by Gene Masters
“That is true enough. But we are also rescuing Englishmen and Poles. Hitler’s feelings on that point are well known. I’m sure he would have us pulling only Italians out of the water and shooting the rest.”
“He might at that, Schacht,” Hartenstein agreed with a tight smile, “but thank God the Kreigsmarine is not the SS. I could never execute such an order.”
“Be careful, Hartenstein. I would never say anything, but you could be shot for less.”
“Then so be it. And you, Harro, would you shoot enemy survivors?”
“Not a choice I have to make, fortunately,” he replied, dodging the question. “The admiral’s orders are to assist you in the rescue, and turn over all survivors to the French when their ships arrive. And I will obey orders. My only worry is that an enemy warship or aircraft will not understand the nobility of our mission here.”
Schacht was not reassured when Hartenstein told him about his Sunday broadcast over the emergency frequency.
* * * * *
That same Tuesday, the British Admiralty at Freetown sent a message to the Americans at Wideawake Field on Ascension Island.
The message was somewhat garbled, but it did alert the Americans that a passenger liner had been sunk with some 700 passengers aboard. It gave the approximate coordinates of the sinking, but they were incorrect, and much closer to Ascension Island than the actual sinking site. The dispatch did say that a British rescue ship, the RMS Empire Haven, was en route to the scene. It also requested that aircraft be sent to pinpoint the location of any survivors, and to relay that position to the Empire Haven. If possible, the planes were to stay on the scene and provide air cover for the rescue.
No mention was made of Hartenstein’s transmission, or of any Axis submarines involved in a rescue over the past three days. The message did state that Vichy French warships had left port and were headed to the area.
In response, the squadron commander, Capt. Richardson, sent out a flight of B-25 Mitchell bombers to search for the survivors. But the B-25’s 1,350-mile range meant that the flight had to turn back and return to base before coming anywhere near the actual disaster site.
Again, in response to the message, and not understanding that the oncoming French warships were actually a part of a far larger rescue effort, the base commander, Colonel Ronin, put the Army troops at Wideawake on full alert. He feared an imminent French naval barrage, and a possible invasion by enemy troops.
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7
Wednesday, 16 September, 1942
The Italian submarine Commandante Cappellini, Capitano di Corvetta Marco Revedin commanding, arrived in the area on Wednesday, 16 September. The sun was still below the horizon, but was ever so gently lighting up the scene in subdued reds and glowing yellows. The wreckage and the survivors were, by that time, spread out over several square miles. It was in that lifting darkness that the Cappellini first came upon a lifeboat. The evening before, that boat had fished an exhausted James Fellows from the water.
“Any Italians aboard? Ci sono Italiani abordo?” Revedin inquired of the passengers in that first boat, in both English and Italian.
“No. No Italians,” came back the reply from the boat, which had fifty-two people aboard, all men. Revedin inquired as to their situation, and one of the men replied they had a compass, a map, and a hand-powered radio transmitter aboard, but that they could use some water. Revedin passed them over some tins of water, and two bottles of wine.
At first light, Cappellini came upon a second lifeboat. In addition to men, this one held women and children. Once again, there were no Italians aboard. Revedin offered to take the women and children aboard, but none of the women would leave the lifeboat, and so both they and the children stayed. Revedin then asked if they needed anything, and they replied, “blankets, food and water, a map, and a compass.” Revedin had no blankets to spare, nor map nor compass to give them. He left them with a supply of warm broth, some biscuits and chocolate, and some cigarettes.
Revedin then intended to take Cappellini in search of U-156, but instead came upon more lifeboats, this time mostly full of Italians. In bringing his countrymen aboard, he could no more abandon the others in the lifeboats than could his German counterparts. He soon had his boat filled with survivors of all nationalities, and was struggling to keep a number of lifeboats together. Now Revedin too, anxiously awaited the arrival of the French.
