabl, my Chief Engineer, barely slept a wink prior to our departure on October first. He was prowling around at all hours, his nose into everything.
As a matter of fact, so had I. This was going to be no 'shake-down' cruise; no milk-run, no practice. Our orders were to patrol AN41, and that was right in the Tommies' back yard. Having something break down once we'd reached there wasn't going to be an embarrassment and inconvenience . . . it was likely to be fatal, so I certainly wasn't about to insist that Georg rein himself in.
Our first patrol had been more than satisfactory: thirteen days at sea, with six merchants and three warships under our belts, a combined tonnage of 31744 tons in all. It had also, alas, had its share of less-than-sterling moments. In fact, I'd been bracing myself to face a Board of Inquiry upon our return.
A rather understandable worry, after all, when you dock with your boat's nose a bit crumpled and stove in.
We'd just arrived on station when the watch crew had spotted an aircraft. I'd heard their echoing cries of 'Alarm!' from above then, even as they came dropping down, feet and hands just skimming the ladder, we'd gone to ahead flank and full down planes. In less than forty seconds we were fully submerged and going deep. I'd just ordered a depth-check and Leutnant z. S. Gregor had just replied with a reading of eighty-nine meters, when I heard a shocked and dismayed cry of "Herr Kaleun!" just behind me.
Whirling about I immediately saw the problem, and my belly felt as if a ball of lead had just dropped there. We weren't leveling off at sixty meters. We were already at seventy meters and were still descending.
"Back emergency!" I'd barked. "Left full rudder! Blow the tanks and surface the boat!" rapidly followed as the telegraphs rang. I clung to the ladder against the tilt of the deck, knuckles white and blanched with the intensity of my grip, a part of me striving to arrest our descent by willpower.
Between the sharp turn and the straining engines, the blown tanks and the dive planes . . . instead of striking the seafloor hard we'd just skipped and skidded along for a few seconds before leveling off then ascending. What could have been a disaster --possibly even a fatal one-- had instead been just minor damage to the light hull; the pressure hull had never been compromised and, in fact, the impact had been so light we'd never even sprung a leak.
But U-57 had now sported a pug nose, and had lost that sleek lethal look.
Much to my surprise --and relief, mind you!-- not only had there been no Board of Inquiry, but I'd been promoted!
Our second patrol was to AN59, and had lasted ten days. This time we'd returned with thirteen ships to our credit, with a combined tonnage of 32581 tons. We'd also returned with quite a few holes in the watch tower and light hull, compliments of a torpedo boat that had caught me by surprise. Actually, that hadn't been so much a matter of surprise as my underestimating the efficacy of its firepower. A mistake I assure you I shant make again.
I suppose that's the nature, after all, of 'seasoning' and becoming a veteran: you make mistakes and, assuming they don't kill you, you learn by them and become better.
Glancing back I watched our berth slowly receding behind us. "Come about twenty degrees port," I ordered, anticipating our third patrol with a fierce keenness.
Twelve days later and that keenness hadn't faded, but I'd also grown more and more irritable and short. Considering our assigned patrol area had been AN21, all of us had expected to see action both early and frequent. We'd made it to our patrol area in good time, the sea calm and weather clear. But in five days we hadn't seen a single thing, not even an aircraft (which, I might add, had neither displeased nor disappointed me!) The crew was on edge of sorts: tense and prepared, but with a growing sense of frustration that was almost palpable.
I'd considered several choices to go trolling, and had settled on heading to AN16 then cruising through the Orkney strait to AN15. I'd no intention of trying to actually creep up to Scapa Flow itself, but I'd hoped we might spot a task force on its way out or back.
Instead all we'd spotted were a passel of ASW trawlers and quite frequent destroyers that were obviously patrolling that area. I'd intended to ignore them, and for two reasons. One is that they were, to be blunt, a pfennig a dozen. The other was more prosaic and practical: attacking one of them would certainly announce the presence of a U-boat, and Scapa Flow was a bit too close for comfort for my liking.
However, on the twelfth, shortly after submerging just before dawn broke, as we were slipping our way along we'd encountered a destroyer slowly moving back and forth across our path. She was obviously patrolling her area, and while it wasn't likely she'd detect us, 'not likely' wasn't at all the same as 'not possible'. At a range of four hundred meters, ninety degrees AoB and a bearing of five . . . one torpedo under her stacks and down she went.
Rather than throw good marks after bad I'd had us circle above and around the Orkney's then slowly trawled our way down the coast. We'd had rather good hunting down Southend during our second patrol, and while I wasn't looking forward to a 1100 kilometer jaunt --especially now that the weather had taken an ugly turn-- I also wasn't looking forward to draining our bunkers dry and returning with a virtually full load of torpedoes.
