by Antony Trew
Everything Hans does he does well. He sets the highest standards, not only for himself but for others. He is a perfectionist. This he cannot help for he was born that way. But it is not really a virtue. Others – and I am one – find difficulty in living up to the standards he imposes. Because of this he makes me feel a failure in many things. The way I run the house. How I dress. My looks, my figure. How I manage on the money he allows me – and my own money! I have to keep detailed accounts. Hans checks them. He says he does this to help me. So that I may know where the money goes. As if I didn’t without writing it all down.
I think I am still fond of him, or much that is him. But not so much that I am prepared to lose my personality in his. To become a sort of ersatz Hans. I prefer to be myself, inferior maybe, and to have some sort of life of my own. Fortunately we have no children and we are young. Now is the time to make the break, however difficult it may be.
To those who knew Hans Kleber well – and they were mostly the officers and men with whom he had served in the U-boat arm – this might have seemed a harsh judgment. In fact it was, in most respects, closer to the truth than they would have cared to acknowledge, for the characteristics of which Helga complained fitted in well with the requirements of naval discipline.
Be that as it may, it was this absence of family ties which at times introduced an element of recklessness into his decisions and explained his willingness to take risks where others refrained.
Conditions on U-0117’s small bridge were difficult in the extreme. There was not only the high wind, the seas driving in on them through the unprotected after side of the bridge, and the cold to compete with, but so much spray, snow and sleet in the air that the lenses of night glasses and eye masks frosted soon after they were cleared. Despite these difficulties, Kleber found running on the surface at high speed exhilarating. And the prolonged surface run ensured that the submarine’s batteries received a handsome charge, which was important for what lay ahead. Another advantage of being surfaced was that fresh air swept through the boat clearing away the sickly stench of decaying food, grease, diesel oil, chlorine gas and human sweat.
Inside the boat conditions were deplorable on these Arctic patrols. It was not only the foul air but the humidity; water dripped everywhere; verdigris formed on exposed metal surfaces; bedding, clothing, charts, sailing directions and naval manuals became damp and mildewed. Kleber had nothing but admiration for the stoicism with which his men endured their lot, and the fact that their morale was high was all the more remarkable since the Allies now had the upper hand in the war against U-boats; a fact well known throughout the U-boat service.
U-0117 had been running on the surface on passage from Trondheim for over forty-eight hours. During this time she had sighted nothing, the weather having been uniformly bad. Periodically Kleber had dived the boat to free it of ice on the superstructure and external armament, and to check the trim. The temperature of the sea was several degrees above freezing, whereas the air temperature was twenty to thirty degrees below.
‘Das Boot arbeitet hart in dieser See … the boat works hard in this weather,’ Kleber remarked to Schaffenhauser the sub-lieutenant with whom he stood shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, gripping the rail below the bridge screen. ‘But it’s refreshing to be travelling on the surface. And we make good speed. At least thirteen knots.’
Schaffenhauser said, ‘Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.’ While he agreed they were making good speed, he preferred to be submerged. For all the smells of foul air, mildew and dampness – and added discomfort when they used the Schnorchel in bad weather, when men gasped for oxygen and suffered from bouts of nausea as seas closed the float on the air intake valve – for all that he felt more secure submerged. On the surface he was uncomfortably aware of the air threat. One felt naked and exposed. The sudden swoop from above, the brilliance of flares dropped by attacking aircraft, the accuracy of their depth-charging and rocket fire. It was good to have a hundred metres or so of sea above you, with thermal layers to protect the boat from searching asdic beams.
But Schaffenhauser mentioned none of this to Kapitänleutnant Kleber who had a zest for action and seemed to thrive on discomfort and danger. Schaffenhauser thought a lot of the captain and did not wish to lose his esteem.
As if he were reading the young man’s thoughts, Kleber said, ‘Only another hundred and twenty miles to the patrol line, Schaffenhauser. That’s about nine hours. We’ll have to submerge then if this gale lets up and visibility improves. The air will become too busy.’
‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’ Schaffenhauser hoped that the weather would break and that they would have to submerge even sooner.
‘It’s not the Russian Catalinas that worry me‚’ said Kleber. ‘It’s the British carrier aircraft which do the damage. They are the professionals.’
