Steel Boat, Iron Hearts

by Hans Goebeler

  In general, they were grateful beyond measure for their rescue, but their relief was tempered by a gnawing concern about the fate of their missing crewmates. We tried to assure them the Irish merchantman had probably picked up their comrades, but nothing could console them. These jumbles of mixed feelings, of joy and sadness, guilt and relief, were quite common in those days as more and more of our comrades were lost to enemy action. Only God in Heaven knows why some of us survived, while so many other good men went to their deaths. Who are we to question His wisdom?

  Just before dawn, we tried to surface and recharge the batteries. An aircraft alarm quickly put a premature end to that endeavor. We didn’t dare try again until after sunset. Because of the large number of extra personnel on board, the carbon dioxide level inside the boat reached dangerous levels by the time we were finally able to surface. Dumping overboard the buckets of human waste was also long overdue. That first gust of clean air that spilled into the boat with the opening of the top hatch smelled sweeter than roses to us. As usual, Lange was up on the bridge in the blink of an eye, chain-smoking one Jan Maat cigarette after another.

  That evening, we received an FT from the Chief of U-boat Western Command. We were ordered to bring our passengers to a position code-named Eisbär (Polar Bear). We knew this meant we were being directed to the U-boat base in Brest harbor, rather than our home port of Lorient. We were excited about the prospect of having a few days of liberty in a new city. We knew that with the First and Ninth U-Boat Flotillas stationed in Brest, we could find everything we wanted.

  New Years Eve this year was not an especially festive one for us. We had to put extra toilet pails between the diesels because so many of the crewmen from T-25 were suffering from acute diarrhea. There were usually two or three of them standing around each pail, urging the poor soul “on the throne” to hurry up. Many of them were also developing agonizing catarrhs, inflammations, and cysts. There was nothing we could do for them since our store of medicines was never intended to serve so many men suffering from such prolonged and severe exposure to the cold.

  Although we never complained to them about it, our guests were making even the most routine of operations on the boat very difficult. We knew it would be absolutely impossible to conduct a quick crash dive in the usual manner with so many men crowded about.

  Since we would have been sitting ducks on the surface for any attacking aircraft, Lange made the decision to run submerged as much as possible. Typically, after eight or nine hours in the basement, we would rise to periscope depth, take a quick look around, and then pop up to the surface. While the men on watch clamored up the ladder to the bridge, the diesel crew would fire up the big Jumbos. That’s when we would feel the delicious, ice cold sea breeze being sucked into the boat, replacing the stale, fetid stenches that had accumulated during the previous hours. The inrush of oxygen had an immediate regenerating effect on our bodies and minds. Broad smiles always creased across the faces of our guests as soon as they smelled the fresh sea air.

  We were busy as bees during those brief periods on the surface, emptying the buckets, pumping out the bilges, shooting a “fix” with the sextant, etc. And, of course, there was the Old Man, the inevitable cigarette dangling from his lips, silently overseeing it all like a gargoyle perched on the bridge.

  That evening we finally had to confront what we feared the most: an emergency crash dive to avoid an enemy aircraft. There was nothing else to do but elbow our guests out of the way as we grabbed for the various valves and levers needed to submerge. They didn’t mind the violent shoving as much as the steep angle of the boat as we dove. They weren’t used to such excitement, and their heavy breathing used up our oxygen much faster than usual. Luckily, the plane didn’t attack us and everything turned out O.K.

  We spent the last few hours of 1943 serenely cruising 60 meters beneath the surface, trading war stories and tall tales with our guests. They couldn’t understand why we enjoyed serving on a vessel that sank several times a day. We couldn’t understand why they enjoyed serving on a boat that couldn’t dive to escape the enemy. The teasing was all good-natured and a close bond developed between our two crews. We laughed and spun yarns until, before we knew it, it was midnight. Lange’s deep, resonate voice crackled over the intercom, wishing us a happy New Year. His wish that we all survived to celebrate another New Year in 1945 was met with somber assent.

