The skipper immediately ordered a crash dive to 100 meters. We had barely passed the 40-meter depth point when four gigantic explosions rocked the boat. Now we really understood what a depth charge sounded like at close range! After 10 minutes of maneuvering, the pings began to gradually fade into the distance. We concluded the ship was a U-Bootfalle, one of the heavily armed merchant “Q-Ships” used as decoys by the British to ambush our subs.
After we were sure of our safety, the intercom clicked on and Löwe made an announcement. “At this moment, I wish to compliment the crew on their performance during our boat’s baptism of fire. Sometimes in war,” he reminded us, “the hunters are successful. But other times they themselves get hunted. We will head farther south…U-505 has caused enough turbulence in this area! That is all.”
Surviving our close shave with the Q-Ship was a relief, but it galled us that we had been chased from the area without us being able to fire even one shot. To us younger members of the crew, the incident just added insult to injury for the past three weeks without a victory. Emergency diving several times a day to escape from aircraft caused fatigue and frustrations, which also began to tear at our nerves. With no success to show for all of our labors, our crowded boat became a pressure cooker of emotions. Off-duty personnel began to succumb to Blechkoller…the so-called “tin can disease.” A psychological condition caused by prolonged confinement, its classic symptoms were the outbreak of “baloney-quarrels” between boys who argue and fight over nothing.
Situations like these separate a real leader from a mere giver of orders, and Kapitänleutnant Löwe now showed himself to be a commander of the first rank. He sensed the mood of the crew and decided to create a little mental diversion during this lull in the action.
Stretching his orders a bit, Löwe ordered U-505 south of our official operational area. On April 1, we crossed the Equator, an occasion requiring the crew to undergo the ancient baptism rituals of Neptune.
The ceremony was celebrated on the upper deck of the boat with the entire crew in attendance. After an appropriate fanfare, King Neptune appeared on the bridge to preside over the rituals, complete with flowing beard and trident. An extra touch of hilarity was provided by our baby-faced ensign, who had the embarrassing task of portraying Neptune’s lovely mermaid wife.
The other veteran sea dogs in the crew, also dressed in makeshift costumes, took devilish delight in subjecting us first-timers to a wide variety of elaborate rituals and good-natured tortures. Quite a lot of water and rough scrubbing was required to wash the dirt of the Northern Hemisphere off our skins before we could enter the southern half of King Neptune’s empire!
Of course, we were told, it was also necessary to be cleaned-out on the inside, too. Depending on how many “bad points” one had collected, we were each required to eat a certain number of specially prepared laxative balls made of flour and caster oil. Pepper and other evil-tasting spices were added to the mixture to enhance the entertainment. If we couldn’t swallow the golf ball-sized pills without chewing, we were assisted in the endeavor by a water hose in the mouth. Then, we would pull down our shorts and crawl out onto a long plank extending from the side of the boat. There, we sat on a large hole drilled through the plank until the caster oil provided the final amusement.
Without a doubt, it was the most foolish and memorable April 1st any of us would ever experience. When it was all over, we each received an award document from King Neptune, attesting to our accomplishment. It may sound strange, but getting that silly little piece of paper did much to fulfill the Kapitänleutnant’s very serious purpose of raising our morale.
The morning after the ceremony was a quiet one. We spent the hours test diving and setting the trim while we recovered from our digestive distress. Except for an alarm dive around noon caused by the appearance of a Sunderland, nothing happened until that evening.
At 1622 hours we spotted a steamer to the west, headed on a generally southern bearing. The appearance of an escort vessel in its company, however, convinced our skipper that a night attack would be the safest course of action.
At 2150 hours we fired two torpedoes at the target, range 1,000 meters. Both torpedoes either missed or failed to explode. For the next ten hours we tried to line-up another attack, but heavy squalls limited our visibility to less than 100 meters. Eventually we lost contact. This situation, as we used to say, was about as productive as milking mice.
