Steel Boat, Iron Hearts

by Hans Goebeler

  From then on, Zschech made sure that everyone was absolutely certain, as we used to say, “which way the wind was blowing.” During the next few days, virtually the entire crew was personally treated to the skipper’s wrath. There were only two exceptions. The first was our Executive Officer, whose “personal” relationship with Zschech overrode professional considerations. The second exception was our Chief Engineering Officer Förster. He technically outranked Zschech, though as skipper, Zschech was still in command of the boat. In deference to his rank and mechanical expertise, Zschech left Förster pretty much alone, at least at the beginning. As for the rest of us, we began praying to Heaven that Zschech would prove as bothersome to the enemy as he was to his own crew.

  We continued sailing westward, battering our way forward through heavy rolling swells. On the night of October 6, the new Metox radar warning device proved its worth by alerting us to an approaching Allied aircraft. We were able to crash dive safely before the buzzard ever came into sight. The next night we received a FT radio-telegram from Dönitz’s U-boat Command advising us of our preliminary destination: Sea Square ED99. We would once again be hunting for prey in the Caribbean, this time off the coast of Trinidad.

  In the morning, our port diesel engine failed. While we sat submerged to effect repairs, our sound man reported a detonation and faint propeller noises to the west. Kapitänleutnant Zschech decided to take a look around and brought U-505 up to periscope depth. We saw nothing, but a few minutes later we received a radio message from another U-boat reporting a small Allied convoy approximately fifty nautical miles away. At least a dozen enemy ships were just waiting to feel the sting of our torpedoes, but we couldn’t get there because one of our engines was dead! We sat frustrated and helpless as our sound man reported more detonations. Some of the crew blamed our wretched luck on the flowers. I don’t think anyone really believed in that superstition, but it was the topic of more grumbling among the crew.

  Our duties for the next few hours were dominated with the need to get that damn diesel going. Since the engines had just been overhauled, speculation centered on whether it was a defective part or if it was sabotage by one of the mechanics back in Lorient. We tried to make ourselves believe this wasn’t another bad omen.

  As dawn broke on October 11, we sighted sails to the west. We crept up at periscope depth to investigate. The deck of the ship, which was apparently Portuguese, was stacked with a load of cork balls for fishing nets. After the Roamar affair, we had no appetite for another encounter with a sailing ship. We left the boat alone without checking her cargo for contraband.

  By the end of the second week, we were clear of the Bay of Biscay danger zone and well on our way across the Atlantic. In our wake trailed heavy phosphorescence, but our trusty Metox device allowed us to relax a bit more than in former days.

  On the morning of the 15th, I was assigned to one of the least pleasant duties a control room operator has ever had: picking rotten potatoes out of the bags of provisions that still littered virtually every spare inch of the control room. The stench of the black mushy potatoes mixed with the aromas of rotten eggs, diesel fuel fumes, exhaust gas, and bilge water to create a hellish perfume I shall never forget. After a few weeks, one usually got used to these repulsive smells, but getting covered up to the elbows by the stuff was truly disgusting.

  I tried to forget the stench by going up onto the bridge and enjoying a smoke, but there was only one type of cigarette available on board: the horrible-tasting Jan Maat brand. Back in Lorient, we could get all sorts of good brands like Atikah, Memphis, and Gold Dollar. But for some reason, you couldn’t taste the tobacco when you smoked the good stuff at sea. Perhaps the changes in pressure or exposure to salt spray affected the better quality tobacco; we didn’t know. All we did know was that, after a couple of weeks at sea, the vile little Jan Maats were the only cigarette that still retained any taste. The trouble was, it was a terrible taste! One had to pull a bit of tobacco out of the smoking end (cigarettes didn’t have filters in those days) and pinch it between your thumb and index finger in order to tolerate the literally nauseating smoke. It was a toss-up as to which smell was worse: the Jan Maats or the rotten potatoes.