  We surfaced on the first morning of 1944 to find mirror-smooth seas stretching before us. Our course was east toward the big orange rising sun. The diesels were pounding away at high speed, causing our prow to cut a high, clean bow wave. The view from the bridge was gorgeous.

  All of the T-25 crewmen, even the ones who had suffered the worst hypothermia, were up and about. With the fine weather and the full recovery of our guests, spirits were especially high. They had told us where to go in Brest for the best drinks and the prettiest girls, so our minds were filled with anticipation for the charms awaiting us. Everyone was eager to relax and have some fun before getting back in the war.

  We reluctantly dove back down to 60 meters to avoid any unpleasant surprises during this last leg of our mission. Around noon, we surfaced for a few minutes in order to get a fix on our position with the sextant. Navigator Reinig calculated we were 30 nautical miles off course. The Old Man, always eager to exercise his seamanship skills, double-checked Reinig’s computations. Sure enough, we had drifted significantly off course. As we soon learned, our direction finder device had malfunctioned. Equipment failures on our boat were becoming so common that they barely raised an eyebrow any more. Luckily, we were only 12 hours away from Brest, so no serious problems were anticipated with finding our way to port.

  We radioed Brest, informing them of our position and the equipment failure. They radioed back detailed navigation instructions. We would be using a complex system of beacon fires and searchlights to visually find our way to the harbor. First U-boat Flotilla would be doing everything they could to ensure our safe return.

  We sped away from the area submerged in case the enemy had triangulated our position by monitoring our broadcast. In the small hours of the morning, we surfaced in Sea Square BF5464 to begin our final sprint to base. We all crossed our fingers in the hope we could reach our rendezvous point with the escorts while still under cover of darkness. The diesels, running at maximum speed, left a giant wedge of white foam in our wake. The sea was still calm as a duck pond.

  We met our escort a little after dawn. We followed them along the rocky coast towards the entrance of the harbor, all the while keeping an intense lookout for any airborne intruders.

  When we arrived in Brest’s outer harbor, our sub was met by a barge filled to overflowing with war correspondents. Included among them was a film crew who wanted to take motion pictures of the T-25 survivors crowded in our boat’s interior. The big barge heaved to and the film crew came aboard, carrying with them a large array of photographic equipment.

  They were getting some fine footage of the sardine can conditions inside our boat when suddenly, a blinding lightning-like flash erupted from the electric motor room. A huge blue-white bolt of electricity was arcing out from the starboard motor. A great cloud of white smoke, then evil-smelling black smoke, billowed from the motor. Moments later, flames began licking up from the motor housing.

  This dramatic electrical display caused an immediate panic among the war correspondents, who stampeded like a herd of frightened cattle toward the control room. The T-25 survivors joined them when the choking cloud of smoke began to make its way through the boat. We crewmen knew immediately what had happened because it had happened before: it was another short in our electrical control panel. The boys in the motor room used the CO fire extinguishers to good effect, and within a few minutes the fire was out. The Diesel Chief switched the Jumbos to internal air intake. Before long, the big nine-cylinder engines had inhaled all of the smoke. It took a while before our stoic attitudes had any effect on our guests, though. The lingering
odor of burned rubber, and our guests’ nervousness, persisted for some time.

  U-505 motors into Brest, France, the 5th T-Flotilla’s home port on January 2, 1944, a cold and overcast day. Gathered on deck are the lucky survivors from the sunken destroyer T-25. The warship was sunk in the Bay of Biscay five days earlier after a battle with enemy surface ships and aircraft. NA

  Privately, we just had to shake our heads. It just wouldn’t have been U-505 if something like this had not happened. The whole hair-raising episode would have been funny, except we knew the burned-out control panel would probably keep us stranded in Brest for a couple of extra weeks for repairs.

