Steel Boat, Iron Hearts

by Hans Goebeler

  With the most immediate danger averted, we were finally able to take a look topside. We couldn’t believe the sight that greeted us. Now we realized why Zschech had given the order to abandon ship: our boat had been nearly blown in two by the surprise air attack! The wooden planks of the upper deck aft of the conning tower looked as if a bulldozer had plowed across them. In the center of the damage, an enormous hole gaped half way across the entire topside hull of the boat, exposing a jumble of smashed and broken equipment below. Our 37mm anti-aircraft gun had been blown completely overboard by the force of the blasts, its mounting bolts sheered off as cleanly as if cut by a razor. Fully half of the steel side plates of the conning tower were either gone or hanging limply, clanging against each other in time with the gentle rocking of the waves. One depth charge (or bomb, at that point we weren’t sure which) had exploded on the pressurized tubes where the spare torpedoes were stored, completely destroying one of the torpedoes except for the warhead section. If that torpedo warhead had gone off, none of us would have survived.

  Despite the enormous damage to the conning tower, Leutnant (Ensign) Stolzenburg and the other two men standing watch on the bridge were still alive. They were laying unconscious on the bridge deck, drenched in seawater and their own blood. Stolzenburg was badly wounded and bleeding heavily from shrapnel wounds in his head and back.

  The center of the gaping hole (above) once held the 3.7cm cannon, which was blown overboard. Its sturdy mount absorbed the killing force of the blast that would have otherwise sunk U-505. The crew worked tirelessly to enable the boat to dive to shallow depths for the trip home. NA

  The mystery of why we had not suffered another bombing attack was obvious: floating just 30 meters off our starboard bow was the scattered wreckage of a large enemy aircraft. The mutilated body of one of its crewmen was sprawled lifelessly across the fragment of a wing. After a few moments the wing sank, taking the man’s body down with it. The aircraft had been destroyed by the blast of its own depth charges! We didn’t have time to think about the death of the enemy flier or our good fortune; we were much too busy fighting to keep ourselves afloat!

  Only many years after the attack did I discover exactly what happened to us that day. According to Gaylord Kelshall’s excellent book The U-boat War in the Caribbean, the aircraft that attacked us was a Lockheed Hudson, number PZ/L, one of the big two-engined bombers the British Coastal Command operated out of Trinidad’s Edinburgh airfield on anti-submarine patrols. The pilot of the aircraft was Flight Sergeant Ronald Sillcock, a veteran Australian aviator generally regarded as the top submarine hunter in #53 Squadron.

  Sillcock and his seasoned multinational aircrew had already scored hits against two other U-boats in recent weeks. In one attack, he heavily damaged Kapitänleutnant Piening’s U-155 off the coast of Martinique. Just a few days later, Sillcock once again demonstrated his superb bombing accuracy by attacking and nearly sinking Schweichel’s U-173. It was said that Sillcock, using the Hudson’s unique depth charge spreading device to maximum effectiveness, had never missed a target.

  The Flight Sergeant’s fabulous success was based on a bombing tactic he personally developed, one that neatly turned our increasing reliance on the Metox radar warning device to his advantage. Over the course of several days, the crafty Sillcock would repeatedly patrol the suspected location of a U-boat using his ASV airborne search radar turned on, pinpointing the sub’s position, but not attacking. This lulled the sub into a false sense of security by leading it to believe that its Metox would be 100% reliable in warning of any plane in the vicinity. Then, when cloudy conditions limited the ability of German lookouts to spot the approach of his aircraft, Sillcock would patrol the boat’s location with his radar turned off. Once his lookouts had visually spotted the U-boat, Sillcock would dive out of the sun with his engines feathered, silently and invisibly gliding down towards his target like a giant hawk. At the last minute, he would turn his engines on again, drop his bomb load, and pull out of the dive.

  Sadly for Sillcock and his crew, this time his aim was too perfect. The direct hit on our aft deck directed the force of the depth charge’s blast upward, blowing his aircraft to pieces. His tactics had worked perfectly, but the sub-hunting ace became a victim of his own skill.

