The Odyssey of a U-Boat Commander

by Erich Topp

  An old custom among submariners holds that whenever one of us goes out on a mission everyone joins him over a bottle of champagne, perhaps for the last time. Our toasts include the memory of comrades who have not come back. Today we repeat the time-honored ritual and are pleased to notice that neither the early hour nor the cold have prevented our friends from seeing us off with proper encouragements. We all belong together.

  The horn sounds the familiar signal-one long, one short. Let go the lines! Soon the metallic thumping of the diesel exhausts echoes from the walls of the locks. We bring out a triple hurrah, wave to our friends for the last time, and then turn around with determination, our faces braving the icy wind. We leave behind what we love but also the things that have made us soft.

  A gigantic icebreaker is waiting to guide us through the Kiel Canal. Two thick steel hawsers are passed to us; slowly the colossus takes up speed. Half of its propeller is above the water line, hurling water against our bows. Our boats are swinging back and forth. Suddenly one of the hawsers parts. It is no use. The icebreaker rides too high. We contact the leader of a patrol boat squadron that is also anxious to transfer to the North Sea. Again we try two hawsers. Now things go more smoothly even though the icebreaker's stern yaws like a duck's tail. We shout our greetings across to our new companion. As it turns out, the squadron commander once served on U 46 himself.

  At first we make good headway. But the closer we get to Brunsbuttel [the Canal's western, or North Sea, terminal], the thicker the ice becomes. The floes crash noisily against our hull. All along the banks people watch and wave to us. We U-boat men mean something special to them after all. Guards in field-gray uniforms escort us from afar along the strategic road that runs from sea to sea. Here and there we see an anti-aircraft battery; otherwise everything looks cold and hare. When we return it will be springtime.

  We reach BrunsbUttel late in the day. Word spreads that there will be an informal meeting in the " Kanalmumlung" tavern. The officers of the air defense command, a few naval surgeons, and officials of the canal administration want to give us their farewell. Lots of smoke, beer, and noise. As soon as the people recognize Prien, nothing can hold them back. lie remains busy all night, signing autographs and shaking hands. Just as we enter the tavern, Jurgen Oesten's U 61 returns from her latest patrol: 12,000 tons destroyed, many close encounters with enemy depth charges, and in recognition the Iron Cross, first class. Congratulations!

  The next morning we are off to Heligoland. After breaking through the ice barrier and making a small course adjustment we reach the open sea, alone by ourselves at last. I fill my lungs with a deep breath of invigorating North Sea air. At last, after two months of refitting, we are ready to go again. Before long Heligoland's contours of ragged red rock emerge out of the afternoon haze. The closer we get the better we can see the island's outline and the greater becomes my ap preciation of what has been created here since my last visit four years ago. Once again Heligoland has become a major naval base, the guardian of the German Bight. Like spider legs, long breakwaters stretch in different directions from the island's lower plateau. Through narrow channels we reach the U-boat base, well protected against stormy weather and home to us for the next few days. When we arrive, the U-boat tender "Mother" Saar is already surrounded by many of her children.

  We enjoy life on Heligoland as if we want to make up for the deprivations we are certain to suffer on our forthcoming mission. We thoroughly explore the fortress installations with their underground shelters, passageways, and elevators. It is a veritable subterranean town and arsenal. We also discover there is no more whisky on the island, and you can enjoy a glass of grog only if you bring your own rum. At night everyone congregates at "'Lante L.ottes. " She is a true original. For many years now, thanks to her personality and business sense, she has exercised a virtual monopoly over Heligoland's entertainment sector. Tante Lotte also has a special book for U-boat men to sign.

  There are not many females on this island, but they are very pleasant and friendly. Already on our first night ashore we all sit together in a happy circle. As daughters of the sea they know us and remember that sailors love some fun and action. The second night we celebrated into the morning hours and then everyone went to comb Katja's grocery store for any hidden treasures there. And indeed we discovered such delicacies as lobsters and whisky. Any protest on the part of Katja's mother was soon silenced: "Mom, I would like you to meet Mr. Prien." The poor mother had little choice but to go along with our little game; after all, how could she remain pedantic in the presence of such a great name?

