It was nearly dawn when the boat submerged to attack. Mohr fired a three-torpedo spread at two overlapping freighters. Two of the torpedoes missed the lead freighter to hit an 8,000-ton tanker ahead of her.
A gasoline explosion sent a white blast flame soaring 400 meters high—then the whole ship was afire with leaping yellow oil flames. The blazing tanker lay with her bow deep in the water, lighting the whole scene with garish brilliance, and hung a pall of black smoke over the sky.
The third torpedo hit the first freighter with a loud explosion. Small bright lights flickered from lifeboats that moved away as she broke apart and sank.
Crossing through the convoy, Mohr reloaded the bow tubes, then came in for another bow shot at two more freighters. Both hit, and both ships sank within five minutes.
He fired a double stern shot at two other overlapping freighters, but both torpedoes hit the same ship. She broke apart amidships and sank.
U-124 turned away from an approaching destroyer and into a rain squall. All her torpedo tubes were empty, but Mohr was desperately trying to hold contact with the convoy. She was steering into shallow water, and the approaching dawn would soon make it too dangerous for him to remain close. He could not afford to let daylight catch him in waters too shallow to dive.
The tanker was still burning like a torch, and star shells and searchlights added their own white and yellow brilliance to the blood red glow from the flames leaping into the air.
The glaring light played across the faces of the men on the U-boat's bridge as they watched the floundering remnants of the convoy. Daylight and shallow water under their keels would give the merchantmen a measure of safety in which to salvage what ships and lives they could until darkness came again.
U-124, her fangs drawn, could only try to hold contact until she had a chance to attack again.
Mohr signaled his success to Dönitz: he had sunk the tanker SS Broad Arrow, of nearly 8,000 tons, the 6,194-ton SS Birmingham City, the 5,101-ton Collingsworth, the 4,553-ton SS Minotaur, all American ships, and one other freighter.
By the time his signal had gone out, both diesels stopped, and repairs took another 12 hours to complete. The convoy was gone.
Next day one diesel went out during a chase after a single ship. Mohr tried to operate on one engine, then at high speed on both electric motors. He finally got into position to fire a salvo, only to miss the target.
One diesel was clear, but now the gyrocompass was not working. The freighter, which had apparently seen the torpedoes that missed, started zig-zagging.
Mohr had managed to get his crippled boat back into position with one diesel and the magnetic compass when Subklew informed him that both diesels were now clear. Mohr answered by ordering twice full speed on both.
The radio room reported a signal from the freighter: "W F C Y. Attack by German submarine—immediately afterward 3 torpedoes—S-S-S—I am chased—S-S-S."
A Consolidated plane answered the ship's call for help and forced U-124 under before she could attack again.
Throughout the next few days, Consolidateds kept watch over the area, preventing any further chance of attack.
On January 16, Mohr fired one torpedo at a tanker. It missed, and when he got in closer, he could see her neutral flag, and broke off the attack. Two days later, he got in position to attack another tanker at dusk, but broke off when she set her running lights.
With both diesels alternately breaking down and being repaired, U-124 finally rendezvoused with a U-tanker to refuel for the trip home. She had sunk three tankers and five freighters for an estimated total of 46,000 tons.
She arrived back at Lorient on February 13, 1943, her cruise highly successful despite the constant engine trouble.
Both Gerlach and Subklew left the boat for good after this patrol. Subklew was transferred to Pilau, a training base on the Baltic in East Prussia, and Gerlach would soon receive a command of his own.
While still at sea, Mohr had been notified that he was awarded the Oak Leaves to the Knight's Cross, the 177th man in the German Armed Forces to receive this decoration.
But this time, instead of receiving his medal from his own men on the bridge of his own boat, Mohr was flown in state to the Ukraine to have it presented by the Fϋhrer himself. He later described the four-hour meeting with Hitler noncommittally as "very interesting."
Having been brought up in a family atmosphere of dislike for the Nazi party, he shared his father's feelings. But with Germany at war and fighting for her life, be, like many others, felt that Nazis or no, they were all in the same boat. The political situation could be straightened out after the war, but for the moment, Germany and her survival came first—a view that was naive and perhaps over-optimistic, but by no means uncommon.
Mohr spent a brief leave with his wife and young son, and for the first time, Eva managed to conceal her fear and heartbreak when he left. She was laughing and gay as she saw him off, and Jochen was out of sight before her tears came. But she knew this was to be his last cruise and then he would be transferred to shore and safe.
He would write her a letter when he reached the boat, to be posted just before he sailed, and tell her how proud he was of his "brave wife," and how much easier it was for him because she had told him goodbye with a smile.
En route to Lorient, he stopped off for a short visit with his brother. Theo was soon to leave for the Russian front. He would be reported as missing in action, and his family would wait for further word for years. But nothing else would be heard, and he would never return.
Mohr then went on to Nantes, where he stopped overnight, waiting for train connections on to Lorient. As he walked across the railway station, he suddenly came face to face with a young sailor trudging along, sea bag slung over his shoulder. It was Karl Kesselheim.
