U-Boats Attack! E-Book

Jak P Mallmann Showell

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 415

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

The Battle of the Atlantic was the longest continuous military campaign of the Second World War, raging from 1939 to 1945. It saw the might of the Royal Navy pitted against the Kriegsmarine. Germany's secret weapon was their fleet of U-boats. They had the largest fleet of submarines in the world and this enabled them to play cat and mouse with the Allied forces to devastating effect. Hunting in 'wolf-packs' they would prey on merchant shipping and naval vessels. In this startling new book, Jak P. Mallmann Showell tells the story of this battle as viewed through the conning towers of these U-boats. Using surviving logs, written as the action unfolded. You taste the salt, smell the nauseating stench of the U-boats and hear orders being whispered quietly while diving back in time to the horrendous inhumanity of the Battle of the Atlantic.

Leseprobe

U-BOATSATTACK!

U-BOATSATTACK!

THE BATTLE OF THE ATLANTICWITNESSED BY THE WOLF PACKS

JAK P. MALLMANN SHOWELL

This book is based on original logbooks, written at the time as the action unfolded and the additional annotations come from the numerous files from the German U-boat Museum.

First published in 2011

The History PressThe Mill, Brimscombe PortStroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QGwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2016

All rights reserved© Jak P. Mallmann Showell, 2011

The right of Jak P. Mallmann Showell to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 8062 3

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Introduction: U-boat Logbooks

1.   Commence Hostilities against England

2.   Mining the Lion’s Den

3.   Battles against Impossible Regulations

4.   The Start of the Successful Time

5.   Short-Range Surface Attacks at Night

6.   On the Periphery of Action

7.   Heading further West to the Edge of the Abyss

8.   Sixty-four Dynamic Days of 1941 – Two Metamorphic Months

9.   From the Wild Atlantic to the Calm Mediterranean

10.  Wild Waters to the West of Gibraltar

11.  The United States and Russia joins the War: Too Far, too Cold and too Hot

12.  First Operations with a Purpose-Built Supply Submarine

13.  1942 – Closing the Air Gap of the Mid-Atlantic

14.  The Biggest Convoy Battle of All Time

AppendixThe Hitting Power of the U-boats in this Book

Further Reading

INTRODUCTION

U-BOAT LOGBOOKS

Anyone studying the Second World War will quickly discover that many facts seem to get lost in a deliberate perpetuation of myths; in fact it is easy to find that a high proportion of well-established stories are totally without foundation. Many historians, even those who publish their results on stone epitaphs, seem to be happy to repeat figments of the imagination and, to make matters worse, even embroider these with their own fantasies. Those who do check original records discover very quickly that a number of well-established facts seem to be based on material first presented by the Allied propaganda systems, rather than on events of the war. Eyewitness reports, so favoured by the media, are even worse. Many come entirely from the deepest imagination rather than fact. The stories in this book are different. They are based on original logbooks, written at the time when the action unfolded.

War logs (Kriegstagebücher or KTB) differ from ordinary naval diaries in that they were regarded in Germany as legal documents and had to be signed personally by commanders every four hours. In addition to the main log, officers also carried small observation books for recording personal information.

As far as is known, there were only two cases where logbooks were deliberately falsified. The most famous is the first ship (the Athenia) sunk by a U-boat during the Second World War. Hitler ordered this incident to be eradicated from the records and the crew sworn to secrecy. The other incident took place during the Spanish Civil War, when some U-boats operated off Spain as part of an international peacekeeping force. It would appear that there are logs indicating that boats were in the Arctic seas, while in reality they were off Spain. Changing the logs in this case was thought necessary because the information in them had to be handed over to foreign governments participating in the international peacekeeping activities.

At times it is exceedingly difficult to interpret the words written in logs and there have been a number of cases where, long after the war, senior officers could no longer understand what they themselves had written in the heat of conflict. Naval terminology and code words are not easy to follow.

