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With Honour in Battle
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Chapter OneNew CommandEven with the newly-fitted Schnorchel, which had allowed him to run submerged on his powerful diesels while keeping the batteries fully-charged at all times, the journey back to Kiel from the killing ground in the North Atlantic had been the worst he could remember in almost five years of war. It would be Christmas in a few days, Kruger thought. Perhaps the last he would ever see, and certainly the final Christmas for the Third Reich. For it was 15th December, 1944, and the Allies had achieved almost total control of the convoy routes even as their victorious armies fought their way through Europe, inexorably closer to the borders of the Fatherland. It was not always so. There had been a time, earlier in the war, when U-boat duty had been an almost ideal existence, once you got used to the cramped quarters, the almost complete lack of privacy, and the stink of sweat and bilge water. The 'Happy Time,' when the U-boats had the whole of the central Atlantic as their killing ground. The 'Gap,' the enemy had called it. That broad stretch of waters beyond the range of any land-based aircraft except the huge, lumbering blimps the Americans sometimes used for anti-submarine patrols. But the blimps had never been that much of a problem. Their considerable size and slow speed meant that a U-boat's lookouts would normally sight them first, giving plenty of warning to dive and creep away. When Kruger had first been posted to a U-boat, in 1940, they had spent many days in the 'Gap' lazing on deck in the sunlight, only submerging when a warship was sighted, or to close in for an attack. But now there were miniature aircraft carriers sailing in most convoys, so that surfacing in daylight had become foolishness bordering on the suicidal. Nor was it much safer after dark. Most enemy patrol bombers were now equipped with highly efficient radar, giving them the terrifying ability to sweep down out of the inky-black night with guns blazing, dropping depth charges all about their unwary prey. There were radar detectors, but they didn't always work, or else gave the warning too late. And, too often in such cases, the sudden emergency dive would be the last, with the boat driving out of control to join her sisters littering the ocean floor. There were times when you had to surface, but now you did it as infrequently as possible, and with the utmost wariness. Even as the sinkings of enemy ships grew fewer and fewer, the number of U-boats that failed to answer a signal, or to return, had assumed gross proportions. Of all the men who had begun the war in U-boats, only a handful still survived on sea duty. The old 'Aces,' men like Prien, who had manoeuvred his tiny U-47 right into the Royal Navy's main fleet anchorage at Scapa Flow and sunk the battleship Royal Oak at her buoy, and who had been hunted down and killed in a depth charge attack. Or Schepke and Kretschmer, exceptional commanders with long strings of kills, both lost in a single night. Kretschmer had been captured, but Schepke was killed, crushed between the outer part of the bridge and the periscope when his boat was rammed by a British escort as the crew was trying to abandon. Kruger was also an 'Ace,' a winner of the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords, the Iron Cross First Class, and the German Cross, along with a wartime record of nearly half a million tons of enemy shipping destroyed. He had served continuously at sea since 1940, and considered the fact that he was still alive as proof that it was sometimes possible to beat the odds and survive. He was equally certain that, if he were sent out again, he would not come back alive. No one could rely on luck forever. "All secured, sir," the Boatswain called, from the forecasing. Kruger nodded wearily, looking at the man as if he had never seen him before. The Boatswain had been a leading hand in U-105, Kruger's first boat, when Kruger himself had still been a brand-new Oberfänrich, just out of the Naval Academy and still learning the ropes. In those days the man had been fat, constantly joking; now he was lean, almost haggard, with a nervous, hunted look. And am I that different? Kruger wondered. I am 27-years-old and I look about 50. Already there is too much grey hair, and the lines are growing deeper each day. The visible evidence of the dangers we face daily, the heavy responsibility for the safety of 44 officers and men, the need to seek out the enemy despite his deadly advances in detection and killing ability, and which a captain must pretend to ignore for the sake of the men. The iron-nerved captain, holding the crew together in the face of danger while he slowly consumes himself from the inside. He looked down as the Exec, Richter, emerged through the tiny hatch at his feet. "Shall I fall out the crew, sir?" Richter asked. Kruger peered down onto the forecasing at the twin lines of sailors, still standing stiffly in their neat formation. As usual, they had all dressed in their best uniforms for entering harbour, but the neat clothes did little to cover the bone-weariness and strain. Nor would they cover the stink for anyone not inured to it by constant exposure. Kruger nodded. "Yes. Give them a rest, Number One. God knows they've earned it." "Aye, aye, sir." Richter walked to the front of the bridge, leaning across the screen. "Fall out!" he bellowed. Below, the crew broke ranks and vanished down the main hatch. They would be thinking of leave, and the comforts of the shore billets with hot showers, and fresh uniforms that had not been three months in a stinking hull. Richter turned back to his captain, hesitating. "It was a good patrol, sir? Wasn't it?" Kruger rested his arms on the target-bearing-transmitter, his head nodding wearily. "We survived, Number One. That in itself makes it a good patrol. And we did sink that tanker. Only 6,000 tons, but at least we have something to show for ourselves." He paused, his eyes moving across the bridge, down onto the casing. The men were gone now, but the sea slime, and the ragged scar, livid with rust, where a British depth charge had torn a wide gash in the casing, yet somehow miraculously spared the pressure hull just beneath, still remained as reminders of their incredible luck. "A year or two back," Kruger continued, "I would never have been satisfied with that. A 6,000-ton tanker the only thing to show for almost 8,000 miles of steaming and 14 torpedoes expended. But now—well, survival is the whole thing, isn't it?" Richter looked doubtful. "We may manage to save it all yet, sir. To win in spite of the odds. We've all heard reports on the radio, the secret weapons that will drive the damned Allies back into the sea. Herr Goebbels says it is only a matter of time now." Kruger sighed. Richter was a good officer, but after two years in U-boats still somehow strangely naïve. "You don't speak English, do you, Number One?" "No, sir. Spanish, but no English." "So the only broadcasts you can understand are our own, correct?" Richter nodded. "That's right, sir." "Herr Goebbels is right on one thing," Kruger said. "It is only a matter of time. But time favours the wrong side just now." He smiled suddenly. "Still, the