by Erich Topp
THE END OF THE WAR
Diary:
January 3, 1945
Today we listened to a radio address by Gauleiter Hanke, the Party official in charge of the besieged city of Breslau in Silesia. Manly words without ballast, exhorting the inhabitants to fight to the last. His words culminated in a quotation from the Silesian clockmaker and philosopher, Jacob Bohme: "Wer nicht sturbe, ehe er stirbet, der verdurbe, Wenn er stirbet" [He who has not tasted death before he dies, will be miserable when he dies]. In other words, those who have not been prepared to sacrifice their lives will be gripped by the fear of death when the time comes and die as weaklings, miserably, their spirits broken.
Bohme's words took me back to the convoy battles at sea. How many times did we gain back the gift of life when we had already given up all hope? In those cases we had thrown everything overboard: things that normally had been highly desirable to us; things we had striven for and fought over appeared suddenly unimportant and empty to us in the face of the final struggle. But as soon as the first ray of hope touched us we began to recover our old system of values, and once we had planted our feet solidly on the shore, now weighted down by all the usual ballast, we immersed ourselves again in the most ordinary and mundane matters.
Hanke was not prepared to fight to the last. Cowardly, he fled to safety and abandoned Breslau and its population to its horrible fate: murder, rape, destruction.
Letters:
January 28, 1945
You have not heard from me in some time. Yesterday I returned to Zoppot (near Gotenhafen], but you had already left to be safe from the Russians. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. When I collected the few things that are left I witnessed the misery of the refugees first hand. Huddling for eight hours in the drafty train depot at temperatures near 15 degrees below zero centigrade and not eating a bite for 24 hours has been quite a lesson in humility for me. All around me mothers with crying babies. Misery, distress, people in need of relief.
January 30, 1945
A short time ago the Gustloff went down while taking a load of refugees to the West. The seas were heavy and temperatures below the freezing mark. She had some 5,000 people on board; a catastrophe without precedent. The commanding officer of a torpedo-boat just received orders to go out and render assistance. I saw how the man turned pale when he got the news. His wife and three children had sailed on the Gustloff. What must have gone through that man's mind, knowing only too well that chances for a rescue are nil? I feel very small when I realize in all this misery that my own family is safe. But I cannot help it. Only yesterday I read in a book about Magellan the famous motto of Jao de Barros: "He who lives for glory is not afraid of danger." Yesterday I could fully identify with him. Today those are like so many hollow words. Who among those 5,000 human beings thought of glory for even one single moment? No, they yearned to stay alive and died full of fear.
There are crowds of people near the steamers in the port, all hoping to catch a ride to the West. The policemen have their hands full trying to keep matters under control. Trains arrive full of wounded soldiers stretched out on dirty, soiled patches of straw, their grayish faces emaciated and half frozen from the cold. And yet they have the will to survive. Our will to live is after all the most profound of all human instincts.
Air attack. Now the planes are even chasing people in the streets. Anti-aircraft fire does not seem to bother them. I happened to be near No. 111 indenburg St. (how long will it be before it is renamed?) when I entered our old home to find shelter from the flying shrapnel. I was also curious to learn what had happened to it. In each room a refugee family, nameless misery. Huddled closely together, they live, cook, sleep, and generally try to survive. All the toilets are clogged up.
I am glad you did not have to go through all this. On the other hand, I wish you could at least have had a glimpse of it to steel yourself for the times ahead.
February 2, 1945
Today, after a three-week trek with three carts and fifteen horses, Lieutenant Sauer's parents arrived in Zoppot. I offered them to stay at our place. The attitude of these people is remarkable. He is seventy, she sixty years old, both temporarily depressed but unbroken. Admirable people, indeed. Already in the last war they lost everything and became refugees. Now again they had to abandon to the Russians two flourishing estates. All they have left now are three carts full of household items for a family of eight, and their steadfastness. Two human beings like them, who have shared a long life together and exist only for each other, can hardly be touched by want and misery.
February 8, 1945
I am aboard the small torpedo-boat TF 5 on our way from Gotenhafen to Kiel. A long-neglected compass had us end up in Swedish territorial waters, but we were fortunate in noticing our mistake before the Swedes did. Visibility is poor, allowing us to make out few reference points ashore to get an idea where we are. Suddenly the order: "Both engines full speed astern!" At the last moment a lookout had spotted a shadow ahead that turned out to be the coastline of the Danish island of Bornholm. We finally anchored after almost colliding with a fishing vessel in dense fog. Yesterday we heard enemy planes humming overhead on minelaying missions. Today we must wait for our minesweepers to clear the channels so that we can proceed to Kiel, where I will take over command of the new boat.