Recent high-level public inquiries have made people aware that some important leaders are allowed to be ‘economical’ with the truth. This means they are allowed to deliberately withhold information in order to mislead the general public. This must have happened during the war as well and one wonders how many things were spotted but not recorded. However, for most of the time one can take U-boat logs as an accurate account of what happened and it is very interesting to compare them with logs kept by the opposition. Often the Allied reports and the U-boat logs fit snugly together, like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. Of course all these logs fell into Allied hands after the war and there is evidence that some pages, possibly containing critical information, were then removed.

The accounts in this book are based on original U-boat logs. The additional annotations come from the large number of files in the International U-boat Museum (Formerly U-boat Archive) in Cuxhaven-Altenbruch (www.dubm.de). Allied information comes mainly from the secret Anti-Submarine Reports released by the British Anti-Submarine Warfare Division of the Naval War Staff. These were issued each month only to officers involved with hunting U-boats.

Once a U-boat returned to port, staff from the U-boat Command would have interviewed the commander and added comments to the log. Following this, six or seven copies were made and generally distributed as follows:

1. Operational Flotilla,

2. U-boat Command,

3.&4. Supreme Naval Command,

5. Second Admiral for U-boats (Training and Administration),

6. AGRU-Front (Units responsible for final training of U-boat crews),

7. 27th U-boat Flotilla, responsible for training.

The Supreme Naval Command not only employed a large staff to file the logs, but also sent terse letters to flotilla chiefs when they found any unaccounted periods in the logs. Even when the boats were being repaired in ports, the skeleton crew was expected to record what was happening.

Although Hitler ordered all logs to be destroyed shortly before the end of the war, Naval Command took the view that it had nothing to hide and therefore did not pass on these instructions. As a result American forces captured a vast stock of German naval records towards the end of the war. Many of these logs were later microfilmed (on 35mm film) and made available through the American National Archives. There is a complete set in the Deutsches U-Boot-Museum. I am most grateful to Horst Bredow for allowing me to dig through his archive and for helping in interpreting the complicated language of the logbooks. Much of what is in them has been discussed with ex-U-boat men and I am also most grateful to everyone who has helped with the interpretation of the logs. Photographs have come from the author’s collection and from Deutsches U-Boot-Museum in Cuxhaven-Altenbruch (www.dubm.de).

1

COMMENCE HOSTILITIES AGAINST ENGLAND

Readers might cringe at the use of the word ‘England’ in the title, but this old generic name for the United Kingdom has been used here to keep the atmosphere of the period. Even long after the war, Germans were happy to use terms such as ‘English soldiers from Scotland’, when describing the first British troops in the shipyards of Hamburg.

During the middle of August 1939, U-boat flotilla commanders were ordered to implement the Three Front War Programme for a possible conflict in the Baltic, North Sea and Atlantic. This involved moving as many units as possible out of ports to prevent them from being locked in by superior blockading forces. Kptlt. Alexander Gelhaar recorded the exact details of how U45 perceived the start of the war. Like many other boats, U45 left the Elbe estuary on 19 August 1939, two weeks before the beginning of the war, in order to take up a waiting position in the North Atlantic among the column furthest west from Ireland. Of course, in addition to these official orders, crews were also well within range to receive normal radio broadcasts.

25 August 1939: 1714 hrs

Notification was sent to all units at sea that special announcements were due to follow. The reason for such a warning signal was that many merchant ships did not man their radio room all the time.

27 August: 1830 hrs

Received via the German Ocean Weather Forecast:

To all German ships.

Make use of all advantages to reach a German port during the next four days. If this is not possible then go to a Spanish, Italian, Russian, Japanese, Dutch or other neutral port. In no circumstances make for the USA. From Naval Command.

31 August: 2100 hrs

The following decoded signal was handed to the commander:

1. Start hostilities against Poland in home waters on 1 September at 0445 hrs.

2. Not certain how the western powers will react.

3. Should the western powers declare war then our own forces are to react only in self-defence or on receipt of special orders.

4. Pocket battleships are to remain in their waiting positions; no attacks, not even against Polish ships.

The pocket battleships at sea were: Admiral Graf Spee with a supply ship in the South Atlantic and Deutschland with a supply ship in the North Atlantic. They were not given permission to commence hostilities until the end of the month.

3 September: 1226 hrs

The following decoded signal was handed to the commander:

To all Atlantic units.

