"I can connect the electrics to the diesels and run them all together," Brinker told him.
"How long can we run like that?"
"About an hour."
"Fine!" Mohr answered. "Go ahead. If we don't get more speed than this, we'll never catch that convoy in time to sink anything before daylight. An hour ought to do it."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Brinker asked.
Mohr raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Brinker said, "In an hour running like that, the batteries will be dry. What do you propose to do if a destroyer forces us under?"
Mohr had already turned back to the ladder. He looked at Brinker and grinned. "We'll just have to stay on the surface, won't we?" Then he disappeared up the ladder, calling over his shoulder, "Give me that speed now!"
Brinker stood frowning and thoughtful for a moment. Then he went into the engine room. Mohr would have the speed he wanted.
When Mohr joined his brother grey wolves inside the convoy, the bedlam characteristic of a pack attack was holding sway. The scene could have been taken from Dante's Inferno with the hellish red light from the burning ships casting eerie shadows on the water and the occasional muzzle fire from the escorts flashing as they shot at real or imagined foes. The marauding U-boats raced in and out of the ragged columns firing torpedo after torpedo and dodging the tough escorts. It was a battle to test every ounce of skill and courage and determination of all those involved—whether on merchant ship, escort, or U-boat.
Mohr was a born convoy fighter. He had everything he needed—the soundest of training and the invaluable experience of being Schulz's second-in-command, along with gifts that were harder to pin down, but which were undeniably his. He was smart and bold, and he had luck. He knew when to push his luck past all sensible boundaries, when to gamble everything on a wild chance to stay on the surface, and some inner sense seemed to warn him when his boat was actually spotted.
He had just shot his last torpedo when the destroyer came racing toward him. This time there would be no dodging on the surface, Mohr knew.
"Alarm!"
The bridge watch scrambled frantically down the narrow conning tower to land in a confused heap at the bottom. The boat had already started plunging downward as Mohr jumped through the hatch, slammed the cover, and skidded into the control room.
"Get her down, Brinker!" he yelled, stumbling to his feet. "2A plus 60!"
The slender boat trembled as the electric motors drove her downward at top speed, and she echoed with the sound of running feet as her crew dashed forward to give added weight to the bow.
The boat had just crossed the last column of merchantmen and this destroyer meant business. They could expect depth charges by the dozen and they might be pinned down for a long time.
Suddenly Mohr remembered the batteries and Brinker's warning; the warning he had so confidently chosen to ignore.
"Rolf," he said, his voice low and urgent, "how much juice have we got left?"
"We've got enough, Capitano," Brinker told him.
The first string of depth charges went off above them, close enough to shatter the glass covering the gauges in the control room, but not damaging the pressure hull.
Mohr maneuvered his boat delicately and precisely to throw the hunter above him off the scent, but the destroyer captain was skillful and determined, and the patterns o£ depth charges were terrifyingly close.
Gradually, U-124 was able to put a little distance between herself and her attacker until she could slip quietly away. The depth charges became fewer and farther and at last it was quiet again.
When the boat surfaced, the sea was peaceful and deserted. Dawn was breaking, and the rest of the wolves would be withdrawing now too, licking their wounds and sticking tenaciously to the battered convoy while they waited for another night.
Mohr signaled his report to the admiral, including the fact that he had expended all his torpedoes, along with his estimate of the ships and tonnage they had sunk: 3 tankers, 3 freighters, totaling 44,000 tons, and a probable of 5,000 tons.
This done, he and Brinker sat in the wardroom, enjoying the hot coffee and companionship. They would have to regain contact with the convoy and hold it until released by the BdU, but to all practical purposes, the cruise was over.
Mohr had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to his L.I. since the destroyer had forced them under. It seemed like weeks ago, but Mohr had not forgotten that there were a few answers he wanted from Brinker, and he wanted them privately. He did not waste words on formalities.
"You told me an hour's running with the electric motors coupled to the diesels would take all the juice in the batteries," he said bluntly.
