Bruckner
At Sea
April 28, 1945
The air temperature felt as if it dropped ten degrees in as many seconds. Despite his desire to be topside as much as possible, it was simply too damned cold. Adjusting his cap, Erich turned toward the ladder and nudged Manny. “Come, my friend, let us get some coffee.”
They descended the ladder to the control deck in the conning tower, which was considerably larger than the Type VII boats with which Erich had been so familiar. He approached the tiny console where funkmeister and Electrical Officer Leutnant Newton Bischoff hunched over a rack of instruments. Bischoff supervised the workings of all communications and detection gear, and would have been simply called a radioman in years past. The U-5001 had been equipped with a new, top-secret device that vastly improved their ability to discover if their position was being swept by radar. A bristling mast taller than the schnorkel and the periscope, it had been nicknamed “the Eye,” and was far more efficient than the old “Biscay Cross” the U-boats had been using in the earlier years of the war. Erich remembered how cumbersome the Cross had been, and how the enemy had soon learned to use the instrument as a reflective homing beacon, which had ironically made the surfaced U-boats even easier targets to find and destroy.
Newton Bischoff stood at the sight of his captain, despite the relaxed protocol undersea. Erich did not care for Bischoff personally because he’d swallowed the National Socialist Party’s philosophies so completely, but he had been the best available electronics man.
“Everything in order, Leutnant?” said Erich.
“Working perfectly. We are entering a very hot part of the grid,” said Bischoff. “I will be ready.”
Erich nodded. “I know you will.”
Turning back to join Fassbaden, Erich reflected on what Bischoff had emphasized. The allies had begun patrolling the mouth of the Skagerrak with impunity, as if daring the U-boat flotillas to attack the korvettes and destroyers. And all along the coast of Norway, it was becoming increasingly difficult to break through the blockades and into the deeper ocean waters. The allies had completely turned the tables on the U-boats over the last three years. Somehow, they had topped every new weapon, tactic, and technological development.
But even the enemy’s finest minds could not have imagined something so formidable as the U-5001.
As Erich moved aft toward the galley, Fassbaden close behind, the sturdy thrum of the big diesels sounded powerful and reassuring to him. It meant his boat was healthy and strong, knifing through the increasingly frigid waters of the northern open sea.
Entering the galley, Erich could not help but note again how everything still looked so new, so unused. The stainless steel, the painted bulkheads and hatches, the stoves and ovens, the floors—all unscratched, unstained or unblemished.
“This place looks too clean,” he said with a smile. “But I have a feeling we will be doing plenty to fix that quite soon.”
Fassbaden poured two mugs of coffee and slid one to Erich. Hot and full of sleep-depriving caffeine, it was just what he needed. How nice it would be to have a sweet linzertort to go along with it, he thought wistfully. It would be a long time before he had a chance to sample the favorite pastry of his youth. Perhaps never again…
And in some ways—some very important ways, Erich did not really care.
His main reason for ardently wishing to return home to his native Frankfurt had been torn from his life in a terror-filled night of Brit bombers. In the autumn of 1944, during one of the clockwork-like raids of Lancasters over the city, a stray 500-pounder had pulverized the home of his in-laws, who had made the fatal mistake of inviting their oldest daughter, Frieda, to dinner. Frieda had been Erich’s wife of only two years. From what he’d been able to learn, the house had taken a direct hit, and no one inside the structure could have felt a thing. Death had been instantaneous, and in that, Erich had grasped for something of comfort. His wife had not suffered, and in war, that kind of death was indeed a gift.
It had been hard to continue at first. He’d been tortured by waves of conflicting emotions for months. Guilt that he and his fellow kriegsmariners had failed to sink enough of the freighters bringing so many bombs and planes and supplies from that bottomless storehouse of America. If only the U-boat war had been more successful, maybe Frieda would still be alive.
How many times had he proposed that argument to himself? The temptation might surface to blame oneself, but he never did. How many times had he actually blamed himself?
Blame was a funny thing.
Erich had spent months contemplating the series of events and connections between them. His education in the Frankfurt Military Academy for Boys had required he be a well-read young man, and he had learned much from the scientists and the philosophers. But all the Kant and Schopenhauer and Bacon could not dull his pain, or his Nietzchian need for a powerful retribution at any cost.
But the question lingered: retribution against whom?
Although he would never admit his conclusion to anyone other than his closet friend, Manny Fassbaden, Erich blamed his own country, or more specifically its psychotic government, for killing his wife.
He knew he was not alone among career military men in feeling like that, just as he knew he must keep silent his opinion or risk hanging for treason.
His country had not given him a reason to live or even fight. When they assigned him the U-5001 mission, he willingly accepted the orders—as much because his fellow officers deemed it a suicide mission as anything else.
“…and I suspect you have not been listening to me, Captain,” said Manfred Fassbaden with a grin.