promised miracle may be just around the corner, eh? Even the enemy commentators admit that General Galland's new squadron of jet fighters is raising holy hell among their bomber formations. And if the bombers can be held back, perhaps the new U-boats will also make it into service." Richter touched the salt-encrusted screen. "U-702 is good enough for me, sir," he said. "Though you'd not hear me object if she were a bit faster under water." "The new ones are, Number One. Many more cells in the batteries, and more powerful E-motors. Also, the hulls have been designed for efficiency beneath the surface, not on it. They've even got rid of the deck gun to reduce drag." Richter shrugged. "No one is likely to miss the gun," he said. "I can't even remember the last time I saw a U-boat's deck gun fired, except as part of a drill." "I can," Kruger said. "It was in July, 1941, and we were shelling a British freighter because our captain didn't want to waste another torpedo. She was a straggler from some convoy, evidently damaged earlier by another boat. I think we'd fired a half-dozen shells when a damned destroyer came charging in at 30 knots, blasting away with her main armament." He grimaced. "It was a damned close thing, Number One. But what was most annoying was that the destroyer was American! And this was six bloody months before they were even in the war!" "Before, sir?" "Before. Some bloody lunatic had sunk one of their destroyers by mistake, and Roosevelt decided that the best way to protect their so-called neutrality was to sink any U-boats that came within range. Not any submarine, mind you. They didn't attack British boats. Just ours." "Well, sir," Richter shrugged, "old times, eh?" He looked along the length of scarred hull. The dockyard workers would be along soon, swarming over and through her, putting right the damage to make her ready for one more patrol. "Will there be leave for the crew, sir?" he asked. "I expect so, Number One. Local leave for the entire crew, once the boat is safely handed over to the dockyard people. After that, we'll see what headquarters will allow in the way of home leave." "I'd like to get back to Frankfurt," Richter admitted. "See if there's anything still left of my family." Kruger turned away, cursing inwardly. Why did it still bother him? He should be hardened to it by now, but every little reminder still brought back the pain. So far as he knew, only his Uncle Fritz remained alive. His brother, Otto, had been missing since the fall of Stalingrad. The rest had been killed in a British raid. "Kapitän Kruger?" Kruger looked down onto the walkway along the starboard side, oddly surprised to see someone standing there. A full captain, in dress uniform and greatcoat. With the infernal racket inside the pen, where a crew was hard at work on another boat, the sound of a single man walking could easily pass unnoticed, but it was still startling to have him suddenly appear. "I am Kruger, sir." The captain, a pudgy man of about 40, nodded. "I have new orders for you, Herr Korvettenkapitän," he said. "Permission to come aboard?" "Granted, sir. Welcome aboard." The captain came up the brow and stopped on the forecasing for a moment, looking around. What does he see? Kruger wondered. From his insignia, he was a U-boat sailor, but how long had he been out of it? Years, probably, since promotion took him off the bridge and safely ashore. After what seemed an eternity, the captain came around the base of the tower and climbed the ladder to join them on the bridge. "I am Kapitän Siegfried von Saltzmann," he said, producing an envelope from inside his greatcoat. He looked from Kruger to Richter. "You are Oberleutnant Richter?" "Yes, sir." "These are for you. You'll find three sets of orders in there. The first is your promotion, for which I congratulate you, Herr Kapitänleutnant." Richter looked embarrassed. "Thank you, sir. I really don't know what to say." "Then say nothing, lad. If you don't open your mouth, you'll find it much harder to get your foot into it, eh?" Kruger was grinning. "Congratulations, Konrad. You deserve it." Von Saltzmann went on. "The second set of orders appoint you as commanding officer of U-702, to take effect upon receipt. You won't actually have her for the first month of so, of course. The dockyard people will be too busy performing major surgery. That's where the third set come in. While your boat is being refitted, you'll be on your commanding officer's course." "You should enjoy it in Gotenhafen," Kruger comment-ed. "I know I did." "He'll not be going there," von Saltzmann said. "The course will be right here in Kiel. Things are getting too hot in the east lately." He grinned. "Now, if I were you, Herr Kaleun, I'd say the proper words to Korvettenkapitän Kruger, and then I can take him with me, eh?" Richter turned to face his leader of the last two years. Very slowly he came to attention, and a moment later Kruger did the same. His hand rose in the salute, the old Naval salute, which Kruger always used instead of the supposedly mandatory Party salute. "Sir," Richter said, formally, "I relieve you." Kruger returned the salute and they both relaxed. It was over. Now U-702 had a new master, and Kruger was merely a guest, soon to depart forever. They shook hands. "Take good care of her, Konrad. She's a good boat, and she'll treat you well if you give her the chance." "We will be one of the best, sir." "Just be one of the survivors, Konrad. When this war ends, Germany will need her leaders. You could be one of them, but you'll have to survive first." He smiled. "Now I'm off to God knows what, so you take care of yourself—and the men." He turned to face von Saltzmann. "What am I off to, by the way, sir?" "New construction. That's all I can tell you just now, I'm afraid." He moved toward the ladder at the rear of the bridge. "The Admiral will fill you in directly." There were constant security checks as they moved through the great naval base, with Naval Police seemingly at every turning with a new demand for identity cards or passes. And once they had reached what was left of the headquarters building and started down several long flights of concrete stairs into the bomb-proof world below, the checks became even more thorough. It was as if the High Command was expecting an enemy agent or saboteur to attempt to slip in at any moment. Or a madman? It had not been all that long since the outrage at Rastenburg, when a traitor had somehow managed to carry a powerful bomb into a meeting and nearly succeeded in killing the Führer himself. If such a thing could happen in so closely-guarded a spot as Hitler's East Prussian headquarters, how much more likely would it be elsewhere? Finally, they came to the last door, and once again their papers were scrutinised by a pair of unsmiling Naval Policemen. Then the door was opened, and the two men walked through into a small, spartanly furnished reception room. The only furnishings were four old straight-backed chairs against the bare concrete wall, and a cluttered desk, where a leading writer of the Navy Women's Corps was hammering away at an ancient typewriter. She looked up as they entered, smiling as she recognised von Saltzmann. The 'errand boy,' as he was called behind his back. A full captain, yet most of the time he seemed to be running about engaged in some minor task which could as easily have been entrusted to a raw recruit. Because of her job, the girl knew better, but kept it to herself, knowing the image was a carefully cultivated one. The innocuous, know-nothing captain, not worth an enemy agent's time. In fact, von Saltzmann was a brilliant staff officer, responsible for more of the Admiral's strokes of genius than the Old Man himself. He just made sure it never showed on the outside. