Erich Bruckner
Under Greenland, May 1, 1945
Bischoff’s efforts to reach anyone at Station One Eleven had been met with silence—other than the white noise of an open channel. That could mean damage to the staff’s equipment, or an unattended radio room. The latter possibility bothered Erich. Communications facilities were never abandoned or ignored—unless some kind of catastrophic event had happened.
Bischoff had, however, acquired a fix on the open channel, and Erich’s rescue team would be able to home in on it.
His other concern did not appear as dire. The early report from the damage control team was not as bad as he’d feared.
As suspected, the diving plane on the starboard side had been bent just enough to affect its performance. Since it was located below the waterline, the repair would be troublesome, but not impossible. The breach in the escape hatch, which had cut off the aft torpedo crew, proved more of a problem. And once the U-5001 had surfaced, the water had to be pumped out of the flooded chamber. Kress had a team working feverishly to hammer and bang the hatch back into alignment, but Erich knew there would be no certain way to check the airtight quality of the seal until they were in the open sea, diving under pressure. Not the kind of test any submariner wanted to apply—especially when anything less than total success could be your your demise.
Before departing the boat, Erich sat in his quarters, staring at his personal journal rather than the boat’s official log. Ever since he’d joined the Kriegsmarine, he’d been keeping his journals—initiating a new one for each new boat on which he’d served. In the beginning, he believed he was doing it for his children. Having come from a military family, it had been a long and honored custom to compile memoirs of a man’s time in service to the Fatherland. But he had since stopped thinking about having a family, and was now recording his personal feelings and observations more out of habit than anything else.
Better to stop that line of thinking. He wrote down his experiences in self-defense. He needed rational thoughts to shield him from reminders of the terrible loss this war had exacted upon him. But he had no desire to actually test them out. He might re-read his journals on some far future day—if that day would ever come—but not any time soon.
He reached for a bottle of schnapps, and poured a small glass. He did not prefer the peppermint flavor, but it was all they had provided for the voyage. Erich would not complain because he really needed to drink some alcohol.
As he sat sipping and staring at the closed cover of his journal, he knew there was no time to make any entries at the moment, but he wondered what the next few hours would bring, what he might write in the next few pages.
Right now, he needed to face facts head-on. He and his crew had been thrown into a new mission that may change everything. He had no idea what kind of emergency had happened here, and how he dealt with it would surely be crucial. He needed to conclude business here as soon as possible before returning to his original mission, which was in jeopardy if he could not rendezvous with the cruiser, Sturm.
But as he sat there, trying to organize his thoughts in short, dry sentences, he realized he was ignoring his gut instincts.
Something about this place did not feel right.
It was more than its location or its extraordinary geologic profile, but Erich could not identify it any more than to say it disturbed him. Like some other creations of his country’s leaders, this one also…scared him.
And that was a big problem because he knew he could not let any of his crew know such a thing—not even his officers, except Manny, who would understand, and perhaps share his dark intuition. Newton Bischoff, who was so inflated with all the party hype, would assume there was nothing here beyond the scope of the Third Reich; Helmut Massenburg, being the perfect soldier in an imperfect world, would see this as just another mission to be completed; and Ostermann, with his heavily analytical mind, would see things more or less as a puzzle to be worked out—something no more threatening than a set of Chinese rings.
Erich, however, could not avoid the feeling it was a bit more complicated than that.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Captain, I have news.” Fassbaden’s voice resonated through the cabin door.
“Come in.”
Opening the door, Manny leaned his tall frame forward, stepped into the cabin. “Busy?”
Erich shrugged. “Close the door, Manny.”
His exec did so, then pulled up the only other chair in the room. He sat with his hands interlaced in front of him as though he were in the waiting room of a doctor. “The rescue team is ready to depart. The hydroplane fix will probably hold, Kress tells me. The aft escape hatch may be a problem. The tolerances are small, and he cannot guarantee a proper seal.”
