Sheppard and the French Rescue

by G. William Weatherly

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Pass to DC Central. ‘Report status.’”

  It seemed like an eternity, before the report came back as Belleau Wood slowly began to list to starboard. Harvey had to think, what else did he need to worry about immediately? “Pass to the forecastle. ‘Report status of personnel and the progress of replacing the towing hawsers’.”

  It was the JA talker trying to catch his attention, “Captain, forecastle reports that some personnel caught up in the lifelines, cuts and abrasions, but nothing serious. They are double leather wrapping the hawsers now where they go through the fairlead.”

  “Very well.” Was it his imagination or was the list to starboard starting to lessen.

  “Captain. DC Central reports flooding in the forward hold and second platform storerooms. The forward Damage Control party is shoring bulkheads and decks. DC Central is pumping liquids to counteract the list. Turret Number I magazines are dry.”

  “All ahead one third,” Argonne’s Conning Officer ordered as they approached the entrance to the Delaware Bay. “Captain, lookouts are reporting the pilot boat in sight.”

  “Very well, Officer of the Deck. Prepare to take the pilot onboard on the port side.” Sheppard would soon be able to relax a little in the confines of the Delaware, safe from German torpedoes.

  “Conning station, radio central, ‘Commander Destroyer Squadron Thirty reports that Belleau Wood has been torpedoed and requests release of our escorts,’” the 21MC shattered Sheppard’s illusion of safety. A quick answer on the squawk box and a curt. “Quartermaster, report the depth of water.” Sheppard could see Cape Henlopen fine on the port bow with Cape May light house, dark but visible through his binoculars bearing zero-zero-five.

  “Captain, Navigator, depth of water is eighty feet, but the approach to the Delaware was sixty to sixty-five feet.”

  Another indication that Art Roberts was a good officer; he was telling Sheppard not only what he had asked for, but more importantly, put it in context of what was important to a submarine. “Very well.” He took the microphone for the TBS, “Akita (call sign for the John C. McCloy), Coonhound (call sign for the George Charrette), this is Panther; Detach, return to Hunt-Master, expedite; acknowledge.”

  “Akita, roger.”

  “Coonhound, roger.”

  Sheppard watched as both destroyers peeled outboard, their sterns settling in growing phosphorescent wakes, their bows climbing the pressure wave ahead—accelerating toward 40 knots. Had he made the wrong decision, was Argonne still in danger?

  “Beagle, this is Foxhound. U-boat bears two-nine-five from me, range one-two-hundred yards.

  “Beagle, roger”

  “Beagle, I want you to lay a sixteen charge pattern on the contact. Set charges at one-fifty, and two-hundred. Set the charges from your K-guns at one-seventy-five.

  “This is Beagle, roger, set charges at one-fifty, two-hundred, and one-seventy-five.”

  “Beagle, approach at twenty-four knots, I’ll provide vectors and course corrections. Drop on my mark.”

  “This is Beagle, roger.”

  John Badger hunched over the chart table as the DRAI bug slowly moved. The quartermaster now on a sound powered phone headset to cut the noise on the Conn, laid down bearings and ranges to the U-boat every minute on the minute. Another plotter was marking the range and bearing to the Jesse Elliot from the SG radar. It wasn’t the greatest system, but it was the best that John and his officers had come up with. He owed a lot to Commander Johnny Walker of the Royal Navy. He had managed to spend several weeks with him while on a liaison tour to Vice Admiral Ramsey’s staff in Dover.

  “Beagle, come to course three-two-four, submarine is one-oh, double oh yards ahead.”

  “This is Beagle, roger.”

  He had made his attack well. As the torpedo run time had reached three-minutes fifteen-seconds, the first explosion of two-hundred kilograms of hexanite had detonated. With each explosion his control room had burst into cheers. Now as the reverberations of his success began to die away, the success was over, he was now the hunted with no more ability to counter his approaching tormentors.

  “Herr Kaleu, there is a second set of high speed screws bearing about one-five-zero. There is not yet a bearing drift.”

