Instead of a band of armed guerillas, however, there was the woman, dressed in fancy red lingerie. The situation still smelled like trouble to me, but the sight of the lady’s ample charms soon made me forget all my qualms about the situation.
“Now,” she said smilingly, “you’ve eaten my food and drunk my wine. It’s time to repay your debt to me.”
Well, that was the kind of debt any sailor would be happy to repay. A little while later, she explained that the fat old man in the parlor was her husband. I didn’t have to worry, she said, I was perfectly safe up here on the third floor because he couldn’t climb the stairs. I told her I would be happy to continue our arrangement, but that I could only stay for 72 hours. She was more than agreeable, and she spent the next two days and nights serving me rich food and champagne, then making me repay the debt in the fancy canopy bed. Sometimes I heard the giggling of young girls outside the door during our love sessions. I guessed that everyone in the house knew what was going on, except for the foolish old man in the chair.
By the time I left that house, I felt like an orange that has had all the juice squeezed out of it. On the other hand, that mysterious woman had made every single one of my young sailor’s wishes come true. I will never forget those days and nights in Bordeaux, when I lived like a king without spending one single Reich Mark.
Around noon of the third day, I met my two comrades at the naval base workshop. We loaded the huge shaft and some other spare parts into the truck and headed back to Brest. As we left the base, we noticed some talcum powder the Resistance had sprinkled on the road in order to monitor traffic in and out of the gate. That worried us, so we decided to travel back to our base as quickly as possible. While one of us drove, the other two sat with our fingers on the triggers of our weapons, ready for anything.
The route back to Brest generally followed the coastline of the Bay of Biscay. At this time of year, road conditions were usually quite foggy. To make matters worse, the headlights on the truck had been painted black except for narrow blackout slits. Nevertheless, we made good progress. As night fell, we made the decision to violate orders and keep driving, despite the increased danger of ambush. We soon discovered that the Resistance had turned many of the road signs to the wrong direction. So, by the light of our cigarette lighter, we constantly checked our map to make sure we were traveling the right route.
Finally, very late that night, we came across the encampment of a Panzer unit where we could park in security. We slept like mummies for a few hours and then hit the road again at dawn. By that afternoon, we were safely back in Brest.
Lange was happy to see me report back safely with the shaft. My comrades in the barracks were also glad to see me. They were especially curious to hear all the details about the hospitality I been shown by that lovely, mysterious lady of Bordeaux. As for me, I was just relieved to get rid of “the flak gun” and return to the duties of an ordinary sailor.
The boatswain’s whistle blew at 0600 the next morning. With a shock, I realized that the sweet dream of Bordeaux was over and that I was back in a bunk instead of a canopy bed. Two hours later, we were lined up in formation, listening to the skipper’s orders for the day.
“Today we will be getting that damned shaft in place. I want everybody to do their best to get the job done quickly and correctly. And keep an eye on the shipyard workers! If any of them leave, watch where they go and when they return. Examine everything they bring aboard our boat. Don’t hesitate to check what they are carrying in a box or bag. I don’t want any sabotage. Dismissed!”
Off we went to work. The task of getting the shaft inserted into the housing was quite problematic. The big steel rod had to be suspended from the ceiling by a crane and slowly, millimeter by millimeter, slid through the hull. Meanwhile, we kept careful watch that no unauthorized personnel approached the boat. With all of our attention focused on the shaft operation, it would have been the perfect time for a sabotage attempt. It ended up taking a day and a half before the shaft was in place.
No sooner was that task finished then we discovered that several of the battery cells needed replacement. Unfortunately, this simple sounding operation entailed removing the mounting hatch and then re-riveting it back in place. This took several more days of arduous work.
Despite our busy days, however, we always seemed to have plenty of energy left over to cruise the streets of Brest in the evenings. The military’s Soldatenheim (soldiers’ recreation center) in Brest was really first class. There were all sorts of activities to be enjoyed there. An all girl band, for some reason, stands out in my memory.
