“What is the matter, Johan?” asks Mueller. “The reality of our war depressing you? War is all about suffering, my friend.”
Suffering.
I look around the table. In the past weeks I have done some biographical research on the leaders of this U-boat as a way to better help me understand their behavior under pressure. All of the men present today have suffered the loss of loved ones to the war. Fraatz lost both his parents during an allied bombing over Berlin six months ago. Mueller lost his girlfriend because her mother happened to be half Jewish. She was sent to a camp in Poland. In addition, he had not heard anything in months from his two kid brothers, both part of the Sixth Army battling the Russians in Stalingrad. Jurgen had one brother killed in Russia and another in Northern Africa. His mother committed suicide the same day the news arrived. Hans’s relatives are from outside Stuttgart, a region that has been pounded by allied bombers in recent months. He has no idea if his family is dead or alive, but he is certain that his kid brother, an SS officer missing in Paris, was very likely kidnapped by the French Resistance.
I consider myself lucky that all of my relatives are safe and sound back in America. And as far as my current situation . . . well, I have no one but myself to blame. My family pleaded with me not to volunteer, in the end supporting my decision with silent resignation. I still remember the day I sailed away to Europe in the fall of 1938. Even now I can see my twin sisters and my mother in tears. I can still see my kid brother’s somber face. But most of all, I remember my father, remember what he gave me on that day. Having survived World War I, he knew the value of our American citizenship and forced me to take my U.S. passport and other relevant documents, including my diploma from Yale—all tightly packed in a waterproof pouch that I’ve been taking everywhere recently, even though if someone finds them I’ll probably be shot on the spot under accusations of being a spy.
A spy.
I sigh. I’ve given it all away for Germany, the country where I was born, even if I was only three years old when my family left for America. Germany, the nation that my parents so often spoke of with affection, with nostalgia, always obsessed that I learn its language, which I did even before I learned English. Germany, the nation that had called out to all Germans around the world to join the national quest to rebuild Deutschland from the ashes of World War I, to help it grow, to make it the great nation that it once was, a nation that would last a thousand years. And so I joined to pursue this foolish dream, never once imagining what kind of monster Adolf Hitler really was, never once realizing that one day we would be at war against the country where I grew up, against the nation that took my family in and provided us with a wonderful way of life.
And at first it had seemed like a good decision, coming to Berlin, the center of the universe, thriving with life, laughter, hopes, and dreams. I was certain that I would be able to make my mark there as a top-notch journalist, covering the birth of what we all thought would become one of the greatest nations on earth.
Yes, I certainly had a lot of dreams and aspirations back then, until those dreams began to fade when Hitler’s war machine rumbled outside our borders, swallowing Poland, France, and so many other countries; crushing the opposition with our unyielding panzers, with our Luftwaffe, with our Wermacht, with our Kriegsmarine. By the time Japan bombed Pearl Harbor at the end of 1941 and the United States declared war on Japan, Italy, and Germany, it was already too late to change my mind. It was impossible to leave. I realized that I was stuck with my short-sighted decision and would have to play this through to the end.
The end.
As I’m staring at the walls of this iron coffin, I steel myself to be ready to face whatever that end might be.
Hans spends another minute working the wheels of the Enigma machine to decode our orders from BdU. The tall and lanky radioman, still wearing the same turtleneck sweater as when we got hammered by enemy escorts yesterday, grimaces as he translates the message, before handing it to Captain Fraatz, who reads it with an impassive face and in turn gives it to Jurgen. Chief Engineer Mueller, the third in command, will have to wait to receive what appears to be bad news. He is busy with his crew wrapping up repairs in the bow and stem compartments, as well as outside, where he has two welders securing a few external features that came loose during the depth charge attack, including two antennas, a section of the periscope assembly, the main bilge-pump outlets, also a nasty crack on the exterior hull. While the ship did indeed survive the depth charge onslaught in one piece, it sustained a lot of damage in the process, lending credibility to Mueller’s claim that depth charges, though not a direct weapon to sink a submarine—like the Hedgehog projectile or the Fido torpedo—could eventually damage it beyond repair. I was already impressed with the crew’s ability to weather the wrath of those depth charges, but their ability to make repairs while at sea certainly exceeded my expectations. These folks are as self-sufficient as they come. In a way I guess they have to be to survive out here on their own.
They are also good people, with families, with hopes, with dreams, sent here to fight for their nation—even if their nation was being run by a ruthless tyrant. They love Germany as much as I do, as much as my parents still do, and that places us in an impossible situation. Following our orders makes us part of the war machine. Refusing to follow orders will get us labeled as traitors and executed.
Speaking of following orders, I was up on the conning tower an hour ago getting some fresh air while snapping pictures of welders dangling from lines off the sides of the vessel amidst showers of sparks from their equipment as the boat rose and fell in the swells. It was definitely a sight to see. Those welders should be given Knight’s Crosses for the guts to step beyond the protection of the conning tower on a night like tonight. But we have no choice. The submarine must get back to full operational status before daybreak to get ready for our new orders, which, based on the look of these three, can’t be good.