  It must seem very petty to a reader to hear of our preoccupation with such little things like flower superstitions and the smell of cigarettes, but during the long lulls between attacks, you didn’t have much else on a U-boat to occupy your mind. When you take 50 men, crowd them without privacy into a long sardine can and totally isolate them from the rest of the world, minor matters such as these become very important. Like gossip in a small town, even insignificant things became the focus of intense interest. Stories made their way back and forth throughout the boat like an echo in a cave, bouncing fore and aft and gaining intensity with every telling. A tiny pleasure like smoking a good-tasting cigarette seemed like the most important thing in the world to a lonely young sailor in the middle of the ocean. Only when the alarm klaxon rang and we went into action did all of these inconsequential matters shrink back to their proper proportions.

  On October 20, we received an FT radio-telegram that must have been good news to Kapitänleutnant Zschech, but which was devastating to the rest of the crew: our Chief Engineering Officer Förster was ordered to transfer at sea to another U-boat. The last of the senior officers from Kapitänleutnant Löwe’s old crew was being removed. Two days later, just after sunset, we rendezvoused with U-514 to effect the transfer. Förster’s departure was an emotional one, though none of us dared to make the full depth of our feelings known to Zschech’s clique of officers. An hour and a half later, U-514 disappeared from sight, eliminating what Kapitänleutnant Zschech must have regarded as the last remnant of resistance to his authority on board our boat. The sea became rough in the next few days, as if Neptune was displeased with the latest turn of events.

  With Förster gone, Zschech and his Exec, Thilo Bode, became even more tyrannical in their behavior toward us. We didn’t mind so much the constant practice drills; after all, proficiency in one’s duties has always been the best guarantor of success and survival in war. Soon we broke our previous records for the quickness of completing drills, and we were rightly proud of that. But Zschech never seemed to be satisfied, nor even to acknowledge our prowess. Instead, the harassment increased. It was no longer enough to be proficient at one’s job, one also had to deal with an endless stream of other duties, most of which seemed like unnecessary “busy work.”

  The most infuriating duty I experienced during this time was serving the officers during their mess. One would have thought they were dining at a fancy restaurant in Paris given the way they would haughtily return the food to the galley as unsatisfactory. You had to listen to their constant, sneering complaints and say nothing but, “Jawohl, Herr So-and-So.” And woe be to the sailor who did not stand sufficiently rigid at attention while they ate their meals! A couple of times I found myself down in the bowels of the boat cleaning out the bilge for committing such a serious infraction. What made it all so aggravating was that we, and sometimes even our cook Toni Kern, would miss our own meals and have to go to sleep hungry because of all of these extra waiter duties.

  By the beginning of November, we arrived at our patrol station off the South American coast. Our orders were to prowl the narrow strait between Trinidad and the coast of Venezuela, concentrating our efforts on any tankers bringing oil out from the mouth of the Orinico River. Remembering the gigantic explosions and fires that resulted from our previous attack on a tanker, we were hoping to put on a good fireworks show for the native villagers we saw living on the beaches.

  Even though it was late autumn, the sea and air temperatures were still unbearably hot. Condensation water dripping on our heads was our only relief from the heat. Between the sauna-like conditions inside the boat and the constant torment from the officers, our nerves frayed and tempers once again began to flare. Men would get into a shouting match, usually for little or no reason, and then the fists woul
d fly. Usually it would be over in a matter of seconds, with the men ending up laughing and agreeing to forget the whole idiotic episode. It was clear we needed to get back into action in order to get our minds off our troubles. Contrary to expectations, however, there was no enemy traffic coming through the strait. For days we sat in our iron pressure cooker, waiting for targets that never came.

  Escaping the heat. While a watch scans the horizon, a handful of U-505’s crew rest above decks, grateful for the chance to escape the oppressive heat inside the hull. Author Hans Goebeler is standing in the center of rear line. Hunter-killer groups would soon made these relaxing days above deck impossible. Author’s Collection

  My favorite pastime during this lull in the action was to secretly watch our newly-promoted Chief Engineering Officer Hauser preen himself in the officers’ quarters. We soon nicknamed him “the Raccoon” because of his constant fussing over his facial hair. For hours on end he would sit there in front of the mirror, trimming, pulling, and plucking at his thin little beard, trying desperately to make himself look like a seasoned mariner. Once he was satisfied that his beard was perfect, he would practice various scowls and other authoritarian poses in front of the mirror. Of course, he was unaware anyone could see him through the control room hatchway.

