U-505‘s keel had been laid on June 12, 1940, at the Deutsche-Werft submarine yards in Hamburg. She was one of the first of the Model C subtypes built, a 1,232-ton version incorporating the latest improvements based on wartime experience. She was 252 feet in length and 15.25 feet wide at her middle section. The height between her keel and the tip of her periscope was 44.5 feet, giving her a periscope depth of 14 meters, in the European method of calculation. Reflecting the almost leisurely pace of German industrial production in the early war years, it took well over a year before her construction was complete.
The layout of U-505 was typical of submarines of that era. Starting at the bow, the first main compartment was the forward torpedo room. The four torpedo launching tubes located here formed our boat’s main anti-shipping armament. Aside from the four torpedoes loaded in the tubes, there were four additional torpedoes stowed here as reloads. When not in combat, the room doubled as the forward crew quarters. There were not enough bunks for everyone in the crew, so someone slept in your bed while you were on duty. The bunks folded-up out of the way whenever we needed to fire or reload the torpedoes.
Moving back from the forward torpedo room, you passed through a heavy waterproof hatch into the Petty officers’ quarters. Their quarters were just as crowded as ours, but at least they didn’t have to share their bunks with anyone.
Just behind the petty officers’ bunks was the tiny galley where meals were prepared. Food was heated by three hot plates and two small ovens, all powered with electricity. There was also a small refrigerator and food locker there. Since the galley was so small, fresh food had to be stored throughout the boat. Only as a war patrol progressed and we consumed the food, did we have even the slightest bit of free space on board. However, no matter how much fresh food we tried to cram aboard before a departure (usually about four tons), we always suffered from symptoms of an unhealthy diet by the time we returned.
The next compartments were the officer’s wardroom and the radio/underwater sounding station. To add a bit of opulence to the officers’ accommodations, the bulkheads of the wardroom were decorated with oak veneer paneling. When not being slept in, the lower bunks could be folded up in order to form a sort of conference room or recreation area. Their quarters also featured the luxury of their own washbasin. Unfortunately, since our boat’s water distillation unit only produced about 64 gallons of fresh water each day, there was only enough water for cooking, drinking, and replacement water for the batteries. That left the officers’ prized washbasin largely a symbolic amenity.
The bunk Hans shared on U-505 with another sailor.
Author’s Collection
The radio/underwater sounding station was also popular as an entertainment area, especially when the technicians tuned-in a favorite radio broadcast or played records on the gramophone. Opposite from the radio station was the captain’s quarters. Like the officer’s quarters, this tiny room was paneled in oak and featured its own washbasin. When not in use, a folding top covered the washbasin, transforming it into a small writing desk.
The next compartment, located amidships directly beneath the conning tower, was the control room. This was the operational heart of a U-boat. Hundreds of levers, valves, cranks, gauges, and wheels covered virtually every inch of the compartment. My first duty station as a control room mate was at the forward end of this room, controlling the hydraulic lift for the periscope. During an attack, the skipper operated the periscope from the conning tower above us. After a while, I was moved to the forward port corner of the control room. There, I took on much more responsibility: handling the approximately three dozen hand wheels that controlled the opening and closing of various diving and trim tank valves.
Beyond the control room, through another watertight hatch, was the diesel engine room. The two huge engines, which we nicknamed “the Jumbos,” were nine-cylinder M.A.N. diesels capable of producing 2,200 horsepower each. With a standard load of 208 tons of diesel fuel, they gave us a range of approximately 13,000 nautical miles. Top speed with the diesels was just a little over 18 knots. Of course, since the Jumbos were air-breathers, they could only be operated when our boat was on the surface. Only later in the war were U-boats built with the Schnorkel device, which allowed our subs to run on diesels while at periscope depth.