Since they were both waiting for the same train next morning, they decided to celebrate the unexpected reunion properly. They got a room at a nearby hotel and cleaned up for dinner. Kesselheim was wearing sea boots, and since his shoes were at the very bottom of his sea bag, Mohr loaned him a pair of his own, which fit quite well. When Kesselheim could not find his own razor, he shaved with Mohr's.
When they had made themselves presentable, Mohr led the way to the Officers' Club for dinner. On the way, they discussed the matter at length and decided the one thing they most wanted was chicken. But when they got there, they found the club full of Italian officers—and nothing but spaghetti on the menu.
After dinner, they found a night club nearby and bribed the waiter to give them the only vacant table left, which had been reserved. They settled themselves comfortably, near a group of high-ranking officers and their dates, and unconcernedly rode out the storm of protest when a party of indignant officers appeared looking for their usurped reservation.
The atmosphere in the club was as gay as tinsel, and they drank and talked about all that had happened to them since Kesselheim left the boat. All the original crew of the U-124 was gone by now, Mohr told him. Many of them had left when Schuiz did, and his only request to Mohr when he gave the boat over to him was that he get all the old crew posted to shore stations as soon as he could.
Promptly at midnight, one of the officers at the nearby table rose and came over to them. He introduced himself as the post commander of Nantes, and told Mohr that since his companion was a petty officer, he would have to leave. Only officers were exempt from the midnight curfew, and petty officers had to be home by twelve.
Mohr informed him placidly that they were both in transit and in no way connected with the Nantes garrison. Therefore the curfew did not apply to them.
The post commander left, but soon returned with reinforcements in the form of another officer. With a wary glance at Mohr's decorations, he told him that it did not matter who he was or where he was going, while in Nantes, he would have to bow to local regulation. He could stay, but his companion would have to leave.
At this, Mohr flushed scarlet with anger. "The petty officer and I
are friends and we are together," he informed them hotly. There are two of us and that makes four fists. And if you have anything else to say, we can settle it outside!"
The two officers withdrew, shocked and horrified. And the subject of Kesselheim's leaving was closed for good.
Kesselheim had sat silent through Mohr's startling outburst, content to let him talk their way out of it, or perfectly willing to join him in a fist fight with two high-ranking officers if Mohr wished.
Now they sat back to enjoy their wine, the incident finished and soon forgotten. Their adversaries apparently forgot it too, and a short time later invited them over to their table for a drink. By the time the night club closed, around three in the morning, they were all fast friends.
The army officers were fascinated by the tales Mohr and Kesselheim told of the convoy battles, and the two U-boat men soon had their bedazzled audience convinced that even Dönitz had to consult them in order to run the U-boat war!
When they left the night club, they all went home with one of the officers who lived nearby and continued the party until Mohr and Kesselheim had to leave. They picked up their gear at the hotel, and having delayed almost too long, had to break into a dead run to catch their train.
They fell panting and disheveled into a compartment already occupied by a French priest, who greeted them politely. He asked their destination, and taking pity on their bedraggled condition, told them they could go to sleep if they wanted to . . . He would wake them when they arrived. They accepted gratefully and were asleep in seconds.
The priest waked them shortly before they pulled into the station at Lorient, and bade them farewell with a gentle smile and best wishes.
"Come on and go with me this trip," Mohr said impulsively when they got back to base. "I can get you a transfer."
Kesselheim was on the point of accepting, but then he said, "Let me take my leave first. I just came from a patrol on U-602, then a course at the radio school, and I haven't had any leave yet."
"All right," Mohr agreed. "But as soon as I get back from this one, I'll get you transferred back to me."
"When are they taking you off the boat?" Kesselheim asked.
"They're supposed to now, after this cruise," Mohr replied with a grin. "But I'm going to talk Uncle Karl into letting me go back."
Kesselheim nodded, thinking that Jochen Mohr could very probably talk anybody into anything he wanted. Certainly Kesselheim was ready to follow him anywhere on earth. He hesitated—but no, first his leave, then he would come back to Mohr. Next trip they would go together, and it would be like old times. They shook hands on it.
Chapter Thirteen
German U-boat Headquarters in Paris received a brief signal from Mohr on April 1, 1943, reporting contact with a convoy at approximately 41-02 N, 15-39 W. This first signal came at 1845, and Mohr sent two other contact reports at 1935 and 2050, respectively. Dönitz then signaled him that no other boats were in the vicinity, thus releasing him to attack.
On the evening of April 3, Dönitz signaled Mohr asking for a situation report, since he had heard nothing since he had released him to attack. There was no answer to this nor to Dönitz's request for a position report.
Tension and anxiety grew as the hours passed without further word. And as the hours lengthened into days, hope faded and U-124 was listed as missing—officially missing, but the men who waited in vain for a signal knew she was lost.