  We didn’t have much respect for this fellow. Naturally, he was far less technically knowledgeable than old Förster, but the main thing that irked us was the Raccoon’s neurotic obsession with his beard. Any member of the engineering crew who had the audacity to grow a thicker beard than his was given a very rough time. The Raccoon loved to punish crewmen for even the slightest of infractions by subtracting days from their next furlough.

  But the biggest pest, besides Zschech himself of course, remained our Executive Officer Thilo Bode. He was a thoroughly unpleasant character, with a disposition that grew steadily worse as our lack of success began to frustrate him. The Exec always spoke to us in a very nasty tone, continually belittling us as lazy and incompetent. As far as we were concerned, it was he who was incompetent. His favorite punishment was to assign us to long periods of extra watch duty, often for doing nothing more than humming a tune while working.

  Of course, the German military man has traditionally been accustomed to strict discipline and hard training, but there is always an underlying respect between officer and men, based on the understanding that the hardships are for the good of the unit. But these officers went far beyond what was reasonable, hurting our morale and even our physical ability to do our jobs.

  I remember very clearly one encounter I had with the Exec. It was after midnight and I was trying to get some sleep during my six-hour rest period. I was shaken awake and told Bode had ordered me to report immediately to the bridge. In less than a minute, I had dressed and scurried up the ladders to the bridge. As I snapped to attention before him, I wondered what technical emergency had required my immediate presence.

  “Maschinengefreiter Göbeler here as ordered, Sir!”

  “Göbeler, get us some coffee, and HURRY!”

  Having an off-duty crewman’s all-too-precious sleep interrupted for such a trivial matter seemed incomprehensible to me. Kapitänleutnant

  Löwe would never have tolerated such a self-defeating abuse of authority by one of his officers. By this time, though, we were well accustomed to such treatment by this new group. I ran down to the little corner that served as the galley for our boat and told my friend Toni to make some fresh coffee for Bode. Toni had sensed that Bode was in one of his moods and already had some water boiling. Within a few minutes, I was making my way back to the bridge with some cups and a pot of hot, fresh coffee.

  It was quite a trick to get up the two ladders to the bridge with the coffeepot and cups in my hand, but I managed to do so without dropping anything. I reported to Bode and filled the cups with the hot aromatic brew (naturally, the Exec got his cup first). Everything seemed satisfactory, so I began climbing back down the ladder to the control room.

  Suddenly, I felt the searing pain of scalding liquid being poured on my head from above. Bode had emptied his cup of newly boiled coffee on me and was now screaming for me to report back to the bridge. Within seconds, I was back on the bridge, rigidly at attention but shaking uncontrollably from the shock and pain.

  “You idiot, can’t you pay attention? I said fresh coffee, not this stinking bilge water. Get down there and make me some real coffee, immediately!”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant!”

  I ran back down to the galley where Toni, having heard every word, was preparing another pot of fresh coffee. While it brewed, Toni warned me not to let Bode make me lose my temper, as any disrespect to an officer would be severely punished—no matter what the provocation. A few moments later, I received another order from the bridge to hurry with the cup of coffee.

  “Here, give that asshole his cup of coffee,” said Toni, pouring me another cup.

  I hurried up to the bridge, holding the cup with one hand and trying to grasp the rails of the ladder with the other. Unfortunately, while climbing one of the ladders, a bit of the coffee spilled out of the cup. When I reported to Bode, he looked at the cup and once again exploded into anger.

  “I gave the order for one cup…one FULL cup! Rush down there and get me another one, this time filled to the top. HURRY!”

  The other members of the watch just stood there, frozen in fear and wide-eyed disbelief. Once again I ran down to the galley for more coffee.

