by Antony Trew
For the tenth time since the submarine had surfaced Pownall said, ‘Five minutes up, sir.’
‘Stop engines.’
Vengeful’s engines ceased to turn and she pitched and wallowed in the seaway. There were the usual sounds: the noise of seas surging down her sides; the slap of water against the hull; the wind screeching and shrilling in the rigging; the muffled voices of unseen men; the hum of the motors spinning the clear view screens; the dull blows and metallic scrapes of ice clearing operations on the upper-deck.
It was bitterly cold. Snow, sleet and frozen spray had collected everywhere. On the bridge two seamen were breaking it up, shovelling it over the side from the signal platforms. Guns’ crews, depth-charge and hedgehog parties, searchlight crews and others in exposed positions were doing the same thing. It was a miserable task but it was better than doing nothing. It helped to keep a man’s circulation going.
The ship lay in a black limbo, alone, unrelated, a universe in itself, the only substance in a vast nothingness. Men spoke in low voices as if they might scare away the quarry they were hunting. Redman peered into the blanket of darkness, waiting for Groves’s next report. He felt suddenly alone, tired and despondent. The effects of the Benzedrine wearing off, the lack of sleep, the long nervous strain, engendered a sense of futility. In the course of forty-five minutes Vengeful had succeeded in keeping in touch with the U-boat, but the range remained at about 6000 yards. The destroyer wasn’t able to steam fast enough in that weather to gain on the submarine. Somewhere out there, hidden in the snow and darkness, the U-boat was driving down-wind at a speed the plot estimated to be fourteen knots, Vengeful’s stops and starts were giving her an average speed no greater than that.
Redman thought of the German captain. What was going on in his mind? He couldn’t know he was being followed or he’d have long since taken evasive action. His behaviour was puzzling. He should have turned to follow the convoy long ago. Where was he making for? Not for the Skolpen concentration. The course he was steering would take him north of that. Under what special orders was he operating? Redman sighed wearily. There were too many imponderables and he was too tired to sort them out. He shook himself like a dog and lumps of snow fell from his duffel coat.
Thinking of the strange conduct of the U-boat captain, he remembered something he’d forgotten in the excitement of the hunt – Kleber, the weather reporter. The U-boat they’d all thought was a loner until the attack on the blind side of the convoy developed. The moment when the German tactical plan became clear.
This U-boat Vengeful was hunting was behaving like a loner. Could it be Kleber again, engaged in some unpredictable tactic which might later reveal itself? And was this Kleber his Kleber?
In Redman’s tired mind the conviction grew that it was, and his mental picture of the man on the U-boat’s bridge changed from archetype Teuton to a tall fair man, square jaw and beaky nose prominent, smiling crowsfeet at the corners of ice-blue eyes. Redman’s thoughts went back to the glacier above Crans-sur-Sierre. He remembered looking up at the stranger who smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right. I’ll get you out of here.’
Redman shook away the mental picture, spoke into a voice-pipe. ‘Any luck, Groves?’
‘No, sir, we’ve lost it. We’re still trying.’ Groves and his A/S team kept on trying but after fifteen minutes, during which Vengeful carried out a square search, they had to admit defeat. Groves reported, ‘I’m afraid contact has definitely been lost, sir. I’m terribly sorry but …’
Redman said, ‘Don’t apologise. You and your team have done bloody well.’ Beneath his professional disappointment there was a curious sense of relief. It was something deep down, secret, something of which he was ashamed. A sort of treachery, some would say. But it wasn’t that really.
It was only that he was glad Hans Kleber had got away.
After contact with the U-boat had been lost, Vengeful set off on a southerly course to rejoin the convoy then estimated to be some twenty-five miles distant. The weather had continued to moderate and at 1800 wind and sea were logged as force 5.
Redman was in a subdued mood. He realised he’d stayed away too long, strayed too far from JW 137. The prime duty of an escort was to remain with the convoy it was protecting. He’d allowed obsession with the hunt to upset his judgment. Had he sunk the U-boat he might have got away with it Nothing succeeded like success. But he hadn’t.