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said. Von Saltzmann smiled. The girl was stunning, and always made him feel younger than his years. "Good afternoon, Hannah," he replied. "This is Korvettenkapitän Kruger. I believe the Admiral is expecting us?" The girl nodded, looking at her book. "Of course, sir. We didn't know just when Korvettenkapitän Kruger's boat would get in," she said, sounding somehow as if she meant not 'when' but 'if.' "However, the Admiral has kept this afternoon clear, so I'm sure he will be able to see you soon." She smiled. "Why don't you both sit down and I'll tell him you're here." As they took their seats, Kruger could feel her watching him as she dialed. He was wearing his best uniform, but beneath it his body was still filthy and stinking. Von Saltzmann had given him no time at all—not even to check into the officers' billets for a quick shower and shave. With his hair and beard uncut in three months, and his face no cleaner than could be managed with a brief salt-water wash while waiting for their escort to guide them into Kiel, he looked like the old prospector in a Western movie. What is she thinking? he wondered. That this is really some hobo masquerading as a U-boat commander? Or wondering why Kapitän von Saltzmann would bring this tramp into her clean office? He shook his head. God, I hate to think what I must smell like by now! A clean uniform stuffed full of stinking refuse in the shape of a man! The girl replaced the telephone handset on its cradle. "You may go in now, gentlemen." Von Saltzmann hopped to his feet, while Kruger rose more slowly, his body still conditioned to expect his head to make violent contact with the deckhead at almost any moment. Kruger stood 193 centimetres, and U-boats were always hazardous places for tall men. The girl sat quietly for a moment after they had gone in, looking at the door. If he was with von Saltzmann they must have something interesting planned for this commander. It could be nothing easy, she was sure of that. Dönitz had made it a habit to meet with every returning commander when they were still in France, but he had other things to worry about now, and her admiral was not the same type. If he wanted to see a commander it was either to light a fire under his tail, or to give him some out-of-the-ordinary assignment. She wondered if this one would be up to it. He didn't look it. What he needs more than a tough new job is a long rest. He looks ancient, and he is probably little older than myself. Then, with a quick shake of her head, she returned to her typewriter, wondering how long it was going to take to finish this letter when the damned "E" kept sticking. It was better to worry about that, and forget some submarine commander, no matter how attractive he seemed beneath the dirt of a long patrol. These days, they didn't live long enough for anything to come of it. In comparison, Kruger felt even dirtier. The Admiral motioned for them to sit down, but he remained standing behind his broad desk. This office, unlike the reception room, was paneled in carved oak, and made to look as much as possible like one of the larger offices in the old headquarters building above. There was even a false window, with a view of Kiel harbour beyond so cunningly painted that you could almost swear you could see the ships moving at their buoys. A disheartening view now, Kruger thought, for it depicted most of the aborted Plan Z fleet, showing the harbour filled with dozens of giant battleships, cruisers, and aircraft carriers, most of them in reality either unbuilt, or already destroyed. After a few moments, the Admiral also took his seat. "Did you have a good patrol, Herr Korvettenkapitän?" he asked. Kruger sighed. What was a good patrol now? One you lived through? "We sank a single British tanker, sir," he replied. "Six thousand tons. And we made it back in one piece." The Admiral nodded. "So survival has become the mark of a good patrol now, eh? Ach! But the good days are over for us now, it seems." "But not for Korvettenkapitän Kruger, sir," von Saltzmann offered. The Admiral shrugged. "We will discuss all that later, Siegfried," he said. He looked at Kruger, studying him, remembering the days when he had also returned from patrol, looking every bit as filthy and nearly as haggard, though he had never been charged with the ultimate responsibility in the boat. And that had been in the last war, when U-boat service had been a pleasure cruise compared to now. In those days the enemy had not yet learned the way to hunt U-boats, so that most of the danger was from mines, or from gunfire while the boat was surfaced. But now there were aeroplanes, Asdic, and depth charges that worked properly. I'm damned glad I don't have to go out any more, he thought. Though at times it might seem easier than sending these good men to die in my place! "We were almost sunk coming through the Skagerrak," Kruger added. "The Tommies have a killer group patrolling there now." "I know," the Admiral said. "Four frigates and a small carrier. They have accounted for several of our outward bound boats in recent weeks." "The Schnorchel helps," Kruger continued, "but it's not enough. Particularly if there is any sort of sea running. If there is, the damned valve keeps closing on you and the diesels suck all the air out of the boat. There is no adequate description of just how horrible it feels to be suddenly trying to breath in a vacuum." "Were you badly damaged?" "One was close. There is a fair amount of damage to the casing, but we held it together. Considering how close the damage is to the port saddle tank we were lucky to make it back at all." The Admiral shuddered, as if suddenly very cold. "I was second watch officer in a boat that had her ballast tanks destroyed, back in the Mediterranean, in 1918. Most of us made it out and finished the war in a British prison camp, but the Chief Engineer and six others went down with the boat." He smiled. "At least the captain survived. Things might be very different if he had not. And even more different if some had paid more attention to his ideas early on." "Sir?" "He's been promoted since then, of course," the Admiral explained. "I expect you've heard of him—a very sharp fellow, name of Dönitz." "The Grossadmiral?" "The same. Well, a lot can happen in 26 years, eh, Siegfried?" The pudgy captain nodded. "A great deal, sir." "Now, Kruger—I suppose you're curious about your new command?" "Kapitän von Saltzmann told me it was new construction. Beyond that he said nothing, so, yes, sir, I am curious." "The Kapitän will be working very closely with you on this project," the Admiral said. "Actually, he probably knows more about it than I do. But I wanted to give you the basics myself." Kruger nodded, wrinkling his nose. It smelled as if something had died in the Admiral's office. It took him