The words pulled Erich from the depths of his thoughts, and he realized he’d been far, far away from the U-5001. “I am sorry…what were you saying, Manny? I was ‘woolgathering’…thinking about something else…”
His Exec smiled, lowered his gaze. He was a big man trying to look smaller. “What I was saying was just something to pass the time. It was nothing.”
“I was thinking of things past. And how so many of us wish we could live in it,” said Erich. “But, I am beginning to believe it is not even a good idea to visit there.”
Fassbaden clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “War is a time of history. It reeks of the past. It is unavoidable.”
Erich understood what his friend was trying to say, but right now, it was not working. “I am uncertain how to put my feelings into words sometimes,” he said. “But…but I have this conviction…that this is my last cruise.”
“That sounds dire,” said Fassbaden.
“Not really. This war is nearing its end. If we win or lose, it will be decided in this year, I am certain. But regardless, the mission of this boat will end it—for me. Either we will succeed, or we won’t. And I don’t mind telling you how weary I am of all this mess. So tired of all the long, dead hours under the sea, all the inventing of ways to pass those hours. I am tired of the heroic speeches to my crews and the required reminders of what a great nation we’ve always been. All the inspiring history lessons I have delivered—I feel like I should have a professorship!”
Fassbaden grinned. He understood perfectly. Morale on the U-boats was a fragile, ephemeral thing. Without it, Erich knew, your crew consigned everyone to the bottom.
He drank deeply from his mug, placed it on the table, looked at his Executive Officer. “Sometimes I wonder if such thoughts will impair my duties.”
Fassbaden gave a suggestion of standing at attention by straightening his spine for an instant. A subtle display of respect. “You have always been the finest leader I have ever served under. That is the simple truth. It is an honor to trust my life to your decisions.”
“Thank you, Manny. You are a good friend.”
The last words of Erich’s sentence were masked in the blare of the klaxon calling them to battle stations.
“Mein Gott!” said Fassbaden. “Already?”
Dropping the coffee mug, Erich turned toward the corridor leading back to the control deck. “Let us go,” he said in an even voice.
Tension flooded the narrow enclosure of the boat, and Erich listened to the restrained panic of men running to their stations. A rhythmic chaos embraced them all, set to meter by the ugly klaxon-cry.
As they entered the control deck, everyone turned and saluted them, an odd formality suddenly gripping everyone. Erich could feel the difference in the air, a willingness among the men to die in a clean fight. It was like walking into the fetid odor of a locker room, and Erich felt a tightening in his gut.
Boot leather slapped at ladder rungs as the pilot and the watch reentered the conning tower. The hatch to the bridge clanged shut, and the two crewmen dropped to the deck and scattered to their stations.
“Status,” said Erich to anyone who had information for him.
“We have been swept by radar!” said Newton Bischoff. “Aircraft, most likely.”
“Distance?”
“Hard to say,” said Bischoff. “Ten miles at least.”
“Maintaining original course,” said the helmsman.
“Dive!” said Erich. “Twenty meters…”
His men leaned into their tasks as the main vents were opened and the cold seawater rushed in. The U-5001 tilted down at a beautiful angle, accepting her command to slip into the depths with precision and power. It was a big boat, but handled like a minnow in a pond. A slippery “ease” was the way the helmsman had described her, and Erich understood what he meant. As captain, he’d long ago learned how to sense the responsiveness of a U-boat; and some of them were silky and some were like cement wagons. You never knew until you put it under weigh, but he liked what he felt of his first impressions of the U-5001. This boat had been so well-designed, that if need arose, it could be maneuvered by only a handful of men.
“Eighteen…” said Fassbaden. “…and descending…steady as she goes.”
“Bischoff,” said Erich. “How good is that new ‘Eye’ of yours?”
Erich understood the experimental equipment was supposed to be able to detect enemy radio transmissions from a depth of twenty-five meters, but he would believe it when he witnessed it himself.
“Two Sunderlands,” said Bischoff, indicating the British “flying boats” whose radar had found them. “We got pinged and they started talking. Probably locked on us and getting their cans ready…”
The thought of suffering through a depth charge attack so early into the mission was more than depressing. A brief impulse to simply surrender and let the war pass him by streaked through his thoughts. It would be so easy…
That the Brits could catch them so quickly was frustrating, but worse—debilitating to the crew’s belief they would be successful. The net of detection maintained by the Royal Navy had been too damned good! How were they doing it?
“Rig for silence,” said Erich.
“They are almost right over top of us!” said Bischoff.
“Take her down, Manny. Avoidance depth.”
In the old Type VII boats, that would be 125 meters, or a push to 150 in a desperate situation. But the U-5001, with her bigger, stronger hull, was rated for at least 200 meters, which should be more than enough to stay beneath the detonation depths the enemy usually set on their charges. As the angle of their descent increased, so did Erich’s confidence they would escape with relative ease.
“Lost contact…” said Bischoff. “Though I think I heard the first cans hitting the water.”