‘At what point do we join the patrol line, Herr Kapitän?’
‘At the centre. Opposite the entrance to the Inlet. The Russians have swept a passage through the minefields there. The convoy must use it eventually. It is for us to get in our attack early, while they still have some distance to go.’
There was silence after that. Eventually Kleber said, ‘Wind and sea seem to have eased a little. Not much, but I hope no more.’
‘No more, Herr Kapitän?’
‘Yes. Bad weather protects us. And once we’re on the patrol line we are fifteen U-boats. I want to try once again a high-speed down-wind surface attack. As we used to in the Atlantic in ’forty-two and ‘forty-three.’
Schaffenhauser was silent. The captain had a great reputation and he hesitated to question his views. But everyone in U-boats knew that the enemy’s new radar had made ‘wolf-pack’ attacks suicidal. Such tactics had long since been abandoned. He said, “Yes, Herr Kapitän. But there was nothing like the high density of enemy escorts then, was there? And their radar direction-finding equipment was not as sophisticated as today.’
Kleber laughed with easy confidence. ‘Of course. You are right. It was not so difficult then, I admit. But you know in this sort of weather we are free from attack by aircraft and they are undoubtedly the U-boat’s greatest menace. Secondly, under these conditions of bad visibility, attacking downwind, if you are bold and aggressive, you can penetrate the escort screens, get your torpedoes off and dive under the protective thermal layers. These we did not have in the Atlantic.’
‘Do you really think those tactics would still work, Herr Kapitän? These Russian convoys have an outer screen of destroyers. It has to be penetrated first.’
‘Yes. I accept that, but I believe it can be done. I have given much thought to it. Of course the weather must be right and that is why I regret the possibility that the gale might moderate too soon. But remember this tactic has not been used for a long time. We must get an early sighting, create a diversion to dilute the escort force, concentrate quickly, dive deep in advance of the outer screen and let it pass over us while we sit under thermal layers. Afterwards we surface close to the convoy in the up-wind position. Then, with the element of surprise, we inflict heavy losses.’
Schaffenhauser was beginning to find Kleber’s enthusiasm infectious. ‘Yes, Herr Kapitän‚’ he said. ‘I see the possibilities. It is an exciting idea.’
Kleber corrected him. ‘It is more than that. It is a sound tactical plan. I discussed it in detail with the Flag Officer, U-boats, Group North, as soon as I joined the flotilla. At the start he said “under no circumstances”. But in time I convinced him.’
‘What did he say then, Herr Kapitän?’
‘He agreed that if conditions were right it would be worth trying.’ Kleber did not add that he and the Flag Officer had formulated tactical plans for putting his ideas into operation under varying conditions, that each plan had been given a code letter, and that copies were in the hands of all U-boat commanders on the patrol line.
Instead Kleber shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘But this gale must continue.’
‘I think it will, Herr Kapitän
.’
‘Good. I see you are an optimist, Schaffenhauser. The right approach to war.’ He struck the young man lightly on the shoulder. ‘We shall see what the next twelve hours bring.’
Periodically Kleber stopped engines and swung U-0117 to port or starboard to check with radar, search-receivers and hydrophones for a surface ship astern. It was a routine safety precaution. He did not expect to make any contact at that time and in that weather.
A few minutes before 0603 he gave the order to dive to one hundred metres. He intended keeping U-0117 submerged for fifteen to twenty minutes to melt the snow and ice on the conning-tower and anti-aircraft guns, and catch a trim for the action which lay ahead. However, a defect in the Schnorchel housing gear, a broken cable, kept U-0117 submerged for almost an hour longer than Kleber had planned.
When Ulrich Heuser the engineer-officer reported the defect remedied, Kleber, impatient at the delay, gave the order to surface. Soon after surfacing he swung the boat to port and starboard and stopped engines. Almost immediately the buzzer from the control-room sounded and Ausfeld’s urgent call came up the voice-pipe. ‘Faint radar impulses on search-receiver port astern sector. Nothing on hydrophones.’ Ausfeld was the warrant officer responsible for radio, radar and other electronic equipment.