COMMANDING OFFICER, U 2513
From Notes:
Before I took over U 2513 on April 22, 1945, 1 served for a few weeks as commanding officer of U 3030 (also a Type XXI boat). Along with a few other experienced sailors on board, I used every available hour to train the new crew. We placed emphasis not only on knowing one's own battle station and area of expertise but also on acquainting oneself with the responsibilities of comrades in order to have some reserves in case of casu alties. This meant, for example, that experts in the area of batteries and generators could fill in for diesel mechanics in the engine room, and vice versa. Throughout these drills we kept up our normal shipboard routine. To simulate realistic conditions we often had to pull switches and levers. We usually turned off the electricity or, if this was impossible, put up warning signs for the men to be especially careful.
One day the petty officer in charge forgot to post these warning signs while we were running our electric engines for underwater propulsion. A young enlisted man got accidentally caught in the machinery and was fatally injured. A court martial followed, and the petty officer was sentenced to fight in a penal company at the land front against the advancing Allied troops. The petty officer not only admitted his negligence but was deeply shaken by the consequences of his action. To tear him away from our shipboard community at this point would have meant death for him. I protested the finding of the court martial. The petty officer stayed with us on board, for here too he fought at the front.
April 25
We U-boat commanders find ourselves in a heated debate with members of the staff of the U-Boat High Command. Should the city of Flensburg on the Danish border, full of refugees and wounded soldiers, be defended or declared an open city? Should the midshipmen presently training at the Naval Academy in Flensburg be flown to Berlin to form a last line of defense around the Fiihrer? We Uboat men are quite prepared to do our duty to the last, but for such nonsense we will not stand. We left the room in protest.
April 27
I report for the last time to the Chief of U-Boat Operations, Admiral HansGeorg von Friedeburg. Once he had been my commanding officer on the Karlsruhe, a man whose dark eyes under bushy brows, although always veiled by the smoke of an expensive cigar, had radiated trust and confidence to everyone around. Today he is no more than a shadow of his former self. Aware of the absurdity of giving further orders to continue the war, he betrays himself by choosing words he no longer believes in, by becoming a link in the chain of nonsensical decisions that mark life in these final days. He says that if we can no longer defend our fatherland we must continue the struggle from our base in Norway until all is over. He and his staff would fight to the last bu
llet, and he expected the same from us. He shook my hand, full of confidence as always, but also full of grief. When he turned away he had tears in his eyes. He knew he would never see me again. (A few days later, after he had signed Germany's unconditional surrender, he took his own life.)
April 28
A last meeting with the Navy's Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Donitz. His tone is as cordial as always. No sign of nervousness. But he still believes that proper fighting spirit can do wonders against tanks and aircraft. He talks about taking control of all German forces in the northern area while Hitler will continue to lead the other armies from his Headquarters in Berlin. Implied in these remarks is the notion that things can still be turned around. Rumors of differences between the British and the Russians give rise to such last hopes.
Then a handshake, stronger than von Friedeburg's. But no answer to the question that seems to hang in the air: For what or for whom are we still fighting and risking our lives? Donitz had retreated behind a veil of unconvincing moral considerations and irrational arguments to justify his actions even though he cannot have believed in them very deeply. I was reminded of a picture that graced at that time so many living room walls of Navy families, sometimes even the pillowcases on their sofas. It showed "The Last Man" clinging to the wreckage of his vessel in heavy seas and proudly holding up his nation's flag.
But this was no time for sentiments. At stake was the survival of my crew of fifty human beings. According to our sailing orders, we were supposed to leave Kiel in company with several other boats on our way to Norway. I consulted with my chief engineer and we agreed to fake engine trouble to delay our departure. Our foresight paid off. The enemy's intelligence service did not fail to notice the other boats' movements. We followed them half a day later and were spared the attack of British fighter-bombers that sank or damaged several of the other boats.
April 29
We monitor a radio announcement that our front lines will be shortened and withdrawn in the west. In a way it is a last respite to allow the Americans, British, and French to take over responsibility for Europe's future.
April 30
British forces have crossed the River Elbe near Lauenburg and are closing in on Lubeck. I feel relieved, and not because of some macabre sense of sarcasm. For 1 know now that my family will not fall into the hands of the Russians. The German people are in a state of deadly exhaustion.
In the evening I invite some comrades over: Wachter, Wahlen, Grau, Lambi, Hilbig, Bielig. Am reminded of Deeping's dictum, "Happiness is work and a comrade." Each of our boats carries fifty such comrades. It is the task of us commanding officers to shepherd these men safely and without pathos through the last inquisitorial round without ending up in an auto-da-f6.
May 1
We depart for Horten in Norway, where I had briefly stopped over on my last "war patrol" in 1942. At 10 r.n4. we learn of the Fiihrer's death. The dream of a Greater German Reich is over. Donitz assumes control over what is left of it. In his radio address he stresses the same things as in his farewell speech to us submarine commanders on April 28.
May 1-3
South of the island of Anholt we run into enemy activity but remain on the surface. As we enter the Oslo Fjord an aircraft moves in to attack. We dive. After wards we make Horten without further incidents. We are still under orders to engage the enemy. While docked in the naval base we continue to do repair work on our antennas and otherwise improve our survival chances.
