Steel Boat, Iron Hearts

by Hans Goebeler

  It was as if someone had poured ice-cold water on our good spirits. For several moments we were in shock, then the anger took over. How could this happen again? Kapitänleutnant Henke, commander of the boat accompanying us on our voyage, was notified of our condition. The two skippers agreed the mission should be aborted, and both boats turned back for Lorient.

  Never had I seen a crew returning to port in such miserable spirits. There was none of the usual happy chatter while the lines were secured to the dock. Instead, we assembled on the upper deck for instructions, picked up our sea bags, and trudged aboard buses for Lager Lemp, all without a single word being spoken.

  After dropping off our possessions in the barracks, we proceeded en masse to the canteen for some drinks. We wanted to get drunk and we didn’t waste any time. After several hours, we had more than achieved our goal. But it was an angry, bitter drunk instead of the usual jovial mood. Around midnight, the manager ordered us to leave the premises, but we refused until he agreed to sell us a few more bottles of rum.

  We staggered our way up to the barracks, complaining about our rotten luck the whole way. When we opened the door, there was Executive Officer Meyer, standing there waiting for us. “Oh shit,” we thought, “we are in trouble now.”

  We braced ourselves for a good yelling from him, but instead, we quickly discovered that he was drunk, too. Indeed, he even brought some liqueur with him to share with us. This man Paul Meyer is our kind of Exec, we proclaimed, and settled down for some serious drinking. The bacchanal lasted ‘till dawn.

  Zschech must have somehow heard about our behavior, because the next day he ordered the entire crew to scrape paint and clean the bilge. I didn’t mind going down into the dark, cool bilge to recover from the previous night’s activities. The fact is, a bilge looks the same whether its been cleaned or not. So, as we had so often done before, we found a cozy little spot amongst the pipes and valves, laid down some rags for comfort, and took a nap for a few hours. The only important thing to remember was to remove all the rags when one was done resting in order to prevent any chance of them plugging a valve. As usual, some of the men periodically clanged on the pipes to give the impression of industriousness. Our nap was especially delicious because, supposedly, we were being punished at the time.

  The shipyard engineers once again tried to blame our oil leak on faulty seals. It took three weeks to change them out. Once that job was completed, they tested the tanks to see if they leaked. To their apparent surprise, the test indicated that the seals were not the problem: our boat was still leaking diesel oil. A closer inspection revealed someone had drilled a small pencil-sized hole in one of the fuel bunkers. The hole was too small to notice, but large enough to let out a tell-tale oil slick once we sailed. The shipyard officials sheepishly admitted they were wrong and repaired the sabotage. They also installed yet another newly-developed radar detection apparatus, which was nicknamed the “Wanze” (bedbug).

  On September 18, just after sundown, we slipped out of the bunker for another stab at the enemy. This time, we all, officers and men alike, decided that we were going to go into action against the enemy, no matter what technical difficulties arose. We even “knocked on wood” as we boarded the boat to give us an additional boost of luck.

  We left Lorient in the company of U-103, U-155, U-228, and several escort craft. Our little flotilla bristled with a virtual forest of skyward pointing anti-aircraft guns. I found myself almost wishing the damned British bombers would try something with us.

  Passing the ancient Fort Louis at the edge of the harbor was our signal to start up the diesel engines. Our Jumbos roared to life and out into the bay we sped. Once again, we arrived at Punkt Liebe just before dawn for our test dive. The Engineering officer, wracked by anxiety, had the grimmest face imaginable as he listened to the diving tanks slowly filling with water. Our spirits were momentarily buoyed by a quiet and successful test dive, but then the engine room gloomily reported that the starboard diesel exhaust valve was loose and leaking water. Within 30 minutes, the diesel room bilge had taken on more than one ton of water.

