by Tom Young
To save the batteries, Karl signaled for a ground crewman to connect external power: He put both arms out the left window and clamped his left hand over his right fist. The ground crewman plugged an electrical cord into the side of Hellstorm. The cord snaked from a portable generator, which growled like a lawn mower when started.
Another ground crewman stood fireguard with an extinguisher. Karl motioned with his index finger: Stand by to start number one. The crewman positioned himself behind the outboard engine on the left wing. Karl cracked the throttles open about half an inch.
“Start number one,” Karl ordered.
With one hand, Adrian held the start switch for the number-one engine. With the other hand, he pumped the hand primer to force air out of the fuel line. After a few seconds, he pressed the mesh switch. The number-one prop began turning, and the nine-cylinder engine coughed and fired.
Karl set the throttle for 1000 RPM and watched the oil pressure rise. He glanced through the windscreen and saw the number-one props turning on a dozen ships. The tang of exhaust smoke seasoned the air.
“Number two,” Karl said. He held two fingers out the window, repeated the start procedure.
A few minutes later, all four engines hummed at idle, and Hellstorm vibrated with life and power, a beast awakened. The ground crew unplugged external power. Across the airfield, the props of the other bombers blew a man-made gale, sweeping dust and exhaust smoke above the trees. Karl and Adrian, along with Fairburn standing behind them, buckled on their throat mikes and put on their headsets so they could talk over the interphone.
“Crew, check in on headset,” Karl ordered.
“Copilot’s up,” Adrian said. He raised his fist above the throttles, and Karl bumped it with his own fist. Ready to go.
“Engineer,” Fairburn responded, still standing behind the pilots.
“Bombardier.”
“Navigator.”
“Radio.”
“Ball turret.”
“Left waist gunner.”
“Right waist.”
“Tail gunner.”
Karl knew the tone and timbre of their voices as if each man were a brother. They didn’t need to call out crew positions; they could have said anything, and in one word, Karl would have known who was checking in. Back in the radio room, Baker was clearly at work: Pops and hums sounded in Karl’s headset as the radios warmed up and came alive. On the command set, tower gave the lead ship clearance to taxi.
At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.
Maybe something else would cause a mission scrub. Perhaps the weather forecast had worsened. Wouldn’t be the first time Karl had seen raids called off at the last minute.
When his turn came, Karl released brakes, taxied out of the hardstand, and joined the procession of bombers lumbering for takeoff. The lead ship, piloted by the group commander, stopped at the runway hold-short line. Prop blast rippled the stubbled remains of a wheat field next to the runway.
The control tower’s Aldis lamp flashed green.
The mission was a go.
2
Predators Become Prey
Oberleutnant Wilhelm Albrecht balanced himself by pure instinct as the German submarine U-351 pitched and rolled on the surface of a choppy sea. The boat’s diesels turned twin screws that propelled the sixty-seven-meter boat at fourteen knots. Sissing froth spilled over the hull. Spray flecked Wilhelm’s beard as he stood on the bridge: Shaving was not permitted on U-boats because it wasted fresh water. The Milky Way sparkled overhead in silver glory. Warrant Officer Heidrich stood next to Wilhelm, bracing himself against the swells.
“A fine night for hunting, sir,” Heidrich remarked.
Wilhelm, the twenty-five-year-old executive officer and second in command of this Type VII Kriegsmarine U-boat, grunted in response. The fine nights for hunting were more than two years past, a period U-boat men called “The Happy Time.” In 1942 alone, German subs, then the terror of merchantmen, had sent more than a thousand Allied ships to the bottom.
The U-351 had done her share. From a distance, a convoy would appear as insects dotting the surface of a pond. Closer, the funnels and mastheads would materialize in the periscope, plump targets with holds full of ammunition, trucks, fuel, and food. This was a war of machines, of entire economies. Victory or disaster might depend on whether U.S. supplies and parts wound up in Churchill’s ports or on the ocean floor.
The skipper would select a victim, maybe even two or three. Wilhelm would calculate target values, adjust speed and course, order tubes opened, and fire. The torpedoes would launch with a hiss of compressed air, the submarine shuddering with each shot. Tense seconds followed for the U-boat crew, short heartbeats, shallow breaths.
