Schwieger swung his glasses over to the area for confirmation. He saw a distant plume of smoke, not yet visible without the aid of glasses. He nodded.
Rucker flipped open the cover of the communication tube and gave a hard blow then leaned close to hear the response. A loud whistle sounded at the helm.
“Jawohl,” came the reply from the helmsman. Rucker looked at his water compass and barked the new course into the tube. “Steer 210 degrees,” he ordered. The 103 was now on a perfect intercept.
Turning to Schwieger, he said, “Have the men come up for fresh air in groups of ten for fifteen minutes each. We may need to submerge for a while and I want them to clear their lungs and heads.”
Eager to show his command qualities, Schwieger asked, “Should I request full speed sir?”
Rucker’s tight-lipped expression softened slightly. “We don’t know what we’re running toward young Hans. If it’s a dreadnought or destroyer we could simply be rushing to our own demise. Once we’ve identified our prey, we’ll make our move.”
Schwieger tipped his head in recognition of the captain’s good judgment and quietly chastised himself for such a poorly thought out suggestion. Instead of impressing the captain with good command judgment, he proved he was not yet ready. Two hours later they were still miles away but they had determined that their target was in fact The Olympic. With four large stacks topping off her unmistakable profile, there was only one other ship that it could have been, and she sank many years earlier on her maiden voyage.
It also appeared that The Olympic’s deep-water escort had steamed off to intercept and protect the next transport on their route segment, while the next escort had not yet arrived to continue the relay process. The timing was perfect. The Olympic was a sitting duck, an easy target, almost too easy.
Rucker knew his prey well. He knew that her speed was far superior to that of the 103, so there was some cause for stealth. He gave the order to prepare to dive. They would now move in for the kill. Hatches were secured and ballast tanks were filled as the U-103 readied herself for submerged operations.
Although the engine room was aft and separated by two hatches from the main operations area, the noise of the two diesels was enough to require orders to be shouted. When they were shut down and the boat switched to electric power, the lack of constant noise was a welcome relief. But the noise would be replaced quickly with excessive heat. The large engines were cooled by sea water when in operation but now there was no cooling being provided so the residual heat had nowhere to go in the tight confines of the sub. The temperature of the engine room quickly topped one hundred degrees, which proved too much for the engine crew. They sought relief forward with the others, but soon everyone was sweating.
Rucker had set a course for a port-side intercept as the sub quietly slipped below the surface to periscope depth. He had moved to the periscope viewer and was looking at the Olympic through the eyepiece. Despite the dazzle paint job, Rucker had already determined the speed and direction of the target and intended to surface some five hundred yards from the planned shot.
The Olympic would require the most conservative approach, because Rucker knew it would take more than one torpedo to sink her. He believed, as did most U boat commanders, that the best shots were made from the surface. The speed of the target, its trajectory, ocean current, and closure were all parts of the “solution,” the equation that had to be applied prior to each shot.
A surface shot also required little to no solution for the torpedoes’ path. Torpedoes were propelled by compressed air that was heated to the point of steam. This process enabled a greater charge to be pumped into its storage tank extending the range and increasing the speed of the weapon. The sub had several electrically propelled torpedoes, but they were much slower and better suited for submerged attacks. Rucker had already decided that the wet-heaters, as the steam-driven torpedoes were known, would be used for this kill.
The captain wiped a drip of stinging perspiration from his eye and refocused on the movement of his prey.
“We shall surface in two minutes,” he said. “What is the status of the torpedoes?”
Schwieger stood several paces away and drew close to the captain. “The forward torpedoes are charged and loaded and the tubes are flooded for firing,” he said. He hesitated before adding, “But the aft tubes are experiencing some problems, sir.”
Rucker stiffened. “What kind of problems, First Mate Schwieger?” he asked in a frosty tone.
Hans paled. “The gate on the port tube is only partially open and refuses to cooperate. The starboard side is not porting the air properly, preventing flooding, and–”
“And this is the first I hear of it?” Rucker barked, cutting him off.
The first mate was speaking more quickly now. “Sir, I saw no need to bother you as the mechanics said that the tubes would be ready five minutes ago.”
Rucker took a deep breath and raised one eyebrow. “In the future, First Mate Schwieger, make every effort to keep the captain informed in such matters and he will determine whether in is unimportant or not.”
He then turned away and peered into the periscope. “We shall just have to sink her with two fish.”
The temperature in the forward part of the sub was well over eighty degrees, so when the captain gave the order to surface all were looking forward to the welcome addition of the cool sea air, despite the danger associated with the impending battle.
As the U-103 broke surface the diesels clattered to life in anticipation of the switch from batteries. The conning tower broke surface and, after allowing a minute for the excess water to drain away, a sailor climbed the ladder to open the outer hatch.
The opening of the hatch was not a job that seasoned crew-members often volunteered for. You simply had to do it once to understand why. As the junior seaman ascended the ladder and opened the hatch, a cascade of water drenched him, splashing on the floor below.
Rucker and Schwieger were standing well clear of the anticipated shower area. Claus donned his white hat and quickly climbed the wet ladder into the light of day, with Hans close on his heels.
