The boat had been on alert for sea duty for days, so that when her sailing orders finally came, it was almost an anti-climax.
Her commander had been given three sets of orders: first, to escort the raider Orion, under the command of Fregattenkapitän Kurt Weyher, out past the northern coast of Scotland and into the open Atlantic; second, to sink enemy shipping in the Atlantic; and the third were sealed orders, to be opened on receipt of the code word, "Hartmuth."
"Both diesels ahead slow," the commander called from the bridge. He was answered by the clang of the engine room telegraph as his order was repeated below.
"Take over the watch," he said to the I.WO,1 Hein Hirsacker. "When you reach the second buoy, come to half speed and course 330 degrees."
"Aye. At the second buoy, come to half speed and course 330 degrees."
The commander nodded and went below.
"Hey, Bootsmann,"2 Hirsacker called down to Leo Raudzis on the deck below him. "Is the upper deck clear to dive?"
"As soon as I tighten these gratings, sir."
The boat plowed smoothly through the gentle swells. "See," Hirsacker remarked, "our little steamer lies in the water like a battleship!"
"Upper deck clear to dive, sir," reported Raudzis, climbing onto the bridge.
"Good. Say, Bootsmann, that was a pretty tired farewell back at the pier, wasn't it?"
"I've seen jollier funerals."
They both laughed.
"Well, let's hope we don't get our feet wet," Hirsacker said.
"Second buoy . . . ten degrees to starboard," the lookout interrupted.
"Good. Both engines half ahead. Come to course 330 degrees."
"Both engines half ahead. Come to course 330 degrees," a voice below him echoed, followed by the shrill engine room telegraph and the acknowledgement that his orders had been carried out.
Then he called the commander on the speaking tube. "Bridge here. First watch officer reporting the watch set and ready for action. Second buoy on starboard. Course 330 degrees. Both engines half."
"Thank you," the commander replied. Then he called to Kurt Oehring in the radio room across from his own cabin. "Hi, any signals for us?"
"No, Herr Kaleu," Oehring answered, using the abbreviation for his commander's rank, Kapitänleutnant.
"Very well. See if you can get us some music."
U-64 was under the command of Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm Georg Schulz, a gifted officer who possessed a wealth of seagoing experience, in addition to the most thorough training the German Kriegsmarine could provide. He had first gone to sea at the age of 17 as an ordinary seaman on a small merchant ship powered by sails alone, lacking auxiliary engines and even wireless. His first voyage took him to Australia and the South Seas by way of the stormy Cape Horn, and had lasted a year and a half. He had seen most of the world and earned his master's papers by the time he came to "Uncle Erich's3 Steamer Company" from a berth as fourth officer on the luxury ship Oceana of the Hamburg-Amerika Line.
For generations, the men in his family had been army officers. His father had been an artillery major, and his brother Heinrich was a General Staff officer. Serving his country came naturally and easily to him, and so did the decisions and responsibilities of command. To outsiders, he often appeared cool and somewhat unapproachable, an officer cast in the rigid mold of Prussian discipline and bound by the highest ideals and standards of the German officer class.
His crew, however, had soon discovered for themselves that he was a man who understood them completely and who was genuinely concerned about them. Every sailor on board knew with certainty that he could go to his commander at any time with his problems, personal or otherwise, and knowing this gave them confidence. He set high standards for himself and for them, and his boat was tight and well-run. He seemed rather like a father to the 19- and 20-year-olds, whose first awe of him had quickly turned to open admiration and absolute trust. They nicknamed him "Willem," a fact they discreetly kept from him.
On April 9, U-64 and her charge, Orion, which was disguised as an ordinary freighter, were still in the North Sea, in the vicinity of Edinburgh, when a wireless message arrived from U-boat headquarters addressed to U-Schulz. It contained the single word:
"Hartmuth."
Schulz opened his sealed orders, and then called his crew together to tell them that their destination was Norway, to protect the fjords at Narvik. The invasion of Norway had begun.