In the meantime we receive the following news: a cease-fire in Northwest Holland; Hamburg, Kiel, and Flensburg have been declared open cities; negotiations about an armistice are under way with the British Field Marshall, Sir Bernard Montgomery; Northwest Germany and Denmark surrender. But the U-boat war continues until we receive the code word "Rainbow." The core of the fleet is being scuttled. Soon thereafter "Rainbow" is cancelled. The boats of comrades are being bombed and sunk. We are powerless.
May 7
The "minister in charge," Count Lutz von Schwerin-Krosigk, announces the unconditional surrender of the entire Wehrmacht. There is not to be any more bloodshed. This I learn in Oslo when I visit my chief engineer Heinz Peter in the hospital. He also warns me that the British have assembled a force of forty-eight naval units off Lervik. I return to my boat on the double. On the trip back I discuss all possible options with Dr. Nordmeier. We give up any plans to seek out the enemy because it is too late. Instead, we prefer to scuttle our boat since we are ignorant of any instructions to the contrary. All of this is then cleared up by the Grand Admiral's unequivocal order neither to scuttle nor to destroy the boats because we may save the lives of hundreds of thousands of Germans if we faithfully observe the armistice conditions.
We have a meeting of all submarine commanders aboard the torpedo-boat Panther. As senior officer present I make sure that we act in unison. Someone raises the possibility that DOnitz's instructions may have been issued under orders from the Allies and that therefore we should scuttle our boats independently to save the honor of the flag. This notion is flatly rejected by the officer in charge of U-boat operations in the west.
May 8
We solemnly lower our flag. I assemble the crew and inform them of the latest developments. Then we move out into deeper water and jettison all secret materials as well as our torpedoes.
May 10
The U-boat basin is well guarded on all sides. In the evening the boat next to ours flies a German flag suspended from a balloon. Bad taste. Also a question of proper leadership. I decide to retreat with my boat to Smorstein. Our own good discipline is endangered by being too close to the other boats. Once had habits are formed, they are difficult to overcome. In Smorstein we live ashore in rural surroundings. We organize activity groups, including instruction in the English language. In the evenings we huddle around the fireplace. Unforgettable. Walter Flex, old songs and new ones.
The corps of engineers supplies us with electricity and a landing craft. Long discussions whether we should send a part of the crew home on the landing craft. We decide against it for disciplinary reasons. The crew must stay together. We must obey the Allied instructions in all their ramifications, no matter where that might lead us. Deep down I feel, however, that our behavior will make no difference with regard to the treatment we Germans will receive. It will be degrading in any case.
May 12
The Allied Armistice Commission announces: All U-boat crews must be reduced to essential engine personnel only. Again we debate whether to send some of the men home. At the same time we are to indicate whether we will be seaworthy for a period of fourteen days. Evidently the boats are to be transferred to England. In the afternoon all commanding officers meet for coffee in Smorstein. Adventurous designs are being hatched, such as leaving Horten in single file with black flags flying. Or simply taking off for Kiel and thus presenting the Allies with a fait accompli. But what next? Another idea is to have Panther take all nonessential personnel to Kiel.
May 13
Franke and Meier bring orders that all nonessential crew members have to disembark except for the commanding officer, the executive officer, the chief engineer, the chief navigator, the two chief machinists, and twenty-nine others, mainly engine room personnel. I address the crew, which will now be torn apart. Who is to leave us? One man volunteers. When I make clear that more will have to go, several more raise their hands reluctantly. I was proud of them all. At 7 em. those selected are sent off with cheers echoing back and forth. A few have tears in their eyes. They know that an important part of their life has come to an end.
May 14
Life goes on. We enjoy our last days in freedom surrounded by pastoral beauty and haunted by uncertainty about our future. Smorstein is pleasant and relaxing. Only when we think of our loved ones at home does apprehension take over. May fate be kind to them.
May 16
The British arrive at 2 r.na.: Captain Wingfield and several other officers, accompanied by the ubiquitous Norwegian home guards
men. The greeting is quite formal. Afterwards we assemble on the Panther to answer questions. Toward the end of our meeting Captain Wingfield expresses his admiration for the German U-boat force as well as understanding for our present predicament. Nice gesture. The English inspect the Type XXI boats and seem greatly impressed. "Fine boat." They are considerably worried about the boat in Smorstein outside their direct control.
May 17
Brilliant sunshine here in Smorstein. In the afternoon we weigh anchor and transfer to the pier at Holm, newly built by German engineers. We are the first German vessel to dock there and receive a most cordial reception. Celebrations continue until 5:30 A.M.
May 18
The winds have freshened up. The boats are difficult to handle. We receive orders to transfer at once to Holmestrand. We break camp not without a sense of nostalgia. After all, we had enjoyed real freedom here for the last time in a long while. In the evening there is a meeting of all U-boat commanders.