Admiral Dönitz announced her loss in a brief communiqué, and some months later, Wolfgang Frank wrote a moving tribute to "Mohr, a born convoy fighter," which appeared in the January 3, 1944, edition of the Brüsseler Zeitung.
All Germany mourned her loss. But especially affected were the men who had known the boat and her lost crew so intimately. Some of the old crew, Kesselheim particularly, were haunted by the feeling that they should have been aboard. Mohr's words, "Come with me this trip," rang in his ears. He had been so close to accepting. Perhaps he could have done something to save her. More than one of these former U-124 men has tormented himself with endless questions. "Was it my replacement, perhaps inexperienced, that made the fatal mistake?"
In the light of British accounts, it is more probable that her loss was due to the fact that the British escorts in this convoy carried radar. Long before Black Swan could have been seen from the U-boat's bridge, she had located U-124 and was coming in to attack.
Weeks after the battle, Commander Thomson and Captain Smythe were informed that their joint attack in the pre-dawn hours of April 2, 1943, had destroyed a U-boat. They were told it was the U-124, but the war had been over for 17 years before they learned her commander's name.
Today, Commander Thomson (now Thomson-Moore) is retired and lives at his family estate in Ireland. Captain Smythe, retired from the Navy, is still at sea, master of the Union Castle Liner, HMS Pendennis Castle. He regularly passes near the scene of this old battle as he sails between England and South Africa.
When U-124 went to her grave in the Atlantic off Oporto, she carried Jochen Mohr and all her crew with her. Others, who had served aboard for one or more cruises, found a sailor's grave on some other boat—but some were lucky enough to survive the war. With only 7,000 survivors from a total strength of 38,000, the German U-boat arm had suffered the worst defeat of any branch of service in any war in history.
Karl Rode now lives in Bremen, and he and his wife and son are still invariably drawn to the sea for vacations. Karl Kesselheim and his family live in Koblenz; Rolf Brinker, his wife, two daughters and a son, live in Wuppertal-Cronenberg in the heart of the Ruhr. Egon Subklew is a Fregattenkapitän in the German Navy, now attached to NATO in Norway. Dr. Hubertus Goder, a practicing physician, lives with his family in Gniessau in Holstein.
Wilhelm Schulz, a successful businessman in Hamburg, where he lives with his wife and two daughters, finished his career as a naval officer as commander of a U-flotilla on the Baltic. There, in the black days of the capitulation, he would disobey the last order given to him by Dönitz, whom he had followed so long and so faithfully.
While the Navy waited for the code word, "Regen-bogen" (Rainbow), which was the order to scuttle all warships, it was rescinded by Dönitz, who was buying time with the only currency he possessed, German warships, including his own beloved U-boats. The short time thus purchased would allow many thousands more soldiers and refugees to reach western Germany, in addition to the more than two million people that had been transported through the Baltic to the west in the last three months of the war.
When Dönitz's order went out to turn over all warships intact to the Allies, some U-boat commanders, not believing the Big Lion was actually willing to surrender the ships, took matters into their own hands and scuttled their boats, despite orders.
Schulz, determined that neither his boats, matériel, men, nor himself would fall into Russian hands, blew up all boats, supplies, fuel, and ammunition. Then he loaded his men and food stores onto his one remaining vessel, a small transport, and sailed to the island of Fehmarn, near Kiel in the Baltic sea.
With him he brought a precisely detailed document accounting for every single item that had been in his possession as flotilla commander, and what disposition he had made of it. This was for the benefit of whatever authority, German or Allied, he would be called on to answer to. He left nothing for the Russians as he brought his men back to the west, and with the papers in his hand, he was prepared to face whatever consequences awaited him.
Grossadmiral Karl Dönitz, Commander in Chief of the Kriegsmarine, was named Hitler's successor when the Führer killed himself in the devastation of Berlin. And so on him fell the mantle of leadership at the time of total collapse—when there was nothing left to lead. This post he held for twenty days as he worked to bring some sort of order out of the chaos of Germany, and to see that as few as possible of his countrymen were captured by the Russians.
After the war, he was tried at Nuremberg. Both he and his U-boat branch were unequivocally cleared of the accusati
ons of war crimes. One instance only of a U-boat firing on survivors was proved, and in this one the commander insisted that he did not know there were survivors among the wreckage which he sank to conceal his own presence. He was hanged.
Dönitz served a ten-year sentence at Spandau Prison. Cleared of the charges of war crimes leveled at himself and the U-boat branch, he was convicted of having, in peacetime, trained his men to fight and having them ready to do so when war was declared.
His wife died in 1962, and Dönitz lived alone in Aumühle, near Hamburg, until his death in 1980.
This was U-124, the U-boat that was the edelweiss, and these were some of the men who knew her and made her great. She was the third most successful submarine, all nations included, of World War II. During her brief life, she sank one cruiser, one corvette, and 47 merchant ships with a total of 226,946 gross register tons.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1970 by E. Blanchard Gasaway
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-2839-7
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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