by Jeff Kildow
Even with his many hours of experience flying formation in fighters, he admitted to the young Oberleutnant that it was intimidating getting the Gotha so close to another airplane. He was also surprised how much the wake from the Junkers affected his bomber. It was controllable, but required more attention than he’d expected.
The other thing that caught him a bit off guard was the change in the way the bomber flew as it took on the heavy fuel load. Again, it wasn’t terribly difficult to adjust for, it was just that he hadn’t expected to have to do so. His young instructor was excellent, and taught him well once von Schroeder overcame his initial reluctance.
“Here you are, Herr Oberst, you have passed your training, in accordance with the standards set by a very strict commanding officer.” Von Schroeder laughed, and slapped him on the back good naturedly; that strict commanding officer was himself, of course.
Chapter 49
Thursday, 30 September 1943
Atlantic Ocean, 350 Miles East of New York
0430 Hours, New York Time
Aboard U-156
Kapitan Werner Hartenstein was irritated. He always followed orders, of course, like any good German, but this got his goat. Here he was in command of a mighty Type IXC, one of the most fearsome weapons the Kriegsmarine had, a submarine with nearly a 100,000 tons of sunk Allied shipping to her credit, and he was playing nurse maid to a – Luftwaffe weather observer!
When Feldwebel [Senior NCO] Arnold Klein-Schmitt had first come aboard, he had hardly impressed the Kapitan; he was tall, skinny, bespectacled and sickly looking.
This is a Teutonic warrior? Werner Hartenstein had thought. Even with the insignia of a Luftwaffe Feldwebel. I wonder, did he really earn the rank? He eyed the four pips on the young man’s collar with suspicion; there was only one man aboard with equivalent rank, and he was years older.
Then, Klein-Schmitt got seasick every time they surfaced; it amused him to think of it. But to the man’s credit, Hartenstein never heard him complain. Hartenstein remembered the young man coming to his cabin the day after they got underway.
In the Kapitan’s Quarters
“I can tell you now of my mission, Herr Kapitan, if you please.”
Klein-Schmitt’s brown eyes seemed watery, weak; his thick glasses made them seem overly large. He had adopted the casual uniform of the seamen aboard, Hartenstein noted, with the four pips sewed on his sleeve.
“Yes, do so.” Hartenstein would not countenance impertinence by an underling.
“Just so. Sir, I have been ordered to have you transport me on this ship to a position approximately eighty kilometers [fifty miles] east of the city of New York.”
It shouldn’t have, but it rankled Hartenstein that Klein-Schmitt called his submarine a ship; doesn’t everybody know a submarine is a boat? he thought.
“It will be necessary for you to allow me at least thirty minutes on the surface with the ship at rest for me to make my observations, sir. I understand that is a long time for you—”
“A long time?” Hartenstein was incredulous. “A long time? This is an eternity! So close to the American coast? They are not asleep, you know, Klein-Schmitt.”
He ticked off on his fingers. “They have destroyers, patrol boats, aircraft large and small, dirigibles, and submarines of their own, to say nothing of the merchantmen with their lookouts and the occasional civilian day-sailor. No. It is a death sentence. I will not permit it.” He folded his arms, the argument over.
Klein-Schmitt regarded him expressionlessly, then said respectfully, “Sir, they said you might be reluctant. Admiral Canaris instructed me to give you this in the event you hesitated to do as I ask.”
“Canaris? You spoke personally to Admiral Canaris? He instructed you?” Hartenstein narrowed his eyes dangerously.
The Kapitan took the offered envelope; he saw the Admiral’s seal, and his own name handwritten on the front. He opened it and read the enclosed letter, then read it again. He cleared his throat.
“It would seem that I am to be at your disposal, Feldwebel.” His face contorted under the awkwardness of the situation. He was humiliated to be ordered by an enlisted man. Or was he?
“I promise to disturb your routine as little as necessary, Herr Kapitan,” Klein-Schmitt said calmly, but without any sign of humility or subjugation.
