Once we cleared the Bay of Biscay, things loosened up a bit. After we passed the Azores, we shut down one diesel and ran at half-speed in order to conserve fuel. The Kapitänleutnant even allowed three men at a time to join the bridge watch and have a smoke. What a joy it was to stand on the bridge with a good cigarette and the warm African breeze in one’s face! Back home in Germany our families would still be huddled around the fireplace at this time of year.
Before long, however, the warmth turned from a blessing into a curse. As we crossed the Tropic of Cancer, the boat began to heat-up like a furnace during the daytime. German submarines were not equipped with air conditioners, so we used every imaginable excuse to get out onto the deck and escape the roasting temperature inside the hull. When we dived, the ocean water cooled the pressure hull, causing drops of condensation to rain down upon us. We switched to a very casual tropical uniform: khaki canvas shorts and no shirt. We donned a broad-brimmed pith helmet when we were topside. Soon we all had skin as brown as African natives.
The tropical heat began to make our food stores spoil much sooner than expected. For example, upon our departure from Lorient, we had taken on 3,000 eggs. In the chilly waters of the North Atlantic, eggs could be counted on to last two or three months before getting rotten. In this torrid climate however, the eggs began to rot after only a couple of weeks. The skipper decided that we should try to consume them as quickly as possible and announced that we could eat as many of them as we wished every mealtime. Well, some of the boys on board really liked eggs and began eating literally dozens of them daily. After a few days, though, no one could even stand the sight of the little white devils. For many of us, the mere smell of eggs was repulsive for a many years afterward.
Those were lazy days as we slowly plodded southward. During the cool clear nights, we would sit on the deck and stare at the Southern Cross, telling every story from our civilian lives we could remember. At first it all seemed very idyllic to be sailing under these strange constellations towards our unknown fate. But after three weeks out of Lorient, the boring routine began to grate on my nerves. The unending cycles of watch, trying to read with condensation water dripping on the pages of my English language textbook, someone telling his old story for the tenth time, the same phonograph record playing for the one hundredth time. For young guys like us, this inactivity was a kind of slow psychological torture.
Of course, torture can be of the physical variety, too. I was smaller and younger than most of the others, and therefore had to take my fair share of teasing and hazing before being fully accepted as one of the crew. I was also less experienced than they were because I had missed U-505 ‘s initial journey from Kiel to Lorient. The biggest challenge to me was gaining my “sea legs.” During storms, the boat would often rock 60 degrees from side to side. In situations like that, even if you were deathly seasick, you had to perform your duties perfectly. We were well aware that some boats never returned to base because of one little mistake by someone in the control room. In a way, I was lucky that first patrol was so rough, because if you learn the hard way, it becomes easier later on. Some men never got used to the motions and pressure changes of a submarine. One Petty Officer reluctantly returned to duty on destroyers because he simply could not adjust to the rigors of submarine life.
At any rate, after a few weeks at sea, I got a promotion in my control room duties. The skipper moved me from the periscope pump operator’s position to the diving manifold operator’s position a few feet away. My new duties were much more complex, as I was responsible for controlling the water level in the numerous diving tanks. The tanks needed to be blown out with air or filled with water in a precisely timed sequence lest the boat lose pitch control. Except for occasional emergencies when I assisted the diesel engine crew make repairs, this was to be my duty position for the rest of my wartime career aboard U-505.
During our transit to the Freetown operational area, we had several sightings of smoke plumes from enemy convoys. Naturally, we gave chase. However, patrolling British aircraft, usually one of the big 4engined Sunderland flying boats, always managed to spot us before we got into firing range. Once we were forced to emergency dive, it was easy for the enemy ships to slip away because U-505 ‘s electric motors gave us a cruising speed of only seven knots underwater. Unless we were already perfectly positioned in the path of a convoy, this was far too slow to catch up with a target and conduct an attack. Kapitänleutnant Löwe would be left watching through the periscope, muttering in frustration as the convoy disappeared into the distance.
