Schöneboom
10-20-11, 09:37 PM
Greetings,
Thanks to a successful reinstall of GWX3 on my Win7 laptop, I am writing a short story based on my first patrol in a very long time. This is inspired in part by the Otto Prohaska novels by John Biggins. As with my previous stories, the larger actions (convoy attacks) are my actual in-game experiences. Enjoy!
* * * * *
Sink or Swim
von Wayne Mathias c2011
In August 1940 I learned to my chagrin that my first command would be of U-144, a Type IID U-boat based in Kiel. Until now the 1st Flotilla had used her as a training boat. That, plus the fact that I was still an Oberleutnant, may give you a sense of the urgency of the times.
My posting to a "dugout canoe" was particularly irksome in that I felt I had been penalised for a lacklustre performance on my final test in the commander training programme. I could enumerate the circumstances that were beyond my control, but that would be pointless. So they gave me a dagger instead of a sabre. I was determined to make the best of it, in the hope that this might lead to bigger and better things.
Upon boarding my boat tied up at the dock, I recalled with nostalgia U-26, on which I had served as 1WO the year before. U-26 was a Type IA boat, predecessor to the Type IX. The difference between U-26 and U-144 is hard to express in words. Both boats shared the same kinds of discomfort, but one could not help noticing the greater sense of confinement and austerity in a Type II. Still, I remembered the words of my father Otto Prohaska, who had once served with distinction in the Austro-Hungarian Navy.
"Count yourself fortunate, Arthur," he said to me. "Had you remained in Austria, you would've been stuck on a river monitor on the Danube."
I noted with puzzlement the emblem on U-144's conning tower. "Why is there a chicken painted on the tower?" I asked the men engaged in the loading of provisions.
Looking up from a pile of sacks and crates, Bootsmann Meier answered cheerfully, "Beg your pardon, Herr Oberleutnant, but he's a rooster."
"A fighting cock, you mean?"
"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant! The rooster's good luck for sailors!"
I was tempted to ask Meier for evidence supporting this peculiar belief, but I knew better than to challenge sailors about their superstitions. The cock stayed.
Not only was U-144 a particularly cramped and spartan boat, but I had been given one of the greenest crews in Kriegsmarine history. Not one man among us had been on a war patrol, and half had entered the U-bootwaffe only the year before. My only "real" officers were my L.I., Lt. Harald Geissler, and my 1WO, Lt. Ernst Bachmann. My 2WO and navigator were both Oberfahnrichs, which suggested to me that U-144 was still in fact a school boat.
"Our version of the Perisher, I suppose," quipped Bachmann. "If we survive the first patrol, we pass."
During our shakedown cruise in the Baltic, my informal survey of the crew confirmed that Gunther Prien's daredevil attack on Scapa Flow had made a powerful impact on their impressionable minds. I have always wondered if that was in fact the greater purpose of Prien's mission. All of us newly-minted commanders, and quite a few of the Old Guard, too, felt that Prien had raised the bar so high that we were compelled to match him. Anything short of sneaking into a British port -- the Tommies were not about to let that happen twice.
So with that pressure to perform, plus my burning need to vindicate myself and get the U-boat I deserved, the 25 of us set out on our first war patrol on 3 September. Our destination: Grid AM51, west of Ireland. That the war was entering its second year did not go unnoticed. Recent developments in the skies over Britain had convinced us that the war was to go on longer than anyone had expected -- rather like the Great War, or any number of other wars. This time, of course, the outcome would be different. The Luftwaffe's failure to prevail over the RAF meant only that the glory of victory would belong to the Kriegsmarine instead. I firmly believed this, as we all did then.
Our first week at sea was uneventful, a mixed blessing in that we had expected to engage the enemy more frequently, sailing as near to the home islands as we did. Our first sighting was of a lone tramp steamer west of the Orkneys. She was saved only by her low tonnage, which I deemed not worth a torpedo. Having only five eels and no deck gun, we had to be discriminating. In this case, the only sensible option was to dive and pass undetected.
