Operation Drumbeat Read online

  1

  U-Boats Westward

  Second Flotilla U-Boat Base, Lorient, France, on the Bay of Biscay, the evening of 19 December 1941, twelve days after Pearl Harbor. Kapitänleutnant Reinhard Hardegen paced impatiently along the starboard catwalk in bay B6 of the newly commissioned Keroman I bunkers. Laid out before him in the still black water of the protective pen was the long gray hulk of his beloved U-/23. Bright lamps high along the corrugated iron ceiling formed deep shadows beneath the movements of blue-overalled German and French workmen who swarmed over the U-boat ministering to the last of her injured parts. Twenty days had passed since Hardegen had brought Eins Zwei Drei—One Two Three— through steel-armored shutters into this prodigious bombproof vault, and for most of that period without stop, day or night, engine mechanics, electrical technicians, welders, armorers, and other refit specialists had reconditioned the engines, adjusted the port shaft bearings, cleaned the screws, ground in the sea valves, and hammered home corrections to flanges that lined the openings in the pressure hull to outboard cables and connecting rods. When the essential hull repairs had been completed, and the interior was fully cleaned and fumigated, Hardegen had taken 123 out to sea for test dives. At Point Laube in the bay, a navigational fix at the fifty-meter line, where the continental shelf, after deepening gradually, dropped off sharply, Hardegen conducted trial dives and trimming exercises to see, as he put it, if the parts were equal to the whole. Finding that they were and that U-123 was ready to swim again, he had brought the boat back to Keroman with anxious urging that the maintenance crews complete their work as quickly as possible. Now from the catwalk he watched the final touches to the exterior of the hull. Highlighted by aureoles of blue light from acetylene torches employed by welders to repair depth-charge damage along the scarred surface of the deck plates and conning tower, other workers scraped away running sores of rust, applied anticorrosives, and painted the U-boat’s skin afresh. Hardegen’s anxiety came from the fact that he and four other U-boat commanders were assigned to an emergency mission. With two others he had received his sailing orders directly from Admiral Dönitz that very afternoon, the nineteenth. And one of the five boats committed to the mission, U-/25 of Ulrich Folkers, had already sortied the day before. Hardegen did not want to be the last to go.1

  At 0930 on 20 December the telephone rang in Hardegen’s residence in the old French Naval Prefecture. U-/23 was ready for ammunition loading. Torpedo loading could be scheduled for the following day. At once Hardegen sent his number two (IIWO), second watch officer, Leutnant zur See Horst von Schroeter to supervise the acceptance and storage on board of ammunition rounds for the two deck artillery pieces, starting with the heavier shells, each in individual packing, for the 10.5-centimeters Bootskanone on the fore casing and followed by smaller rounds for the 3.7-centimeters gun on the after casing. Then came ammo belts and magazines for the 2-centime-ters C/30 antiaircraft (AA) machine gun on the rear bridge flak platform and for two small shoulder-fired machine guns kept below decks. The loading occupied von Schroeter and ratings brought in hurriedly from recreational centers at nearby Quiberon and Carnac most of the day. While von Schroeter was busy with ammunition Hardegen sent his number one (IWO), first watch officer, Oberleutnant zur See Rudolf Hoffmann to round up the rest of the crew from the back streets of Lorient, especially the torpedo mates, who would be needed for the more arduous exercise of transferring torpedoes into their six tubes and various storage cradles.

  The next morning, under the lights of bay B6, torpedo loading commenced. Thirteen G7e electric and two G7a steam-driven “eels” were brought over by rail cars from the torpedo magazines northwest of the bunkers. Complex in their technology, the torpedoes had to be managed with great care. The specially designed cars transporting them moved as though they were handling eggs, since the torpedoes’ delicate interior guidance systems and propellent mechanisms could easily be jarred out of tolerance. Engineers at Torpedoerprobungskommando (TEK), Torpedo Trials Command, had already test-launched each “eel” over a measured course, noted every deviation from the norm, and attached a service certificate to accompany the weapon on board. Once placed in the launch tubes, the G7e electrics required constant attention if they were to be available for sudden use. On a schedule of every three to five days thereafter, each one, thickly coated with grease, would have to be coaxed out of its tube onto hoist rings where a team of torpedo mates called mixers would check its battery charge, contact pistol, bearings and axles, rudder and hydroplane controls, lubrication points, and guidance system.

