by Gary Moore
History remembers Gottfried Fischer as the only German sailor to die during the harrowing capture and boarding ordeal. Heinrich Mueller, Felix Kals, Hans Goebeler, and 55 other crewmen were plucked from the sea and quickly stowed away inside the aircraft carrier. Their only comfort was in believing that U-505 had sunk, and in doing so had probably taken a few Americans with her.
They could not have been more wrong.
U-505 was captured off the coast of Africa on June 4, 1944. Heroic efforts by engineers and specialists, who risked their own lives to preserve the boat, kept her afloat. At times, water sloshed up and over the conning tower and the stern threatened to drop away beneath the sea, risking those who labored inside. A line was hooked up to the USS Guadalcanal and U-505 was towed to Bermuda. The submarine was the first enemy ship boarded and captured by the U.S. Navy since the War of 1812.
The capture of U-505 was one of the most significant events of the war. Contrary to what most of the Germans believed at the time, the scuttling charges had not been set, and the ship was not mortally wounded. Flooding turned out to be minimal, and the rudder had not been severely damaged. The confusion in the attack left the entire contents of the boat available for Allied review. This included a working (and priceless) Enigma decoding machine, complete with current code books. The Enigma code was what the Germans used to transmit important operational information. Gallery’s bold plan had worked perfectly.
The United States Navy kept the capture of U-505 a state secret until after the end of the war.
Chapter 15
Norfolk
Two days after U-505 was captured (which was the same day the Allies liberated Rome), the invasion of northern Europe began at Normandy. Hours before the dawn landings on the beaches, thousands of paratroopers were dropped from the skies or landed in gliders. The drop was a giant mess, but the confusion and scattered nature of the landings also confused the Germans, who had no idea how to effectively respond to the Allies.
The man tasked with defending “Fortess Europa” was Field Marshal Rommel, the same commander who had been flown out of North Africa by Hitler to prevent his capture or death. Everyone knew an invasion was coming. The question was where in northern France the hammer would fall. The most likely spots were Normandy and Calais. Rommel wanted to keep his armored divisions close to the front so they could respond quickly and drive the Allies into the sea. If a beachhead was formed and held, he knew that containing the Allied juggernaut would be impossible, and the war, for all intents and purposes, would be lost. Hitler and his theater commander, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, were of a different mind. They wanted the armor held in more central locations, and then rushed to the point of attack. Without control of the skies, however—superiority was decidedly in the Allies’ favor—Rommel knew enemy aircraft would make quick work of slow moving tanks trying to roll their way toward the front along narrow French roads.
When the beach invasion opened early on the morning of June 6, the resistance along most of the Normandy landing areas was light or nonexistent. Fortune smiled on the Allies that day. Field Marshal Rommel had left Normandy for Germany to celebrate his wife’s birthday. His armor remained concentrated far from the front. By the time the panzers were finally released later that day, they were too far away to do the Germans any good. Heavy fighting and serious casualties, however, were suffered along the stretch of sand tagged “Omaha Beach.”
Unbeknownst to Allied planners, the Omaha defenses were manned by the 352nd Division, a largely veteran outfit with fighting experience from the Russian front. It took hours of bloody combat to secure the area and begin moving inland to expand the beachhead. Although Allied objectives for the first day passed largely unfulfilled, the tide had turned in Europe. The long hard slog to Germany, however, was only just beginning.
A nudge on his shoulder woke Gene out of a deep sleep. He jumped up, still dazed, stumbling over his glove and spikes lying on the floor next to his bunk. “Who in the hell are you?” Gene demanded, leaping to his feet in surprise.
“Shore patrol, buddy. Are you Motor Mechanics Mate Gene Moore?” the tall sailor in the white helmet asked.
“If I have to be.”
“Get dressed, and follow me.”
“Where and why?” Gene asked.
“You’ve pulled guard duty, and you need to watch our POWs.”
Gene dressed in silence, wondering whether someone was pulling his leg. The war was far away, and they were in Norfolk, Virginia. “What prisoners of war could be here,” he muttered as he laced up his boots. The sailor stood by without speaking. Gene stood up, looked in the mirror, and said, “Okay, lead the way!”
He followed three SPs across the parking lot to a quonset hut a few yards away. Inside were several of his teammates, each as confused as he was.
“Have a seat, men,” ordered a young but serious looking lieutenant with the brightest and coldest blue eyes Gene had ever seen.
The baffled ballplayers sat down noisily on wooden folding chairs arranged in front of the podium while the officer took up station behind it.
“Gentlemen, what I’m about to tell you is top secret. You can share this information with no one. Does everyone understand what I’ve just said?” Everyone nodded in agreement. The lieutenant had their full and undivided attention.
“We have captured a large group of German sailors who will be transported to a remote camp in Louisiana with other Germans, mostly infantry. They will be held there, not as prisoners of war, but under a classified program that allows us to deny that we are holding them. They will not be allowed to mix with other prisoners, and they will not be allowed any contact with the outside world, period.” The officer let the words sink in before continuing.
