by Otto Giese and Captain James E. Wise, Jr.
Otto Giese (1914–2001) lived a life intertwined with the sea. At age nineteen, he began serving aboard square-rigger sailing vessels and transoceanic freighters, then went to the German Nautical Academy for his mate’s license. World War II was declared while he was working aboard the ocean liner SS Columbus, resulting in the ship being scuttled and his interment in Angel Island prison near San Francisco. Promptly escaping, he returned to Germany, where he trained for U-boat duty, serving in the major theaters of war in the Far East, North Atlantic, and Indian Ocean. Captured by the British during the war, he was interned in the notorious Changi jail in Malaya, and not released until 1947. Afterward, he obtained his master’s license and began his own international shipping line, living first in Cuba, then moving to the United States, where he lived for the rest of his life. His papers chronicling his life as a submariner are on file with the United States Naval Academy, and provide detailed insight into the history and everyday life of a German submariner.
The life of his writing partner on Shooting the War, Captain James E. Wise, Jr., is no less impressive. He served as a naval aviator, then an intelligence officer aboard the aircraft carrier USS America, and was the commanding officer of various naval intelligence units. He has also written and cowritten several books about the military, including an autobiography of James Arness, and U-505: The Final Journey, detailing the transportation of a German U-boat to the grounds of the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry, and then its transfer inside the museum itself. He has also written three books on the lives of actors who served in the armed forces, including Stars in Blue: Movie Actors in America’s Sea Services, Stars in the Corps: Movie Actors in the United States Marines, and Stars in Khaki: Movie Actors in the Army and Air Services. His latest book is Sole Survivors of the Sea.
Although the Axis and Allied forces were bitter enemies during World War II, for the average soldiers and sailors, life was very similar on both sides of the conflict. German submarine crews functioned much the same as the U.S. and British crews—they sweated, suffered, lived, and fought much as their opponents did, and complained about the same problems, played practical jokes on one another, and served their country to the best of their ability, even after they knew that their homeland was going to lose the war.
On 16 March 1944 we said farewell to Bordeaux in company with the U-196 (Captain Kentrat) and seven minesweepers. Captain Freiwald directed our departure smartly from the bridge. As we headed south we surfaced twice a day to charge our batteries, two hours shortly after sunset and two hours in the early morning. There was no sunlight for us anymore, only when we would glance through the periscope. At night the lights of the Spanish coast glittered. Numerous fishing boats caused us to proceed with great care. We ran a day routine at night and slept during the day. This was standard procedure for a long, submerged tour.
In the early morning of 23 March, while proceeding off Lisbon on a course for the Madeira Islands, we heard the high revolutions of a passing destroyer. We were at a depth of forty meters. Luckily, the destroyer didn’t detect our passage.
After long hours under water the air would turn bad, 2.5 percent carbon dioxide. When the boat was surfacing, the pressure stabilized; before the conning tower hatch was even opened, one could see the bad air escaping. Boiling water in the messman’s pots would suddenly surge up and vaporize. We would get up and salute when this stinking mess passed out of the boat.
Apropos saluting, there was no such thing as raising the arm in a “Heil Hitler.” Space was too limited, and the saluter might have hit someone, perhaps the commandant, and nobody wanted to run that risk. If we saluted Nazi style among each other, we just plugged the thumb of the right hand into the pocket of our pants and raised the off hand. Otherwise we just stood at attention, leisurely, when we made a report to our chief. On the “bridge” we saluted in the old military manner, U-boat style, with slightly bent fingers to the cap, a grin on the bearded face, and some pointed joke on the lips. That’s how it was with us, and that’s how it must have been with all the salt-crusted U-boatmen on other boats.
One morning Captain Freiwald appeared in the central room with a bucket of hot salt water and his dirty clothes. We thought that he would call his orderly, but no—calmly and without a word he sat down and started washing. What a commandant! This gave me the idea to have a hot saltwater hose-down for the crew behind the diesels during our next two-hour surface run. What a delicious feeling it was! What a life!