‘Gut,’ said Kleber, ‘Geben Sie klas Schiff zum Gefecht … sound the action alarm.’
Wedged in the corner of the wardroom settee, Terence O’Brien braced himself against Vengeful’s corkscrewing – a combined pitch and roll which made a ride in a roller-coaster seem like a vicar’s tea-party. ‘My point‚’ he said, ‘is that war should not be taken too seriously.’
Wilson, sea-booted and sweatered, wedged in another corner, said, ‘Good point, but our problem’s weather not war.’
‘Don’t take either too seriously.’
The wardroom dropped thirty feet into the trough of a sea, slewed right then left, the stern shuddering as it hit the sea and the propellers bit into the water. O’Brien, who’d been thrown off the settee, re-wedged himself, ‘As I was saying …’
‘Quite,’ said Pownall, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘You usually are.’
‘Am I now, Pownall?’ said O’Brien. ‘Please to explain.’ He was wearing a red skiing jersey with a yellow-and-white scarf, his ginger hair and beard equally untidy.
‘Making war,’ said Pownall with assumed severity, ‘is a serious business. Skill, intelligence, dedication, thorough training and a highly professional approach are necessary. Qualities which, I’m bound to say, you wavy-navy’s lack.’
‘D’ye hear that now,’ said O’Brien. ‘The man’s insulting us.’
‘Of course‚’ said Wilson. ‘He’s RN. One keeps forgetting.’
‘You mean he does it for the money.’ O’Brien looked at Pownall with new interest.
‘Precisely,’ said Wilson. ‘Whereas we RNVR’s do it for fun. You know. Like cricket – the Gentlemen and the Players.’
The first-lieutenant came into the wardroom, a burly figure, his anorak powdered with snow. He pulled back the hood, took off his gloves and put his hands on the steam-heater. ‘Bloody cold outside.’
‘No more than seasonal,’ said Pownall.
The first-lieutenant shouted, ‘Pantry!’
The messman appeared. ‘Sir?’
‘What’s for breakfast, Guilio? I’m hungry.’
‘Porridge, mutton and potatoes, sir. And bacon and eggs.’
The first-lieutenant groaned. ‘Not that stringy mutton with those awful blobs of fat?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Must we have them, Guilio?’
‘Yes, sir. Arctic diet. Admiralty orders.’
The doctor put down the periodical he’d been looking at. ‘Fatty diet keeps up body heat, Number One. Most people actually feel the need for fat in the Arctic winter.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Wilson.
‘Well, actually I don’t,’ said the first-lieutenant.
Pownall said, ‘Can’t often agree with Wilson, but on this I do.’
‘Anyone on the bridge?’ inquired O’Brien.
‘The Old Man, Groves and Rogers,’ said the first-lieutenant. ‘Satisfy you?’
‘In the Irish Navy we’d make do with one. I suppose we’re an unusually talented people.’
‘The Old Man wants as many of us as possible to have a good meal now. The next twenty-four hours are likely to be busy.’
‘Well indeed and that is depressing news,’ said O’Brien. Pownall frowned his disapproval. ‘O’Brien doesn’t like our professional approach to war, Number One.’
‘Too bad.’ The first-lieutenant sneezed, then blew his nose. ‘Hope we get some action on this last leg. Not a sausage since those recces were shot down three days ago.’
‘So boring,’ agreed Pownall. ‘Like pleasure cruising.’
‘Round the bay for a bob,’ said the first-lieutenant.
O’Brien scratched his already dishevelled hair and stared at the first-lieutenant. ‘D’you really mean to say you want action, Number One?’
‘Good God, O’Brien. Of course I do. That’s what we’re here for.’
‘No,’ said Wilson. ‘With respect. We’re here to get JW 137 to Murmansk in one piece. No action, no sinkings. Object achieved. Plenty action, plenty sinkings. Object not achieved. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Rubbish,’ said the first-lieutenant. ‘Main object of the operation is to seek out and destroy the enemy.’
I’m all for a quiet life,’ said O’Brien. ‘Action means getting hurt.’
‘No wonder Ireland lost at Twickenham in your year.’
‘I was a feserve. If I’d played we’d have won.’