  A little later, a couple of small steam-engined tugs met us and guided our boat through the harbor toward the submarine bunker complex. Around noon we finally entered Brest’s inner harbor. Our escort vessels veered off to their moorings while we continued on to the big U-boat pens. The massive concrete bunkers were just as large and imposing as the ones back in Lorient. Sailors crowded every inch of U-505’s upper deck as we inched up to the pier in front of Bunker C-1.

  We were happy to see a large reception waiting for us at the pier. The commanders of both the First U-boat Flotilla and Brest’s Torpedo Boat Flotilla were there. An unusually large collection of sailors, soldiers, and staff officers were also in attendance. For the first time in a long time, there was a Navy band to add a bit of old-fashioned pomp to the festivities. It seemed like an eternity since we had enjoyed a reception like this.

  As we made our final approach into the slip for Bunker C-1, a cluster of crewmen from T-25, a little too eager to disembark, simultaneously rushed to climb the ladder from the control room to the bridge. In his excitement, one of the sailors slipped off and landed on the helmsman’s rudder control. Our boat immediately swerved starboard, crushing the diving plane fin against the pier. The only thing we felt inside the boat was a momentary shudder and shake, but instinctively we knew the damage was serious. Twelve hundred tons of mass, even when moving slowly, would do terrible damage to a fragile piece like a diving fin.

  Later that afternoon, U-505 was lifted up on rails into dry dock for a close inspection. There, it was discovered that our boat’s diving plane shaft had been bent, necessitating at least two weeks for repair. It took two full days of backbreaking labor just to extract the shaft from its housing. Once out, a committee of shipyard engineers decided the shaft was beyond repair and had to be replaced. Unfortunately, there were no spare shafts to be found either in Brest or Lorient. Until another one could be found, U-505 was stuck in port.

  Lange swore like a Turk when he heard the news.

  A few days later, word came through to our skipper that a spare shaft had been located in Bordeaux, the southernmost of our U-boat sally ports on the Atlantic. Within a few minutes of hearing that news, I was ordered to report to the Old Man’s quarters.

  “Göbeler, I understand you have a driver’s license. Have you ever driven a truck?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant.”

  “Good! Sign out a pistol from the arsenal this afternoon. Tomorrow morning you will report to the car pool, drive to Bordeaux, and ‘organize’ a shaft for our diving plane.”

  Apparently, my reputation for “organizing” supplies had reached our skipper’s ears. I was quite annoyed that my leisure time in Brest would be interrupted by this mission. But orders were orders, so I hurried to the arsenal.

  As I presented Lange’s authorization for a pistol to the arms room duty officer, I found that I was strangely excited by the prospect of carrying a sidearm on this special mission. Would it be a handsome Luger? Perhaps one of the sleek Walther pistols?

  Imagine my shock when the duty officer handed me an enormous, ancient-looking French revolver! The ridiculous antique was well over one foot long and heavy as a small cannon. When I stuck it into my belt, the barrel literally reached down to my knee. The duty officer refused to listen to my pleadings for a replacement weapon and brusquely sent me on my way. I knew I was going to get teased by my crewmates when I arrived back at the barracks. They didn’t disappoint me.

  “Hey, look! There’s Buffalo Bill!”

  “Yeah, he’s going to kill two buffaloes with one shot from that big gun!”

  I got angry at all the laughter and, in disgust, tossed the pistol onto my bunk. Unfortunately, my buddy Willi, who was already quite intoxicated at this hour of the day, picked it up and began waving it around, pretending to be an American cowboy. I was responsible for the weapon, so I tried to wrestle it away from him. Well, the inevitable happened. Willi’s finger was on the trigger and before we knew it, the old pistol let loose with a tremendous BANG! No one was hurt, but the bullet went clean through the wall into the bathroom next door, taking a big chip out of a toilet bowl.

  We knew we had to act quickly if we were to stay out of the brig. There was an artillery mechanic who was bunking in the same room with us who, through an incredible bit of luck, had a spare bullet that more- or- less fit in the old revolver’s cylinder. We replaced the fired cartridge with the new one while others concealed the hole in the wall with a pillow. Someone else blew through the gun barrel to clear the smoke and then gave the pistol a quick wipe with a rag.