We were now off Gibraltar. During our last nights in the Atlantic we often heard depth charges detonating, but they were far away. On 26 March we watched our first film, Val Parez, in the “bow theater.” We closed the Madeira Islands on the twenty-eighth, marveling at their beauty through the action periscope.
It was now stifling in the boat. The air was dull and sultry. Our perspiration wouldn’t dry anymore and our beards began to grow and get itchy. Only Tosca and our Köllnisch Wasser helped.
On 1 April we passed the Canary Islands. That same day we received a message from headquarters directing us to operate in an area southeast of Madagascar. During our short surface intervals I had my men overhaul the antiaircraft guns. They suffered from the constant underwater cruising. I had to do each hand grip myself to guarantee complete operational readiness in case of an emergency.
We celebrated the birthday of our navigation chief petty officer that first week in April. The “special occasion” record was played, and in the central room the commandant and the officer corps congratulated the young man. A bottle of liquor was passed through the boat to mark the event. Surfacing, submerging, up and down we went to receive orders from the BdU regarding our forthcoming rendezvous with a returning Monsoon boat, the U-188. Our poor engineer, Hille, was near exhaustion with no rest in sight. The daily paper Typhoon kept us informed about events on the battlefields. The Russians were at the German and Romanian borders. How will that end? we wondered. Something had to happen soon!
We were sure that our dear ones at home had been informed that we were still alive. Prior to our departure, we had organized a communications system whereby the commandant’s wife, who received nonsensitive information about the boat, would pass on the news by telephone or letter to families of the officers, who would in turn contact relatives of the crewmen.
We passed the Cape Verde islands at Eastertime and our thoughts turned to home and loved ones. The canteen issued chocolate, candies, and fruit juice. We listened to concert music and had a film showing in our bow room.
The interior of the boat was by now so moist that the lockers streamed with water. Leather surfaces were soon covered with a thick layer of gray mold. Nearly everyone had ailments—headaches, fevers, colds. We were now daring to surface for up to six hours at night. My dogwatch was exhausting because of little sleep, fresh air, and the strain of intense lookout duty. The night wasn’t safe anymore in southern Atlantic waters. At any moment aircraft could appear from nowhere and toss a bomb down on our steel tube, which glowed in the otherwise pitch-dark tropical water.
On 22 April we rendezvoused with the U-188, a returning Monsoon boat. It was a memorable sight when two of the largest-type U-boats ran side by side, two ghostly shadows within calling distance.
After we received valuable information about our area of operations in the Indian Ocean, we parted and passed into the night with three short “Hip-hip-hurrah!”s.
By wireless we heard that the U-488 (Captain Studt) was no longer responding to calls from the BdU. His young wife in Bordeaux was suddenly a widow. We were all anxious to take revenge.
Several days later, while submerged, we heard propeller noises on our hydrophones. It was 1400, my section was on watch. Going to periscope depth, we sighted a loaded freighter ahead of us. We surfaced and gave chase but had to dive when a plane was sighted. An hour later we surfaced again. We caught up with the freighter and positioned ourselves about 6,500 yards ahead of her. We attacked as clouds covered the moon. Our torpedoes found their mark and the ship went down fast. Only a few of the crew managed to get into the ship’s lifeboats. When we approached them, I asked one of the men the name of the ship. He mumbled a name that sounded like Benavan. In fact, it turned out to be the British freighter Janeta.
On 9 May we celebrated the two-year anniversary of our boat with a half-bottle of beer for each of the crew. We were now entering the area of Cape Town, and the seas were getting rough. The boat plunged through deepening waves that sent sheets of swirling water over the conning tower. Oilcloth and leather clothing were changed in quick succession. The happiest hours on board were those of the afternoon coffeebreak in the officers’ mess when we played games, or those hours after dinner when we would spin yarns and sip a small jigger of rice wine, a gift from the crew of the U-188.
