On December 3, we passed through a cold front that caused a dramatic drop in temperature inside the boat. We were still accustomed to the Caribbean heat, so we wrapped towels around our midsections to protect our kidneys from the chill. The condensation water dripping down on us seemed ice cold. The boys who slept in the uppermost bunks were especially miserable.
A couple days later, someone noticed that one of the big dents in the pressure hull caused by Sillcock’s bombing was starting to cave inwards. Every time we dived, the hull would bend in noticeably closer. We prayed that we wouldn’t have to dive deeper than 40 or 50 meters before we got back to base. We did have a bit of good news, though. The wounded sailor with the scalp wounds took his first unassisted stroll through the boat. He walked like an old man, but everyone was glad to see him about. The Petty Officer, however, remained bedridden and not fully in command of any of his five senses.
On December 7, for the first time in weeks, we received several Metox alarms warning us of enemy radar beams. This was a sure sign we were nearing the entrance to the Bay of Biscay. From that point on, we stayed on full alert for the approach of any hostile ships or aircraft. We were especially wary when we passed through the flight path of the British planes flying shuttle patrols between Gibraltar in the south and Landsend, England, in the north—the infamous “Suicide Stretch.”
The next day, we radioed Lorient to arrange our escort into port. They expected us to be there in 36 hours, but we had to delay our arrival because of numerous emergency dives and heavy winter storms. Planning what to do in Lorient’s entertainment district dominated every conversation. Except for the poor lad with venereal disease, of course. He remained silent and depressed about his inevitable arrest and the frightening medical treatments awaiting him back in port.
We had a bit of trouble navigating the last leg to Lorient because our radio directional finder was out of commission. Chief Navigator Reinig tried to fix our position with the sextant, but thick gray clouds obscured all the stars. Zschech made one of his rare appearances in the control room to angrily berate the navigator for all our troubles. By now, of course, Zschech’s irrational outbursts hardly raised an eyebrow. Anyway, we were far too close to Lorient for anything to spoil our mood. Our spirits were so high, some of us even softened our attitude a bit toward our skipper. Perhaps, we hoped, his foul temper and fits of madness would fade after a few weeks of rest.
The weather worsened as we neared the Brittany coast. Giant waves sent icy torrents of seawater crashing over the top of the conning tower and down the hatches into the control room. We control room mates were miserable, forced to sit for hours at a time being periodically soaked by the frigid brine. When we were wet, the seawater burned our eyes with salt. When we were dry, the salt residue made us itch all over. We cursed the wretched winter weather. Our discomfort was made all the more intolerable by the knowledge that we were so close to home. We were literally counting down every hour until that first, luxuriously hot shower in our barracks.
We spent our off-duty hours getting our personal possessions packed for the move to the barracks. In view of the weather, the uniform chosen for our arrival was gray leather jacket and pants. We had to beat and rub the leather to get out the mold that had grown during their storage.
I could hardly sleep that final night before our arrival home. Mostly it was excitement that kept me up, but I was also worried. After all the close brushes with death during this patrol, I didn’t want to die now, just a few miles from comfort and safety. Lying in my bunk, I listened to every little sound that was made by man or machinery. Exhaustion finally won out and I drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 8
Terror From Above
We rendezvoused with our escort exactly as planned at 0800 hours, December 12. We were surprised by the size and strength of the escort force; anti-aircraft weapons were especially abundant on the ships that met us.
Two and one-half hours later, we arrived at the pier. There was a military band in attendance, along with hundreds of sailors, army soldiers, female nurses, and shipyard workers. We could plainly hear their cries of astonishment when they spotted the massive damage we had sustained in Sillcock’s attack. As word of our damage spread throughout the dock area, the crowd grew even larger with hundreds of additional curiosity seekers. In front of the crowd was the Flotilla Staff, waving their caps and leading everyone in three cheers for U-505.
Once our boat was securely tied to the dock, we assembled in formation on the narrow pier. I remember how amusing it was to once again experience the funny feeling of the land seeming to pitch and roll under my feet for the first few hours after a long sea voyage.
Zschech stepped out in front of our formation and saluted the commander of our Flotilla, Korvettenkapitän Victor Schütze. “U-505 reporting back from war patrol.”
Schütze smiled broadly. “Glad you made it home! Hail to the crew of U-505!”
We all shouted back in unison, “Hail, Herr Korvettenkapitän!”
Zschech twirled around back toward us, clearly annoyed that the Flotilla Commander had acknowledged us crewmen. Eyes glaring with anger, he dismissed us, hissing the words like an angry snake.
We didn’t give a damn about Zschech’s hurt feelings. Once dismissed, we gave a big cheer and scrambled back aboard U-505 to get our sea bags. There were a few unfortunate souls on watch who had to stay onboard a bit longer to secure important valves and other devices, but they would soon be relieved by the Flotilla Reserve, so we didn’t feel too bad about them. There was really only one thing on our minds: a long hot shower. In our eagerness, most of us ran nonstop to the barracks. I loitered about the crowd for a while looking for Jeanette, but did not see her.