In our assigned grid we marched up and down for 30 hours, seeing nothing but ocean in every direction. By this time I had settled into a routine that gave the impression that I never slept, when in fact I slept as often, if not as well, as any of the crew. At the start of every four-hour watch rotation I would be in the Zentrale, where I would greet my men in passing and gather information on the state of the boat, our position, and the weather. Whilst having a meal or a snack, I would peruse the latest radiograms; the contacts were frustratingly distant, given our top speed of 13 knots in ideal conditions. Later I would pay a visit to the head; on the way I would chat with the machinists, the ones on duty and the rest crammed into a stern compartment the size of a walk-in closet. Having thus established my presence, I would retire to my bunk and try to sleep until the next rotation.
Sleep was difficult because our cook, Matrosengefreiter Paul Clausen, was constantly busy in the galley, located directly opposite my bunk. Clausen's culinary skills were sadly limited, but at least he spared us from ingesting anything too mouldy and managed not to burn our meals beyond recognition. What truly redeemed him in our eyes was his passion for good coffee. Thanks to his father, who imported the precious beans through neutral countries for the OKW, our boat was stocked with the finest coffee in the Flotilla. Secretly, of course, or it would have been confiscated.
As the day wore on, battle reports trickled in from other boats on patrol. It was galling to hear of convoys so distant or fast-moving that we had no chance of joining the attack -- all the more so when I knew some of the commanders were my former classmates. They had been given larger, swifter, more heavily armed boats with vastly greater range than mine. Not to mention more experienced crews.
In the evening of 12 September we finally received a contact report worth pursuing: a large, slow-moving convoy heading northeast, most likely to Liverpool. The only question was whether the diesels would hold up at flank speed long enough to make the interception. Despite Geissler's skepticism and constant worry, the two 350 hp Mannheims ran flawlessly at redline for ten hours straight. The real suffering was reserved for us, who had to endure the boat's vicious pitching and rolling in heavy seas. Despite foul weather gear, the lookouts were drenched by waves crashing over the bridge. The sole advantage they had over the rest of us is that when it came time to vomit, they only had to lean over the side.
Just before 4 AM on the 13th, in Grid AM 4662, we finally came upon the convoy. It was everything we could have hoped for. With visibility limited, we made out 12 freighters and 2 escorts (we assumed more were on the other side) -- a Black Swan sloop in the lead, and a Southampton-class cruiser guarding the starboard flank. The skies were dark, the moon a thin sliver on the horizon.
"We'll attack surfaced," I said.
"Hard to believe they don't see us," Bachmann said. Indeed it reminded me of mock attacks from my U-bootschule days. The instructors always had to urge us to move in closer. At 2500 metres, even on very dark nights, we could see the ships perfectly. How could they not see us, too? Yet the Black Swan sailed past our bow, completely oblivious.
"You'd let me take the first shot, Herr Oberleutnant?" asked Bachmann.
"If you miss, I'll share the blame," I replied. "Aim for that big freighter at 340. Two eels. She's got to be a 9000-tonner."
"And the cruiser?"
I nodded. "We can't pass up this chance." Bachmann called out the settings to Stabsbootsmann Kettner in the tower. I judged them to be sufficiently accurate and said nothing.
"Tube 1, LOS!" That was for the cruiser, the farther of the two targets. Bachmann turned his attention to the freighter. There wasn't much time, and we were both nervous.
Bachmann called out new figures for the freighter. I looked through the UZO myself and approved Bachmann's firing solution. Inwardly I scolded myself for taking so long. But we set the remaining two eels for the fastest speed, and LOS! Off they went.
"Clear the bridge!" I said. I briefly considered fleeing on the surface, but doubted we could get out of range by the time the torpedoes hit. If they hit.
"L.I., go to periscope depth!" I called into the voice tube. Almost as soon as I uttered the words, the bow went under. I had barely enough time to seal the hatch before the tower was submerged.