Seven days later we'd finally arrived just outside of Southend and had started making search sweeps roughly in an area in line with, and midpoint between, Harwich and Dover. Along the way we'd bagged two coastal freighters and one tramp steamer. The freighters took one torpedo each, while the tramp steamer was sunk using the deck gun, the weather finally having cleared by then. In each case we'd hove to and assisted the survivors afterwards. With the tramp, she'd already been foundering when we'd spotted her, her bow practically awash. It had taken only five rounds to sink her, and one of those had been a warning shot across her bow. Her crew had taken the hint at that, and I'd waited until they'd abandoned her before opening fire.
We hadn't been on station twelve hours when Bootsman Zinke, the RO on duty, wake me up from a nap. I knew something was up the moment I'd heard his exclamation of "Herr Kaleun!" as he'd held out the decrypted message.
A contact report.
An enemy convoy. A large enemy convoy.
Grid AN79.
I felt my blood begin to heat as I focused on the grid and quadrant. They were less than thirty kilometers away, and heading virtually down our throat!
"Well," I softly chuckled. "From famine to feast I see," and Zinke broke into a huge, gleaming white grin. Rising I nodded to Zinke, dismissing him as I took the message then strode to the command room.
Indeed, once having plotted the information, it was clearly apparent their course would pass within spitting distance of our current position. I felt as if, after enduring the drudgery and disappointment of the last twelve days, we were now being rewarded. Conditions were utterly optimal: clear skies, calm seas, a partial moon and the dead of night.
As we went to action stations it felt as if an electric current was racing through the boat. The crew had instantly sprung from gradually increasing apathy and lethargy to vibrant, almost hungry, keen anticipation.
And so had I.
"Smoke on the horizon Herr Kaleun!"
I whipped the binoculars up to my eyes so fast I winced. If I didn't look like a masked ferret come morning I'd be lucky. The minutes slowly passed, the time passing glacially. More and more smoke appeared then --finally!-- the distant forms of the ships themselves. The UZO had already been brought up and bracketed, and I started taking bearings as best I could at that distance. All too soon, though, it became dreadfully apparent that the convoy had made a course change at some point after we'd received the contact report. Unwelcome news but, actually, not all that unexpected.
It wasn't until the lead ships were within six to seven kilometers that a more accurate course could be plotted, and I fiercely scowled as that was laid out. They were heading literally down my throat and not, as I'd planned, passing three kilometers in front of me.
"Take her down!" I snarled before sliding down. "Periscope depth. Ahead one third for ten minutes, then one-eighty relative and ahead slow."
Within a minute we'd silently slipped beneath the waves and had begun readjusting our course. By the time I'd determined their course it had been too late, I'd felt, to adjust our position while surfaced. I didn't want to risk being spotted. In fact, the image of ruining this opportunity was making my guts roil and clench. So I'd decided to reset our approach while submerged, then wait for the lead escort to pass by before resurfacing and making our attack.
Long minutes passed. It seemed deathly quiet. The crew spoke in low murmurs if they spoke at all. The tension spiraled higher and higher, ratcheting tighter with every passing second. Not the anxiety of fear and apprehension, but of professionalism, of eagerness and anticipation.
Bootsman Altmeier --who had, just prior to this patrol, been qualified on the hydrophones-- kept softly murmuring out contact reports, their speeds and approximate distances. Once they'd reached around thirty to forty degrees to port and within medium range I had the attack scope raised and began scouting around.
The lead escort had already passed by, and was now approximately thirty degrees to starboard. My palms started to sweat as I observed ship after ship, progressing in stately columns not four kilometers distant. Leutnant z. S. Metzker, our WO, had the recognition manual already out and open on the nav table, and I made several preliminary identifications as we slowly crept along. Those two, I was sure, were tankers of some sort. And those were definitely quite substantial cargo ships. While that one . . .
I felt my hands grip the handles so hard I was shocked I hadn't snapped them off. I screwed my eyes even tighter to the rubber guard as I strained my vision. In the middle of the columns, right near the front, was this leviathan stately ploughing along. A Goliath that seemed to dwarf the ships surrounding it.
Stepping back from the scope I took the RM from Metzker, and then the command room went utterly silent as I paged, not through the merchants' section . . . but started flipping through the warship section.
I softly whistled, feeling an almost reverence as I made a tentative ID. "That's a battleship," I murmured to Metzker, whose eyes widened as he, too, then softly whistled.
Briefings had, of course, covered the fact that the Tommies were using battleships as escorts for some of their convoys, in an effort to protect them from our commerce raiders and pocket battleships. But I'd never actually expected to run across one!
