Kleber's Convoy

by Antony Trew

  As the destroyer moved up the convoy’s starboard flank Petty Officer Blandy kept up a running commentary on the many radar contacts to port. The first-lieutenant interrupted him. ‘Don’t worry too much about the port side, Blandy. It’s thick with convoy and escorts. Any U-boats near us are likely to be to starboard. Either up-wind on the bow or working their way up our starboard beam into the ahead position.’

  ‘We’re watching for them, sir.’ Blandy’s voice was a mixture of irritation and respect. To the radar operator beside him he said, ‘Christ! You’d think we’d never been on one of these.’

  Petty Officer Blandy, too, was a tired man. Soon afterwards he reported a contact ahead, classified surface ship, closing the convoy at high speed.

  ‘It’s Mainwaring,’ said the first-lieutenant. ‘We heard her recall a few moments ago. She’s to take up station inside the close-screen.’

  At 2000 the watch changed. O’Brien came to the bridge with Rogers the midshipman. O’Brien announced his arrival with ‘Holy mother o’ Jesus, it’s cold. Where’s the Kai1 boat?’

  The first-lieutenant interpreted the PPI for O’Brien, showed him the convoy’s position on the chart, reported the course and speed, weapons’ state of readiness, gun loadings, depth-charge settings, challenge and reply for the night, the U-boat disposition and attack situation, and much else. ‘We’re just beginning to move ahead of the convoy,’ he said. ‘Drawing clear of the starboard column. Another three miles and we’ll be in station. Mainwaring’s closing us fast.’ He pointed to a dot of light, on the PPI. ‘That’s her. She’s to take up station inside the close-screen.’

  ‘Well now. For a tired Irishman that’s a lot to remember.’

  ‘Your midshipman will keep an eye on things. Consult him when in doubt.’

  O’Brien yawned. ‘Haven’t had two hours of proper sleep in the last forty-eight. It’s worse than a couple of St Patrick’s nights strung together.

  ‘Two hours! You must have been hogging it.’

  ‘You know what, Number One?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I wish this shenanigan would stop. It’s after the salmon I’d like to be. On the Boyne. With a fine Irish colleen waiting for me in the pub at the end of the day. A girl of great beauty, fine breasts and randy as hell.’

  The first-lieutenant expressed his disapproval by becoming suddenly businesslike. ‘I’m going down to see the Old Man.’

  ‘Right‚ Number One. I’ve got her. The ship’s in safe hands.’

  ‘Your night vision okay?’

  O’Brien searched the darkness with night glasses. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘What d’you see?’

  ‘Bugger all, your honour. Just bloody black nothing.’

  ‘You’ll do. That’s all there is. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen the Old Mario Can’t trust you to get her into station. You know. RNVR. Really not very reliable.’

  O’Brien groaned. ‘Oh, God! Not that again.’

  The first-lieutenant went down to the chart-room and wrote up the log. That done he went through the wheelhouse to the captain’s sea-cabin. The door was shut. That was unusual. It was normally latched to in the open position, the curtain drawn across for privacy. He knocked. There was no response, so he knocked again and heard a muffled reply. He opened the door and pulled the curtain aside.

  The captain was lying on the bunk, blankets over him, back to the door. The stale smell of past meals, of body odour and steam from the radiator had been joined by another. The potent smell of whisky.

  The first-lieutenant saw the part-empty bottle and the tumbler in the rack above the wash-basin. The captain breathed noisily. A wheezy, asthmatic rumble.

  My God, thought the first-lieutenant. He’s drank. He said, ‘Captain, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Number One. What is it?’ The recumbent figure didn’t move.

  ‘We should be in station in five minutes, sir.’

  ‘What’s the time?’

  The first-lieutenant was surprised, In spite of his hoarseness the captain sounded remarkably sober, ‘Just after twenty hundred, sir.’

  ‘Shut the door.’

  The first-lieutenant shut It, looked once again at the washbasin and wondered if somehow he’d got things wrong. The captain had half raised himself in the bunk. ‘Yes. It’s whisky, Number Once. Fve been drinking.’ The red-rimmed eyes narrowed into a smile. ‘Terribly tired. No excuse, but I am. Thought the whisky would wake me up. Stimulant, you know.’ He began to move off the bunk. The first-lieutenant stood back to make room.