Brinker had been expecting it. "That's right," he answered, unperturbed. "It would have. I disconnected them after half an hour's running."
"What?" Mohr sputtered, completely taken aback. "But you didn't ask permission!"
"You wouldn't have given it," Brinker told him serenely.
"But you . . . you . . . that's insubordination!" he stammered, his temper flaring.
"Yes," Brinker answered quietly. "I know."
Mohr stared at him silently for a moment, then his face relaxed in a smile. "You did the right thing, Rolf," he admitted reluctantly. "We did need to keep something in reserve."
The two comrades drank their coffee in quiet and thoughtful companionship.
At last Brinker put his cup down. "Jochen," he said, his use of the commander's first name indicating the close relationship between the two men. "You must listen to your L.I. Engines can do only so much and no more. Some day you may have an L.I. who doesn't have so much experience and doesn't know you so well. He won't be able to stand up against you, but you've got to pay attention to him."
Brinker's face and voice were dead serious. Mohr looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes," he said finally, "You're right, of course. Where would we be now if you hadn't done what you knew was right in spite of me?"
"Signal from the BdU, sir!" The radio operator's head popped through the door. The ill-concealed grin on his face showed that he had read it, and that it was good news.
"Let me have it," Mohr said, reaching out his hand.
He scanned the short wireless message, then threw his head back, roaring with laughter. He handed it over to Brinker, who also burst into howls of glee.
It was the old signal from the captain of the Deutschland in answer to the request for Mohr to be detached for special duty. Dönitz had paraphrased it to suit the occasion:
"Der Mohr hat seiner Sckuldigkeit getan; der Mohr kann gehen." (Mohr has done his duty; Mohr can go.)
Chapter Nine
The war news was generally good as the U-124 crew went on leave, adding to the buoyant effect of their own successful cruise. German forces were pushing the Russians back along the Eastern front, following the midsummer offensive. Odessa, on the Black Sea, as well as the ancient city of Kiev, had fallen to the Germans, who now launched a frontal drive on Moscow.
There was a disquieting note from the west, however, for Roosevelt on September 11, had announced his "shoot on sight" order to U. S. Naval forces finding Axis vessels west of longitude 26 degrees.
U-124's thorough overhauling had even included a fresh coat of paint for her edelweiss, and she set sail on October 30, 1941, bound for the South Atlantic. Along with U-68 (Merten), U-129 (Bauer), and U-A (Eckermann). U-Mohr formed the Kapstadt Gruppe which would operate around Cape Town.
She carried the same complement of officers as on the previous cruise, plus two more. Dr. Ziemke was the boat's doctor, and Oberleutnant zur See (Ing.) Egon Subklew was making this trip with Brinker before taking over as chief engineering officer on the next cruise.
A few days out of Lorient, some 300 sea miles east of the Azores, Mohr spotted a small fast convoy of two freighters and two destroyers.
He started after it but was unable to make enough speed in the heavy seaway to keep up and soon lost it.
Two days after this he sig
hted a single-traveling freighter and started closing in to attack. But at twilight the ship, now discernible as a passenger vessel, set her running lights. She also lighted her flag and neutral markings, and Mohr broke off the chase.
Although convoy battles often lasted several days at a time, during which rest and relaxation became merely wistful memories, a U-boat man normally had a great deal of leisure time. Books and cards and never-ending discussions passed the time, and records played over the boat's loudspeaker system provided music for additional entertainment.
The universal favorite in U-124's record collection was "Alexander's Ragtime Band," and it had become the traditional accompaniment to any good news or celebration on board.
Long uneventful days at sea were kept from being boring by special entertainments and various contests arranged that involved the whole boat's personnel. And always in the background on U-124 was the happy and incongruous melody of "Alexander's Ragtime Band."
After steaming steadily southward for some three weeks, U-124 met the supply ship Python as planned to top off her fuel tanks before proceeding to South Africa. U-129 was also at the rendezvous, and the three commanders had a chance to exchange news and plans.
