It was cold and dark and wet on the bridge as the U-boat plowed through the night. Inside, only the men on watch were awake. The commander lay curled up in his bunk, lulled into a peaceful, dreamless sleep by the familiar rocking motion and the steady droning of the diesels. The waves pounded against the bow, splashing spray up to the conning tower, to slide foaming down the length of the hull. Occasionally an object would fall clattering to the deck inside the boat as a big wave shook her. These sounds and movements were so familiar to the commander that he would find it difficult to sleep on shore the first night or two whenever he returned from a patrol.
"Control room!" the I.WO's voice came down from the bridge.
"Control room here," Siegfried Nagorny answered him.
"Wake up the relief. Tell them to wear oilskins."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Nagorny wove his way carefully over and around the stacks of provisions, balancing himself against the rolling of the boat and ducking under hammocks of hard sailors' bread that swung menacingly about head high.
Searching briefly through the tiers of sleeping men, he found the one he wanted and shook him by the shoulder.
"Wakey, wakey, Hänschen."
"Hmmmm?" Hans Fröhlich murmured sleepily. "What's the matter?"
"Time to go on watch."
"Go to hell!"
"Herr Kuhnt refuses to stand his watch without you by his side. So get up."
"Will you go to hell? I'm getting up, so leave me alone," Hänschen grumbled, struggling out of his bunk. "You'd think the whole damn war depended on my not ever getting any sleep!"
"That's right," Siggi returned cheerfully. "Admiral Dönitz himself said so. 'We'll win the war if we can keep Hans Fröhlich out of the sack.' Wake Röhner, will you? And wear your oilskins."
"Oh hurrah. Just what I wanted . . . rain."
Siggi turned and started back to the control room.
"One of these days I'm going to strangle that bastard," Hänschen promised himself solemnly. "Come on, Karl, get up," he said, shaking Karl Röhner, peacefully sleeping in the bunk above him. "Time to go on watch."
"Already?" Karl asked mournfully. "I know I just got to sleep. And I was so nice and warm."
"Well, rise and shine. Lt. Kuhnt's sent us an engraved invitation. He's having a party for us . . . champagne and naked dancing girls."
Hänschen struggled into his heavy foul weather gear. He, like the rest of the crew, slept in his clothes.
"Oh, yes," he went on, "formal dress. Oilskins required."
Karl stopped in mid-yawn. "Oilskins? Verdammter Scheisz!"
The petty officer and Lt. Kuhnt were already ahead of them on the bridge.
"Coming up!" Karl called up the ladder to the bridge, and the two climbed quickly up to relieve the lookouts.
The cold winds had whipped the wave tops into driving spray that stung and blinded the men on watch until it was impossible to see anything. Their bodies ached from the strain of balancing themselves against the violent motion of the boat, and they shivered in spite of their heavy clothes.
"Well, that's it," Hirsacker said, completing the formalities of turning over the watch and all its responsibilities to his relief. "Good night and good watch."
"Thank you," replied Kuhnt.
"Good night, Herr Oberleutnant," the new watch chorused.
"Coming down!" Hirsacker called, and the relieved watch clattered down the ladder into the control room.
The commander stirred briefly in his sleep as the watch changed and the passage outside his curtained doorway was filled with hurrying feet and babbling voices. He stirred, almost reached consciousness, then turned over, automatically wedging himself securely against the guard rail, and continued to sleep soundly. For these confused sounds too were part of the normal routine, and they lulled and comforted the commander in his sleep.
The dripping lookouts had sloshed back to the galley to warm up, dry out, and eat bread and sausage.
"Long watch, wasn't it?" Hermann Kaspers remarked, his mouth full.
Willi Gerisch nodded. "It always is when it's raining. I'm half-frozen and half-drowned, and I didn't see a damned thing."
"Me either."
"Hey, Smutje," Willi called to the cook, Adolph Schäfer, "got any coffee?"
"Naturally," answered Schäfer. "Don't I always have fresh coffee when you come off watch?"
The two ate and drank in silence.
"Delicious, Herr Smutje, delicious!" Willi said at last, patting his stomach. "And now for Zizzing Stations! Ready, Hermann?"
