Operation Drumbeat

by Michael Gannon

  With both oxygen and battery power running low Schulz resorted to a stratagem. He had his LI discharge some fuel oil with a couple of gloves and a shoe thrown in. The ruse worked as the destroyers, apparently convinced by the oil smear and debris on the surface that they had slaughtered their prey, moved off the target. Rafalski in the sound room confirmed by underwater sound detection (hydrophone effect, or H.E.) that the swish-swish-swish of the destroyers’ screws was receding. Schulz decided to risk a slow ascent, and some thirty minutes later his periscope broke through the surface. A quick turn with the lens showed a clear sea. The boat surfaced, and Schulz cautiously spun the wheel-and-spider hatch open lest the built-up air pressure blow him out of the boat. Once safely on the bridge, followed by the lookouts, he swept the horizon again with his glasses. The destroyers were nowhere to be seen. His pulse rate slowed. U-124 was alone and safe.

  On 20 October U-124 sank the Norwegian Cubano, 5,810 GRT, and the British Sulaco, 5,389 GRT. On the thirty-first she sank the British Rutland, 1,437 GRT, hardly bigger than herself (though Schulz claimed it as 6,000 tons—a not-uncommon phenomenon among commanders). Following one last sinking, British Empire Bison, 5,612 GRT, on 1 November 124 made for Lorient.10 Except for a brief entanglement with a mine cable on the approaches to her home base, the Edelweissboot concluded her return cruise without incident and tied up at ¡sere with five victory pennants flying from her periscope. Har-degen, in charge of the deck force, had hardly finished docking when the flotilla commander told him that he was to fly to Kiel at once. The time had come. He was to command his own boat—a new one, just launched.

  The Number 8 line of the streetcar system in Kiel was jammed with workers speaking every known European language when Hardegen rode out to the shipyard to see his new U-boat for the first time. No doubt he looked as strange to everyone else as they looked to him, since he still sported the full red beard that he had grown on the last patrol—no one shaved on a U-boat in order to conserve fresh water—and before boarding the military flight from Lorient he had had it stylishly groomed by a French barber. The beard made a great plaything for his son, but he knew that once he officially reported to his new assignment he would have to shave it off. At the end of the line he reached the Deutsche Werke yards and found waiting for him there his LI, who had been on the scene for many weeks monitoring the construction. Hardegen knew that he should have been flattered to be entrusted with a boat that had just come off the ways, but in truth he was disappointed, since his first command was U-147, a type IID small coastal training vessel of just over three hundred tons, the boat everyone called an Einbaum (dugout canoe). It had a surface speed of 12.7 knots and submerged of 7.4 knots. It carried only five torpedoes. He had wanted to go back to the Atlantic. Instead, he was to be a Lehmann-Willenbrock in the Baltic Sea to a fresh class of U-boat recruits who, up to first petty officer, had never set foot on a U-boat before. The next day he had his first chance to meet them: a Friesian fisherman’s son, a locksmith from the Sudetenland, bakers, tool-makers, and merchant apprentices from every corner of Germany. They had been through training school. Now, in their bright blue uniforms, they stood ready to test themselves at sea. Hardegen admired their high-spirited natures and instantly formed a bond with them.

  Not that experience was entirely lacking on the little IID. His lone WO, Oberleutnant zur See Eberhard Wet jen, was a veteran of the merchant marine and had navigational experience that would serve their boat well in the adventures ahead. He was a native of Bremen, like Hardegen, who enjoyed listening hours on end to the older man’s sea stories. Ernst Harnisch, the LI, was another extremely capable officer. “Heil, Herr Kaleu!” he had shouted out formally when first meeting Hardegen at the shipyard, but directly after the formality he smiled and never stopped smiling thereafter. Everyone loved him for his happy nature and sense of humor.

  On 11 December 1940, Hardegen and his men gathered ii full uniform on deck for the Indienststellung, or formal commissioning, of their boat as U-147. The local flotilla commander officially put the boat into the service of the state. Hardegen then gave a short speech to the crew urging them to recognize that their training missions were just as important to the homeland as the battles to come. Finally he hoisted the national flag and his commander’s pennant, saying, “To our Führer and commander in chief of the Armed Forces—Sieg Heil.’” The rest of the day they spent eating and celebrating. The hard work would begin the next morning.

