The men looked at each other. If they hadn't hit by now, they wouldn't. Might as well fire another spread or forget her. Those fish were already well past the usual running time for a shot. Three minutes.
"Hard port," Mohr said. "Come to 70 degrees. We'll give her a stern shot. Make ready tubes 5 and 6."
But still his attention was centered on the three fish still running, and he occasionally glanced at the stopwatch in Zschech's hand.
Four and a half minutes. Five minutes. "Up scope," Mohr's voice broke the tense silence in the conning tower.
The men close beside him watched him intently. Was there still any hope that the shot would hit? The Old Man seemed to think so.
Suddenly Mohr's body stiffened. His fists grasped the periscope handles tightly, and he cried out, "Oh, it's sunk!"
He watched hypnotized as the water rained down around the ship, hiding her. Then as the geyser from the explosion cleared away, he could see her again, and he said, "No, no . . . she's hit, but still afloat."
He had not moved at the periscope. "Hit!" he shouted. "The second torpedo has hit!"
This time the detonation was followed by a tremendous internal explosion that gutted the cruiser. Almost immediately, she rolled heavily over on her side, her funnels almost touching the water toward the U-boat like some monstrous sea creature in the throes of violent death. Then she rolled to the other side, righted herself briefly, and sank, stern first.
Mohr had hit her with two out of three shots from the incredible range of over three miles. It took 5 minutes 23 seconds running time for the torpedoes to reach her.
He sent the brief signal to Dönitz: "Sunk English cruiser D Class."
Three hours later Dönitz's joking praise came back to this favorite commander: "Der Mohr had seine Schuldigkeit getan!"
As soon as the attack was finished, Brinker set about to repair the forward diving planes and found they were jammed by a piece of rope someone had forgotten to remove. There had been no damage to them.
Arriving at zero latitude next day, U-124 ignored the war and bowed to tradition as she paid homage to King Neptune in the universal shipboard ceremonies of crossing the line.
It was brought to Commander Mohr's attention that some of those on board his vessel belonged to wretched category of Lowly Pollywogs, and that His Majesty King Neptune, Ruler of the Deep, would shortly appear on board in person to remedy the situation.
There was a carnival air on board as those who had already attained the status of Ancient Shellback prepared to initiate those Pollywogs who were crossing the equator for the first time. Huge pills were created in the galley by Neptune's fiendish helpers who gleefully combined salt and other kitchen staples with a liberal dose of diesel oil from the engine room.
Subklew, resplendent in flowing beard, wearing a crown and carrying a trident, solemnly announced himself as King Neptune and ordered Mohr to turn out the crew.
They lined up on the upper deck, laughing while their skipper humbly took orders from this wild apparition from the deep who had taken over the boat and was now proceeding to hold court in the rowdy and traditional manner of sailors everywhere.
Lowly Pollywogs were hauled before His Majesty, made to confess their crime, and heard their sentence pronounced. They swallowed the nauseating pills and had their bodies smeared with grease and dirt, then were commanded to run around the conning tower for several laps. As a final indignity, they were sprayed with the hose, after which they were declared to be Ancient Shellbacks.
But it was dangerous to have so many men on deck at the time, and the war, although it might have been momentarily forgotten by the laughing men taking part in the ridiculous rites, was not really very far away. The lookouts on the bridge, keeping sharp watch on the sky and the distant horizon, dared not relax their vigil even for a second, as their comrades depended on them for safety.
The ceremonies were short, lasting only fifteen or twenty minutes. But U-124, like countless other ships, both Allied and German, had paid her homage to King Neptune. As on the other ships, the duties and dangers of war would have to wait, or at least share their priority, while their crews momentarily joined hands with all sailors everywhere in their own special heritage.
At 1455 on the morning of December 2, U-124 intercepted a signal from U-Merten to the BdU saying that Python, which had been the refuge of the Atlantis's shipwrecked crew, had herself fallen victim to a British cruiser, coincidentally the Dorsetshire, sister ship to the Devonshire.