  These Americans were being very smart about their approach. “Ehrlichmann, is the first destroyer still echo ranging and drawing to the left?”

  “Jawoll, Herr Kaleu”

  Sweat began to form on the brow of Kapitänleutnant Alfred Kuhn. He had expected the American destroyer to immediately charge him and wildly throw depth charges at the U-182. That would give him his opening to exploit their naiveté in anti-submarine warfare. But this American, the one in the first destroyer had not taken his bait. He doubted that his three hits on that massive ship would sink it. It obviously had already been damaged. Had he been foolish, had his own inexperience as a captain and his ego gotten the better of him?

  The submarine was maneuvering. It was accelerating and turning rapidly left. “Quartermaster, lay down bearings and ranges to the sub every thirty seconds.” Now what, he had to guess—factor in the turning radius of the Jesse Elliot. Would a maneuver at the last instant slow her so much that her own depth charges would damage her? If the first attack was going to disable that U-boat he had to make a change.

  “Beagle, this is Foxhound, come to course two-seven-zero sharply, increase speed.”

  “This is Beagle, roger, coming to course two-seven-zero. Will roll and shoot charges on your mark.”

  In his mind, Commander John Badger drew a circle around the plot of Jesse Elliot’s position—the lethal radius of her depth charge attack, moving it invisibly as his estimate on his sister-ship’s position changed second by second. It always boiled down to the skill of the commanding officer—the years of experience at sea. The time spent thinking through the problem, training the crew, integrating the pieces. It all came down to this moment.

  “Mark, mark, mark!!”

  “Beagle, open to the west about one-five-hundred yards, slow to ten knots and attempt to gain sonar contact. Foxhound will make the next attack.”

  “This is Beagle, roger.”

  Ka-boom!!! The first depth charge exploded aft of the U-182—then another to starboard. More and more rained down on the U-boat. Light bulbs shattered. Bolt-heads ricocheted about every compartment. Water sprayed on electrical equipment producing a shower of sparks as dead-shorts caused by the seawater sprayed molten copper. Some men screamed—others silently prayed.

  Alfred Kuhn knew that he had made a mistake. He should have changed depth as well as altered course. The depth charges were detonating at the same depth his boat fought to remain under control. “Fire tube one,” he screamed. He was desperate to stop the damage being inflicted on his submarine.

  The order was quickly relayed to the torpedo room and the load of flotsam and jetsam headed toward the surface contained within rapidly expanding bubbles of air.

  “Engineer, release five-hundred liters of fuel.” Alfred did not know but that order was unnecessary as one of the fuel ballast tanks had ruptured and tonnes of diesel were on the way to the surface. He looked over at the depth gage slowly winding its way deeper as the boat grew heavier from the in-rushing sea.

  “Stop both.” It was time to settle to the bottom and complete his ruse. His thoughts were interrupted by reports of flooding in the motor room and the after torpedo room.

  “Foxhound, this is Beagle, gained faint contact bearing zero-eight-five, range one-two-hundred, no doppler.”

  “This is Beagle, roger.” Now it was the James Lawrence’s turn.

  “Quartermaster. report sounding at the contact’s position from the Jesse Elliot.”

  “Forty-two fathoms, Captain.”

  “Officer of the Deck, set depth charges two-hundred-twenty-five feet. I am going to use an eleven charge pattern.” Glancing at the chart, guessing his turning radius and acceleration, his next order would sen
d them to the attack. “Come to course two-four-seven, and increase speed to full.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  What had he forgotten? This was a new feeling—this attempt to kill. This enemy had tried to sink the ship he had been guarding. Was his attack revenge for the sailors killed or wounded on Belleau Wood? Was it just another ugly event in an infinite series of ugly events called war? Did that absolve him of the deaths of his enemy?

  “Roll charges!” The first one silently fell into his destroyer’s wake but the thunder of the K-guns heralded others thrown to port and starboard matching others rolled from the stern racks. Each charge had 600 pounds of TNT. It was lethal to any submarine if it exploded within 28 feet of the hull—extensive damage if within forty.