“Why would they want a weather observer—?”
“I am not merely an observer, Kapitan; I am a meteorologist, trained at Berlin University. I was not permitted to tell you beforehand, but you must now know this: there is to be a Luftwaffe attack on the city of New York. I am to evaluate the weather conditions as the attack force proceeds across the Atlantic; my observations will drive the final decision to have the attack continue or to have the aircraft return to their takeoff location.”
Hartenstein was shocked to hear that such a daring attack was underway.
Well, a comeuppance for the arrogant Americans, he thought. Perhaps it will draw some of the attention away from us.
Now he understood why he had not been informed beforehand. He regarded the spare young man standing so seriously in front of him. There was steel behind the watery brown eyes, to say nothing of very high level direction, Hartenstein realized. He bowed to the inevitable.
“So. On what day and at what time will you require me to place my boat at such risk, Herr ‘Feldwebel’?” The emphasis on the rank made it obvious he didn’t believe it was real.
Klein-Schmitt ignored the hint to tell more.
“If the sea state permits, Herr Kapitan, the time of thirty minutes before sunrise would for me be best. If we are fortunate, I will be able to make my measurements when the chances of being seen are minimal. The day will be 2nd October.”
“But thirty minutes; why so long? We are at very great risk on the surface and not making way. Do you understand we could be attacked, sunk? You could be killed along with us?” He was all but pleading, Hartenstein realized.
Klein-Schmitt seemed unperturbed, “I must inflate and launch a balloon, which I will carefully watch for several minutes; it will tell me of wind speeds and direction. I must also measure temperatures, atmospheric pressures, and even humidity. Most importantly, I must study the cloud formations and types of clouds; they will reveal what possible storms are behind them.”
Hartenstein was unconvinced, and it must have shown on his face, he realized.
“I am not a fool, Kapitan; I am fully aware my life is at risk like yours and your crew. I will be completely at your command should we be discovered. I have practiced quick reentry into the ship. My observation tools can be abandoned instantly should you order the ship to submerge.”
Two days later, fifty miles off New York City
The sea is unusually calm this morning, especially for this time of year, Hartenstein thought as he completed his periscope survey. Good for us. Good for Klein-Schmitt as well, I hope.
He detected no shipping that threatened them; far to their north, a fairly large convoy was forming up, from the look of all the smoke, but nothing nearby. He saw no aircraft.
Reluctantly, he gave the order, “Take him to the surface; gunners and lookouts prepare to go topside.”
Klein-Schmitt was there with his paraphernalia, he saw.
Let’s see how he gets it all up through the hatch, Hartenstein thought with amusement.
The boat surfaced, and began to roll in the swells. Klein-Schmitt clambered up the ladder as if he’d been doing it for years. Hartenstein followed his men, and took his place on the sail’s weather deck. Klein-Schmitt already had partially inflated the balloon, and soon launched it. As calm as it was, the slight breeze had a real bite; winter on the North Atlantic was not far away.
Hartenstein had to remind the lookouts to watch for aircraft and ships, not the soaring balloon. He didn’t like the way the balloon caught the light of the not-yet risen sun. When it had climbed quickly to the south-east, and was lost from sight, Hartenstein breathed a small sigh of relief.
> He watched, fascinated in spite of himself as Klein-Schmitt made notes and swiftly deployed strange looking gear from his wooden box and cloth shoulder bag.
“Ten minutes,” intoned the seaman tracking how long they were on the surface.
Now, Klein-Schmitt had some sort of whirly-gig spinning in the light breeze. As it twirled, he was spinning a strange device around in vertical circles at the end of a chain. He stopped, wrote some notes, and threw something else over the side at the end of a line.
Is he measuring sea temperatures too? Hartenstein wondered. What could that possibly tell him about the weather?
“Twenty minutes.”
Hartenstein recognized the weather vane as Klein-Schmitt set it up; he could also see that it was showing a slightly different wind direction than what the balloon had taken.