Eckermann, also at the scene, added details in a signal to Dönitz minutes later, and the two boats reported no losses among the combined raider crews. The U-boats had managed to get the men into lifeboats and had them in tow.
Dönitz signaled. Mohr and Clausen to report their positions and remaining fuel and provisions.
Mohr replied, "Marinequadrat F T 83. 112 cbm. Mohr."
By early morning of December 3, the rescue operation was well under way. Rogge, as senior officer, was in command at the scene; and Dönitz, at his headquarters, after receiving full reports from all his boats in the area, had ordered the Kapstadt group into the rescue.
En route, U-124 spotted a freighter, and Mohr took up the chase. He followed the ship through the afternoon, puzzling over her identity. She flew no flag, which indicated that she was not neutral. By dark U-124 was in shooting position and waiting. When the ship failed to set running lights, Mohr torpedoed her.
Three torpedoes hit; one under the forward mast, one under the after mast, and one in the engine room sent her to the bottom.
Several lifeboats were launched, and Mohr hailed one to ask her identity. The captain of the sunk ship indignantly informed him that she was the American Sagadahoc, bound for Durban out of New York with general cargo.
Mohr apologized, and was answered only by outraged silence. When he asked if he might give the survivors any provisions, they told him they had everything, and set their sails and left.
"They'll have plenty to tell the world about us 'U-boat Butchers' now, you can be sure," Köster said as they watched the Americans disappear.
Mohr grinned at him ruefully. "And nothing on earth could convince him we'd never have touched him if he'd just turned on his damned running lights."
"Well, if he's going around disguised as a Britisher, he can expect to get sunk like one!"
That's true," Mohr agreed. "All the same, I wish the bastard could be in my shoes when I have to tell Uncle Karl about this little error."
With this grim confrontation in mind, Mohr noted in his log that he had acted entirely in accordance with Standing War Order No. 105, section C. He then signaled Dönitz that he had sunk the U.S. ship Sagadahoc and that she was blacked out and carried no neutral markings.
Mohr again set his course to meet U-A and the raider survivors, but on arrival at his estimated point of interception, the sea around him was quite empty. He combed the area, shooting signal flares at intervals, until it became plain there had been a major error in somebody's plots.
He signaled Dönitz asking for a fix from one of the rescue boats. Dönitz relayed the message to Eckermann and Merten to guide Mohr in.
Eckermann signaled his position to Mohr shortly afterward, and it was apparent that the two boats had passed each other about 9 miles apart at 7 o'clock the previous morning. Mohr turned back to follow the new heading to U-A, which began sending signals at regular intervals.
That afternoon, U-124 again passed the spot where she had sunk the Sagadahoc, still coated with oil and littered with wreckage. Six drums of transmission oil were spotted and hauled aboard, along with a drum of ball bearing lubricant and 18 canisters of oil. The engineers received them only too thankfully since oil had become a problem on this cruise.
Some of the oil taken on in Lorient had been sabotaged and was unusable, creating a serious shortage. Finding these drums intact was like a gift from King Neptune himself.
It was not, however, quite a gift, and Mohr well knew it. Sinking an Amer
ican ship was a serious matter, and he knew Dönitz would be furious. Facing the admiral in such a mood was something even the most reckless officer would prefer to avoid. So Mohr was, in a way, buying the oil they needed so badly, and he was not at all satisfied with the price he knew he would have to pay.
The sea around them was now almost covered with automobile tires. The men on the deck fished two out of the water and took them to the bridge where they were claimed as trophies.
Along with the tires, there were thousands of baby shoes floating incongruously in the debris. One of the men picked up a few at random, then called out, "Hey look! I've found a pair and I think they'll fit my baby!"
A lasting souvenir of the unhappy freighter was her name, which the U-124 crew adopted as a recognition signal. While on leave, when any of the crew met each other, no matter where, they would shout "SAGADAHOC—SAGADAHOC—SAGADAHOC!" like a football cheer.