As it was Ginger Mountsey would have a good deal to say, not only about the length of Vengeful’s absence but the failure to respond to signals. He would dish out a pretty sharp reprimand. But being Ginger Mountsey it would soon be forgotten. Back on the Clyde when Captain (D) read Vengeful’s report of proceedings there’d be another rocket. Within a few days, however, Captain (D) would probably invite him to the pleasant afternoon teas for which he was noted and the matter would not be mentioned again. Captain (D) had spent much of the war at sea. He knew what went on on the bridge of a destroyer.
Vengeful had resumed radar transmissions and the bridge-speaker once again echoed the pings of the asdic with metronomic precision. The destroyer was still outside radar and TBS range of the convoy and its escorts. Redman, knowing that wireless silence could not be broken, had made a W/T signal reporting loss of contact with the U-boat. He had also given his estimated time of rejoining JW 137.
Terence O’Brien arrived on the bridge. ‘Captain, sir o You sent for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Redman. ‘Your guns’ crews all right?’
‘Yes, sir. They’ve had some food and mugs of hot cocoa. Bit cold but they’ve been clearing away snow and ice and that has helped.’ O’Brien‘s duties included those of gunnery control officer.
‘B gun loaded with starshell?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Long fused?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘X gun?’
‘High explosive with delayed action fuse, sir.’
‘I think you’d better …’ Redman broke off his sentence as the ping on the bridge-speaker was followed by an unmistakable pong. Twice more the pings were answered by pongs, then came Groves’s incisive report, ‘Contact, sir. Dead ahead … range nine hundred … closing … bearing drawing slowly left … strong HE.’ With the calm of a judge pronouncing the accused ‘guilty’, he added, ‘It’s definitely a submarine, sir.’
‘Sound the alarm. Start the plot. Steer five degrees to port. Revolutions for fifteen knots.’ The orders came from Redman in a sharp staccato. ‘Pounce attack. Heavy charges five hundred feet. Light charges two hundred. Stand by to illuminate with searchlights.’
From somewhere in the darkness Pownall announced the new course – 218 degrees, and the time – 1807.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kolb’s report, shortly before U-0153 dived, that the armature had been replaced and that the training gear was operating normally was correct. But soon after making it he and Hahn had found that though the hydrophones could be trained through their full travel of 360 degrees they were soundless. The amplifier circuit had been damaged by the electric fire. This was not discovered until the burnt-out leads were replaced and tested. By then the submarine had been submerged for some minutes. Believing that repairs to the circuit would not take long and conscious of their failure to test the hydrophones before making the report, Kolb and Hahn decided against informing Schluss. Apart from any other consideration, they knew that if he learnt that the hydrophones were not working he would seize the excuse to surface and move away from the convoy.
As it happened the hydrophones were unlikely to have made any difference to what was happening. At that moment unknown to Schluss, Vengeful was dead astern, steering the same course and overhauling U-0153 at ten knots. The sounds of the destroyer’s pings and her propellers which would normally have been audible not only to the submarine’s hydrophone operator but, at close range, to the naked ear of the men in the control-room, were effectively masked by the noise of U-0153’s own propellers.
&nb
sp; It was only at the last moment that those in the control-room heard the chilling roar as the destroyer’s propellers passed overhead. For a moment, numb with shock, Willi Schluss did nothing. Then he came to life and screamed, ‘Hard-a-port, emergency full ahead together!’
It was a desperate attempt to swing clear of the depth-charges which he knew would already be sinking towards the submarine in groups of two’s and four’s. But it was too late.
The turn to port took U-0153 directly into the path of one side of the pattern of twenty-six charges as the first pair exploded. They were followed at regular intervals by others. The explosions were not only to port and starboard but, set for depths of 200 and 500 feet, they rocked and hammered the submarine from above and below.