a moment to realise that he was noticing his own stench for the first time after being removed from the rancid atmosphere of his old command. How can these two stand it? he wondered. "I'm giving you U-2317, Kruger," the Admiral said. "She is brand new, just finishing her trials, and will probably be the first of her type to become operational." "Probably, sir?" "Her trials are not quite complete," von Saltzmann explained. "You will see to it that they are and, once you've determined her ready for operations, you will take her to sea." "If her trials have begun, I presume there was a previous captain?" "Yes. Kapitänleutnant Scheutte. He was killed in a raid last week. With your record, you were an obvious choice as his replacement." "Frankly," the Admiral said, "you are just about the only operational commander left who has won the swords. The others have either been promoted out of their commands, captured, or killed." "What sort of boat is she, sir?" Kruger asked. "One of the new Typ XXIs I've been hearing about?" The Admiral shook his head. "No, Kruger. She is a Typ XXVI. To be perfectly frank, compared to her, a Typ XXI is about as advanced as one of the old Typ II 'dugouts' that Kapitän von Saltzmann commanded back in 1937." "She is the closest thing yet to being a true submarine," von Saltzmann said. "Your main propulsion will be diesel and Schnorchel. You will also have an advanced E-motor and an enlarged battery capacity. But the main advances are in hull design and high-speed engines. She's designed to spend most of her time submerged, and the hull is most efficient under water. For high-speed propulsion she is fitted with the Walter hydrogen-peroxide turbine, which will give you an extremely high underwater speed, either to escape your enemy, or to pursue him." "How fast, sir?" "On her trials," the Admiral said, "U-2317 recorded a top speed of 25.7 knots at full power, and at a depth of 100 metres. Moreover, you should be able to maintain that speed for about 160 nautical miles." "And then?" "And then you run out of fuel," von Saltzmann said. "The turbine is not for ordinary use. The majority of the time you'll use your Schnorchel and run submerged on your diesel." He smiled. "Even on batteries you should be able to manage a top speed of about 11 knots, and maintain it for about four hours. At five knots you'll be so quiet you may wonder if the motor is even turning, and unless an enemy escort actually gets you locked in his Asdic beam you should be able to steam right under him without his ever realising you were there." Kruger sat back in his chair, wondering if it could all be true. It sounded too good. There must be some shortcomings as well. "How is she armed?" he asked. "Ten tubes, twenty reloads," von Saltzmann said. "You'll have four tubes in the usual position in the bow, and the other six are located amidships, three on each side, firing astern." "She sounds fairly big, sir." "She is little bigger than your last command," the Admiral said. "She grosses 850 tons. There will be more room, though. The crew is smaller, seven officers and 20 men. Two of your officers are Oberfänriche, both of them qualified for promotion to Leutnant when you see fit. You'll also carry a doctor. At least for a while. He will function as medical officer if need be, but his primary duty will be to observe the crew. The boat is a radical design, and you'll spend very little time on the surface. No one really knows just how men will react under those conditions, and we need to find out." "Is this to be a war patrol?" Kruger asked. "Or an experiment?" "A little of both," the Admiral admitted. "With a boat as new as yours that's inevitable. But your main job will be to seek out the enemy and destroy him. Psychological experiments come a long way second." "There is one thing that may seem a little odd to you, Kruger," von Saltzmann said. "It all sounds a bit odd to me, sir. But what do you mean, particularly?" "Your Chief is a Fregattenkapitän. The Walter turbine is really still experimental, and we thought it best to give you an engineer with some experience on them. Fregattenkapitän Eis-enberg worked on the prototypes with Professor Walter, so we hope he can keep everything working for you. In any event, rank aside, he's engineering branch, not a line officer, and you are the captain, so he'll do as you say, just as he would if your ranks were reversed." "What you are going to be doing is probably an example of too little and too late," the Admiral said. "Enemy bombers have taken their toll. By now, there should have been 100 Typ XXVI boats ready for operations. As it is, there is only one. The Typ XXIs are nearly ready to begin working up, but again only a few of them. Had production proceeded as scheduled, we could send 200 advanced boats into the Atlantic now, completely reverse the situation there, and drive the damned Allies from the sea. As it is, all we can do is delay things long enough to either get the rest of the boats ready, or make the enemy accept some sort of terms." The Admiral rose and began to pace behind his desk. "That's the problem, Kruger. The war would have been over months ago if the Allies weren't insisting on this 'Unconditional Surrender' doctrine of theirs. Who's going to surrender if the enemy is going to be able to write all the terms including, probably, stringing up the losers? Without that bloody doctrine we should have been able to draw up terms that would at least permit Germany to exist more or less as always. So now delay is our only hope. That's your job, Kruger, to provide that delay. At any cost." Von Saltzmann shrugged. "That will depend upon just what you sink, I should imagine." He led the way around a corner, away from the pen where Kruger's old command would by now have been emptied of her crew as the dockyard people set to work putting right the damage inflicted during her last patrol. "Seeing you come in today brought back memories," the pudgy captain said. "You were there?" "In the shadows. Once we got word from the trawler that you'd managed to make it back in one piece I came down." He frowned. "It's not like it was, I can tell you that! I was promoted out of a sea command in early 1940, but I can remember what it was like. My little 'dugout' had such a limited range we could only operate in the North Sea, but when we came back in from patrol there would be a brass band blaring away on the pier, and all the nurses from the base hospital, and any other personnel who could get free, would come down to watch." He shook his head. "And now? Now all you get are a few line handlers and an over-worked staff officer." Kruger looked around. "Aren't we going the wrong way, sir? The pens are back that way." "Your new boat is in a different pen, well concealed from the air, and nearly as well from the regular dockyard workers and any sailors without good reason for being there. She's still on the secret list, you understand." Kruger nodded, and they continued on their way. Security would be vital with a new type of boat. If the enemy once discovered its location they would drop every bomb they had on the pen, just to keep it from coming into service. "What do you know of my crew?" Kruger asked suddenly. "Competent, I presume?" "The best we could find. Hand-picked, in the best sense of the