  The cigar-shaped G7es were seven meters long, had a diameter of 53.3 centimeters, weighed sixteen hundred kilograms (3,528 pounds), and carried an explosive charge of five hundred kilos of torpex, a high-explosive mixture consisting of Cyclonite, TNT, and aluminum flakes. Once launched by a blast of compressed air from one of 123′s tubes—four bow, two stern—the torpedoes would become independent, self-propelled, dirigible submarines with motors, propellers, rudders, and hydroplanes, that could travel at thirty knots at a specified depth over a distance of 5,000 meters (although Hardegen, like most commanders, liked to launch at 550 to 600 meters from target). Their electric motors, made possible by the development of very light lead storage batteries, left no visible wake, unlike the G7as’ compressed air-steam propulsion system. The impact of the torpedoes’ nose-contact pistols on the underwater side of a ship would detonate the torpex and tear holes in the vessel’s steel hull, causing it to sink.

  On this day the deck and conning tower of 123 were greatly transformed in appearance by a large winch tower, chain hoists, braces, trolleys, and other devices for lifting fifteen torpedoes into slanted position so that they could be let down the fore and aft torpedo hatches. Six of those fifteen would be stored in launch tubes, four forward and two aft, and the rest in reserve under and over floor plates or in place of the lower bunks. Once they finished manhandling the reserve torpedoes into their assigned spaces, the weary ratings secured the deck, took down the winch and other gear, and, with Hoffmann’s permission, collapsed in place.

  On 22 December von Schroeter took charge again, supervising the loading of food and fresh drinking water. This operation would closely involve the crewman who would make most direct use of the provisions, Johannes Vonderschen, the Smutje, or cook. To “Hannes” it would have been hard to prove that the torpedo loading was more critical to the boat’s mission than the provisioning: After all, if Hannes could not get the commander and crew to the target area with life and energy intact, what good were their torpedoes? He arranged for the foodstuffs certain to be eaten last on the Feindfahrt (operational patrol) to be loaded first, through both the fore deck and tower hatches. Willing crew hands below received his consignments and stowed the provisions where Hannes said he could best retrieve them. Last to be eaten, as they would also be the majority of what was eaten during the mission, were canned foodstuffs.

  Von Schroeter counted off the boxes in his ledger as Hannes sent down the hatches several hundred large cans of meat, vegetables, potatoes, butter, eggs, fruit, ready-cooked meals, even bread. Be-lowdecks, according to the cook’s instructions shouted down the hatch, crewmen stacked cans on or in every available floor plate, hole, or recess of the narrow steel tube that formed the U-boat’s interior. What was already an exceedingly cramped work and living space now became all the more confined as standing columns of cans crowded every compartment and passageway. Even the starboard aft head (toilet), one of only two on board for a complement of fifty-two officers and men, was requisitioned to serve as a fully stocked pantry.

  Still to come were fresh foodstuffs, some of which would have to be consumed during the first weeks of travel before spoilage set in. Much of the fresh stowage would hang in overhead nets and hammocks that reduced headroom by half. Down the hatch now came fresh bread, potatoes, and hams, as well as salami, sausages, and smoked bacon, together with long-refrigerated crates of apples from Nantes and grapes from Bordeaux. They were the best rations
provided to men in any of the German services.

  The newly baked black bread and fruits in particular gave off a delightful aroma that wafted throughout the just-cleaned boat, but Hannes and his fellow crew members knew that it was not to last. A week into the voyage a very different fragrance would replace it: an odor compounded of stale, humid air, diesel oil, sweat, urine, semen, soiled and fusty clothing, battery gas, bilges, cooking odors, and Colibri, the eau de cologne used by the bridge watch to remove salt spray from their faces. By two weeks the U-boat’s interior would deserve to be described as a sewer pipe with valves, and the reeking, putrescent atmosphere would be having its expected effect on any fresh food that remained. After three weeks the loaves of black bread, a German sailor’s staple food, would be covered with a white fluffy mold; the crew would call them rabbits and eat only the centers. The sausages that hung everywhere from overhead pipes would wear their own white mildews, and the lemons that everyone on a U-boat sucked to prevent scurvy similarly would grow white coats amid the damp and the stench.

