by Gene Masters
And that same language barrier made Buckingham doing anything to alleviate the prisoner’s suffering all the more difficult. He spoke no Italian or Polish, and worse, the Poles who were guarding the Italians, spoke no Italian whatever, and precious little English.
It was on the second day out that Buckingham discovered Marco Scarpetti, who was being held in number three hold. He had overheard the young Italian sergeant teaching English to one of the Poles, and, interrupting the lesson, asked, “So you can speak English?”
“Yes Sir,” Marco replied, his English only slightly accented, “I do.”
“Excellent,” Buckingham said. He eyed the short, dark-eyed Italian in his soiled, tattered uniform, the three stripes on his arm patch barely distinguishable. “And what is your name, Sergeant?”
“Marco Scarpetti, Sir, First Royal Italian Army.”
Pleased, Buckingham turned and addressed Scarpetti’s student, a Polish sergeant who appeared to be somewhat older than his instructor, and asked, “And you Sergeant, can you speak English as well?”
“I speak little,” Stanislaw answered, his English heavily accented. “I learn what Marco teaches.”
“And your name, Sergeant?”
“Kominsky, Stanislaw, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Polish Second Corps.”
The “Polish Second Corps,” Buckingham knew, was a corps of Free Polish Army troops who had been assigned to the British Eighth Army. Somehow, some of these men had ended up aboard Laconia and had more or less taken charge of the Polish army cadets who had been pressed into service in Durban to guard the Italian prisoners.
“I am pleased to meet you both, Marco and Stanislaw, you can be of great help to me, if you are willing. I speak neither Italian nor Polish, and you can help me communicate with both your fellow prisoners, Marco, and you, Stanislaw, with your countrymen, their guards.”
Both men beamed, nodding an enthusiastic assent.
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16
Ascension Island, September, 1942
Captain Robert C. Richardson III, United States Military Academy, Class of 1939, had, immediately upon graduation, requested assignment to the Army Air Force. He graduated from flight school a year later, and was so skilled a pilot that he was immediately assigned as a flight instructor at Randolph Field in Texas. It was at Randolph Field that he qualified in various training aircraft. Richardson moved on to a series of other assignments during his early career, including squadron command positions, and qualified in a variety of aircraft, including advanced twin-engine bombers, and fighters, including the P-40 Warhawk.
In April, 1942, Richardson took command of the 1st Composite Air Squadron, then headquartered in Key Field, Mississippi. The 1st Composite consisted of a flight of eighteen P-39 Bell Airacobra fighters, and five B-25 Boeing Mitchell bombers (the latter the same aircraft that Colonel Jimmy Doolittle flew off the USS Hornet to bomb Tokyo that same month).
The 1st Composite Air Squadron was transferred to Wideawake Field, on Ascension Island, in August, 1942, and was declared operational a month later. As commander of the 1st Composite squadron, Richardson was tasked with defense of the island and anti-submarine warfare patrols.
Colonel Ross O. Baldwin was still in command of the Army garrison on Ascension. Reporting to him, and officer-in-charge of the airfield, was Colonel James A. Ronin, and, in turn, Squadron Commander Richardson also reported to Ronin.
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17
Southeast Atlantic, 10-11 September, 1942
Third officer Buckingham did what he could to improve conditions for the Italian POWs. Working through Stanislaw and Marco, he arranged for the sickest prisoners to be transferred to the few open beds in the ship’s sick bay. There, if nothing else, they would at least get a decent night’s rest.
With the cooperation of their Royal Army overseers, Buckingham arranged the cancellation of the bread-and-water punishment rations, and had the Poles ensure that the toilets be cleaned regularly—a provision for basic sanitation that, for whatever reason, had been entirely overlooked. He then set about providing crude showering and washing facilities, sparing the Italians the ignominy of their topside fire hose showers, and giving them the means for washing their clothes and bed linens.