We thought we sighted a smoke cloud but were disappointed. It was only the blowing of a whale. More excitement came soon. Our boat was rigged with a Bachstelze. This was a small, single, piloted helicopter attached to a long steel cable and lifted into the air by the speed of our boat while the cable was gradually reeled out. From his position aloft, the pilot had a 360-degree view and could report any vessels. One day, as I was busy on watch keeping the boat running against a strong wind while our aviator flew aloft, the man at the hawser reel yelled, “Sir, sir, look, the cable snapped!” I looked up. Our hapless pilot was spiraling down toward the water. Eventually he hit the surface with a huge splash. The pilot seemed okay. However, a new danger quickly appeared. Thinking he was a wounded fish, several large albatrosses and numerous seagulls descended on him, trying to peck his head. Before serious wounds could be inflicted, we picked up the stunned airman, who was received with roars of laughter by the crew. Nobody was sorry that the helicopter was gone. It had been more trouble than it was worth.
We rounded the cape on 17 May, Father’s Day.
Our poor “Doc” Buchholz had little hair left on his scalp, and to keep what he had and perhaps grow more, he used a tonic known in the German navy as Trylisin. The bottle stood quite prominent in his open locker. In a moment of recklessness, one of the crew suggested that some ingredients be added to it while Doc was busy at the radar station. This we did, enriching the potion with liquor, sugar, and glue. At night, when all of us watch-free officers rested in our bunks, Doc would attend to the remarkable work of massaging his shiny scalp with his fingers. That night everyone watched from behind their curtains, hardly able to restrain their laughter when he poured the sticky liquid into his hands and started rubbing it over his scalp. The grimaces he gave the mirror when he combed his few remaining hairs and watched them depart with the comb! We asked him why Trylisin had so many sediments in it; he explained that the chemical formula was such and such, and that naturally here in the tropics the alcohol would evaporate… poor Doc.
But, in need of a scapegoat, we were not quite through with Doc. Another plan was shaped one night during an officers’ meeting. We ground some carbon pills to a very fine powder and poured it into his heavy U-boat boots. Although he wore socks, his feet soon turned black. The carbon was not easily removed, not even with soap and a brush. What a painful situation for the ship’s doctor, known as the neatest man on board, to have to wait each night until his fellow officers were asleep to start scrubbing his shamefully dirty feet. Only when we told him of our experience with Bordelaise powder, which stained our feet gray, did he catch on.
It wasn’t long before he got even. Within days our toothpaste had acquired the bitter taste of quinine, and when we urinated the stream was either red or green. Not knowing the cause, we mentioned this discreetly to Doc, who told us the most horrible things about kidney and bladder trouble. We were in shock until he confessed to his revenge.
We finally reached our operational area, some two hundred miles southeast of Madagascar, in early June. We patrolled the shipping routes between Durban and Colombo, Aden, and Australia with no luck. The weather was almost too good, with beautiful sunsets and clear, moonlit nights. No smoke clouds appeared on the horizon.
Doc vaccinated the entire crew against cholera. My reaction was fever and the shivers.
On 6 June 1944 we received the depressing news that Allied forces had landed between Le Havre and Barfleur in France. They had launched an all-out invasion. But the reports added that the enemy had been thrown back, suffering heavy losses. The BdU ordered all U-boats to exert themselves to the utmost.
Finally on 19 June we sighted a distant freighter. The hunt was short. A single torpedo sent the Dutch ship Garoet to the bottom. Safety lights flared in the water. Rafts and boats bobbed up and down around us. The men in the boats answered my questions willingly, giving the name of the vessel, its cargo (sugar and coal), departure port (Bombay), and destination (Durban). In return, we told them the shortest route to the coast.
The southwest monsoon was blowing with force now. The constant rolling and eternal spray over the conning tower kept us more than busy wiping our glasses. No sightings… We were in low spirits. During these days it was over 50°C in the diesel room, damp and hellishly hot. One day, at the end of my watch, it started raining in torrents. I kept the boat under the dark cloud, and part of the crew, including Captain Freiwald, appeared on the bridge naked as God made them to rub off their coats of grime.
We passed the northern cape of the Laccadive islands, some two hundred miles from the mainland of India. The sky was covered with dark gray rain-clouds. Enemy planes might have attacked us at any minute, but we remained on the surface. I couldn’t get rid of a certain tension inside me. Perhaps it was the climate of the monsoon which strained my nerves.