Commence hostilities against England immediately.

Same day: 1743 hrs

To all Units from the Naval War Staff.

Since 1700 hours France has considered itself to be at war with Germany. For the time being our own units may engage only in self-defence.

5 September: 0042 hrs

A general radio broadcast reported the sinking of the passenger liner Athenia and shortly after that came:

To all Units from the Naval War Staff.

On orders from the Führer, passenger ships are not to be attacked, even if they are sailing in convoy.

7 September: 2054 hrs

The following decoded message was handed to the commander.

To all units from the Naval War Staff.

All boats from 6th and 7th U-boat Flotillas, except U53, are to make their way back home at the fastest possible speed allowed by their fuel reserves via the north of England without regard of other boats’ operations areas. Take advantage of any attack opportunities as long as these comply with operation orders. New operation orders make this return necessary.

Thus a few simple radio messages plunged the world into war for the second time within about thirty years.

Alexander Gelhaar and his entire crew returned home only once. U45 was the 6th U-boat to be sunk during the Second World War. It went down on 14 October 1939 with all hands during its second war voyage as a result of having been depth charged by the destroyers HMS Inglefield, HMS Intrepid and HMS Icarus.

2

MINING THE LION’S DEN

U26 set out before the beginning of the war with a sealed envelope containing orders from the Supreme Naval Command to lay mines in the approaches of Weymouth Harbour on England’s south coast.

The small staff controlling the U-boat war in the west arrived unexpectedly in Wilhelmshaven at around the same time as Britain and France declared war on Germany. There the only available space was in rather depressing wooden huts by a road leading to a military cemetery called Toten Weg. These may have been close to a substantial communications bunker, but this isolated conglomeration of naval offices still felt like a definite comedown. It was on the landward side of the town, a long way from the dockyard and even further from Germany’s only purpose-built U-boat base. The squalid huts were nowhere near as prestigious as the highly mobile depot ship Erwin Wassner, which the staff had just vacated in the Baltic Sea. But then, the last weeks had been exceptionally hectic and the confusion created by the unexpected war preparations made the unavailability of more suitable accommodation understandable. The U-boat Command’s new control headquarters in Sengwarden were still under construction and would not be ready for some time, so the men had no alternative other than shrugging off the inconvenience and hoping their stay would not be for long.

The location didn’t even have the feel of the seaside. Only the persistent squawking of gulls gave any indication there might be salt water nearby. The men had not yet settled in when they realised that the huts had one great advantage: they looked too unimportant to make them a bombing target. The war had hardly been a day old when the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer shot down a Vickers Wellington, clearly demonstrating that the old imperial naval base was no longer out of reach of the enemy. Admiral Scheer hadn’t gone to war with the rest of the fleet because much of the internal machinery was being dismantled for a major refit.

The light cruiser Emden also brought down a plane, but this one crashed onto the forecastle, making a hell of a mess and causing some loss of life. An irate officer threatened the unfortunate gunner with court martial, saying he should have waited for orders before opening fire. Kpt.z.S. und Kommodore Karl Dönitz, (Führer der Unterseeboote – Flag Officer for U-boats), took more than a casual interest in the controversial gossip. After all, four years earlier he had commanded the Emden, and had been looking forward to a promotion which might offer him the opportunity of leading a whole cruiser squadron. Instead of such a highly-regarded step up, he was shunted into these squalid huts, commanding a tiny band of stinking submarines. Dönitz was pleased that the arrogance of the irate officer was not his concern. His U-boat men didn’t cultivate that sort of short-sightedness. During the four years since leaving Emden, he had been able to create an enthusiastic elite where common sense, self-discipline and perfect teamwork displaced the majority of bombastic naval regulations.