For their part, the Italians took note of, and greatly appreciated, Buckingham’s efforts.
On 10 September, the Admiralty ordered Captain Sharp to alter course the following day to a more westerly heading, away from the African coast, presumably to avoid possible enemy submarine activity. Ironically the new course put the Laconia miles closer to the track of Hartenstein’s U-156 now heading south in the general direction of Cape Town.
* * * * *
In the early morning hours of 11 September, a flight of four-engine American B-24D bombers, the 343rd Bomber Squadron, passed Ascension Island en route from Brazil to the North African theater. The weather during their entire flight had been excellent, with moderate cloud cover, and unlimited visibility.
One of their number, piloted by Army Air Force Lieutenant James Hardin, developed problems with a smoking engine, and reversed course, landing at Wideawake field. For Hardin and his crew, this was the beginning of a course of fateful events.
* * * * *
In the early afternoon of 11 September, U-156 was cruising on the surface, heading south-southeast, when the starboard lookout reported a column of thick black smoke off the starboard bow. It was clear and sunny, visibility was excellent, and the sea was calm, with gentle swells.
“Where away, Willi?” Hartenstein asked the officer of the deck, as he climbed the ladder up to the bridge.
“There, Captain,” Wilhelm Klempt, Hartenstein’s fourth officer, said, pointing. “A point off the starboard bow.”
“Nothing like a possible target advertising its presence,” Hartenstein quipped, “Eh, Willi?”
“If it is a target, Captain,” Klempt allowed. “It could well be a hospital ship, or some such, or worse, maybe a Q-ship, announcing its presence like that.” Klempt was worried that the contact was possibly a raider, an innocent-looking ship that was actually armed to the teeth, luring an attacking submarine to its sure destruction.
“Let’s just see, shall we?” Hartenstein said. “Bring the boat around to course three four zero, and speed up to ‘full ahead both,’ ” thereby ordering a course and speed to close the contact.
“Aye, Captain, course three four zero, full ahead both,” Klempt acknowledged the order. Then, calling down to the helm, “Rudder full right, new course three four zero. Increase speed to full ahead both.”
A half hour later, as U-156 closed the prospective target, the sound of the firing of the ship’s gun reached the boat. “She’s armed, Captain,” Klempt observed.
“So she is, Willie, so she is. Well, if she has teeth, she’s no hospital ship, and no Q-ship would so advertise her ability to strike. So we’ll just watch her for a bit. But I am not anxious to come under her gun, so we had best not advertise our presence. Dive the boat, Willi,” he said, and disappeared down the bridge hatch.
“ALARM!” Klempt shouted down through the open hatch, as the lookouts scrambled below. He quickly followed them below, securing the hatch behind him. Throughout the boat, as the alarm was passed, men performed automatically, their training superb. The cook in the galley grabbed the bar that operated the vent valve above him, swinging the bar and opening the valve, and then returning the bar to its neutral position. Elsewhere in the boat, the other vent valves were similarly opened by other sailors performing their assigned duty, opening the valves that allowed water to flood into the buoyancy tanks.
The boat quickly became heavy enough to submerge. In the control room, the diving planes were set to full dive. All off-duty crewmen made their way forward to the forward torpedo room, their combined weight making the bow heavy. In the engine room, the enginemen, responding to the shifted indicator on the engine order telegraph, secured the diesels and shut the eng
ine intake valves by hand. And, in the motor room, the motormen shifted propulsion to the batteries.
In under a minute, U-156 was under water, and Hartenstein was manning the periscope, observing, as the boat approached the Laconia.
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18
Southeast Atlantic, 11 September, 1942
Aboard Laconia, on orders from Lieutenant Tillie, Robby, McLoughlin, and the others secured from gunnery drill, their mates still complaining about that gun’s only reason for being was to alert the enemy to their presence.
