It was exactly what von Kleist had told the Grand Admiral when he had proposed the bold mission back in Wilhelmshaven. ‘They’ll never expect it, Herr Grossadmiral,’ he had proclaimed, standing stiffly to attention, bright white cap tucked under his left arm, silver dirk hanging from his right side as regulations prescribed. ‘The last time we tackled the Tommies on that coast was back in fourteen when we bombarded Scarborough and South Shields.’ The Grand Admiral, plump, bearded and his wing collar cutting into his neck, had considered the proposal for a few instances, then said, ‘Pull it off, von Kleist, and there’ll be the Pour Le Mérite for you.’
Now instinctively he touched the dirty edge of his frayed collar as if he could already feel Imperial Germany’s highest award hanging there. Then suddenly he forgot his daydreaming. Once more he was the highly efficient U-boat skipper. ‘Stop both,’ he commanded.
‘Stop both,’ Peters echoed. The steady whine of the electric motors ceased and the U-boat crept forwards very slowly under its own momentum, as von Kleist swung the periscope round, looking for his targets.
There were plenty of them. The whole of the docks, which ran right into the heart of Hull itself, was packed with shipping. The ships ranged from huge transports through oilers down to small rust-streaked coastal freighters and all of them rode at anchor, with no steam up. It was a U-boat skipper’s dream.
‘Prepare tubes one… two… three… and four,’ von Kleist commanded.
There was a moment’s pause, then the torpedo ratings responded. ‘Tube One ready for firing… Tube Two ready for firing, sir…’ The voices of his young, pale-faced, unshaven sailors were confident and without fear. Von Kleist felt a warm glow of pride. They knew the extreme danger they were in, here in the midst of the enemy port, but they had absolute confidence in him, their skipper, to get them out safely again.
He spun the periscope once more. A nice fat merchantman swam into the circle of calibrated glass. That would be target number one. Next to it there was a large freighter, its deck packed high with crates and other goods hidden beneath tarpaulins. He checked the flags she was flying from her mast. He had guessed right. The crates, and what was under the tarpaulins, were full of high explosives; the ship was flying the explosive danger signal. That would be target number two.
He rapped out a bearing.
‘Feuerfrei!’ Peters yelled, eyes blazing with excitement.
‘Feuer!’
There was a hiss as compressed air escaped. A slight lurch, followed by another one a moment later.
‘Running true!’ the torpedo ratings sang out.
Von Kleist, with his eyes glued to the periscope, followed the trail of bubbles heading straight for the fat merchantman and the ship carrying the high explosives, mentally counting off the seconds of the ‘tin fish’s’ running time. One… two…three… four…
Startlingly, suddenly, the merchantman’s bow heaved out of the water in the same moment that a sheet of bright light erupted from her bows. Like a gigantic blowtorch the flame seared the whole length of the upper deck, burning and charring everything in its path. Screaming torches, which were men, flung themselves over the side, thrashing the water desperately in their attempts to put out those all-consuming flames. Up on a mast a radio operator repairing a fault burst into flames. Screaming silently – for at the periscope von Kleist could not hear him – he dived for the water. He missed. He slammed into the deck and was consumed by the flames, a mass of broken bones.
It was then that the ship containing the high explosives was hit. The second ‘tin fish’ struck it squarely amidships. The effect was immediate. With dramatic abruptness the two halves of the broken-backed vessel rose high out of the sea. Steam jetted from broken boilers. The masts came rumbling down in a confusion of tangled wires, the live one for the radio throwing out angry little blue sparks that ran the length of the shattered deck.
In that same instant the first of the live ammunition went up. Shells zig-zagged crazily into the grey sky, followed seconds later by exploding tracer that zipped across the docks, scattering the startled merchant seamen who had run to see what was happening. Men went down everywhere, dead and dying. Others cowered against the walls of the warehouses, hands clasped over their ears for the mass explosion which had to come soon.
It did.