On the way to the barracks, I discovered why our naval escort into Lorient harbor had been so thick with anti-aircraft weapons: everywhere I looked were large bomb craters and burned buildings. Despite all the damage, however, we didn’t experience any equipment shortages or delays during our stay in port.
Later that afternoon, our crew assembled in a big dining room for the traditional post-patrol banquet with the Flotilla Staff. As usual, the sparkling white tablecloths were littered with dozens of bottles of beer, Cognac, and liqueurs. Everything smelled so clean! The only disappointment was that food shortages had compelled the Kriegsmarine to curtail the elaborate feast we had come to expect.
We drank for an hour, then mail was passed out. A great number of the men received news of brothers and uncles killed or missing in action. There were also many tragic tales of the bombing raids our cities were suffering.
The bitter news from home caused many of us to abandon all restraint with the alcohol. After a while, someone began singing old sailor songs. They weren’t sentimental or melodious songs, but ones with a sharp edge to them. It was clear that we were a crew who needed to blow-off some steam. Our self-restraint weakened by drink, the frustrations and tensions of the past several weeks started flooding back, ever more boisterously.
The Flotilla Staff picked up on the mood of the crew and discretely left early. Some of our officers left soon after as well. For the rest of us, though, it was to be a long night of drinking. By the time midnight came around, several of the boys had passed out, snoring like steam engines. Their heads were flat on the table, face down in whatever happened to be in front of them. Others were awake enough to sing along, but only managed to make babbling sounds.
It was at this point we decided, in our very intoxicated judgment, that it was time to execute our long-planned revenge against the two Petty Officers who had tried to make us do infantry barracks drills and exercises aboard U-505. During the course of the evening’s festivities, we noticed some big barrels of water and several large jute sacks filled with sand stacked next to the second floor bathrooms. The sand and water had been stockpiled there as fire-fighting materials in case the building was hit by incendiaries during a bombing raid. We emptied the sand out of a couple of the bags and then hid
in ambush positions around the corner from the bathrooms. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the two Petty Officers to answer the call of nature.
We only had to wait a few minutes before we heard one of the Petty Officers coming up the stairs. We had arranged a secret system of whistles with our mates downstairs to alert us of the Petty Officers’ approach, but we ended up not needing any warning because those two were the loudest talkers in the entire crew.
The first Petty Officer walked around the corner and we jumped him. With a few of us holding his arms and legs, we placed the sack over his body and tied the bottom closed with a rope around his knees. He kicked like a wild animal, but the rope kept him securely imprisoned within the sack. Between the hand over his mouth and all the other noise in the dining hall, no one heard his half-angry, half-frightened cries for help.
A few minutes later, the second Petty Officer stumbled into our trap and was given the same treatment. We lifted our captives and placed them, feet first, into the barrels of water. God in Heaven, the way they cursed when they landed in that cold fetid water! We left them there and ran like schoolchildren, laughing all the way back to our barracks.
The Petty Officers stood in the water for about thirty minutes before the Barracks Watch Officer came along and freed them. By the time we heard the two Petty Officers and the Barracks Watch Officer coming down the hall toward our room, we were safely in our bunks pretending to be asleep. The Petty Officers seemed to have sobered up a bit, but they were still angry as hell. The Watch Officer, for his part, seemed rather amused by the entire incident.
A moment later, our barracks room door flew open and a flashlight beam stabbed out through the darkness toward our beds. The light lingered on each of our bunks, one by one. All that could be seen was a room full of perfect angels enjoying the sleep of the innocent.
The Barracks Watch Officer gave a little chuckle of appreciation for our performance, then angrily turned back toward the two protesting Petty Officers. “Listen, you two. Get back to your rooms right now, and don’t make any noise that will wake these sleeping men! Understand?”
The Petty Officers clicked to attention. “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant!” they said in unison. As the three walked back down the hallway, they had to have heard our laughter and cheers of approval for the understanding Watch Officer.
Far too early the next morning, we heard a man with a shrill whistle slowly making his way down the length of our barracks hallway. It was some young Boatswains Mate from the Flotilla garrison going from room to room, trying to wake our crew up. When he opened our door, he was met with a hail of shoes, pillows, helmets, and curses. He ran like lightning to get some reinforcements.
Of course, we knew exactly what we could get away with, so despite our throbbing heads and queasy stomachs, we stumbled out of our bunks and tried to sober up with an ice-cold shower. By the time the Boatswains Mate returned with his Chief, we were dressed and ready for morning formation.
After breakfast, we assembled to receive our orders. Zschech notified us that, as usual, half of us would go on furlough. The other half would undergo infantry training “so that moss won’t grow on your back,” as he put it. Today, however, we were to report to U-505 to help the shipyard repair crews. Nothing was mentioned about the previous night’s high jinks with the Petty Officers. Interestingly, our little prank must have worked because from then on, those two were very comradely toward us ordinary crewmen.
Before we left for U-505, we saw the Petty Officer who had been wounded in Sillcock’s attack being sent off to the hospital. The poor man was still deaf and mentally confused. We never saw him again. Zschech didn’t even say a word of thanks or farewell to him, despite his sacrifice. To a man, we wished we had our old Skipper in command again, but we knew that was just a dream.