We had a lot of sympathy for the grease and soot-covered men in the diesel room, whom we nicknamed “the black crew.” The compartment was always filled with terrific noise and choking fumes whenever the Jumbos were running. Even worse, if a young seaman in the control room made a mistake by closing a valve or hatch at the wrong time, the diesels would suck the air out of the compartment, creating a vacuum very painful to the diesel crew’s ears.
For underwater travel, we had two battery-powered Siemens electric motors, giving us a top cruising speed of seven knots and a range of about 63 nautical miles. The long banks of 110-volt D.C. batteries, located beneath the deck plates, needed to be recharged after about ten hours of operation. It took about seven hours of running the diesels to fully recharge the batteries. Cruising on the surface for seven hours was usually no problem early in the war. But later on, after Allied carrier task forces made their appearance, planes often prevented us from recharging our batteries. This made us unable to escape underwater and literally turned us into sitting ducks for the enemy. The electric motor room was located just aft of the diesel engine room. The electric motor control board, rudder controls, and air compressors were also located here.
The last compartment was the aft torpedo room. There were only two torpedo launching tubes here, as well as eight bunks for 16 crewmen. An auxiliary steering wheel was located at the far aft end of the room for use in case the normal steering controls failed.
All of these compartments were enclosed within one large cigar-shaped enclosure called the pressure hull. The walls of the pressure hull were constructed of a thick steel alloy specially designed to withstand the immense water pressure exerted against it when submerged. Our maximum depth published in the manuals was 100 meters (about 330 feet), but in an emergency we could dive to twice that depth—or more. Attached to the outside of the pressure hull were various other tanks. Some of these were diving tanks, which were flooded with seawater or pumped-out with air in order to submerge or surface, respectively. Smaller trim tanks were used to more precisely control our depth. Other tanks held our supply of diesel fuel. Enclosing the entire vessel was the exterior hull, constructed of much thinner steel plate.
The flat top surface of the exterior hull was called our upper deck. Wooden planks covering the upper deck gave us some measure of traction when walking around up there. At first glance, the upper deck of our boat appeared rather barren. Hidden below the wooden planks, however, were pressurized storage tubes for ten more spare torpedoes. U-505 was originally armed with a large 105mm deck gun mounted on the upper deck just forward of the conning tower. Later in the war, when surface attacks became impractical, the deck gun was removed and replaced with anti-aircraft weapons.
Built on top of the upper deck, right above the control room, was the superstructure of the sub. The bulk of the superstructure was taken up by the conning tower, which functioned as the skipper’s command station during battle at periscope depth. The open-topped bridge was located above the conning tower. Platforms for our various anti-aircraft weapons were located aft of the bridge. Obviously, the bridge and anti-aircraft stations could only be manned when the boat was surfaced. Towering above everything were the periscope masts.
When she was built, U-505 was a state-of-the-art weapon of war. But it is most important to remember that technically speaking, she was only a “submersible.” That is, like all so-called submarines of the period, she was primarily a surface craft that had the additional ability to submerge for short periods. True submarines, designed to spend most of their time underwater, were not developed until later in the war when our magnificent Type XXI submarine made its appearance.
The next morning I reported to my
new skipper, commander of U-505, Kapitänleutnant Axel Olaf Löwe. He was of medium height, with a head of thick, dark, unruly hair. My first impression of him was not favorable. He seemed very casual in both dress and demeanor. He addressed me in an informal, almost familiar manner, which was quite a change from the authoritarian tone of our instructors in Submarine School. This was not the image of a U-boat commander that I had gotten from my adventure books!
I soon found, however, that his quiet, casual demeanor was based on a firm foundation of first-rate professionalism and ability. As my future crewmates were quick to tell me, the very best officers don’t need to throw their rank around, but rather lead by example. Löwe was just this sort of officer.
The skipper sat me down in his little cabin and asked me about my family, my training, and my attitudes about service aboard a U-boat. Throughout our small talk, I could see his quick, penetrating eyes gauging my responses. After a few minutes, he got around to the point. His deep, soft voice suddenly took on a business-like tone.