A voice at the open hatch announced, “Kapitan, sonar reports screws about twelve kilometers [eight miles] to our south-west, making about eighteen knots. He estimates that it is an American destroyer. The ship will pass within a 1000 yards of us if they do not turn.”
“How much longer, Klein-Schmitt?” Hartenstein demanded urgently.
This was what I’ve feared; getting caught on the surface.
“I am finished, Herr Kapitan. I will descend into the ship in forty-five seconds.” His hands were flying, replacing his instruments in the case. He leapt to his feet and scrambled down the ladder with several seconds to spare.
“Dive. Dive. Lookouts below deck.”
Less than a minute after the destroyer had been reported, U-156 slipped silently and undetected beneath the Atlantic.
“My pardon, Herr Kapitan,” Klein-Schmitt said. “We must now proceed at high speed on this heading for approximately one hour. If there are no ships in the vicinity, we must again surface long enough to send a radio message.” He handed Hartenstein a card.
Hartenstein raised an eyebrow, and said sarcastically, “Am I to run at flank speed for an hour, Herr ‘Feldwebel’? That will exhaust our batteries.”
“No, sir, that will not be necessary. I need us to be approximately twenty-five kilometers [fifteen miles] from our last location before I radio my measurements and recommendations. Use whatever speed will accomplish that. I shall be at the table in the Officers Mess doing my calculations; kindly inform me when we have reached our destination.”
Hartenstein opened his mouth to reply, and then snapped it closed again.
This man does not act at all like a Feldwebel; more likely, he is SS or so, he thought; I’d better do just as he says. At least we won’t have to expose ourselves on the surface again. I hope.
Klein-Schmitt had covered the cramped table with graphs and charts, several of which Hartenstein recognized as the coastal area near New York City. He had filled several pages of tablet paper with symbols and mathematical calculations. A slide rule lay nearby, next to an open book of obscure tables.
Hartenstein cleared his throat, “Herr Klein-Schmitt, we have reached a point approximately twenty-five kilometers from where you took your observations. The boat is at rest, awaiting your instructions.” The sarcasm was slight, and Klein-Schmitt either ignored it, or didn’t recognize it.
“Ah, excellent, Kapitan. I am just complete. I need now to see your radio man; I shall temporarily make a change to your ship’s radio.”
“Boat,” Hartenstein absently corrected, “what changes to my radio?”
“Just this, Herr Kapitan,” the man held up a small metal device. “This crystal is adjusted to a secret frequency only used by the aircraft we discussed before. When I am finished, this will be thrown into the sea, and no one will discuss it, yes?”
The submarine’s crew had taken a wary view of this strange Luftwaffe man; when word of a secret radio transmission spread through throughout the boat – there are no secrets on a submarine – the distrust began to edge toward fear.
U-156 hovered silently just below the surface as her Kapitan carefully surveyed the sea’s surface and the sky. The sonar man had already given his “all clear.”
“Raise the radio mast.” A hydraulic hiss signaled compliance with the command.
On the deck below, as the boat’s radio man watched critically, Klein-Schmitt sat at the radio with a headset on, seemingly very much at home. He keyed the telegraph key in a manner which indicated more than passing familiarity.
In moments, he sat back in the chair, and spoke into the microphone, reading from the papers he’d brought with him. Twice, he repeated himself, in careful, precise language. Finally, he sat back, and acknowledged the radio man’s presence.
“I shall be finished in a moment, then you may have your set back,” he said. He turned, and skillfully removed the crystal he had installed moments before, and re-inserted the standard Kreigsmarine crystal in its place.
“I think you will find everything in order,” he said as he rose, and climbed the ladder to the command deck.
“My duties are complete, Kapitan.” He handed Hartenstein the crystal. “That must be disposed of overboard, sir. The ship is again yours to perform your own duties as they have been prescribed. I shall be as inconspicuous as possible for the remainder of our voyage.”