  My buddy Toni gave me a conspiratorial look and whispered to me, “This is what you have to do, Hans. Fill your mouth with coffee until you are on the last couple of steps of the ladder. Then spit enough coffee back into the cup until it is filled right up to the top. You’ll see how he likes that cup of ‘fresh’ coffee!”

  So, up I went for the third time. Once again, a bit sloshed out of the cup as I climbed up the ladder, but I refilled the cup exactly as Toni had instructed me to. Sure enough, Bode was satisfied with this cup, asking me why I didn’t do it right like this the first time.

  I had to get off the bridge as quickly as possible to avoid breaking out in laughter. I stopped by the galley to thank Toni for his advice and then went directly to my bunk. The Exec’s fun and games had cost me an hour of precious sleep, but at least I had gotten the last laugh.

  We had still not found any enemy ships as the month of October came to a close. Our only neighbors in the empty ocean were some friendly dolphins who danced and jumped along side our boat like little children playing next to their mother’s skirt.

  Once we encountered a gigantic school of flying fish. Hundreds of them would leap simultaneously into the air, sailing for 50 or even 100 meters at a time. Then, as if on signal, they would all dive back into the water, disappearing back under the blue-green waves. Some of the more superstitious among our crew took it to be a good omen, claiming we would always be able to dive in time to escape danger.

  Conditions within the boat were getting unbearable. The heat was unrelenting. Constant drills and training exercises ordered by Kapitänleutnant Zschech made the crew’s mood barometer drop below zero. The total lack of enemy merchant traffic only exacerbated our frustrations. The only comic relief from this routine was a visit from the Radio Petty Officer who, doubling as our boat’s medic, appeared in the control room one afternoon holding a crew roster and a big magnifying glass. He was on the hunt for the little pests we called “Luftwaffe Antelopes.” One by one, he called our names and we dropped our pants so he could have a close look below our belt line for any tiny hitchhikers that may have jumped aboard our bodies after a rendezvous with a Mademoiselle. Despite our infrequent opportunities to bathe at sea, most of us were pronounced clean and shipshape. Those sailors found to be infested were treated with medicine by the medic, and given a good teasing by the rest of us.

  Unfortunately, there were other health concerns aboard the boat. Heat and exposure to diesel fumes had affected the engine room crew, as well as all the men assigned to
the aft crew quarters. Their eyelids had turned red from the fumes and many were suffering from infections. Despite these problems, Zschech would not diverge from his strict policy of allowing only two men at a time to get fresh air topside.

  On November 1, we received orders from U-boat Headquarters to move towards Trinidad via Barbados. It was hoped this new operational area would put us in the middle of some enemy naval traffic. The only traffic we encountered, however, was air traffic. We were repeatedly forced to dive as the Metox device gave us warning of approaching Allied planes.

  I spent most of my free time with my nose buried in an English language textbook, repeating word definitions and grammar. Many of my boat mates asked me why I was studying English.

  “They are the ones who will have to learn German!” they said.

  I was sure they were right. But, I thought, it is always good to know more than one language—even though we would win the war.

  Around midnight on November 7, we were shaken from our slumber by a sudden increase in the hammering roar of our Jumbos. Running the diesels at such high RPMs meant only one thing: we were chasing a target! We jumped into action without waiting for the klaxon to ring.

  It was exciting to feel our boat running at top speed again. The bow heaved upwards by the crests of the long, rolling waves, then crashed downwards into the deep troughs. The diesels’ thirst for air was pulling in a cool, stiff breeze throughout the length of the boat. The combination of the ear-splitting noise, violent bucking of the bow, and sudden gust of clean fresh air thrilled us all to our very souls. We were finally on the hunt again!

  Alfred Reinig, our Chief Navigator, went topside to get a fix on our position by “shooting the stars” with his sextant. I was asked to assist him. He would shout out the names of the various stars and I would record the minutes and seconds for him to calculate. That was one thing about being assigned to the control room of a U-boat: you always had a variety of tasks to perform, from the most interesting to the most mundane.