21 JULY TO 1 AUGUST
THE BAPTISM of fire for U 564’s seventh war patrol had passed, claiming victory with no real damage to boat or crew. Despite losing all power in the middle of a high-speed chase and submerging with the U-boat’s interior clouded with oily smoke, U 564 had outwitted her enemies and lived to fight another day. To mark their deliverance, Teddy ordered the overworked cook Hausruckinger to prepare a ‘celebration tea’, the so-called Geburtstagfeier (birthday party). With an as yet ample supply of food from the carefully hoarded rations, Hausruckinger began to bake, and soon the boat’s off-duty petty officers were enlisted to decorate the various creations with whipped cream and preserved fruit. The luxury of the moment was not lost on the weary crew, the officers wearing their best available attire as they prepared to enjoy Hausruckinger’s handiwork.
Living conditions within the forward torpedo room had eased considerably since the brief convoy battle. With four torpedoes fired, the decking was now clear, as were all twelve bunks in use by the seamen housed there. However, the accommodation had already attained the characteristic unhealthy pall of U-boat life. Mildew had begun to affect the interior, a permanent sheen of humidity hanging in the air, clinging to clothing and unwashed bodies. This had caused yet another of the inherent problems of living in such conditions, one crewman in particular beginning to suffer the debilitating effect of confinement within U 564’s narrow steel tube. At 1736 hours on 20 July, Teddy radioed an emergency message to BdU command: ‘We have a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis on board. Request transfer to returning boat at first possibility. Grid CF 7679. Suhren.’
It was Matrosengefreiter Ernst Schlittenhard who was suffering the agony of extreme rheumatism, his joints aflame with pain and his young body barely functional as he lay in his bunk stricken with the debilitating affliction. The Type VIIC, unlike larger Type IX and XIV U-boats, had no spare room to carry properly qualified medical personnel, and the Chief Radio Operator was customarily also the Medical Officer. Georg Seitz, Oberfunkmaat and thus medic aboard U 604, another Type VIIC, explained the reasoning for this: ‘We were the only members of the crew who could almost be guaranteed to have relatively clean hands. You can’t operate Morse and write in the Funk log with oil all over your fingers.’1
But U 564’s designated medic, Oberfunkmaat Rudi Elkerhausen, possessed no more than the standard cursory first-aid knowledge, learnt at a brief course given for all such appointed medical personnel. Rheumatism was far beyond his ability to treat, and Teddy knew that Schlittenhard must be sent back to France in order to receive proper care. Unable to curtail his voyage, Teddy awaited instructions from Dönitz about how best to deal with the situation. With the constant shuttle of U-boats to and from France it would not be long before a suitable rendezvous could be arranged for the transfer of the unfortunate Schlittenhard to a homebound boat. As expected, a return message was soon received aboard U 564 at a little past midnight: ‘Mützelburg and Suhren to rendezvous in sector DG 4627, 23 July at 1000. Signal from Suhren in case meeting delayed until 1500. On completion, Mützelburg to send brief message “Ja”‘.
Nearby, flotilla-mate Kapitänleutnant Rolf Mützelburg’s U 203 was returning home to Brest from a western Atlantic and Caribbean patrol that had seen five merchant ships sunk north and east of the Lesser Antilles. By meeting at the designated point, Mützelburg would be able to take Teddy’s rheumatic crewman aboard and transport him to hospital in Brest.
Mützelburg was another of the 1st U-Flotilla’s star performers, having carved a formidable reputation for himself in the Atlantic battle. The lessons that he had learnt as IWO aboard Joachim Schepke’s U 100 had been put to good use aboard his own U 203, and, with twenty-one confirmed sinkings, he had just received official acknowledgment of his award of the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves by radio on 15 July. The perpetually cheerful Mützelburg and his expert crew would be in even higher spirits than normal when the two boats met to move Schlittenhard.
Indeed, it had become common knowledge that Mützelburg was one of Dönitz’s four favourite officers, allowed to address their commander-in-chief using the familiar ‘Du’ as opposed to more formal German ‘Sie’. Dönitz in turn called them ‘Die vierAsse’ (The Four Aces), Mützelburg, Erich Topp, Adalbert ‘Adi’ Schnee and Suhren constituting the privileged group. They were perhaps the leading lights of what was, in effect, the second generation of U-boat commanders. All had begun the war as watch officers, their erstwhile commanders now either dead, captured or ashore.