In the Zentrale, Bachmann and I took turns peering through the periscope and impatiently checking the stopwatch. My real concern was with the magnetic triggers; due to the rumours of their malfunctions during Operation Weserubung, an official inquiry was underway. We figured the war would be over before they sorted out the problem.
Right on time, the first torpedo exploded under the cruiser's keel. From every part of the boat, my men cheered. At the bow planes station, Matrosengefreiter Karl Beck tilted his head back and crowed like a rooster.
"Beck, do you intend to do that every time we hit a target?" I asked.
"If it is permitted, Herr Oberleutnant." A hush fell over the Zentrale.
I deliberated for a moment, as if this were a matter of great import. "Yes, it is permitted," I said. "But if we're on silent running, you may only flap your arms. Understood?"
"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant!" At that moment, we heard a series of thunderous explosions.
"Mensch! Was that the freighter?!" exclaimed Geissler.
Stabsbootsmann Ludwig Richter called from the hydrophone station, "No! We must've hit the cruiser's magazine!" He took his headphones off, for the noise was deafening.
"Phenomenal work, Bachmann!" I said. "L.I., take us down fast, 120 metres!"
The detonations continued for the better part of a minute as we plunged into the depths. Beyond any doubt, the cruiser was annihilated. We smiled, though Bachmann seemed to realise that dozens, perhaps hundreds of men, must have been killed by his lucky shot. He scowled at his still-ticking stopwatch.
"What the hell happened to the other two eels?" he muttered. "They should've hit by now!" He turned to Richter, as if looking for someone to blame.
"They're still running, Herr Leutnant." Turning the hydrophone wheel, Richter's eyes widened. "Destroyer inbound, high speed, bearing 020!"
"Scheisse, the Black Swan! Rudder hard to starboard!" I cried. "Steer to 020! Silent running!" The depth gauge read 100 metres. Not deep enough. My hope was to present the narrowest profile, and perhaps his aim would be poor.
But the Tommies up there were no fools. Some sharp-eyed lookout must have seen our torpedo tracks right after the first hit on the cruiser. The Swan's ASDIC pings made my skin crawl; it was like Death dragging his fingernails on our hull.
The first salvo of depth charges was the worst. It was all we could do to hang on and stay upright while glass dials, bulbs, and crockery shattered. Water sprayed from valves and flanges. Damage reports came from abaft: we had flooding in the Zentrale, the engine room, and the machinists' quarters.
At such times, one's training comes into action, without hesitation. I ordered full speed so as to hasten our descent, plus another course change. Our repair teams stopped the flooding, but Geissler remained uncertain about the hull's condition. We leveled off at 140 metres and returned to 2 knots.
"Na, Richter, how does it sound up there?" I asked.
"That cruiser blowing up must have given them a fright. They're running amok."
"Escorts?"
"Two destroyers, very slow, bearing 210 and 215... Picking up survivors, maybe. The Black Swan's at 095, incoming.. Speed increasing."
"Stop repairs!" I whispered urgently. "Silence, everyone! Off-duty personnel, stay in your bunks." My orders were relayed quickly through the boat.
Geissler said to me, "We still have a leak in the diesel induction valve."
"Are we in danger of sinking?"
"Not yet. It would be better if we ran the pumps, though."
I checked the depth gauge. 20 metres before the red zone. "We can wait."
"Herr Oberleutnant, I would advise against interpreting that gauge optimistically. Now that we've taken damage, our crush depth might be--"
"Ja ja, I get the picture, L.I." He saw I wasn't about to budge, and let the matter drop.
The hull groaned as if to complain about my stubbornness. Our baby-faced navigator Hans Dietrichs mused aloud, "I wonder if the Tommies can hear that?" Everyone stared at him. Not the best thing to say, with the Black Swan starting another attack run.
To our relief, this time the wabos exploded well astern of us. Whether it was a thermal layer or the ASDIC operator's mistake, we could not say with certainty. But we felt more confident of survival.
I turned to Clausen, still cleaning up spills in the galley. "Coffee, please. Quietly."