word. Your Number One, for instance, Kapitänleutnant Rolf Wiegand, is a regular, born in Berlin. Twenty-two years old. He's had a command of his own, but agreed to accept the Exec's job in this boat after we told him he would probably get the next one commissioned for himself." "Will he?" "I imagine so, if there is a next one. Between the Allied bombers, and the slow-moving idiots in the yards, I sometimes think the war will end first!" Kruger grimaced. He had often felt that way himself, wondering when the promised new generation of U-boats would arrive to replace the superannuated relics they were forced to fight with. And now he would have the first of them. He would also, consequently, have the first chance to die in one, if the boat failed to prove herself in battle. "You said he had a command?" Kruger asked. "What happened?" "He had an old Typ VIIc, without a Schnorchel. They were on the surface at night, charging batteries, when an enemy patrol bomber got them off Ferrol. Wiegand and most of the crew made it to shore and we smuggled them back across the border into France and got them home. They were bloody lucky, actually. The boat was ready for the breakers. No Schnorchel, an old Metox that couldn't detect microwave radar frequencies—I'm damned if I know how he made it as far as he did!" Kruger nodded. They had all served in boats of that sort at one time or another. Not everyone had survived. But it told him something about Wiegand. He had to have been competent to make it as far as Ferrol, no matter where his home port had been at the time. Biscay was one of the most heavily patrolled areas. You just didn't survive there without being damned good. A siren began shrieking and von Saltzmann grabbed his arm. "This way!" he shouted, hurrying down a narrow alley between two bombed-out shops. "There's a shelter just down here." Kruger needed little prodding. The enemy had shown himself entirely too proficient at hitting even moving targets with his bombs. How much better would he be, then, with an unmoving dockyard? Then they were in the shelter, a makeshift bunker excavated beneath a ruined office block that must have been ancient even during the Kaiser's war. "The staff used to meet directly above us," von Saltzmann said, after they'd found seats on one of the crude benches set along the walls. "Of course, that was back about 1915, when they didn't have to worry about some bloody lunatic dropping things on their heads." "Are the raids that bad now, sir?" "Worse every day. You've seen what it looks like up there. Most of the dockyard bombed to fragments. Some cranes are still standing, of course." Naturally, Kruger thought. A dockyard crane was one of the most difficult targets to destroy, for the open girders making up the base provided little for the shock wave of an exploding bomb to work against. Most of the blast just passed harmlessly through the openwork. It took a direct hit to knock one down, or enough near misses to undermine the base. Von Saltzmann pointed at the low ceiling. "There was a building up there until about three months ago." "It's not much better at sea, sir," Kruger commented. "No, I don't suppose it is. Right now it will be the British up there. They come after dark. The Americans come in the daytime. I think the civilians prefer to be bombed by the Yanks. They can at least see what they're doing most of the time, so their bombs are generally confined to the base. The bloody British just drop them anywhere. I'm not really sure how they divided it up. Possibly it simply indicates that the Americans are braver than the British when it comes to facing our fighters and flak." "Or stupider?" "Also possible. In any event, Herr Göring has at least stopped his boasting about his 'invincible' Luftwaffe. Not that I care much for the price of his silence." "I just wish I had more time," Kruger said. "It wasn't an easy patrol, and I'm not really sure I'm even up to a new command yet, no matter how fascinating it may sound." "You will be. It should be almost a pleasure cruise with your new boat." Von Saltzmann sat back, folding his arms across his chest, as if expecting a long wait. "Besides, no patrol is easy now, my friend. It's not like when I was still an operational commander. That was when our boats had the middle of the ocean to themselves, and the enemy had still forgotten all the lessons they'd learned in the last war. Just single ships, sailing whenever they liked." He sighed. "It was so easy in those days. So bloody easy." The shelter was filling up with dockyard workers and sailors now, and the two men fell into silence. They would not speak of the new command when there was any chance the wrong person might hear. Kruger felt almost at home. Many of the workers had the same hunted look so common in U-boats. Probably the relentless bombing, he thought. It would have that effect on anyone after enough time. They could feel the regular pounding as the bombs exploded throughout the yard, like depth charges detonating at a safe distance. Here and there was the heavier crash of one of the huge bombs the British had developed for use against the U-boat pens. A direct hit from one of those monsters was more than capable of doing the job, as Kruger had seen in France. Seven metres of reinforced concrete shattered, dropped onto a pair of brand-new boats, by the detonation of a single bomb. Blockbusters, the Tommies called them. So big that a single bomb would make up the entire payload of a heavy bomber, which would have had to have been specially modified to carry the monster. Von Saltzmann was snoring softly, his head lolling on his chest. How can he do that? Kruger wondered. Then it was over, and the all-clear was being sounded. Kruger looked at his watch. The raid had lasted a full hour and a half! How many planes did the enemy have now? Millions? It seemed that way. He nudged von Saltzmann, who came awake sputtering like an old outboard motor. "They're gone now," Kruger said. The pudgy captain yawned, easing himself to his feet. "Then let's get to your boat before they decide to come back," he said, starting for the entrance. "How long do we have?" "Not as long as we need, Kruger. Neither between raids, nor to get your boat ready and to sea." The pair came up out of the shelter and once again began to pick their way through the blacked-out dockyard, toward the secret pen where U-2317 lay waiting for her new commander. "This is all too bloody soon," Kruger said, after they had passed yet another inspection by a pair of Naval Policemen, who had emerged out of the darkness like Max Schreck in Nosferatu. "I don't need more sea time. What I need is a good, long rest." He sniffed. "And a shower." "You can shower on your boat." Von Saltzmann laughed suddenly. "And you're right—you bloody well need one!" "Mostly I need the rest." "I agree. So does the Admiral, if you want my opinion. But you'll just have to rest while you're at sea." He smiled. "I know it sounds absurd, but in your new boat it should be easy enough. Just stay deep during the day, running at silent speed. With your battery capacity you can creep along at five knots for a few hours over three days. The boat's equipped with carbon dioxide scrubbers to keep the air breathable, and if you need, you can release a little oxygen as well." "Identity cards