A couple of times aircraft didn’t spot us, which allowed us to stay on the surface and use our faster diesel engines to chase a target. But even at top speed, we were only a few knots faster than most convoys. Therefore, we would try to maneuver in front of their anticipated course in order to intercept them. A few times we ran the diesels at dangerously high speeds in order to catch a convoy, but a fortuitous change of direction always saved the enemy ships from an attack.
You cannot imagine the excitement we crewmen felt during these chases. “Finally,” we thought, “we will get our first hit!”
But eventually we would hear the roaring diesels reduce to normal speed again and the skipper would apologize to us over the intercom for guessing the convoy’s course wrong. At those moments the crew’s mood barometer would drop to zero and all of the built-up frustrations and petty feuds of the past few weeks would come flooding back. Suddenly, once again you became conscious of the heat and the noise and the stench of whatever shit our cook was preparing for dinner. With such a young, green crew on his hands, Kapitänleutnant Löwe knew we needed a kill—as much for crew morale as for the war effort.
In an attempt to provide us with some diversion, the skipper began to organize our off-duty hobbies into ship-wide tournaments. Chess and card games were the most popular contests. My favorites were the trivia games where we would try to name the capitals of foreign countries or answer history questions. Winners were allowed to skip a watch duty or given an extra scoop of dessert as a reward. These games helped a lot, but everyone from the skipper on down knew there was no cure for morale problems like a few victory pennants flying from the conning tower.
As we entered our operational area off the West African coast, Allied air activity stepped up considerably. The planes buzzed over our heads like swarms of hornets. They forced us to emergency dive uncounted times, but no one cared about the increased danger as long as it meant we had a better chance to sink some enemy ships. On the morning of March 8, 1942, we finally arrived at our patrol station off Sierra Leone. Now, we thought, it is them or us.
We searched in vain all day for signs of the enemy. Then, at 1836 hours, one of the sharp-eyed boys on bridge watch spotted something on the horizon. It was an enemy freighter piled high with cargo heading on a general course for Freetown. She was running at 12 knots, zigzagging with lights dimmed. It took us four full hours to finally catch up with her and maneuver into attack position.
The tension inside the control room was excruciating as we made the final preparations for firing. My own heart was beating wildly with excitement as I adjusted the boat’s trim to compensate for the flooding of the torpedo tubes. After all the training and hard work, after all the tedious waiting, at long last we were going to strike against the enemy!
We all strained to hear the whispers of the firing crew as they calculated range and speed. Finally, at a range of 600 Meters, we heard Kapitänleutnant Löwe’s deep voice boom out the words, “Torpedoes los!” (Torpedoes away!). With a hiss and a shudder, two torpedoes leapt from their tubes. We waited breathlessly as the seconds ticked by to the estimated time of impact. Then…nothing! For some reason, both torpedoes missed the target.
The skipper didn’t give us time to get depressed. We felt an abrupt change of course and heard the diesels once again rev up to flank speed. There was heavy phosphorescence in the sea, our churning propellers leaving a huge curving trail of eerie green light in our w
ake. Our nerves were as taut as violin strings. Anger now joined the medley of other emotions sweeping through our hearts. Caution be damned, we MUST get that freighter!
The sudden ringing of the machine telegraph bell made a few of us jump. The ringing meant new orders were being transmitted for course and speed, new numbers being dialed in for the torpedo data computer. No one talked; our emotions were communicated to each other though our eyes.
The hammering clamor of the diesels seemed to fade to silence as the firing commands were given: “Tube 2, distance 400 meters, depth 3 meters…Torpedo los!”
We all joined in to chant the torpedo timing count: “…15…16…17…18…19…” Boom! The explosion! The torpedo hit the steamer amidships, stopping her dead in her tracks. Lifeboats were lowered and a large night beacon buoy was deployed. A brave radioman still on board the steamer started broadcasting a frantic S-O-S. From his message we discovered the ship was the British freighter Ben Mohr, 5,920 tons.