(To Be Continued)
Thanks to a successful reinstall of GWX3 on my Win7 laptop, I am writing a short story based on my first patrol in a very long time. This is inspired in part by the Otto Prohaska novels by John Biggins. As with my previous stories, the larger actions (convoy attacks) are my actual in-game experiences. Enjoy!
* * * * *
Sink or Swim
von Wayne Mathias c2011
In August 1940 I learned to my chagrin that my first command would be of U-144, a Type IID U-boat based in Kiel. Until now the 1st Flotilla had used her as a training boat. That, plus the fact that I was still an Oberleutnant, may give you a sense of the urgency of the times.
My posting to a "dugout canoe" was particularly irksome in that I felt I had been penalised for a lacklustre performance on my final test in the commander training programme. I could enumerate the circumstances that were beyond my control, but that would be pointless. So they gave me a dagger instead of a sabre. I was determined to make the best of it, in the hope that this might lead to bigger and better things.
Upon boarding my boat tied up at the dock, I recalled with nostalgia U-26, on which I had served as 1WO the year before. U-26 was a Type IA boat, predecessor to the Type IX. The difference between U-26 and U-144 is hard to express in words. Both boats shared the same kinds of discomfort, but one could not help noticing the greater sense of confinement and austerity in a Type II. Still, I remembered the words of my father Otto Prohaska, who had once served with distinction in the Austro-Hungarian Navy.
"Count yourself fortunate, Arthur," he said to me. "Had you remained in Austria, you would've been stuck on a river monitor on the Danube."
I noted with puzzlement the emblem on U-144's conning tower. "Why is there a chicken painted on the tower?" I asked the men engaged in the loading of provisions.
Looking up from a pile of sacks and crates, Bootsmann Meier answered cheerfully, "Beg your pardon, Herr Oberleutnant, but he's a rooster."
"A fighting cock, you mean?"
"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant! The rooster's good luck for sailors!"
I was tempted to ask Meier for evidence supporting this peculiar belief, but I knew better than to challenge sailors about their superstitions. The cock stayed.
Not only was U-144 a particularly cramped and spartan boat, but I had been given one of the greenest crews in Kriegsmarine history. Not one man among us had been on a war patrol, and half had entered the U-bootwaffe only the year before. My only "real" officers were my L.I., Lt. Harald Geissler, and my 1WO, Lt. Ernst Bachmann. My 2WO and navigator were both Oberfahnrichs, which suggested to me that U-144 was still in fact a school boat.
"Our version of the Perisher, I suppose," quipped Bachmann. "If we survive the first patrol, we pass."
During our shakedown cruise in the Baltic, my informal survey of the crew confirmed that Gunther Prien's daredevil attack on Scapa Flow had made a powerful impact on their impressionable minds. I have always wondered if that was in fact the greater purpose of Prien's mission. All of us newly-minted commanders, and quite a few of the Old Guard, too, felt that Prien had raised the bar so high that we were compelled to match him. Anything short of sneaking into a British port -- the Tommies were not about to let that happen twice.
So with that pressure to perform, plus my burning need to vindicate myself and get the U-boat I deserved, the 25 of us set out on our first war patrol on 3 September. Our destination: Grid AM51, west of Ireland. That the war was entering its second year did not go unnoticed. Recent developments in the skies over Britain had convinced us that the war was to go on longer than anyone had expected -- rather like the Great War, or any number of other wars. This time, of course, the outcome would be different. The Luftwaffe's failure to prevail over the RAF meant only that the glory of victory would belong to the Kriegsmarine instead. I firmly believed this, as we all did then.
Our first week at sea was uneventful, a mixed blessing in that we had expected to engage the enemy more frequently, sailing as near to the home islands as we did. Our first sighting was of a lone tramp steamer west of the Orkneys. She was saved only by her low tonnage, which I deemed not worth a torpedo. Having only five eels and no deck gun, we had to be discriminating. In this case, the only sensible option was to dive and pass undetected.
