Bruckner
Off the coast of Greenland, April 30, 1945
A giant hand grabbing the boat by its nose, and giving it a few snaps of the wrist.
That’s what it felt like when the cans detonated on each side and directly above the U-5001. Erich’s knees buckled as the deck heaved upward, flipping him and the rest of the crew into the air toward the bulkheads above them. The steel fittings of the hull had stopped groaning—now they literally screamed as every rivet and weld was being pushed beyond their structural tolerances. Any second, Erich expected the hull to crinkle inward and the cold sea crush them like a sardine tin.
“Damage?” he said as he struggled to his feet. The deck beneath him, surprisingly, felt more level than before.
“Not here, Captain,” said the helmsman.
“Bischoff!”
The communications man fought to keep his bulky earphones in place as he climbed back into his chair. Reaching for a series of toggles and rheostats on his board, he squinted as if that might force his equipment into a higher level of performance.
“Nothing, sir.”
“That was so close,” someone said.
No one had the nerve to agree or add their feelings. Everyone knew how true it was, and how helpless they all were to do much about it.
Returning his attention to the dive attitude, Erich joined the men at the helm, now looking less terrified and more resolute. “Can you maintain bubble?” he said to the nearest crewman.
“I think so, Captain. But I must tell you—it is difficult.”
Erich nodded. His boat and his crew were in trouble. She was not in condition to make the kind of quick maneuvers needed to avoid the enemy during an attack. Until he reached Station One Eleven he could not even attempt any repairs. If he could not make the secret installation, the weather, treacherous coastline, and threat of further detection or attack could combine to make the idea of their survival ever more remote.
And who knew if the secret Station was intact? Doenitz ordered him to affect “rescue and recovery.” That suggested there was trouble at the secret base.
“Screws waning, Captain,” said Bischoff. “The destroyer is heading off to starboard. We may have lost him.”
“Continue to level off,” said Erich. “Hold course. Engines ahead ten percent.”
Still too early, he thought. The American captain might be playing cat-and-mouse. By breaking off pursuit, north toward the shoreline, the enemy may be trying to set him up, to set a trap into which an unwitting and inexperienced U-boat commander might stumble. Erich was aware of this tactic because he’d been lucky enough to survive it in the past. Many fledgling submariners had not been so fortunate.
But he had other problems as well. The damage to the diving planes might prove fatal. Despite the claims of the helmsman, Erich’s instincts and highly tuned senses told him the submarine was still experiencing a “down bubble” which meant it continued to angle, no matter how slight, toward the bottom. If he were not able to correct for this descent, the U-5001 was doomed.
There was also the flooded hatch compartment, which would need addressing.
In order to maneuver the 5001 through the undersea cavern entrance to Station One Eleven, he would need his boat responding smoothly. Considering his options, he worked through the most obvious ploy first—reduce the weight in the bow.
“Herr Fassbaden,” he said to his friend, who had been standing at the ready. He was enough of a veteran seaman to know to remain silent until addressed when conditions were so critical. They now spoke in hushed tones.
“Yes, Captain…”
“If we had clear passage to aft torpedo room, we could move the bow fish to the rear of the boat—reducing our weight.”
“No way to do that now.”
“So,” said Erich. “I think we must fire off some bow torpedoes, then move the bow crew to amidships, do you think…?”
“It might work,” said the Exec. “They cannot, of course, be allowed to detonate. They will need to be disarmed. The action is severe.”
“In addition, if we survive this current situation, we will have less firepower out in front.”
“That is correct, Captain. But I also know it is a choice of damned if we do not, and slightly less damned if we do.”
Erich grinned. “Well said. I say we do it. Now.”
“You want me to take care of it?”
“Yes, I do. After I inform the crew personally.”
Snapping off a salute, Fassbaden turned to head forward, when Erich stopped him with a slight touch of his sleeve. “I almost forgot, with all the other things happening—what about that troublemaker, Liebling? Did you get him out of that aft torpedo room?”
Fassbaden shook his head. “There was not enough time. We came under attack, and—”
“I understand. However, the longer those men remain cut off, the more of a potential problem that man becomes. That is not a good situation for someone who may be unstable in a crisis.”
“I agree, Captain.”
“Have Massenburg stay in touch with the aft gunnery officer by tube.”
“Kuykendahl, from the U-387. A good man.”
Nodding, Erich remembered the man as soon as Manny mentioned his name. “I will want to know if things worsen down there. I want Kuykendahl to know he has my permission to take whatever measure is necessary to maintain order.”
“I understand,” said Fassbaden. “I will inform the Chief Warrant Officer.”