"And how. I'm bushed."
They started toward the bow, dragging their dripping rain coats. They reached the bow compartment, full, contented, and drowsy, with no thought beyond collapsing in a nice warm bunk.
But at the entrance, they were brought up short. Every bunk was chained up against the bulkheads, leaving the compartment clear. The doors to the four torpedo tubes were open, and the long evil-looking fish were pulled out with chains and pulleys into the compartment.
"Goddammit to hell, Hannes!" howled Willi. "I want to go to bed!"
Hannes Wiegand glanced up unperturbed. "Now Willi, the torpedoes have to be regulated every two days and you know it."
"Well why in hell don't you do it sometimes when we're on watch?" moaned Hermann. "I'm dead on my feet."
"Oh, you guys quit bitching," Edwin Selk, the torpedo mate said amiably, "If you're in such a hurry you can lend a hand."
Hermann flopped wearily down on one of the torpedoes. "I'll be so damn glad when some of these fish get into a Britisher and out of my way," he said.
As though in answer to Kasper's wish, the radio man waked the commander and handed him a signal. Schulz scanned it briefly, then picked up his cap and went into the control room. His finger moved quickly across the chart as he traced his own course and the probable course of the convoy just reported to him.
"Let's go hunting, Hirsacker," he said to the officer at his side. "British convoy—steering in the direction of Cape Wrath."
"That's good news, sir," Hirsacker replied. "Is it close?"
Although the conversation was not audible to the rest of the men in the control room, they watched the commander and first officer, and they knew.
"Come to course 170 degrees," Schulz called, still bending over the chart table. "We'll intercept approximately here," he continued to Hirsacker, tracing the course with his finger, "cut them off by the Butt of Lewis."
"Steering course 170 degrees, sir," the helmsman answered.
"Shadow off the port beam!" a lookout called from the bridge.
Schulz climbed up through the hatch. "Where?"
"Here, sir," Röhner answered, not taking his eyes off the dark shape barely visible.
Schulz watched silently through his binoculars. "Fishing boat," he murmured finally. "But she's headed straight for us. We'd better give way." He leaned over the hatch. "Hard starboard!"
He turned back beside Röhner to watch until the shadow disappeared. Then he brought his boat back on course and left the bridge.
At 2217, the convoy came into sight on the starboard beam, and Schulz turned to hold contact, steaming along parallel to the convoy, keeping the ships in sight while the U-boat herself remained invisible as he plotted their base course and speed.
He gradually circled around and pulled ahead so as to be in position to attack from the front and on the land side.
"Destroyer!" Fröhlich called out behind him on the bridge. "Heading this way!"
Schulz spun around and watched the ship. "Hard port!" he ordered. "Make ready tubes 5 and 6."
Within a few seconds, two torpedoes streaked toward the agile destroyer, already turning away to safety.
Both torpedoes had missed, but the way was clear into the convoy. The wolf was in the sheepfold.
Soon the shadowy forms around them began to take shape as they came on the surface into the main body of the convoy. The four men on the bridge—the commander, I.WO, and t
wo lookouts—stood tense and watchful, eyes and nerves sharply alert as the big merchantmen loomed up around them.
"Take this one, Hirsacker," Schulz said, motioning to a large freighter on their starboard quarter. "Ten degrees starboard," he said into the speaking tube. "Come to course 25 degrees."
Hirsacker bent over the night sight. In a surfaced attack, the I.WO fired the torpedoes while the commander conned the boat. In a submerged attack, the commander did the shooting.
"Target bearing 25 degrees," Hirsacker called out. "Target speed: 10 knots, own speed: 4 knots . . ."
The information was fed into the fire control below and the torpedo set and made ready to fire.
Hirsacker frowned intently into the night sight, as the freighter moved into the crosshairs. The time was 2350.
"Torpedo one . . ." he called. "Fire!"
The boat lurched slightly as the torpedo left the tube, and for a moment all their attention was on the fish with its load of 350 kilograms of TNT speeding toward the unsuspecting ship.
