During the following days, U-124 chased several single-traveling ships, but due to fog, darkness, and her own lack of speed, was unable to make an attack.
Since their main duty now was to report the weather, Schulz, in an effort to keep both morale and efficiency high, drilled his boat and crew with German thoroughness. And if they complained of overwork, they still took pride in their speed and precision. For even the most short-sighted sailor on board understood as well as his commander that the day might come when a split second shaved off a dive or turn might save their lives.
Schulz had earned the respect and admiration of his crew, and they liked him as a man. He was fair and reasonable, adhering to the relaxed discipline characteristic of U-boats; but of infinitely greater importance to them, he was a bold and aggressive fighter. He had dived into that convoy like a hawk into a flock of chickens and had bagged four of them in precisely six minutes.
It was axiomatic in the U-boat service that the popular commander was the successful one, and vice versa. Of all the qualities a crew might want to find in their commander, far and away the most important was the ability to sink ships. The U-124 crew figured their captain for a real professional, smart and experienced. And he had guts.
Officers and men alike quickly found that he demanded the very best from them. But he was easy to get along with, witty and cultured, and he was a first-rate seaman. He had a keenly intelligent mind and a great deal of self-discipline, which the officers and petty officers in the control room especially welcomed during an attack. They were well aware that some U-boat skippers drove their men frantic setting up an attack by constantly calling for new firing data to be calculated. Every time the target bearing shifted, they would sing out a new set of figures to be worked out. Frequently they would have a dozen sets of calculations and an exhausted group of control room personnel by the time the first torpedo was fired.
Alternatively, Schulz would wait as long as possible to have the settings calculated, then would work out any subsequent changes in his head and compensate for them when he fired. The result was a calm, orderly, and efficient attack that could be carried out at great speed. And his shooting was exceptionally accurate.
The night was quiet as U-124 plodded aimlessly through the cold rough waters of the North Atlantic some 500 sea miles west of the Hebrides. She had just sent her latest weather report, intercepted one from Prien in U-47, and had nothing to do until the next one. Half the crew, including the commander, were asleep while the other half stood their watches. Karl Rode had the "dog watch" in the (electric) engine room.
The petty officer on watch in the control room, the Zentralemaat, suddenly remembered that he had received a complaint concerning Tube 7.
"Hi, Grigoleit!" he called to a machinist. "Go aft and see if there's anything wrong with Tube 7. And while you're about it, give the mechanism a good oiling."
The easy-going young East Prussian, nicknamed Grigoleit, promptly marched back to take care of it. He nodded cheerfully to Rode as he went by.
A few silent minutes passed, then the door was flung open and Grigoleit, white-faced and wild-eyed, emerged screaming, "The boat's flooding!"
He was soaked from head to toe, both with the contents of Tube 7 and the cold Atlantic, which was indeed, pouring in with a vengeance. He ran to Rode, still yelling and waving his arms frantically.
Rode had needed no one to tell him the boat was flooding. Tube 7 lay several meters under the surface, and the sound of water streaming in under pressure brought back that awful day at Narvik with such horrifying clarity that he shuddered involuntarily. He could only think, "Oh no! Not our new boat!"
He grabbed Grigoleit, who was still clutching something in his right hand. Rode recognized it instantly as the stopcock from Tube 7, which should have been turned but not removed. In his haste and confusion, Grigoleit had unfortunately held onto it.
Rode snatched it out of his hand and dashed into the tiny compartment. It took only seconds to push it back in place and stop the flow of cold Atlantic water, and only a little longer to pump out that which had come in.
There would be many a good laugh in the months to come over the foolish look on Grigoleit's face and the agitation he had so innocently managed to cause. But beneath their laughter was the grim awareness that if it had happened while the boat was submerged, no human strength could have shoved the stopcock back in place against the pressure of the ocean.
The commander found the whole episode something short of hilarious. He had been awakened from a sound sleep by the blood-chilling scream, "The boat's flooding!" He hit the deck at a dead run, not knowing what catastrophe he was facing. He raced frantically toward the sound of the water, but by the time he arrived at the scene of the crime, Rode's quick action had ended the crisis.
Shaken and furious, he berated the Zentralemaat who was supposed to see to the repairs in terms that were eloquent, forceful, and 100 percent Navy, and retired to his cabin with a cup of coffee, still swearing under his breath.
The Zentralemaat listened meekly to his commander's tirade, then proceeded to pass it on to the luckless Grigoleit.
Her fuel and supplies nearly expended, U-124 was at last ordered to return to base. Her crew were now full-fledged veterans, steady and competent. They knew their boat intimately and regarded her with warm affection. She seemed to take an unholy delight in throwing an occasional scare into them, but she could always be counted on to give a little more speed and quickness than her designers had built into her. By the end of the cruise, every man aboard was sure their "little steamer" was the finest ship on the ocean.
An unexpected piece of good news accompanied their orders home. France had fallen, and U-boat bases were now established along the Bay of Biscay. Instead of returning to Kiel, U-124 was to report to the new headquarters of the II U-Flotilla at Lorient.