On 15 July l944 we arrived at a position about thirty miles off the coast of India. At 1815 a ship was sighted. The enemy was automatically zigzagging, and we had difficulty getting to a forward attack position. The night drifted in around us. Our Naxos (radar warning) detection system sounded at about 2200. We stayed surfaced, close to our prey, not wanting to lose her in the darkness. Then finally we attacked with two torpedoes, scoring two hits on the British ship Tanda. The detection signal got louder and louder, reaching a force 5. If it was a plane, it should have been on top of us. We dived, leaving the sinking ship behind. Two hours later we surfaced cautiously only to be driven down again by detection signals.
The next morning propeller noises sounded again. They were distinct, slow revolutions. Either a ship was running with caution or her crew was careless. We waited and listened as the sound grew. Freiwald decided to take a look through the periscope. He saw nothing.
A hunting fever came over the officers. We talked of precedents in such situations and decided to surface and attack. Freiwald went directly to the bridge with the watch officer and five men. The atmosphere was tense. Below, we waited. The propeller noises continued. We began to wonder if they were real or some phenomenon of the sea around us. Then came the terrifying call from above: “ALAARRMM!” The men tumbled down from the bridge and we went into a steep dive. The watch officer looked at me with a sweaty face. “Twin motorplane out of the sun. Saw it too late.” Everyone looked up, waiting for the explosions.
Four hammer blows rocked the boat when we reached forty meters. All electricity went off. A high-pressure pipeline burst and blew off into the central room with an incredible noise. Compressed air streamed fiercely into the compartment. The hydroplanes were jammed in a hard down position, giving the boat an increasing forward list; 20, 30, 35 degrees and still we continued down. The bottom was now some sixty meters below. The electrical motors suddenly stopped when a coupling failed to release. There was an immediate overload, and all the fuses blew.
Our disciplined crew acted and acted fast. Within seconds, the damages were pinpointed. The defective piping was turned off. Both hydroplanes were shifted to manual operation, new fuzes for the E-motors installed, emergency lights switched on. Minutes later the heavily battered boat was under control.
On orders from Freiwald, our chief engineer leveled the boat at eighty meters. Then, gradually, we began to repair the worst damage as the boat crept along at three knots. The starboard fuel bunker was cracked and leaking. We had lost about thirty cubic meters of diesel fuel. We pressed the remaining fuel out and flushed the bunker with seawater. Our gyrocompass was badly damaged.
Six hours later, still submerged, the boat was rocked again by thunderous depth charges too numerous to count. Finally we escaped, but we remained submerged. Later we would discover that we had come under attack by Allied aircraft and the Indian sloop Sutlej.
After eighteen hours under water, we surfaced and headed for the safety of the Laccadives, where detection would be more difficult among the many islands. Freiwald masterfully guided the boat through the maze of atolls. Although badly wounded, we were in good trim again.
After a few days of surface running and continued repair work, the boat returned to routine patrol. One morning while we were on the surface and I was busy checking my sector ahead, Freiwald asked me softly, “Giese, please turn around!” It was 1044 on 20 July 1944 and our defective, temperamental hydrophone had not signaled any distant ships.
Pivoting, I watched as Freiwald and all the men smiled, then ducked below the bulwark of the conning tower. One of them pointed his thick thumb in the direction of starboard aft, and there, not four thousand yards away, was the broad silhouette of a vessel. I looked open-mouthed at Freiwald. “Alarm?” I asked. He shook his head laughingly and said, “Let’s try showing them our back side.”
Undetected, we quietly maneuvered the boat into a forward position and waited to attack shortly after darkness. We fired two torpedoes, both hit, and the British ship King Frederick went down.
We approached the men in the lifeboats and asked them the name of their vessel, their cargo, and destination. They were fearful and quiet. They appeared to have food and water and were capable of making their way ashore. W e were mystified by their action. We learned later that they thought we were Japanese and feared for their lives because of harm done to other seamen by Japanese crewmen.