Perhaps the most extraordinary pair of photographs taken of U 564’s engineering crewmen, these two photographs (above) show a man making an internal inspection of the port diving bunker. Neither the boat’s log nor any surviving crew mention or remember the circumstances of this inspection, and it was highly unusual to make such an examination with the boat underway. Perhaps damage had been sustained during the depth-charging following the attack on OS.34 that required an immediate assessment to be made.
Regardless of war and its omnipresent danger, the presence of accompanying dolphins (above) holds a permanent and ageless attraction for seafarers.
By the time the sun had risen, U 564 was south-east of the Azores and heading south towards U 203, the island of San Miguel just invisible over the horizon. As the third watch of the day emerged into the light, clad in wet weather gear despite the clement conditions, the sleek grey hull of another submarine crept slowly towards them on a converging course. It was the Type IXC U 162 of the 2nd U-Flotilla. Fregattenkapitän Jürgen Wattenberg had departed Lorient on 7 July, bound for the Caribbean on the boat’s second war patrol. The larger cousin of the small Type VIIC U 564, U 162 was already a veteran of Caribbean operations, Wattenberg having sunk nine ships during his last foray to the coast of South America and the heavy merchant traffic off Guyana and Trinidad. After brief exchanges via megaphone and semaphore flag, the two U-boats separated once more and U 564 continued towards her rendezvous with Mützelburg.
At dawn the following day, Teddy was woken with fresh coffee from a deep sleep within the tiny ‘cabin’ that marked the only personal domain of the captain. Crawling from his bunk, Suhren began to change out of his white cotton pyjamas (‘one can only have a proper sleep in pyjamas, you know’) when a more electrifying report was relayed from the watch on the bridge: ‘Funnels to port!’ ‘I’m still in my pyjamas so throw a jacket over the top and go up on to the bridge. Yes, in fact two funnels!’2
Anxiously, Teddy and the lookouts scanned the distant contact with their heavy Zeiss binoculars, unable to identify their target. Curiously, the funnels did not appear to be moving in relation to U 564, which slowly skirted around them. The perplexing question of what they had blundered upon was finally revealed as the distinctive silhouettes of two Azores fishing boats emerged into plain sight, the sails taken for the smokestacks of larger ships. Shoulders slumped and the stress visibly relaxed, the news of their false alarm racing from man to man below decks. However, Teddy was still held by a vague sense of unease. His sixth sense told him that there was more to see, and he requested that his larger binoculars be brought to him on the bridge. Resting his elbows on the rim of the conning tower, he gazed once more at the two fishing boats. Suddenly, with an audible gasp, Suhren turned and bellowed for a crash-dive.
(Above) With over forty-five men confined into the narrow tube of a Type VIIC, a considerable amount of waste accumulated below decks. This was a problem made worse during enforced submersion, so commanders allowed the disposal overboard of as much as they could whenever possible. However, the issue of waste disposal was not always a simple one. Several accounts of merchant shipping being tracked by U-boat through its garbage trail exist, although the amount thrown overboard from U 564 would probably pose no risk for the boat. Here (below) Ernst Schlittenhard maintains the watch while Heinz Schmutzler dumps the bucketful overboard.
After their narrow brush with disaster during the tussle over OS.34, Suhren ordered a ‘celebration tea’ (above). Off-duty Funkmaat Anderheyden was enlisted by the overworked cook, Hausruckinger, to help decorate the cakes with whipped cream and preserved fruit. Anderheyden was soon joined in his labours by ObMaschmt Heinz Nordmann and Gerhard Ehlers (below), although the photographic evidence of Ehlers’ contribution remains doubtful—he appears to be more interested in verifying the worthiness of the whipped cream himself. Luxuries such as whipped cream were regularly carried aboard U-boats, usually in a locked food store and made available at the captain’s discretion. Despite their often appalling living conditions, U-boat crews received some of the finest rations in the Wehrmacht.