The Kapitänleutnant placed us on a curving search pattern for the target. The next morning we re-acquired the elusive steamer and moved into a firing position in front of her. Just as we submerged to make the attack, however, another steamer appeared, sailing in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, the second steamer was flanked by two escort vessels. Nevertheless, Löwe decided to go for the more heavily protected newcomer because it had a more favorable firing angle. Besides, he reasoned, such a heavily guarded ship might be carrying a more valuable cargo.
At 2100 hours we lined up for a surface attack on the steamer with the two escorts. They were steering directly toward us; indeed, one of the escorts was actually on a collision course with us. Löwe, with his nerves of steel, waited until the escort was only 400 meters away before he swung our boat sharply to the right and let loose with two torpedoes at the merchantman.
According to our timing count, the first torpedo missed, but the second struck home with a thundering explosion. A tall column of water, gleaming white in the moonlight, sprouted from the waterline just forward of the bridge. Damage must have been massive because the ship immediately began to sink, bow first. The steamer broadcasted a short S-O-S message from which we learned its name: West Irmo (5,775 tons). With two angry escorts looking for revenge, this clearly was no place to loiter. We promptly turned-tail and made good our escape. The stricken steamer quickly disappeared into the darkness, but in the distance we could plainly hear the dull booms of her boilers exploding on her way to the bottom.
Our sinking of the West Irmo once and for all ended morale problems aboard our boat. It felt like someone had lifted a heavy weight from our chest. Especially satisfying was the way we had sunk the ship right under the noses of the escorts, escaping without so much as one shot being fired against us. We felt we had erased the Q-ship’s insult and were as proud as roosters.
Kapitänleutnant Löwe had a hunch there was other prey in the area. Sure enough, at 1407 hours the very next day, our eagle-eyed boys on the bridge spotted a smudge of smoke far to the south of us. The ship had a 25 nautical mile lead on us, but our entire crew, without exception, had full confidence this would be another success.
It was getting late by the time we caught her, so the skipper decided to use the same sort of night surface attack tactics that had served us so well the day before. We trailed the steamer just outside of her sight range, careful to keep the bow of U-505 constantly pointed towards our target so as to present the narrowest possible silhouette.
At 2100 hours we heard the click of the intercom, heralding the announcement we had been so eagerly anticipating. Löwe’s deep, steady voice ordered “Auf Gefechtsstationen!” (“Battle Stations!”), sending a thrill deep through each of our souls.
Our hearts swelled with unbounded pride and confidence in our skipper…and ourselves. Somehow, the shared labors, dangers, triumphs, and even the silliness of the Neptune ceremony, had combined in a mysterious alchemy to produce a mature and professional crew committed to enduring any hardship or danger in the service of our country. It was a magical process, one that we were not fully conscious of. But at that moment, we all felt it.
With the diesels running full speed, we caught up with the ship in less than 30 minutes. A single torpedo was fired from a distance of 800 meters, hitting the ship slightly astern. The steamer sank quickly, her bow hanging high in the air as she slipped under the waves.
Löwe maneuvered our boat close to the lifeboats to render aid. We found out from the survivors that the ship was a Dutch merchantman named the Alphacca, 5
,759 tons, carrying wool from Capetown to Freetown. The survivors had escaped from the sinking ship without casualties, and their lifeboats were well provisioned with supplies. Our skipper’s conversation with the survivors, in English and German, was remarkably cordial given the circumstances. The Dutch crew thanked us for our help, and even wished us farewell and bon voyage! As we left the area, we pondered the irony of fate that had pitted our country against such a friendly people who spoke our own language.
We departed the scene of the sinking headed on a fake course. Once out of the survivors’ sight range, we resumed our generally northern track. Since the Alphacca did not have time to send a distress signal over her wireless, our skipper believed that Allied merchant traffic in the area might still be unaware of our presence. The next couple of days were spent quietly, another transfer of torpedoes from the storage tubes into the bow torpedo room being the only event worthy of note.