“Göbeler, I see from your records that they trained you in electrical motors, even though you had a Master’s certificate in diesel engines. The Navy wanted two-in-one. Well, I want three-in-one. If you agree to the assignment, I will appoint you to duty in the Zentrale (control room). It’s complex work, and one small mistake can sink a boat, but I think you can handle it. If it doesn’t work out, you can always go back to duty in the diesel room. What do you say?”
I didn’t even hesitate before accepting the skipper’s proposal. A big smile spread across Löwe’s face signifying, I thought, that his evaluation of me had been correct. We shook hands in agreement. Then I snapped to attention, saluted, and left to stow my gear aboard my new boat.
I spent the next few days settling into the routine of a frontline U-boat crewman. I was expecting some jealousy from the other crewmen because of my assignment to the control room, but I was mistaken. The skipper had already established a reputation for assigning men to do the job they fit best, rather than what the regulation book said. There were even a couple of lads in the crew who had gotten in trouble with the police. No other captain would have them on their boat, but Löwe was happy to accept them as long as they did their job well. In fact, he said, if they used the same resourcefulness in keeping our boat alive that they used to stay out of jail, so much the better!
The reason there were slots to fill in the U-505 crew in the first place was because a few of the original crewmen didn’t fit-in during the cruise from Germany to Lorient. Our skipper was using his skills in assessing men to consciously build a crew that could operate effectively as a team. This was an important lesson we learned from Kapitänleutnant Löwe: that rank and decorations didn’t matter a thing aboard a U-boat; what mattered was how well one performed his duties as part of a team.
Kapitänleutnant Axel Olaf Löwe, U-505’s beloved first commander. Author’s Collection
Over time, we learned what special strengths and weaknesses each one of us had, and organized ourselves accordingly. For instance, one of my good friends was a perfect seaman during normal conditions. I mean, he was absolutely perfect, and was a great asset to our crew. But as soon as the depth charges began exploding, he became totally useless. We all knew this, so someone automatically took over his duties when things got rough. I think it was this intimate knowledge of each other’s individual capabilities that helped us survive the challenges we met later on, even under different skippers.
I spent the daylight hours learning the intricacies of my control room duties. My main job would be to maintain the periscope’s hydraulic pump and operate it during action. My other main duty was to pass-on commands from the conning tower above us to the control room crew. I was reminded again and again that one improperly communicated order could finish us all. I soon demonstrated mastery of these duties.
During our off-duty hours, I read technical manuals and traded scuttlebutt with the rest of the crew. I heard about U-505’s initial shakedown cruise and her voyage from the Kiel naval base to Lorient. Rather than taking the shorter but much more dangerous route through the English Channel, U-505 had sailed north around the British Isles, then southeast down toward Lorient. A couple of times they had encountered British destroyers en route, but the rough seas prevented either side from launching any attacks. My crewmates warned me about seasickness, the “final exam” for any sailor.
By early February, final preparations were made for departure on our maiden war patrol. But first, a virtual mountain of supplies had to be loaded on board. The interior of our submarine looked more like a grocer’s storeroom than a weapon of war by the time we were finished.
I found it difficult to sleep those last few days before our sailing. While others in the crew enjoyed one last taste of Lorient’s nightlife, I stayed awake in my bunk reading and re-reading training manuals. I also found solace in the Bible my mother had given me. I prayed that my conduct in battle would be worthy of my family, nation, and God.
Chapter 2
My First War Patrol
My wartime adventure aboard U-505 began on February 11, 1942, with a rather ceremonious departure from Lorient. The crew members who were not on watch assembled in narrow parade formation on the upper deck. The rest of us manned our maneuver stations below. I was desperate not to make a mistake on the beginning of this, our boat’s first true combat patrol. The skipper and the men on watch stood clustered on the bridge, the top of which was decorated with garlands of flowers for the occasion. A wave of excitement washed over us all when Kapitänleutnant Löwe shouted the order to cast-off lines.