  Another set of depth charges were detonating around U-182. Reports from the aft torpedo room and the motor room stated that seems in the pressure hull had been broken. There was no hope of lifting his submarine off the bottom.

  In a way it was a blessing when a depth charge exploded close to the control room rupturing the hull. Alfred Kuhn’s last conscious thought as his lungs rebelled against the sea water entering them was, “I was foolish to attack!”

  2

  HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT

  SHE LANGUISHED IN THE sublime knowledge of their love. She luxuriated in the respite they had together. She knew she had to share his affection, share his attention, his devotion. She intuitively guessed that she always had; but it was a small price to pay for their magnificent life together. He could promise nothing but pain, ask anything of her, demand her best, and she would willingly comply. Fate had brought them together. It would take fate to tear them apart.

  As she rested, rejuvenating in his support, she knew her skills to support him were improving. She was becoming the perfect companion for a rising star. As he succeeded in his career so did she. It was invigorating being with him, but there was still the dark side of his troubled soul. Oh, if she could only heal the pain, remove the guilt, restore the indomitable spirit he once had, all would be perfect.

  “Torpedo Los!” Korvettenkapitän Conrad Kluge gave the order sending his last G7e electric torpedo on toward a median sized freighter. Snapping the periscope handles up, he grabbed the hydraulic hoist lever sending the attack scope back down to rest on the boat’s keel. Conrad was disappointed that this was not a significant target, just one more allied merchant in the war of attrition on Britain’s lifeline. He looked at his second in command carefully timing the torpedo run. Three seconds before the stop watch reached zero, a loud explosion reverberated through U-197. His crew cheered and clapped each other on the back—another kill, another success.

  He had been off on his estimation of the target’s range—not by much but enough that the hit was probably in a forward hold rather than the engine room he aimed for.

  The swishing noise of the periscope hoist stopped at his action on the control lever of the attack scope, just high enough to clear the water from the head-window for an observation. Bending over, quickly he grabbed the handles and swung the periscope around covering the horizon and searching for any aircraft in the vicinity alerted by his attack.

  Finally satisfied for the safety of his boat and crew, Kluge allowed himself the pleasure of a lingering look at his target. Well down by the bow, the crew was feverishly working to take the canvas cover off a lifeboat. Other men were starting to swing the davits outboard and lower their only hope into the ever decreasing distance to the sea. They were only about 40 nautical miles from the mouth of the Delaware River and those men should be able to row ashore in a day or two if they were not picked up by another ship.

  Another sweep of the horizon and air space in his vicinity as the freighter’s bow slipped beneath the waves. Her stern rose and then began accelerating in the inevitable plunge to the bottom. She must have been carrying a heavy cargo to plunge so quickly—perhaps tanks or other armored vehicles. Conrad wondered what he had just saved Germany from; that ship’s contribution to the allied war effort. Well it would have been easy to surface and question the survivors, perhaps throwing them some bread to loosen their tongues. But the intelligence was not worth the risk so close to the American coast.

  Lowering the periscope, Kluge ordered 50 meters. At that depth, with the dark paint on U-197’s horizontal surfaces he had nothing to fear from air patrols. Dropping into the control room, the quartermaster’s chart commanding his attention now—each kill had been carefully plotted with a dark black X, seemingly spread well around his patrol area. That was his intent. Conrad Kluge was no fool. His Knight’s Cross left in the cubbyhole of a stateroom proved his prowess not only at sinking ships, but seeing to the safety of his command.

  The observations he had made of shipping too distant to attack were also plotted, though not as boldly and color coded to show daylight observations or those at night. The numerous sightings clearly showing the shipping lanes merchant captains inadvertently followed trying to please the ships’ owners with quick and efficient passages.