Directly behind the two fishermen emerged the clearly stepped outlines of two capital warships, a pair of British battleships escorted by a screening force of three destroyers. HMS Nelson and sister-ship HMS Rodney had been recently freed of their duty escorting convoy traffic bound for Freetown and were returning to Gibraltar. There they would join the massive build-up for Operation ‘Pedestal’ – the planned relief of the besieged island of Malta. The two imposing ‘Nelson’ class ships were easy to identify with their distinctive silhouette of three turrets mounted forward of the main superstructure. A formidable primary armament of nine 16-inch guns bristled from the main turrets, although from this considerable distance Teddy mistakenly believed that the Rodney sported only two turrets instead of three. Impressive and valuable to the Royal Navy, the two battleships would have made a remarkable victory for U 564, and Suhren immediately prepared for a submerged attack as the British continued to head directly for him. With electric motors slow ahead, Teddy raised his scope to observe the impressive formation.
The combined efforts of Hausruckinger and Anderheyden are greeted with due respect (top). The seat that Gabler and Suhren are sitting on within the Officers’ Wardroom doubled as Gabler’s sleeping place. Behind them can be seen latches for a proper fold-down bunk that was, however, in practice never used aboard U 564. With all traces of the blanketing soot from their recent fire cleaned from the boat, the celebrations began in the Officers’ Mess (above) … Suhren being responsible for the cake’s even distribution. The IWO, ObltzS Ulf Lawaetz, awaits his piece with obvious anticipation.
Suhren, accompanied by Gabler, enters information into the boat’s radio log book, or Funkspruchkladde (above). This was a written record of every message sent and received, and was the Senior Radioman’s (Rudi Elkerhausen’s) ultimate responsibility. The handwritten notations were later typed up and appended to the boat’s War Diary (KTB) for Bdll. In the background, Bootsmaat Heinz Webendörfer looks on, his hand resting on the UZO mounting. Within ten days at sea Ernst Schlittenhard had developed serious and debilitating rheumatism, requiring Suhren to radio Bdll for assistance. Hours later, orders to rendezvous with Kaptlt Rolf Mützelburg’s returned U 203 and transfer Schlittenhard aboard were received.
Anxiously, over the course of the next five hours, he waited to see whether he had been located, or whether the ships would continue their converging course and present him with near-perfect attacking conditions. As Lawaetz and Waldschmidt took their turns at the periscope to observe the enemy, it soon became apparent that U 564 may indeed have been seen: the British ships swung westwards, still well out of range. Slowly they turned and began a sharpening tack northward at 15 knots, all the while over 8,000 metres away. With the U-boat’s speed reduced by submergence, there was no chance of an underwater pursuit. There was little prospect of surfacing either: chasing the enemy on full diesel power was ruled out because of the fierce armament of the two battleships and their even more dangerous, nimble destroyer escort.
All Teddy could do was watch his enemy disappear from view, surfacing to an empty horizon and, less than an hour later, abandoning hope that the enemy would return. He contented himself with radioing news of the encounter and the enemy’s projected course to BdU in anticipation that other German forces may find them. It was a forlorn hope: none managed to make contact, and the two battleships safely reached their heavily protected anchorage beneath the shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar.
‘22/7/42: CF78, 0810 hours. Mastheads in sight…’ Out of the dawn, two mast tips emerged (above). At first they were thought to herald mercantile targets, before being positively identified as Azores fishermen. In this photograph, Lawaetz, Webendörfer and Kalbach scrutinise the distant fisherman. Moments after Haring reported to the bridge to take this photograph, the battleships HMS Nelson and Rodney loomed from the horizon heading straight for U 564.
Early the next morning, Limburg’s precise navigation brought U 564 into grid DG 2633 in preparation for the rendezvous with Mützelburg. On cue, U 203 soon coasted into sight as Waldschmidt and his three watch members climbed the tower to begin their stint on duty. As U 203 approached from astern, Teddy ordered diesels throttled down to just above neutral, enough to keep steerage way on the grey steel hull. Easing into position to port of U 564, Mützelburg’s crew broke out their small rubber dinghy, and shortly afterwards he and his chief engineer, Obit (Ing.) Heinrich Heep, were aboard U 564 and talking to Suhren and Gabler atop the conning tower.