“Very well,” said Erich. “Then meet me in the bow. We have some fish to unload.”
After Manny left the control deck, Erich briefed his men on the plan. No one replied, nor hardly looked at him or one another. They all knew the gravity of the situation. You did not dump your torpedoes unless things were desperate, and they all knew this. Erich saluted them, and turned to leave the deck.
“Herr Ostermann, you have the con,” he said.
As he walked forward, he passed the galley where Hausser, the cook, was peering out into the central corridor.
“Everything all right, Captain?”
“Of course, seaman. Return to your station.”
“Yes, Captain.” Hausser looked young, but there was an air of confidence about him. Still leaning past the threshold to the kitchen, he stared at his commanding officer. Then he spoke in a direct manner Erich both noticed and admired. “But, could I have a word with you first?”
“Quickly.”
“Herr Fassbaden informed me I would be getting an ‘assistant,’ and I should be watchful of him.”
“That is correct.”
“I know this fellow, Liebling. He is trouble, Captain. But I am here to tell you—he will not be trouble for me. I would gladly do…whatever might be necessary…to keep this boat safe from the likes of him.”
As he said this, the young cook let his index finger and thumb gently touch the handle of the large knife tucked into the belt of his apron.
Erich nodded. “I understand, seaman. Thank you for your concern.”
“Aye, Captain.” Hausser snapped off a crisp salute, stepped back into the galley.
Returning the salute, Erich headed forward along the corridor. Despite his grave concerns, he felt good knowing he had crewmen like Hausser. As he walked along, he imagined the young cook burying his knife in the chest of the hothead Liebling. Such horrific thoughts did not please him. He knew plenty of men who not only welcomed the gruesome demands of warfare, but actually hoped for it. Erich had always suspected his own father had succumbed to a touch of such madness. While not craven, the elder Bruckner had always recounted his personal wartime experiences with just a little too much relish for Erich’s sensibilities.
He would do whatever necessary to retain the honor of his military office, but he did not have to like it. There was much men needed to do in their lives that proved distasteful. The real heroes were the ones who recognized the horror and who never surrendered to its call.
Reaching the bulkhead door to the bow torpedo room, he opened it with a series of practiced moves he could have done in his sleep. In addition to the heavy, combined scents of sweat and burned tobacco, he was greeted by expressions of shock on the faces of the nearest two crewmen, and they appeared almost comical as they tried to stand at attention. The four remaining men, including Gunnery Officer Neil Schlag, quickly turned and saluted Erich as soon as they realized the identity of their unannounced visitor.
“Captain,” said Schlag, trying to appear calm and in control. “Is there something wrong?”
“At ease,” said Erich. He directed his gaze at Schlag, a thick-chested man with a heavy blue-black stubble of beard.
“Aye, Captain,” said Schlag.
“We have some work to do.”
As the men gathered around, Erich detailed the procedure to be followed to dump as many torpedoes as needed to bring up the bow. He was especially careful to emphasize the need for caution. Before any of the fish could be fired, they would need to be disarmed and their targeting mechanisms disabled. The history of the submarine contained far too many chronicles of vessels being hit and sunk by their own torpedoes. Such things could happen—ranging from human error, to a mechanical malfunction, to dumb, bad luck—and there were definite precautions to perform to prevent them.
“Our main objective is to get as much weight out of the bow as possible…as quickly as possible,” he said. “You must work fast, but you cannot sacrifice safety for speed.”
“You can rely on us,” said Schlag. He was a tough-looking character who’d worked as a bouncer in a Munchen cabaret before the war. An ugly scar on the left side of his neck snaked down across his collarbone, and it was so striking, no one ever dared ask how he’d gotten it.
At that moment, Manfred Fassbaden appeared at the open hatchway. “Herr Schlag,” he said. “I suggest you and I disable the fish personally.”
“Yes sir,” said the Gunnery Officer. Turning, he began organizing his crew to handle the torpedoes as efficiently and rapidly as possible. Erich stood by long enough to see Manny and Schlag open the first torpedo with pliers and drivers, then carefully remove the magnetic detonator. After they resealed the compartment, two other gunnery mates placed the undersea missile on the conveyor, which fed it into the bow tube. Another crewman clanged the chamber shut and opened the outer hatch to fill the chamber with seawater.
“Ready,” he said.
“Launch as soon as possible,” said Fassbaden.
Schlag nodded, then pulled the fire-control lever. There was a subtle shudder as the torpedo slipped from the tube. The entire operation had taken no more than four minutes.
No way to know how many torpedoes would do the trick. Erich did not wish to do the calculations on how much time must pass before he would know if his gamble would pay off.