Chapter Four
Shore leave in France! French food—French wine—French girls! Life was suddenly and incredibly magnifique!
No more watches to stand, no more stinking U-boat air to breathe. The rough sea and dangerous fighting were gone . . . for the duration of this leave, at least. The destroyers and their depth charges were far away, although they continued to haunt their dreams and would for years to come.
For most of the crew, it was their first trip to France and they could hardly wait to plunge into the welcome task of forgetting the war. The heady French wine cost no more than German beer, and champagne and cognac were within the means of everyone.
The French people seemed pleasant and hospitable, and the language barrier proved to be no problem. Smiles and arm waving served the purpose at the beginning, and in a few months, both the French and Germans picked up a working knowledge of the other's language.
The U-boat crews, deliriously glad to be safe on shore, drank wine and sang in the cafés; and if the proprietors were more interested in German money than German laughter and songs, these happy sailors did not know it.
But the first thing every U-boat man wanted when he returned from a patrol was a real bath with tons of hot soapy water to wash away the sweat, grime, and weariness of the North Atlantic. With the limited quantity of fresh water carried on board, a bath at sea was, of course, out of the question. And after several weeks on board a crowded U-boat, a sailor was likely to regard a bath as the nicest thing that could happen to him. The second nicest thing would be for all the other 48 men to have baths.
The crew was quartered in a local hotel provided for "Herr Seemann," and French women did their laundry for a reasonable fee. The men were impressed, and a little surprised, by their scrupulous honesty, having somehow assumed it was an exclusively German virtue. They soon discovered that money, chocolate, and any personal valuables could be left in their rooms in complete safety.
Karl Rode, accompanied by several shipmates, spent the first night on shore making a boisterous round of bars, cafés, night clubs, and the red light district.
In this first reconnaissance
of Lorient, they discovered what was to be their favorite haunt, a small and respectable café near the waterfront. It was not the convenient location, however, that made it the Number One café in the city to them, nor was the price of wine any cheaper. It was entirely because of the lovely girl who worked behind the bar.
They soon found out that her name was Franziska, and also, alas, that she was engaged to be married. She was scarcely 20 years old, and so gay and sparkling that the U-124 men were at once under her spell. They agreed among themselves that if Franziska wanted a German husband instead of a French one, she could certainly have her choice of them!
Rode came to regard this little café as his special Lorient home, and he always headed straight to it as soon as he left the boat. He would be welcomed with hugs and handclasps from the proprietors and a sunny smile from Franziska. It made him feel deliciously warm and comfortable to be thus greeted after the hardships and perils of a war cruise, and to know that someone in this alien city was glad to see him and to know he was alive and safe.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Charlie," she would say to the smiling German, still unshaven and in his leather sea clothes. "Retour Atlantik? Tommy nix boom boom?"
"Oui, Franziska," he would laugh. "Compliments, Madame."
U-124 underwent a short overhauling at the dockyard in Lorient while her crew went on leave, and put to sea on her second war cruise on October 5.
Among the new men for U-124 was a replacement for Kuhnt, the second officer. He was Reinhardt Hardegen, who would later make a name for himself as ace commander of the U-123, and would strike the first blows of the U-boat arm in American waters.
Hardegen opened what came to be known as the "American Shooting Season" on January 12, 1942, by sinking the British freighter Cyclops just off the approaches to New York harbor, and later that same night the tanker Norness south of Long Island.
His prodigious sinking score up and down the coast within sight of American cities would win him the Knight's Cross and the accolades of his countrymen when he returned to Germany and a hero's welcome.
In company with U-28, U-48, and U-101, U-124 followed a mine sweeper out through the German mine fields to about the 50-meter curve, arriving there just at dark. Then with cries of "Good luck" and "Happy hunting," the escort turned back to Lorient, her mission done.
U-124 now proceeded independently, full speed and on the surface, zig-zagging rapidly. She reached the 200-meter curve by dawn, then submerged. By day she would travel underwater in this heavily patrolled area, surfacing only to recharge her batteries until she reached a longitude of 15 degrees. Having arrived at this pre-arranged point, she would send her first wireless message to headquarters.
I.WO Hein Hirsacker had the bridge watch as the boat pounded steadily through the long swells. Visibility was good on this moonlit night, and he and his men attentively searched the sea around them for any sign of booty or danger.
"Shadow off the starboard bow," a lookout reported.
Hirsacker swung his binoculars around to pick out the small superstructure, visible only because of the moonlight glinting on the metal. In the deceptive light, Hirsacker failed to identify the British submarine.
"Destroyer!" he yelped. "ALARM!"
The bridge watch dived through the hatch, Hirsacker right behind them, slamming the cover over his head. The boat was already tipped over in a down angle as he slid down the ladder into the control room. Within 30 seconds of the time the diving alarm sounded, she had reached a depth of 60 feet.
"High speed screws approaching!" the boy at the sound gear reported. He listened carefully a moment longer, then yelled, "Torpedo!"