Erich exhaled softly. “Without a machine shop and a foundry at his disposal, I cannot expect miracles. My only concern now is that we are seaworthy enough to continue the mission.”
“I believe we are. We can always continue with only the exit chamber flooded and the lower hatch sealed.”
“Good. Good,” said Erich, looking at his old friend with a sardonic grin. “The larger question is when we will continue the original mission.”
Manny leaned forward, removed his officer’s cap and ran a large, bony hand through his thick hair. Like many of the crew, he had also stopped shaving and his beard was struggling through the stage that made any man look like an unkempt tramp. “I agree. How much time will we lose in this place?”
“Exactly. Something happened here, Manny. And I have a feeling it was very bad. There may not be anyone left to rescue or recover.”
“And I assume you want my input.”
Erich nodded. “But quickly, we need to get ashore.”
Reaching for a cigarette, he shook two out of his pack. After he and Erich had ignited them, they leaned back, watched the thin blue streams they exhaled.
“All right,” said Manny. “As you may expect, I have been thinking about our situation. We are now in the month of May. Eisenhower is almost in Berlin, and if we are smart, we should be praying he beats the Russians to the Reichstag.”
Erich knew where his friend was headed with the conversation. They shared a similar one in a bar called die Wharfratte in Trondheim before shipping out on the U-5001. There were many thousands of very unhappy Russian soldiers looking for some revenge against the Germans. If the communists gained control of the Fatherland, there would be a terrible punishment meted out, whereas the Americans would, in their patronizing way, believe they should spread their democracy over the landscape like so much fertilizer.
“Are you suggesting we cancel the remainder of the mission?” Erich was not ready to admit he had entertained that very notion; he needed input from his friend.
“No, I have not reached that point, yet. We need to see what has happened here. But we also need to consider all the implications, all the options.”
“No doubt you have been thinking about them.”
Fassbaden nodded. He held up his hand, ticking off each point, finger by finger. “One—we are expected to meet the Sturm in six days. Two—Ostermann says we are presently a little less than 1600 nautical miles from rendezvous at Montauk Point. Three—that means—even if we maintained a less than optimum submerged speed of 20 knots—we will need a minimum of four days to be in position.”
Erich grinned. “It looks like you have given this very much thought. What about the maneuvers? The tests were never completed.”
Fassbaden shook his head, smiled. “I think we can safely conclude this boat is seaworthy. Were it not, we would be dead by now.”
“Agreed.” Erich stood. “Let’s get that rescue party off.”
Manny hesitated.
“What? More?”
Fassbaden shrugged. “Not that much. I would never say this to anyone else, but what is the point of finishing this mission? We both agree the war is over. The ‘Bulge’ proved that.”
“It was not von Runstedt’s fault,” said Erich wistfully. “It was a bad plan.”
“You speak as if our ‘Fuhrer’ actually had a few good ones.” Fassbaden scowled. “Christ in heaven, how did we get ourselves into this mess?”
“We would make ourselves crazy trying to answer that. Stay on course—we must decide if the mission is even worth completing.”
Fassbaden looked at him like a detective sorting out evidence. “If you know more than the rest of us, then I am not qualified to give my opinion.”
“That is true. And there is one part of the mission entrusted only to me.”
“Which is?”
Erich shrugged. Given their current situation, did it matter if he shared top secrets with his friend? “Are you telling me you have not considered the facts you already know? Manny, you have probably pulled together all the final pieces of the puzzle.”
Fassbaden nodded. “I have been thinking, yes. Let’s see… We carry a single plane and its payload, and we are to pick up its crew and an additional bomb. Close to New York. To what end? Why would we want to send a single plane to attack an American city?”
Erich stared at him. “I think you know. Tell me.”
“It is real?” said Fassbaden. “They did it.”
Erich nodded. “My orders were to inform the crew at the rendezvous point. So what if I am a little early.”
“Unbelievable!”