* * * * *
About the same time that the Cappellini came upon the first lifeboat, the Americans at Wideawake Field received a second message from the British at Freetown stating that a second vessel, the armed British merchant ship HMS Corinthian, was also on its way to the site of the sinking to search for survivors. Again, the Americans were asked to pinpoint the location of any survivors, and to relay that position to the rescue ships. Once more, if possible, they were to stay on the scene and provide air cover for the rescue.
Since the earlier flight had found nothing, Capt. Richardson correctly reasoned that the disaster scene had been closer to the African coast than had been first reported. He therefore decided to commandeer the only aircraft capable of reaching the actual location of the sinking, and returning to base: 1st Lt. James Harden’s B-24 Liberator bomber. The field maintenance crew had just completed repairing the problem that caused Harden to land at Wideawake in the first place, and the ship was once again airworthy.
Harden and his crew, navigator 1st Lt. Jerome Perlman, and bombardier 2nd Lt. Edgar Kellar, were hauled out of bed at first light on the 16th, and called into Capt. Robert Richardson’s office. Trudging to Richardson’s office below the radio tower, the three men were still far too sleepy to admire the same brilliantly awakening sky that was to greet the Cappellini.
Richardson outlined their mission. “Jim, I’m going to have to commandeer your aircraft. You, Jerry, and Ed, are now temporarily under the command of the First Composite Squadron—that is, you are temporarily under my command.”
“Yes, Sir,” Harden replied, never questioning Richardson’s authority. “What do you need us to do, Captain?”
Richardson then explained the mission.
At seven o’clock that Wednesday morning, Harding launched his plane from Wideawake and headed in the general direction of the coordinates originally given by the British. The weather was clear, and visibility unlimited. When Perlman confirmed that the aircraft had passed over the original coordinates, Harden continued flying the plane on the same course toward the African coast, just as Richardson had directed.
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8
Wednesday, 16 September, 1942, 4⁰- 50” South, 11⁰- 26” West
The weather had been monotonous in its sameness; the sky overhead was a brilliant blue, the occasional wispy cloud almost motionless. The sea below was a sheet of blue plate glass. At nine thirty, after a two-and-a-half-hour flight out of Wideawake Field, Harden’s Liberator bomber sighted U-156.
Seconds earlier, a lookout aboard the U-boat had spotted the plane, and alerted Schumacher, who was on the bridge. Schumacher looked in the direction the lookout was pointing, and, raising his binoculars, quickly located the approaching aircraft. “Captain up!” Schumacher shouted down the open conning tower hatch.
Less than a minute later, Hartenstein was on the bridge. As the aircraft approached, and began a long, wide, circle overhead, Hartenstein saw through his binoculars that its markings identified it as American. Schumacher, rifling through a hastily-retrieved identification manual said, “It’s an American Liberator bomber—B-25—long range. Must have come in from North Africa, probably searching for survivors. My guess is that the transport’s distress signal must have gotten out after all.”
“That could well be the case,” Hartenstein agreed, “and now we shall see how the Americans react to what they see.”
On deck and in the lifeboats, some of the survivors, seeing the aircraft, began shouting and waving their arms. Among those was Robby, but not McLoughlin.
“What do you think, Jim?” Robby asked. “Good, eh? Maybe our people will come to rescue us?”
“We’ll see, Minnow, we’ll see,” McLoughlin said, warily.
Hartenstein said nothing more at first, just staring at the plane through his binoculars. Then he called out to the men standing on the deck, “Stand back from the gun, there. Make sure the Americans can see the red cross!”
In the aircraft, Harden identified the submarine he saw on the surface as German, an identification confirmed by both Perlman and Kellar. Still, the scene below was bizarre. As he circled, Harden and his crew saw the surfaced U-boat, its deck crowded with people, with six crowded lifeboats in tow. The U-boat was heading toward two other lifeboats. As he continued to circle, the people on the submarine’s deck moved away from its deck gun, and, draped across the unmanned gun, was a red cross banner.