  For the moment, however, Hannes and his comrades could put out of mind the hard sea days ahead. This was a time for luxuriating in the scents of dry land and for taking deserved pride in the efficiency with which they had packed their stores. Von Schroeter for his part informed IWO Hoffmann that 123 had 166 tons of diesel fuel on board, was fully stocked with ammunition, torpedoes, and provisions, and could be reported frontreif— ready for war front operations. She was prepared to depart Keroman at any hour for the ship ¡sere a short distance away on the Scorff River, ¡sere, an old refloated wooden prison ship that had once transported French convicts to Devil’s Island and the other penal islands of French Guiana, served as a departure and arrival U-boat pontoon. Hoffmann, saluting, formally advised Hardegen of the status.

  “Herr Kaleu,” he reported, using the accepted diminutive form of Hardegen’s rank, “Eins Zwei Drei is fully loaded in all categories. I have signed the release form from the yard. The maneuvering room and engine crews are on board.”

  “Very well, Number One,” acknowledged Hardegen. “Let’s take her out.”

  Late that day, 22 December, the tall armored gates of bay B6 pulled open with a yawning roar and in the huge silence that followed the lethally loaded U-123, driven by quiet electric motors, backed slowly out into the greasy harbor water. After pivoting to a forward position Hardegen and the skeleton crew fired up the starboard nine-cylinder MAN diesel and nudged 123 the short distance up the Scorff to ¡sere on the right bank where he twisted 180 degrees so that the boat faced downriver toward the harbor mouth. In her new coat of camouflage-haze gray 123 presented a striking contrast to the mottled old prison ship to which she now tied up for departure. She would look even better on the morrow, Hardegen anticipated, with her crew in fresh sea uniforms standing shoulder to shoulder on deck and her tower decorated with commissioning pennant, naval ensign, and Christmas trees.

  0930 hours German War Time, 23 December 1941. Reinhard Harde-gen, uniformed in formal blue, hastened down the outside ladder from the bridge of 123 in time to greet Korvettenkapitän Viktor Schütze as the flotilla commander made his way across the gangway from ¡sére. Schütze stopped when he reached deck level to salute the boat: “Heil, Eins Zwei Drei!” Hardegen saluted in return: “Heil, Herr Korvettenkapitän!” Schütze came aboard, shook Hardegen’s hand, and asked the usual questions. Was his boat delivered back from refit in satisfactory condition? Was he fully loaded in all categories? Was his crew intact, in good health, and ready to board? Hardegen was able to respond to all of these in the affirmative.

  Schütze then handed Hardegen his Operation Order in a large, sealed blue envelope. “You already know your initial course heading from the admiral,” he said. “Notice that the cover instructions specify that you open your orders only after reaching twenty degrees longitude. Go over them carefully with your officers and, if you wish, inform your crew of their general contents. Although the plan for your cruise has been worked out in careful detail, you will notice that we did not have quite all the appropriate supporting materials to provide you. I am confident that your resourcefulness will supply the difference. You may sortie when ready. Your escort is cleared for departure. Good luck and good hunting.”

  The two shook hands and saluted again. Hardegen looked down at his envelope, more than ordinarily curious to know what it contained. Schütze paused on the gangway as he left, turned and said: “One thing more, Hardegen. Be alert on your way out. Two Spitfires were over Brest yesterday between 1720 and 1750. Then forty bombers hit Brest beginning about 1900. Some 175 high-explosive and 200 incendiary bombs were dropped on the harbor and the base. A few casualties. No vessels hit. The British are getting serious. Be on guard.”2

  “Yes, Herr Korvettenkapitän,” Hardegen answered, then mounted the bridge ladder and went down the conning tower hatch to place the envelope in his safe.