Suddenly the main hold erupted. Great steel planks flew through the air like twigs. Flames shot a hundred metres high, followed an instant later by a huge ring of black oily smoke. On the quayside the nearest sheds and warehouses trembled like stage scenery. One by one with almost comic slowness they started to collapse. Gas mains ruptured. On all sides little flaring blue fires of gas broke out. A crane swayed and swayed, bits and pieces of metal falling from its towering structure. The terrified driver sprang from his cab and stood there aghast as the tremors grew in violence. He raised his arms like a deep sea diver. He was going to jump into the water. Too late – with a frightening crash the whole structure plunged to the ground, squashing the driver under it.
Now von Kleist went to work with systematic thoroughness. Somewhere on the quay a machine gun had started spitting angry fire. But the bullets didn’t worry him. He could select his targets at will, and he did. A freighter was followed by an ocean-going tug which was obviously trying to get up steam in order to ram in, ship after ship went down sinking to the bottom, shattered masts protruding above the water, which ran red with burning oil, men swimming desperately to get out of the way before it was too late.
Then he was gone, firing his last two ‘tin fish’ from the stern tubes, slipping below the surface and heading for the deep main channel, while behind him it seemed that the whole of the city of Kingston-upon-Hull blazed furiously. Baron Hektor von Kleist had achieved the greatest U-boat victory of the war. He had, single-handed, sunk a whole British convoy.
Two
The Tommies had caught up with him four hours later. He had run submerged for three hours chugging along at two knots to conserve his electric batteries. Then he had suddenly become impatient, pushing the electric motors to their limit. Perhaps it was the need to return to the Fatherland and report his great victory that had impelled him to be so foolish – later he couldn’t remember, but then afterwards he could not remember very much for months to come. The result had been predictable. The batteries went dead on him. So, he had been forced to surface and run on his diesels, charging the flat batteries at the same time.
Naturally he had posted extra lookouts at both bow and stern who scanned the heaving grey North Sea for the first sign of a Tommy destroyer, for he knew the whole of the fleet would now be alerted and looking for him. In half an hour it would be dark and he felt reasonably safe. But he had made one fatal oversight. He had not reckoned with the air.
So when the stern lookout sang out suddenly, ‘Aircraft to port,’ he had been caught totally by surprise. He had been too flushed by his great victory to remember that the Tommies had air stations all along the North Sea coast, where planes were fuelled up and ready to be airborne at a minute’s notice so that they could tackle the great lumbering zeppelins which regularly flew this route to their bombing raids over Northern England.
These weren’t fighters – Sopwith Camels and the like. They were two lumbering twin-engined bombers, coming straight out of the grey cloud, the racks of 50 pounds attached underneath their camouflaged wings clearly visible, and a suddenly very worried von Kleist swung his glasses round to survey them.
Already the alarm sirens were beginning to shrill. From below he could hear the gongs beating, summoning the off-duty watch to their battle stations. Men came clambering up the steep ladder to the conning tower, pulling on their battle gear, cursing and jostling for positions on the damp slippery rungs.
Von Kleist watched as the lead bomber waggled its wings. The signal was clear enough. The pilot of the first plane had already spotted them and was indicating to the other Tommy pilot that he was going into the attack.
On the dripping deck
, the Hotchkiss crew had swung their twin machine guns round and prepared to defend the U-23. Other men were running along the wet dripping deck to the 57mm deck cannon, fumbling with the canvas, while a petty officer, red-faced with rage, swore at them all the time, as if it were their fault that the two Tommy bombers had appeared out of nowhere.
Von Kleist lowered his binoculars and spoke rapidly into the voice tube. ‘Number One, what’s the state of the electric batteries?’
‘Not good, we’ll need another twenty minutes at least before they’re any good.’
‘Verdammte Scheisse!’ von Kleist cursed. Then he recovered himself. ‘All right Number One, thank you. It looks as if we have a surface battle on our hands. Let me know immediately we’ve got enough juice even for a couple of kilometres submerged.’
‘I will, sir,’ Peters responded promptly. He knew as well as the skipper did that the Tommy aircraft would be in touch with their base by radio. Sooner or later there’d be more of their kind coming in. If the Baron could fight them off long enough for the batteries to be partially recharged, then they had a chance of fleeing from this spot; if he couldn’t… Peters did not think that grim thought to the end. Instead he crossed the tight little control deck and stared almost longingly at the ampimeter gauge, as if willing the little black needle to start edging its way to the right.