Ever wary, Harden radioed the sub, requesting that it identify its nationality. He received no reply. Harden reasoned that the submarine either had not heard the message, or had chosen not to reply. He also may very well have, he knew, sent the message on a frequency the sub’s radio room was not monitoring.
He then dived his aircraft on the boat for a closer look. The engine noise deafened, and scared the wits out of the U-boat’s crew and the survivors alike. On the deck of the U-boat, Robby stood frozen; McLoughlin made ready to dive over the side should the plane begin strafing. He saw that the bomb bay doors were shut, and knew that there would be no bomb released, at least not on this run.
Equally cautious, Hartenstein said to Schumacher, “Leo, order that the anti-aircraft gun crews be at the ready. Tell them to stay close to their mounts, but to stay down and out of sight.” As Schumacher relayed his order, Hartenstein added, “And send a crewman aft with a fire ax. Tell him to be ready to quickly cut the towline to the lifeboats.” And again, Schumacher made it so.
Hartenstein was still gazing up at the retreating aircraft from the bridge, when an RAF Lieutenant Colonel approached the bridge. “Captain,” the man said, “if you give me access to your radio, I can send an English message in International Morse Code to the Americans, tell them that there are British survivors aboard, and not to attack us.”
Hartenstein considered the offer for a second, and then said, “Very well, Colonel, I will have a man escort you below to the radio room.”
The lieutenant colonel was taken belowdecks, and sent the promised message in International Morse Code to the airplane circling above. Aboard the aircraft, Harden and his crew received and heard the message, but none of the three could read Morse Code.
Harden was now running out of options. A half-hour had passed, and he could only circle a little bit longer before he had to turn his plane around and head back to Wideawake, lest he run out of fuel. He finally decided to radio Squadron Headquarters at Wideawake for instructions. But he was out of radio range with HQ, and had to turn this plane around and head back in the direction of Wideawake.
On the deck of the U-boat below, Robby, Jim, and the other non-Italian survivors were dismayed, afraid that the Americans might be deserting them.
“Composite Base, this is Two-One-Two Zebra, over,” Hardin sent over and over, as he flew the bomber southwest.
Finally, there was a response. “You have Composite, Zebra, over.”
“Zebra needs direction from Composite Command, over.”
“Wait one, Zebra.” The radio operator then sent word for Capt. Richardson to please come up to the radio tower. His office was just below, and Richardson was in the tower in just over a minute. He manned the microphone on his arrival, speaking directly to Harden. “This is Composite Command. Go ahead, Zebra.”
Harden then described the scene at the rescue site to Richardson, sparing no detail.
“And you’re sure it’s a Nazi submarine, Jim?”
“Yessir, Skipper, I’m sure.”
“And there are people on the deck?”
“Yessir, lots.”
Could be that there was some mechanical problem with the sub, Richardson thought. And the Germans are ready to abandon ship if they can’t fix it or help doesn’t come soon. And that red cross must be just a ruse—they’re buying time, just hoping we won’t attack. Still unsure, however, Richardson called in his superior officer, Colonel Ronin, and explained the situation to him. But Ronin’s thinking only reflected Richardson’s.
“If it’s a German U-boat, then what’s the problem? Attack and sink it,” Ronin said.
“But all those people on deck, Sir, and the red cross flag,” Richardson had countered.
Now angry, Ronin argued, “It’s got to be a Nazi trick, Captain. Sink the bastard!”
His original analysis now confirmed by his superior officer, Richardson got back on the radio to Harden. “Two-One-Two Zebra, this is Composite Command, over.”
“This is Zebra, over”
“This is Composite. Sink sub at once. I repeat, sink the sub, over.”
“Yes, Sir. Understand sink sub at once. Zebra, over.”
“Affirmative, sink the bastard!” Richardson reiterated. “Out.”
With the radio link to Wideawake severed, Harden then spoke into the aircraft’s intercom, above the engine noise, to Perlman and Kellar, as he reversed the aircraft’s course to again close the rescue site. “Tally-ho boys! We’re going to get us a Kraut submarine!”