“As far as the krauts back in Berlin know, they are missing in action and presumed dead. I imagine by now that’s what their relatives have been told. I can’t tell you more than that now, but you have been selected to guard these men. We will be departing in two hours, so pack your seabag and prepare to move out. These German POWs will be arriving in Louisiana in less than one week. We will hold them there until further notice. Again, let me remind you this is absolutely top secret, and this intelligence is not to be shared with anyone—not your priest, not your mother, nobody.” The officer paused again. “Are there any questions?”
Jim Riordan was not convinced that a practical joke was not being played on them. Over the past two years more elaborate hoaxes had been pulled on the team than he could count. “I smell a joke, here—sir. Where did you capture German sailors in Louisiana? Mardis Gras?” A few chuckles rippled through the room.
The lieutenant did not crack a grin. “I don’t joke at this time of the morning. I am not authorized to tell you anything more, other than they are German, they are sailors, and they will be in Louisiana. You are sailors in Uncle Sam’s Navy, and you’re being ordered to guard them. We have prisoners, and you’ll guard them. It’s that simple.” He looked at Riordan’s teammates. “Any other questions?”
“Do they play ball?” Gene asked. The room erupted in laughter.
Even the blue-eyed lieutenant had to work hard to hide a smile. “Well, no … I don’t suppose they do play ball. Do you?”
“He thinks he does, lieutenant,” shot out Tim Milner, who reached out and punched Gene in the shoulder.
“I can’t tell you anything more, gentlemen.”
Gene’s hand shot up. “Why us, lieutenant? We’re the baseball team. I don’t think I have held a gun the entire time I have been in the Navy. I wouldn’t know how to load one, let alone shoot one, if a German tried to escape. I don’t think anyone on our team knows how to shoot.” Gene looked over at Ray, and asked, “Have you ever shot at anyone before?”
Ray screwed up his face into a scowl. “Are you kidding? Never.”
“Didn’t you boys go through basic training?” the lieutenant asked in disbelief.
“Well, not really, sir. See, for us the Navy made an exception and
called it Spring Training,” Ray replied. Everyone broke out in wild laughter. Even the lieutenant joined in.
The lieutenant waved over an ensign who had been standing at the door. “Ensign Lopez, please see that this ball team gets complete small arms training—including shooting lessons—first thing upon arriving in Ruston, Louisiana.”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime,” continued the lieutenant, turning back to face the ballplayers, “if any of these kraut-eating bastards try to escape … club them with your baseball bats.” The joke triggered another round of hilarious laughter. Gene found himself wiping his eyes as he gasped for air. He was not alone.
It took the breakup of the briefing and the short walk outside to remind Gene it was still the middle of the night, everyone was tired, and they had just been told that, for the first time in the entire war, they would have to act like real sailors.
“So now what?” Gene asked the young ensign.
“Pack your seabags and report to the airstrip in two hours,” he replied. “If there are no further questions, you’re all dismissed.”
The players walked slowly through the cold, pre-dawn morning air, chattering amongst themselves about the new curve Uncle Sam had thrown them. Ray and Gene lingered behind.
“These guys are real Germans?” Ray asked. “This ain’t no joke, is it Gene?”
“Is there such a thing as fake Germans?” Gene responded. “I think this guy’s for real.” He looked at Ensign Lopez. “Ensign, come on, level with us. What’s going on? What’s the inside scoop?”
“Just what the lieutenant told you. These men are German submariners.” He lowered his voice and shot a furtive glance behind him. “I’m not supposed to say more, but lots of guys are saying we captured a German sub somewhere and it was towed into the Caribbean. I don’t know why, and I don’t even know if it’s true. That’s what some are whispering. Supposed to be some great secret, but I know a dozen guys who believe it, and none of them have any clearance credentials—you know what I mean?” He looked Gene squarely in the eye. “If you repeat anything I’ve said, I’ll make your lives so damn miserable, you’ll wish I’d cut your hair and sent you to sea.”
Two hours later, Gene and his teammates were packed into a cargo plane and ready to fly to Louisiana. As the aircraft taxied out to the runway, Gene forgot his geography and wondered whether they would fly over Sesser on the way. He missed his small house on Mulberry Street, he missed his friends, he missed playing at The Lumberyard. The military had been a tremendous experience for a young, small-town boy from the Midwest, but how could he ever go back home?
Gene drifted off to sleep dreaming about making the winning tag at home plate on the ramshackle ball diamond in Sesser. He was an innocent fifteen once again, the locals were screaming with delight, his father was smiling from the stands, and the hot sun felt good on his face.
Chapter 16
Camp Ruston, Louisiana
The unusual thing about Louisiana is that you always feel wet. Gene stepped from the outdoor shower in the morning and tried to dry himself off, but by the time he finished, parts of his body were damp again. The humidity never left, even at night. As the day progressed it became heavier, more oppressive. Climbing into his cot to sleep was like lying down on damp towels. The giant cockroaches scurrying across him at night, and biting mosquitoes that seemed to never sleep, only added to the general discomfort of life in the Deep South. Illinois had its share of humid days, but life in Sessser was never like this.