On the morning of April 6, however, we all got quite a scare. We were cruising on the surface when, suddenly, the bridge watch shouted the aircraft alarm, “Flieger!”
A Sunderland was flying a course directly toward us. Löwe ordered us to dive, but the air relief valve for one of the diving tanks refused to open. The stuck valve not only prohibited us from submerging, but also caused a dramatic imbalance of weight within the sub. Within seconds, U-505 was stranded on the surface with its bow buried deep underwater and its stern sticking high up into the air at a 40-degree angle! We were absolutely helpless to escape from the approaching Sunderland.
Lightning fast reactions by Chief Engineering Officer Fritz Förster managed to temporarily free the valve. Meanwhile, the skipper ordered all crewmen to run to the stern end of the boat to help even the imbalance of weight. We all held our breath as the stern slowly began to descend back into the water, wondering when the Sunderland would attack. Luckily, it did not attack before we had a chance to escape.
We resurfaced at 1430 hours. All sorts of gallows humor enlivened our work as we repaired the relief valve. The best joke was that the English pilot failed to attack because he thought U-505 was an ostrich, with its head buried in the water and its tail sticking up into the air. The grim humor masked the fact that we came very close to being killed, either by the Sunderland or by an uncontrolled plunge to the bottom of the ocean. The incident also served to increase our respect for our Engineering Officer’s technical skill and Kapitänleutnant Löwe’s cool self-control. Not once during the entire emergency did the skipper raise his voice in either anger or fear.
Things quieted down considerably for the rest of the patrol. We made a few more sightings of ships, but were usually unable to catch them. When we did catch them, they turned out to be either neutrals or British destroyers, which Kapitänleutnant Löwe discretely declined to challenge. Of course, there was no let-up of the harassment from the air. Alarm dives were a daily affair, sometimes involving very narrow escapes from bombs or depth charges. On April 18, one of the Sunderland “Big Birds” laid an egg close enough to cause us some minor damage.
By the end of April, our boat and crew were both showing signs of exhaustion. The diesel engines were badly in need of an overhaul and fuel was getting critically low. Indeed, we did not even have sufficient fuel reserves to give chase to any more targets without endangering our ability to return to base. Also, some of the crew were displaying skin eruptions and symptoms of scurvy because of the lack of fresh food on board. It was clearly time to head home.
By the beginning of May, our generally northern course had brought us back to the entrance of the Bay of Biscay. Having survived thus far, Löwe was playing it very safe for this last leg of our journey. He ordered the bridge watches to be doubled whenever we were surfaced because of the increased chances of air attack. We also took care to avoid being spotted by the French fishing fleet, who, we suspected, reported the presence of U-boats to the British.
Sometimes, Löwe seemed to have an uncanny ability to sense danger before it made its presence known. For instance, on the afternoon of May 5 while we were peacefully cruising on the surface, for no apparent reason the Kapitänleutnant ordered the diving tanks to be partially filled with water. This precaution, he explained, would minimize the time needed for an emergency dive. Exactly four minutes later, a two-engined land-based bomber swooped down at us from nowhere and dropped nine bombs. Though we escaped without damage, some of the bombs landed close enough for us to find bomb splinters on the bridge when we later resurfaced. The skipper’s precaution, based solely on his premonition of danger, had made the difference between life and death for us. From then on, we traveled mostly underwater during the day, surfacing only at night to recharge the batteries.
During the night of May 5, we received a FT radio telegram from Second U-boat Flotilla headquarters with details of our rendezvous with the harbor escort craft. Until they met us, our radio directional finder and arc lamp searchlight beams from Lorient would guide us in for the final stretch.
On the evening of May 7, we sighted Ile de Groix, a small island near the mouth of Lorient Harbor. A few moments later, our escort arrived to guide us to our berth. With four victory pennants fluttering over our heads, we proudly sailed the last few miles back to base.