Setting the manual back down then returning to the scope I again focused on the massive warship serenely --and obliviously-- cruising in the crosshairs before me. "Bearing . . . mark," I murmured, then adjusted the stadiometer. "Range . . . mark." Then, a little bit more than three minutes later, " Bearing . . . mark. Range . . . mark. Down scope."
Within minutes we'd plotted a more accurate course and computed the convoy's speed. With a fifteen-degree turn to starboard, in ten minutes the battleship should pass within 1500 meters of us, while we'd have also interpenetrated the convoy itself. All plans for a surfaced attack had, of course, been scrubbed once I'd identified the battleship. There was no way in Hell I'd risk getting into a shootout with one: a single direct hit from a main turret would blast my boat into splintered flinders!
Part of me debated attacking the battleship. I spent several minutes doing some serious chewing of the inside of my cheek. I was, after all, supposed to attack and sink merchants. The objective of our missions were to deny the enemy supplies; to strangle their ability to fight. Yet this convoy must be critical to their effort, I mused. Why else assign a battleship to escort it? Without that escort, the convoy would, of a surety, be extremely vulnerable to additional attacks.
It was buck fever, and I knew it. I wanted that battleship.
"Flood tubes one through five," I murmured, then raised the scope again as the command was echoed. My gut felt as if punched when I focused on the battleship this time. We were so close to her now that I had to dial the magnification back!
"Set tubes one and two for nine meters. Medium speed. Open outer doors one and two. Bearing . . . twelve degrees port. AoB . . .," I swallowed, "Eighty degrees starboard. Range . . . one thousand meters!"
"Fire one!"
I felt the deck shudder as the first torpedo was launched. "Bearing . . . eleven degrees port. Fire two!"
Again the deck shuddered as number two went streaking towards the battleship. I hesitated a moment. Should I fire more? At this range I couldn't possibly miss, and at that depth they should impact below the torpedo belt armor.
Just behind and to the outside was one of the tankers I'd tentatively earlier identified. "Set number three to five meters depth. Open number three outer door. Bearing . . . mark. Range . . . mark. Fire three!"
Spinning the scope sternwards I tracked, then fired, upon a tanker passing just six hundred meters behind us. The AoB wasn't optimal --around fifty-five degrees, in fact-- but I couldn't get that battleship out of my mind. Should I have fired a third? All four?
I didn't need Bootsman Altmeier's announcements of torpedo impacts; I could clearly hear them: deep, low stentorian rumblings that vibrated the hull. Spinning the scope back again I focused on the battleship. Two clean hits, yet she seemed to have just shrugged them off!
"Set tube four at seven meters!" I snarled. "Open number four outer door! Bearing . . . mark!" The crosshair was lined up just below the number one main turret at that point. "Fire tube four! Down scope! Ahead one third, new heading forty degrees relative port."
Another impact. Then another, then yet another. Five clean hits. But were any of them mortal, yet alone fatal?
Hands atop the nav table, leaning my weight against it as I scowled down at the map I was considering what next to do. The new course was going to cut across the convoy at an oblique angle, taking us out the rear and far side. My plan was that the lead escort --who had, up until now (well, except for the battleship, of course) been the only escort I'd spotted-- would lose up as we skirted just under and across. And once out and on the other side I'd have us slowly curve around again and shadow them at a distance while reloading torpedoes and tracking any cripples. I still had five internals, after all, and . . .
"Herr Kaleun!!"
My head snapped up at the urgent strident alarm in Bootsman Altmeier's cry. Before he could even begin to report . . . it became moot.
Within moments the sound of slow steady screws abruptly rose in volume and timbre. And then a sound unlike anything I'd heard before . . . and never wished to again. The boat abruptly rocked to starboard, jarring everyone and sending loose objects sliding and flying, as a sound like a giant drawing steel nails down an iron blackboard reverberated. An almost deafening screech that went on and on and on for what seemed an eternity but couldn't possibly have lasted more than ten seconds.
My several sharp pungent curses were lost in those vibrating squeals of tortured metal. Because the depth here was so shallow I hadn't planned on going deep to evade. But I also hadn't fully considered the ramifications of our course change either. And that course change had, by ill chance --and my blatant stupidity-- taken us directly in the path of one of the merchants. By the sound of it we'd just missed a direct collision; the torturous squeals had come just aft of the watch tower . . . which didn't bode well for the flak gun stationed there.
"Take us down to twenty meters," I rasped, getting my feet back under me as the rocking gradually eased then ceased. Glancing up I happened to spot Metzker murmuring something to Oberfähnrich z. S. Deckert at navigation. Deckert's expression abruptly turned a bit sickly when he spotted me glancing their way.