If the weather wasn’t great, the landscape was at least attractive—or at least Gene thought so. He especially liked the trees that dripped with Spanish moss, a green lacy webbing draping the branches like an accessory. The moss, someone told him, only grew on what was called a Live Oak tree. He had no idea whether it was true or not. It was just one more thing to remind him that Sesser was a long way away.
After several days of training with small arms a few miles from the camp, and an intense course on how to interact with the prisoners, the ballplayers were introduced to Ruston. They were not sure what to think about the facility. Gene didn’t know what to expect, and was a tad disappointed with the place.
By the middle of 1944, America was home to more than 650 camps designed for the sole purpose of holding Axis prisoners of war. Each had its own quirks, personality, and oddball characters. Camp Ruston was a sprawling complex in the northern part of the state. A host of prisoners were housed there, including infantry captured in North Africa and Kriegsmarine sailors from other U-boats that had been sunk. But these men were in the general prison. U-505’s crewmen were isolated from everyone else. Officially, they did not exist.
The camp’s commander and several guards rode in a jeep behind two covered trucks carrying Gene and his comrades. All three vehicles stopped twenty yards from the barbed wire fence that marked the western boundary of the pen holding the men of U-505. The compound was a makeshift affair about one-half the size of a football field. Inside were several roughly constructed plywood barracks and tents—lots of tents. The complex had obviously been erected in haste in anticipation of the Navy’s new and unexpected guests.
“Gentlemen, these are your charges,” explained the camp commander, waving a hand toward the wire enclosure. “You have been fully instructed what you can and what you cannot do …” As he spoke, Gene stepped to one side and studied the enemy. Several of the Germans inside the wire had noticed their arrival and begun to gather in small knots to discuss what it meant. Some affected a defiant posture; others simply stood with arms folded across their chests, sizing up their new guards the same way the former ballplayers were taking stock of them.
Although he had spent months in North Africa in relatively close proximity to German troops, Gene had never met anyone from Germany before he arrived in Louisiana. The closest he had come was the Basso family in Sesser. Old man Basso hailed from Italy and ran the local grocery back home. The Bassos were dark complected with coal black hair, and the old man spoke German in addition to his native tongue. The language, harsh and guttural, delighted the children of Sesser, who enjoyed stepping into the store just to ask the old man to say something they could not understand. Gene considered the men standing in the small prison and was surprised by what he discovered. Although they were all dressed the same—blue dungarees and khaki shirts—they looked like everyone he’d grown up with in Sesser. He didn’t know exactly what he had expected, but he hadn’t expected that.
Four days later, after spending his time on guard duty walking the perimeter and ignoring the Germans standing inside, just as ordered, Gene decided it was time to say a few words to them. When the end of his shift arrived and Tim Milner relieved him from duty, Gene slung his M-1 Garand over his shoulder and stepped toward the fence. He caught the eye of the first man he could, a medium-sized fellow with sandy brown hair and large muscled arms.
“Hello,” Gene offered, thinking the word was probably universally understood. He even smiled and nodded.
The man looked at him without changing his expression and walked away. Not knowing what to think, Gene tried again. And again, with the same level of success. None of them, it seemed, had any interest in talking back. The prisoners did not seem afraid; they just appeared uninterested. Perhaps they had agreed among themselves not to speak with the guards.
He had learned from his instruction that many spoke some English, and a few spoke better English than some of the guards. But when Gene tried to talk to them, they acted as if they had forgotten the language.
One afternoon, after relieving Ray Laws from his post, Gene was standing by the fence when he spotted a German prisoner walking along the inside track ringing the compound. Gene eased his way to the wire and motioned for him to stop. He did.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “Do you speak English?”
The German looked around as if nervous that a guard would directly attempt to speak with him. “Ya. A little bit.”
“What’s
your name?”
He squinted his eyes and replied slowly, “Mueller. Heinrich Mueller.” It was obvious he did not trust the chatty American.
“My name’s Gene Moore. I’m from Illinois. Do you know where that is?” Heinrich shook his head. “Where are you from, Mueller?” Mueller smiled and answered, “Germany,” before walking away.
Gene shook his head and began walking around the perimeter of the compound. This guarding of prisoners routine was getting old quick. Worse, his baseball skills were rusting. He hadn’t played in weeks, and he could feel the muscles in his arms and legs beginning to soften. It was time to do something about it.
When Gene returned to the barracks later that evening, he called for his friends to gather around.
“What’s up, Gene?” asked Ray.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I am tired of doing a whole lot of nothing.” Everyone nodded in agreement. “So,” he continued, “how about when we aren’t on guard duty, we do what real Americans always do when they have some free time?”
“Chase girls?” asked Jim Riordan.
“No! He means find some cold beer!” exclaimed Tim.
Gene just shook his head and smiled. “Look how far we have fallen.” When the rest of the guys just looked at him blankly, he said forcefully, “Americans play baseball!”
The sport was never far from any of their minds, but the new responsibilities, enervating humidity and heat, and a lack of a place to play had dampened their enthusiasm. They still checked newspapers and listened to the radio whenever they could to see how their favorite big league teams were doing. Although Gene’s loyalties had changed from the Cardinals to the Dodgers, he was still thrilled to see that both the St. Louis Cardinals and St. Louis Browns were holding strong in first place.
