The Odyssey of a U-Boat Commander

by Erich Topp

  Crossing the Line, November 26, 1934

  Today is the day when we will wash off the dirt and dust of the northern hemisphere and receive the baptism required for a dignified entry into its southern counterpart.

  We take up formation on the quarter deck. Neptune's banner flutters merrily from the top yard. Pleasing but loud music, played by his gentlemen companions, announces the arrival of the ruler of the oceans. In a festive procession the royal couple and its entourage are moving toward the quarter deck and inspect the assembled crew.

  Wavy flaxen hair surrounds the mighty king's dignified face. Thetis, too, cannot complain about a sparse growth of hair. One of their companions constantly fans fresh air toward the couple to render them more comfortable. With a practiced eye the court physician spies those who suffer and provides professional relief. Meanwhile, the barber does not fail to make the unshaven among us worthy of the festive occasion.

  The royal couple is now seated under a canopy, surrounded by its court, while the officials get ready for their next activities. His majesty welcomes us to his realm. He emphasizes the importance of seafaring, reminds us of the naval battles of Coronel and the Falklands [1914], and encourages us to continue our careers with pride. Then he introduces everyone in his entourage. Once the astronomer has taken the proper measurements to ensure that we have indeed reached the equator, and medals are being distributed with appropriate speeches, the real baptismal procedure gets under way. It is said that regular baptisms are more humane, but then they cannot quite match the festive character of our ceremony.

  The court barber sharpens his long knife. The physician rolls up his sleeves. A large number of tubs and boxes contain "baptismal snacks." Like sea monsters, Neptune's helpers hover around the huge water basin, eager to grab their first victim.

  Our chief artillery officer is the first to come up the steps, stoically resigned to his fate. Neptune's officials seem like wild beasts whose ferocity comes to the fore only after the first spilling of blood. One look at the staff surgeon makes clear that there will be no mercy this time, especially with regard to the prescribed immersions, beverages, and concoctions. The latter seem to be an awful mixture of mustard, torpedo oil, soap, seasonings, and grease. Those who do not swallow the stuff voluntarily are forcefully pacified until they no longer know whether it tastes better going down or coming up. Any resistance is useless. Half drowned and half numb from the stench and taste of the contents of this cesspool, and bereft of all hope of ever seeing the light of day again, we dive into a new dimension of uncertainty: the long wind sleeve. But fortunately it turns out to be a rather harmless affair, indeed a first step toward recovery, if you do not mind too much Neptune's helpers trying to beat you with short pieces of rope. At the far end of the sleeve, virtually out of breath, we receive a glass of brandy as encouragement to make peace with the world around us. The baptism is over; we have at last been accepted into the world of ancient mariners.

  Rio de Janeiro, December 9, 1934

  We have many visitors on board, most of them German-Brazilians from all over the country, but especially from the state of Santa Catarina. After a tour of the ship, the commanding officer addresses our visitors in a clear and matter-of-fact speech. He delivers greetings from the old country, which is presently undergoing a transformation, and emphasizes the desire of Germans to belong together no matter where on earth they may happen to live. Then it is the turn of the local party leader. The manner in which he speaks belongs to a different era. But there is no reason to doubt the sincerity of his remarks, to reject them as empty phrases. In the evening, under palm trees on the grounds of the German school, a party is organized, complete with a huge tent, benches, tables, and a small dance floor. Most of the German-Brazilians are already there when we arrive. By an odd coincidence I happen to be seated next to a woman born in Celle [near Hanover] whose fate had taken her to Brazil after the World War. But even she is unable to engage me in a longer conversation.

  Again and again my eyes and thoughts wander off to the men and women who sit silently here and there in the midst of the bright festivities. Only their faces betray that they share a common fate. They are the real colonists, the frontiersmen. Not only do their hard and weathered faces tell the story of a harsh and cruel life, but their whole demeanor and behavior distinguish them from the others.