‘We ought to have a trade union, a joint one, with Jerry,’ suggested Wilson. ‘Job demarkation. They undertake not to interfere with the convoy. We undertake not to bugger about with their U-boats and aircraft. Only sensible way to fight a war.’
‘That’s a fine Christian sentiment,’ said O’Brien. ‘Couldn’t have put it better meself.’
‘That,’ said Pownall thinking of something else, ‘no one would dispute.’ He looked at the wardroom clock – 0807. His estimate of the time of arrival at the U-boat patrol line was 1600. He decided he didn’t feel very hungry.
Guilio wobbled in from the pantry doing a balancing act with a tray. But the suddenness of Vengeful’s roll to port defeated him. It was as if the ship had fallen down the side of a steep hill. The dishes fell and splintered and he skidded on something slippery, ending up on the settee next to the first-lieutenant. ‘Sorry, sir. It was the roll.’
The first-lieutenant gave him a friendly pat. ‘Bad luck, Guilio. You can’t win ’em all.’
The Maltese rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’ll clean up that lot, sir, and get some …’
The action alarm bells drowned the rest of the sentence.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first-lieutenant, athletic by disposition, timed himself from the first moment of hearing the action alarm to his arrival on Vengeful’s bridge. He did this by counting the seconds as he made his way along the iron deck and up three steel ladders in slippery reeling darkness. Twenty-seven seconds, he noted, as he ranged up alongside the captain. Not bad under those conditions. He’d done it in thirteen in fair weather on a good day.
‘First-lieutenant here, sir.’ His breath came in short gasps.
‘Good,’ said Redman. ‘We’ve a radar contact. Very small blip. Doesn’t show on the PPI. Too much wave-clutter.’
Redman spoke into a voice-pipe. ‘Forebridge-radar. Captain here. What d’you make of it now, Blandy?’
‘Still showing intermittently, sir. Very small. Green oh-oh-eight, eight thousand yards.’
‘Good man. Keep on to it …’
Redman spoke next to the plot. ‘What’s the target doing?’
‘Mean course oh-nine-five, sir. Moving from starboard to port, speed about twelve knots. Bearing one-seven-three.’
‘Good,’ sa
id Redman. ‘Steer one-five-oh.’
Pownall passed the order by voice-pipe to the quartermaster in the wheelhouse.
‘Yeoman,’ called Redman. ‘Inform Bluebird we have a radar contact classified submarine bearing one-seven-three, range eight thousand yards.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The yeoman passed the message by TBS. Almost immediately the bridge loudspeaker relayed Blue-bird’s reply. ‘Vengeful and Violent detach at once to investigate.’
Redman took Violent under his orders and having instructed both ships to cease A/S transmissions and house their asdic domes he increased speed to sixteen knots, all that could be managed safely without incurring weather damage. Venge-ful’s plot having confirmed the target’s course as slightly south of east, Redman, with Violent a mile away on his starboard beam, altered course to intercept, bringing the target on to the starboard bow.
On the bridge-speaker they heard Fidelix’s signal to the convoy away from the direction of the radar contact. The Vice-Admiral was taking no chances.
Vengeful and Violent plunged through a dark fury of wind and sea, sheets of spray sweeping their bridges, bows scooping solid water each time they dipped into a head sea, frozen spray cutting razor-like into the faces of men in exposed positions. Guns’ crews, searchlight and depth-charge parties and those on the bridge sheltered as best they could, wondering how long the misery would last, sceptical as always of finding anything to attack at the end of it.
Redman, fighting against the smarting of tired eyes, concentrated on the PPI. A dark shape moved up alongside him. ‘Who is it?’ he snapped.
‘Topcutt, sir. Hot cocoa, sir.’ He passed a mug to the captain and from the folds of a woollen shawl produced a jug and poured the cocoa.
Redman said, ‘Thank you, Topcutt. You’re a marvel.’
The able-seaman made a strange noise, a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, and disappeared into the darkness. Redman, confirming mentally his long-held belief that the best people in the world were the humble ones, concentrated once more on the PPI and the reports coming in from radar and the plot. At 7000 yards Violent picked up the contact and confirmed Vengeful’s classification of ‘submarine’.