  Faulty exhaust valves would surely abort our patrol. A chorus of groans erupted. Not again! But our clever Diesel Chief Otto Fricke suggested that if we surfaced and ran the diesels for a while, the heat might expand the metal and close the leak. We were willing to try anything rather than return to base again, so we carried out his suggestion. Sure enough, the leak slowed to a manageable rate. The valve still leaked in about three tons of water a day, but our bilge pump could handle that.

  We cruised underwater all day, surfacing under the cloak of darkness to charge our batteries and make some faster time with the diesels. The bridge watch was on the very highest of alerts during these periods on the surface. By now the Bay of Biscay had well-earned its nickname of Selbstmord Biskaya (“the Biscay Suicide Stretch”) because of the frequent and often deadly Allied attacks.

  The next night, our direction finder once again got stuck in the stowed position. At the same time, either our radio failed or the Tommies were jamming it in some new diabolical manner. A different failure in our electrical equipment made it impossible for us to clear the interference, so we could only receive messages on the very longest frequency end of the bands. Nevertheless, there was no talk of returning to base. We were determined to continue the mission.

  In the predawn hours of September 22, we were running at high speed on the surface when the machine telegraph signaled to us in the control room the order to dive. The Raccoon, our inexperienced Engineering Officer, immediately opened the bow diving tanks, but was too slow in opening the rear ones. The imbalance of weight caused our nose to dive violently into the water. Within seconds we were pointing downward at a 42-degree angle and plummeting toward the bottom at an extremely dangerous rate.

  My duty position on that day was manning the big knock valve control wheel, located just above the chart table. To the right of the wheel was the Navigator’s stopwatch, hanging on a big fishhook suspended by a chain. Usually the chain hung straight down, but at the extreme angle we were at, the watch had moved next to the edge of the wheel I was operating.

  All my attention was fixed on the depth meter because we had to blow the tanks at 35 meters or risk sinking for good. When we reached 38 meters, I shouted a warning to the Engineering Officer that we needed to blow the tanks. When he finally gave the order “Ausblassen!” I turned the wheel as fast as I could. Unfortunately, the stopwatch had moved next to my hand and before I knew it, the fishhook had pierced my left forefinger completely through the joint.

  My left hand was now hanging from the hook and chain like a bloody pink fish, useless to operate the wheel. But turning the wheel was vital to our survival. I had to stretch as far as I could to operate the valve with my right hand, causing intense pain as my left hand pulled at the hook.

  The valve was wide open, yet we continued to plunge downward because of our momentum. We sank like a stone to a depth of 100 meters before our descent finally slowed to a stop. A dozen men had to climb their way to the stern of the boat to help offset the imbalance in weight. Only after several minutes did we manage to get the boat on an even keel again.

  This was not the first time the Engineering Officer had done this. The previous occasion, our old Engineering Officer Fritz Förster cussed him out roundly. The only thing that diverted me from my pain was seeing that, this time, the Raccoon’s face was even more pale than mine.

  A few minutes later, two of my crewmates came up to me with broad grins on their faces. They carried a set of large tweezers and a first aid kit. “Now we’ll get you off the hook, Hans!” they laughed.

  Someone handed me a bottle of Schnapps as an anesthetic. “Have a drink—but not too much!”

  After a couple of good gulps, the mate with the tweezers gave a hard pull and the hook tore its way back out of my flesh.

  While recuperating in my bunk, I remembered the old folk saying, “After the child fell into the well, it got
covered up.” Heeding that bit of wisdom, I returned to the control room and filed the tip of the hook until it was blunt and round. No one would ever have an accident like that again if I could help it. My finger hurt for quite some time after that, but at least I was alive to complain about it.

  Chapter 11

  Goodbye to Zschech

  The sea became very rough as we entered the center of the Bay of Biscay. The entire boat shook as we smashed our way through the rolling crests and troughs. Waves were so high, sometimes more than 10 meters in height, that they crashed over the top of the bridge, flooding the control room deck with brine. Indeed, our intake of water was so severe the trim pump was kept constantly running in order to prevent the boat from becoming too heavy. None of us minded the bobsled ride, though. The cool stiff breeze that ran through the boat to the diesels was a welcome change from the clammy staleness of prolonged underwater travel.