Kapitänleutnant Lüders, commander of the Python came aboard the U-124 to speak to Mohr about various supplies required; next day Mohr returned Lüders's call, and also visited Clausen on board U-129.
After leaving the Python, U-124 proceeded southward. On November 22, she received a signal from the BdU to Mohr and Clausen ordering the two boats into their operational areas. Shortly after midnight, another signal from Dönitz came in saying the auxiliary cruiser Atlantis, ship 16, had been sunk on November 22.
This plucky ship, under command of the brilliant Kapitän zur See Bernhard Rogge, had roamed the seas, disguising herself as whatever freighter seemed most innocent at the moment, playing wolf in sheep's clothing, and pouncing on unsuspecting merchantmen. She had sunk 22 ships, totaling over 150,000 tons, and had caused untold havoc to the British, who were perpetually being forced to reroute shipping from areas where they suspected her presence.
After a long (622 days) cruise, she had finally been surprised by the British cruiser Devonshire and sunk. She had been in the process of refueling U-126, and the U-boat was now towing her survivors in life rafts to rendezvous with the Python.
By November 24, U-124 had reached the vicinity of St. Paul's Rocks. Brinker was on the bridge, enjoying a smoke in the warm sunshine and soft breeze. He stood with the bridge watch in companionable silence, the rhythmical throbbing of the diesels soothing to his trained ears as he gazed absently over the sparkling seas around him.
"Ship on the starboard bowl," a lookout reported.
Only the tip of a mast was visible on the horizon, and it was as fine as a needle through the binoculars. A lookout might search for dozens of hours, in good weather and bad, without seeing a single thing except the vast ocean around him. But if his attention wavered even for a moment, he might miss such a tiny thread of a mast, and thus lose for his boat the chance to attack. Targets were not so plentiful that they could afford to pass one up.
Köster found the mast and watched it grow on the horizon. It was a top mast, and soon the smaller main mast was visible.
"Warship!" he said, not managing to keep the tingle of excitement out of his voice. "Commander to the bridge!"
Mohr soon appeared beside him. "Where? Where?"
She was a warship all right. The tripod masts showed that. Mohr called for full speed on the diesels and set his course to bring him into position to dive and wait for the ship to cross his bow.
As the U-boat roared through the long smooth swells, Mohr established the ship's speed at 18 knots and was able to plot her zig-zag pattern. She was moving on a northwest mean course, zig-zagging in long even legs. Within some forty minutes, he was ready to submerge and lie in wait.
"Clear the bridge," he said. "Make ready to dive." He followed the watch down the hatch. "Dive!"
The boat nosed swiftly down as sea water poured into her diving tanks and her electric motors pushed her, the diving planes determining her angle of descent.
"Take her to 12 meters and level off, L.I.," Mohr said.
He watched through the periscope, observing every detail. "Cruiser," he announced finally. "Let's hope she's not American this time."
Only two days before, they had met another cruiser, an American of the Memphis class, and had to let her go, furious because they knew she would report them to the British if she saw them. But their orders were explicit: under no circumstances were they to attack American ships. The orders made no provision for honest mistakes nor gave any clue as to how to tell the nationality of a blacked-out destroyer zig-zagging around a British convoy. So the exasperated U-boat skippers felt their hands were tied, and cursed the Americans who chased them, held contact on their boats, and guided the Britishers in to attack.
"Look in the Weyer, Zschech," Mohr told the I.WO. "British cruisers."
Zschech read rapidly through the descriptions of the different classes. "Here, Herr Kaleu, what about this?" he said, holding up the book for Mohr to see the silhouette. "British cruisers, Dragon class: HMS Delhi, Despatch, Dunedin, and Durban—two closely spaced funnels, slight rake, after runnel smaller, after fire control placed high, immediately in front of the mainmast, trawler bow."
Mohr nodded. "That's it, then, Dragon class. Make ready all torpedo tubes. We'll shoot in a little while."
Suddenly he heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by spewing water and Brinker's outraged voice, "Verdammte Scheisse!"