His mind still on Dönitz, Mohr shrugged and went below. The Big Lion would chew him up when he got back to base—harsh punishments were part of the game when one disobeyed orders, and commanders were not exempt. Fritz Lemp had spent his precious leave confined to quarters studying foreign ship silhouettes following what was an honest mistake on his part, Mohr reflected. But there was not much point in worrying about it now. The time would come soon enough. Brinker was later kind enough to remind him that if they got sunk he would not have to face Dönitz at all.
"Alexander's Ragtime Band" was put on the record player, and U-124 resumed her course to the other U-boats and the raider survivors. And despite his apprehension, Mohr was to be saved from the admiral's wrath by an event that more than adequately obscured his own indiscretion. This was December 3, 1941. Four days later, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.
It was still dark on the morning of December 5, when U-124 joined the bedraggled little German armada. The other U-boats had taken aboard all the men they could carry, and were towing the rest in lifeboats. They were tied up together in the gentle swells waiting Mohr's arrival, the lifeboats lashed between them to act as fenders.
U-124 pulled alongside U-68, and Mohr, high-spirited and gay, scampered across the lifeboats to climb up on the bridge of U-68. He greeted his fellow officers there, slapping them on the back as casually and unconcerned as though they had all met in a favorite bar.
One of the officers thus greeted was Kapitän Rogge, and he failed to be charmed by Mohr's conviviality. Still shocked and grieved by the loss of his ship, his impatience was understandable as every passing hour in the rendezvous point brought not only more discomfort to all of them, but increased their danger as well.
Mohr explained that he had been delayed partly on account of incorrect position reports, as well as the fact that for awhile he and Eckermann were using different wavelengths. There was a further delay on account of the ship he had chased and sunk, and this, along with the chummy slap on the back was the final straw for Rogge's frazzled nerves and patience.
A stinging reprimand from the angry four-striper, however, left Mohr unmoved and unrepentant. He had been sent out to sink ships and sink ships he would. And if it meant his countrymen had to spend an extra night in a raft, then so be it. His reply was a polite and noncommittal, "Aye, aye, sir."
Still miffed over Mohr's casual greeting, Rogge was later heard to remark, "Present-day naval officers have no manners."
Before setting out on independent courses for France, U-68 gave 50 cbm. diesel fuel and 1000 liters lubricating oil to U-124, along with 6 officers and 98 petty officers and men from Ship 16. There were now 104 extra men stuffed into a U-boat built to accommodate a crew of 48 thoroughly crowded and uncomfortable officers and men. And the men who sailed under the edelweiss now shared their bunks with not one, but several others, and watched the exhausted survivors take turns standing, sitting, and lying down.
The U-boat men, accustomed to their cramped quarters and stifling atmosphere, could not help admiring the fortitude of their passengers who, along with their other miseries, had to cope with varying degrees of claustrophobia.
Shortly after 1200 on December 9, U-124 came in sight of Ascension Island. Visibility was excellent, and a light breeze played over the short swells.
Mohr stood on the bridge, silently watching the British base. Suddenly he turned, ordered a change of course, and clattered down the ladder into the control room.
The thoughtful commander on the bridge was now the irrepressible and invincible skipper with the golden touch, for whom the most wildly improbable and reckless ventures invariably succeeded.
Brinker, grinning, joined the watch officers as Mohr, laughing and gesturing, outlined his plan. It seemed such a waste to creep unnoticed by the British port of Georgetown, and it was Mohr's contention that, aside from the ships he might be able to sink in the harbor, his presence, if detected, would be a disruptive force in itself. Since he was the last German boat to leave the South Atlantic, it would be advantageous to alarm the British into fruitless hunts for U-boats that had already gone.
Mohr's crew, as always, was caught up in his excitement and spirit. "Our Mohr has luck," they would say. And projects that might have been regarded with alarm as near-suicide on another boat were tackled with abandon on Mohr's.
With her 104 involuntary passengers literally packed inside like sardines in a can, attacking conditions on board U-124 were scarcely ideal. But the boat still handled well, and Brinker could dive and trim her with no difficulty.