In our assigned grid we marched up and down for 30 hours, seeing nothing but ocean in every direction. By this time I had settled into a routine that gave the impression that I never slept, when in fact I slept as often, if not as well, as any of the crew. At the start of every four-hour watch rotation I would be in the Zentrale, where I would greet my men in passing and gather information on the state of the boat, our position, and the weather. Whilst having a meal or a snack, I would peruse the latest radiograms; the contacts were frustratingly distant, given our top speed of 13 knots in ideal conditions. Later I would pay a visit to the head; on the way I would chat with the machinists, the ones on duty and the rest crammed into a stern compartment the size of a walk-in closet. Having thus established my presence, I would retire to my bunk and try to sleep until the next rotation.
Sleep was difficult because our cook, Matrosengefreiter Paul Clausen, was constantly busy in the galley, located directly opposite my bunk. Clausen's culinary skills were sadly limited, but at least he spared us from ingesting anything too mouldy and managed not to burn our meals beyond recognition. What truly redeemed him in our eyes was his passion for good coffee. Thanks to his father, who imported the precious beans through neutral countries for the OKW, our boat was stocked with the finest coffee in the Flotilla. Secretly, of course, or it would have been confiscated.
As the day wore on, battle reports trickled in from other boats on patrol. It was galling to hear of convoys so distant or fast-moving that we had no chance of joining the attack -- all the more so when I knew some of the commanders were my former classmates. They had been given larger, swifter, more heavily armed boats with vastly greater range than mine. Not to mention more experienced crews.
In the evening of 12 September we finally received a contact report worth pursuing: a large, slow-moving convoy heading northeast, most likely to Liverpool. The only question was whether the diesels would hold up at flank speed long enough to make the interception. Despite Geissler's skepticism and constant worry, the two 350 hp Mannheims ran flawlessly at redline for ten hours straight. The real suffering was reserved for us, who had to endure the boat's vicious pitching and rolling in heavy seas. Despite foul weather gear, the lookouts were drenched by waves crashing over the bridge. The sole advantage they had over the rest of us is that when it came time to vomit, they only had to lean over the side.
Just before 4 AM on the 13th, in Grid AM 4662, we finally came upon the convoy. It was everything we could have hoped for. With visibility limited, we made out 12 freighters and 2 escorts (we assumed more were on the other side) -- a Black Swan sloop in the lead, and a Southampton-class cruiser guarding the starboard flank. The skies were dark, the moon a thin sliver on the horizon.
"We'll attack surfaced," I said.
"Hard to believe they don't see us," Bachmann said. Indeed it reminded me of mock attacks from my U-bootschule days. The instructors always had to urge us to move in closer. At 2500 metres, even on very dark nights, we could see the ships perfectly. How could they not see us, too? Yet the Black Swan sailed past our bow, completely oblivious.
"You'd let me take the first shot, Herr Oberleutnant?" asked Bachmann.
"If you miss, I'll share the blame," I replied. "Aim for that big freighter at 340. Two eels. She's got to be a 9000-tonner."
"And the cruiser?"
I nodded. "We can't pass up this chance." Bachmann called out the settings to Stabsbootsmann Kettner in the tower. I judged them to be sufficiently accurate and said nothing.
"Tube 1, LOS!" That was for the cruiser, the farther of the two targets. Bachmann turned his attention to the freighter. There wasn't much time, and we were both nervous.
Bachmann called out new figures for the freighter. I looked through the UZO myself and approved Bachmann's firing solution. Inwardly I scolded myself for taking so long. But we set the remaining two eels for the fastest speed, and LOS! Off they went.
"Clear the bridge!" I said. I briefly considered fleeing on the surface, but doubted we could get out of range by the time the torpedoes hit. If they hit.
"L.I., go to periscope depth!" I called into the voice tube. Almost as soon as I uttered the words, the bow went under. I had barely enough time to seal the hatch before the tower was submerged.