Bidding farewell and good hunting to the Orion, U-64 turned her bow toward Norway and the icy waters that would be her grave.
After a couple of days' hard steaming, U-64 had entered West-Fjord on the way to Narvik. The German ships were already in position and had landed their troops. The city of Narvik was in German hands. But British battleships, cruisers, and destroyers had arrived also, and they now occupied the outer positions, bottling up the German ships in the fjords. U-64 crept cautiously into West-Fjord in daylight and on the surface.
"Ship bearing 25 degrees," a lookout called.
The commander briefly searched the position. "Ah, there she is. Destroyer. We'd better head for the cellar. Now what's she steering?" he asked himself. "Eighty-five degrees. Fine." Then he called, "Clear the bridge! Make ready to dive!"
A shout came from below him in the conning tower as Willi Klein echoed, "Make ready to dive!"
The order was repeated in the control room as the bridge watch skidded down the steel ladder from the bridge. The commander followed, slamming and dogging down the hatch above him. "Hatch is closed! Dive!" he called.
"Dive!" the L.I.4 repeated, the word losing itself in the rush of water pouring into the diving tanks as well-trained hands flew swiftly and surely among the maze of valves and levers. The throbbing diesels were shut off and replaced by the two electric motors that drove the boat under.
The chief engineering officer was an enormous, easy-going Bavarian, Oberleutnant zur See (Ing.) Steinmetz. A popular man, he was a walking example of "Gemütlichkeit," the special warmth, gaiety, and friendliness his home is famous for.
"Come to periscope depth," Schulz said quietly, shouts no longer needed above the softer hum of the electric motors. "Bring her to 10 degrees, Klein."
"Steering 10 degrees."
"Boat is at 14 meters. Periscope clear," Steinmetz reported.
"Both ahead slow," Schulz ordered, and was answered by the clang of the engine room telegraph.
"Man, cut out that racket!" he snapped as he pressed his eyes to the periscope.
The boat began her approach, Schulz taking quick and wary looks through the periscope at intervals. Finally he established her identity. "She's British. Make ready tubes one and two."
Word flashed through the boat, and the crew exchanged confident grins. Their first target—their first victim, rather—and a destroyer at that!
"Tubes one and two ready!"
Schulz squinted through the scope. "L.I., can't you hold the boat steadier?"
"It's damned difficult, Herr Kaleu," Steinmetz replied. "The sea way is too strong. It rolls her under." He spoke brief orders to the planesmen sitting in front of him, his eyes fixed on the array of gauges and dials over their heads.
"Both dead slow," the commander said.
"I can't hold the boat dead slow," Steinmetz told him.
"Try," Schulz replied unperturbed. Then he cried out excitedly, "Damn! If she stays on her course, she'll come right in front of our tubes! Enemy speed 20 knots, course 115 degrees, own course zero degrees, distance . . . 800 . . . 700 . . . 500 . . . tubes one and two . . ."
There was a quick breathless silence in the boat as they waited for the "Torpedo . . . los!" that would fire the torpedo.
"L.I. take her down!" the commander shouted. "Both engines ahead full! Hard port! Close outer doors!"
The crew knew they had been seen, and knew further that if they hoped to escape, they must get deep and get there fast. The relief they felt as the boat began plunging downward was short-lived, however, for as suddenly as
she had started down, she twisted violently and broached the surface.
Steinmetz checked his instruments frantically, and found the answer right before him. When the order was given to submerge, someone had blown the port diving tank instead of flooding it. It took the L.I. only seconds to flood it, and U-64 had obediently settled down to 80 meters by the time the destroyer roared overhead.
The depth charges were wide, but the boat quivered with shock waves and they sounded like doom to those who were hearing them for the first time.
Willi Klein turned around wide-eyed. "Did you hear that, Sherry?" he whispered, using the familiar nickname that had been hung on Karl Kesselheim by a harried drill instructor who got tired of trying to distinguish among three Karls in one squad.
"Hear what?" Kesselheim asked innocently.
"The bombs!"
"No."
"Ass."