On 20 July 1944, the BdU declared a general alarm for the German navy following the attempt on Hitler’s life. Hitler or no Hitler, we realized that the war was lost for us. Nevertheless, we were soldiers and bound to our oath. Our job was to sink tonnage and to fight to the bitter end. In fact, we hardly talked about the attack on Hitler’s life. The radio messages were short. We felt that the sooner the situation calmed down, the better we would be able to prepare for the final fight and onslaught by enemy forces.
Freiwald sent a message to headquarters reporting our sinkings to date and our intention to proceed to Penang to repair our damage.
On our way eastward through the Straits of Malacca, we heard that Sabang had been attacked by British carrier planes and shelled from the sea. Furthermore, it was reported, a powerful British sea force of two battleships, two aircraft carriers, and several cruisers and destroyers was south of the An-damans, along our track. Hallelujah!
We heard by wireless that the U-196, which had left Bordeaux with us, was sending a series of short signals to the BdU. While the boat was in our vicinity, we worried that the signals would draw the attention of enemy forces, in which case we both might come under attack. Later, in Penang, when we met with Captain Kentrat (the U-196), we were told that he had tried at least five times to get a short signal through to the BdU before receiving a confirmation of his signal. However, he did exercise caution, diving after each signal and waiting for the following program time. He did not know that we were in the vicinity.
One night, in a dead calm, a long dark shadow loomed ahead. Our sharp night glasses revealed a conning tower. We watched each other for a few tense moments. Then the other boat dived and we departed at full speed.
At long last, we approached Penang and radioed our estimated time of arrival. Captain Junior (Fregattenkapitän) Wilhelm Dommes, chief officer in the Southeast, responded, warning us to stay alert and await a Japanese escort vessel where “the Slot” led into the straits off Langkavi Island.
On 8 August a German seaplane, an Arado, appeared out of the early morning haze and circled a few times over the boat. The pilot clearly saw the two broad stripes across our deck and the big swastika on the sides of the conning tower. The plane dipped its wings a few times in salute while the crew cheered.
Soon the Japanese escort was sighted. It was not what we expected. Looking for something like a powerful minesweeper or even a sloop we found ourselves welcoming a small motorboat that mounted a single small-caliber gun. Lieutenant Kölln, the German escort officer, stepped from the vessel onto our deck bringing baskets of fresh bananas and pineapples—precious cargo!
We asked Kölln to take off his lifejacket and invited him into the boat for a hearty brunch out of the last of our stores. He accepted reluctantly, declining to take off his lifejacket. We smiled, perhaps a bit too indulgently, as he strode around without much interest and appetite. It wasn’t long before he told us in abrupt, rash words how it really stood with the “glorious and powerful Japanese navy” in the area. It had suffered devastating losses in recent dramatic sea and air battles in the Pacific, and as we went silently back on deck with him we mused that perhaps Goebbels’ propaganda was nothing in comparison to the invention of victorious battles by our Axis partners down here.
“However, don’t argue with the Japanese, gentlemen!” he warned as we stepped onto the deck. He left us then to take a long walk with Captain Freiwald on the sunlit deck. They were both deep in conversation while our boat zigzagged behind the small Japanese speedboat.
Luck was with us; nothing happened on the ten-hour trip. The crew enjoyed the fresh air and I had ample time to tell them about Japanese, Chinese, and Malayan manners and customs, which were so very different from ours. Most of all they wanted to know about love life in Asia.
The pier at Penang was filled with throngs of men, German and Japanese in white and khaki uniforms. The sun reflected from the glittering instruments of a large Malayan band. When a gust of wind blew music toward us, we were thrilled to hear German marches. In spite of a strong and unpredictable current, Freiwald brought the U-boat exactly where at the pier the Japanese admiral and his staff, the German officers and men, and the bandstand were positioned. As the German and Japanese national anthems sounded solemnly, all stood at attention. The German anthem was played a bit fast, like a foxtrot. “Banzai!” and “Hurrah!” rang out as the band played on. We had finally arrived at our distant post, anxious and excited about what lay ahead.