My favorite place for fun, however, was the Rue de Pasteur in downtown Brest. It had all of the attractions that a young sailor in port looks for. To our surprise, we met a number of girls we remembered from Lorient, back in the days before the bombs turned that city into a ghost town. We spent the months of January and February there in Brest, working hard in the daytime, and exerting ourselves even more at night.
It was during this period that someone who would become of my closest, life-long friends was transferred to our crew. It was an interesting story how he came to our boat. Otto Dietz had served on U-180 during her adventurous war patrols in the Indian Ocean. Our skipper Harald Lange was serving as the Exec on U-180 at that time. Well, Otto got himself into some trouble and ended up being court-martialed. He was transferred to an Army punishment battalion on the Eastern Front where he was severely wounded in combat. After a long convalescence in a military hospital, he was readmitted to the U-boat service. When Lange discovered his old crewman in Brest, he used his authority as our skipper to have Otto transferred to U-505. Otto and I immediately became good friends, and we remained so until his death in May of 1994.
Otto knew all the best places to go in Brest, and he and I spent many a night tasting the charms that city had to offer. Our favorite nightspot was Le Cheval Blanc, the last pub before the drawbridge between Brest and the naval base. It was a mysterious place, especially popular among those elements living on the fringes of proper society. While most of Europe was starving, this place was always filled with the most exotic of goods: Jamaican rum, Japanese Sake, pork hams, fresh butter by the hundredweight, and every imaginable delicacy that most people could only dream about. There was a whiff of danger about the place, and I was always excited and a bit uneasy when we were there.
Unlike me, Otto seemed to be in his natural element in Le Cheval Blanc. He was always the adventurous leader and I was always his wary, sometimes reluctant, follower. I remember one night we spent there in particular. We were having some drinks when Otto motioned to the bartender to come over, then whispered something in his ear. The bartender gave me a suspicious looking over, then gestured for us to follow him.
Otto Dietz, Hans Goebeler’s good friend from Author’s Collection
The bartender pushed aside a few old baskets, revealing a secret trapdoor. We entered the trapdoor and descended a long, dark stairwell to a large cellar. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they did I could see an entire oriental bazaar had been set up in the basement. A thick haze of strange, spicy-smelling smoke filled the room, and I could see dozens of people crowded about tables, drinking, gambling, and trading in every conceivable type of goods. A babble of every language I had ever heard, and a few I hadn’t, filled the room.
I felt very uncomfortable in this place, which was obviously the nerve center of black market dealing in Brest. For the most part I just stood in a corner, my back against a cold stone wall, taking it all in. After a while, with much encouragement from Otto, I ventured toward the tables and bought a few packs of Gaulloise black tobacco cigarettes. I was just starting to get accustomed to the place when, suddenly, we heard a loud banging in the tavern above us. The place was being raided by the German military police!
The room erupted in a pandemonium of shouts and commotion. People grabbed their wares and scurried about like a colony of ants whose nest had been disturb
ed by the heavy leather boots of the police.
As cool as ever, Otto pulled me over to a large cabinet against a wall. As if by magic, he moved the seemingly heavy cabinet, revealing yet another secret passage. The passageway led to a back alley. After giving a quick glance to the left and right, Otto and I scurried down the alley. Once we got to the main street, we started running as if the devil himself was chasing us. Perhaps by command of the police, or perhaps by pure coincidence, the drawbridge began lifting just as we approached it. We leapt over the quickly widening cleft between the bridge halves and ran without pause back to the barracks.
After that, Otto and I decided Le Cheval Blanc was a little too exciting for us. Besides, like everyone else from U-505, we were out of money. Luckily, the brother-in-law of our Torpedo Mechanic Chief Hermann Knöss was in charge of refitting boats there in Brest. Being a veteran of the U-boat service in World War I, he understood the sorts of things a submariner in port needs to be happy. Through him, we received cartons of cigarettes, boxes of Scho-ka-kola chocolates, and most prized of all, Colibri deodorant and cologne. These commodities kept us quite popular with the ladies of Rue de Pasteur, despite our lack of money.