A gauge above the L.I.'s head had shattered, drenching him and his men with sea water. The boat lurched uncertainly.
"Brinker," Mohr called to him after a moment, "we're on the surface, aren't we?"
"Yes, dammit," snapped Brinker, motioning to his planesmen in front of him, and dismissing the commander from his mind. "Here," he told one of the men, "get below and find the leak in the manometer. Hurry up."
The boat had broached, however briefly, and Mohr knew that if she had been seen, the attack was over before it started. How often did a man get a chance at a shot like that, he wondered impatiently. An enemy cruiser alone, not an escort anywhere to be found, perfect conditions—and his damned boat leaping in the air like a porpoise! He half turned to call to Brinker again. But no, the boat was underwater now. Let the L.I. alone—he already had his hands full if the erratic motion of the boat was any indicator. He did not need the commander to tell him to bring her under control.
Mohr waited a moment longer, then took a quick look through the periscope. The cruiser continued unsuspecting on her course. He stepped back as the periscope slid down in the housing. So she hadn't been seen after all. That was a relief.
"Herr Brinker, I can't move the forward diving planes!"
Brinker grabbed the controls and tugged in vain. "They're jammed," he muttered. "Now what in hell can be the matter with them!"
"Herr Brinker!" came a shout from below. "I found the leak. It's not big."
"Can you cover it with your thumb?" Brinker called back.
"I'll try. But it's pretty strong. I don't know if I can hold it."
"Do the best you can," Brinker told him, turning back to the diving planes controls.
The cruiser and U-boat continued on their respective courses as every minute brought them closer to effective torpedo range. The cruiser followed her zig-zag pattern that Mohr had earlier plotted, her mean course the same. He motioned the periscope up. Another quick look, and suddenly the ship disappeared as an opaque curtain of blue-green Atlantic water covered the periscope lens.
"What's going on down there?" Mohr yelled from the conning tower. "I'm about ready to shoot. Can't you hold the boat steady, Brinker?"
The furious Brinker spun around, swallowing the indignant, profane, and highly insubordinate reply almost on his lips.
"Listen, Captain," he shouted, "the manometer has a leak in it a
nd the forward diving planes are jammed. This boat is goddamned hard to handle!"
"All right, all right, keep your shirt on, Rolf," Mohr told him good-naturedly. "Just do the best you can."
But Brinker wasn't listening to the commander. Having turned back to the controls, he was absorbed in maintaining the delicate balance necessary for an attack, using only the after diving planes and the trimming tanks. It was an almost impossible task, and it was a tribute to Brinker's superb mastery of the boat that she remained steady, ready to fire.
In the conning tower, Mohr raised the periscope for a shooting observation. The horizon was absolutely blank where the cruiser was supposed to be. The startled Mohr glanced up in momentary confusion and brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. How could she have utterly disappeared? After all the trouble trimming the boat, now was the damned cruiser bewitched? He walked around the periscope, searching the full circle of the horizon. At last he found her, off to port, and long gone.
He swore angrily. After more than two hours of zig-zags as regular as clockwork, the wretched cruiser had suddenly changed course. Now she was already out of range. Or was she?
It was an impossible shot, obviously. But Mohr was at his best in impossible situations. Now he called out a new set of figures to the torpedo mixers as he quickly calculated the cruiser's range and angle on the bow. He would have to assume she was holding the same speed.
Three torpedoes left the tubes, and Zschech set the stopwatch.
In the control room below, Brinker, soaked with sweat, fought like a madman to keep the boat from broaching with the sudden loss of weight in the bow as the fish were fired. Hampered by the loss of the forward diving planes, he quickly flooded the bow tanks and only just managed to keep her nose down.
Throughout the boat, the men stood motionless, concentrating on the three long slim torpedoes gliding through the water.
"Still running?" Mohr asked with his eyes, nodding toward the hydrophone operator.
He nodded back in the affirmative.
Zschech looked at the stopwatch in his hand. Two minutes running time. Two and a half.
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