“Still descending,” said Fassbaden, hunched over his gauges. “150…”
There was a curious groaning of the bulkheads as the steel ribs of the hull absorbed their first encounter with ocean pressure. It was normal on a new boat to hear such sounds, but they never failed to get everyone’s attention. As if the deck could grow any more quiet…
Then the silence was pierced by an abrupt series of concussions. The shockwaves rattled the boat, but far less severely than Erich had ever experienced.
“Not so bad,” he said, making sure to smile broadly and let his men see him being so defiantly cheerful.
Either the hull was a lot thicker and stronger than he’d figured, or the charges were going off at a great distance…maybe both. Whatever the reason, the attack appeared feeble.
“170…185 meters…” said Fassbaden. “ Approaching avoidance depth.”
“Steady as she goes,” said Erich.
Another series of underwater explosions rumbled above them. This time even weaker, more distant.
No one spoke as the floor beneath them gradually leveled out. Everyone exhaled at the same time. No U-boat crewman would ever lie so poorly to swear he felt comfortable when the bubble-indicator told you the nose of your boat was pointed at the bottom.
“Keel even,” said Fassbaden. “Maintaining course at 18 knots.”
Erich held their current station status for another 15 minutes. There was one final flurry of depth charges, but so faint and far away, he knew they were out of danger.
As he and his crew had all stood rock-solid and silent, waiting for whatever the Sunderlands and fate might be sending their way, Erich had a brief image pass through him of Frieda smiling for a photograph he’d taken the last day he’d seen her. It was odd how it came out of nowhere and vanished just as quickly.
It was like a surreal message—something to remind him he no longer had a normal life ahead of him.
In that sense, he never wanted the war to end.
And what an odd irony was that? To be so weary of the war and yet desperately yearn for its continuance.
He shook his head slowly, refocusing on the moment.
“Resume normal running, Herr Fassbaden,” said Erich. “Take her up to schnorkel depth.”
“What about the ‘Eye,’?” said Leutnant Bischoff.
Erich grinned. “Keep it closed for now. It works, but maybe too well. I am not yet convinced we have not just devised a more efficient Biscay Cross for the Tommies.”
Everyone snickered on the control deck. Everyone except Newton Bischoff, that is…Erich knew the young Nazi was proud of his new toy, and hoped it was not the colossal failure of its predecessors.
“150 meters and rising…” said the Exec as the bow of the boat tilted ever-upward. “140…”
Erich moved close to Fassbaden, spoke in a low voice. “Thoughts on those Sunderlands?”
“It was almost like they were waiting for us.”
“They were, but they wait for any boat leaving Trondheim.”
“True enough.” Fassbaden rubbed his chin thoughtfully, watched his gauges.
“All the more reason I like our current route,” said Erich.
Manny nodded. “The northern path.”
“Authorized by Admiral Doenitz himself. But in case we need assistance, there will be no milchkows or surface ships close at hand.”
“He knew it was a risk.”
Erich nodded. “A risk he was willing to take.”
“Yes.” Manny grinned. “For us!”
“That is an Admiral’s job.” Erich did not envy Doenitz, especially since he was stuck so close under the Fuhrer’s nose.
His Exec moved over to a small, but functional map table where Warrant Officer Ostermann’s navigational charts and tools lay in wait. “It will take longer. Use more fuel.”
“But it will be unexpected. No convoys or even fighting ships up there.” Erich regarded the path on the map.
“True enough.”
“Make yourself familiar with the chart. We parallel the east coast of Greenland, make a run past Cape Farewell and south to St. John’s. From there, we move on to our rendezvous points undetected.”
“I see it clearly,” said Manny.
“Once clear of St. John’s, we can maneuver in the open seas, conduct all the requested tests and drills, and then south to the Jersey coast.”
Fassbaden looked thoughtfully at the map for another moment. “Unexpected and unconventional—just like the rest of this mission.”
Erich nodded, tapped a point on the map northeast of Greenland where there was nothing but the massive shelf of ice over the great island’s coastal escarpment. “Not much up there along these coordinates. We should be safe enough.”
Ostermann, the navigator, approached the table. He was a short, prototypical Aryan. Bright blue eyes and strong, angular jaw. No more than twenty-five years old, and full of hope and idealism. Erich knew it would not take long to wring both qualities from him like bilge from a dirty sponge.
“Within two miles of the ice shelf, Captain?”
“That will be sufficient. Less if necessary.”
“Schnorkel depth. Snort operational!” said one of the others on the control deck. The sound of the diesels thumping accompanied his notice.
Erich allowed himself a small smile. The batteries would soon be back up to full capacity, and once they cleared the northern point of Iceland, he would chance another surface-run. His sense of impending disaster had left him, perhaps in part due to their successful dodge of the sub-hunting aircraft, and he was beginning to feel as if they might make it.
After all, they were under the strictest of orders to not engage the enemy in any fashion. They were, in fact, to do everything in their power to keep the enemy from any inkling of suspicion that the U-5001 even existed.
Earlier in the war, Captain Erich Bruckner knew he would have found such orders demeaning and unworthy of a true warrior, but things have a way of changing, do they not?