  For weeks the commander put his crew through drill after drill, practicing underwater trims, torpedo launches, artillery fire, and bridge watches. In particular they practiced emergency dives, always seeking to improve the reading on the stopwatch, since their survival would time and again depend on their ability to clear the bridge, dog the hatch, and submerge the boat in rapid order. A gun crew might be on deck, and the drill leader would yell, Einsteigen! Alarm!— the emergency order to dive—and the men would pour down the tower ladder like monkeys, particularly after they learned that the slower men’s fingers would be stepped on by the shoes of those who followed! By Christmas Day, Hardegen thought that the crew was in a state of near readiness—and none too soon, as it happened.

  Several days after Christmas the flotilla commander asked him if he thought that the crew, whose training was not yet complete, was in condition to undertake an actual war cruise. Hardegen was surprised, since their boat was not designed for the open Atlantic, but he enthusiastically answered yes and quickly made ready to sortie. One of his last acts before departure was to choose a symbol for the boat. As a representation of his two naval careers he chose the flying fish, and the crew painted one prominently on each side of the tower. Once torpedoes, provisions, and other necessities were properly stowed on board, they put out from the Tirpitz breakwater to the hurrahs of their comrades in the flotilla and slowly followed an ice cutter through the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal that bisected the Schleswig-Holstein peninsula and connected the Baltic with the Elbe and gave it access to the North Sea. Passing a girls’ school, the cutter sounded its horn and many young girls appeared waving their aprons and colorful scarves. Har-degen’s crew shouted three hurrahs to them, and they responded in kind with a hearty Zicke-Zacke.

  Despite the help given by their ice cutter, the thick ice fields in the canal and the Lower Elbe dented 147′s outer hull and they had to put in briefly at Cuxhaven at the mouth of the Elbe for repairs. Fit for sea again, they set a course for Helgoland in the North Sea, where, following an old U-boat custom, they paused for a crew party at the canteen Tante Lotte. When Hardegen signed the canteen guest book at the end of their going-away celebration he could read there the names of all the great commanders in U-boat history, since every one of them had stopped at Tante Lottes either before or after enemy missions to fortify himself with a Helgoland grog. Their stay on the island was prolonged unexpectedly for several days, first by dense fog and then a blinding snowstorm. Finally they were able to put out for Norway where, while awaiting operational orders, Hardegen planned to conduct practice attacks in an ice-free fjord at Bergen. They successfully entered the fjord they wanted and began practice drills. The German base at the site made available a guard vessel to serve as their target ship, and they made repeated runs on it, both submerged and on the surface. The small German detachment stationed at the remote fjord base was pleased to have them as visitors, and the seamen joined the soldiers in many an evening party.

  Finally, one Friday, their Operation Order came through by radio (variously called “wireless,” “W/T,” and “FT.” in this narrative) from BdU. Since it was considered bad luck for a sailor to go to the front on a Friday, Hardegen delayed until 0030 hours on Saturday before making their sortie. The heading taken on departure would carry them around the Shetland and Orkney Islands off the north coast of Scotland. The sea state worsened as they traveled. Temperatures on the bridge fell below freezing. Even inside the boat, where the temperatures were six to eight degrees Celsius, the men wore bulky fur caps and coats. Betwe
en watches they tried their best to warm up, ate, and grabbed a little sleep until, four hours later, each of them had to mount the tower for another watch. On a small boat like 147 officers and ratings lived together in one single space. Gemütlichkeit was standard operating procedure. And so, on they sailed toward their designated attack area, rounding the British Isles to the convoy routes north of the Hebrides. Often the men on watch stood in freezing water up to their armpits while snow and hail whipped their faces. Thick ice encrusted the tower casing and hung from the antenna wire.

