Operation Armageddon

by Richard Freeman

  ‘Begin sweeps,’ ordered Travers.

  The asdic operator settled in front of his Type 134 display. Travers had placed HMS Ideal on an east-west trajectory of ten sea miles. At the end of the first run there had been no response from the asdic. He moved two sea miles nearer the coast for a west-east run. Still no response. The third run was equally fruitless.

  During these runs Stokes and Bosanquet had been on the bridge, more out of curiosity than necessity. Stokes was inwardly scornful of Travers, for whom he had little respect. He lacked push and was too dependent on others. He should be giving that asdic man a rocket. After all, he’s been told there’s a U-boat out there. Stokes itched to take command.

  Bosanquet, on the other hand, was more thoughtful. And his thinking led him to suspect what the problem was. He knew that if he tried to interfere, Travers would only clam up. An indirect approach was needed.

  ‘Stokes,’ he said, out of Travers’ hearing, ‘do you think it’s worth asking the asdic man to come up on the bridge?’

  Stokes was delighted at the suggestion.

  ‘Sir, shall I ask the asdic man to come up?’

  ‘If you think it will help, yes, Number 1.’

  Half a minute later: ‘Sir, you asked to see me?’

  ‘That’s right, Peters. What’s up with this damned U-boat?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir. Conditions are perfect for the sweeps.’

  ‘Would it make a difference if the boat was on the seabed?’ asked Bosanquet.

  ‘Indeed, sir. Not much hope in that case.’

  ‘Thank you, Peters,’ said Travers.

  ‘And the sweeps, sir?’

  ‘Hold them for the moment, Peters.’

  Travers turned to his fellow officers. ‘Well, that’s it, then. We can’t find the boat. High tide’s nearly on us. We’ve done what we can. Now it’s time to clear out.’

  Without waiting for any comment, Travers turned away and ordered “full ahead” on a south east course.

  With no operational duties on the ship, Bosanquet reluctantly kept quiet. He had no better ideas to offer. This really was the end, he told himself. His first field operation was a failure.

  ****

  A short while later HMS Ideal was turning sharply and gathering speed as she prepared to flee the feared tidal wave. Her proceeding was interrupted by a lookout.

  ‘Men in the water, port ninety degrees!’

  All three officers put their glasses to their eyes and swung round towards the sea between the ship and the coast.

  ‘By Jove there are. Lots of them!’ said Stokes.

  ‘Engine room, slow ahead. Helmsman, course zero.’

  Once more the ship turned sharply as she headed for the bobbing heads in the light sea. Soon the exhausted men were struggling up the scrambling nets. It did not take long to establish where they had come from and why they had fled their own boat.

  ‘So, we are more or less on top of the damned thing,’ said Travers.

  ‘And look there!’ said Stokes. ‘A float.’

  ‘Well spotted, Number 1. So, with this weak tide the boat can’t be far west of the float,’ concluded Travers.

  He pressed the alarm for action stations and readied the ship for depth-charging.

  44

  What would have been a short and gruesome battle inside the U-boat was brought to a chilling halt by a series of sledgehammer blows as the first depth charges from HMS Ideal found their target. For some submariners this was their first depth charge attack. Others had already survived several such episodes. All knew that there was no defence other than taking the boat as deep as its structure would bear. And the cargo boat had already used that last resource.

  The SS took the attack badly, thinking that the boat had been rammed by a passing warship and was about to be peeled open like a tin of sardines. Everything – even the most rigidly attached items – shook. This opening barrage had taken a considerable toll of both the seamen and the SS. Those men who had been on their feet were thrown without ceremony against stanchions, valves, pipes and all the other hazardous protrusions of a submarine. Men clutched broken ribs and dripping head wounds as they tried to understand what was happening. Low groans from the badly injured broke the silence as each man listened for sounds of the destroyer above them.

  The boat had suffered, too. Most of the protective glass on the instruments had shattered. Circuit breakers throughout the boat had jumped. Now the scene of carnage and confusion was lit only by the dim emergency lights.