U-64 soon lost the destroyer, and her elated crew congratulated themselves. They had shaken off their first destroyer and had done it easily, even in these narrow fjord waters. The famous British asdic that was supposed to end submarine warfare had not quite lived up to its claims, they thought smugly.
Their commander was neither elated nor smug. He had almost lost his boat, simply because of a stupid mistake on the part of one of his own crew and he was furious.
There was no time to dwell on past mistakes, but his young, green crew would have to learn and learn fast. They were running on the surface in British-held waters, and their batteries were perilously low. He got off a hurried report to headquarters: "Strong destroyer guard stands before the fjord. Narvik threatens to be a trap."
At the end of West-Fjord, they could see two cruisers with a screen of three destroyers. There was no doubt this time that they were British.
"How much juice left in the batteries, L.I.?" Schulz asked.
"They're pretty low, sir," was the answer. "Enough to attack, not much to escape on."
The commander hesitated. Escape was obviously impossible on the surface, and his almost depleted batteries would not hold out for an underwater chase. Schulz knew that the aggressiveness Dönitz had pounded into them did not in any way include suicide. The risk was overwhelming, but two enemy cruisers lying dead in the water was too tempting a target to pass up. Besides, he reasoned, if his attack were successful, the destroyers should be too busy picking up survivors to give chase.
He took his boat to periscope depth, and set up the firing data as he moved into position.
"Fire one and two," he ordered. Then, "Down periscope!" as he began to count off seconds on the running time.
The silence in the conning tower was suddenly broken by two loud explosions. The officers looked at each other questioningly. The torpedoes could not have run more than half the distance to the target.
Schulz jerked up the scope for a hasty look. Both torpedoes had exploded prematurely. As he would learn later, this torpedo failure was one which would plague every U-boat in the Norwegian campaign. The only thing his torpedoes had accomplished was to announce his presence to the destroyers, and they were already charging out to find him.
"Take her down!" Schulz yelled. "Both ahead full!"
U-64 dived deep, and the destroyers were unable to locate her as she moved away on creeping speed. The depth charges they dropped were not close.
Schulz turned to the chief engineer. "The batteries?"
Steinmetz shook his head. "They're about gone."
Schulz glanced at the officers and men around him. Their position was hopeless—pursued by two enemy destroyers and their batteries were used up. To surface was suicide.
"L.I.," he beckoned to Steinmetz, "you, Raudzis, and Wagner set the scuttling charges. We'll have to come up soon. The men will go over the side, but the Tommies can't have my boat."
Kesselheim stopped Raudzis as he trudged despondently by. "Wait, Bootsmann. What's going on?"
"We're setting the scuttling charges. The batteries are used up."
"What about us?"
"Make ready to die."
Kesselheim ran back to his locker and returned with a toothbrush in his hand. Willi Klein looked at him in astonishment.
"Have you lost your mind?" be demanded. "You're going to brush your teeth at a time like this?"
"They might not have one for me in the prison camp."
Rudi Dimmlich glanced over at them. "Do you think they'll fish us out of the water?"
"Oh, sure," Kesselheim replied confidently. "They're sailors, same as us. What sailor is going to watch another one drown if he can help it?"
"That's if we manage to get through the machine gun fire they'll be spraying us with when we surface!" Willi added grimly.
"Bootsmann," the commander's clear voice cut through the confused murmur, "are the scuttling charges set?"
"They're set."
Schulz took a deep breath. "Very well. Bring her up to periscope depth, L.I."
The boat nosed gently up as the electric motors drove her toward the surface.
"Periscope depth, Herr Kaleu."
Schulz scanned the horizon around them, then turned, a broad grin on his face. "Take her down!" he ordered crisply. "Hard starboard. Come to 140 degrees. We just might make it yet!"
The destroyers were still plainly visible, still searching, and he could not surface without being seen. But he had seen something else in that brief look around—something that might give him a chance to save his boat after all.