  One day Wetjen fell into the control room dripping with sea-water. “Herr Kaleu!” he shouted. “A Zeppelin just came out of the clouds!” Hardegen ordered an immediate dive. When they reached periscope depth the LI trimmed the boat, and Hardegen looked through the sky scope for the gaseous intruder. It turned out to be a harmless British barrage balloon that had slipped its moorings and flown out to sea. At dawn one Sunday, though, they had a genuine war experience. They were on the surface. One of the watch shouted down the pipe, “Off the bow—a shadow!” Hardegen raced up the ladder to the bridge and saw a huge vessel coming at them at high speed. There was no time to dive. Despite the brightening sky they had to attack on the surface. And so, in that exposed position, Hardegen launched his first torpedo as a commander. No sooner was the eel released from its tube than the steamer spotted them, turned away hard, and its armed guard opened fire. At close range 147‘had to dive. One shell puncture in the pressure hull would have rendered them helpless. For some reason their torpedo failed to hit, or if it did, it failed to detonate. Something like ten thousand tons GRT had slipped through their fingers. Die ganze Sonntagsstimmung war zum Teufel! Their whole Sunday was shot to hell! Or so it seemed.

  Later that same day near dusk the lookouts sighted what appeared to be two freighters on a heading toward England, one to port, one to starboard. When they drew close—again they were on the surface—they saw a gun flash on the ship to port. Hardegen and Wetjen looked closer. Verdammt— it was a destroyer! Her shell created a yellow-green detonation column in their wake, fifty meters astern.

  ALARM!

  The U-boat dived, but she went down too fast. A hatch seal broke. Water poured into the stern and soon stood deep as the bunks. They were listing badly. The bilges could not handle the great volume of water. The crew bailed from stern to bow but it did not help. Hardegen and Harnisch could not control the boat. There was but one expedient left. They had to surface.

  “Anblasen!” (“Blow tanks!”)

  Air pressure in the diving tanks pushed out the water that had been let into the tanks to enable them to dive. They leveled out and the LI sang out in succession:

  “Boot steht!” (“Boat constant.”)

  “Boot steigt langsam.” (“Boat rising slowly.”)

  “Turmluk ist frei, Boot ist raus.” (“Tower hatch is free, boat is on the surface.”)

  Hardegen ran up the ladder, opened the tower hatch, and looked quickly around. Not more than one hundred meters to starboard lay the destroyer. Alongside, near dead in the water, was the other ship, a freighter. Overhead was a British plane. And they had to make repairs there? But they did. The gathering darkness helped. The crew worked feverishly. Soon the hatch seal held tight and the bilge pumps voided the leaked water. Just a few minutes more, everyone prayed. But the destroyer suddenly moved in their direction. They dived and the seals held. Men grabbed hold as they awaited the Wabos. But nothing happened! The enemy must not have seen them. Or had he no depth charges left? When the sound man reported that the destroyer had passed over them and beyond, Hardegen went to periscope depth and saw that the enemy warship had taken a position ahead of the freighter and that both were under way. He tried a torpedo approach under water but could not catch up. Eventually he surfaced. Then, as though they had not had enough bad Sunday luck, their starboard diesel would not start, and problems developed with the portside engine. The LI concluded that the water leak had contaminated the lubricating oil. So they submerged to lick their wounds.

  Late at night, though the dieseis that drove the boat on the surface were still not fixed, Hardegen surfaced in order to free the antenna for any wireless signals that might be meant for them. He was barely on the bridge when he sighted a large shadow in the pale moonlight ahead. It was a freighter, heavily laden, coming right at them! And here they sat with both dieseis down! He ordered full ahead on the E-Maschinen, the less-powerful electric motors that were for underwater use, and blew the tanks with their last remaining air.

  “Auf Gefechtsstationen!” (“Battle stations!”)