  During the day we exercised at sea: keeping a steady level, depth, and course under water; interminable practice dives; testing our radio gear, and the like. On the second evening the wind freshened. All shore leave was cancelled. The sea stood straight into our little harbor. Our boats were pitching restlessly in the swell, and where the protective fenders had been pushed aside the ships' bodies pushed badly into one another. Soon the order came: "All boats leave base and rest on the bottom of the sea until tomorrow morning. It weather does not improve, proceed to Wilhelmshaven." We cast off our lines and the dancing boats are tamed by the power of their engines. One after another we gain the open sea through the narrow estuary and disappear into the night.

  Once we are beyond the shelter of the island, all hell breaks loose. The northwest storm with its heavy seas inundates the conning tower and the men on watch. Buoys are all but invisible in the darkness, and lights ashore have been extinguished for fear of attracting enemy aircraft. Thus we have to use intuition and experience instead. A small boat had sailed earlier in the afternoon and now had a very tough time making headway against the storm. We may suffer the same fate tomorrow. Even 150 feet below the surface on the bottom of the sea our boat would not come to rest entirely despite an extra three tons of seawater in our tanks. When I took over as officer of the watch, the boat swung and heeled considerably. After surfacing the next morning, the same grim picture as on the day before. So we head for Wilhelmshaven. Those "last" lobsters of Heligoland, which took us so much ingenuity and so many intrigues to obtain, are waiting for us to this very day.

  Wilhelmshaven turns out to be as bleak and boring as ever. First we are on alert to sail on 24-hour notice. Soon this is moved up to two-hour readiness. Then one day at noon we receive the order: "Depart immediately." Mysterious briefcases full of charts are brought on board. Our commanding officer hints that "it will be a cold affair." This gives us a pretty good idea of where we are headed. At the last moment our radio telegraphy equipment goes on the blink. Hamberger, the petty officer in charge, uses a combination of terrible oaths and troubleshooting advice by landline to fix the transmitter in the nick of time.

  As we are about to leave Wilhelmshaven, "Packchen" Wohlfarth returns with his boat from his latest patrol. Four pennants with death heads painted on them fly from his periscope: four merchantmen sunk. Then the gates of the locks swing open and we are off. Course north.

  Comment:

  Today history books tell the story of "Operation Weserubung." I will restrict most of my comments here to my diary entries at the time.

  In order to occupy Norway, and to forestall a similar design by the Allied powers, the German Navy employed all available fighting units-including U-boats, which are not very useful for such purposes. A submarine is designed to be a commerce raider and requires vast areas of sea space to be effective. Every once in a while a U-boat, operating singly, can be successful in coastal waters, provided it enjoys a measure of surprise against the enemy. Deploying U-boats in Norway's narrow fjords, however, went against all experience and common sense. Nights were short and days quite long, giving the boat little opportunity to recharge its batteries on the surface. Moreover, acoustic conditions favored the defenders; the ship channels were narrow and tricky to navigate; and we lacked reliable information about tides and what the seabed consisted of. To make matters worse, our torpedoes malfunctioned with terrifying regularity
by failing to run at their preset depth and to respond to the intended victim's magnetic field. In short, the Norway operation turned out to be a bitter disappointment for German U-boats.

  Diary:

  For days now we are lying idle in one of the many Norwegian fjords to observe and report enemy ship movements. We are allowed to fire only on British warships, but so far we have not encountered a single one. Instead we are captivated by the beauty of the majestic landscape around us.

  As dawn breaks, while the full moon to the southwest leaves behind but a faint glimmer of light, we can already distinguish the dark silhouettes of the mountain ranges against the red easterly sky. The sun climbs higher, the sky turns purplish. The mountain ridges take on clearer contours in shades of blue. Soon individual peaks stand out with jagged black edges and bluish-gray plateaus below which is hidden the eternal ice.