After we were dismissed, some control room mates and I took a longboat to the submarine bunkers. Our boat was still in the wet dock, surrounded by several small barks unloading supplies. The Flotilla Chief Engineer was aboard, shaking his head in disbelief at the damage old U-505 had suffered. Other shipyard officials were swarming over the decks, making a detailed inventory of the wreckage. The report they wrote confirmed that U-505 was the most heavily-damaged U-boat to ever make it back to base under its own power. That record held up for the entire course of the war. When the damage report reached Dönitz’s headquarters, the Great Lion wrote a personal letter of commendation to our boat’s crew.
Later, we learned that a special note had also been entered into our ship’s log praising Zschech’s actions during the patrol. Didn’t Headquarters know about his readiness to abandon ship? Or his abusive, self-defeating behavior towards the crew? Or the reckless endangerment to which he exposed his crippled boat—all because of his manic desire to sink another ship before returning to base? We reckoned that Headquarters either didn’t know the whole story, or just wrote that in the log to boost Zschech’s morale. Either way, we shook our heads when we heard about the entry.
Meanwhile, back on U-505, we just stood there on the upper deck of our boat, dumbfounded by the buzz of activity taking place around us. In the background, there was a gramophone playing military songs and marches. The noisy crowd, combined with the echoing background music, created a sort of nightmarish carnival atmosphere that seemed very surreal to us.
We were still suffering from the previous night’s festivities and were in no particular hurry to get back to duty, so we decided to get a bit of rest while the damage survey was being completed. My buddies and I took some tools and disappeared beneath the floor plates of the bilge. We laid down some rags we had brought with us and created cozy little nesting places among the jumble of ducts and valves. Every few minutes or so, one of us would bang on a pipe and shout a curse to create the impression topside that we were hard at work. Our dark little hiding place didn’t smell very good, but the nap we enjoyed was just what we needed.
After a couple of hours, someone shouted down an order for us to assemble on the upper deck for assignment to another work detail. But when we appeared topside, the filth and stench of the bilge on our coveralls made the Petty Officer turn his head in disgust. He ordered us to get cleaned up, so we happily ran back to the barracks before anyone found something else for us to do. When the rest of the crew returned from their duty assignments, they were surprised to see us control room mates already showered and dressed for the much-anticipated awards ceremony later that afternoon.
After everyone had cleaned up and put on their blue dress uniforms, we gathered in the big square in front of our barracks for the ceremony. Zschech began by calling the names of several men. They lined up in front of our ranks and were awarded the Iron Cross. Selfish aristocratic bastard that he was, Zschech refused to award enlisted men anything higher than the Iron Cross, Second Class. He had been awarded the Iron Cross, First Class, for being Jochen Mohr’s Exec, and he hated seeing any enlisted man with a medal as high as his.
During our first war patrol to the Caribbean, Kapitänleutnant Löwe had recommended several other men, including me, be awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class. Zschech ignored Löwe’s recommendations when he became our Skipper, and we never got our medals. From then on, Iron Crosses were primarily reserved for Zschech’s favorites in the crew. We really didn’t care; the respect of our fellow crewmen meant a lot more to us than another ribbon on the chest.
Anyway, after the Iron Crosses were handed out, a larger number, myself included, were called-up to receive the coveted U-Bootkampfabzeichen (Submarine Combat Badge). This handsome golden badge signified extended combat experience in our submarine service. Accompanying the medal was the highly-prized Urkunde award document, graced by Dönitz’s signature. We submariners were much prouder of the U-boat badge than the Iron Cross. Later in the war, they were handing out Iron Crosses to everyone, but the golden U-Bootkampfabzeichen remained until the very end a badge of elite status and unquestionable bravery. (NOTE: The boys who kept their medals and documents with th
em during our war patrols ended up having them snatched by the souvenir-hungry American sailors who captured us a year and a half later. Luckily for me, I sent my original badge and Urkunde back to my parents for safekeeping. Even during the years of the Allied Occupation, while I was incarcerated as a prisoner of war, my parents kept all my war mementos safely hidden in their home. I still have both my U-boat badge and the award document, and today they are among my most prized possessions.)
But wouldn’t you know it, even this proud moment was almost ruined by the contemptible actions of Zschech’s second-in-command. Not two minutes after he had received his submarine badge, an Electric Engine Mate was called forward by the Exec and berated for his appearance.
“You look like a vagabond!” Bode shouted. “You don’t deserve to be on a submarine. I should tear that badge off your chest!”
Luckily, this veteran sailor—who knew more about our boat’s electrical system than anyone else in the crew—just stood there at attention, not saying a word nor moving an eyelash. Bode grew tired of trying to goad him into reacting, and allowed him to rejoin the rest of us. We couldn’t believe how the Exec had violated the solemnity of the occasion by this senseless outburst. Our feelings of pride were swept away and replaced with the rancid taste of disgust and hatred for him. From then on, everyone in the crew made a point of giving the Exec the cold shoulder.
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 13