Metzker turned his head when he noticed Deckert suddenly freeze and blanch. "Were you saying something Leutnant?" I inquired of the WO.
Quite matter-of-factly, and with a perfectly straight face Metzker replied, "I'd just said that we couldn't be bringing die gerodete Zehe back home without a beauty mark or two, after all."
There was dead silence in the command room. Deckert looked as if he was wishing he was loaded in a tube and about to be launched.
"Die gerodete Zehe," I repeated.
"Ja, Herr Kaleun. Die gerodete Zehe."
Turning to glare at them both, fisted hands on my hips I fiercely scowled. Metzker remained unperturbed and just met my gaze.
"Gentlemen," I rumbled. "If either of you think, for a moment, that we're going to be painting a bandage and sticking plaster on my watch tower . . .,"
Deckert relaxed as he spotted my lips twitching. "Oh no!" Metzker exclaimed. "Not that! Now, a crossed pair of crutches, however . . ."
Behind me I heard a snort as one of the planesmen desperately tried smothering a chuckle. Rolling my eyes and shaking my head I wagged a stern finger at the unrepentant Metzker before contemplating the maps again. The stubbed toe, I silently groaned.
Glancing up at Metzker again I softly murmured, "Do you think three were enough?"
He knew immediately what I was asking. Pursing his lips he pondered a few moments before replying. "They couldn't have left port more than a couple of hours ago," he replied. "That had to be an agent's report on their position, course and speed. And we're right in their backyard so to speak Sir. I doubt they were expecting anything, let alone at action stations. We've likely caught them with their pants down: unsecured for battle damage and their damage control parties not at station. Then again," he paused, "she is a battleship. Those bastards can take a lot of damage and continue slugging it out. I'd say we have a fifty-fifty shot at bringing her down."
It was obvious Metzker wanted to give better odds, but he was unwilling to be anything less than honest with me, no matter how badly it was obvious I wanted better news. I simply grunted and nodded. Damn it!
We continued for another five minutes before I ordered ahead slow. I very much doubted that lead escort had been able to detect us amidst the seething churn of all those screws out there, but there was no point in pushing my luck, after all. Now, let's see, if we continue along this cour--
"Herr Kaleun!"
It was Altmeier again and, once again, his voice was tight and anxious.
"Warship Herr Kaleun! Bearing one-three-one, close range and closing!"
What!?
Before that truly registered, moments later the ship echoed with the pounding pulse of their thrice-damned ASDIC. And by the tone they weren't seeking, but were focused on us!
"Ahead flank!" I barked. "Helm! Hard to port!"
The engines had barely reached speed, and we'd just started turning when, one after another, we were shaken and jarred by depth charges going off. The lights momentarily flickered; cork dust lightly hazed the air. Damn! Where had she come from!?
It shortly became very obvious it wasn't just one escort. There was at least two, and possibly three or four. There were times when my teeth felt as if vibrating from multiple pinging at very close range, and nothing I tried seem to shake them. After that first near-fatal DC attack I'd ordered silent running, and for the next hour I'd weaved and bobbed, creeped and crawled . . . and they doggedly clung to us.
What I didn't understand is why they weren't raining depth charges around our ears. There had been just three depth charge attacks in all, although the escorts continued circling above, like sharks scenting a wounded tuna. And as time passed, they were soon joined by those damned torpedo boats. Like mosquitoes they seemed to swarm above, seeking prey. And, like mosquitoes, although they might not carry as big a 'bite' as their bigger escort cousins, they could, most certainly, bring us down by sheer numbers if we should be foolish enough --or desperate enough-- to surface in their midst.
Time and time again I thought I'd shaken them off, only to have that infernal pinging pulse and throb against the hull. Never before had twenty-five meters seemed so shallow! Each time one of them abruptly speeded up and passed within meters of us I braced and cringed, expecting a string of depth charges to begin exploding. At our shallow depth I had no time --none at all-- to turn, to attempt writhing and avoiding that deadly hailstorm.
Yet, time and time again --save for those three early attacks-- the escorts went racing by, the sound of their churning screws deafening.
By now, almost an hour later, I'd long given up any thoughts, let alone plans, of pursuing and reacquiring the convoy. Evasion and escape were all I was considering, and so far I was miserably failing. For the first time the full weight of responsibility for boat and crew lay heavy on my shoulders, and I was finding that mantle weighty indeed.