The effects of the first explosions were catastrophic. There was a muffled roar like a volcano erupting and U-0153 was flung to starboard, heeling over sharply, the hull whipping, expanding and contracting, as the pressure waves struck. Lights went out. Gauges blew, air, water and telemotor pipes fractured and burst, men screamed as they were flung against the sides of the control-room. Limbs were broken, and wounds were inflicted by controls and other protuberances. Shortly afterwards there was another explosion. Enormous forces struck the stern, throwing it upwards so that the boat assumed a bow-down angle.
The emergency lighting came on, flickered and went off. Another thunderous explosion checked the fall of the bow and threw the boat once more into a stern-down position. By some strange quirk the explosion caused the emergency lighting to come on again.
The buzzer on the telephone from the engine-room beep-beeped. Gerhardt Meyer – white-faced, a bloody gash across his forehead – staggered across and put the phone to his ear. It was Obermaschinist Zeck, reporting that the steering-engine had been damaged. The rudder was jammed in the hard-a-port position. Worse still, he said, chlorine fumes from the battery-room were entering the motor and diesel-room in such quantities that masks were insufficient. Both compartments had to be evacuated. Before he’d finished speaking, hammering was heard on the watertight door at the after end of the control-room.
Meyer passed the news to Schluss who shook his head as if trying to rid it of a nightmare. ‘Don’t open that watertight door,’ he shouted. ‘Well all die if you do.’
Kolb called out, ‘Du feiges Schwein … you cowardly pig,’ and ran aft to release the holding cleats. The door opened and men streamed through, dragging and carrying their wounded.
‘Shut it, you stupid fool,’ shrilled Schluss. ‘Do you want to die …’ His sentence was broken by a further explosion which tilted the bow even higher so that the crew had difficulty in keeping their feet on the steep angle of the deck. ‘Emergency surface,’ yelled Schluss. ‘Blow all tanks.’
High-pressure air forcing its way into the ballast tanks lifted the submarine rapidly and, as if that were not enough, yet another prodigious explosion beneath the hull blew the U-boat to the surface.
The emergency lighting flickered and failed once more. Above the noise and turmoil Meyer shouted, ‘We’ve surfaced. Bridge is clear.’ The submarine began to pitch and roll in the seaway.
In the darkness Schluss – training and tradition forgotten in his terror – led the rush up the ladder to the lower hatch. With desperate energy he released the clips and opened it, then clambered up the ladder through the conning-tower and opened the upper hatch. As he made his way on to the bridge he was swept to one side and drenched by a sea. He clawed in the darkness for the rail on the bridge-screen, found it and pulled himself to his feet. The night was ebony black. Snow still fell, though lightly now. The submarine lay beam on to wind and sea, wallowing helplessly, seas breaking over her, spray freezing on the upperworks.
Schluss scarcely noticed these things. He was alive, able to breathe fresh air, and the horror of the control-room, the screams of dying and wounded men, and the odour of chlorine gas were far below him.
Dark shapes emerged through the upper hatch and joined him on the bridge. One man was whimpering. ‘Halt die Klappe … shut up,’ said a hoarse voice. Schluss recognised it as Kolb’s. So he’d not stayed down there either.
Schluss was blinded by a searchlight beam. Beneath it orange flashes were followed by the sound of gunfire. Streams of tracer splattered against the conning-tower. Shells began to fall astern of U-0153. The error in range was corrected and the splashes drew closer, Moments later a shell burst on the anti-aircraft gun platform abaft the bridge, killing and wounding the men clustered there.
In the glare of the searchlight Schluss saw that the stern of the submarine was sinking, the bow thrusting steeply out of the water. Somewhat unnecessarily he cried, ‘Abandon ship,’ as he joined the leaping figures who’d anticipated his order. As soon as he’d recovered from the shock of immersion he struck out, swimming away from the fast disappearing hull of his first and last command.
Instinct backed by reason had decided Redman on a pounce attack. The reasons were sound … one, the U-boat was obviously unaware of Vengeful, nine hundred yards astern, for it had taken no evasive action. Two, it would certainly go deep if it detected the destroyer. This might happen at any moment, particularly after a material alteration of course. Three, Redman was in no mood for another prolonged hunt and further delay in returning to the convoy. A pounce attack was often not successful, but at least it forced a submarine to go deep and delayed its attempt to catch up with the convoy. This suited Redman. Close to exhaustion, his nerves strained, he was obsessed by a vision of Kleber in the control-room of the U-boat 1000 yards ahead, groping its way through the gloomy depths of the Barents Sea.