please, gentlemen?" Kruger sighed and pulled out his wallet. How many Naval Policemen were stationed at Kiel now? Or had they been pulled out of every other base and dumped here with orders to be as big a nuisance as possible? "Escorts should give you very little trouble," von Saltzmann said, when they were able to continue. "The older ones, corvettes and Asdic trawlers, you can simply run away from. Even if you just use batteries you should be able to get away. Use your turbine and you'll leave anything but a destroyer behind, and the destroyer should be unable to use her detection gear at those speeds. Also, your boat is equipped with a new type detection gear—S-gear, they're calling it, along with super-sensitive hydrophones. The S-gear sends out super-sonic pulses and shows the echoes on a screen, with your boat always at the centre." "Sounds like some sort of radar." "Except that it works under water. Hydrophone range is about 50 miles at 100 metres, S-gear about half that. A surface ship's Asdic is good for perhaps three kilometres under ideal conditions. So if there are any ships about, you should know about them long before they discover you." Kruger grinned. "Maybe I will get some rest at that! And you say there's a shower aboard, too?" "Two of them—one for officers, one for other ranks. It's a benefit of your turbines. They operate on high-pressure steam, which is condensed back into fresh water. Most will probably go overboard, but the rest you can use as you see fit. You can't drink it, though." "Showers seem a fine use," Kruger said. "But she sounds like a very different sort of U-boat." "Very. A slightly larger boat, but sophisticated enough to get by with a much smaller crew. Showers, air-conditioning, even a bit of privacy. You have a cabin, you know." "With a door?" Kruger sounded as if the very idea was impossible. In his old Typ VIIc, the captain's 'cabin' consisted of a bunk just forward of the control room, with a narrow board attached to the bulkhead at one end to serve as a desk, and a curtain that could be pulled closed for privacy. A wide space on the central passageway and nothing more. "With a door," von Saltzmann assured him. "Here we are. You'll see in a minute." Two more Naval Policemen were waiting at the bunker door, with a young Oberfänrich standing beside them, shivering in an ill-fitting greatcoat. "Identity cards, please," the petty officer said. When he had the cards, he consulted a clipboard, with a typed list attached. "You're on the list, Kapitän von Saltz-mann," he said. "Your companion is not." "Give him your orders," von Saltzmann suggested. Kruger pulled the folded sheets from his greatcoat pocket and handed them over. The Oberfänrich, watching over the petty officer's shoulder, seemed suitably impressed. "Good enough, sir," the petty officer decided. "Go on inside." "Welcome aboard, sir," the young officer said. "I'm Ostler, senior Oberfänrich." Kruger extended his hand. "Good to meet you, Ostler. Have you been to sea before?" "No, sir." He hesitated. "At least, not in U-boats. I spent six months in an S-boat, stationed in Den Helder, before coming to U-2317." "See any action?" "Some. Running fights, mostly with British motor torpedo boats. No great battles." Kruger shrugged. "The last great sea battle was the Skagerrak, which was fought before I was born." "There was Bismarck, sir." Ostler offered. "One battleship against the entire Home Fleet? It was a battle, but more than a little one-sided." More than that, it had been a stupid waste, he thought. If Lutjens had simply had the common sense to keep radio silence Bismarck might have made it safely to France, where her damage could have been repaired. "Why don't we go aboard?" von Saltzmann suggested. Kruger nodded. "Yes. Good idea." The two men entered the bunker, leaving Ostler with the Naval Policemen. "You want to watch what you say around that one, Kruger," von Saltzmann warned. "He's a bloody little Nazi who'd probably turn you in for undermining morale if he thought he could get away with it. He's political right through. One of the shower we've been cursed with since Rastenburg. As if the Navy needs reminding of its duty!" Kruger hardly heard him. He had come to a shuddering halt, his mouth hanging half open. She was like no vessel he had ever seen. Long and sleek, her casing gently rounded, flowing in a smooth line from her blunt bow all the way to her tapered stern. There was no deck gun, no guns of any kind, and the low tower was shaped like an upended aeroplane wing, rounded at the front, and tapering to a wedge at the rear, where the Schnorchel head was nestled on its retracted tube. The two periscopes were fully extended, but behind them was a more remarkable appendage. A retractable radar scanner of the most recent design, which together with a pair of long radio antennae made up the visible part of U-2317's electronic gear. "Radar, too?" Kruger asked. "Yes. The best available. There's a detector in the Schnorchel head, of course, but if you're surfaced your own radar will be a lot more useful. That set should pick up a fighter at 80 miles. Farther, if he's high enough. Not as useful as the S-gear for surface search, though. The antenna is too low, so you've got no more than about a 15 miles range. Aircraft detection is the most useful feature. If you're searching for targets, you'll find them easier at about 50 metres." "Can't they home in on our signal?" Von Saltzmann shrugged. "Probably. But by the time they reach you I'd think you'd have pulled the plug and got away, right?" Kruger grinned. "Right!" He looked her over more carefully. Everything was streamlined. Even the mooring bitts were obviously retractable. "She's like something out of Jules Verne," he said. "An apt description," von Saltzmann replied. "I went along on one of her trials, and I must say I was very impressed. Once submerged she is like a dream." He chuckled softly. "Or a nightmare, if your name happens to be Churchill! Fast, very manoeuvrable, and extremely deep diving when required. We haven't tested her to design depth yet. The engineers say she should be able to operate at 350 metres. We've had her as deep as 250 metres and hardly a groan from the pressure hull. You've five centimetres of tempered steel surrounding you. Thicker than anything ever built before. Personally, I have a suspicion the engineers may have been a bit conservative in their estimates. The main thing is that, in the unlikely event that you can't escape a depth charge attack by running away, you can dive deeper than any escort commander is ever likely to set his charges. Possibly deeper than he can set them." Kruger nodded. "There are still the hedgehog mortars, or course. Those only explode on contact." "You should be able to out-manoeuvre those, I should think." The captain moved toward the brow. "Well, Herr Korvettenkapitän, come aboard. Your new command awaits." Kapitänleutnant Rolf Wiegand lifted his half-filled glass, winking at the paunchy torpedo officer, Oberleutnant Karl Himmler, who was poring over a long letter written on pink stationery and absolutely reeking of some cheap fragrance. "Hear anything from the Gestapo lately, old pal?" Wiegand asked. Himmler smiled weakly. The only thing that might have made things worse would have been if his mother had