Now the two heavy bombers were splitting up, one to port, the other to starboard. Von Kleist knew the tactic. They were attempting to confuse his gunners. Who to fire at? Concentrate all fire on the one or split the resources and fire at both of them?
‘Gun standing by for action,’ the petty officer in charge of the 57mm bellowed against the roar of the approaching plane engines.
‘Local control… Port!’ von Kleist yelled back.
‘Range one thousand… bearing green-one-oh!’ the petty officer sang out, as von Kleist turned his attention to the plane off the starboard bow.
It had dropped steeply out of the sky. Now it appeared to be just skimming the sea, its twin propellers drawing up a trail of angry white water. Von Kleist guessed its pilot thought he presented a more difficult thing. Well, he told himself, you’re in for a surprise.
He snapped an order and bearing to the man manning the twin Hotchkiss. The bearded rating swung the heavy machine guns round as if they were a toy. He took aim through the ring sight, as the twin-engined plane came winging in.
‘Feuer!’ von Kleist yelled.
The machine guns spat flame. Gleaming, smoking brass cartridge vases started to clatter to the deck rapidly. Still the plane came on, flying through the criss-cross of brilliant white tracer, intent on the kill.
Von Kleist cursed and yelled to the sweating gunner, his whole body vibrating with the shock waves coming from the heavy machine guns. ‘Lead him in, gunner. For Chrissake, lead—’
Suddenly the plane seemed to stagger in mid-air. Black smoke began pouring from its port engine. The prop ceased moving and the twin-engined plane dipped alarmingly. Slowly, very slowly it seemed, the stricken plane headed for the waves, its pilot probably fighting the controls wildly to keep it airborne. To no avail. The port wing struck a wave. The plane careened round. Next moment it had struck the water and was sinking rapidly. No one got out.
‘Hurrah… hurrah… hurrah!’ the deck crew cheered wildly above the vicious thump of the 57mm as the deck gun took on the other Tommy plane. But the second pilot had learned from the misfortune of his fellow airman. He was weaving wildly, swaying from side to side as he threw the bomber about the sky, as if it were a single-engined fighter. Cursing furiously, the red-faced petty officer kept altering the range all the time. But the plane was still coming, the sky all about dotted with puffs of driving smoke.
Von Kleist flung up his binoculars. The plane was beginning to rise. He knew why. The Tommy needed height to drop his deadly eggs. If he didn’t, they might not have sufficient fall to explode or he might be blown out of the sky by the explosion of his own bombs. He yelled out an order.
Frantically the gun-layer spun the wheel round. The gun barrel started to rise. But the deck gun wasn’t meant for anti-aircraft fire. It could only elevate so far and the twin Hotchkiss had a limited range. Soon, it appeared, both guns would be useless. In a few moments they were going to be sitting ducks here on the surface. He grabbed the voice tube, feeling his nerves beginning to tingle with the strain. ‘Number One, what’s it look like?’ he rapped.
‘Hardly a flicker, skipper.’ He could hear the near despair in Peters’ voice. The Number One knew what a fix they were in.
At the gun the petty officer yelled, ‘Fire.’ The gun boomed. But its shell fell far below the rising biplane. In a second it would be out of range altogether.
Von Kleist raged inwardly. After such a tremendous victory was he going to be sent to the bottom after all? Dammit, he wouldn’t let it happen. They’d dive and remain motionless beneath the water, stick it out till the plane had gone, then surface and charge the dead batteries.
It was the only way.
‘Clear the deck,’ he yelled urgently, his mind made up. He hit the button and the alarm siren started its shrill warning. Madly the deck crew abandoned their guns. Scrambling and pushing each other they doubled back to the conning tower. Man after man spread his legs and slid down the twin rails to land in a wet heap at the bottom of the tower.
Impatiently, knowing that they had only seconds left, von Kleist waited for the last man to clear the tower. Traditionally the skipper or the officer of the watch had to be the last after him. He flung a glance into the lowering grey sky. The Tommy was directly overhead. The pilot had reduced speed almost to stalling. He hovered there like a giant hawk. He was readying to drop his deadly little egg.