“Bloody hell! Tillie might just as well set off fireworks from the fantail,” came James Fellow’s now-familiar rant, “or install bloody loudspeakers on our smokestack and play the bloody horst wessel song for the bloody Huns, and then announce ‘Here we are, come and bloody get us!’ ”
This time Jim McLoughlin didn’t have much to say to counter his friend’s complaint, perhaps because he had come to realize he actually had a point. For his part, Robby would have been the first to admit he didn’t know a lot about submarines, but he knew enough to realize that a torpedo could be headed for the Laconia at that very moment, and he wouldn’t know it until it struck, and blew the ship out of the water. And, again, the very thought terrified him.
Once more Robby remembered the Barham; he had seen what a torpedo could do. And he didn’t want to even think about it. HMS Barham was, after all, a “right proper” British warship, and, sure, it took three torpedoes to sink her, but the Laconia was as vulnerable as a rowboat compared to the heavily-armored Barham. And the U-boat that sunk the battleship had gotten away clean, no matter that Barham was in the middle of a British task force.
So how much of a chance would poor Laconia have, Robby thought, here in the middle of the bloody ocean, with not another friendly soul around? By the time we brought the gun to bear—and if we’re lucky maybe even shoot her out of the water—what then? Old Laconia would still be a goner. Even if a body were to survive the attack, abandon ship, and make it onto a lifeboat, what then? The nearest land’s got to be hundreds of miles away. And that’s if you’re even lucky enough to even get aboard a lifeboat! More likely you go straight into the water, and if you manage to do that and stay in one piece, who would be there to fish you out? Nobody. Best you were blown away in the first place—at least that would be quick—better than floating about until you just gave up, and drowned, or worse, became some shark’s dinner. And, probably, just like with the Barham, the bloody U-boat would never get detected in the first place, and just slink away, not a care in the world . . .
“Well, Minnow,” McLoughlin finally said, breaking Robby’s reverie, “the others must know Tillie’s only doing his bloody job.”
“Perhaps,” Robby replied, “he is that, but you’ve got to see their point as well, Jim. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to be making all that noise. And then there’s that bloody trail of smoke, to boot. We’re sitting ducks out here, in the middle of nowhere, and we’d be wise not to advertise our presence to whomever.”
“To the Jerries, you mean,” McLoughlin offered. “True, that, but face it, Minnow, we’re just cogs in the wheel, along for the ride. But pity them poor Italians. If we do get hit, none of them will stand a chance. At least the two of us might make it into a lifeboat.”
“If we’re lucky,” Robby answered. Then again, maybe not, he thought. Dyin’ in a lifeboat is still dyin’.
* * * * *
Now that the noise of the gun being fired was over, and there was nothing to disturb the baby, Donald and Violet Logan were taking a turn on deck, Violet holding little Helen in her arms.
“Lovely day,” Violet said. “I still can’t get over the fact that here we are in the middle of September, and it’s so sunny and lovely and warm.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Donald chortled. “I can guarantee it won’t be like this in Wales!”
“I guess not. I’ll never understand why you British put up with such a miserable climate. Malta is just beautiful this time of year.”
“You’re right, of course,” Donald readily agreed. “Perhaps that’s why we left England behind so often and went off to establish an empire—that’s the theory, at least.”
“That and your miserable English food,” Violet merrily retorted.
Donald chuckled. They had had this repartee before, many times. Now came the part where he said, “Yes, my dear, but all the more reason for us to marry good cooks . . .”
He barely got the words out when little Helen started wailing. “What’s all that about?” Donald asked, anxiously.
“She’s just hungry,” Violet replied, “and probably wet as well. Stay and enjoy the stroll, my dearest, and your daughter and I will retire to the cabin for a little refreshment and a fresh nappy.”
As she turned to leave, she was happy to see that her husband turned with her, preferring, rather, to stay with his little family and leave the pleasant weather on deck behind.
* * * * *
“She’s British and she’s armed, Captain,” Leopold Schumacher said, as he peered through the periscope at the Laconia, “a proper target.”