He knew these waters well from many a carefree day on board the beautiful and luxurious Oceana. Now a lighthouse which he remembered from these cruises had pinpointed his position precisely. They were closer to Narvik than he had realized, and he knew now if he could get around the curve ahead of them, they would be safe.
"Steinmetz!" Schulz called. "Come here! How much juice left?" he asked.
"Not much," the L.I. shrugged.
"How much, man?" persisted Schulz impatiently. "How much longer can we stay under?"
"Can't tell, Herr Kaleu," answered Steinmetz. They're almost dry. Maybe half an hour. Maybe less." He shrugged again. "I just don't know."
"Very well," Schulz replied. "We'll stay on creeping speed. If they'll get us around that bend, we're safe."
If the anxiety had frayed the commander's nerves, his men could not tell it. He now stood in the control room, calm and self-controlled, while he fought for their survival with every ounce of skill, toughness, and tenacity he possessed.
This was Schulz's first command of one of the larger Type VII C boats, the ocean-going U-boats designed to fight in the Atlantic convoy lanes. Before taking over the U-64, he had been commander of a U-10, a small (250-ton) coastal boat, and had made two war cruises around the Orkney Islands. She was too small to carry fuel and supplies for an extended operation, and also lacked the space for the torpedoes which would make such a cruise worthwhile. She was better suited for training than operational purposes, but Germany was in desperately short supply of boats.
But U-64—now that was another matter. Here was a boat a man could fight with! Wonderfully maneuverable, she handled like a speed boat, needing only seconds to dive, surface, or turn. She could leave base crammed to the brim with fuel, supplies, and torpedoes, and could fight anywhere in the North Atlantic. She was a fine craft and her commander was determined not to give her up as long as he had a single card left to play.
"Come to periscope depth," his quiet order broke the silence.
He stooped to catch the handles and straightened up with it as the periscope rose in the housing. He watched the dark water grow lighter as they neared the surface until the periscope broke through the foamy green wave tops, and he quickly scanned the sky for planes. Then he took a hurried sweep around the horizon. Nothing. The two destroyers were still in sight, but far behind them. And they had reached the bend in the fjord.
"Hard starboard!" Schulz called to the helmsman, and turned with a triumphant grin.
It was only a matter of minutes until
the destroyers were lost to sight, and he gave the order to surface. As U-64 reached the surface and the diesels came to life with a shuddering roar, Schulz yelled down from the bridge, "Hey, L.I! Well done!"
The engineer's face appeared below him in the control room. "Thanks, Herr Kaleu'nt," he shouted back. "But we run on the surface now. There's not enough juice in the batteries to make one more rev on the screws!"
"Don't need it now, L.I," laughed Schulz. The next destroyers we meet will be ours."
He turned back to the waters in front of them. The smile suddenly froze on his lips and his eyes narrowed.
"Herr Kaleu'nt," the lookout's alarmed voice began.
"Yes, I see it," Schulz interrupted. "It has to be German."
They watched anxiously as the other submarine approached on the surface. But it took only a minute to exchange recognition signals, and soon they were alongside each other.
Schulz hailed Viktor Schütze, skipper of the U-25, and asked about conditions ahead. Schütze told him there were no enemy units between them and Narvik and offered to act as a rear guard when he learned that U-64 was unable to dive. They reached Narvik safely about noon.
That afternoon, the commander was on board a destroyer to receive his new orders when an air raid alarm brought him to his feet in a frantic dash to get back to his boat. But when he reached the destroyer deck it was too late. He could only stand and watch helplessly while the bombs rained around his U-64 as she lay vulnerable and unprotected at the pier.
When the smoke had cleared, he could not see any damage to the boat, but he could not breathe easily until he got back to make sure she was safe.
U-64 was soon made ready for sea, and within only a few hours after her arrival, had cast off and headed toward the open sea. Her orders were to sink all British ships coming in.
Schulz turned his boat into the adjoining Herjangsfjord, which would put him in a position to observe and attack any ships coming through Ofotfjord on the way to Narvik. It was April 13.
Grey Wolf, Grey Sea Page 2