The Ben Mohr was settling into the water, but very slowly. Once all men had left the ship and the lifeboats had cleared the area, Löwe ordered another torpedo to be used for the coup de grace. The “eel,” which was our slang word for torpedo, was fired point-blank from a distance of 300 meters. It hit directly under the bridge and the freighter began to break in two.
By 2347 hours, there was nothing left floating on the surface except the lifeboats and a curious assortment of debris. We were so close to our target that we could plainly see the survivors huddled in the boats. We were relieved that no one appeared to be injured. It may seem strange, but despite our countries being traditional enemies, we felt no hatred toward the British seamen. We were fascinated by the awesome destruction we had wrought, but we had no desire to see our brother sailors harmed. In a way, it was like watching an automobile race: one loves to see a good crash, but at the same time hopes that no one gets hurt.
But there was no time to contemplate our first victory for the moon was bright and we had to make good our escape. Satisfied the Brits were all right, Löwe ordered us out of the area at top speed. We were very busy at our duty stations, but everyone was jubilant. All of the trials and frustrations we experienced earlier in the mission were forgotten. Sinking a fully loaded freighter on our first mission, we decided, was a good omen.
The very next morning, we sighted another smoke plume drifting leeward over the horizon. The sudden appearance overhead of a British Sunderland interrupted our chase, but a few hours later we spotted the smoke again. Dead ahead, emerging from a heavy rain squall, was a large tanker running zigzags at 10 knots. Her general course was the same as the freighter from yesterday. She was not flying a flag, but a quick glance at the recognition book revealed her to be a British Confidence class tanker, approximately 8,000 tons. Best of all, she was lying low in the water, fully loaded with oil destined for the enemy’s forces in North Africa.
We positioned ourselves for attack and submerged, waiting for our prey to come to us. By the time Kapitänleutnant Löwe raised the attack periscope, we were so close (less than 200 meters away) that only 1/3 of the target could be seen in the scope’s field of vision. We had to hurry before the tanker got so close that we would be endangered by our own torpedo’s explosion.
“Torpedo depth 4 meters, bearing 130.”
The forward torpedo control room mate flooded the tubes and we adjusted the boat’s trim for the shift in weight. In the drama of the moment, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I envisioned the torpedo officer’s fist raised over the red firing button, like a guillotine blade hanging over the head of a condemned man. We all held our breath waiting for the inevitable order to fire. The tension was unbearable; what the hell were they waiting for?
Then, at last, the order: “Torpedo 5…los! Torpedo 6…los!”
With a loud hiss of air pressure, the long, black “eels” shot out of the tubes on their mission of destruction. Time, 1131 hours. At this range, we couldn’t miss, could we?
Again, we began counting down the seconds until impact: “…7…8…9.” A sharp explosion was followed immediately by a deafening roar. A moment later, a gigantic shock wave hit us, knocking us off our feet and rocking the boat like a baby’s cradle. Huge waves blocked the periscope’s vision for almost two minutes.
When the periscope view finally cleared, all that could be seen was an enormous plume of white smoke. The tanker, which had evidently been loaded with gasoline, had exploded like a bomb when the torpedoes hit. Inside the sub we could still hear low, rumbling explosions several minutes after the first detonation.
The blast wave caused some minor damage to our diesel clutch. Repairs were accomplished quickly and Kapitänleutnant Löwe ordered “Battle stations, surface.”
As soon as the conning tower cleared the surface, the skipper and the rest of the watch crew popped open the hatch and clambered out on to the bridge. All that could be seen was scattered debris and a huge, quickly spreading oil slick where the tanker had once been. Then, incredibly, the bridge watch spotted some survivors! There were about twenty of them, thickly covered in oil, paddling toward us in a lifeboat and two rafts.
Löwe maneuvered our boat closer to render aid to the dazed survivors, many of whom had suffered burns. We gave them fresh water, food, medicine, and bandages. The grateful sailors told us that the tanker was the Sydhav, bound for Freetown.
We had no sooner found out the name of the tanker when another Sunderland was spotted approaching from the east, range about 8,000 meters. Satisfied that we had done all we could for the survivors, we made good our escape. After the war we found out the aircraft had somehow missed seeing both our boat and the giant oil slick, but at the time we had to assume we had been detected.
