akula_krieg
10-05-05, 10:25 PM
22 January 1943
U-186 leaves Lorient with orders to patrol grid AM32. Our course is set for the deep water west of the British Isles. From there, we will turn north for our destination.
My first command brings excitement and apprehension. The old seadogs have told us time and again that the seas have become a graveyard for our boats. Indeed, our losses have increased steadily over the past few months. Despite BdU's statements to the contrary, I believe their stories. I remember Kapitan Jurgen's tale about the new Liberator bombers, and I eye the flak guns warily.
The crew is quiet. None of the usual bantering that usually accompanies the routine of stowing away gear or rotating watches. I understand the near-silence. Save for a few recruits in the forward torpedo room, these men are veterans. They know what's out there, and they know that an inexperienced Kaleun leads them. I only hope I do not lead them to their deaths.
0930
In their haste to square away the compartment, the forward torpedo room mistakenly launched tube 1. I am told one of the recruits, Seaman Ebert, was knocked aside and used the firing lever for support, thus initiating the launch. None of the torpedo crew seems to know what the outer torpedo tube door was doing open in the first place.
I admonish the petty officers, and make a note in the logbook. Loosing a torpedo less than five kilometers out of port will not please the flotilla's commandant. I mull over the decision to return to port for a reload, but as that will take several days, I dismiss the idea. The war will not wait.
Lieutnant Hartenstein informs me that the torpedo missed. I manage a half-hearted grin.
23 January 1943. Position 280 km south of Ireland.
All is well. By all accounts we should have made contact with enemy aircraft by now. Perhaps the stories do not have as much merit as I have given them.
At dinner yesterday, Hartenstein quietly informed me that the day's mishap with the torpedo may not have been as accidental as I was told. Hartenstein has a good ear for the crew's mumblings, and he had managed to glean enough info to suggest that Seaman Ebert's clumsiness may very well have been deliberate.
Apparently the older seamen had terrified him with their sea stories, and he viewed the firing lever as a way back to port. I call torpedoman Zander to my bunk, and we have a little heart-to-heart. The decision is made to place Ebert on the watch crew. My officers can keep a closer eye on him there.
I am not happy with this turn of events. Normally I would not tolerate such dissension; however little can be done here in the enemy's playground. I will give Ebert another chance. I hope for his sake he redeems himself.
1630 hours
Alarm! An aircraft makes a run at us from out of nowhere. We barely get under before the first stick of bombs just misses the boat. The explosions rock the boat to and fro, making depth control hard for Chief Engineer Friederichs. Depth charges are heard several hundred meters aft as we pass 50 meters. I order a change in course to SW in case the pilot has radioed in our position, which is most likely. We will stay at 70 meters until nightfall.
Creutz, our sonarman, stays glued to the set, listening for the approach of a possible destroyer. I sip my coffee in the control room, careful not to let my hands shake. The watch crew must do better in spotting the enemy. Pure luck saved us this time.
1721 hours
We surface after a check with the observation scope. The sun is setting off the port bow. I order ahead 1/3 and tell Lt. Carlewitz to man the flak guns. Hopefully we will be left alone tonight; however, I intend a little surprise should the enemy find us again.
Lt. Friederichs comes up from below and informs me that he has ordered the cook to slip a little spirit into the men's coffee. "Might calm the bastards down," he says. I nod my agreement, and continue my watch. I will stay on the bridge tonight.
Ebert mans a flak gun after a crash course from WO Conrad. I hope he doesn't decide to have another "mishap" with it.
24 January 1943. 0300 hours.
Ship spotted off the port bow, bearing 355. It's a small one, maybe 2000 tons or so, plodding along slowly in the calm seas. She's not worth a torpedo, but the deck gun crew could use some practice. I order the gun manned and plot an intercept course at ahead full.
0306 hours
Another ship sighted, sailing ahead of the small cargo. She's much larger. Changing my mind concerning the deck gun, I order all tubes made ready for firing and adjust course. The crew responds with excitement, something I have not seen out of them yet. I tell Carlewitz to keep his eyes peeled for destroyers, and fix the UZO to its post. These kills will be mine.
0330 hours
The engagement is successful, if not perfect. Two eels are fired at 2500 meters. Three minutes later, the smaller ship breaks in two, her fuel tank igniting and ballooning spectacularly into the night sky. She disappears instantly. The larger one is more resilient; she is still making headway despite a solid hit to her midsection.
I'm the one to make a mistake this evening. I hastily prepare another solution and order tube 3 fired. Just as the eel leaps from our boat, I train my binoculars on the ship. She's dead in the water, her engines stopped. I curse, knowing my shot will pass well in front of her bow. Hartenstein calls out the time left to impact, unaware of my error.
Time passes for the eel. As I expected, nothing. Hartenstein looks at me quizzically. I ignore the stare and shout to the deck gun crew, waiting patiently below, to finish her off.
This they do with aplomb. Conrad's crew performs brilliantly. All but two of the shells hit, each placed perfectly at the merchant's waterline. She settles into the water peacefully, slipping beneath the waves with nary a sound. The gun crew has gotten themselves worked up the point where they're reloading and preparing for another shot despite the ship being gone. "That's enough, boys, excellent work," I call.
I order a return to course and 1/3 ahead speed. I can hear the crew below, shouting jubilantly. Carlewitz estimates our success to be about 7,000 tons. I concur and tell him to enter it into the log. Ebert looks up at me from his position at the deck gun, and cracks a gap-toothed grin. I nod in return and proceed below for some coffee.