  During the course of our repair efforts on U-505, we found several pieces of bright yellow Duraluminum from Sillcock’s aircraft scattered on our deck. Later, our machinist used the scrap metal to make little axes (our boat’s symbol ever since our days under Kapitänleutnant Löwe) for us crewmen to affix to our caps. This was in no way a demonstration of disrespect for the crew of the aircraft that had nearly killed us. Like so many men during World War II, they had to pay with their lives for doing their duty for their country. We respected them for that, and indeed, were filled with great admiration for their skill and courage.

  In 1998, I visited Trinidad and placed flowers at a U-boat memorial there, not only in memory of my fallen comrades in the U-boat service, but also for the brave and able crew of that Hudson. Every year since our encounter with Sillcock, I celebrate my birthday on two days: on my true birthday, and on the anniversary of the day that we so miraculously escaped death at the hands of the courageous Flight Sergeant.

  And the little yellow aluminum ax made from Sillcock’s plane? I still have it, as a talisman of luck and remembrance.

  Chapter 7

  The Long Way Home

  With the gaping hole in U-505’s hull sealed with nothing more substantial than a rubber bladder, our boat was totally incapable of diving to escape another air attack. We were also virtually defenseless. Our 37mm anti-aircraft gun had been blown overboard, leaving us with only one puny 20mm single-barreled machine gun for air defense. To make matters worse, the sea was absolutely calm, with no white caps to hide our wake. We were also trailing an enormous oil slick from a ruptured fuel bunker. That was especially dangerous, for enemy planes could use it to find us much as hunters follow the blood trail of a wounded animal.

  Luckily for us, Sillcock maintained radio silence before his attack in order to mask his presence, and the blasts from his own depth charges ended any chance he had of contacting his base after the attack. That gave us a tiny window of opportunity to escape before the British sent more patrols to the area. We were also lucky because the cloudy weather persisted. King Neptune was evidently looking out for old U-505, because the enemy did not spot us during our period of maximum vulnerability.

  We spent the next 18 hours plowing as fast as we could through the calm blue-green waters using our one remaining diesel engine, all the while working as feverishly as bees on our repairs. The more we surveyed the damage on our boat, the more we realized how lucky we were to still be alive.

  The most immediate problem was patching the hole in our pressure hull. To do that, we needed lots of steel plating. That turned out not to be a problem because the shattered deck and conning tower plates provided all the scrap metal we needed. Some members of the control room crew and I were assigned to clear away the damage on the deck. We spent the next few hours cutting away the bent and torn plates with an acetylene torch. Then, by heating the pieces with the torch and banging away like crazy with sledgehammers, we were able to form the metal into an approximation of the required shapes. With power generated by one of the electric motors, we then arc-welded the steel patches onto the damaged hull. We also tried to repair the ruptured fuel tank, but despite our best efforts, we continued to trail a wide, rainbow-colored oil slick.

  Once the larger pieces of deck debris were cleared away, we found that the special steel alloy pressure hull, though punctured and deeply dented by the depth charge concussions, was largely intact. That meant that, theoretically at least, we might eventually be able to dive again. But before we could even consider a dive, dozens of water and air lines which had been smashed flat by the blasts would have to be repaired or replaced. One of the giant mufflers for the diesels also needed to be remounted, and there were many jammed wa
ter intakes and exhaust valves that had to be freed. Nevertheless, we tackled each task with a determination borne of desperation. As each problem was solved, optimism grew that we might be able to make it home after all.

  We worked like coolies day and night to get our boat back into action. Without proper tools, the work was often frustrating and always back-breakingly hard. But as dawn broke on the 10th, the Chief Engineer felt confident enough to report to Zschech that we could attempt a very shallow test dive. Word of the test dive electrified us all.

  The diesel was shut down and we coasted to a stop. The sudden silence accentuated the seriousness of our predicament and multiplied our anxiety. We all knew what was at stake: the failure of one small plate or valve could send us on a one-way trip to the bottom.

