by John Day
Apart from the men working the pumps, the vessel was empty again. The searchers had returned to Celeste to report to Henshaw and take a break.
The five joined Henshaw and the glowering Mr Mendez on the bridge of Celeste to read through the Logbook. Benny suggested he read aloud from the book, translating in English, for the benefit of everyone, especially those weak in written German. There was a consensual mumbling from everyone.
Solemnly and in his best English, though still heavy with a Russian accent, he spoke. “I will start from 12 June 1943, the day she left Lorient…
Flashback
Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte settled at his desk, flicked on the small lamp and pulled the green glass shade to direct the light away from the wall, and over the Logbook.
He opened the thick leather-bound book at the end of his last entry, and reached for his pen, filled with the special black ink he used for this important document. He gathered his thoughts and put pen to paper…
Logbook entry.
Late this afternoon I received secret orders from Großadmiral Karl Dönitz, presented to me by Grupenfurer Franz Kaltman
Grupenfurer Kaltman arrived with 2 trucks containing additional cargo which included a large quantity of bullion.
We were already fully loaded with munitions and supplies, and the extra load was a significant logistical problem.
At this time, Grupenfurer Kaltman has not provided a destination, but I believe it will be in the northern part of South America, because our original orders were to attack shipping from Panama, and we must return to that mission on completion of his orders.
During the loading of his cargo, there was a raid by Gestapo on the dock. A saboteur was discovered and shot while attempting to escape. It is a relief to get underway again, the saboteur had planted explosives amongst the torpedoes and mines being loaded in the U-Boat next to me. We would have been destroyed had it not been disarmed in time. At least we can see our enemy, most of the time, out here.
-----
Witte broke off from writing as a crew man made a report. Then he resumed his notes…
Logbook entry.
I learn now that 10 metric tonnes of bullion have been taken aboard. We have added it to existing ballast throughout. There being no time to empty a central section.
Part of the consignment appears to be artworks. The durable moisture proof wrapping prevents confirmation. There is no option but to store it in the crew’s sleeping quarters on their beds. As if it isn’t hard enough doing this job, now cargo has a better rest than the crew.
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After attending to various matters, Witte returned to his desk and reopened the Logbook.
Already the fresh air that had entered while docked had become hot and tainted with the dull smell of the grease that lubricated everything from hinges to gearwheels. That smell he loved, it reminded him that he was the master of this incredible instrument of death.
The diesel engines purred smoothly like two giant cats, sated with cream, as U-159 glided unseen beneath the waves. The muted roar of the air drawn down through the snorkel, and the upward burble of the exhaust gases, made him feel calm again after the events at the dockside.
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Logbook entry.
We set sail at 10.22pm.
It is now 11.00pm and Grupenfurer Kaltman has confirmed Caracas to be his destination.
A strange fault has developed with communications, and we are unable to receive messages for the time being, although the transmitter is still functioning. I have arranged for new parts to be fitted when we reach the Caribbean at 15-58N, 73-44W on the 28th July. Grupenfurer Kaltman has expressly forbidden our return to port.
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Present day.
Benny scanned the following pages, and muttered something about “All routine reports…
“Ah! This looks interesting, 28th July 1943.” He read out the piece…
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Logbook entry.
Without the knowledge or permission of Grupenfurer Kaltman, I plan to rendezvous with our supply vessel now we are in the Caribbean at 15-58N, 73-44W.
I am uneasy with the mission. I need to re-establish communications and report our progress. Fresh food, water and additional fuel will improve morale.
Port engine is running hot again and a new piston is advised.
Late afternoon and the supply vessel has not arrived. Continuing on surface through the night if necessary.
Flashback
Witte closed his Logbook and went to the bridge.
It was a perfectly clear afternoon, the brilliant cloudless blue sky and the salty tang in the fresh air was a joy to breath in. He was handed a drink of hot coffee, he took it black. He knew it was far too hot to drink just yet, but in 5 minutes it would be perfect.
The officer on watch felt it necessary to start conversation. Helmut would have preferred silence to concentrate on the beauty of nature. “The engineer is anxious about the piston and cautions against running at full power.”
A shout came from one of the men searching the sea and sky for the enemy. “Aircraft approaching starboard side.” Witte searched the sky with his binoculars. “US Navy Mariner aircraft on intercept course.”
“Full ahead, hard to port and prepare to dive!” Witte barked.
The submarine heeled over in the turn as both bridge and deck guns opened up with shells and flak. The first flyover saw the release of depth charges that fell wide of target but erupted in 2 tall fountains of drenching spray and the rattle of shrapnel against the conning tower. The only fatality was the hot coffee, as the white enamelled mug dropped from Helmut’s hand when he took cover.
The gunners continued to blast the aircraft and peppered the wings and fuselage in patches like a colander. It banked hard to starboard for another strike. This time as U-159 was slipping lower in the water the plane dropped to 6 metres above the sea, obviously lining up to drop homing torpedoes. Shells tore into the flimsy plane, but it stuck to its course. The pair of torpedoes fell and vanished deep below the waves. Climbing hard and banking to match the turn of the vanishing submarine, more depth charges straddled U-159. The dual explosion rattled everything from pressure hull to teeth, shattering red light bulbs and dial glass. Running men staggered and fell as the 1200 tonnes of plunging steel suddenly thrust upwards, forcing them to their knees.