  Rarely has the cliché “all in the same boat” been more true. Only minutes ago the boat had been a cauldron of rivalries at the point of erupting into civil war. Now all the parties – Zweig, the two chained up commanders, the SS and the seamen – shared the same iron coffin. All they could think about was whether and how their internment might be ended.

  Bosun König, who had the good fortune to be seated at the moment of the attack, had rolled off his seat onto the floor plates. With no more than some minor bruising he was one of the few men still able to think and act. Only one thought came to him. Amidst the shouts, the cries for help, the calls for orders, he slipped unnoticed to the improvised prison.

  ‘Good man,’ said Vogel as he saw König approaching.

  ‘You first, sir,’ said König as he knelt over Vogel.

  ‘And last.’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘That man,’ said Vogel, pointing to Ingmann, ‘is under arrest. I’m taking him back for court martial.’

  ‘You just dare, Vogel! I’ve got witnesses. You refused to obey the order, the same as I did. You’ll be court-martialled as well – unless we two stick together.’

  ‘Me? Side up with a low-down, treacherous, career-seeking louse like you. When I faced down Zweig, you only jumped in because you wanted command. You would have backed whichever side suited your ambitions. You’re despicable, Ingmann—’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ interrupted König, ‘might I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Go on,’ said Vogel.

  ‘If the Hauptsturmführer could hear you, he would be delighted. You two argue and he takes charge.’

  ‘You’ve a point there, Bosun. Okay, release this rat. But if he so much as helps the Hauptsturmführer to tie up his boot laces, I’ll put a bullet through his skull before he reaches the second boot.’

  As König unlocked Vogel, he asked: ‘Is all this Zweig’s work?’

  ‘I think you could say that, sir. Put himself in charge, took us down and never took a peep through the periscope. We hadn’t a chance.’

  ‘And what’s happening now?’

  ‘More or less every man for himself at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Damage?’

  ‘Superficial, I’d say.’

  ‘Thank you, Bosun. Number 1 and I will stay here until you signal that we can be of use. I can’t see that we can do anything until the depth-charging is over. For now, just keep the men at their posts. The boat comes first.’

  König disappeared. He was back in no time, carrying a couple of Browning pistols.

  ‘Thought you might need these later, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good work, Bosun,’ said Vogel.

  When König had gone, Ingmann held out his hand to Vogel.

  Shaking his head, Vogel said: ‘No deal. Just a truce while we settle with the loathsome Zweig.’

  Vogel and Ingmann had barely been released when the boat seemed to jump off the seabed as the second depth charge salvo struck. There were fewer injuries this time since most men had tucked themselves into corners and bunks. The boat was another matter. As soon as the initial slams of the blast died away, ominous sounds of straining steel, of grinding metal on metal, and of buckling plates echoed round the boat. Its pressure hull amplified every movement in its fabric. It was as if it were crying out for release from the combined pressure of the deep water and the distortions of its structure wrought by the massive explosions. Now and again the hull shuddered as if it were settling into a
new shape. Its agonies alternated between heavy judders and light quivers. It was alive yet perhaps also in the throes of death. And, in the silent moments between one cry and another, the sound of heavy dripping could be heard.

  ‘We’re going to drown!’ cried an SS man as he pointed to the ripples of water pouring down the inside of the hull. He looked down. His boots, too, were now in water.

  ‘You’ve got to get us out of here!’ he shouted.

  No one acted, though. Zweig, still in charge, had ordered the boat down. He intended to be the one who kept it down – obeying the Führer’s order to the last. It was too bad that the enemy had stepped in to attempt to override his authority. Meanwhile no one else in the boat had any thoughts beyond surviving the next salvo.

  At least the seamen had the leaks to distract them. They were running up and down the boat, huge spanners in their hands, tightening the leaking valves and pipe joints. Their bodies ran with sweat as they feverishly worked in the soaking atmosphere. Their faces revealed the strain as they tugged on their spanners. Others were frantically trying to bolt ripped-off instrument panels back onto the body of the boat. As was so often the case for a submariner, they were in battle with their most unforgiving enemy: the sea itself.