  Wetjen scampered up with the target-aiming binoculars used for surface attacks and affixed them to the target-bearing transmitter post. In surface attacks it was the first watch officer, number one, who aimed and launched the torpedoes, while the commander analyzed the attack situation on all horizons. Meanwhile, below, the crew opened the bow caps to their forward torpedo tubes. Hardegen had no need of his binoculars. The steamer loomed large in the moonlight and was moving exceptionally fast, so that its frothy white bow wake glistened. Wetjen cranked in the firing data—range, speed, angle on the bow—with a large aim-off allowance because of the target’s speed. Now the shadow had become a giant black wall, directly in front of them. Wetjen pressed the launching button, and just a matter of seconds afterward a loud explosion blew out one fragment of that wall, a tall flame shooting up from the ship’s forward cargo hatch. Their little U-boat reeled from the shock waves. The bridge party ducked their heads as large and small chunks of hot metal fell hissing in the water alongside or rattled on the bow and stern casings. Hurrahs from the happy crew sounded from below. Hardegen watched, fascinated, as the mortally wounded freighter went down forward, and because of its high speed literally drove itself beneath the water like a U-boat. Soon only the stern stuck up above the waves. Survivors clung to floating wreckage. He called out to some of them, “What ship are you?” They replied that they were the Norwegian Augvald, 4,811 GRT, with a full belly, bound for England.11 He wished them well, and that was all that he could do since U-boats, because of their small size and already overcrowded interiors, were forbidden to attempt the rescue of survivors. Wondering if the Norwegians could possibly make the 150 nautical miles to land, or would be picked up by a passing vessel—which seemed more likely though still a very remote chance—he went below to give the men a description of their kill over the loudspeaker. They were elated. Taking a turn through the boat he looked at their oil-smeared, dirty bodies, their hair plastered down on their faces by sweat, and saw, too, their toothy grins and shining eyes. This victory was theirs as much as it was his. “Herr Kaleu,” one of them said, “just a few more hours and the ‘sewing machines’ will be running again.” He meant the dieseis. It was turning out to be a fairly prosperous cruise. Their Sunday had not been shot zum Teufel, after all.

  The boat did have two great disappointments a few nights later. They spotted a freighter and a large two-funnel troop ship. On both targets they were able to close range to a point where they could not possibly miss. But they did. Or else, their torpedoes failed to detonate. Then, before they could enter a Norwegian harbor to reload, they received a wireless signal: IF FUEL SUPPLY ADEQUATE SAIL TO KIEL. Their fuel was adequate. So, with Wetjen’s able navigational help, they made their way back to Helgoland, where Hardegen permitted another celebration at Tante Lottes. After all, they were only a coastal training vessel, never intended for combat as such, but the youngsters had brought home 4,811 GRT Not bad, he thought, for a type boat that was known throughout the fleet as a “canoe.” Therefore, many a mug of grog was lifted that night to toasts of “Ja, ja, die kleinen Boote!” (“Yes, yes, the little boats!”).

  Sunshine and good seas accompanied 147 home to Kiel, where to Hardegen’s great surprise he was relieved as commander. He could not believe that he would lose his boat so soon. Was he to be put on ice? Had his plane-crash injury report caught up with him at last? (Yes.) The only consolation was that Wet
jen would succeed him as commander. Wetjen and the crew presented Hardegen with his commander’s pennant and with the original flag at date of commissioning. Within months those were the only objects left from the boat. Under Wetjen the boat made two war cruises and sank three ships. Then on 2 June 1941, in the North Atlantic, she was depth-charged by the British destroyer Wanderer and the corvette Periwinkle with the loss of all hands. Gone were Wetjen, the LI Harnisch, and all those other fine young German men he had come to admire and love.

  Hardegen was sent for medical tests and rest in the sunshine and snow of the naval recreational center at Spindelmühle in the Riesengebirge Mountains east of Dresden. When he returned to Kiel, orders awaited him to report to Admiral Dönitz’s second in command, Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg, at the Blücher Brücke. When he entered the admiral’s office, saluted, and reported according to regulations, the admiral asked him, “Are you fit to return to sea?” To which Hardegen replied, “Yes, Herr Admiral.” Von Friedeburg then spoke the magic words: “Hardegen, you are to go to France this evening to take over command of U-123.” It was the boat that he had chanced to see while at Commander’s School. He could not have been more thrilled. Eins Zwei Drei was a large IXB, with an experienced frontline crew. Under Kptlt. Karl-Heinz Möhle she had already sunk enough ships to earn him the Knight’s Cross. Now Möhle was to command a flotilla. The next day, in a Junkers transport from the familiar Holtenau airport, but on the wings of high anticipation as well, Hardegen flew off to France, arriving five and a half hours later in Brittany where, in contrast to Kiel’s raw winter weather, he found the greenery, blossoming fruit trees, and clear blue skies of that year’s spring.