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9
Wednesday, 16 September, 1942, Air Attack
The American bomber had returned to the skies overhead, and Robby and Jim were, at first, elated.
Then, Jim McLoughlin saw the bomber’s bomb bay doors open, just as the plane, which had been circling overhead, went into a tight turn to line up with the slow-moving submarine. Robby hadn’t noticed the bay doors opening at all, nor had many of the others standing on deck or in the towed lifeboats. Both Hartenstein and Schumacher definitely had.
“Quickly, Robby, over the side!” McLoughlin shouted.
“Wh-wh-a-a-a-t?” Robby stammered as McLoughlin pushed him off the deck and into the water.
“Swim!” he shouted, as he himself dove into the water. Nobody else on deck, nor in the lifeboats, had thought to follow suit—not yet, anyway.
When Hartenstein saw the bomb bay doors opening, he quickly signaled to the crewman aft to cut the towline, and shouted to Schumacher, “Dive the boat, Leo!”
In response, Schumacher screamed, “ALARM!” down the hatch, ordering the boat to dive. The man aft severed the towline with a single stroke, then dove down the after torpedo room hatch, shutting it behind him. But U-156 had just initiated its dive and was still on the surface when the bomber began its run.
The plane came careening in at full power, its four engines screaming. Stunned, few of the survivors on deck thought to follow Robby and McLoughlin over the side, nor did many of those in the towed lifeboats abandon them. Second lieutenant Kellar, positioned at the bombsight in the bubble under the bomber’s cockpit, released two bombs. Both fell wide of their mark, but sent geysers of seawater up into the air. When the bombs exploded, anyone on deck who had doubted the aircraft’s intentions were now convinced—the Americans meant to sink their benefactor. Only then was there any move among the survivors on the submarine’s deck, or in the now-adrift lifeboats, to “abandon ship."
The submarine was mostly on the surface, with only its bow starting down. Hartenstein had ordered, and the boat was beginning, an evasive turn. Then the bomber began its second run. By that time, everyone who had been on deck was in the water, and those able to do so were swimming frantically away from the boat. Robby and McLoughlin were well ahead of them, thanks to the latter man’s quick thinking.
Those still in the lifeboats were at their wits end; abandoning them was out of the question for many, such as Violet Logan and her child, and they could do nothing but sit still in utter panic as the drama played itself out. And, of course, Donald Logan could never abandon his wife and child, and franticly held onto both of th
em as he glared, powerless yet defiant, at the approaching aircraft. Tom Buckingham had also elected to remain aboard the lifeboat, having felt responsible for the craft and its remaining passengers. He grabbed a paddle and was rowing, in a futile attempt to clear the bomber’s flight path.
On its second run, the bomber released two depth charges over the submarine. Kellar’s timing was again off—one was released too early, the second too late. Both missed U-156. The lifeboat in which the Logans and Buckingham were riding managed to escape unscathed. But the second depth charge hit the lifeboat third farthest from the submarine; it was a lifeboat full of Italians. The depth charge smashed through the boat, exploding below it, and killing all aboard. Yet another lifeboat immediately nearby was capsized, and its bottom ripped out. In terms of lives lost in the action, this attack proved the costliest; British, Poles, and Italians all suffered losses.
On its third run, the Liberator released two more depth charges over its target. One missed entirely, but the other exploded aft and under the stern of the diving submarine, lifting the stern from the water momentarily. Now in the conning tower, Hartenstein began receiving damage reports. When it was reported that the boat was taking on water, he aborted the dive. He then unbuttoned the hatch above him and returned to the bridge. He was considering how to fight back, using his anti-aircraft guns, when he gratefully watched the bomber turn to the southwest and clear the area, apparently bereft of its bomb load.
Well away from the action, Jim McLoughlin and Robby Cotton treaded water and watched the events as they unfolded before them. “That was a close-run thing,” Jim volunteered.