  Just then, the Raccoon, our Engineering Officer, burst into the room and demanded an explanation for the gunshot noise. He was clearly not convinced by our protestations of innocence, nor even by the pistol’s apparently unfired condition.

  “If you didn’t do it, then who fired the shot?” he demanded.

  “There he is!” shouted one of my mates, pointing out the window toward a sailor running across the barracks square.

  The Engineering Officer gave a quick glance at the obviously innocent sailor rushing across the square and then turned back to us, annoyance and frustration painted all over his face. He stood there glowering at us for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he just shook his head and left the room without another word. Willi, sobered by our close brush with a court-martial, spent the rest of the evening “organizing” materials to repair the wall and toilet.

  Determined not to get into any further trouble, I was up before dawn and standing in the motor pool by 0600, waiting for them to open. Strapped to my side was “the flak gun,” my nickname for the old revolver. I was assigned two drivers for the trip. Together, we loaded several spare gas cans into the back of the truck.

  Before we left, we received some quick instructions on what to do in case we encountered any Partisans. There had been several recent ambushes and acts of sabotage by the Resistance along our route, and we were sternly warned not to travel at night. My two companions were also armed, though with more respectable weapons than my embarrassing antique.

  Within an hour, we were roaring down the road towards Bordeaux. During daylight hours we drove in shifts, trading places every 150 kilometers. We stopped and spent the night in a small naval anti-aircraft base, but were back on the road by sunrise.

  Later that morning, we were passing through a small forest near La Rochelle when some men in civilian clothes suddenly appeared and opened fire on us with rifles. They were obviously in desperate need of some target practice because none of their shots even touched the truck. Nevertheless, we pushed that truck’s gas pedal to the floor to get past them as quickly as we could. I must admit, though, we were also trying to get to Bordeaux as early as possible so that we could have some free time out on the town.

  We immediately checked into the U-boat base upon our arrival in Bordeaux. The diameter of the diving plane shaft, the authorities told us, was a few hundredths of an inch too thick and would need to be machined down on a giant lathe.

  “We are sorry,” they said, “but you’ll have to wait here in Bordeaux for two or three days until the job is completed.”

  That’s all we needed to hear! We were out the gate and on our way to the entertainment district before they had a chance to change their minds.

  Once in town, I decided to have a bite to eat in a litt
le tavern. My naval uniform attracted quite a bit of attention from the other customers. I thought they were just admiring my U-boat badge, as usual. Little did I know the attention being showered upon me was because the establishment was off-limits to German personnel!

  Well, I was just sitting there, innocently enjoying a little seafood, when a very attractive woman sat down at my table and struck up a conversation. She insisted on buying me several drinks, and since she was covered in expensive pieces of jewelry, I let her pay without protest. After a few hours of drinking, she invited me to visit her at her house later in the evening. I was happy to accept, especially after she offered to have dinner ready for me, too.

  I showed up at the address she had given me at the appointed hour. When she answered the door, she placed a finger to her lips, signaling me to be quiet as I entered the house. As we crept through the parlor, I could see an enormously obese old man sleeping in a chair, his rolls of fat literally dripping over the arms of the chair. I assumed he was the woman’s father.

  She led me to a bedroom on the third floor. Inside there was a tray covered with bottles of champagne and various delicacies to eat. She told me to make myself comfortable and to start on the food and drink without her. She would be up to join me in an hour or so. I didn’t need much encouragement to open a bottle and start to sample the expensive hors d’oeuvres. There was cheese, biscuits, jam, canned sardines, olives, roasted meat, and dried fruit. It was magnificent.

  After an hour or so of eating and drinking, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to take a peek outside the room. To my shock, I found that the door had been locked. Panic gripped my heart. Was this a trap set for me by the French Resistance? I pulled the old pistol out and rechecked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. Just then, I heard a key being inserted into the door lock. I lowered the barrel of the pistol toward the door.