The next two days were spent in a fruitless search for more targets. We were repeatedly forced to dive to escape from approaching aircraft. Our two sinkings had obviously disturbed a hornet’s nest, and now an angry swarm of enemy planes blackened the skies above us. A fierce tropical storm finally grounded our tormentors, giving us a brief respite to surface and reload torpedoes into the forward tubes. Torrential showers and a heavy swell hindered our work, but the main problem was a faulty upper deck plate built in Lorient. It was our first experience with sabotage by the shipyard workers of Lorient, a problem that would become much more frequent and serious as the war progressed.
After two hours of backbreaking labor, we finished loading the torpedoes and slipped into relative safety under the waves. It was just plain good luck that no aircraft had seen us. Only one year later, with increased Allied air activity, being stranded on the surface for two hours like that would have meant certain destruction.
Our first two kills had whetted our appetite for combat, but we had become victims of our own success: Allied merchant traffic was scared away from the area. Occasionally we would encounter a neutral ship or Allied destroyers on patrol, but no freighters or tankers that we were in a position to attack. Radio messages from Fregattenkapitän (Navy Commander) Karl Merten’s U-68, which was also operating in the Freetown area, reported a similar situation: no targets.
Eventually, our frustrated skipper radioed the headquarters of Admiral Dönitz, the commander of all U-boat forces, asking permission to sail across the narrow waist of the Atlantic to strike at shipping coming out of South America. Löwe’s request was refused, however, due to the delicate political situation there. So, we were left to ply the steamy African waters in a vain attempt to locate enemy ships.
Unfortunately, there was never a shortage of enemy aircraft. Several times a day we were forced to emergency dive to escape from the damned planes. The sheer physical and emotional effort expended by so many crash dives began to wear us down.
Submariners of today cannot imagine the complex operations required of a crew to emergency dive in a World War II boat. When the “Alarm” signal was received over the machine telegraph, many dozens of hand wheels and valves had to be sequentially operated, all to a precise degree. In
the hot, crowded control room of our boat, you had to push and shove each other out of the way to make hasty adjustments of the instruments. There was no time for emotions or apologies—just get your job done, and get it done right the first time! There wasn’t even time to fully explain orders; usually a hand signal or a single word had to suffice. Only the Lord in Heaven knows how many boats went down for the last time because of a simple mistake or misunderstanding.
For the next several days we had zero success. We spotted a few distant ships moving at high speed, and once we even managed to fire a couple of torpedoes at long range, but failed to score a hit. We continued on a generally southern course along the coast of Africa. The days began to blur in our minds into one unending, steaming hell.
It was during this time that we experienced our first real baptism of fire…on the receiving end. In the very early morning hours of March 29th, we spotted a suspicious shadow lurking in a rain squall. The vessel turned out to a freighter, but with an unusual silhouette. Löwe decided to play it safe and pursue the ship underwater.
We chased the zig-zagging target for more than four hours, but with our slow electric motors, we could not close the distance between us. At0550 hours the bright moon set, giving us a short window of opportunity to make a surface attack before the sun rose.
We surfaced and started the diesels when, suddenly, an aircraft appeared, illuminating our general vicinity with blindingly bright searchlights. A moment later, another aircraft appeared 300 meters to our starboard, flying parallel to our course. The second aircraft began signaling to the ship with recognition lights. Then, both the steamship and the airplane made abrupt turns, heading directly toward us.
This was more than enough for Löwe, who knew a trap when he saw one. We immediately alarm dived and made evasive maneuvers. After twenty minutes of silence, we rose to periscope depth to take a look. If the planes were gone, perhaps we could still make an underwater attack on the suspicious freighter. No sooner had the periscope broken the surface, however, than we all heard the unmistakable “pings” of a warship’s Asdic underwater detection device. Well, Asdic pings are like a woman’s labor pains; the shorter the interval between them, the closer the moment of truth. These pings were getting closer—and at a very alarming rate!
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 4