  The diving alarm rang and startled us with its unaccustomed loudness. The suspense became excruciating as we listened to the gurgling water slowly, very slowly, being let into the diving tanks. Gradually, only 50 liters at a time, the tanks filled. With each tiny addition of weight, our boat sank lower and lower into the water.

  After what seemed an eternity, we heard the announcement we had been waiting for: “Hatch to the bridge is under water.”

  We had done it! There was still some leaking along the length of the port diesel and around some of our amateurish repairs, but in general everything held together. We all cheered like soccer fans.

  But the test wasn’t finished. Although we were technically underwater, the top of our conning tower was only a few inches deep and would be plainly visible to any airplane flying overhead. To survive the trip across the Atlantic, especially the heavily patrolled stretch through the Bay of Biscay, we would have to submerge to a depth of at least 35 meters. The skipper gave us the order, “Control room to all compartments: Watch closely for any leaks. All right, then…more water!”

  Several minutes more ticked by as we sank to periscope depth. Luckily, the front periscope had been shielded from the worst of the bomb blasts by the rear scope and was still partly operational. Zschech used it to take a peek toward the stern. He saw that our boat was still leaking fuel badly, but at least there were no large air leaks to be seen.

  We heard the electric motors start to hum and our boat began to slowly crawl forward. As we gained additional depth, some of the plates began to creak and groan. We control room operators exchanged worried glances, but no one said a word. The needle on our damaged depth meter began to vibrate, but it gradually settled down as we neared the 35-meter point. Finally, we leveled off and sat at the desired depth. Our wild exultation was mixed with tears of joy.

  We should have expected it, but it still came as a surprise when, at the very moment of our triumph, Zschech and the exec’s moods soured. Zschech was pouting because he would be returning from his first war patrol with only one victory pennant flying from the periscope. The Exec was angry that he would have to stand more bridge watches now that poor Stolzenburg was unable to report for duty. Predictably, their depression translated into more torment of us crew members. No matter, they could not dampen our spirits. We had survived the worst the Brits could throw at us and had still stayed afloat. We were proud of ourselves, even if our commanding officer was not.

  We stayed underwater during the daylight hours, cruising along at our new maximum depth of 40 meters. We needed to get as far away as possible from the site of Sillcock’s attack because we knew his friends would be looking for him—and us. Through the periscope, Zschech could still see a huge oil slick trailing behind us, but there was nothing we could do about that except pray no enemy planes spotted it. The sky remained dark with heavy layers of charcoal gray clouds.

  Just after midnight, we surfaced to send a FT to U-boat Headquarters describing our situation and giving them a list of our most critical needs. We also requested emergency medical help for our wounded comrades, all three of whom seemed to be on the verge of death. A couple of hours later, we received a reply from Dönitz’s Headquarters. Unfortunately, we were told, there were only a couple of U-boats currently operating in the Caribbean with doctors on board. A rendezvous with the nearest one, Engelmann’s U-163, was ruled out because they themselves had just been heavily damaged by an air attack. Vowe’s “Milk Cow” supply submarine U-462 was also ruled out because of intense air activity in the area. Eventually, U-boat Command directed us to Sea Square EE6680 to meet with Schuch’s U-154. Schuch’s boat didn’t have a doctor aboard, but they might be able to give us some assistance.

  Headquarters also transmitted some medical advice concerning the care of our wounded: keep them cool and give them good food. Those were things we all could have used! Unfortunately, it was beyond our capability to provide these things to anyone, including our badly injured comrades.

  At 1820 hours on November 13, we caught sight of U-154. Not only did they not have a doctor aboard, they were also unable to give us any spare parts for our damaged diesel. All we got were 20 ampules of morphine which, for a while at least, provided some relief to the wounded. An hour later, Schuch’s boat disappeared into the darkness. Once again, we were on our own.