Then the ocean would erupt in fire. Billowing flames, towering smoke. Flares and star shells arcing into the sky as stricken vessels signaled for help. The U-boat would make a crash dive as destroyer escorts came seeking vengeance. A quick escape, then on to more hunting. Happy times, indeed, but now those days seemed from another life.
The next time Heidrich spoke, it was not idle chatter about the weather: “Shadow bearing two-one-zero.”
Wilhelm turned to see a dark patch on the horizon, stars blanked out in the shape of a ship. From this angle, he couldn’t say with certainty what type of vessel. But definitely not a tanker. Perhaps something more dangerous.
“We have a target,” Wilhelm shouted through the bridge hatch. “Call the skipper.”
Captain Brauer climbed the tower ladder and sent Heidrich to the control room. Wilhelm swung the Target Bearing Transmitter toward the shadow. Boots clanged on the deck plates below as men rushed to battle stations.
Brauer shouted orders into the voice tube: “Left full rudder, steer two-zero-zero. Engines full ahead.”
The captain was stalking, maneuvering carefully for a good shot—the way a wolf might angle around prey before tearing in for the kill. Wilhelm knew why Brauer was being careful. This target could be a destroyer, and U-boats did not normally attack warships. The subs saved their torpedoes for merchantmen carrying enemy supplies and equipment. But targets had proved scarce during this patrol. We’ll get only one chance to fire, Wilhelm thought, and God help us if we miss.
For an hour, the U-351 closed on her target. Plenty of darkness remained. The captain ordered two minor course changes and bided his time. Then came the moment when Brauer’s posture changed; his stance grew straighter. Wilhelm recognized the body language: The skipper was ready to fire.
Heidrich, now in position in the control room, called from below: “Target speed fifteen knots, course one-eight-zero.”
“Prepare tubes two and three,” Brauer ordered. “Surface attack.”
Wilhelm’s pulse quickened. He forgot about the chill of his damp navy-issued sweater and the seawater that splashed into his boots. These moments pushed to the back of his mind all the discomforts of submarine life: the cramped spaces, the rotten food, the condensation and mold, the stench of urine and oil. Now he felt only the thrill of the hunt.
“Tubes two and three ready,” Heidrich called.
Wilhelm needed to keep the Target Bearing Transmitter aimed at the shadow. For the last several minutes, that task had required little movement. But now he had to swing the TBT several degrees. Then several more. The vessel was taking evasive action.
“She’s turning fast!” Heidrich shouted.
The target’s maneuver was no precautionary course change by a sleepy helmsman in the wheelhouse of a freighter. This was almost certainly an Allied destroyer coming hard about. Somehow, the U-351 had been detected. And the t
arget’s evasive turn placed the U-boat out of position to shoot.
“Alaaarm!” Brauer cried. “Verdammt.”
Wilhelm and Brauer leaped for the bridge hatch. Wilhelm scrambled down the tower ladder first; whenever the skipper was on the bridge and ordered a crash dive, he always waited to make sure everyone else was safely below. Brauer followed Wilhelm, slammed the hatch closed, and locked it.
“Dive to one-sixty meters,” Brauer ordered. “Now, now, now.”
Sailors yanked valve handles and turned handwheels. The ballast tanks opened and began to fill with salt water. The rush of water and the hiss of escaping air combined into a roar that reminded Wilhelm of an avalanche he’d witnessed during a ski trip in the Alps—back before the war, an eternity ago. He felt the boat tilt and descend at an angle. The depth gauge needle began dropping: thirty meters, forty meters, fifty.
The destroyer surged overhead, engines turning its screws at high RPM. Sound traveled four times faster in water than in air, and the U-boat men could hear their enemy in pursuit. Loud pings struck the U-351: Asdic impulses sent from a U.S. vessel trying to pinpoint the sub’s location. To Wilhelm, they felt like needles piercing his eardrums. The pings grew louder, the pain unbearable. The chugging of pistons joined the pings. Above all the noise came three distinct splashes.
Depth charges.