Safe in the knowledge that they lay outside the range of Allied land-based aircraft, several off-duty seamen were granted permission to come above decks, and they clambered up the metal ladder to welcome the two visiting officers. The opportunity was taken by several of them to enjoy a brief swim in the sea, although it was still far from the tropical climate of their ultimate destination. Meanwhile the virtually incapacitated Schlittenhard had been half-carried to the outer deck and aboard one of U 564’s own dinghies, along with his meagre possessions. While Webendörfer helped him into the small rubber boat, Heep ambled down on to the deck casing and jumped into the dinghy to return to U 203, taking whatever mail had already accumulated from Teddy’s crew with him. Mützelburg, however, opted to swim, and, after briefly racing about the U-boat’s deck with Hermann Kräh and several of U 564’s own swimmers, he climbed nimbly back once more on to the conning tower to perform one of his favourite tricks:
They were playing tag when Mützelburg ran up the conning tower and dived in elegantly head-first off the top of the bridge into the water. My hair stood on end, and I said to him: ‘What did you do that for? You wouldn’t catch me doing that. It’s reckless: the boat is so narrow that with its bulging fuel tanks on the side it’s not that easy to dive across them.’ But he laughed, and told me he did it quite often, and wouldn’t be put off doing it. Then he continued on his way.3
‘24.7.42/0800. DG2633. U-boat in sight (Mützelburg).’ During the morning of 23 July, as the first and second watches changed over U 203 hove into view at the expected co-ordinates (above).
(Above) During the medical rendezvous Rolf Mützelburg (in the white shirt) and his U, Obit (Ing.) Heinrich Heep (below from left), came aboard U 564 for a social visit with their flotilla-mate. Behind them, the lookouts maintain their tireless vigil, Btsmt Bartels to the left and IIWO LzS Herbert Waldschmidt mostly obscured behind Gabler. The large silver megaphone is resting on top of the UZO surface attack sight.
After the successful rendezvous with Mützelburg’s returning boat, Teddy continued the voyage towards his allocated combat zone. At that stage of the war, the U-boats considered themselves relatively safe within what had become known as the ‘Atlantic Gap’, where aircraft could not reach them, and U 564 now travelled constantly surfaced until once again adopting caution when beginning to come within range of Caribbean-based aircraft. The boat made good time, each lookout watch succeeding the previous one with nothing to report during the crossing. Once again, Teddy capitalised on the absence of any aerial threat to permit his men some time above decks. Within the ‘Gap’, those crewmen off duty were allowed on to the conning tower to enjoy the sunshine, and Teddy also took the opportunity to shut down his boat’s diesels and lie motionless in order that he and his crew could enjoy the luxury of outdoor washing and swimming:
One place in the Atlantic between the Lesser Antilles and the European mainland was still not covered by aircraft, so I gave the crew permission to go for fifteen-minute swims – in sections, mind you, so that, just in case something happened, we could quickly submerge.4
Aside from whatever benefits such activities gave to morale, they also alleviated some of the distinctive health problems that submariners faced. The dampness and humidity of the pressure hull had already claimed one man from Suhren’s crew, and fresh sea air, water and sun eased cramped joints and helped keep many of the common skin ailments at bay. Once within the tropics, there would be myriad problems to face, the least of which were heat rashes that formed small white pustules beneath the skin. With the constant chafing of uniforms against them, these small boils would inevitably burst and cause considerable discomfort to the sufferer, as the raw flesh beneath rubbed against the fabric.
Once again, on 25 July, Forster’s U 654 slipped into view, mirroring U 564’s transit path. This time, with the two boats safely within the ‘Atlantic Gap’ there was the opportunity of a more social occasion between the two boats. Forster and his LI, Oberleutnant (Ing.) Bernard Klaasen, soon came aboard U 564 to drink coffee in the tiny wardroom with Teddy and his off-duty officers. As well as coffee and biscuits, they also shared whatever information and tactical theories the men had gleaned, before the two boats parted company once more at 2315 hours.
Many crewmen from both boats were allowed above decks, clustered in their respective towers to wave farewell (above). The burst of steam and exhaust from U 203 ‘s stern was created as the diesels were fired to begin their return to Brest carrying their sick passenger to hospital. Tragically, Suhren was to be proved correct when, seven weeks later, after U 203 had left Brest for its eighth war patrol, Kaptlt Rolf Mützelburg called another swimming break in the mid-Atlantic for his crew. Diving again from the conning tower, he struck the boat’s saddle tank as it rolled in a gentle swell and some hours later died from his injuries.