  All the efforts of the men to keep out the mighty sea were wiped out by the third salvo. The destroyer had got their depth better this time. The boat really did jump before thudding back down onto the seabed. As to the hull, it screamed, it wrenched, it tore in protest at each blast.

  The boat could take no more. Closed valves shot open. Instruments were torn from panels. Bolts shattered and nuts shot through the rooms like bullets from a hunting rifle. Men screamed as the missiles sunk into their flesh. And from under the plates the bilges disgorged sewage, oil, battery acid and vomit as if hell itself were erupting on Judgement Day.

  The SS men, who had long since discarded their weapons, pleaded with the seamen:

  ‘Get us out of here! Get us out of here!’

  The control room men had not seen an officer since the time that Zweig had ordered the dive. The second watch officer was lying unconscious in one of the bunks; and the engineer officer was knee deep in the battery compartment trying to bypass shattered batteries. When asked for orders, he exasperatedly replied: ‘I don’t fucking care! Do what you think best!’ Left to themselves the control room men were of one mind: only they could now save the boat.

  ‘How long do you reckon we’ve got?’

  ‘At the rate the water’s coming up the bilges … two … three minutes. Not a hope after that.’

  ‘Bleeding hell!’

  ‘Do it then?’

  ‘Do it!.’

  The two men turned to the controls and began the task of trying to lift a water-laden U-boat off the bottom.

  The rise was slow but steady. As the water depth decreased, the hull eased itself back into shape. The inward flow lessened.

  The rise was imperceptible to the men – 1ft under felt no different to 200ft. However, a sharp-eyed seaman who saw one of the manometers as he passed through the control room, tore down the length of the boat shouting ‘We’re surfacing! We’re surfacing!’

  ‘No you fucking won’t,’ shouted Zweig.

  45

  Zweig was too late to stop the U-boat from surfacing since the operation was almost completed. Only a crash dive – madness given the damage that the boat had already suffered – would have taken it down before surfacing. His powers had also been undermined by the depth-charging. His once bold subordinates – most of whom were injured – were now more concerned with their own survival than his orders. They would be as relieved as the seamen when the boat broke through the surface. Hence not one of them blocked the two seamen who went to the conning tower ladder.

  The boat slumped slightly as it settled after breaking through the surface, just like an ascending lift does when it arrives at a floor stop. A loud cheer ran through the boat, and a rush of fresh sea air poured down the tower as the hatch was thrust open.

  Zweig, brandishing his gun up the tower, shouted: ‘You fucking come down and close the bleeding hatch!’ He reinforced his earthy command with a burst of fire. As the echoes of his gunfire faded, there was a momentary silence both inside and outside the boat. In the boat, only a few men remained at their stations. Most were queuing up to abandon ship. Outside the only sound was the squawks of a few gulls.

  This near total silence was brutally ended by the explosive roar of a four-inch gun.

  ‘What’s up, Bosun?’ said Zweig.

  ‘Cannon, sir.’

  This was Zweig’s introduction to the submariner’s world. Once under attack from a destroyer there was nowhere to run. Submerged, the boat faced the depth charges; surfaced, it faced the shells.

  Zweig stepped back so that he was no longer directly below the open shaft that led to the battleground above. The men who had gathered under the conning tower retreated too, while asking themselves which was worse: remain in the damaged U-boat, still taking on water; or face the shells above?

  Zweig, though, had not lost his determination to carry out the Führer’s order. He pointed his gun at two seamen near to the conning tower.

  ‘One of you! Close the fucking hatch!’

  They both hesitated. Zweig fired a round or two at the deck in front of them.

  ‘For the last fucking time, close the bleeding hatch.’

  The men began to move forward.

  ‘Enough!’ came a voice from behind Zweig.

  Exhilarated by his moment of glory, Zweig had given no thought to his prisoners. His insouciance ended when he saw a seaman pointing towards the officers’ quarters: ‘The commander!’