Dönitz knew that many people would be forced into adjusting their thinking. Things were definitely going to change and a good number of officers were in for a big shock. The arrogance of some juniors and the loftiness of many seniors had been making him uneasy for some time. How could anyone think that an aircraft with British markings dropping bombs on the town was not an acceptable reason for a rating to open fire? The peacetime routine, which demanded unquestioning automatons, was no longer appropriate. Dönitz had often told his superiors that the navy needed more quick-thinking men. He had survived the First World War and knew this one wouldn’t go away again in a hurry. He was also certain that they were going to be exceptionally lucky if they were still alive when it ended. He had seen it all before. He knew it was going to be a long slog and that Britain was an unforgiving opponent. A military cemetery, with graves from the First World War, was just a few minutes’ walk from the new headquarters and anyone doubting Britain’s determination needed only to take a few steps to see the memorials to the masses that had died twenty-five years earlier, when the pathetic European leaders were so stupid that they ordered their best men to kill each other.

The war plans, which the Supreme Naval Command had ordered two weeks earlier, were not to Dönitz’s liking. He wanted to make drastic changes. His argument was that if Britain had started evacuating children and valuable racehorses from London, then vulnerable targets would also have been withdrawn from the sea lanes before declaring war. Therefore the U-boats might as well be brought home to refuel and be ready for when British ships reappeared. There was no point having submarines at sea doing nothing. However, Dönitz’s visions for a U-boat war couldn’t be fully realised either. An embarrassing shortage of torpedoes meant that the U-boat Command would also need to fall back on the navy’s generous stock of torpedo mines. The difficulty was that the majority of commanders who had been trained in laying these mines were now driving boats without the necessary mine laying modification to the torpedo tubes.

One of the boats already at sea with a load of torpedo mines was U26. Both Dönitz and Eberhard Godt (his chief of operations) considered the proposition in detail, wondering whether it might not be better to bring this boat home with the rest. Finally Dönitz decided against the move, although he still hated the idea of approaching so close to harbours. He had succeeded in cancelling another mining operation and diverting the boat (U53 under Kptlt. Ernst-Günter Heinicke) into the Atlantic. But despite this, U26 sailed with orders from the Supreme Naval Command to mine the approaches of Weymouth harbour on England’s south coast. Intelligence suggested the port was likely to be earmarked as a wartime emergency disembarkation point for transports, but the high-ranking officials in Berlin seemed to have forgotten that this was also the home of the British anti-submarine school and it was therefore likely to have the best defences against U-boats. Dönitz didn’t like sending his men so close to the lion’s den, but he wasn’t in full control and also had to obey orders.

U26 was one of only two boats belonging to the infamous Type IA, a class that had been replaced by the more stable Type VII. Both U26 and U25 had the disgusting habit of collecting air bubbles in their diving tanks and in bad weather they rolled about, adding to instability problems. In addition to this, when diving quickly, the centre of gravity seemed to creep forward, encouraging the boats to continue turning in a massive loop. This might be an impressive aircraft manoeuvre for amusing crowds at displays, but it was somewhat nerve wracking when 1,000 tons of submerged steel tried the same performance on its own. It proved especially irritating during chaotic alarm dives when the engineering officer could momentarily lose sight of exactly where the centre of the earth actually was. To make matters worse, this was Kptlt. Klaus Ewerth’s first cruise with U26 and there hadn’t been time to get him acquainted with the machinery or the men.

This last point didn’t particularly worry Dönitz. The 32-year-old Ewerth had been in the navy since 1925 and had been with submarines since before the Diktat of Versailles allowed Germany to own them. Then, when U-boats first reappeared, he became commander of U1. He was one of the old guard; precise, confident and capable of tackling anything. Ewerth was a quiet type who was respected because people liked him, not because they were impressed by his gimmicks or by the piston rings on his sleeve.

The Second World War was one week old on 10 September when the news spoiled Dönitz’s Sunday lunch; the fact that it took two days for Berlin to relay the information made him even more furious. After all, one of the main naval communications bunkers was just a few yards from his office. The shattering news arrived just before midday, when the Supreme Naval Command phoned to say that two days ago the BBC had reported a successful attack against a mine-laying U-boat in the English Channel and French radio had confirmed the news a few hours later. Two days! Two whole days later the Supreme Naval Command casually told the Flag Officer for U-boats. Dönitz wasn’t the type to explode, but he had adequate vocabulary to ensure that the admirals were aware of his views on the system. This snail-like communication wasn’t good enough. Godt wasn’t so sure about his boss’s brash approach and wished he would choose more diplomatic language when expressing his feelings. He could see the admirals clipping Dönitz’s wings by shoving him sideways into a post where he would be less of an embarrassment.