In the Zentrale, Bachmann and I took turns peering through the periscope and impatiently checking the stopwatch. My real concern was with the magnetic triggers; due to the rumours of their malfunctions during Operation Weserubung, an official inquiry was underway. We figured the war would be over before they sorted out the problem.
Right on time, the first torpedo exploded under the cruiser's keel. From every part of the boat, my men cheered. At the bow planes station, Matrosengefreiter Karl Beck tilted his head back and crowed like a rooster.
"Beck, do you intend to do that every time we hit a target?" I asked.
"If it is permitted, Herr Oberleutnant." A hush fell over the Zentrale.
I deliberated for a moment, as if this were a matter of great import. "Yes, it is permitted," I said. "But if we're on silent running, you may only flap your arms. Understood?"
"Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant!" At that moment, we heard a series of thunderous explosions.
"Mensch! Was that the freighter?!" exclaimed Geissler.
Stabsbootsmann Ludwig Richter called from the hydrophone station, "No! We must've hit the cruiser's magazine!" He took his headphones off, for the noise was deafening.
"Phenomenal work, Bachmann!" I said. "L.I., take us down fast, 120 metres!"
The detonations continued for the better part of a minute as we plunged into the depths. Beyond any doubt, the cruiser was annihilated. We smiled, though Bachmann seemed to realise that dozens, perhaps hundreds of men, must have been killed by his lucky shot. He scowled at his still-ticking stopwatch.
"What the hell happened to the other two eels?" he muttered. "They should've hit by now!" He turned to Richter, as if looking for someone to blame.
"They're still running, Herr Leutnant." Turning the hydrophone wheel, Richter's eyes widened. "Destroyer inbound, high speed, bearing 020!"
"Scheisse, the Black Swan! Rudder hard to starboard!" I cried. "Steer to 020! Silent running!" The depth gauge read 100 metres. Not deep enough. My hope was to present the narrowest profile, and perhaps his aim would be poor.
But the Tommies up there were no fools. Some sharp-eyed lookout must have seen our torpedo tracks right after the first hit on the cruiser. The Swan's ASDIC pings made my skin crawl; it was like Death dragging his fingernails on our hull.
The first salvo of depth charges was the worst. It was all we could do to hang on and stay upright while glass dials, bulbs, and crockery shattered. Water sprayed from valves and flanges. Damage reports came from abaft: we had flooding in the Zentrale, the engine room, and the machinists' quarters.
At such times, one's training comes into action, without hesitation. I ordered full speed so as to hasten our descent, plus another course change. Our repair teams stopped the flooding, but Geissler remained uncertain about the hull's condition. We leveled off at 140 metres and returned to 2 knots.
"Na, Richter, how does it sound up there?" I asked.
"That cruiser blowing up must have given them a fright. They're running amok."
"Escorts?"
"Two destroyers, very slow, bearing 210 and 215... Picking up survivors, maybe. The Black Swan's at 095, incoming.. Speed increasing."
"Stop repairs!" I whispered urgently. "Silence, everyone! Off-duty personnel, stay in your bunks." My orders were relayed quickly through the boat.
Geissler said to me, "We still have a leak in the diesel induction valve."
"Are we in danger of sinking?"
"Not yet. It would be better if we ran the pumps, though."
I checked the depth gauge. 20 metres before the red zone. "We can wait."
"Herr Oberleutnant, I would advise against interpreting that gauge optimistically. Now that we've taken damage, our crush depth might be--"
"Ja ja, I get the picture, L.I." He saw I wasn't about to budge, and let the matter drop.
The hull groaned as if to complain about my stubbornness. Our baby-faced navigator Hans Dietrichs mused aloud, "I wonder if the Tommies can hear that?" Everyone stared at him. Not the best thing to say, with the Black Swan starting another attack run.
To our relief, this time the wabos exploded well astern of us. Whether it was a thermal layer or the ASDIC operator's mistake, we could not say with certainty. But we felt more confident of survival.
I turned to Clausen, still cleaning up spills in the galley. "Coffee, please. Quietly."
(To Be Continued)