  ‘Put me into a heavy sleep. Quarrelled with the Benzedrine, I dare say.’

  ‘I expect so. I’m sorry, sir.’ The first-lieutenant hesitated. ‘I know you’re terribly short of sleep.’

  ‘Who isn’t?’ The captain slid off the bunk. He was a big man and moved cumbrously. ‘Right, Number One. Carry on. I’m coming up.’

  ‘There’s a marvellous signal from the Vice-Admiral, sir.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Congratulating you on sinking U-0153, sir.’

  The captain was holding on to the bunk-board, steadying himself against the roll, staring at the first-lieutenant in a strange way. ‘Did it add, “and for killing her brother, thereby making a pigeon pair”?’

  The first-lieutenant looked at him blankly, half-puzzled, half-embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’

  Redman drew his hand across his face.

  ‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘You never will. Now carry on, Number One.’ He gestured towards the door.

  The first-lieutenant didn’t move. He was worried, uncertain. ‘Sure you’re all right, sir?’

  ‘Get out.’ The captain spoke with restrained but sudden fury. ‘For Christ’s sake, get out.’

  The first-lieutenant gave him a startled look, opened the door, pulled the curtain across and shut the door behind him. When he’d gone Redman sighed deeply, pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, then looked round the cabin seeing nothing but his own desolation. There was no escape. He took the bottle of whisky from the rack, examined the label, reached for a tumbler, changed his mind and, with savage violence, smashed the bottle against the ruby ice lump. Whisky, chips of ice and broken glass splattered the Admiralty blankets and soiled the pillow.

  He fell forward on to the bunk burying his head in his arms. For a moment he gave way, his sobs muffled by the pillow. He soon pulled himself together, took the duffel coat from the hook, put it on, raised the hood of the anorak and reached for his night glasses.

  1 Kai boat – a particularly strong and greasy brew of Admiralty cocoa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The propeller noises of the destroyer passing overhead began to fade and from the bearings reported by Ausfeld it was evident she was making for the convoy. In the control-room of U-0117 men looked at each other with a mixture of fear and relief. Though they did not know it, the destroyer was Mainwaring. They had thought at first that she had detected them and was running in for an attack. Beads of perspiration stood out on wet foreheads, face muscles were taut, eyes bright with danger. The atmosphere in the control-room was hot and foetid. Water dripped everywhere, there was the green of verdigris on all the metal surfaces, the air was foul with diesel and chlorine fumes; and the smell of decaying food, of vomit and urine, sodden clothing and unwashed bodies hung in the air like an invisible pall.

  Rigged for silent running, the only sounds in U-0117 now were the faint hum of electric motors at low speed, the subdued voices of men giving and acknowledging orders, and the click and whirr of instruments. The submarine had reversed her course and was steering for the convoy, approaching its starboard bow, making just enough headway for the planesmen to hold her trim.

  As he moved to the periscope well Kleber nodded to Rathfelder. ‘Soon now,’ he said.

  Ausfeld reported from the sound-room. ‘Numerous propeller noises. Slow-running piston engines. Freighters. Range six thousand metres.’

  Kleber consulte
d his watch, ‘Bring her to periscope depth, chief.’

  Heuser repeated the order,

  ‘Stand by all tubes.’ Kleber looked at Rathfelder as the conductor of an orchestra looks at his first violin. The executive officer repeated the order, passing it to the fore-and after-ends.

  The bows of the submarine began to lift as she made for the surface, the needles in the gauges clicking off the depths … 140 metres … 120 … 100 … 80 … compressed air hissing into the ballast tanks, forcing the water out through the open vents. Another sound intruded – familiar but chilling: the pings of asdic transmissions. U-0117 had come clear of the temperature layer.

  ‘Asdic transmissions green zero-three-zero. High volume. Closing.’ There was sudden urgency in Ausfeld’s voice as he added, ‘Destroyer propeller noises.’

  Rathfelder reported, ‘All tubes ready, Herr Kapitän.’