The boat in question had to be U26. There were no other boats in the English Channel. Dönitz usually did not take his fury out on the men around him, but on this occasion he cursed Godt as well. Yet before slamming the phone down, it had already occurred to his quick-thinking mind that this couldn’t be the straightforward sinking that Berlin was making it out to be. How could the British know that the submarine was laying mines? TMB mines (Torpedo Mine, type B), with time-delay fuses of several days, were ejected through torpedo tubes, making it impossible for anyone to work out what the boat was doing. Those tubes were submerged, even when the boat was on the surface – no one could see what was popping out of the ends. In any case, mines would have been ejected from a submerged position or from the surface during the darkest of nights when observers would have had problems spotting the low silhouette of a conning tower. So how could anyone know what the U-boat was doing? Had the crew been captured? No, he couldn’t accept it. The intelligence people were having him on. The news had to be worse than Berlin made out. It couldn’t have been a case of someone just sinking a U-boat. The Royal Navy could well have been on board! Otherwise how would they know about the mines? Did the crew talk to British interrogators? The potential consequences were spine chilling. Every boat carried a full library and if the opposition got into U26, then U-boat Command could write off every other U-boat operation there and then. For a start, it would give the Royal Navy the positions of all other boats and the radio code settings for the coming month. This problem could be overcome in future by sending mine-laying boats out with just enough documentation for one objective, but U26 was also carrying six torpedoes for the Western Approaches, which was considerable hitting power to sacrifice. U26 had enough supplies and fuel for a whole month, meaning that she could remain at sea until mid-October; therefore it might be a while before the U-boat Command could discover what was really going on in the English Channel. Ewerth was the sort of bloke who had often disappeared during manoeuvres and then popped up, unexpectedly, just at the last moment; making Dönitz think he was probably still alive. He would have phoned home the moment he started running into trouble and his whereabouts became known to the enemy.

A couple of weeks earlier, on 29 August 1939, U26 passed through the smallest locks in Wilhelmshaven on a bright, hot summer’s day. It was midday and the beach was already full of people taking advantage of the brilliant blue sky. The thought that some of them could well be on the payroll of the British navy had crossed the minds of more than one person. Ewerth was determined to give such characters a good run for their money. It was fairly obvious that someone would be keeping tabs on the traffic in and out of the naval base. Everything had to go through the locks and then along the narrow channel leading out into the North Sea, so it wasn’t difficult. After making the usual trimming dive, U26 quickly resurfaced. Ewerth was determined to maintain the standard procedures, but he wanted to make sure watching eyes didn’t lose track of the U-boat. Following the deepwater channel, U26 made for the distinctive red and white rocket-like lighthouse at Roter Sand (Red Sand), but Ewerth didn’t go that far. Remaining within sight of the island of Wangerooge, he turned left towards the west, heading straight towards Dover.

Keeping the low outlines of the German Friesian Islands in sight, the boat continued its leisurely pace, but six hours later, when passing the Norderney lightship, the entire crew had been placed on a war footing. Ewerth closed in on Borkum, the last of the German islands. He wanted to get as close to Holland as the 3-mile limit allowed. Anyone with an interest in the boat leaving Wilhelmshaven might also have a set of eyes among the low sand dunes there and it would be helpful if observers thought the boat was heading west. Ewerth had planned drastic action. Shortly after dark, U26 made a sharp right turn and headed north. Fishing boats, the occasional destroyer, aircraft and an assortment of merchant ships were avoided by diving or by changing course. The North Sea seemed busier than usual. But it didn’t matter. U26 remained unseen as it nosed into the colder, rougher waters of the Norsemen.

Ewerth was the perfect naval officer, a good weapons delivery man, outwardly calm, doing his duty and not allowing his innermost thoughts to interfere with his objective. A few days ahead of him was Kptlt. Herbert Schultze in U48. Although two years his junior, Schultze carried a totally different attitude. For a start, he had been with his men for longer and therefore was able to trust them better, and he had no qualms about committing his thoughts to paper. His dislike for the German radio propaganda was plain for all to see. What’s more, even after the beginning of the war, U48 openly tuned in to the BBC and Schultze recorded his praise for the high standard of the British news service.

