Today, there are lots of people who read books and look at pictures, and call themselves experts about what life was like aboard the U-boats. But no one knows what it was really like except those who were there. The purpose of this book is to set the record straight, at least for the small bit of the war I witnessed. And I tell you now, sincerely and without reservation, the crew of U-505 never failed to live up to the high standards set for our service by Admiral Dönitz.
On August 1, 1943, we once again departed Lorient harbor for the bountiful hunting grounds of the Western Atlantic. This time we left in the company of U-68, U-523, and U-123. I joined the majority of the crew, kneeling on the upper deck with a life preserver around my neck as a precaution against injury from mines. The religious symbolism of departing the harbor on bended knee was not lost on us.
The Bay of Biscay gave us an unfriendly welcome. Rough green waves crashed over our bow and soaked the bridge watch. By dawn, we had managed to punch our way through heavy swells to Punkt Kern and were ready to make our final test dive before heading west. We still had not had an opportunity to make a dive deeper than 40 meters since the general repairs on our pressure hull, including during our previous, abbreviated patrol. Although these dives were a part of the routine ritual before leaving for patrol, this one made us nervous.
In light of our untested pressure hull, the descent was made a bit slower than usual. We sank to 40 meters with no problem. Then, with every additional meter of depth, we watched and listened with greater intensity.
At 50 meters, we heard a loud metallic crack, followed by a succession of more cracking sounds. We held at that depth for a few minutes to check for damage, but none could be found. It was decided that, one way or another, we would have to discover the source of the sounds and determine whether it was some harmless settling of the plates or something more serious. We resumed our descent.
At 60 meters, we heard a distinct hissing sound that got progressively louder the deeper we sank. Then suddenly, a loud gurgling noise, apparently coming from outside the pressure hull. We stayed at that depth for more than an hour checking every conceivable problem. Nothing could be found.
We surfaced and inspected the upper deck and the pressurized tubes containing the spare torpedoes, but found nothing. We dove again. At 60 meters an enormous bang was heard, emanating astern of the control room on the starboard side. A whispered conference between the Engineering Officer and Zschech resulted in the order to abort the patrol and return to base. U-523, which was to accompany us on the patrol, was notified of our situation. By midnight, we were back in Skorff Bunker.
The shipyard engineers could find no obvious evidence of leaking in our boat. Nevertheless, they decided to keep us in port for a week while the FuG Naxos device, an improvement on our Metox search radar detection gear, was installed on board.
It was aggravating to watch the slow progress of the Naxos installation, but what really galled us was the skepticism that greeted our reports of the diving noises—as if we had merely imagined such things!
Vindication was sweet when the shipyard engineers sheepishly reported that they had indeed found evidence of sabotage: hollow sweat seams in the newly repaired areas of the pressure hull. Instead of solidly welded seams, they found that strips of oakum (a sort of oil-soaked rope used for caulking) had been placed in between the plate joints. The oakum was then covered with a thin cover of solder to hide the sabotage. With the joints in our pressure hull thus weakened, a deep dive would have meant instant death. Over the next two weeks, the damage was repaired. Every inch of every welding seam was given a minute inspection before we were given the go-ahead for another patrol.
Just after sunset on August 14, we once again cast off the lines from the pier and made our way out of Lorient harbor. This time, U-68 would be our hunting partner.
At the 200-meter line offshore, we started our test dive. When our boat successfully reached 50 meters of depth without incident, we became optimistic that all our technical troubles were behind us. Our hopes were dashed when, at 60 meters, another thunderous crashing noise was heard, followed by the now familiar gurgling. The air intake foot valve began vibrating madly as the gurgling sound became much louder.
Zschech turned beet red in the face, then ghostly white. Pressing his lips together tightly, he motioned for the Engineering Officer to join him in his cabin. A few moments later, the Engineering Officer returned to the control room, grim faced and silent.
Zschech emerged from his cabin and angrily shouted the order to surface. Once again, we would be heading back to port. Everyone in the crew was livid with frustration. Once on the surface, we discovered that the air intake duct was crushed flat and torn. We received an FT from our partner U-68, reporting that she was also experiencing serious technical problems.
With word that U-68, too, was crippled with mechanical failures, our anger reached white-hot intensity. How could anyone expect us to win the war when our best weapons were suffering from a deliberate and pervasive program of sabotage by shipyard personnel?
We turned back towards Lorient, running on the surface in order to make it back as quickly as possible. Just before sundown, a twin-engined aircraft swooped at very low level toward us. The boys manning the antiaircraft guns, with the memory of Sillcock still fresh in their minds, didn’t hesitate to fire. Luckily, they recognized it as a German aircraft before it was hit.
By the time we arrived back in Lorient that evening, the mood of the crew was one of seething rage against the saboteurs. Quite a few of our boats had gone down with all hands without apparent reason, and sabotage was becoming the most likely explanation. It was bad enough to face a powerful and sophisticated enemy on the high seas; now we had to worry about enemies in port, too!