  The submarine’s movements became lively as she neared the surface, and to Heuser, trying to hold her trim, it was like controlling the antics of a giant cork.

  Kleber ordered, ‘Up periscope!’ An electric motor hummed and the periscope came up from its well like a smoothly functioning lift. He knelt to meet it, snapped down the handles, rose with it, eyes pressed to the lens apertures, his body swivelling as he trained the instrument on to the bearing given by Ausfeld.

  ‘Unterwasserangriff … submerged attack.’ Kleber’s orders were sharp, like the crack of a whip. ‘Klar zum Gefecht … stand by for immediate action.’

  He settled the periscope on the bearing, searching along it with eyes not yet adjusted to night vision. The snow had stopped. That helped, but the sudden, unpredictable antics of U-0117 as Heuser tried to hold her trim didn’t. At times the U-boat would lift suddenly, the conning-tower almost awash in the troughs of the seas. Kleber moved the periscope left and right of the bearing and with a sudden tightening of nerves focused on a white splash on the starboard bow; one which grew and faded but always returned. Realising that it was made by the plunging forefoot of a fast-moving ship, he probed the darkness until the Zeiss lenses revealed the shadowy outline behind the bow wave. The crests and troughs of passing seas masked the target at times, but Kleber decided it was a fast escort. Probably a destroyer. He wondered if it was the warship they’d heard speeding towards the convoy. Had she got a contact and turned? Her course was roughly parallel to the U-boat’s, but in the reverse direction. The relative bearings were changing rapidly. Kleber judged there was just time for an attack. The destroyer was evidently unaware of the submarine’s presence. The opportunity was unlikely to recur. His estimate of the range at six hundred metres, closing, was confirmed by Ausfeld’s reports from the sound-room. In terse, incisive sentences Kleber passed the attack information to Dieter Leuner in the conning-tower: target’s range and bearing, course and speed; submarine’s course and speed. Leuner fed the data into the attack-computer where an electronic system computed instantly the gyro-firing angle, setting it automatically on the torpedoes in their tubes.

  The destroyer’s pings and propeller noises could now be heard clearly in the control-room, but they were strangely woolly. Once again U-0117’s crew waited in a sweat of tension.

  Kleber aimed the periscope cross-wires at a point abaft the destroyer’s bow-wave which he judged to be under the bridge. When the target was almost abeam he called, Tire one!’ then – after the briefest pause – ‘Fire two!’ The torpedoes left their tubes and the submarine shuddered.

  Rathfelder started the stop-watch and called aloud the seconds lapsed as the red hand swept the dial. Twenty seconds should pass before they covered the four hundred metres to the target.

  ‘… eight … nine … ten …’ Rathfelder incanted.

  Kleber saw the shape of the white bow-wave alter, the rate of change of bearing slacken. The destroyer was turning to starboard, towards U-0117. Her hydrophone operators must have picked up the sound of torpedoes. She was trying to turn bows on to them.

  ‘Eleven … twelve …’

  Kleber ordered, ‘Fire five!’ and then with sudden urgency, ‘Down periscope … emergency dive … take her down fast, chief … destroyer’s heading for us.’ Five was the sterntube loaded with gnats. Kleber was taking no chances with a destroyer.

  Heuser barked his orders at the men on the hydrophones and flooding valves. The submarine took on a bow-down angle. There was the familiar hiss of air escaping as water flooded the ballast tanks.

  ‘… fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …’ called Rathfelder, eyes never moving from the stop-watch. His report was interrupted by the deep rumble of an explosion It shook the submarine. ‘A hit,’ shouted Rathfelder exultantly. ‘On seventeen.’

  ‘Luck,’ said Kleber. “She would soon have been bows on to us.’

  The submarine took on a steeper diving angle. ‘Destroyer’s asdic and propeller noises have ceased,’ reported Ausfeld. Kleber said, ‘That’s a gnat wasted.’ He looked round the control-room, his glance embracing them all. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Not many U-boat crews could have done better.’ The silence was broken suddenly by laughter and excited chatter. The tension had gone.

  ‘Halt die Klappe … shut up!’ snapped Kleber. ‘Keep calm. We’ve still got the convoy to attack. That’s going to need all you can give. Listen!’