“Right full rudder,” Brauer ordered. “Keep her coming down.”
Wilhelm felt the U-boat turn: With her course and depth constantly changing, she became a more difficult target. The destroyer’s engines grew fainter. Each man held his breath. The depth gauge read ninety meters and dropping.
Thunder rocked the ocean.
The explosion shook the boat, flickered the lights. Two seconds later, a closer blast pushed the U-351 deeper into the water. Anything not bolted down went flying. Pencils, charts, and canned food clattered against decks and pipes. Glass faces of gauges cracked. Wilhelm fell against the edge of a chart table so hard, he cracked the table. Pain seared through his hip bone. Men cursed and shouted in fear and anger.
Another detonation put out the lights altogether. Despite Wilhelm’s tightest grip on a valve handle, he got thrown into that damned table again. Someone fell against him. A loud cry came from somewhere aft. Wilhelm felt the boat moving. Was she sinking? Had the hull ruptured? He braced for an icy rush of seawater and the chest-rending agony of drowning.
Brauer clicked on a flashlight. “Emergency lighting,” he ordered. Someone found switches and flipped them.
The dim light revealed water pouring, dripping, or spraying from dozens of ruptured gaskets. As exec, Wilhelm’s duties included helping the skipper with damage control, and he considered ordering bilge pumps turned on. He decided to wait. The pumps’ hammering would tell the enemy that the U-351 was not quite dead.
Wilhelm glanced at the depth gauge. Mein Gott, two hundred meters. Crush depth was 230.
“Blow tanks two and three,” Brauer called.
The hiss of compressed air reverberated through the hull. Wilhelm felt the deck angle shifting; the bow rose, then dropped again. Steel groaned. Hydraulic fluid dripped from unsealed valves. The depth needle slowed but kept moving. Two hundred ten meters.
“Blow one and four,” the skipper ordered.
Another shot of compressed air forced seawater out of the tanks. With four ballast tanks now empty, the boat should have started an ascent. But still she fell. Two hundred twenty meters.
“Exec,” Brauer said, “we’re taking in water somewhere. Better find it if you ever want to see the sun again.”
“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said.
A call from an aft compartment confirmed the skipper’s suspicions: “Engine room’s flooded!”
“Bilge pumps on,” Wilhelm ordered. The boat had to purge that water whether the enemy heard the pumps or not. He wasn’t even sure if the pumps would work at this depth against the enormous pressure of outside water. He should have turned them on earlier.
Wilhelm grabbed a flashlight and headed aft. Stumbled over the body of a machinist lying on the deck, the side of his head broken open with brain matter exposed. Probst, the fisherman’s son from Rostock. Wilhelm hated to step across his body, as if it were so much flotsam, but he had no time for grief. The hull continued to groan. Was the boat still descending?
The farther aft Wilhelm moved, the deeper the water splashed over his boots. It had seeped inside from frigid black depths, and he began to shiver. In the engine room, in knee-deep brine, Wilhelm and a petty officer found the offending valve. Water gurgled from the ruptured valve like a fountain. Wilhelm kneeled and grabbed the submerged valve wheel. The wheel turned freely in both directions, but did not close the valve—because the wheel was attached to a broken spindle.
“Get the schematics,” Wilhelm ordered. “See if there’s an upstream valve.”
A sailor flipped open a soggy engineering manual. Another held a flashlight. The men flipped pages, looked along the maze of plumbing.
“There,” Petty Officer Wuerth said, pointing.
A sailor turned the valve wheel. The gurgling ended. The fatal leak stopped.
Wilhelm reported the news to the control room, then asked, “What’s our depth, sir?”
“Two hundred thirty-five meters.”
The men in the engine room looked at one another, then at the steel that surrounded them. According to the books, the hull should have collapsed by now. German craftsmanship, and perhaps Neptune’s mercy, had granted a few extra meters. But one more centimeter, one more minute, could bring a fury of rending metal, bone-crushing pressure, cold blackness, and death.
Liter by liter, the bilge pumps emptied water from inside the hull. Meter by meter, the U-351 began to rise. At 180 meters, Brauer told Wilhelm to stop the pumps.