Meanwhile, my good luck continued. In February, I met two girls with German-sounding names who gave me everything I desired, free of charge, for six whole weeks. Those girls did everything together—and I mean everything! As final preparations were made on our boat for departure, my time with the two girls seemed like a last ray of warm sunshine before what I expected would be a cold and dark future.
Chapter 14
The Last Patrol
By the Ides of March, our boat was again ready for departure. At precisely 1835 hours on March 16, 1944, the lines were cast off and we unceremoniously backed out of Bunker C-1. Once clear of the pier, our diesels revved up and we rumbled toward the harbor mouth. I remember how proud I felt watching our skipper’s handsome blue commander’s pennant snapping in the breeze. Little did we suspect this would be our last patrol of the war.
Our mood as we headed toward deep water was a bit more somber than usual. Back in port we had heard rumors that during our ten-week stay in Brest, approximately four dozen of our sister U-boats had been sunk. We calculated amongst ourselves and determined there was now only about a 30% chance that a boat would return safely from a war patrol. The statistical probability of us surviving to the war’s end was becoming very small indeed. No one had any illusions whatsoever about what we were heading into. At the beginning of the war, our thoughts dwelled on the few comrades who had been lost; now we were struck by how few of our old friends were still alive.
Despite the odds against us, we were absolutely determined to do our duty. With full confidence in our skipper and in ourselves, our attitude was simultaneously hopeful and fatalistic. The slogan that predominated on our boat was: “Let’s get going and see what kind of success we can achieve on the open sea. What will be will be.”
Personally, I had no qualms about our chances. Perhaps I was merely fooling myself, but at the time, I had absolutely no doubt that we would return safely from this patrol. Not only that, I still had total faith that Germany would win the war. I was far from alone in this belief. We placed most of our hopes on the new generation of weapons our scientists were developing, like rockets, jets, and guided missiles. Of course, my comrades and I spent many hours trading scuttlebutt about the new U-boats, too. It was said they could travel underwater indefinitely and could sail circles around the fastest destroyers. I dreamed of the day when our new boats would sweep the ocean clean of the hated enemy and bring a victorious end to the war.
Our passage through the Bay of Biscay began very well. The weather was excellent and our test dive passed without incident. To be free of the curse of sabotage felt very good indeed. Inside U-505, we quickly re-accustomed ourselves to the roar of the diesels, the earthy smell of fresh potatoes, and the complex rituals required for surfacing and diving. All passed as smooth as clockwork. Only the faint rumbling of bomb detonations in the distance reminded us we were not on a peacetime training cruise.
Lange’s approach to command was an interesting one. In general, he was fairly cautious, but when the situation demanded, he was more than willing to take a chance based on his intuition. For instance, we had a new, longer-ranged version of the Naxos radar detection device on board, but based on our near-fatal experience off Trinidad, the Old Man refused to allow any new-fangled electrical device to relax the alertness of our bridge watch. On the other hand, as we passed through the most dangerous part of the Bay of Biscay, the skipper decided to gamble with a sprint on the surface with the diesels.
“Better to clear the area as quickly as possible,” he said, “than to crawl slowly underwater and be stuck in the ‘Suicide Stretch’ forever.”
Unfortunately, unlike most of the new boats now coming out of the shipyards, U-505 was not equipped with the new Schnorkel device that would have allowed us to run the diesels underwater. We had to take our chances on the surface. Lange’s intuition was correct, however, and we sailed through the most dangerous part of the Bay without any attacks from the buzzards.
When Lange opened his sealed sailing orders, he learned we would be returning to the old hunting grounds we had prowled in our first war patrol: the West African coast. This news, when it reached our ears, greatly pleased us. We were tired of cold weather, and imagined ourselves returning to Lorient with a suntan and plenty of victory pennants flying from our bridge. We were sure our new skipper had erased Zschech’s “Curse of the Flowers” and that we were now sailing under a lucky star. Quite a crowd developed around the chart table when the map of the African coast was spread out.