Forster was another veteran of the U-boat war, a graduate of the Officer’s Crew of 1936. He had been IIWO on U 29 when, on 28 September 1939, Adolf Hitler had personally decorated the entire crew with the first Iron Crosses won by the U-boat service following U 29’s destruction of the carrier HMS Courageous. He had a brief stint in command of the training boat U 62, and during November 1941 he had taken command of U 654. Thus far in his career as skipper he had achieved during his previous three Atlantic war patrols the confirmed sinking of four ships, his first victim, French corvette Alysse, having been torpedoed on 9 February 1942. Unbeknown to any of the men gathered within that small panelled wardroom, a little over one month later Forster and his forty-three men would be dead, bombed into oblivion by a USAAF B-18 north of Panama.
In preparation for receiving extra torpedoes from U 154, the opportunity was taken to download the externally stored ‘eels’ into the pressure hull (above). It was a timeconsuming and laborious task, and the absence of enemy aircraft was a prerequisite for the safety of the boat. Helped by as many off-duty men as were available and could fit on the crowded forward deck, Bigge prepared the pulley that would be used to winch the heavy weapon from its canister below the wooden decking.
Watched from the tower by IIIWO Limburg and Teddy (above), the winch is slowly turned to pull the torpedo free, the deck gun traversed to port out of the way of the slowly emerging torpedo’s tailfins.
(Above) With willing hands helping as much as possible, Labahn takes his turn at the handle (top). As the torpedo is lifted out of its canister and on to the prepared loading cradle, Gabler (in white helmet) oversees the operation. IIWO Waldschmidt stands further towards the bow.
Once removed, the torpedo was rested upon its cradle in preparation for being lowered inside the bow torpedo room (above). The now-empty canister was lowered by handwheel back into its horizontal position. When it was clear, the torpedo loading hatch was opened and the ‘eel’ was gently winched downward into the bow room (below), where the heavy chain controlled girders eventually lowered it to the floor either for storage or reloading into the tubes. In the photograph below left, following the successful transfer, Haring shows the loading cradle in detail. The large ceramic insulators attached to the wires in the foreground reduced the risk of static electricity discharging from the U-boat’s jumper wires. The wires themselves doubled as radio antennae, attached to the wireless transmitter via the thin electric cable visible only just visible connecting at the foremost insulator. The bow jumper wires were used for transmission and the stern wires for reception.
Following their arduous torpedo loading, free from any aerial threats and with a clear distant horizon, Suhren ordered engines stopped and allowed his men to take a swimming break (below). Aside from the recreational aspect, there were also distinct advantages to this practice in terms of health as it brought men into the fresh air for both washing and the benefits of the sun’s rays. Sores and boils were commonplace among U-boat crews bound for tropical waters and unable to leave the mildewed, humid confines of the pressure hull.
Diving from the bow of U 564, Gabler (top, in the foreground) is dressed in attire known in German naval terminology as a ‘peeled banana’. Even Suhren (above and below) took a dip in the warm Atlantic—one of the rare occasions when he divested himself of his red scarf. The Kriegsmarine also developed salt-water soap (bottom), used by Teddy and his crew as Webendörfer sprays them with water piped from the engine room. Opinion remains divided over the merits of this soap: Suhren thought it wonderful; others were less than enthusiastic about the waxy residue that it sometimes left on the skin. Even in the midst of war there is peace (below center), as Suhren takes a moment to soak up the sun.
On 25 July, Forster’s U 654 once more hove into view. This time, as the two boats met within the ‘Atlantic Air Gap’, Forster (left) and his LI, Oberleutnant (Ing.) Bernard Klaasen (right, in checked shirt), came aboard U 564 for coffee and biscuits in the tiny wardroom with Suhren and his off-duty officers. Items like the fragile porcelain coffee pot were constant casualties of war, among the first things to break during a depth-charge attack or in particularly heavy weather.
On 30 July Teddy received notification of the proposed area for resupply of his boat from Leo Wolfbauer’s U 463 Milchkuh U-tanker. The locale named by BdU was within the 36 square miles of grid square DD 9455 to the south-west of his present position. Course was laid, and U 564 made good speed toward the rendezvous.