  Zweig, brandishing his weapon, swung round towards Vogel. Vogel, determined to assert his authority in a way that no one would ever forget, fired a burst at Zweig. The SS commander, writhing in agony from a wound in his side, fell into the slowly rising filth that covered the deck plates.

  ‘Back to your stations,’ said Vogel quietly.

  He then ordered four gunners to the two deck guns: ‘Aim for the bridge first. Then their guns.’

  ****

  Travers was in high spirits. He had sunk a few U-boats in the Atlantic but this was the first time that he had had one at his mercy on the surface. If he was lucky, his men would capture the Enigma machine and code books before he sank the boat. (There was no higher prize that a destroyer commander could take.) And he was in no doubt about the outcome. The boat had no chance against the armament of his destroyer.

  ‘All’s well that ends well, eh?’ he said, turning to Bosanquet. ‘We’ll soon have this wrapped up.’

  Bosanquet made no comment as he glanced at his watch and thought of the U-boat’s contents.

  By now the guns of both vessels were firing. The air was filled with their deafening blasts, intermingled with the shouts of the single-minded gunners as they loaded and fired at a furious pace. The range was short. It would be hard for either side to miss.

  Travers’ confident prediction of an easy victory was premature. Shells from the two U-boat guns poured into the destroyer’s superstructure. As blast followed blast, the bridge crumpled to a tangled mass of ragged steel. Travers lay dead and Stokes was badly injured.

  While the U-boat had concentrated on eliminating the destroyer’s command system, the destroyer was raining shells onto her adversary’s guns. Soon all four gunners had fallen injured into the sea and the guns were unusable. It had taken fewer than five minutes for each side to inflict serious damage on the other.

  With no commander in the destroyer and with events taking another wild turn down in the U-boat, the surface battle fizzled out.

  ****

  Bosanquet had had no role in the encounter between the boat and the destroyer. He had narrowly escaped annihilation on the bridge and was now standing amongst the dead, the wounded and the tangle of smoking metal. Over on the U-boat he could see bodies being tossed into the sea. He raised his glasses and clos
ely examined the uniforms. There was no doubt about it – the SS were taking command. There could be only one reason for this: to take the boat down again. And there was only one way to stop them. Bosanquet turned to the Tannoy which had fortunately survived the attack.

  ‘Attention! Attention! This is Lieutenant Commander Bosanquet speaking. Your captain and first officer are out of action. I am assuming command. Boarding party aft at the double.’

  46

  Zweig had been left for dead to rot in the festering filth of the deck gratings. He was, though, both more cunning and more courageous than Vogel and Ingmann had assumed. True, the bullet that caught him had resulted in an agonising pain, yet he was far from disabled. Fearful of further injury, he had feigned being mortally wounded. He slyly watched as the chaos of competing commanders, confused seamen and the terrified SS grew. It was not long before each man was thinking of one thing only: how to survive. Taking advantage of the pandemonium, Zweig struggled to his feet and lent back on the wall of the submarine, his face screwed up in pain.

  ‘So, two ex-commanders,’ said Zweig as he eyed Vogel and Ingmann. ‘Two traitors to the Reich. I ought to shoot you now, but that would be too kind. You both refused to voluntarily go down with the boat. Now you’ll go down as my guests.’

  ‘You forget there’s a destroyer out there, Zweig,’ said Vogel. ‘They’ve got our position. You’ll never get this boat to the bottom.’

  ‘How ready you are, Commander, with mealy-mouthed excuses for evading the Führer’s will,’ replied Zweig. ‘I can see now why the Kriegsmarine chose you for this job – they wanted shot of you. It’s a pity they were too stupid to realise that you hadn’t got the guts to obey orders.’

  ‘How dare you insult my record! You, Zweig, what have you ever done to deserve your medals and your superior air? A few murders in dark alleyways? Dragging off innocent people to concentration camps? What heroism! What fearless conduct!’

  ‘Shut your lily-livered trap, Vogel!’ said Zweig as he let off a round or two over Vogel’s head.