However, an annoyance immediately arose that complicated our lives: the new T-5 Zaunkönig (wren) acoustic-homing torpedoes we had taken on board in Brest. These complex, electrically-propelled eels were nicknamed “Destroyer Killers” because, it was hoped, we could fire them in the general direction of the enemy escorts and they would automatically chase down our tormentors. Unfortunately, they contained delicate instrumentation that required constant attention and maintenance from the torpedo mechanics. Every 24 hours they had to be withdrawn from the tubes, dried, and adjusted. Lamentably, since the fore and aft torpedo rooms doubled as our crew’s sleeping quarters, the mechanics had to fold up our bunks out of the way in order to perform their daily maintenance on the torpedoes. We quickly learned to sleep sitting, or even standing upright. Even so, the days and nights began to merge into a sleep-deprived blur.
On the brighter side, the Raccoon, our much-despised Engineering Officer, no longer disciplined us so strictly. Unlike Zschech, Lange did not want his men’s leave time arbitrarily deducted for petty infractions. As a result, the Raccoon was robbed of his favorite pastime and our lives became much easier. After a while, he even stopped obsessively trimming his beard. Heavens, how thankful we were to have Harald Lange as our skipper!
There were several youngsters who had transferred into our crew at Brest and they didn’t realize how easy they had it, now that the Old Man was running U-505. I’m sure many thought we were inventing some of the stories about life under Zschech. Still, they did experience some tough moments when the weather got rough. The water was smooth as a mirror when we left port, but after a week or so the sea started to whip up and those poor fellows had to go through violent bouts of seasickness, just as we all had, until they gained their sea legs. We would just shake our heads and laugh in good-hearted sympathy when the new guys turned green. Occasionally, we gave them “helpful” advice like: “If you vomit so hard that you throw-up your asshole, you’d better swallow, quick!” All new sailors had to go through this rite of passage, and they were not fully accepted as true members of the crew until they had done so.
During the last week in March, as we approached tropical waters, the weather worsened dramatically. Tremendous waves and gale-force winds blowing from the west battered our boat with stunning force. The whole sub shoo
k and shuddered when the breakers crashed against our conning tower. The poor guys on bridge watch really suffered! They would climb down the ladder into the control room looking like drowned cats, cursing the weather with the kind of hair-raising oaths that only sailors at sea can concoct. Naturally, we crewmen on duty in the relative comfort of the control room saw fit to make humorous comments on their soaked condition. In retaliation, they would be intentionally slow to close the bridge hatch, drenching us all with cascades of seawater when the next big wave hit. The real agony started later, when the drying salt water caused us to itch all over.
Eventually, the weather got so rough the Old Man took pity on us and we cruised submerged for a few days. When we surfaced to recharge batteries, however, the torture began all over again for the poor guys on watch. By the time the weather calmed down, most of us had red swollen eyes from staring into the driving salty spray. Through it all, though, none of us begrudged Lange’s demand that there be no let up in our vigilance—no matter what the condition of the sea.
As for me, I spent most of my free time reading. I was especially fascinated with Jack London’s stories about Alaska. For hours at a time, I lost myself in daydreams about life in the mountains and virgin forests of North America. The quiet open spaces and fresh air of Alaska offered the perfect fantasy escape world. That is, until my next stint on watch or at in the control room jerked me back to the stinking, claustrophobic reality of submarine warfare.
Motivated by a desire to make my Alaskan dreams come true someday, I took great pains to keep up my self-taught English lessons. One very regrettable day, I was practicing to say the word “queen” because the ‘Q’ consonant sound was particularly difficult for me to pronounce. A couple of my buddies overheard me repeating the word and immediately began calling me by that name. Even Lange called me “queen” a couple of times! I hated that nickname so much I almost stopped practicing my lessons. In the end, though, I continued with my lessons and eventually my crewmates tired of the joke. Needless to say, I took care to choose a different “Q” word to practice my pronunciation in the future.
Steel Boat, Iron Hearts Page 25