  The morphine, which made the entire boat smell like a hospital, didn’t last long. The medicinal stench was soon replaced once again with the unnerving animal-like moaning of our injured comrades. Meanwhile, we were doing some moaning and groaning of our own because of the unending repair work. The most exhausting duty I was assigned to was the removal of some of the damaged spare torpedoes from the pressurized storage tubes located under the upper deck planks. Virtually every torpedo had been damaged. One had been completely blown in half. Others had hundreds of tiny holes and cracks in their bodies caused by flying shrapnel. Sometimes the damage was just inches away from their warheads, each of which contained over 600 pounds of explosive. One by one, the long, unwieldy monsters had to be hoisted out of the storage tubes with block and tackle, then thrown overboard. It was backbreaking, dangerous work that took several days to complete.

  Adding insult to injury, Zschech and his bosom buddy Bode continued their abusive behavior toward us. But we crewmen were happy to discover that during this time of emergency, each one of us had particular talents and skills that we could apply to our tasks. As each assignment was completed, we felt prouder and prouder of ourselves. It was as if we were fighting four enemies: the sea, the British, the damaged machinery, and our own officers…and we were beating them all! We couldn’t help but remind ourselves that U-boat crews were considered the elite of our navy, and through our actions in this emergency, that we were proving ourselves worthy of that reputation. With all we had gone through, we began to think that even within this elite service, we were demonstrating that we were an above average crew.

  Of course, all of this remained unspoken. A braggart would have immediately been put in his place. The slogan that made its way around the boat was, “Alles kleine Fische.” Literally, it meant, “It’s only small fish.” The meaning to us was that all the hardships we were experiencing meant nothing in the bigger picture. So stop dreaming, buddy, and let’s get back to work so we can bring this boat back home!

  A little after midnight on the 14th, we surfaced to send another FT to U-boat Headquarters. A few minutes later, we happened to intercept a message from Kapitänleutnant Schuch’s U-154 to Headquarters. Schuch reported that soon after departing from our rendezvous the previous day, they had sunk two big freighters in the area.

  Spurred by U-154’s success, Zschech decided to try to add a few victory pennants to our periscope before returning to base. We considered this decision to be extremely reckless. But when we heard he was planning to sail us into the middle of Trinidad harbor in broad daylight, we thought he had literally gone insane. Even the outer approaches to the harbor were well guarded. Beacon fires burned brightly all along the South American coastline, and a large searchlight positioned at the mouth of Trinidad harbor constantly scanned the seas. The presence of coastal radar was accepted as a given. Even a sub in perfect condition would be t
empting the fates with such boldness, but in our crippled condition, we considered it tantamount to suicide.

  Nevertheless, we followed the skipper’s orders without hesitation and steered a course directly up the shipping channel towards Trinidad’s harbor mouth. Before long, the boys with the big binoculars on the bridge spotted a smoke plume zig-zagging towards us at high speed.

  Several men and I were still on the upper deck making last-minute repairs when we heard Zschech’s command, “Einsteigen! Auf Gefechtsstationen!” (Everyone inside! Battle stations!). We scurried about, frantically collecting tools before jumping down the hatch to our duty stations.

  The target was a big freighter. Would the goddess of war really reward Zschech’s audacity? We lined up for the attack and fired two torpedoes at medium range. Both missed by wide margins because, once again, the skipper had misjudged the target’s speed. Zschech’s face turned red with frustration and anger. Naturally, he blamed someone else for a mistake that could only have been his. The Exec comforted his friend with his usual degree of tenderness and intimacy. We turned our heads away in embarrassment and distaste.

  We crewmen were in no mood to share in the Exec’s pity for our commander. Zschech’s blood fever had put us at great risk in return for a very small chance of success. We grumbled to each other that instead of sticking our head in the tiger’s mouth, we should be putting as much distance between Trinidad and us as possible. We wanted a bold skipper, but one who also had some common sense. After all, we had wounded to tend and repairs to make. Why risk everything on a crazy move like that? Resentment continued to simmer inside us.