  Every morning at about the same time we dive, because during the day we must stay submerged in order to remain undetected by the enemy. On occasion, as on Easter morning, the early hour enveloped us with sleet and snow flurries. In those cases we stayed above the surface a little longer, hands cold and feet uneasy on the icy planks, our bodies eagerly inhaling the clear, cool, salty air. Sometimes morning fog or snow-heavy clouds made the shoreline entirely invisible. But that happened only rarely. Most of the time cold, blue, bright northern skies prevailed. Then we could view the magnificent beauty of the fjord with its blue, clear waters, its snow-covered mountain ridges, and the glaciers reaching almost to the water's edge, only through our periscope. The untouched nature of the place casts a spell on us. Few things can compare with the changing vistas of the sharp-edged mountains, the bright snowfields of the higher elevations, or the gigantic, sun-lit glaciers that blinded us even as we looked at them from a distance through the periscope. Given these peaceful surroundings we had to remind ourselves that we were, after all, at war.

  As the sun sent its last rays we surfaced, breathed hungrily the fresh air of which we had been deprived for so long, and once again stared in awe at the beauty of this unique natural wonder. The air so clear and cold, a brilliant starry sky above. Only the mountain ranges are decorated with a soft band of clouds. Before the daylight has completely faded away, the clouds to our south appear with gold-coated rims, announcing the rising moon. The sharp contours of the mountains seem to recede as a faint haze replaces the ebbing daylight. You can hear small waves breaking against our bows. At regular intervals the revolving beam of a distant lighthouse touches the horizon. Behind the protective armored cover of the bridge I see the men off-watch smoking their cigarettes. In fact, the bridge is crowded with men inhaling the fresh air and enjoying their cigarettes after the long, forced abstinence below.

  Suddenly, the overture to a spectacle that pictures can but poorly recapture and words only imperfectly describe. A shaky beam of light appears behind the mountains, wanders off, brightens in intensity, then fades away. Soon there is another beam, hesitant at first,. then more in short succession. The entire horizon is now lit up, a bright ring of heavenly fire right above us; indeed, it feels as if the tonal beauty of a fugue by Bach has been recast in brilliant lights. A veil of colors moves up and down like a woven fabric, then ebbs away only to reappear even more spectacularly to the southeast. Dark red to violet, the lights form huge Gothic arches in the sky, shoot up to the zenith in mighty columns. Such are the northern lights. Our eyes, ordinarily glued to the horizon where a potential enemy is likely to make his first appearance, lift up again and again to the skies lest we miss out on nature's dramatic entertainment. Almost every night we enjoyed this spectacle, never a repeat performance but always new, more beautiful and fantastic.

  Today we mark the end of our third week out here, three exhausting weeks indeed. You have to have been with us to know what a seemingly endless waiting period can do to you. While on earlier patrols one surprise followed another in close succession, now we are practically devoured by the monotony of our daily routine. It is quite possible that we might be deprived of daylight for another three weeks. When we get home we will look like barn owls: pale and bloated, for our bodies lack motion and exercise. Every day we stay submerged for fifteen hours and during that time inhale stale, oxygen-poor air. Our oxygen supply is rationed to allow us to stay up to six weeks at our post. The same holds true for the number of so-called potassium cartriges that are designed to absorb toxic carbon dioxide. As a result every afternoon our heads swell, breathing becomes heavy, and every body movement is painful until we surface at dusk for the night. What makes things worse is the realization that nothing is likely to happen here. Nevertheless we have to be alert because the enemy is unpredictable. All we know is that for the past three weeks he has not shown up.