‘Our own news is too simplistic and too transparent,’ he wrote, ‘and virtually unbelievable.’ Neither Dönitz, nor anyone else in the high command was left in any doubt about Schultze’s contempt for the poor quality of broadcasts coming from Berlin. Ewerth however allowed himself to make only one open criticism (which was more for his own good than for telling his superiors what he thought of them). In his log he pointed out that messages to U-boats were being transmitted with accuracy and precision, but the meaningless fill messages to confuse outside listeners came over in such a slovenly manner that any radio operator could easily tell the difference.

The monotonous routine in U26 continued until the boat was drawing close to the Shetland Islands. Shortly after midday on 3 September the engineering officer appeared on the bridge, dodged a bit of spray and cursed. Then he told Ewerth that the British declaration of war, announced only minutes earlier by the radio, would need to be postponed. The oil pump lubricating the port diesel engine was giving trouble, which meant that it should be shut down for a while. Ewerth was prepared for even worse. He had noticed the nauseating clanking, but wasn’t going to let such setbacks get him down. Instead he used the opportunity to practice an emergency dive and then gave his men the security of the depths for a peaceful lunch, after which engineers wrestled with the machinery.

The pump was quickly repaired, but the next problem was far more serious and had the potential for much more dangerous consequences. Responding to the call ‘Commander to the bridge’, Ewerth noticed the duty officer and lookouts were scrutinising a trail of oil in their wake. ‘Stop, engines’ ordered Ewerth.

As the froth behind them subsided and the surface of the water settled to the mirror-smooth surface of a duck pond, the men found a slight but noticeable trail shimmering in their wake. Ewerth’s command, ‘Engineer Officer to the bridge’ was followed by the words, ‘At once!’ indicating that he was far from delighted by the colourful gloss on the water. The cause had to be a fracture between an oil tank and diving cell. Ewerth realised that the repairs would require a dry dock and that he, and he alone, had to make the decision whether to go on or turn back.

Seeing that the boat was surrounded by fairly thick fog, he decided to go on. They had been churning through the grey curtain for two full days and Ewerth knew that they were getting uncomfortably close to land. He also knew the south-west coast of England was no paradise for fools in ships. The cliffs were rugged, rocks sharp and currents treacherous. These hazards were well illustrated by an abundance of old wrecks. Bumping into something uncomfortable was far too easy. The radio navigation system had been working overtime, with men taking bearings on a variety of British transmitters, but this wasn’t accurate enough for negotiating the dangers ahead. Ewerth needed an exact fix on some landmark or on stars or the sun. The sea had become noticeably calmer since coming around the southern tip of Ireland, but two days of mirror-smooth sea and constant fog had made it impossible to get a sighting on anything. It wasn’t until the early evening of 9 September that a flash of light on their port flank caught the lookouts’ attention.

So far U26 had avoided everything. The men knew they were on a special mission and Ewerth’s order to turn the boat sharply towards the light was disturbing. The men confined to the inside of the stinking hull didn’t like it. Why should the old man be making for a light? Lights are bad omens: in times of war everything should be blacked out. Ewerth didn’t like it either. Spotting a light directly west suggested they had overshot their destination, and finding guiding lights shining so brightly was even more unnerving. The British government had declared war a week ago, meaning there had been ample time to switch them off. So why were the peacetime aids still on? Was it a trap? The timing of the flashes told the men the beam was not their destination off Portland Bill. Then illuminations spotted further along the coast indicated there was also a prominent town close by, tucked in behind a headland. The men had hardly taken bearings and come to the conclusion they were facing Berry Head by Brixham, when the darkened silhouette of a ship, showing only a few dull lights, brought the discussion to an abrupt halt. The U26 crashed below the waves. Realising they had been looking at the holiday resort of Torquay, the men were surprised that the peacetime illuminations had been left on.