The high-pitched whine of the small fast screws was already clearly audible in the control room. The men looked up in fascinated horror as the sound grew louder and louder. It reached a peak as the two deadly fish passed directly over the conning tower above their heads, then rapidly diminished in the swirling water. It had been close.
"The Tommy's aim was good," the commander said, with grudging professional admiration. "If we'd dived a second later, Hirsacker, he'd have hit us for sure."
He turned back to the business at hand. The British submarine had missed her shot at them, but she had dived too, and now began an eerie cat and mouse game as the two adversaries hunted each other cautiously in the dark, guided only by their ears.
"Brinker, make those motors whisper," the commander ordered. "I want absolute silence in the boat. Don't even breathe!" he warned the crew.
As silence enveloped the German boat, they could hear the sounds of screws close off the starboard beam.
"Port easy," Schulz said softly.
"Port easy," the helmsman answered.
The boat swung slowly to port. It was impossible to tell the exact position of the other submarine, or her exact course. Schulz had altered his own course only a little, because any abrupt changes would make it easier for the enemy to pinpoint his position.
The British boat was so close now that the sound gear was not needed to hear her. Sounds of her screws, as well as that of her crew moving about came quite clearly through the U-124's steel hull, and the Germans stood, wide-eyed and motionless, not daring to breathe. Was she above or below them? Could she hear them? Would the two blind hunters collide, and so kill each other?
"Amidships," the commander whispered.
"Amidships."
The U-boat came back to her course, as silent as a shark gliding through the dark waters. The sounds from the other boat were now less distinct, and in a few moments they had faded altogether. The ghostly encounter had lasted only a few minutes and was typical of the appalling swiftness with which one's fortunes could change on a U-boat.
Schulz's operational area was south of Iceland in the North Atlantic, and long before these waters were reached, the crew had settled into the accustomed routine of a war cruise.
It was October 16, eleven days since they had put out from Lorient. They had just eaten lunch, with chocolate pudding, the crew's favorite dessert. Those off watch were lazily talking or playing cards, or sleeping. The commander and L.I. were playing chess in the wardroom. Brinker had just taken his commander's bishop.
"Has anybody reported a convoy in the last week or so?" Brinker asked.
The commander shook his head. "No. Several single ships have been sunk in the Western Approaches, but nobody has picked up a convoy."
"I'd like to know where they're all hiding."
"So would I."
Brinker captured the commander's queen and grinned at him triumphantly.
"Hmmm," Schulz grunted noncommittally. "One battle doesn't mean the war, Brinker," he murmured innocently, but with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Which way do you think they're sending their ships? This far north?" Brinker asked.
Schulz nodded. "As close as they can to the pack ice, I'd say."
His hand moved over the chess board and came to rest on his knight. "Don't be too impatient. I think we'll find some of them soon." He moved the knight.
"Checkmate."
Brinker's mouth flew open at the unexpected move. He stared at the board a moment, then recovered. "You realize, of course, the only reason I let you win is because you outrank me?"
"A likely story!" Schulz grinned smugly. "My Clausewitz-type tactics are just too much for you!"
He rose and stretched. "I'm going up on the bridge. Maybe we can scare up a target."
"I'm coming too," Brinker said. "I want a cigarette."
Since a U-boat's ventilating system did not allow for any additional drain on the air, smoking was forbidden inside the boat. One or two men at a time could come on the Wintergarten (the after part of the bridge), but when the weather was rough or the enemy close, the best a man could do was to wait his turn in the conning tower for a few hasty puffs on a cigarette. And then he stood a better than good chance of being wetted down by an occasional wave pouring through the hatch over his head.
Brinker picked up his pack of cigarett
es and followed the commander to the bridge. He liked the commander. It was sometimes very difficult to convince a German naval officer that engines will not necessarily take orders like men. While one might ask for and get superhuman effort from his men, machines are somewhat different. No amount of orders, demands, or threats could make the slightest difference to the two diesels in the engine room, and it was a wise commander who understood that simple fact.
Schulz was no engineer, but he had a natural aptitude for mathematics and machinery. He could readily understand the things Brinker explained to him, and, what was more important, he had complete confidence in Brinker's ability and judgment as an engineer. This made for an excellent working relationship between the two men and a smooth running boat that would have been impossible under a commander who constantly nagged his officers and men.
Visibility was good. There was a cloud bank behind them, and an occasional cloud scudded across the sun. A light wind kicked up whitecaps along the wave tops. Ideal conditions for an underwater attack, the commander registered automatically.
"Have you seen anything, Hardegen?" he asked the watch officer.
"I don't know, sir," Hardegen answered. "I thought I caught a glimpse of a mast peak a minute ago."
"I saw something too," Willi Klein said. "Almost dead ahead. Just a little to starboard."
"A beer for you, Willi, if you find it again," the commander said.
"There!" Willi shouted. "Five degrees! Mast peak!"
"Good boy!" Schulz said, searching with his binoculars. "There. I see it now."
They watched the tiny black thread grow taller on the horizon.
"Clear the bridge," Schulz ordered. "Stand by to dive."
Grey Wolf, Grey Sea Page 6