  There was silence again, each man concentrating on his task, hearing the distant beat of many propellers, the volume of sound growing steadily.

  ‘Hear them?’ prodded Kleber.

  The men nodded, serious, tense, ashamed of their lapse‚ aware once again of impending danger.

  Not long afterwards they heard their gnat exploding at the end of its run. After Vengeful’s engines had stopped it had homed on Mainwaring’s propellers but its range was exhausted well short of the fleet destroyer and the torpedo’s self-destruct mechanism took over.

  ‘Level off at eighty metres, chief. Stand by to surface soon after that.’

  ‘Surface?’ There was surprise in Heuser’s tone.

  Kleber nodded. ‘We have the up-wind position. We are close to the leading ships of the convoy. We shall make another surface attack.’

  The set of the strong chin, the unwavering blue eyes, the steady voice, reassured the men in the control-room. Kleber did not tell them that his intention to surface so soon after sinking the destroyer was a calculated risk of a high order. Nor did they know of the apprehension he himself felt. It was outweighed only by his belief that he must do more to justify the faith the Flag Officer, U-Boats, Group North had reposed in his brain-child – Plan X. But the element of surprise had gone. Already escorts would be closing the area to hunt him. Now he pinned his faith in doing the unexpected, in tactical aggression. He would surface shortly and in the first confusion following the destroyer’s sinking, U-0117, trimmed well down, would head for the approaching convoy at maximum speed. Once between its columns he’d make a swift attack and dive to the comparative safety of water disturbed by the wakes of many ships. It should not take long after that to find a temperature layer beneath which the U-boat could hide.

  He looked at the second-hand sweeping the dial of the clock over the chart-table. In another twenty seconds he would give the order to surface.

  The signal ordering Mainwaring to resume station inside the close-screen had concluded with the words proceed with dispatch.

  Upon its receipt her captain, Lieutenant-Commander Brad-shaw, turned his ship towards the convoy and increased speed to twenty-five knots. At 2008 he exchanged recognition signals with Vengeful coming up to take the billet on the outer screen which he had just vacated. As Vengeful passed up the fleet destroyer’s side the latter altered course to starboard to pass astern of her. Lieutenant-Commander Brad-shaw had no means of knowing that he had passed close to U-0117 a few minutes earlier, for Mainwaring’s asdic dome had been housed to avoid weather damage.

  Thus, unwittingly, Mainwaring’s course had taken her between those of the U-boat and Vengeful which were approaching each other on roughly pa
rallel courses. This was to have the most dramatic consequences.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The first-lieutenant shut the door of the captain’s sea-cabin and went through the wheelhouse up the port ladder to the bridge. He had just arrived there when three Ss sounded in rapid succession on the asdic bridge-speaker.

  ‘Hard-a-starboard, full ahead together‚ he shouted,’ and leapt for the compass platform. Three Ss was the emergency signal for ‘Torpedo approaching on the starboard side’. O’Brien repeated the order by voice-pipe to the quarter master in the wheelhouse below. The midshipman had already pressed the alarm buzzer for anti-submarine action stations. The signalman-of-the-watch was broadcasting the general alarm by TBS.

  As the first-lieutenant reached the compass platform he was dazzled by a brilliant flash of light. The muffled roar of an underwater explosion seemed to come from under the bridge. Its force shook the ship‚ lifting it from the water and dropping it.

  The first-lieutenant picked himself up. He was dazed but managed to yell, ‘Stop both engines.’ The midshipman repeated the order by voice-pipe. No reply came from the wheelhouse. Soon afterwards the siren, triggered by the explosion, drowned his voice. Above the siren’s piercing wail little could be heard but the roar of escaping steam, the screams of trapped and wounded men, and the screeching of torn metal as the sea surged into a gaping hole on the starboard side and water pressure, built up by the ship’s forward movement, broke away the plating.

  The first-lieutenant grabbed the torch from the charttable and shone it to starboard. The wing of the bridge had gone, jagged teeth of metal forced upwards by the blast showed where the break had occurred. The sprawling body of the starboard lookout lay across the debris. His anorak, caught on a broken rail, had stopped him going overboard.