After a moment of hesitation, Jurgen, still holding the piece of paper, says to me, “Bad news from the Eastern Front, Johan. We just got a week-old unofficial report through the U-Boat channel that General Paulus has surrendered to the Russians at Stalingrad to prevent further bloodshed.”
I’m at a loss for words, well aware of the size of the Sixth Army, with over a quarter of a million soldiers, a thousand panzers, several hundred pieces of artillery, and an entire air force of transport planes. The mere thought of such a vast and well-supplied deployment of our best forces now in the hands of the Russians rattles me with the power of a hundred depth charges.
“What . . . are you sure?” I ask, not certain of how to take the news.
“If it’s true,” says Fraatz, speaking for the first time since we picked up the coded transmission after the chief fixed the antennas, “it means that the tide of war may be turning against us on that front. It already has on this side of the world.”
Jurgen, Hans, and the handful of sailors on the control room lower their gazes.
In my opinion, truer words have not been spoken in this submarine since I climbed aboard on a foggy day on January first, 1943, but just the same you have to be damned careful who your audience is when you make a statement like that. Captain Fraatz—and any of us for that matter—could end up executed like so many other outspoken German officers in recent months.
Chief Mueller drops down from the conning tower hauling a bucket filled with wrenches, wire, and other clanging hardware. He is soaked, his huge arms dripping seawater, his face blackened with grease. It doesn’t take him but a few seconds to realize something is wrong.
“Well?” he asks in his resonant voice. “Did we finally lose this damned war?”
“Close, Chief,” says Fraatz, before taking a moment to explain the situation on the Stalingrad front.
I have known Chief Thomas Mueller from the moment I volunteered for this submarine tour. I spent a month preparing for the assignment, tagging along as they went through the preparation of their boat, as they
carried out weekend training missions outside Hamburg to break in the rookies, as they celebrated the New Year by getting stinking drunk, as they pulled themselves together and sailed away on New Year’s Day. Mueller was always the strong man, always the loudest, the most outspoken, barking orders to his crew, drilling them into oblivion until they knew every square inch of that boat, down to the last rivet and bolt.
To see this giant crumbling to his knees and burying his face in his hands invokes a memory of the Goliath that German military forces once were at the beginning of the Russian campaign, and of the broken-spirited army it has become, succumbing to a supposedly inferior enemy.
“No!” Mueller cries, mumbling something about Klaus and Mathias, who I remember are his kid brothers. “It . . . it can’t be true!”
“Thomas! Get up!” barks Fraatz.
Mueller is sobbing, his huge hands covering his face. The man is in obvious shock. The sailors in the control room gather around us, their faces displaying the mix of surprise and disillusion that has also gripped me.
“Get up, and return to your post!” Fraatz insists.
“C’mon, buddy,” whispers Hans, kneeling by his side. “Let’s go talk about it somewhere else.”
“No! Leave me alone! All of you!” Mueller cries, howling the names of his brothers.
We all know that death is better than being captured alive by the barbarian Russians. Chances are he will never know what became of them.
Fraatz walks away pissed off. Jurgen and Hans suddenly get very concerned and really plead with Mueller to get up, to obey the captain, but Mueller has lost it.
I’m not sure what is going on, but a moment later I figure it out. Fraatz is back with his sidearm, which he aims at the chief engineer’s head.
“Get back to your job, sailor!” he barks.
Mueller doesn’t respond, continuing to cry and shake.
Fraatz thumbs the hammer back, cocking the weapon.
Jurgen gets in between the two while doing his damest to tug Mueller’s large bulk to his feet, accomplishing the task with the assistance of Hans.
“He is fine, Captain!” proclaims Jurgen, his bald head beaded with perspiration. “The chief is all right!”
“That’s correct, Captain,” adds Hans, “Thomas just needs a little rest from his grueling work! Isn’t that right, Chief?”
Mueller manages a slight nod—though he is still clearly quite upset.
Ranked by his two friends, Mueller staggers toward the stem, leaving Fraatz alone with me and the sailors manning the control room.
The captain closes his eyes, lowering his weapon, exhaling heavily.
Damn. You don’t see that every day. Based on the look of Fraatz, I have little doubt that he would have pulled the trigger if Hans and Jurgen hadn’t intervened.
A minute of total awkwardness passes before Fraatz says, “Try not to include this episode in your article, Johan. These are good men. They’re just under a lot of stress.”
I nod. Good men or not, Fraatz would have splattered Mueller’s brains all over the deck if the chief engineer hadn’t gotten out of his sight in time.
A moment later Hans and Jurgen silently return to their posts. No one is talking, which just adds to the uneasiness of the moment. Fraatz goes to his cabin to lock his sidearm. By the time he returns, Hans is listening intently to the communications radio through a pair of headphones.
“Captain,” says Hans. “New transmission arriving.” Then he adds, “It’s from BdU.”
Fraatz steps closer to his radioman as Hans jots it down before shifting over to the Enigma machine. The wheels had already been set for today, so he just starts pressing the keys of the typewriterlike coding system.
We all wait expectantly.
Hans finishes decoding it and hands it to Fraatz, who reads it and passes it to Jurgen. The watch officer clenches his jaw while breathing heavily through flaring nostrils. “This is . . .”