To be continued...
U-186 leaves Lorient with orders to patrol grid AM32. Our course is set for the deep water west of the British Isles. From there, we will turn north for our destination.
My first command brings excitement and apprehension. The old seadogs have told us time and again that the seas have become a graveyard for our boats. Indeed, our losses have increased steadily over the past few months. Despite BdU's statements to the contrary, I believe their stories. I remember Kapitan Jurgen's tale about the new Liberator bombers, and I eye the flak guns warily.
The crew is quiet. None of the usual bantering that usually accompanies the routine of stowing away gear or rotating watches. I understand the near-silence. Save for a few recruits in the forward torpedo room, these men are veterans. They know what's out there, and they know that an inexperienced Kaleun leads them. I only hope I do not lead them to their deaths.
0930
In their haste to square away the compartment, the forward torpedo room mistakenly launched tube 1. I am told one of the recruits, Seaman Ebert, was knocked aside and used the firing lever for support, thus initiating the launch. None of the torpedo crew seems to know what the outer torpedo tube door was doing open in the first place.
I admonish the petty officers, and make a note in the logbook. Loosing a torpedo less than five kilometers out of port will not please the flotilla's commandant. I mull over the decision to return to port for a reload, but as that will take several days, I dismiss the idea. The war will not wait.
Lieutnant Hartenstein informs me that the torpedo missed. I manage a half-hearted grin.
23 January 1943. Position 280 km south of Ireland.
All is well. By all accounts we should have made contact with enemy aircraft by now. Perhaps the stories do not have as much merit as I have given them.
At dinner yesterday, Hartenstein quietly informed me that the day's mishap with the torpedo may not have been as accidental as I was told. Hartenstein has a good ear for the crew's mumblings, and he had managed to glean enough info to suggest that Seaman Ebert's clumsiness may very well have been deliberate.
Apparently the older seamen had terrified him with their sea stories, and he viewed the firing lever as a way back to port. I call torpedoman Zander to my bunk, and we have a little heart-to-heart. The decision is made to place Ebert on the watch crew. My officers can keep a closer eye on him there.
I am not happy with this turn of events. Normally I would not tolerate such dissension; however little can be done here in the enemy's playground. I will give Ebert another chance. I hope for his sake he redeems himself.
1630 hours
Alarm! An aircraft makes a run at us from out of nowhere. We barely get under before the first stick of bombs just misses the boat. The explosions rock the boat to and fro, making depth control hard for Chief Engineer Friederichs. Depth charges are heard several hundred meters aft as we pass 50 meters. I order a change in course to SW in case the pilot has radioed in our position, which is most likely. We will stay at 70 meters until nightfall.
Creutz, our sonarman, stays glued to the set, listening for the approach of a possible destroyer. I sip my coffee in the control room, careful not to let my hands shake. The watch crew must do better in spotting the enemy. Pure luck saved us this time.
1721 hours
We surface after a check with the observation scope. The sun is setting off the port bow. I order ahead 1/3 and tell Lt. Carlewitz to man the flak guns. Hopefully we will be left alone tonight; however, I intend a little surprise should the enemy find us again.
Lt. Friederichs comes up from below and informs me that he has ordered the cook to slip a little spirit into the men's coffee. "Might calm the bastards down," he says. I nod my agreement, and continue my watch. I will stay on the bridge tonight.
Ebert mans a flak gun after a crash course from WO Conrad. I hope he doesn't decide to have another "mishap" with it.
24 January 1943. 0300 hours.
Ship spotted off the port bow, bearing 355. It's a small one, maybe 2000 tons or so, plodding along slowly in the calm seas. She's not worth a torpedo, but the deck gun crew could use some practice. I order the gun manned and plot an intercept course at ahead full.
0306 hours
Another ship sighted, sailing ahead of the small cargo. She's much larger. Changing my mind concerning the deck gun, I order all tubes made ready for firing and adjust course. The crew responds with excitement, something I have not seen out of them yet. I tell Carlewitz to keep his eyes peeled for destroyers, and fix the UZO to its post. These kills will be mine.
0330 hours
The engagement is successful, if not perfect. Two eels are fired at 2500 meters. Three minutes later, the smaller ship breaks in two, her fuel tank igniting and ballooning spectacularly into the night sky. She disappears instantly. The larger one is more resilient; she is still making headway despite a solid hit to her midsection.
I'm the one to make a mistake this evening. I hastily prepare another solution and order tube 3 fired. Just as the eel leaps from our boat, I train my binoculars on the ship. She's dead in the water, her engines stopped. I curse, knowing my shot will pass well in front of her bow. Hartenstein calls out the time left to impact, unaware of my error.
Time passes for the eel. As I expected, nothing. Hartenstein looks at me quizzically. I ignore the stare and shout to the deck gun crew, waiting patiently below, to finish her off.
This they do with aplomb. Conrad's crew performs brilliantly. All but two of the shells hit, each placed perfectly at the merchant's waterline. She settles into the water peacefully, slipping beneath the waves with nary a sound. The gun crew has gotten themselves worked up the point where they're reloading and preparing for another shot despite the ship being gone. "That's enough, boys, excellent work," I call.
I order a return to course and 1/3 ahead speed. I can hear the crew below, shouting jubilantly. Carlewitz estimates our success to be about 7,000 tons. I concur and tell him to enter it into the log. Ebert looks up at me from his position at the deck gun, and cracks a gap-toothed grin. I nod in return and proceed below for some coffee.
To be continued...