The technical requirements of the attack dominated his thinking as Vengeful made her run in, but the human brain has a remarkable capacity for distributing its attention and a part of his mind had been busy with these thoughts from the moment Groves had reported. ‘It’s a submarine, sir.’ There was no doubt in Redman’s mind that this was the U-boat they’d been hunting on the surface before contact was lost.
The bridge-speaker relayed a series of range reports from Groves as the distance between Vengeful and the U-boat closed, but the bearing remained steady. Clearly the U-boat still did not know it was being hunted.
At last Groves made the report for which Redman had been waiting. “Contact lost … range two hundred yards, sir.
That gave Redman a fair idea of the depth at which the U-boat was running. He breathed a sigh of relief. Vengeful’s pattern settings were right.
All now depended upon what last minute alteration of course the U-boat might make. In the A/S cabinet Groves and his team focused their attention on the stop-watch which had been started the moment contact was lost. As the second-hand swept the dial they read off ranges from the time/speed/range table on the bulkhead above their instruments.
‘One hundred yards,’ reported Groves through the bridge- speaker. ‘Fifty yards … twenty-five … over the target now, sir.’
Next Groves reported the ranges as they opened, for the pattern had to be dropped ahead of the submarine to allow time for the charges to sink to the depth at which they were set to explode. ‘Fifty yards ahead …’ Groves’s steady voice proclaimed … ‘Seventy-five yards …’
‘Fire!’ ordered Redman.
Groves’s orders to the depth-charge parties on the quarter deck came through the bridge-speaker – ‘Fire one! … fire two! … fire three! …’ – as he called the sequence at short intervals. In response to his orders depth-charges were rolled off the chutes astern and fired from throwers to port and starboard. Before he’d ordered the firing of the last of the twenty-six charge patterns the first were already exploding.
‘Searchlight,’ ordered Redman. The powerful beam poked tentatively into the darkness astern, revealing white fountains leaping skywards as the charge exploded. At their base the sea boiled and trembled.
Vengeful swung round to port, the searchlight holding the turbulent water in its beam, turning the falling snow into luminescent streamers join
ing sea and sky.
Soon after the fourteenth and fifteenth charges had exploded there was a shout from the yeoman-of-signals, ‘Submarine surfacing, sir.’ It was in a sense unnecessary for so many in Vengeful witnessed the extraordinary spectacle of a U-boat leaping from the sea as a double explosion blew it to the surface.
Redman at once stopped engines and put his ship head on to the submarine. This was the moment when the U-boat was most likely to fire a gnat and he was taking no chances. At the same time he gave the order to O’Brien to open fire. The range was about five hundred yards. Streams of tracer sped from the 20 mm oerlikon guns beneath the bridge, their repetitive bark drowned by the heavier reports of the forward 4-inch which was producing a commendable rate of fire. Fire-countrol in an old V and W class destroyer was fairly elementary. But to Redman’s astonishment Vengeful’s seventh shell scored a direct hit abaft the conning-tower which was already raked with oerlikon fire. In the bright beam of the searchlight he saw men jumping over the side as the U-boat began to slide under stern-first, her bows inclining upwards at a steep angle until she disappeared finally in a cloud of spray.
A ragged cheer came from the guns’ crews near the bridge as Redman ordered ‘cease fire’. Next to him he heard the first-lieutenant’s delighted ‘Oh, good show, sir.’ It sounded like Twickenham and Lords.
Redman said, ‘Get a scrambling-net over the starboard side. Number One. Have men on life-lines standing by. We’ll go round to windward of these poor devils. See if we can pick some up in our lee.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. The first-lieutenant was already heading for the bridge ladder. ‘I’ll be difficult in this weather.’