A quarter-mile away they saw the Olympic. The ship was enormous even at the distance. Her hull cut through the water with such ease and grace it was easy to appreciate the beauty of this marvel of the sea.
Rucker shook his head slowly. “It is with regret that I shall send this fine vessel to the bottom, but there are perhaps six thousand soldiers aboard who will be killing our young countryman on the battle field and I have my duty.”
Hans nodded, never taking his eyes off of the massive ship. ”It must be done,” he said somberly.
“Prepare to fire the port side on my mark,” Rucker commanded. Hans called the ready command to the helmsman through the communications tube.
They were lined up for a perfect portside strike. Ruckers’ plan was to unleash the first torpedo forward of mid ship and the second aft of mid in hopes of rupturing a boiler and causing massive explosions in the engine room. They were almost at the firing point when two white puffs of smoke blew through the wind over the Olympics’ bow. There were two loud reports followed by two splashes about a hundred yards short of the sub.
Hans anxiously asked, “Should we dive sir?”
The captain still looked through his binoculars and was obviously unimpressed. “No. They are untrained dummkopfs. If they were to hit us it would be pure luck. Prepare to fire. Mark one. Fire one.”
The first mate relayed the order and the first fish was away.
“Correct the heading to 180 degrees and prepare the number two.” Rucker watched the first torpedoes white trail of bubbles as it sped on a perfect trajectory for its intended impact with the Olympic’s hull. Young Schwieger grabbed the captains left forearm in disbelief.
“DO UNTO OTHERS…”
[Transcribed from Ian MacDonald’s recording]
The Olympic lurched forward, billowing smoke from its stacks, as the two fifteen thousand hor
sepower engines were pushed to their limit by Captain Hays and his crew.
The torpedo was heading directly for the mid ship of the Olympic and was closing far too quickly.
We were collectively knocked off balance and stumbled to the right as Hays applied full left rudder. Our eyes were locked on the approaching steam trail of the torpedoes as the great ship listed over to the starboard in a desperate attempt to reduce its eight hundred eighty-foot profile.
Captain Hays called for full aft on the port engine and maintained full ahead on the starboard. The port propeller shuddered and cavitated as it reversed its direction against the onrushing water.
More quickly than I or anyone else had imagined, the Olympic turned toward the torpedo and we all watched with relief as the steaming tube of death passed along the port side of the ship and harmlessly away to our stern.
We collectively gave a cheer, and some of the men were even slapping each other on the back for making it successfully through our first brush with death. Then someone noticed that instead of turning away from the submarine and speeding away, we were continuing our left turn toward it. Several of us looked back at the bridge. We could plainly see Captain Hays and his officers at the helm.
“Why aren’t we turning away?” Sean asked. “A U-boat only travels at about twelve knots, that’s half our speed. We can easily out run it.” It was a good question to which none of us had a good answer, but we were about to find out Captain Hays’ intention.
The Olympic continued her high speed turn powering back just slightly so as not to overshoot. The men on deck had gone from noisy jubilation to quiet trepidation as they saw the Olympic steam toward the deadly U-103 at high speed. Her low profile slithering across the water was clearly in sight.
We could see its Captain and his men, who, it dawned on us as well as them, had hesitated a moment too long in determining Captain Hays’ intention. Now they were scurrying below and closing hatches. Huge plumes of water blew into the air as the U-103 began to vent its air tanks and replace it with water to make ready for an emergency dive. It was clear now that the Olympic had every intention of ramming her and the tables had fully turned.
The deck of the Olympic was awash with men, all silently watching, unwilling participants in this life and death event. U-103 was a mere fifty yards away with Hays aiming squarely for her mid-section. The U-boat, however, was sinking fast and the churning, frothy water was quickly rising around the tower as she desperately dove for safety.
As we watched the 103 disappear beneath the waves, the crowd let out a frustrated moan. Twenty yards ahead of us was now empty water where the U-103 had once been. What was unknown to us, and even to the U-boat crew, was that the Olympic drew a solid forty feet of water.
We stumbled forward as the Captain demanded all engines full reverse from the engine room. The ship would normally take hundreds of yards to slow from twenty knots to ten knots. However, the maneuver was not intended to slow the ship but to thrust another fifteen feet of bow down into the water.
The Olympic shook from a loud and distinct impact far below the surface of the water. We could feel it through our feet. We all knew that the Olympic had tagged the U-103.
Running to the rails, we began to scour the water to the aft for debris of the U-boat to confirm the collision. Suddenly, Bill Lewis pointed and yelled. “There! Some life vests and oil!”
The water to our aft erupted into a boiling cauldron of oil, debris and bubbles. We broke into a spontaneous cheer at the knowledge that the Olympic had taken out one of these German demons of the deep. In fact, the double hull of the Olympic had cleanly cut the U-103 in half and quickly sent her to the bottom with little damage to the RMS itself.
I looked up to the bridge and could see the Captain looking aft with his binoculars. He lowered them and gave some orders to First Mate Spader who saluted him and marched away.