Some writers have suggested we crewmen believed we were being haunted by Sillcock’s ghost, or Löwe’s sailing ship, or even the flowers. Again, these speculations are without basis. True, sailors are generally a superstitious lot, but in the end one is forced to be realist—a romantic dreamer or a superstitious fool wouldn’t last long at sea, especially during wartime. No, we had no doubt as to the source of these particular troubles.
Another untruth writers have spread about U-505’s crew during this period is that we were the objects of laughter and ridicule by other boats’ crews. This is also false. Almost every boat in the Flotilla was experiencing sabotage of some sort or another; no one blamed us for these technical failures. There was always an undercurrent of good natured competition between crews, but I never heard anyone ever question our bravery or ridicule us.
It was during this stay in port, on August 16 to be exact, that Zschech’s good friend the Executive Officer was transferred to another boat to take over as skipper. Bode’s attitude toward us crewmen had changed quite a bit during the last several weeks. During his farewell ceremony, he took the unusual step of walking down the ranks of our formation, saluting each man as he passed. In his parting speech, he said, “I’ve learned a lot since I joined you. Now that I’m leaving, I wish all of you success and a happy return from all of your patrols. I wish for myself a crew on my future boat with your spirit and pluck!”
We were gratified Bode had matured as an officer and as a man during his tenure as our Exec. Happily, he became one of the few U-boat skippers to survive the Battle of the Atlantic. Today, he lives a quiet, prosperous life in Germany.
The next day, Second Watch Officer Oberleutnant Paul Meyer was promoted to Executive Officer. The Flotilla Staff had originally ordered him to attend Commanding Officers School, but he appealed the decision to the Flotilla Personnel Office, preferring instead to stay aboard our boat. This is in itself strong evidence that we were a first-rate crew. Meyer said he wanted to stay with a crew with such guts and cohesion that they had gotten the most heavily damaged U-boat in the war safely back to base from across the Atlantic. He was immensely well liked by the crew, and we were ecstatic that he was now our Exec. We felt that if we could just get U-505 in
shape, we would really cause some damage to the enemy. Today, with the advantage of hindsight, the replacement of our skipper’s buddy with this popular officer probably left Zschech more emotionally isolated than ever.
That same evening I had my closest encounter ever with espionage. In some ways, it was the most frightening experience in my life.
I had gone with a comrade of mine to Hennebont, a small town located about six kilometers away from our barracks. At the end of Pont Skorff was a small restaurant renowned for its Pommes de Terre (fried potatoes). They usually added small bits of meat that they claimed was rabbit, but which were widely regarded as cat by us sailors. In any event, I thought the dish was very tasty, especially when washed down with a few glasses of strong red wine.
My friend had a bit of luck with another kind of tasty dish, so to speak, and left with a French girl. I decided to linger a bit longer and have some more wine. As soon as I was alone, however, a guy sitting with several other men at a nearby table began talking very loudly, obviously for my benefit. He was staring straight at me as he spoke, commenting to his friends that the hatchet emblem on my cap denoted that I was from U-505. I was sure I recognized him as one of the dockworkers who had attended to our boat.
“Well, U-505 is back again. She didn’t make it out!” he said in German, in case I could not understand. “We’ll make sure that they don’t get very far in the future, too!”
Everyone in the small room turned around to see my reaction to this obvious provocation. As for me, that was all the hint I needed to conclude that this fellow was one of the bastards who had been sabotaging our boat. All of the frustration and anger that had been building in my gut for the past few months exploded into an uncontrollable rage. I stormed over to his table and slapped him hard across the face, the traditional challenge to a fight. His rat-like eyes stared at me, filled with fear and hate, but he made no move to answer my challenge. I was disgusted by the cowardice of this back-stabbing saboteur. After a moment of hesitation, I grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and hauled him outside. Not one of his companions lifted a finger to stop me. As soon as we were out of sight in the rear of the restaurant, I began to hit him.
I don’t remember much of the actual beating I gave him. I only remember suddenly being surrounded by German Army police, being arrested, and being brought to the engineer barracks for questioning. The captain on duty told me I could have killed the man and that they had arrested me for my own safety, lest I get lynched by the French civilians. As far as the dockyard worker was concerned, he had refused medical attention and vanished. After three hours of detention, they returned my Soldbuch identity papers and released me.
When I arrived at the main gate of Lager Lemp, I was told to go immediately to the officers quarters and report to Zschech. Up I went, knocking three times on his door. Someone inside yelled, “Come in!”
As prescribed by regulations, I opened the door, took three long steps inside, took my cap in my left hand and saluted with my right. “Maschinengefreiter Göbeler reporting as ordered, Sir!”
“As if we didn’t have enough trouble already! Now this new mess. Well, what happened? Why did you get arrested?”
I explained what I had heard and what I had done. Zschech asked where this so-called saboteur was, and I told him the Wehrmacht police had allowed him to go free.
“O.K.,” he said, calming down some. “But I have to do something, perhaps even court martial you. But I’ll give you one chance. You have exactly 48 hours to get that bastard into custody, and I don’t care how you do it. You’re excused from duty for the next couple of days. Now get out of here!”
I saluted and quickly left the room, eager not to waste a single minute of my 48 hours. I heard Zschech shout, “You’d better find him!” through the closed door as I ran down the hall.