  We heard countless bomb and depth charge detonations as we made our way across the Bay. Zschech decided to change course in light of the heavy enemy activity and worsening weather. Just when we thought we had outrun the danger area, we had a catastrophic electrical failure. The starboard electric motor and the main pump failed after our newly installed Siemens electrical switchboard erupted in a smoky short circuit. Despite these critical equipment failures, we continued on our mission. Our reports to Flotilla Headquarters were purposely incomplete because if they knew the extent of our damage, they would have probably ordered us to turn about. By keeping our mouths shut, we were gambling we could somehow repair the equipment before we engaged in battle.

  We eventually managed to get the electric motor working again, but not the main pump. The main pump failure was especially worrisome as it was the only pump capable of removing water from the boat at depths deeper than 30 meters. The mechanics discovered the switchboard short had caused the pump to activate while the valves were closed. The resulting back pressure had damaged the pump—probably beyond our capacity to repair it at sea. Under normal conditions, this would have meant the premature end of yet another patrol because the main pump is one of the most fundamental pieces of equipment aboard a submarine. Because of our anxiousness to get at the enemy, however, we proceeded with our mission. Anything, maybe even death in battle, was preferable to once again limping back into Lorient without having fired a shot.

  We continued to cruise, primarily submerged, toward our destination. The mileage we traveled on the surface was approximately equal to the distance we traveled underwater. But since surface travel was so much faster, the vast bulk of our time was actually spent submerged. What a change from the early days of the war when we felt secure enough on the surface to sunbathe and dine on the upper deck! Underwater travel in those days was reserved almost exclusively for conducting attacks and quick escapes from danger. Now we were forced to spend most of our time underwater, something submarines in those days were never designed to do.

  These long underwater stretches were quite boring. As long as we weren’t surfacing and diving, only a handful of men were required to be on duty at any one time. The off-duty crew spent most of their time playing cards, throwing dice, gossiping, or sleeping. I spent much of my time reading my English books.

  On the bright side, we hardly saw Zschech anymore. He would go through long periods of silence, emerging pale and nervous-looking from his cabin only when duty absolutely required his presence. He even shunned the company of his fellow officers. When he gave one of his infrequent orders to us, his eyes scanned back and forth over our faces as if to ask, “Am I doing the right thing?”

  In addition to his loss of confidence, there were also unmistakable signs of deep depression. Many of his classmates from the Naval Academy were dead, including almost all of the members of his “Olympic Ring” boat symbol clique. Zschech seemed convinced his turn would come sooner rather than later. Also, nasty rumors concerning his bravery and competence were making their rounds back in Lorient, and he had undoubtedly gotten wind of them. Of course, when we heard someone spreading rumors about him back at base, we quickly shut them up. We might complain bitterly about our Skipper, but no one outside our crew had that right.

  Our feelings toward him gradually turned from hatred to pity, and I think he knew it. Who knows, that may have made it even worse. He obviously had high expectations for himself at one time, and we certainly thought (at least initially) he would bring our boat great success, but that was not how it turned out to be.

  We reserved our anger those days for the treacherous shipyard workers who were inventing ever more ingenious ways to kill us. While we faced the hazards of the sea and enemy guns, those malicious, murderous cowards sat fat and happy in the relative safety of Lorient. We decided that anyone not in our crew who came aboard our boat while in port was to be regarded as the enemy. In the meantime, we tried to get along without a fully capable skipper at the helm.

  In the early morning hours of September 28, Zschech finally threw in the towel and radioed Second U-boat Flotilla Headquarters that we were returning to base. All attempts to repair the main pump had failed, and without it we would be helpless in any deep-water situation. We were expecting some sort of morale-building speech from Zschech, but he was the one who looked like he needed a morale boost. It was as if all the spirit had drained out of him. Without his buddy Bode as Exec to keep him company, Zschech became a sort of reclusive ghost haunting our boat.