“Insane,” says Fraatz, shaking his head. “Simply insane.”
I’m dying to know, so I lean closer to Jurgen. He tilts his head toward me and says, “Apparently Grossadmiral Karl Dönitz himself has read our report from the events that took place yesterday, and, based on our ability to draw the enemy escorts away from the convoy—plus our ingenious tactics to escape destruction—Dönitz has awarded our good captain the Knight’s Cross. Dönitz believes the crew of U-529 should take some of the credit for the fifty tons of merchant vessels that our fleet sunk yesterday while we were dodging the depth charges of the escort vessels. BdU calls the operation a great success.”
For a moment I think about stretching my hand to congratulate him on this coveted award, especially coming directly from a man like Dönitz, the U-boat high commander, but I can tell something isn’t right.
“In addition,” Jurgen continues, his voice lowering while also becoming nearly disembodied. “Grossadmiral Dönitz has ordered us to perform another surface attack on a new American convoy heading toward Britain.” I’m stunned. How in the hell can someone ask us to go through that again?
Jurgen pauses for a moment and then reads straight from the deciphered message. “Grossadmiral Karl Dönitz congratulates Kapitänleutnant Georg-Werner Fraatz and his crew, and wishes him all best and a good hunt.” There’s the awkward silence again. This time it’s me who breaks it, by asking, “But . . . how can Dönitz make such a request after what we just went through? It is just plain suicide to go up against those escorts on the surface again. Besides, by now the Allies should have caught up to the trick. I doubt it will work a second—”
Fraatz raises a palm at me. “Theirs not to make reply. Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death, rode the six hundred,” he says, quoting from Lord Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” a personal favorite of mine—though I would not dare admit it. After all, Tennyson was British, and I’m a bit surprised that Fraatz would quote him. The poem was written to memorialize the suicidal charge by light cavalry over open terrain by British forces in the Battle of Balaclava during the Crimean War. I first read a German translation of this and other famous poems during the German courses I took at Yale to polish up my language skills in preparation for my eventual departure.
At this moment, as I take a deep breath and close my eyes, it all becomes clear to me. This is the true meaning of war, the basic credo of a frontline soldier, as captured by Tennyson almost a century before. We aren’t here to question our orders, or to try to make sense of them, or to try to argue with our superior officers that we may not survive another such onslaught. We aren’t even supposed to discuss the orders among ourselves. We are here to execute them to the best of our ability, to charge forward at all cost—even if doing so could very well send us to our deaths, as was the case with that legendary brigade, as was the case with so many other soldiers before and after them.
Words of the legendary poem suddenly echo in my mind with the same intensity as those crippling explosions that dislodged my teeth.
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Hell.
A cold hell is what the U-Boat High Command has prepared for the unlucky crew of U-529.
Lightning flashes in the North Atlantic sky as we approach the convoy from the north while doing almost sixteen knots. The rumbling thunder mixes with the sounds from the angry sea this morning, as our bow hurdles over boiling swells before splashing down with explosions of water and foam that momentarily swallow the entire vessel, including the conning tower, soaking us to the bone, and surging again over the white-capped crests.
Seawater dripping from my wet hair, seeping down the back of my jacket, I continue to ignore the constant clashes of metal against monstrous walls of black. I press my lips together, tasting the salt as the mist clouding the conning tower clears and we get a brief view of the horizon again. I volunteered for the fir
st watch, and as such I’m facing the starboard side of the vessel, surveying the hazy horizon under an overcast sky of rolling gray clouds.
But in spite of the degree of difficulty it adds to our observation jobs, we actually welcome the gathering storm, for it provides us with some protection as we get dangerously close to the convoy of merchant vessels hauling the supplies that the British so desperately need to keep on fighting, to keep resisting our attacks.
The supply lines must be severed at all cost, even if it means sending U-529 to the bottom of the ocean—even if it means that Michael Johan Mosser will never see his family again.
My mouth is still aching from the other day, and so does the rest of my body for that matter. But I must keep a vigilant eye on the horizon, keep watch for the menacing silhouettes of military vessels. We got a visual on the convoy ten minutes ago but have yet to see any escorts in the area as we plough ahead at full speed.
The cargo ships grow larger on the gray horizon as Captain Fraatz, standing watch facing the bow, barks orders to Chief Mueller below.
It had taken an hour for the corpulent engineer to come around, but he did, returning to the control room to resume the coordination of all needed repairs, acting as if nothing had happened, finally declaring U-529 combatworthy three hours later, while we were already on our way to execute our new orders.
“Flood tubes one through four!” shouts Fraatz over the whistling wind, over the reverberating sea slapping our hull and the thunder rumbling in the sky.
“Flooding tubes one through four!” comes the reply from below a moment later. “Ready to fire on command!”
The convoy grows larger on the horizon, and for a moment I’m beginning to wonder if anyone is going to prevent us from firing on what appears to be fat, slow, and unprotected cargo vessels. For the life of me I can’t see any escorts, and the rest of the watchmen are also failing to spot British or American combat ships as lightning gleams again and again above us, casting bright yellow flashes against the charcoal skies, followed by thunder.
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