Chapter 3
Lorient
An escort ship from Lorient harbor met us at the prearranged rendezvous point just as dawn broke over the horizon. The morning sun warmed our happy faces as we followed the craft back to our armored nest. The anticipation was unbearable as we rumbled those last few miles back into port. Our spirits leaped even higher when we spied the reception awaiting us.
The pier was crowded with hundreds of spectators, all cheering and waving. The naval band was also there, their martial music adding pomp to the festivities. After the lines were secured to the dock, we were given the command to assemble in formation on the top deck. After almost three months at sea without a proper bath or shave, we must have been quite a sight to the spectators (fortunately, they weren’t close enough to smell us!). We tried to maintain a posture of strict attention, but most of us could not refrain from breaking into wide smiles and stealing glances at the four victory pennants fluttering from our bridge.
From the dockside we heard, “Three cheers to U-505 and her brave and successful crew…Hurrah!…Hurrah!…Hurrah!” It was a wonderful feeling to be cheered by the crowd, especially once we noticed all the attractive nurses and female office workers in attendance.
The entire command staff of the Second U-boat Flotilla came on board to shake hands with our officers. Kapitänleutnant Victor Schütze, Flotilla Commander and winner of the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, made a fine speech praising our accomplishments. The Second U-boat Flotilla was the most successful submarine command in the German Navy, and its members really knew how to welcome their men back into the fold. My God, how our hearts swelled with pride at the Flotilla Commander’s words! Standing there before him, gazing at the gorgeous medal hanging from his throat, I was already dreaming of returning to sea and earning a similar medal for our skipper. But in the back of my mind, I was also relieved to know that we were once again safe, protected from enemy air attacks by the massive 22-foot thick reinforced concrete roofs of the submarine bunkers.
After another half-hour of ritual, we were finally allowed to disembark and step once again onto dry land. We walked like old salts for the next day or two, experiencing the strange sensation of our “sea legs” adjusting to land that was not constantly pitching back and forth like the motions of our boat.
After our long ordeal at sea, we had only four thoughts in mind: a hot bath, good food, mail from home, and…well, satisfying the all-too-human lust for female companionship that every sailor feels after a long sea voyage.
Unfortunately, we had no choice as to the order in which our desires would be met. We were first led to the dining hall, where we found the postman waiting for us. We felt like children being visited by Saint Nicholas at Christmas as he opened his big bags of ma
il and began distributing the parcels. Shouts of our names followed by an eager “Here!” echoed out hundreds of times as we received our precious letters and packages from home. What followed was an indescribable hour during which three months of compressed emotions were released in one gigantic flood. This one had a new baby…that one’s brother had fallen in Russia…every conceivable reaction resonated simultaneously through the hall. Some men were laughing; others shook with anger. Most of us just sat alone, quietly trying to read the letters through misty eyes.
We then checked into our barracks. After a luxuriously long and hot shower, we hit the bunks for a bit of rest before the evening’s festivities. The banquet that night was truly memorable. As a reward for our efforts, we were provided all manners of foods totally unavailable to the other fighting men of the Wehrmacht. Juicy sausages, white bread, fresh vegetables, ripe fruits, and sweet French delicacies for dessert all graced our tables. Best of all, there was beer! Not the horrible ersatz beer that was normally available to the other services, but real bottles of Becks and Falstaff. Some of the boys, unaccustomed to the rich food and alcohol, became sick. But as soon as they were able, they were back at the table, enjoying what we all knew might be our last chance to enjoy such a feast.
Once the food was gone, we began to pay serious attention to the bottles of beer and strong French wine. Glasses were raised and drained in toast after toast. The hall quickly filled with a blue haze of pipe and cigarette smoke as we leaned back and digested the marvelous food. Our more basic needs filled, conversation began to turn to other, less gentlemanly interests of sailors on leave. The crew members with wives or sweethearts scoffed at us, but stories of the exotic pleasures awaiting us in the entertainment district of Lorient fired the imagination of us young bachelors. Our service in the Kriegsmarine would make us a man in more ways than one!
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 5