  Broad-brimmed hats cover half of their faces. Their shirts and coats appear clean but worn; their narrow ties remind me of pieces of string. These people have lost all concern for their outer appearance, even if they have the means to dress up. I make my way from one to the next. Everywhere is the same fate. Where 130 people are crowded onto a square kilometer, carving out an existence is tough. In one case the grandfather had owned vineyards on Lake Balaton in Hungary. The father had still been able to derive a living from the farm, albeit with some assistance from the neighbors. The two cows were barely enough, but there was no way to support the three sons. The oldest son, already married, was ready to emigrate when the two younger ones, drawn by the illusion of prosperity abroad, decided that they would go instead. They saved money for the train trip to Bremerhaven; the voyage to Brazil itself was free.

  Immediately upon their arrival the misery began. All they had was a piece of jungle and the realization that their neighbors were no better off. After clearing the land, they built a primitive hut to provide some shelter against the rain. Then they planted their first crop of corn. Things got worse. In those first weeks they buried at least one man every day. None of the survivors would have stayed if they had had money for the trip back home. Once the jungle has you in its iron grip, there is no escape.

  Today, some forty years later, things are looking up. This particular man owns two oxen and two horses, along with pigs and chicken. Of eight children born, two sons are still alive. One of them will take over the farm; the other one will be forced to move on. Both sons, 1 am told, no longer have the courage and enthusiasm of their youth. They don't see the liberating difference between being a slave on a large estate and being a master on your own parcel of land. Those sons no longer are prepared to take risks, even though their father would help them get started, and even though a network of roads and pathways has made things much easier.

  Such are the stories I am told. Not unlike rocks with runic inscriptions, their faces bear the marks of living a harsh life, just as their mood and expressions reflect bitterness. Bent and bony they sit there, seemingly untouched by all the merry-making around them. Their eyes have lost the radiance of the old days. They come alive only when I tell them of the new Germany where hard work is rewarded and men are judged by their achievements. 1 talked to many of these colonists, and every one of them was grateful for the opportunity. I can still see them before my eyes today, a unique type of human being, standing out in any crowd.

  December 21, 1934

  We enter the estuary of the River Plate. Montevideo. About six thousand Germans live here. They include many recent immigrants who divide the local colony into two factions: those for and those against the new Germany. Within the former group one encounters a further division. Many are prepared, without second thoughts or the least hesitation, to refashion things in Uruguay in the image of the Third Reich. Others, likewise enthusiastic for the Third Reich, are more cautious when it comes to drawing parallels and consequently less willing to depart from their traditional attitude as Germans abroad. The split begins in the youth organizations. On the one hand are the Hitler Youth, on the other the Boy Scouts. Their feuds do not stop short of the use of violence. This division continues with the adults, so much so that it is not easy to assess the situation properly. For the duration of our visit both sides appear to have buried their hatchets in order not to spoil parties and private invitations for us. But their animosity has deep roots. May the attitudes and behavior of our crew serve as a model of unity and reconciliation for them in the years ahead.

  December 24, 1934

  Today nobody goes ashore. We want
to celebrate Christmas among ourselves. Local ivy and pine branches provide the traditional green. Flags and the soft red of our tablecloths transform our living quarters into a special place. Posters remind us of winter scenes in Germany. The people at home have not forgotten us and have sent precious tokens of their affection: a few real Christmas trees, which we will decorate and light tonight. It is hard to imagine that today is Christmas Eve. There have been none of the ordinary reminders: no secretive preparations or the usual Christmas activities; no cold or snow; no hot stoves to warm up red-frozen faces or the delicious smell of hot baked apples; no fur hats or coats to shield against the winter weather; in fact, no long celebration of advent at all where you gradually increase the number of candles burning and sense the growing feeling of expectation and joy as Christmas approaches. Busily we decorated the Christmas tree, and when we saw those silver and golden ornaments gleaming against the green, we indeed caught some of the Christmas spirit.