named him Heinrich, which, thank God, was a fate with which she had already unknowingly cursed his elder brother. It didn't help that he vaguely resembled the SS Reichsführer. So the jokes were only natural, and entirely good-natured. It was just that one could tire of anything after a time. "Not a thing, Number One," Himmler replied, looking over his letter. His wife was a dedicated correspondent, but her habit of spraying everything with perfume was becoming annoying. Especially lately, when the choice of scents had become both limited and revolting. "However," he went on, "I did mention to my Uncle Heinie that I had it on good authority that you were secretly Jewish." Wiegand, whose father was a Lutheran bishop, laughed and sipped his brandy. It was the good stuff, French, brought in before the recent reverses on that front. Now it was to be savoured, as it seemed unlikely that they would be able to replenish their supply in the near future. "Are you really related, Karl?" he asked. "In a vague sort of way. Seventh cousins, fourteen times removed, or some such. Not close enough that he'd worry about me if one of his henchmen ever got hold of me." Fregattenkapitän (Ing) Parsifal Eisenberg, the Chief Engineer, looked up from a technical manual. "I understand the new captain will be joining us today, Number One?" "So I've heard, Chief. At least, his boat was due in today." He shrugged. "Whether they actually made it, however, I have no idea." "The odds are just slightly in favour of not making it, I should think," Eisenberg said. Seaman Schwartz, who served as wardroom steward, stuck his head in the door. "Air raid on up topside, gentlemen," he announced. Wiegand groaned, sinking deeper into his chair. "Thank you, Schwartz. Be sure the rest of the crew are informed." "Zu Befehl, Herr Kapitänleutnant!" "If the bloody Tommies are dropping things on us again," Himmler commented, "I'm glad I'm down here out of the way." "Aren't we all?" Wiegand agreed. Himmler glanced over at the Exec. He seemed in a fairly good mood today. They all did. It was the boat, he thought. For the first time in many months, everyone seemed to feel that not only did they stand an excellent chance of surviving, but it seemed likely they could inflict some major damage as well. The new torpedoes, the 'eels,' as they were called, were going to raise all kinds of hell if they could slip under a convoy. The enemy was so far unaware of their development, and thus had no good countermeasures ready. Oberleutnant Reuter, the navigator, stepped into the wardroom and flopped into a waiting chair. More than for any of the others, U-2317 represented a chance to him. After his last cruise, in an ancient 250-tonner that had never left the Baltic, nor done any damage to the enemy, this boat was like heaven. Even the omnipresent Typ VIIs, by far the most common type, did not have the luxury of a real wardroom. There was only a central corridor, running the length of the boat, and everything and everyone was squeezed in at one side or the other. Here the officers had this compartment to themselves, and the captain had a private cabin. The wardroom was small, but with the berths folded up it was adequate for their needs. Even the other ranks had their own bunks. "Any news?" Wiegand asked. "There's still a war on," Reuter commented. "Otherwise, what, exactly, were you interested in, Number One?" "Did the new captain's boat make it in?" "No idea. I was going up to the Edelweiss, but it's raining British bombs out there just now." He grinned. "Besides, a grieving Leutnant just informed me that the bloody Yanks dropped a rather large bomb on the place a few hours back." "Pity," Eisenberg commented. He was a very married man, and had never understood the younger officers' need to drink themselves half blind and bed every female in sight. "They say," Reuter announced, rather dramatically, "that it killed Lotte." "Ach!" Wiegand sighed, even more dramatically. "The horrors of war! Struck down in the bloom of youth! My God, I'll wager there must be at least a quarter of the officer corps she hadn't got around to yet!" "A fine tribute, sir," Reuter said. "Fine." "Actually," Wiegand remarked, "she was a rather nice girl, leaving out being a bit fat in the behind." "Oh, decidedly," Reuter put in. "Why, as whores go, she was one of the very best. Never caught a bloody thing off her, either." "Crabs," Himmler said. "What?" "Ostler got crabs from her." Eisenberg looked up from his manual. "Serves him right, the little prick." "God!" Wiegand moaned. "You mean he's been there, too?" "I don't know anyone who hasn't," Himmler said, ignoring Eisenberg's scowl, "with the possible exception the Grossadmiral." "And Beethoven," Reuter offered. Beethoven was U-2317's mascot, a grey ceramic cat secured to a shelf in the wardroom. Their laughter was cut short as Schwartz stuck his head in the door again. "Kapitän von Saltzmann is on the dock," he announced. "Looks as if the new captain is with him." "What does he look like?" Wiegand asked. "Filthy. Like someone who's just come off a long patrol. But he's wearing a white cap and has three rings around his sleeves, so..." "That's probably him, then," Wiegand said, nodding decisively and getting to his feet. "The rest of you stay here for now. He may wish to get cleaned up before general introductions. If not, we'll know where to find you." Korvettenkapitän Hans Kruger looked around the neat little cabin with a lingering feeling of disbelief. Since leaving the Naval Academy in 1940, he had spent the entire war in U-boats, but this was the first time he had ever seen such luxury afforded a captain. There was a bunk, with drawers beneath it for his clothing, along with a tiny desk and chair, and several shelves fixed to the bulkheads. There was also a telephone and an intercom station, both within easy reach of either bunk or desk, and a gyro repeater and depth gauge at the foot of his bunk. When he had come aboard he had found his kit had already been sent over from the storage facility ashore. In this boat, the captain wasn't limited to what he could carry in a tiny ditty bag, but would keep his full issue with him at all times. Within five minutes of coming aboard, he had been standing beneath a hot shower, scrubbing away the accumulated filth and stink. Then a good shave, painful, as was common after three months without touching razor to face, but doing wonders for his appearance. At one time he had thought of simply growing a beard, but when he had tried he found that the sides never filled in properly, and a moustache and goatee tended to give him a unwanted Satanic look. So now he just let his whiskers grow as they might while on patrol, and removed them as soon as possible after returning. Then, clean again, he had dressed in fresh fatigues and gone right through the boat, with Wiegand and Eisenberg taking turns as guide. The boat was magnificent, and the crew every bit as good. 