SUBSIM Radio Room Forums - (story) The Grey Wolf

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

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

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

The base commander was speaking again.

Donath turned towards him. “What is it?”

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

“I’ll take him.”

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

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

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

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

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

Donath nodded. “Right on time.”

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

“Excuse me, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After you, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take her to sea, Number One.”

He was back.

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

Cheers,

Dan

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

“Launch to starboard, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Any outside interests there?”

“I was a pacifist, sir.

Donath grinned at his confusion. “No comment!”

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All set, Number One?”

Frenzel turned towards him. “Ready, sir.”

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

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

“Hydroplanes tested and found correct, sir.”

“Ready, Chief?” He saw Altern nod.

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

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

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

“Down periscope.”

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

“Fourteen metres, sir. Periscope depth,”

“Up periscope.”

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

“Down periscope.” He clapped home the handles.

“Twenty metres.”

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

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

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

Nobody replied.

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

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

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

Cheers,

Dan