  One night I am on duty on the bridge, the wind whistling around the conning tower. Suddenly out of the dark a formation of wild geese appears and is gone just as quickly. At that moment someone behind me recites in a low voice the famous lines by Walter Flex: "Wildganse rauschen durch die Nacht mit schrillem Schrei nach Norden. " [Wild geese are rushing through the night, northbound, the air filled with their shrill cries]. It was Steinweg, the radio operator, and we had a longer talk. He had read a lot and spoke about the poets Theodor Storm and Knut Hamsun, both of whom have given us a better understanding of the northern countries and the peculiar characteristics of their inhabitants. I became aware of Steinweg's literary interests and his efforts to broaden his education. And then he opened up and laid bare his frustrations: how the shipboard routine with its endless monotony had pushed him to the breaking point; how he had tried in vain to keep on reading while performing his other duties; and how the cramped living conditions on a U-boat, where people literally sleep on top of one another, rendered any such efforts impossible.

  I tried to make clear to him that one cannot break out of the circle into which life has put us. Otherwise nothing would be accomplished. For instance, in our daily struggle with the sea we could not be content with partial solutions or compromises. Any mistakes on our part can have grave consequences. The sea educates those who have to live with it. But we can still enjoy the beauty of the Norwegian fjords and the colorful spectacle of the northern lights. This is Hamsun's homeland that we have come to know so closely now. I believe Steinweg agreed with me that the experience of true comradeship on our boat compensated him for much that he otherwise missed.

  Those three weeks of sometimes paralyzing, sometimes invigorating vigilance and waiting, as recorded in such detail in my journal, came to a very sudden end and were replaced by a dramatic sequence of events that left me no time for contemplation. Only brief summaries could reflect the quick succession of incidents that followed:

  Late on April 6 we receive code word "Hartmut. " Emotions run high after the commanding officer explains its implications to us fellow officers. Now time passes so quickly that we hardly remember our days of boredom. We are completely absorbed by our task to help escort the ten German destroyers destined to carry out the occupation of Narvik. In the morning hours of April 8 we dive to evade a destroyer. It appeared without warning out of the haze and we have no clue as to its nationality. During the day strong southwesterly winds prevail. Will our destroyers make it?

  Overnight we take up an intermediate patrol station further up the Narvik Fjord. The storm turns around to the northwest. Mist and fog reduce visibility. And still the anxious question: Will the destroyers he able to carry out their task? There are no navigational aids of any kind to help us find our way, and our charts are unreliable. We decide to dive to use our hydrophones to pick up information acoustically where visual data are unobtainable. We surface at 4 A.to. on April 9 and at last receive the long-awaited radio signal: "U-boats requested to enter Narvik." The city is in German hands. It is somewhat disconcerting that our destroyers managed to pass us undetected because of the poor visibility. The enemy might be able to do the same thing. Several hours later the German destroyer Erich Giese brings up the rear and passes Ba
roy-a remarkable navigational and nautical achievement considering the storm and fog.

  We follow at high speed up the fjord after receiving the order "Assume final positions!" from U-Boat Command. Off Skraaom, suddenly alarm and general quarters. Ahead is the silhouette of a submarine, which disappears as we approach. Friend or foe? It is unlikely that one of our own boats has overtaken us since they were all stationed farther out to sea. We exercise caution. The periscope reveals nothing; the hydrophones pick up only faint noises. We must break through before the enemy can steal a march on us. Heavy snow flurries come to our aid. We surface and press ahead at full speed. We cannot even see the full length of our boat under the prevailing conditions. We have never been in these waters before, but so far we have been lucky and expect no troubles ahead. Off Tranoy the skies clear. We must have outdistanced the other submarine. Ahead we spot a steamer evidently bound for Narvik, so we follow in its wake. It turns out to be the Swedish vessel Strassa. When her crew recognizes us, panic breaks out. They lower their cutter and stand by in life vests. We decide to pass the Strassa because she is simply too slow. No one has time to admire the beauty of the fjord as we move on.

  Again, general quarters. Out of the haze ahead emerge the contours of a destroyer pointed straight toward us. Because of the fog the periscope is of no use. We surface. Barely visible through the fog we make out the silhouette of a German destroyer. We exchange recognition signals. Soon the destroyer has disappeared again. When visibility improved shortly thereafter, we observed how the destroyer kept the Swedish vessel from escaping northward into the Tjeldsund.