The engineer was powerless to control the rising temperature of the defective engine, as the dial pointer turned like a second hand on a watch, into the red until it hammered against the stop.
Any second now and the combustion gases blowing past the failing piston would melt or seize it in the oil-less bore. Without the piston to guide it, the connecting rod would flail about and poke through the side of the engine. The shock could break the crankshaft or snap more parts, reducing the screaming engine to scrap metal.
If the engineer could have seen through the 60mm thick pressure hull, the sight of the two rounded, white painted torpedo heads heading towards him would have caught his full attention, not the failing engine.
The gunners could now see the narrow curving tracks of death, locked on target, the centre of the hull near the conning tower.
Perhaps they knew they were seconds from death and rigid with fear, like rabbits caught in headlights, they just kept firing. The men were truly brave and were never giving up.
They directed their fire to the projected course of the torpedoes and almost at the point of penetration, one exploded and deflected the other below the hull. Spray rained down on the vessel like a waterfall, shrapnel tore through the bridge gunner as the sea washed him out of existence. Flame scorched through the white identification number and underlying paint, leaving the conning tower charred and the buoyancy chamber in the casing crushed and split.
The turning craft heeled right over, nearly capsizing and corkscrewed down beneath the waves.
Turning hard to starboard restored balance momentarily, as the vessel healed the other way a
nd became upright. Minutes later, as the crew managed to steer and adjust dive planes, another pair of depth charges exploded.
Amid all the twisting and turning, the engines shut down and the electric motors took over. The depth now precluded the use of the snorkel. The engineer heaved a sigh of relief, his beloved engine had survived and would run another day.
Oil and flotsam were released in a convincing display of proof that U-159 had been destroyed.
The inrush of sea down the periscopes and the fact they were seized in the down position was a serious problem. The sea coming in added to the stability and reduced buoyancy problem. The loss of the periscopes also meant they were blind.
Wedges of wood were hammered home to block the jets of water. That was one problem eased.
With the loss of a significant portion of buoyancy on the starboard side, it had to be balanced by flooding the matching section on the port side. In that state, they had to run just below the surface or they would never see daylight again.
Everyone prayed the reflection of the sun off the sea would hide their outline from the circling plane. On that score, they needn’t have worried, because the plane was badly damaged and so sure of their kill that they headed home.
History recorded the US kill as likely, and the permanent loss of contact from U-159 with Germany supported that belief.
Now U-159 was stable and out of danger, Kapitänleutnant Helmut Witte returned to his desk and added his report to the Logbook.
Logbook entry.
Enemy engagement. Mariner aircraft dropped depth charges and 2 homing torpedoes.
The light deck gun and bridge directed fire into the torpedoes’ path. We are lucky to be alive.
Lost the bridge gunner. Deck gunner injured, but will live.
Severe damage to central casing below conning tower, though pressure hull not breached.
We have a severe list to starboard because of lost buoyancy due to damage to casing. Will attempt to seal the casing at the earliest.
I fear the supplies will not reach us now and must continue to Caracas.
Both periscopes damaged and antenna all leaking. Will be forced to cut them away and seal the openings.
___
Present day.
Benny commented. “Well that explains why we never found her in the Venezuelan Basin
“More routine reports in the Logbook… Looks like they patched up the casing at sea.”
.
Lagoon.
Benny continued. “OK, 10th August, the casing has failed and they are heading for the nearest land. Kapitänleutnant Witte plans to beach the vessel and try and fix the damage properly.
“12th August. Landfall at 11.19N, 73.57W”
“That’s here!” Charles exclaimed.
Everyone was spellbound at the many questions now being answered.
“Carry on Benny, we want to know about what happened here.”
Benny read through and summed up the page. “Looks like they entered the lagoon at the small break in the reef and turned broadside on to the beach. At low tide, jacks were used to force the collapsed casing out so they could stitch it together again with weld…”
Flashback
The ceaseless hammering on the hull was like living inside a Notre Dame bell. The crew men worked hard to push out the crushed casing so it could retain air for flotation.
Kapitänleutnant Witte could stand the noise no longer, even outside on the bridge it shredded his frayed nerves. Conversation was impossible, so he and Franz Kaltman ambled up the white sandy beach towards the shelter of trees at the jungle edge.
The place was a tropical paradise, brilliant hot sun in a cloudless sky, calm blue sea and the soothing swasshh-sound of the small waves breaking on the shore.
The shade of the tall, lush trees was most welcome and both men lit up their cigarettes and puffed them into life. Weeks at sea without smoking should have cured them of the habit.
For Franz, smoking was an expression of freedom. He had escaped from the madness in Germany and was set up for life.