When I arrived back at the barracks, I found that everyone was already aware of my plight. Everyone had a different suggestion regarding how to find the saboteur, but since I was the only one who could identify the guy, I knew this was something I had to do on my own.
Early the next morning, I accompanied the crew to the bunkers, but did not board the boat. Instead, I walked to the section of the shipyard where I thought the saboteur might work and stood next to the punch clock. I had a good chance to look over everyone in line, one by one, as they punched-in for work. After a while, everyone began looking the same. I was beginning to doubt whether I could recognize my nemesis, even if I saw him face to face.
Five minutes later, the night shift began lining up to punch-out. I quickly realized that I could never find the man this way, so I went to the personnel office to look through the files. The personnel clerks were very suspicious of me, but after some vigorous argument, they finally allowed me to search through the photograph file of employees. I pored over the files for hours. After a while the photos, too, began to all look the same. This was worse than standing next to the punch clock.
I was getting desperate. Although my memory of the saboteur was getting fuzzier, the one image that was becoming clearer in my head was one of me in my dress blue uniform, standing in front of my court martial committee. But what else could I do?
That evening and the next morning, I loitered around our boat to see if the culprit would show up for work at the docks. Again, no luck. I only had a few hours left, and I was going crazy with desperation.
In what I felt was surely a futile, last-ditch attempt to find him, I decided to go back to Hennebont, the site of the original incident. A Wehrmacht soldier on a motorbike saw me walking along the side of the road and gave me a lift. I spent the entire afternoon walking up and down the streets of that little town, like a condemned man pacing in his jail cell, waiting for the hour of his execution.
Literally minutes before I was going to return to my barracks to turn myself in to the authorities, I saw a group of men and young French girls walking toward me. They were laughing and singing together in French, but I could tell from their accents that the men were not French. Most of the men wore civilian dress, but a few were in the uniform of the Organization Todt labor force. As they passed me, I couldn’t believe my eyes: the man in the center of the group, the jolliest of the lot, was the saboteur! A few black and blue marks on his face confirmed he was the one.
I quickly explained my situation to a couple of German Army soldiers who were standing nearby and asked them to give me a hand in case there was any trouble from the man’s friends.
Broad grins spread across their faces. “Sure, go ahead! We’re in the right mood to fight a bit.”
With the Army soldiers watching from a short distance away, I crept up behind the group. I grabbed the bastard’s arm with my right hand and twisted it behind his back. He struggled to get free, but by jerking his arm high up his back, I soon convinced him to stop resisting.
My comrades from the Army were there in the blink of an eye, telling the rest of the group to just keep on walking and singing or else there would be trouble. Once again, the man’s friends didn’t lift a hand to help him.
I walked the saboteur, locked tightly in the arm hold, all the way back to the barracks. Every time I sensed he was tempted to try something, a quick jerk on his arm reminded him who was in control. I walked straight through the gate of the barracks towards the military police office, shouting to the guard to get the Officer of the Watch as I walked by. Less than five minutes later, the saboteur was behind bars.
An officer interviewed me and wrote a lengthy report. Then a Staff Sergeant with a motorbike drove me back to Lager Lemp. When I reported my success to Zschech, he seemed very relieved.
“You did a good job, Göbeler. Tomorrow, you will have another day off.” He even smiled and slapped me on the back. It was one of the few times I ever heard him say something kind to anyone. I got out of there quickly, before his mood changed.
Later, I learned the saboteur was pardoned because he had five children and had received a good recommendation from his superviso
r. To be on the safe side, however, he was prohibited from working on U-boats. I was quite angry he got off with such light punishment, but at least I had avoided a court martial, not to mention having enjoyed the satisfaction of teaching him a personal lesson with my fists.
In the meantime, the sabotage on our boat was repaired. The engineers also discovered the source of the cracking and gurgling sounds: the casing on one of the pressure-proof storage tubes for the spare torpedoes had failed. They also mounted a new air intake and connecting piece to replace the damaged ones. For the next four days, everything on board the boat was given a scrupulous inspection. On August 20, everything was declared in order. Surely, we thought, we would be able to sail this time with no problems.
On the evening of August 21, 1943, we once again cast off lines and rumbled out of the bunker towards the harbor mouth. By 0547 hours, we were in position at Punkt Liebe, ready for our test dive.
We passed the test dive with flying colors; there was no trace of unusual noises at all. We were ecstatic! Nothing but smiles and back slaps for the crew of a boat which had finally shaken the off the saboteurs’ cold, cowardly grip!
We rose to periscope depth so Zschech could take a look around before the sun rose. In the control room, passing the test dive had put us in an almost giddy mood. Soon we would hear the marvelous sound of the Jumbos roar with life and smell the fresh aroma of the sea. We were tired of being land-locked mechanics and longed to be submarine warriors once again.
Suddenly, from the direction of the conning tower hatch, we heard Zschech’s unmistakable voice begin to curse. His voice had the hissing sound that we had long ago learned to associate with deep trouble. Sure enough, trailing behind our boat was another broad wedge of shimmering, multi-colored water: we were leaking oil again!
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 18