'Hand picked,' von Saltzmann had called them. For once, the term actually seemed to fit. His questioning had brought out that all of the seamen were fully qualified in their specialities, most of them with examinations passed, ready for promotion at the first available vacancy. The petty officers, always the backbone of any boat, were equally well qualified. One of them, Chief Coxswain Heinrich Stauber, had won both the first and second-class versions of the Iron Cross, as well as the 'fried egg,' the German Cross, Germany's only award for individual acts of bravery. There was even a cook, Petty Officer Willi Dorfmann, who had been second chef in a fine restaurant in Potsdam before the war. Kruger had sampled his handiwork that evening. Using the same basic rations as were found in every other U-boat, Dorfmann had turned out a genuine treat. It was not the food that was usually bad, Kruger thought, but the cooks. The Admiral, and those under him, had drawn them all together in this boat for a special purpose—to delay the end of the war as long as possible. It was probably too late for that now, Kruger thought, but the gesture was still necessary. And, in a boat like this, they might even accomplish something. Make the enemy stop and think, reconsider the odds. It was worth a try. Von Saltzmann had given him an outline of the plan. The details would come later. U-2317 was to slip out into the Atlantic and disrupt the convoy routes as much as possible. Once out of the Baltic, through the gantlet of the Skagerrak, she would be based in Bergen, whence she could sortie with equal effectiveness against the British Isles or the northern convoy routes to Russia. "You'll be buying us time," von Saltzmann had explained. "The new boats are almost ready for active service. Typ XXIs, mostly, but they'll soon be followed by more like your own. The only thing needed to get them into the war is time, and that is the one thing we are desperately short of just now!" It was quite true, Kruger thought. The new boats had the potential to completely reverse the Battle of the Atlantic. But, as yet, there were not enough of them, and none had ever sailed on a war patrol. The war was still being carried on by the older boats, like U-702. Only one out of four ever came back. "Bloody depressing," he muttered, picking up the leather-bound Captain's Log from the desk. He had glanced through it earlier, but put off a detailed study until after he had been through the boat and had a good supper. Now there would be time, and the late Kapitän Scheutte's observations would give him some extra insight into both the boat and her crew. He glanced up at the neat reefer jacket hanging from a hook by the door. That was one thing that was very different in this boat. Everyone tended to wear dress uniform when not engaged in some task where fatigues would be more appropriate. There was none of the usual mixture of uniform and old civilian clothing that was standard in other boats. It was like being in a battleship. Even Kruger had put aside his old leather watchcoat, exchanging it for a clean shirt and tie, and his best reefer jacket. He smiled suddenly. A few months ago he would never have considered wearing his best uniform except for special occasions. Now, no matter what they accomplished with this particular boat, the war could not last much longer. When it was over he doubted if the condition of his best uniform would be of much concern. He opened the log, and had just started reading, when there was a soft rap at the door. "Enter." Oberfänrich Gerhard Ostler stepped over the coaming and stood uneasily just inside the door. "I should like to speak with you for a moment, sir," he said. "If I may?" Kruger nodded, putting down the log. "What is it, Oberfänrich?" "It is—well, sir—Mister Wiegand seems to have an inexhaustible supply of minor jobs, and he assigns all of them to me." "Are you suggesting that the Executive Officer of this boat is being purposely unfair to you, Ostler?" "No. No, sir. It's not that, although I am senior, and Oberfänrich Shultz never seems to have as much to do." "Don't complain, Ostler. Perhaps Mister Wiegand simply thinks that a more experienced officer can get the job done faster?" Ostler nodded, hesitantly. "Perhaps, sir. But, you see, sir, when I was assigned to this boat I was told in Berlin that along with my regular duties, my most important job would be to inform the crew of their correct attitude toward Führer and Fatherland." He shook his head. "Did you know, sir, that there are only five party members in the entire crew? And I am the only officer!" He flinched, biting his lip. "Except for yourself, of course, sir." Kruger laughed, shaking his head. "Sorry, Ostler, but you are still the only one. When I joined the Navy it was not considered proper for a German officer to join any political party, so politics were not something we ever concerned ourselves with. I have not got out of that habit." He smiled as benevolently as he could. "However, I will speak with the Exec about your duties, eh?" "Thank you, sir. Right now I have no time, but..." "Yes. Exactly. Go tell Mister Wiegand I wish to speak to him, will you, Ostler?" "Zu Befehl, Herr Kapitän!" Wiegand arrived a few minutes later, looking puzzled. "Young Ostler told me you wished to see me, sir?" "Yes. Sit down, Number One." "He was grinning like he'd just been promised a direct promotion to Grossadmiral." "He was just in here, complaining about being too overworked to make his little speeches and inspire the crew." "I do my best to keep him that way, sir," Wiegand replied. "Kapitän Scheutte preferred it." Kruger grinned. "I trust you'll be able to keep it up?" "There will always be more than enough work for an Oberfänrich in any boat," Wiegand said. "Particularly a bloody little commissar like Ostler." "Exactly," Kruger grunted. "I'm damned if I know why the high command has suddenly seen fit to allow the party to meddle in Navy business. It was the bloody Army that tried to blow up the Führer, not us!" Wiegand nodded. "I've certainly never had any doubts about my own loyalty, sir." "Nor I about mine. So keep the little bugger busy, eh?" "I will, sir." "Oh, and what about our other young gentleman? What's his name?" "Schultz, sir. Jurgen Shultz. No problem with him. He comes from an old Navy family, father commanded a destroyer at the Skagerrak, grandfather was an admiral. He's been set on a naval career since infancy, and I don't think he gives a damn who runs the country so long as he can have it." Kruger nodded. "Good. That's the sort of officer I like." He held up the log. "I've been reading through this," he continued. "Sounds as if there have been some problems with the turbine?" "Some, sir. It's still a new system." "I'll want to speak to the Chief about it, in any case." Wiegand stood. "I'll see to it, sir." Kruger held up his hand. "Not just now, Number One. I want to finish reading this log first, and I could use a bit of rest. Have Fregattenkapitän Eisenberg report to me at 0800 tomorrow, right?" "Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?" "Not for now. I'll finish my reading and go to sleep. Anything less than a British invasion of Kiel, or the arrival of Admiral Dönitz aboard, you handle." "Aye, aye, sir." Wiegand stepped out into the passageway and walked the few steps to the wardroom. He was glad to find out that the new captain agreed with him on keeping politics out of things. There was more than enough to worry about as it was. More than enough. Buy With Honour in Battle in trade paperback or Microsoft Reader eBook format from Amazon.com. |
Original content © 2001, 2003, J.T. McDaniel. All rights reserved.