Combined with the fuel issue, another aggravation for Teddy was the loss of four of his precious torpedoes while en route for his final destination. Although they were put to valuable use, the thought of a reduced armoury within what promised to be a fruitful hunting ground gnawed at him constantly. As he pondered his quandary, inside the small Radio Room the rotating shifts of Funker decoded all U-boat signals traffic that clouded the ether between Paris and the Atlantic. Among them were several reports of boats returning to base, their torpedoes unspent and useless. With this in mind, and time to spare before the planned meeting with Wolfbauer, Suhren called together Gabler and Ehlers to put forward an unusual suggestion.
(Top) The large sledgehammer above Suhren’s head was used to free U 564 from its blocks on the slipway during commissioning — carried as a talisman since that day and often mounted on the conning tower rim when the boat returned triumphant from action after ‘hammering the enemy’.
(Above) Hermann Kräh uses the boat’s small acetylene torch in maintenance work on the attack periscope housing while the constant lookout continues.
With permission to take extra torpedoes on board from Kölle’s aborting U 154, Teddy and his crew began rehearsals for the procedure of transferring torpedoes. With lifejackets and dinghy ready for use, the first step was to empty the external stern storage canister in order to use the torpedo for their drill. During the removal, sixteen lifejackets were wrapped around the ‘eel’, allowing it to rest on the torpedo cradle. Ehlers remained atop the conning tower, the torpedo’s tailfin lashed to the railing to prevent it from floating away in any current. As Haring balanced precariously on the periscope housing to record the manoeuvre, Gabler gingerly leaked air from the stern trim tanks and allowed the aft deck to become gradually awash.
As the stern disappeared altogether, calculations regarding the ability of the lifejackets to hold the weight of the torpedo proved correct, men swimming and using the dinghy were able to guide the cumbersome payload towards the bow where it would be positioned above a re-rigged cradle and allowed to float into place before tanks were blown with compressed air and U 564 was brought fully to the surface. Lifejackets were removed during the gradual rise of the U-boat, and the torpedo would then be ready for loading into the bow room.
With cradles stowed once more, Teddy is captured by Haring’s camera, triumphant but plainly tired from the exertion of their difficult transfer practice. The extended periscope is the navigation, or air search, ‘scope, with the thicker shaft and larger head of the two. The navigation periscope was operated from the boat’s Control Room, and, contrary to popular belief, while not generally used during submerged attacks, it was occasionally employed at night because of the increased light that entered the large lens. With no helicoil wires around it, the large shaft would leave more wake to betray the boat’s presence during attack, and thus it could only be used safely in times of poor visibility.
Awaiting the arrival of U 463, lookouts broke out the tropical helmets as the equatorial heat increased. Beneath the front paws of the ‘Three Black Cats’ emblem can be seen the insulator through which the thin radio aerial entered the boat’s pressure hull, running straight down the internal front of the tower and into the radio cabin.
U 564 did not possess the heavy lifting gear used to transfer torpedoes from one U-boat to another, but a small degree of ingenuity could allow the boat to take on ‘eels’ from one of their aborting comrades. Testing his theory, under the watchful eye of the boat’s officers, the torpedo stored within the external stern container was lifted from its tube by eight of the crew using the boat’s reloading tackle. Once free, sixteen lifejackets were wrapped around the 1.5-ton cylinder, its tailfin tied by rope to the ‘Winter gar ten’ in preparation for the next phase of Teddy’s plan. With Ehlers grasping the fastened rope atop the conning tower, two rubber dinghies were inflated and the rest of the men held onto the torpedo as Gabler gently lowered the boat’s stern until the torpedo, men and dinghies floated free. Ehlers ensured that they would not lose control of the precious weapon as men both in the dinghies and swimming alongside pushed the unusual load towards the boat’s bow. There the ‘eel’ was manoeuvred over the re-rigged and waiting bow loading cradle and the boat’s semi-flooded tanks slowly blown clear by compressed air, bringing U 564 up under the torpedo that the seamen nudged gently into place. Once fully surfaced the block and tackle were reattached to take the strain of the heavy torpedo, raising it free of the hatch which was opened and the ‘eel’ slid into place within the bow torpedo room. In a stroke, the problem of resupplying torpedoes at sea had been solved in little over three hours.