If the hapless passengers might have preferred going straight home to joining a raid on a well-defended British port, their preference had just dropped to a very low priority when Mohr's plan was announced.
Mohr, curiosity completely overruling caution, headed his boat on the surface within six miles of Georgetown, but much to his disgust, the harbor was empty. The harbor's inhabitants were not asleep, however, and they plainly resented a German U-boat's invasion of a British port. By way of expressing their sentiments, they opened up with the shore batteries at Fort Thornton, and the shells were soon falling uncomfortably close to the nosy and uninvited guest.
Hans Köster announced with some indignation, "They're shooting at us!" Just as Mohr arrived at the same conclusion.
U-124 crash-dived, beating an undignified retreat, and surfaced some distance away, well out of range of the inhospitable Fort Thornton guns.
"Herr Kaleu," Schroeder called. "I've picked up the shore station at Ascension."
Mohr held the earphone to his ear and listened attentively. Over and over the alarm was given: "German submarine sighted at Fort Thornton."
British destroyers in the vicinity picked up the signal, and soon the air was full of their signals crackling back and forth with the shore station and among themselves.
Mohr listened, his grey eyes twinkling with delight at the agitation and alarm he had brought about. Then, with a broad grin, he sent his own message out on the British wavelength: "Position please."
There was instant radio silence.
Having achieved the commotion Mohr had hoped for, if not any actual sinkings, U-124 again turned northward toward France.
With the added drain on the air supply inside the boat due to the large number of men on board, the air was so foul as to be almost unbreathable. Food and water were in seriously short supply.
The boat had been scheduled to be supplied from Python within the next few days, and was low on provisions even before taking on the survivors. Of more immediate concern to Brinker, however, was the desperate shortage of lubricating oil. He gave Mohr the disquieting news that they could not get home on what they had.
Assuming command at headquarters for the rescue operation, Dönitz had contacted the Flag Officer of Italian Submarines and got four boats. These were ordered to rendezvous with the German boats, which, after dividing up their fuel oil, were making for their bases independently.
U-124 again crossed the equator on the night of December 11, and at midnight she received a message from Dönitz
announcing that Brinker had been awarded the German Cross in Gold. This time he was decorated in recognition of his superb control of the boat under extremely adverse conditions that had made possible the sinking of the Dunedin.
Mohr had already been informed that the Italian boat Calvi would bring them not only food and water, but also the essential lubricating oil.
Due to the almost completely exhausted supply of this oil, U-124 made it to her rendezvous point on one diesel. When dawn brought no sign of the Italian boat, Mohr fired a star shell. There was no reply, and he cruised around the area throughout the day searching. When darkness came, with still no sign of the Calvi, he lay with engines stopped through the night to conserve oil. At daylight he resumed his search at slow speed, and fired another star shell. At 1249, the Calvi came in sight.
The Italians pulled alongside, and with smiles, good humor, and what seemed to the Germans an incredible amount of confusion, proceeded to dispense the provisions they had brought and take on 70 of the survivors. During this time, Mohr visited the captain, Lt.Cdr. Olivieri, on board the Calvi.
Brinker waited impatiently. Finally he asked the Italian chief engineer, "Where's the lubricating oil?"
"Lubricating oil?" asked the Italian, raising his eyebrows. "But we've brought you diesel oil!"
"We've got diesel oil," Brinker told him. "You were supposed to bring lubricating oil."
"We only have lubricating oil for our own use," the Italian informed him placidly. "We brought you diesel oil."
"We've got to have lubricating oil or we can't get home!" shouted Brinker, at his wit's end.
The Italian officers called for a pow-wow and discussed the matter at length while Brinker pleaded humbly for the oil one minute, then losing his temper the next, arrogantly demanded it.
At last they agreed to give him 1,000 liters, and not a drop more. Since there was not enough of this suddenly priceless commodity to supply both boats, they ruled that it would not be the Calvi caught short. Brinker, not at all agreeing with their decision, had no choice but to accept his 1,000 liters and limp back to France on one diesel.
Grey Wolf, Grey Sea Page 16