I needed to get some distance between myself and those damn escorts. It was impossible to shake them when they were circling around me. Especially running at two knots. It was taking us almost fifteen minutes to move a kilometer, a distance they could cover in four at medium speed, and in just over a minute at their maximum. Several times I'd thought we'd finally eluded them, only to have them start sweep search pinging. And once they'd located us, within a minute once more they were circling us again.
"Herr Kaleun!"
It was Altmeier again, his voice a low whisper. This time, however, he sounded excited. Exultant, in fact.
"Yes?" I'd whispered back, ducking my head just past the hatch.
"The battleship!" he replied, struggling hard to keep his voice down.
"What about her?"
"She's down!" he fiercely grinned. "I heard her settle down and hit bottom just now. It's confirmed Sir! She's sunk!"
I rocked back at that. I'd pretty much given her up by now and, well . . . I'd had a bit on my mind lately; a wee bit too preoccupied to spend any time over 'spilt milk' as it were. A glance at the clock and I felt a bit of a shock. It had been, to the minute, exactly one hour since she'd first been torpedoed. Well. Well, well well.
Then again, that only underscored just how long I'd been being pursued by those thrice-damned escorts. Who, now that the battleship had definitely been sunk, were only going to be looking for blood of their own.
Our blood.
"That's excellent news!" I whispered, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. "Should be worth a few beers once we return to port don't you think?"
He grinned and nodded before whipping his head around, intently focused on firming up a sound contact. I left him to his work: important work too, I might add. He'd been utterly focused at his task for over an hour and it was beginning to show, but he grimly kept concentrated. Altmeier had only just been qualified at this position. I was impressed at his dedication and skill. Once we got back I'd put him in for an Iron Cross.
Time slowly crawled past as we continued this game of cat and mouse. We weren't anywhere close to being forced to surface; the batteries were still almost at full charge, we'd taken --as yet-- no significant damage, and our air still had hours left. My fear, though, was that reinforcements were on their way. Ones with full racks of depth charges. And if I were having trouble shaking two or three, I'd never elude six or eight!
Again I pondered the quandary of how to open up the distance between us. If only I could put two kilometers between us, I'd have a better chance of slipping away.
"Take us up to fourteen meters."
"Depth, fourteen meters, jawohl Herr Kaleun."
Heads popped up all around for an instant at that before returning to their tasks. I had an idea and I hoped this would work. It was obvious they were only finding me with that fiendish ASDIC of theirs. If I could only get a significant distance away . . . the further away I was, the larger the search area they'd have to ping, and the more difficult it would be to locate a fix on us. And the longer they took to get that fix, the more distance I'd continue putting between us.
The problem had been how to get that distance. At two knots it would take about fifteen minutes to travel a kilometer. But at eight knots --ahead flank-- we'd cover that in just under four minutes.
That would also generate a helluva racket. But passive detection wasn't very good at picking up sounds at very shallow depths, and fourteen meters would be very shallow indeed. Hopefully, by the time they'd realized we'd been speeding off, and went back to their active ASDIC searching, we'd be quite some distance away from them. And just to sweeten those odds . . .
"Bootsman Altmeier."
"Ja Herr Kaleun?"
"Inform me when the escorts are both within thirty degrees of our bow and closing."
"Jawohl Herr Kaleun."
Several minutes passed by. Almost ten in fact. Altmeier finally whispered, "Herr Kaleun, I can't locate the other."
Huh. I couldn't believe one of them just left. Then again . . . I shrugged. I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth!
Not a minute later Altmeier blurted out, agitated and alarmed, "Herr Kaleun! Warship closing fast, bearing one five nine!"
Scheisse!
Seconds later, for the second time that night, the boat was rocked. This time, however, much more violently than before. All through the boat people were thrown and tossed. I slammed against the nav table then was tossed back and onto the deck. The lights flickered and died as a tremendous grinding grating came from the watch tower just above. Seconds later the lights flickered back on as the loud threshing of screws passed right over.
"Ahead flank!" I bellowed. Somehow I didn't think I need worry about being heard after that!
"Altmeier! Bearings!"
"Jawohl Herr Kaleun! Bearing three four five, medium speed moving away!"
"Helm! Bring us about one eight zero relative!"
Within seconds we began a steady turn to port. Altmeier kept up a rhythmic sing-song of bearings and distances. One minute. Two. Three. And still I kept us at ahead flank.
"Closest warship now bearing one seven two, medium distance, moving away!"
For six full minutes we drove onwards, then finally I called out, "New course: forty-five degrees relative, starboard. Ahead slow!"
Seconds later there was a perceptible sensation as the screws quickly slowed. Once more we were creeping along, running silent. This time, I hoped, after over two hours of pursuit, leaving the hunters behind us for good.
Only time would tell.