Both men sat silently for a moment. They had both been privy to the rumors circulating through High Command that Heisenberg and the rest of German physicists were a lot closer to creating what was called a “fission bomb” than anyone imagined. Their quest had been called Project Norway, and the payload aboard the ME-5X was indeed a product of that secret weapons program.
“They want us to drop a super-bomb on New York.”
“Yes, and if it works, a second one on Washington. The Sturm is bringing it to us.”
“Oh my God…” Manny looked pale.
“The question begins and ends with us. Do we need to do this?” said Erich. “Will the killing of maybe 100,000 civilians change the course of the war, or just make us a special group of murderers?”
“What about Dresden? Why did they do it to a place like that?”
Erich nodded. “I know. I have heard all the same reasons as you. Although, even Goering admitted the firestorm was unexpected. And the Brits tried to justify it as payback for Coventry before that.”
“Yes, I have heard all that.”
Erich felt disgusted by it all. “Well, what the hell are we talking about, Manny? Are we in a fucking war, or not?”
Fassbaden flushed—either from embarrassment or anger, it did not matter. “Yes, we are…”
“So I ask you—do we continue the madness, or do we stop it?”
“That is sounding fearfully noble, Captain.”
Erich knew his friend was serious when he addressed him as “Captain.” He used the formality as a means of distancing himself from his friend. “Is that such a bad thing? I have to tell you—I am weary of being a soldier.”
“You are not alone in that.”
“If we drop a bomb on New York,” said Erich. “We will not bring back Dresden. Or anyone else who died in this mess.”
“I know, I know,” said Fassbaden. “I am not comfortable making decisions like this. It makes me question my own purpose. Whether or not I have wasted my time, my life.”
“I think that is a question most soldiers must face.”
“More so for the ones who fight on the losing side.” Manny grinned with absolutely no humor intended.
“It is natural to feel this way. You do not have to explain yourself.” Erich smiled the fatherly smile all captains practice in the mirror. “In the meantime, I trust you took some great care in selecting two crews.”
“Two?” His exec looked at him with curiosity. Manny tilted his head, raked his large hand through his hair again.
“One for the rescue team. And the other to stay here and take care of my boat.”
“Where do you want me?” said Fassbaden.
“I want someone on board I can trust, and that would be you. But I also want you with me.”
“Sounds like you have a problem.”
“I think Massenburg can keep things under control here,” said Erich, who valued the Warrant Officer’s age, experience, and loyalty.
“Agreed.”
“All right, get the lifeboat ready for launch. Crew of six, not counting us. Make sure Bischoff is one of them—it’s not that I do not trust him alone, but I feel better having such a party loyalist close at hand. And get me that troublemaker, Liebling. I want him in my sights as well.”
“Armament?”
“MP40’s and sidearms for everyone but Liebling. Give him the toolbox and the radio—he can be Bischoff’s mule.”
Standing, Fassbaden smiled as he adjusted his officer’s cap, then moved to the door. “We will be ready in five minutes. I will inform the Chief.”
* * *
Erich walked to his wardrobe, opened a drawer in its footlocker, and retrieved his holstered Walther P38. As he snapped it over his belt, Chief Warrant Officer Massenburg reported for duty, and Erich briefed him quickly.
The old salt was such a professional sailor, he never asked for a clarification, never hesitated as he reviewed his orders and expectations. While the U-5001 was under Helmut’s watch, he would tolerate no abuses or derelictions; punishment would be swift and uncompromising.
Leaving his Chief on the control deck, Erich felt confident all would be well when he returned. He climbed the ladder to the open bridge to find Fassbaden and his handpicked crew loading the last of their gear into the lifeboat, which was an inflatable large enough to carry twelve men in a pinch. The U-5001 was equipped with enough of them to evacuate an entire crew if necessary—an event he did not want to contemplate.
As he reached the main deck, Erich could not help but notice how utterly calm the water was in this subterranean place. The U-boat lay so steady and immobile, it could have been set in concrete. While not contained by a palpable fog, there was a humidity in the air, thick enough to cloud the landscape that enclosed them. Features and details in the distance were shrouded in a thin, but concealing mist—including the source of light and heat Erich wanted to discover.