Moments later, as the ship slowed to a crawl, the deck hands began to man the life boats.
“Hey Ian, you think we’re sinking and they forgot to tell us?” Sean asked, half in jest.
“I hope not,” I said and looked at the others to see if anyone else found this a little unnerving. Dan McKee stretched out his mace and stopped a deck hand as he was running by.
“What’s cooking pal?” he asked.
“The Captain has ordered us to lower boats away and retrieve survivors,” the young man said. McKee raised his mace and allowed the deck hand to proceed on his way.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dan said.
The water astern was thick with oil and flotsam but, amid the floating debris, we could see men flailing in the icy waters. As the Olympic sat steady waiting for the completion of the rescue mission, it dawned on me that we were sitting ducks for any other German U-boats that might be in the area. I noticed First Mate John Spader nearby and mentioned my concerns to him.
Spader smiled and said, “The Captain is a good Christian which compelled him to retrieve survivors. He is, however, not a foolish man and had ordered us to radio for British Naval assistance which is less than fifteen miles away steaming toward us at twenty-eight knots.” He excused himself and walked off.
We were left there to discuss the wisdom of putting the ship and ourselves at risk to save the very people who had just tried to kill us.
“I’d leave them,” Dan said. “Nothing personal, it’s just war.” Bill Lewis and Terry Manning both surprised me by siding with Captain Hay’s decision.
“Besides,” Bill said. “We stand a chance of getting some valuable information from our guests.”
As our argument about Captain Hays’ move continued, I was relieved to see three British battleships clearly in view on the not too distant horizon. They looked like three giant knights charging forward on their steeds, their stacks billowing black smoke and their bows sending cascades of water thirty feet into the air on either side as they cut through the seas at battle speed.
The first of the survivors were being escorted aboard and we all clamored over to catch a glimpse of our enemy. They were soaked and slimy with oil.
These were young men, our ages, looking very scared clutching to woolen blankets, shivering and keeping their heads down, lifting them only occasionally to steal a glance at their captors or saviors, a topic for another discussion. The enemy, I now realized, looked very much like any of us, not evil or sinister as I would have liked them to look.
“Why do they want to destroy Europe?” I asked my quiet friends. I was hoping that someone would give me a good reason to hate these men. It was much easier to wish them dead when they were just the hard cold U-103, now they had faces and looked frightened.
“Don’t look so tough now, do they?” Terry commented. I nodded.
Captain Hays had joined us on deck as the last of the survivors were brought aboard. He stepped forward as the final two men came up the ladder. The first was a young man with a stocking hat. He was taller than the second man but, somehow seemed shorter. His head hung down in defeat.
The second man had a white captain’s hat on with a soaking wet dress jacket hanging awkwardly askew. He stood straight and looked taller than the young man ahead of him, although he was not.
Captain Hays stood before this man and the two exchanged a long, silent stare. Finally, the U-boat Captain stood slowly to attention and saluted Hays clicking his heels as he did it. Several moments later Hays returned the salute.
Never taking his eyes off the U-boat Captain, Hays ordered a blanket for his enemy and had him escorted below to be cleaned up and given dry clothing. We sensed we were witnessing an ancient protocol that followed a battle, when one leader would submit and the other would honor his submitting. We looked on silently in awe and respect.
LIVERPOOL DEBARKATION
We disembarked The Olympic the next day in the dingy port city of Liverpool. Tired, but exhilarated after our voyage from Canada, we looked forward to joining our fellow countrymen on the Western Front.
The Olympic
was being tugged into the dock, where crews were standing by to inspect the hull to determine the extent of the damage from the collision with U-103 and begin immediate repairs. The hull had not been breached, so the repairs were hoped to be minor. There were also several members of the Royal Navy waiting to escort the ten surviving crew members to a proper place for interrogation.
Terry Manning, always ready to play his pipes, hurriedly organized a marching band for our debarkation.
We marched off The Olympic in a two-man file playing “The Maple Leaf Forever,” leading a mass of men down the gangplank to a large crowd of cheering Brits on the dock. There was a brief discussion between our Canadian officers and British officers, which was followed by an order to Terry to have the pipe band lead the men through town to a temporary billet area about three kilometers march from the dock.
Terry called out the tunes, Dan set the cadence and we were off, like pied pipers leading children through a town of cheering onlookers. It was a brisk march on solid ground, a welcome jaunt after a week at sea.
Our billets were in small tents, six men per, and the accommodations were spartan, but as we were only to be here for twelve hours, it was considered a brief inconvenience.
The next morning we were awakened at the crack of dawn, lead through some calisthenics and fed a quick breakfast consisting of coffee, porridge and buttered toast. Then we gathered our gear and made a quick march to the rail yard where we boarded the troop transport bound for East Sandling training camp. This was not the old Kingston Pembroke Line. We were packed into boxcars with wooden benches nailed to the floor enabling every seated occupant to experience the true feel of the rail.
It was a bum-numbing seven and a half-hour ride that was further enhanced by the rattling and clanking of the old boxcars and the billows of black coal smoke that belched from the laboring engine and enshrouded the cars behind.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 9