"Hard port!" the commander called. "This one," he said, pointing toward a freighter some 800 meters away.
Precisely one minute after the first shot, a second torpedo was set and fired.
"Ship bearing dead ahead!" a lookout shouted.
"Shoot her, Hirsacker!" yelled Schulz.
"Target bearing zero degrees," Hirsacker called out. "Set depth at three meters—fire!"
The time was now 2353.
"Hard starboard!" The boat veered sharply away, as Schulz swung her out of the path of the freighter.
"Herr Kaleu," a lookout called, "the first ship we hit is sinking!"
"And the second one is hit amidships, sir!" the other lookout added.
"Try to watch and see if she sinks," Schulz told him. Unless someone actually saw her go down, she could only be reported as a hit.
"Ship on the starboard bow—close!"
"Hard port!" Schulz roared. The freighter looked enormous, her bow sharp and terrifyingly close as she bore down on them on a collision course. "Brinker, full speed emergency! Twice full speed!"
"Will do!" Brinker yelled back, finding nothing outlandish in being ordered to run his diesels at double their top speed.
Brinker's sure touch gave the boat a sudden spurt that got her out of the way of the freighter, which swept past, never even seeing the U-boat she had so nearly rammed.
The convoy was now in the wildest commotion from Schulz's attack. It was impossible to tell whether there was one boat or a dozen, and for the past few minutes it had seemed that torpedoes were coming from every direction.
"Here's a big one, Herr Kaleu!" Hirsacker pointed to a ship just ahead.
"Good," Schulz replied.
At 2356 hours, the fourth torpedo was fired, leaving the four bow tubes empty. It slammed into the merchantman, apparently hitting her engine room, for the ship rolled over and sank almost immediately.
U-124 now found herself outside the awful devastation she had created, as she crossed the outer column of ships. As the men on the bridge caught their breath in the momentary lull, they were suddenly blinded by a destroyer's searchlight turned squarely on the U-boat. For a moment they were as disconcerted as the hapless merchantmen they had ambushed in the darkness.
The destroyer was close and charging like a bull. There was nothing for it but to hit the cellar. And indeed, hope they made it there before this Britisher landed on them like the Avenging Angel.
"Alarm!" yelled Schulz. "Dive! Dive!"
He jumped through the hatch just behind the lookouts.
"Hatch is closed!" he called.
Brinker nodded absently at this piece of information. He had, contrary to all regulations, pulled the plug when he heard the commander's "Alarm" without waiting for reports that the boat was tight. By the time the commander had closed the hatch and reported it to Brinker, the boat was well on her way down, thus saving precious seconds.
This risky habit of Brinker's depended on the absolute reliability of every man involved and allowed no margin for error. Any mistake or failure to make the boat tight would result in flooding her, and with her down angle, it would have been impossible to bring her back up again. Therefore, it was strictly forbidden to dive before the boat was reported tight. Brinker did it all the time.
She was still plunging downward when a powerful shock hit the bow and she ground to a halt. An ominous shudder ran the length of the boat, and likewise through the crew, as she gradually leveled off at 90 meters and hung, still trembling, in the silent waters.
Apprehensive faces turned to the commander in the control room.
"A rock," he answered their unspoken question.
"We've hit a rock. Get a damage report from the forward torpedo room, Kuhnt."
The destroyer had meantime reached their position, and she thundered by with a throbbing roar, the whirling screws rising to an unbearable crescendo as she passed over their heads.
Schulz turned to watch Kesselheim at the sound gear. Kesselheim looked up and for a moment their eyes met. Suddenly Kesselheim snatched off the earphones and the commander braced himself firmly against the chart table.
The first series of depth charges went off, rocking the boat wildly and knocking several men off their feet. The commander had been warned by Kesselheim's gesture. He had heard the click of the first depth charge's firing pin and had jerked off the earphones to prevent damage to his eardrums by the explosions which came a split second later.
The boat shuddered and groaned with the impact of the churning water as the depth charges exploded around her. Her crew hung on, breathless and helpless. Schulz gripped the chart table, his handsome face as alert and watchful as a tiger about to spring, and without the slightest trace of fear. His orders were given in a voice that was crisp and confident, and his manner was self-reliant to the point of arrogance.