Fassbaden awaited him on the relatively small section of deck between the conning tower and the swell of the hangar, which defined the hump-backed shape of much of the aft section. Behind him, a short, heavyset man with reddish-brown hair stood glaring at him.
“Ready to shove off?” said Erich.
“Yes, Captain.” Manny gestured with his eyes to indicate the man at his back. “But first, Seaman Liebling requests a word with you.”
Normally, Erich would not have appreciated one of his men doing such a thing, but in this instance, he welcomed it.
“What is it, sailor?”
Liebling stepped out from behind Manny’s tall presence. “Captain, I only wish to make my case clear—I am not a submariner.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, captain.”
“How is it, then, that I just saw you emerge from a submarine?”
The man’s voice was a bit high-pitched, and his tone was one of careful indignation. “I was dragooned onto this boat only hours before it pushed off, and—”
“I am well aware of your situation,” said Erich, cutting him off. “Do you think for an instant I would not know everything there is to know about everyone on this boat?”
Liebling looked suitably surprised, but marshaled himself to push on. “Yes, Captain, I am sure you do, and I do not wish to suggest otherwise. I only mention it because I feel I am unfit for this…this present mission.”
Erich remained silent for a moment, letting this jackass twist in the wind a bit. Then: “Do you recall me asking you how you ‘feel’ about this mission?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Do you believe you might be a better judge of the fitness of this boat’s personnel than its captain?”
Liebling’s lower lip quivered, either from anger or anxiety. “No, sir, I do not.”
“Then why do you address me on the subject?”
“Quite simply, Captain, since you have asked—I do not wish to go.”
Erich looked at Liebling with the dispassion of a lion eyeing its next meal. A hush had settled over the men in the lifeboat as they collectively looked up to watch the small drama playing out. After perhaps a minute of silence, Erich slowly unholstered his Walther.
Liebling’s eyes widened. Several men drew in tight breaths, held them. “I am within my command to simply shoot you on a charge of mutiny,” said Erich. “But for now, this will suffice…”
Holding his sidearm by its barrel, he backhanded Liebling across his face, driving the heavy handle across his upper jaw and nose. The blow was administered with stunning quickness and Liebling’s knees folded him into a limp heap, which toppled off the deck and into the water between the sloping hull and the rubber boat.
“Yank him out of there,” said Erich as several of the men moved quickly to haul Liebling over the gunwale like a gaffed fish. Blood streamed over his face from the calculated glancing blow; his eyes had rolled back toward his forehead. He was conscious, but just barely.
When Erich looked back at Manny, his exec was trying to stifle a smile. “Quite a memorable statement, Captain.”
“Glad you appreciated it,” said Erich. “Let us push off.”
They both climbed into the boat, and the crew eased it away from the huge bulk of the U-5001. As they slipped oars into the green glass surface, the sound of their splashing sounded like a violation of the sacred silence of the place. Erich directed them toward the far shore, above which hovered the strange source of light.
As they glided away from their boat, Manny looked back and attempted to get a visual fix on its position in case they might lose it in the mist. A precaution in the event the batteries of Bischoff’s funkmaat failed. Liebling huddled alone in the stern, holding a kerchief to the side of his face. He averted his gaze from Erich, and that was exactly the posture he wanted from garbage scow material such as him.
“Take her ninety degrees of starboard,” said Erich to the men on the oars. “Use the light source as your target.”
“I brought this along,” said Manny, lifting a Leica rangefinder camera from the outer pocket of his field vest. “So we will have a record.”
“Good thinking.” Erich stared ahead into the gossamer mist, which hung close to the water’s surface, possibly because of well-defined layers of differing air temperatures. “Bischoff. Try to raise the Station again.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Erich looked into the mist and the curious light source.
“Whether they reply or not,” he said. “Soon we will have some real answers.”