The red-faced petty officer gasped, ‘Clear, sir,’ and balancing himself on the rails started to slide to the bottom of the conning tower.
‘Quick,’ von Kleist cried. ‘Quick!’ There was a shrill whistling sound. He flung himself to the hatch. The sound was getting louder. It was like that of a banshee from hell. It filled his ears. He could hear nothing.
At the foot of the tower Peters, his face ashen, was yelling to him. He could not make out the words. The whine was almost upon him now. Desperately he fumbled with the hatch cover. His fingers were like clumsy sausages. Would he never close the screws? The howling whine was ear-splitting.
His whole being exploded in a fury of shattered steel and red-hot flame. Something seared the left side of his face. He screamed with the sheer utter agony of it. He had never felt any pain like that before. The U-23 rocked violently. The blow knocked him from his shattered perch and he was falling, the hand touching his wounded face coming away with shreds of lacerated blackened skin and flesh. Then mercifully everything went black and he knew no more…
* * *
The next few months passed in a haze of pain, morphine and bandages over his eyes in a darkened room. Once a day they would dress his terrible wound and he would brace himself in the little iron bed in the naval hospital, feet pressed against the bottom, hands gripping the top. They would bathe his wounded face in scalding hot water, pressing out the stinking green pus and his head would spin and whirl and burst into a red sunflower of agony.
In August, September and November 1918, first the British, then the French and finally the Americans launched their great counter-offensives on the Western Front. Everywhere the Imperial German Army started to retreat. The High Sea Fleet in Kiel was ordered to go to sea, but refused. The mutinous sailors threw their officers overboard. Everywhere in the northern port sailors spat at lone officers and, if they could, ripped off their symbol of rank, the epaulettes. The Kaiser fled to Doorn and Dutch exile. Max von Baden was sent to Paris to sue for peace.
Of this the grievously wounded man knew nothing, or barely anything. He could not see to read and he could hardly hear, so that it was no good for the nurses to read the news to him from the papers, which brought ever more alarmist headlines.
But that old von Kleist spirit, which had served them well in three hundred years’ service to the Prussian crown, reasserted itself and he experienced a renewed desire to live. That desire was intensified when Leutnant Peters and a handful of his petty officers came filing in under the watchful gaze of the matron in her starched apron and pince-nez to tell him, ‘Skipper you’ve been awarded the Pour le Mérite and every man of the crew the Iron Cross, First Class. You’re the last man in the Imperial Army to be awarded the decoration.’
The matron had tut-tutted at the noise, for Peters had bellowed out the information at the top of his voice so that von Kleist cringed. But she had held her peace. She was glad that the wounded man had some little consolation. For, with his face, he was going to be cursed for the rest of his life.
Then Peters had bent closer to von Kleist’s ear, trying to ignore the stench coming from that great horrifying wound. ‘Sir,’ he said slowly so that von Kleist shouldn’t miss a word. ‘We’ve got the U-23 up the fiord at Kiel. She’s been patched up and we’re still working on her. Most of all, sir, we’ve had absolutely no trouble with the men. They’re all one hundred per cent loyal. The petty officers have got them well in hand. Not like some poor swine.’
That whispered message had both inspired von Kleist and at the same time troubled him. It was the first indication he had had that there was something wrong with the Imperial Navy.
On the day that the German delegation signed the peace treaty in the Hall of Mirrors, where France had been the loser and had done the same back in 1870, they removed the bandages for the last time and told him he was healed. His hearing and sight had been restored and the naval surgeon in the high wing collar and old-fashioned tunic had said bluffly, ‘As good as new, von Kleist, as good as new. There’s only one thing,’ he had hesitated and von Kleist could see from the anxious looks on the faces of the Red Cross nurses clustered around the surgeon that that ‘one thing’ was pretty damned serious. ‘We’ve had a bit of trouble with the left side of your face, as you know. Now it has healed very well indeed. I am pleased with you.’
The Baltic Run Page 9