  On ¡sere a large and lively crowd was now forming. Many were crewmen, the seamen and technicians, saying goodbye to friends from the base and girls from the town. Their fresh-scrubbed appearance and clean blue-gray utility coveralls differed sharply from the unshaven, disheveled, and ragtag sight they had presented when 123 last tied up to ¡sere on 22 November following their return from the Strait of Belle Isle and Greenland. When Hardegen returned to the bridge, he was delighted to see also assembling on here a large number of Wehrmacht men in field gray, including the marching band, from a nearby infantry battalion that had befriended his crew and assumed the informal role of Patenbataillon (sponsoring battalion) of the boat. Following Hardegen’s first patrol in 123, the battalion had invited his crew to enjoy the open air and green fields at their base outside Lorient. There the ratings enjoyed picnics and sports, and some of the more daring among them exercised the battalion’s horses. Hardegen had laughed to see his blue-clad seamen galloping awkwardly across the fields, and he had returned the favors shown his crew by inviting some of the infantrymen to have an underwater experience while he trial-dived 123 during the recent refit. That the battalion chose to sponsor the boat had pleased Hardegen greatly, and now he noticed that the soldiers gathered on here had brought with them a number of Christmas trees to join the ones he personally had already erected on the bridge and stashed belowdecks along with—unknown to the crew—presents for everyone from home. The battalion commander came on board with some of his officers and men to present the trees. He had trimmed them himself, he said, beaming, and he wondered if there were enough for every compartment to have its own. Hardegen assured him that there were. Then the commander signaled for his battalion cooks to come across the gangway with ten large cakes that they had prepared for the crew’s Christmas meal at sea. Hardegen thanked them warmly. Handshakes, good wishes, and salutes followed. As the commander and his delegation walked back up to here’s venerable planking, the Patenbataillon band struck up the Christmas carol “Adeste Fideles.” It was turning out to be exactly the kind of send-off that Hardegen had hoped for. Good feeling abounded and for a brief while at least even the furor Germanicus seemed at rest somewhere in the distance.3

  With the propulsion systems checked and his tanks, pipes, and valves in good order for clearing port the Leitender Ingenieur (LI), chief engineering officer, Oberleutnant zur See Heinz Schulz had the temporary duty of briefing a new member of the crew, Maat Alwin Tolle. Ordinarily an officer of Schulz’s rank would not be detailed to spend time with a new crewman, much less with one who had never been on a U-boat before, but Tolle was no seaman. He wore the uniform but his armband read Propaganda-Kompanie. Tolle was a photographer assigned to 123 by the Ministry of Propaganda. Arriving at almost the last hour before departure he presented himself to Schulz, as ordered, saluted after a fashion, and set down his leather case and duffel bag.

  Schulz asked him what was in the leather case.

  Cameras, film, and notebooks, answered Tolle.

  What was in the duffel bag?

  Clothes and personal effects.


  Schulz managed to keep his sense of humor. He told Tolle to take out two changes of underwear and socks, one for outbound, one for inbound, a sweater, and his toothbrush (not that he would have much chance to use it), hand the duffel bag with the rest of its contents to one of the dock hands and ask him to stow it at Flotilla until the boat got back. The first lesson Tolle needed to learn, Schulz told him, was that there was no room on a U-boat for more than his body, and that 123 might have trouble fitting in even that.

  When Tolle returned on board, Schulz walked him to the far end of the sloping stern casing and turned his eyes back toward the bow. This, he explained, was an Unterseeboot, or U-boat for short. The term suggested that the U-boat traveled perpetually under the sea. That was what most civilians seemed to think. Was that what Tolle thought? Yes, Schulz figured as much. Now, the boat could go underwater, but it very rarely did so. It would dive now and then in order to evade attacking ships and planes, to escape rough seas, to seek enemy targets with underwater listening gear when visibility was poor, or very occasionally to make a submerged attack when conditions favored that kind of approach. Furthermore, it would make numerous test dives to make sure it could submerge in an emergency. For the most part, however, it cruised on the surface and fought on the surface, like a torpedo boat. The term U-boat, or submarine, tended, therefore, to give a false impression. A better term for the U-boat would be submersible or diving boat.