Fear is contagious, but so is courage. The commander's bearing under fire calmed his men's fears, and they found themselves wondering not so much if they would escape, but how Willem was going to pull it off.
"Port ten degrees," the commander said. They had come out on the land side of the convoy, and it was too shallow for them to go deep to evade the destroyer. Silence would now be their best defense. "Take her down easy, Brinker, and lay her on the bottom."
"Aye, Herr Kaleu," answered Brinker.
By the time the destroyer had time to turn around and come back, U-124 was lying on the bottom, scarcely 100 meters deep, and quiet as a tomb in response to her commander's order of "absolute silence in the boat." Even the gyrocompass was shut off so its humming would not betray them.
The men involuntarily looked up, their eyes following the sound of the destroyer's screws as she came closer. The pinging of her asdic along U-124's steel flanks clawed at their nerves and cold sweat ran down their bodies as they waited silently.
The pinging grew louder and louder, then gradually began to diminish as the destroyer passed overhead. The depth charges she dropped were not as close as the first pattern, and after one more run, the destroyer's screws faded away for good.
"Bring her up to periscope depth, Brinker," Schulz said. "The Tommy was too impatient," he added scornfully.
But Schulz knew the danger of being chased by a destroyer in these shallow waters. Had she hunted a little longer, she had stood an excellent chance of blasting them out of the water as the U-boat, denied the security of depth and freedom to maneuver, lay helpless. Schulz had been only too well aware of this as the destroyer had gone over their heads, the cold fingers of her asdic relentlessly probing for them.
The U-boat was alone when she reached the surface. In the distance, a ship burned brightly and a small searchlight flickered nearby. Of the convoy there was nothing else. It had apparently altered course as soon as the U-boat was driven under and was gone. It was over.
When the score was tallied up, it was plain that U-124 was a fighting boat. For the four torpedoes she had fired, she could claim three shi
ps sunk for a total of 17,563 tons, and a further 4,000-ton ship damaged. This one, the British steamer Stakesby, was torpedoed only 23 miles off the Butt of Lewis, and was towed in.
Schulz would not know the extent of the damage from the rock until three days later, when he spotted another potential victim, a lone blacked-out freighter, and moved into position to attack. He had drawn a bead on the unsuspecting merchantman and was ready to shoot.
"Open outer doors to the forward torpedo tubes," he said, and waited for the usual "outer doors to torpedo tubes open, sir," that meant his order had been carried out. This time it did not come.
"Outer doors won't open, sir!"
"What?" Schulz turned around in surprise.
"The doors seem to be jammed, sir."
Schulz thought for a moment, then. "That damned rock!" he growled.
"Wait, sir," a voice called from the torpedo room. "We've got tube 2 open now, but not number 1."
Schulz checked the periscope again. "Bearing 90 degrees," he called out. "Distance 1000 meters . . . set depth at 8 meters . . . fire two!"
He watched anxiously as time ran out for the torpedo. "I estimated her speed too high," he muttered.
The freighter was now out of range and soon out of sight, escaping for good in the darkness.
When daylight came, Schulz sent a diver over the side to inspect the damage to the torpedo tubes. Tube 1 would open only a quarter of the way, number 2 was also damaged but would close, number 3 was damaged but would close tightly, and number 4 was undamaged. The diver managed to work the doors into a position that would be safe at up to 40 meters' submergence.
The damaged outer doors had made it difficult to attack, and since they would not close tightly, their condition also forbade a deep dive. It was fortunate for them that the destroyer attack had occurred in waters only 100 meters deep, although they had cursed their luck at the time. The pressure at a greater depth would doubtless have flooded the boat.
Schulz wirelessed his situation to headquarters, including the usual report on fuel and torpedoes remaining. Since he had fuel and supplies to last for several more weeks, he was ordered to remain on station as a weather boat, sending back reports at two-hour intervals. The Luftwaffe needed weather information in conducting their bombing raids on Britain, and U-boats had been requested to add meteorological data to all their reports.
Grey Wolf, Grey Sea Page 5