  Well, all he had left for his few remaining days on station before his fuel supply dictated a long return to his base in France was his 10.5 cm deck gun. Surface attacks trying to sink ships with shell fire dictated the cover of darkness. Even those could be tricky if an unseen warship suddenly arrived. This far from Le Havre though also implied not returning before he had expended his ammunition as well as his torpedoes. However successful he had been, Admiral Karl Dönitz would criticize the patrol for wasting fuel carting cannon ammunition to the shores of America only to bring it back.

  Sheppard and Evelyn had just returned from the memorial service for the officers and men of Belleau Wood that had perished in the Battle of Cape Vilan. The arrangement for them to stay in the guest house on the grounds of the Philadelphia Navy Yard gave Sheppard respite from the reporters that always seemed to know where he was going when off of Navy property. Sheppard was at a loss to understand what all the fuss was about. Evelyn understood the need of the American public for good news and the hero that created it. Trying to explain it to her husband; however, was beyond even her considerable abilities.

  Evelyn was removing her hat and Sheppard his cover when a gray Navy sedan pulled up in front of the house and a petty officer jumped out. He ran around to the right rear door and opened it as an officer with four rings of gold braid circling his left shoulder jumped out of the left rear door. An elderly gentleman in a gray worsted suit wearing a fedora stepped out of the right side and headed up the path to the front door. Medium height, but still reasonably slender with neatly trimmed nearly white hair, Sheppard wasn’t sure who the distinguished visitor might be.

  “Good afternoon, Sheppard. And this lovely woman must be Evelyn. Your picture at the luncheon with Eleanor Roosevelt doesn’t do you justice,” he began. “I am John Hamblen.”

  “Admiral, I am sorry that I didn’t recognize you out of uniform. Would you please come in and have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” Turning the admiral addressed his aide, “Lieutenant Halverson, please wait outside, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “Admiral, may I brew you some coffee or tea,” Evelyn offered.

  “Yes, coffee please,” Admiral Hamblen said as an excuse for Evelyn to leave the room.

  As she left, he began, “Sheppard, I wanted to personally thank you for what you have done for my son. I have not seen him this enthusiastic about the service since he was a boy.”

  “Admiral, he saved all of us from a potentially disastrous situation. He is a good officer. I just had to undo some things that happened to him on the Boone.”

  “I know; I am sure Junior told you about how that came about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sheppard, what I really wanted to talk to you about was the business of you being a war criminal. I have investigated with Navy JAG, and you acted within the Geneva conventions. Whatever you may personally feel, the blood of those German sailors you killed is on the hands of that madman Hitle
r. Unfortunately, raising that issue in your report has allowed your enemies an opening to spread rumors and prevent the Senate from immediately promoting you to Rear Admiral.”

  “Admiral, I understand what you say. I didn’t want the German propaganda machine to make an issue of something about which our government didn’t have the facts.”

  “Sheppard, trust me when I say, that was appreciated in Washington. Rear Admiral Richard Troubridge must have quite an axe to grind with you to start the rumors that he did with Senator Russell.”

  “Yes, sir, he does. When I was at the Bureau of Ordnance, he made a proposal for a rocket propelled mine clearing device that would run up on a beach and clear out any land mines that might be there. I opposed it. He swore he would never forgive me.”

  “I remember the proposal. I agree with you, that damn thing would never have worked, but Admiral Troubridge is one hard headed SOB. He is also a good officer, when he is sober. You are not the only one that he has unjustifiably hurt. His inebriated memory destroyed my friend Husband Kimmel.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I always thought Admiral Kimmel was railroaded as a scapegoat for Pearl Harbor.”

  “Well, Sheppard, what is done is done and nothing can be accomplished about it now. I just wanted to let you know that the service will see to it the Admiral Troubridge is assigned somewhere he can’t start any more Washington rumors. I also wanted to tell you that when the next Flag Selection Board meets, I for one will write a letter on your behalf. I know there will be others.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “Please give my apologies to Evelyn for not staying. I really need to get back to Washington. The President has called me to a meeting tomorrow about a mission for the new strategic intelligence service that I head. Good luck and thank you again for helping my son.”