  Later, we made our way to the quarter deck where an altar had been erected, framed by a Christmas tree on each side. We sang our old Christmas carols and the chaplain read the Christmas story. It was like home. Many of our German guests had tears in their eyes. Then the gifts were opened as a special mood of happiness spread. It is hard to describe the love and care that went into the wrapping of the packages and gifts, fastened with green ribbons and decorated with branches from fir trees, the latter all dry and yellowed after their long voyage. Underneath the tree in our deck, on long tables covered with white cloth, we displayed our presents as the mess attendants served tea punch. That was our Christmas. The commanding officer joined us for a short while, then a special Christmas newspaper was read and distributed:

  Born to live-ready to laugh; To annoy the fools-to see the world; To honor our homeland-to die for our people: May that be our motto, freely chosen.

  December 31, 1934

  At 3 P.M. we stand down from our watch. Quickly we decorate our decks with signal flags. At 6 P.m. the celebrations begin with the opening of beer bottlesjust as in Germany all kinds of fireworks fill the nightly skies and bells ring in the New Year. We drink a toast to the people back home.

  Then we resume our voyage into the New Year. The sea is celebrating with us. A storm is blowing, force 8 to 9. Heavy breakers cover the forecastle and the quarter deck, their spray drenching those on duty on the bridge.

  January 1, 1935

  About noon we enter the Strait of Magellan. At Punta Arenas we take on our pilot. Mr. Pagels, who had been [the German cruiser] Dresden's pilot after the Battle of the Falklands, does not join us as scheduled, but he waves to us from the pilot boat.

  The passage through the Strait of Magellan was one of the most memorable parts of our voyage because the weather remained unexpectedly pleasant throughout. The country somehow resembles Norway's fjords, but it impresses more through its ever-changing vistas. On both shores steep rocks rise high above us, barren except where patches of stunted bushes grow halfway to the top. Small areas of snow suggest a long, harsh winter. Farther inland, on the higher ranges, the snow never melts. Glaciers reach down deep into the valleys. In a few places they actually touch the water's edge. Some inlets are entirely covered by chunks of ice. The water is emerald in color and as smooth as a mirror. The seemingly soundless ship cuts through it, our bow waves moving away smoothly toward the shores. Disturbed by our presence, some ducks paddle around. Here and there seals break through the surface and disappear again; otherwise everything is quiet. To both sides wrecks of ships remind us constantly how deadly this place can be. Shortly before nightfall we drop anchor in 28 fathoms of water.

  January 3, 1935

  We proceed through the Chilean channels, most notably the Smith Channel. The mountain ranges around us are even more majestic, the navigable channel even more restricted than before. Half an hour before we enter the English Narrows the order is given, "Close all watertight doors!" On the forecastle our anchor is readied to be dropped at a second's notice in case something goes wrong. Like a wedge the shores of the narrows, flanked by mountains of medium altitude, close in on the ship from both sides. We are the longest vessel ever to try to pass through this strait, challenging the record of the Emden. A British cruiser once ran aground when trying what we are about to undertake.

  The commanding officer himself takes control of the ship. Just where the channel is narrowest we have to make a 90-degree turn around the rocks. Those of us on the quarter deck are unusually quiet. Some of us fix our eyes on the stern, others on the bow. Will we be able to clear the narrows? To enhance maneuverability the commanding officer orders an increase in the ship's speed. The Karlsruhe is literally bending over. At 21 knots we negotiate the last remaining turn. Whoever did not take a look around at that point missed one of the most beautiful sights of our entire voyage as the dark silhouette of the ship glided by the huge snowfields of a massive mountain ridge. Toward evening we leave the narrows behind and regain open waters. From the distance we marvel at the mighty coastal range with its uncounted snow-covered peaks.