The depth stabilized. No longer in danger of collapsing like a crushed tin can, the boat hung motionless in the water. This depth still offered protection from charges dropped by enemy warships. Submariners didn’t normally control their buoyancy by starting and stopping bilge pumps, but for the moment, the technique had worked.
Sailors went to work on less serious leaks, and Wilhelm surveyed the damage. He found a bent shaft on one of the diesel engines, ten tripped relays, and cracked cells on battery number two. An electrician, Petty Officer Zeiser, went to work with a spool of copper wire to jump the bad cells.
The bent shaft meant the end of the patrol. A U-boat hobbling along on one engine could hardly maneuver for attack. When Brauer heard the news, he snatched off his white navy cap and threw it to the deck plates. His stream of profanity bordered on art.
Wilhelm understood his skipper’s frustration: The U-boat fleet had taken so many losses in recent months, and U-boat victories were becoming scarce. Sometimes it seemed the Allies could read the coded messages from U-boat headquarters. The skipper had hoped this patrol would bring better luck.
Brauer placed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and said, “Tell me when the battery is fixed. We’ll run deep on the electric motors and get the hell out of here.”
Hours later, the U-351 surfaced. Up top, she could run on her remaining diesel engine, recharge her batteries, and let her crew breathe fresh air. Wilhelm climbed the tower ladder and opened the hatch. Residual pressure nearly threw him onto the bridge, and he caught himself with both hands on the hatch rim. The air smelled wonderful.
Dawn had broken gray. A solid overcast covered the sky, the same color as the U-boat. Rain slanted down in nettles. The U-351 rode heaving swells.
From the bridge, Wilhelm saw more damage. The deck gun’s barrel was bent and the feed mechanism blown off. The antiaircraft gun looked intact, though. That was good: The boat had a long way to get home, and she might need to defend herself.
Communication became easier on the surface, and radiograms flooded into the radio room. The decoded messages read like an obituary page:
ATTACKED BY AIRCRAFT. SINKING. U-459.
&
nbsp; ATTACKED BY DESTROYER. SINKING. U-327.
SUNDERLAND AIRCRAFT. BOMBS. SINKING. U-534.
DISABLED AT GRID SQUARE BF 38. BOTH DIESELS OUT. BATTERIES DEAD. U-635.
Wilhelm knew men on each of those boats.
The U-351’s radio room sent out its own message: SEVERELY DAMAGED AT GRID SQUARE AF 52. ONE DIESEL OUT. BREAKING OFF PATROL.
* * *
Three weeks later, the U-351 rode the surface of the North Sea near the German coast, her hull a gray dagger slicing through black water. Along the sides of the U-boat, Allied depth charges had burned away some of the gray paint to reveal streaks of protective red primer. Explosives had also creased the hull.
In the control room, Wilhelm plotted a course for home. He felt hopeless, but he kept his feelings to himself. The crewmen around him worked in near silence, undoubtedly mindful of those missing from their ranks. Three had been buried at sea. First, they’d said farewell to Probst, who’d died in the depth charge attack. Then, on the long slog back to Germany, a Spitfire had caught U-351 on the surface and slashed down from the sky with guns blazing. Petty Officer Radisch had returned fire with the antiaircraft gun and paid with his life; he’d kept firing until riddled by strafing. Then the damaged battery had acted up again, emitting fumes that killed electrician Zeiser.
The survivors—forty-seven men, counting Captain Brauer—worked amid a maze of pipes and hatches, gauges and handwheels. Oil and grime darkened their faces and sleep deprivation hollowed their eyes. At the beginning of this patrol, they had sailed from Kiel in a wolf pack of five boats. Only the U-351 limped home, and that by the grace of God.
The events of the past weeks seemed to fill a lifetime, as if all of Wilhelm’s land-based existence had happened to someone else. Now, heading toward the sub pens at Bremen, Wilhelm began to think his shipmates and naval college classmates had died in vain. The Reich was shrinking from all sides; enemies had entered the Fatherland itself, something the Führer had called impossible. In the east, the Soviets had rolled into Nemmersdorf and massacred civilians. In the west, the town of Aachen had fallen to the Americans.