Helmut was grateful for the respite, but for him, responsibilities weighed heavily. Looking back down the shimmering white sand beach at the huge grey submarine, rammed home how vulnerable it was. Any passing aircraft or boat would see it and if an attack came, it was a sitting duck. Not only that, missing the supply vessel left them short on fresh food and potable water. He had plenty of fuel, but that would need replenishing when he returned on mission.
“Franz, I am planning on sending a small party of 8 men into the jungle to find fresh water and food. There will be animals we can shoot and wild fruit might be found, perhaps friendly natives will trade with us. Will you go with them?”
“Sorry Helmut, my orders don’t permit it.” He lied. He had no intention of risking everything at this stage. He could get lost; the place was full of snakes and disease-ridden insects. No, the jungle was not for everyone, certainly not for him.
Without a word, Helmut pinched off the glowing end of his cigarette, boxed it with the others and headed off back to the submarine.
Franz watched as the Captain rounded up 8 men who were mooching around the shoreline taking a break. Their unwashed bodies, naked to the waist, had appeared as white as a fresh corpse when they first climbed out of the hull. Now they were ranging from sunburn pink to dark brown.
As ordered, the group of 8 returned inside the hull to fetch clothing, weapons, hessian sacks and water containers. They muttered to each other about the dangers they faced in the jungle. Their knowledge was all based on hearsay and imagination. The reality would be worse than they could possibly imagine. Helmet and Franz watched the reluctant men wade ashore with their heads bowed, trying to ignore the jibes and taunts of fellow crew members.
Carrying their load like a small column of weary ants, the men headed up the beach towards Franz Kaltman, and branched off arbitrarily into the dense undergrowth.
Someone exclaimed “Mein Gott, it’s stifling in here. I thought once we were in the shade, it would be cooler. I can hardly breath. It’s so hot and humid, and the stink of rotting vegetation is choking me.”
“Ja!” several crewmates murmured in reply.
The hot and humid interior quickly sapped their strength. Within minutes, their sweat drenched clothes clung to their bodies, already sticky with sea salt.
The green tinged gloom under the dense canopy, hid from them all manner of curious creatures. Some scuttled away through the dead leaves, others hissed and flicked tongues at the intrusion as they hung like vines from branches. Then there were the suspicious eyes that watched them walk by. The constant loud buzz of blood sucking insects, that swarmed around the unexpected smorgasbord of fresh meat, accompanied the random piercing screech of birds and aggressive monkeys.
There was no track for the men to follow, as such. It was more a space between trees where vegetation had not flourished.
To distract themselves from the boring expedition, conversation ranged from gossip and boasting to jokes and relationships, as they plodded wearily upwards. After several hours of gruelling slog, the 8 men slowly climbed the steeper ground at the base of the mountain.
Frequent tropical rainfall percolating through the soil, dripped, and trickled down the vertical faces of rock and small land slips. The barely perceptible sound of trickling water, or perhaps the smell of it, attracted the men, and they headed towards it. So far, they had seen no game, but at least they could collect fresh water.
By now, they were quite weary. They sat and refreshed themselves with the cool water. It dawned on them why they had seen no animals worth shooting, they were making too much noise.
Klaus Schmitt, a bright young lad who helped the engineer, made a suggestion. “I think we should split up in pairs and head off in different directions, hunker down and remain hidden. The creatures will come within range and we can pick them off in comfort.
“We can all meet up back here in an hour. We need at least 2 adult wild
boar for 48 men, preferably 4. Don’t bother with small birds, it will waste ammunition and the noise will drive bigger animals away.”
The young man was both intelligent and well liked amongst the crew, so they split up enthusiastically and headed stealthily, further into the unknown.
A short while later there was a single shot. The jungle erupted with the sound of birds flapping their wings frantically and the panicking screech of monkeys. Apart from the insects, the jungle fell silent, for a minute. After that, the familiar sounds gradually returned as confidence grew.
Klaus and his friend stayed near the water and talked in a low whisper about many things, while they filled containers and waited for the others to return. He figured animals would come here to drink from the small puddles, so it was quite likely he would go home with a kill.
“When do you think we will leave here Klaus?”
“By the time the casing is repaired and we have gathered more food and water, I think it will take a week. All that time, we will be open to attack, so if that happens, we might never leave.”
“Why is that?”
“Without the submarine and assuming you don’t want to be captured and shot, we would have to walk through the jungle to civilisation. Goodness knows where that would be.”
The undergrowth rustled and both men turned around to assess the cause. Seeing nothing, they turned back.
Klaus heard the sound of his shipmate slap his neck. A mosquito bite no doubt, he thought.
Without turning to his mate Klaus whispered, “we’ve got company, there is someone watching me in the bushes.” There was no reply.
Wondering whether his friend had heard, Klaus turned to face him. The young man sat hunched with glazed eyes and then fell sideways. Natives leapt out of the bushes all around Klaus. A huge man with only a cord around his waist, tied to the tip of a fashioned animal skin tube, intended to protect his man hood, charged at him with a dagger of polished hardwood.
It was too late to turn the rifle on the man, so Klaus grabbed him by the wrists and rolled backwards, thrusting his feet under the attacker’s muscular belly, and tossed him over his head into the bushes.