  Valparaiso, January 16, 1935

  We start the day with special morning colors while the band plays the Saarland Song [Saarlanders had just voted by a huge margin to rejoin the Reich]. At 11:30 A.M. Captain Liitjens calls the crew together for a brief celebration in the presence of several representatives of the local German colony. Just as the victorious [Prussian] forces after the Battle of Leuthen [Seven Years' War] gave vent to their overwhelming sense of gratitude by singing "Now God Be Thanked," so we let the hymn echo across this great Chilean port. Millions of Germans share our joy in the Saarland's return. In the evening we are invited to a grand ball at the German Club.

  Peru, January 31, 1935

  We take a trip from Lima to Rio Blanco. Some people have compared this segment of railway line to the stretch between Garmisch and Innsbruck. As far as wildly romantic landscape is concerned, the comparison seems entirely apt. Bridges, tunnels, and steep slopes offer magnificent vistas. Runoff from the glaciers has created canyons of incredible depth and with impressive waterfalls. A road, snaking its way alongside the tracks, is at several places covered by fallen rocks. Farther on, the train seems to cling to the steep rocky sides of the mountain as it winds its way ever so slowly upward, loop after loop. By now we encounter no more vegetation.

  High up on the slope the remains of Inca terrace agriculture come into view. Once they gave the land its richness; today they are without use, without life. It is rare to run into people at these altitudes.

  At 11,000 feet we reach our destination. There is little time for a look around. Massive but half-collapsed walls give a hint that this place has enjoyed better times. A house carries the designation "Hotel" in huge letters, but it certainly has not functioned as such for ages. We discover a small settlement of native Indians almost obscured by a hill. Their huts are most primitive, the walls made from a coarse fabric covered with clay. They offer little protection against the wind. The enclosed room, perhaps 10 feet square, has no floor. In one of the huts we notice a loom that must have been used by these Indians for centuries. Behind the loom sits an old man, like a mummy. As if he were an animal, his eyes betray the fear he feels upon our arrival. His face is leathery and waxen, man and loom forever joined together. When we offer him a few cigarettes he reaches out hesitatingly, drawn between alarm and desire. His wife occupies a seat next to him, her eyes cast down, all the time spinning thread from a bundle of wool. Other Indians sit in their huts spinning, surrounded by a large group of unwashed children. Dogs in a state of utter neglect bark constantly, their noise not abating until we return to the tracks in response to the engineer's whistle.

  Comment:

  That was my impression of South America as I experienced it, however briefly and superficially, as a midshipman on the cruiser Karlsruhe. I was supposed to be an ambassador of Germany and was proud of it. I viewed the countries, ports, and people we encountered in the light of the official "information sh
eets" that had been distributed to us. But what real story lay behind the misery we saw up there in the Andes? What should we have known in order to understand this continent, its people, and its culture properly?

  On his voyage to the New World, Christopher Columbus carried along a work by Marco Polo in which he could read, among other things, "The inhabitants of Cipango [Japan] own gold in immense quantities, and their mines are inexhaustible." Columbus, whose intended destination was this fabled island, believed he was headed for a place blessed with all the treasures of creation. Spain's royal couple decided to support this adventurous search for the sources of the Orient's wealth to free itself from the chain of middlemen and to monopolize all trade with the East. Thus the thirst for precious metals, the latter needed as exchange for the goods of the Orient, served as a prime incentive to cross the oceans with all the risks such ventures involved.

  All of Europe felt a need for gold and silver. The deposits in Bohemia, Saxony, and the Tyrol were virtually depleted. Gold and silver were the keys for the men of the Renaissance to open the gates of the heavenly kingdom and to launch the mercantilistic system here on earth. Before Francisco Pizarro slit Atahualpa's throat and then had the last Inca leader beheaded, he extorted from him a ransom composed of "litters made from pure gold and silver worth more than 1.326 million thalers of purest gold." Next he turned to Cuzco and plundered its Temple of the Sun. Pizarro's soldiers smashed the precious objects of worship and hammered them flat to carry them off more easily. Finally they threw the entire treasure into a furnace to recast the precious metal into bars.