Chapter 50
1 October 1943
German Base Near Santiago de Compestela, Spain
1700 Hours
Takeoff
The day had come, inevitably, finally, and von Schroeder sat anxiously through the weather and target briefings with his crews. The ride to the aircraft was quiet, with none of the usual joking among the men. The fitters who had prepared the big bombers were somber, too. The “good byes” and “good luck” wishes were subdued.
Von Schroeder thought about the previous day, when Generalmajor Wever had called him.
“I wish you God speed and good luck, Gerhard. You and your men will perform well, I am sure of this. Bear this in mind, whether it goes perfectly or is a disaster, the first mission for any aircraft is seldom a good predictor of what is to come. Learn all you can, and attempt to view it all dispassionately. We must be prepared to improve upon what we have done.”
The words echoed in his mind; is this encouragement, or shall I take warning?
His crew was busy, serious, and very professional as they prepared for the long flight ahead. He wouldn’t tell them, but he was already proud of them.
Von Schroeder sat in the left seat of the lead aircraft, mentally reviewing and rehearsing for the hundredth time. His handwritten notes were dog-eared and smudged from heavy use during practices. One more glance at the engine gauges, all safely in the green, and he took up the microphone.
“Rheinwasser aircraft, prepare for takeoff.” He forced his voice to be low, confident; he hoped it sounded more confident to the men than it did to him.
He released the brakes, and with a gentle lurch, his big Gotha began to roll. Steering with the brakes, he followed the truck with red flags as it guided them to the runway. On both sides of him on the parking ramps, he could see the other aircraft, propellers turning, ready to follow him. He felt their eyes.
They taxied to the run-up area only a few hundred meters from the start of the sloping runway. A bright red “commit line” had been painted across the concrete; once an aircraft crossed that line, it was committed to going down the incline. Only the most extraordinary actions could prevent an aircraft from taking off or running off the end of the runway once it accelerated down the slope.
Von Schroeder’s heart was racing, and his hands were sweating inside his gloves; this was no ordinary take off. He carefully performed the engine run-ups.
“Are we ready?” he asked his flight engineer over the intercom.
“Jawohl, Herr Colonel,” the man said crisply
He keyed the mic, “Rheinwasser One, ready to roll.”
The control tower responded immediately, “Rheinwasser One, and Rheinwasser Flight, cleared for takeoff.”
He took a deep breath, and advanced the throttles.
They
accelerated very quickly, in spite of the airplane’s incredible weight. The sinking feeling as they lunged down the sloping runway still seemed strange. The co-pilot read off their speed as they hurtled toward a second red line: rocket ignition.
“Rockets now,” he announced, and von Schroeder flipped the switch. Instantly, they were pushed back in their seats; the roar of the rockets was louder than the engines.
“Takeoff speed,” the co-pilot announced. Von Schroeder smoothly eased the big bomber off the runway. There was the familiar bump as the first pair of rockets dropped off and the second ignited. He swallowed hard, anxious for the takeoff to be over. His heart was racing, and cold sweat ran down his sides. He had already looked at the air speed gauge several times; a stall would be death to them all.
“One hundred meters.”
He pulled the landing gear release, and silently breathed a sigh of relief when both sides dropped off properly. The last pair of rockets was almost finished as they crossed the coastline. The roar abruptly stopped, and he pushed down the nose a bit, so their climb wasn’t so steep. He felt the airframe vibrate as the rocket assembly dropped away. They had survived the takeoff.
As the co-pilot announced “One thousand meters,” he leveled the aircraft, and finished retracting the flaps. He turned them on a gentle left bank, and watched the aircraft following them lift off.
Twenty-five minutes later…
Refueling was going very smoothly, as if it were an ordinary training exercise. Within another twenty minutes, by his watch, all sixty bombers would be refueled, and the mission would truly begin. He was almost afraid to think that it was all going so well. Generalmajor Wever’s words again played through the recorder in his mind. He was prepared to abort this mission if everything wasn’t perfection.