  With Zschech pretty much staying out of the way, our new Executive Officer, Paul Meyer, moved boldly to get us back to base as quickly as possible. Rather than continue to crawl along underwater at a snail’s pace, Meyer brought us to the surface for a sustained high-speed run. He reasoned that since the winter squalls were beginning to kick-up, we had a fair chance to race back to Lorient without detection. The Exec’s gamble worked. Heavy storms made for a rough ride, but we were able to make excellent time back across the Bay. Meyer surprised us with his boldness and keen judgment. We were very relieved when we realized we had such a competent Executive Officer filling the vacuum created by the skipper’s despondency.

  On the morning of September 30, we pulled into the safety of the bunkers. Zschech immediately disembarked to report to Ernst Kals, our new Flotilla Commander and holder of Knight’s Cross. The shame and anguish of once again having to return to base without having contacted the enemy was plain on his face as he disembarked.

  As far as our morale went, we were still in fairly good spirits, at least superficially. We still honestly believed in the final victory, but I don’t think there were many of us who thought we would still be alive to see it.

  The British bomber offensive against Lorient had intensified during our absence. Air activity over our submarine installations was especially heavy during the hours of darkness. Virtually every night we were awakened from our slumber by the screaming air raid sirens. We had only a minute or two to scamper to the slit trenches outside our barracks before the bomb splinters began flying in every direction.

  Once safely in the trenches, we would break out bottles of Calvados and get drunk while watching the drama taking place in the skies above us. It was great entertainment, almost like a sporting event. A direct hit on a bomber by our Flak artillery still brought wild hoots of joy. Our own Luftwaffe, however, was seldom seen any more. When the “all clear” sounded, we ambled back to the barracks, singing sailor songs. This ritual was repeated almost every night, and sometimes twice a night.

  Lorient itself was now a totally shattered, burned-out ruin. The only activity in town was a few forlorn residents sifting through the ashes of their former residences looking for belongings. There were a few cases of looting, but we Germans were under strict orders not to touch anything. Signs were posted everywhere with this warning: “Those who are caught robbing or stealing will be shot, without trial.” We knew the police weren’t bluffing.

  After a solid week of feverish repair work, our boat cleared Skorff Bunker on the afternoon of October 10. Once agai
n, we were bound for the Caribbean, this time in the company of U-129 and U-510. Gone were the elaborate departure ceremonies of previous voyages, though a small group of friends did manage to show up. In lieu of a military band, there was one lone guy sitting on the pier playing the harmonica. I can still remember the melody of the popular little ditty he played: something about an old white horse and how we are both happy when we ride downhill.

  The weather was rather chilly as we made our way across Lorient harbor. To escape the cold sea spray, most of the men clustered on the bridge and the Wintergarten weapons platform aft of the bridge. The large number of anti-aircraft guns in our mixed convoy was very reassuring to a group of men kneeling on a deck with nothing but the shirts on their backs to protect them from enemy guns.

  The boat was far more cramped than usual because the Kriegsmarine had decided to add ten additional men to the crew compliment of all Type IXc subs. Some of the extra men were technicians needed for the new electronic devices the subs were being equipped with. Most of them, however, were extra gunners for the flak guns. The new tactical doctrine for air defense dictated that we should shoot it out on the surface with attacking Allied aircraft rather than crash-diving to escape. Our antiaircraft gun crews, very vulnerable in their exposed gun mounts, were suffering heavy casualties as a result. Additional men were therefore assigned to each boat to replace the expected losses.

  Despite the crowded conditions and devastating losses, morale was good. We were determined to perform our duties as professionally as possible. This attitude was not based on some naive notion of glory or of our own invincibility. Indeed, quite the opposite. The watchword for this patrol was some advice Löwe had given us long ago: “Have no illusions!” We believed that only through expertise and clear-eyed realism could we maximize our chances of success and survival.