The removal of the mooring ropes was the Navy band’s cue to begin a farewell serenade of military marches. Three loud cheers of “Hurrah!” erupted from the dockside audience and echoed off the walls of the dimly lit bunker. With that, at precisely 1800 hours, our boat began to slowly back out of the black oily waters of the submarine pen into Lorient harbor.
Once clear of our berth, we were joined by U-68 for the trip to the departure point. In the outer harbor we met our escort, a small minesweeper. The music and cheers gradually faded into silence as our little flotilla made its way to Port Louis, the last cusp of friendly land we would see for quite a while.
Kapitänleutnant Löwe turned to the Executive Officer and said, “Nollau, throw the flowers overboard.”
“It will be a hard life—have no illusions about that. But with a well disciplined crew, we’ll have our successes.” So spoke U-505’s first commander Kplt. Axel- Olaf Löwe during the boat’s commissioning ceremony on August 26, 1941. NA
According to old German naval tradition, it was bad luck to carry flowers out of sight of land. Oberleutnant (Lieutenant j.g.) Nollau nodded in agreement and over the side the flowers went. No one wanted to offend Old King Neptune on our first sortie against the enemy!
When the ocean depth reached 200 meters, we made our final deep test dive, a precautionary procedure performed by all submarines departing on a war patrol. After a successful test, we re-surfaced and signaled to our escorts: “Everything O.K.”
They signaled back: “Safe return and good hunting!” before turning back toward the harbor. We were now on our own.
Our diesels roared up to flank speed and U-505 ‘s bow began cutting its way through the choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay. The afternoon departure time had been calculated to give us maximum cover of darkness to traverse the Bay. The Brits maintained constant surface and air patrols designed to catch departing or returning submarines moving through the area. We would soon come to call the place “the U-boat Graveyard” because of all of the unfortunate subs sunk here. By the end of the war, most U-boats never got a chance to engage the enemy before they were snared by the Allies’ cordon of death around our submarine sally ports. Despite our fears regarding what awaited us in the Battle of the Atlantic, we were determined not to be caught here and sunk before we had drawn blood.
Not long after our escort disappeared, we heard the click of th
e intercom. Everyone cocked their ear towards the nearest speaker to better hear the message over the reverberating clamor of the diesels.
“This is the Kapitänleutnant. We have been ordered to hunt along the West African coast. Our operational area will be the Allies’ convoy assembly point off Freetown Harbor. We will be going up against fast ships and it certainly won’t be easy. In the meantime, keep your eyes open and be alert! That is all.”
Few of us in the crew had ever heard of Freetown. We were told it was a port in Sierra Leone and that it was a major refueling point for Allied supply convoys headed towards the North African front. We were pleased to learn we would be taking a direct role in helping Rommel and his Afrika Korps fight against the Tommies.
Just then, we received a FT (radio-telegraph message) ordering us to turn around and assist one of our sister boats that had just been heavily damaged in an air attack off the Spanish coast. Some of us younger crew members seethed in frustration; we wanted to be warriors, not nursemaids or ambulance drivers! Only later, with experience and maturity, did we learn that one who saves lives is as heroic as one who kills the enemy. The whole matter blew over, however, when a little later the news reached us that the damaged U-boat had safely reached a Spanish port under its own power. We resumed our course for the West African coast.
We had a number of “Alarm Dives” during our transit through the Bay of Biscay because of approaching enemy aircraft. This was the true test of any submarine crew: to plunge the boat beneath the waves to a safe depth before the diving enemy bombers had a chance to drop their deadly loads. Our hearts pounded louder than our diesels during the first few encounters we had with those buzzards, but in a surprisingly short time these dives became absolutely routine. Occasionally, we heard the detonation of depth charges exploding over our heads, but they were never close enough to cause us serious worry or damage.
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 3