“Very well, then,” Hartenstein replied. “We will wait until she’s out of sight, surface, and then run ahead and cross her track for an attack from the east. We will strike just after sunset. That way, she will still be clearly visible in the western twilight, and we will be on her dark side.”
“Yes, Captain,” Schumacher acknowledged, smiling, pleased with his commander’s battle plan.
Much later, at 7:54 PM, U-156 was finally in almost perfect position for her assault on the British transport. The boat was on the surface, to the east of her target, the liner framed against a cloudless evening-twilight sky, just as Hartenstein had planned. The sea swelled gently, it’s daytime, rich blue now shifting to liquid slate.
“Leo, Hartenstein ordered, “have the forward torpedo room prepare to fire three torpedoes—tubes one, two, and three.”
“Jawhol, Kapitän,” Schumacher replied, and relayed his commander’s orders to the torpedomen forward.
At 8:04 PM, with U-156 still on the surface, and now in perfect firing position, Hartenstein launched the first of the two torpedoes that eventually struck the Laconia. After sending a second torpedo on its way, Hartenstein decided to hold the third torpedo in reserve, and immediately ordered U-156 to submerge. Laconia was, after all, armed, and if, for any reason the attack went awry, he was unwilling to expose his boat to the possibility of coming under her gun.
The first torpedo struck the Laconia at 8:07; the second struck just thirty seconds later.
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Part II
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
1
South Atlantic, 12 September, 1942
“He knew me dad,” Jim McLoughlin had said earlier, prior to leaving Robby Cotton in their quarters, belowdecks in Laconia’s stern, on his way to meet the ship’s chief steward, who had promised him a gourmet meal.
Off duty, Robby was relaxing in his bunk, his rolled-up hammock serving as a pillow, and was looking forward to his own dinner in the crew’s mess. Nearby, his mates, Ralph Tinsdale, Charles Martin, and some of the other off-duty sailors were also relaxing. James Fellows was in the head.
The food aboard Laconia is really pretty good,” Robby mused silently. Can’t see what Jim is so excited about…
His reverie was rudely interrupted by the explosion forward. Robby had heard that sound before, and another picture of the Barham flashed in his brain. “Torpedo!” he shouted aloud, “We’ve been hit!”
The other men in the compartment, fear and surprise registering on their faces, reacted quickly to Robby’s shout, and swung out of their bunks. A dazed James Fellows emerged from the head, hastily pulling up his trousers.
“Let’s get topside and man the gun,” someone shouted, just as the deck was rolling away beneath them, knocking Fellows off his feet and the others back into their bunks, or
sprawling on the deck.
“Grab your life jackets!” someone else thought to shout, as the men picked themselves up, only to be knocked over again as the ship rolled back in the other direction, this time to starboard.
Robby was scrambling to hold his footing and pull on his life jacket, when the second torpedo hit. This time, the ship lurched in the other direction, settling at a port list far more severe than the first. He followed the others up the ladder, just forward of their compartment, as the sailors slowly made their way up and then back to the fantail.
When they reached the gun, they found Lieutenant Tillie already there, and the disgusted look on his face as he surveyed the scene said it all. The ship was now pitched over about twenty degrees to port, and since the gun was manually trained, there was no way it could now be trained around to aim it. That was, of course, assuming if they could find a target to begin with, and that the sub that had torpedoed them was kind enough to be on the surface somewhere within the scope and range of the gun. Nonetheless, Ralph and James had opened the ready locker and were doing their best—given the canted deck—to carry two shells over to load into the gun.
“Don’t waste your time, men,” Tillie called to them. “You’re on a bloody fool’s errand. If we do manage to load the bugger, how in blazes will we aim it? And at what?”
Just then, they heard the word passed, “Abandon Ship! Abandon Ship! All passengers will proceed in good order to their assigned lifeboat stations. Abandon Ship!”