Half an hour later, just after midnight, when the boat surfaced again, Ewerth headed in exactly the opposite direction, due east. The high cliffs of Portland Bill, with a lighthouse on top, were almost covering the flashes from the Shambles lightship while the Obersteuermann (Third Watch Officer and Navigator) took bearings on all positively identified landmarks. The men in the bow torpedo room were standing by to lay mines when words often found scribbled on public lavatory walls made them realise that not everything was as it should be. First the Obersteuermann bellowed down the voice pipe to ask for their course. Then he inquired who was at the helm. After that, he jumped down into the control room to check both magnetic and giro compasses for himself. Reappearing on the bridge, he confirmed Ewerth’s suspicion: they were heading north-east instead of east. The currents were far stronger than they had imagined and the faint slither of black between Portland Bill and the mainland was now growing alarmingly larger, to stand out as an easily recognisable barrier.

Constant course corrections indicated that the old man was having problems. The men knew he could steer a submarine through a maze, but his skills were somewhat neutralised by the currents. This potent outside influence was made worse by the task in hand. Mines could only be laid at a slow, almost snail-like pace and maintaining such a crawl in these turbulent coastal currents was difficult at the best of times. Ewerth had no choice but to abandon his first objective and to creep around Portland Bill, hoping for more favourable conditions in the large bay to the east. Being the perfect naval officer, he didn’t share his anxieties with his men. Instead, he remained calm, giving the impression everything was just as it should be.

U26 was still less than half a kilometre from the Shambles lightship when Ewerth looked at the illuminated dial of his watch before asking for confirmation of the time. U26 had been slowed down by the need to get an accurate fix on the lighthouse and by the current, and now he was wondering whether he was exposing his men to an unacceptable risk. It was getting late. It would soon be light. Yet Ewerth also had the special quality needed by a naval commander: that of not being put off his objective. He didn’t fancy doing this twice and there was no way that he was returning during the following night for another go. So, with hardly a second thought, he allowed U26 to glide on into the lair of Britain’s highly successful anti-submarine school.

To Ewerth’s surprise, the opposition seemed to be asleep and nothing hindered the mission. There were no guard ships. No watchdogs. Nothing. Just a calm sea and a few illuminations on land. The first mine scraped out at 0523 hours and there were four course changes in 26 metres of water before the eighteenth and last mine was deposited just a little more than half an hour later. This meant they were spaced at about 120–150 metres. The astonishing point about this accomplishment is that not all of them fitted into the torpedo tubes at the same time; therefore the boat must have paused for reloading. What is more, during the course of the night, the men identified three different significant currents heading 108°, 120° and 49°, all moving at about 2 knots (nautical miles per hour). Bearing in mind the speed of the boat should have been not more than an outside maximum of 3 knots; one can see this mine laying was no mean effort. Navigation had to be perfect to drop the mines into the correct shipping channel otherwise they needn’t have bothered. The water had remained calm with its mirror-smooth surface and the visibility gradually improved allowing ample compass bearings from fixed landmarks. Both Ewerth and the Obersteuermann were confident that their navigation was perfect. The mines were exactly where they should be.

The last mine had hardly been deposited when everybody on the bridge held their breath and a whispered order demanded more than total silence. Five hundred metres ahead, a darkened hulk appeared out of nowhere, blocking the escape. Strangely, it vanished as fast as it had emerged, leaving Ewerth to make full use of those powerful currents to his best advantage. Bringing U26 back into that strong surge which had troubled him earlier, he now gained extra speed to escape the mousetrap.

While heading out to sea U26 was running out of time and darkness. Soon it would be light, but now every minute was vital to get closer to deeper and safer water for diving. And yet, Ewerth could not run the risk of driving the boat too fast: he had to avoid displaying the giveaway white bow wave and wash at all costs. Remaining on the surface for as long as he dared, Ewerth eventually settled for a safer depth, clear of both the surface and the bottom, hoping that the current and electric motors would take them further out to sea. The calmness of the night didn’t last long and soon an abundance of propeller noises started irritating the men inside U26. Thinking sound detectors had detected them while laying mines, they assumed half of the Royal Navy was now chasing them. The noises came closer. Too close for comfort. All machinery, including the gyrocompass and ventilator fans, was shut down. Men who had to walk around the interior wrapped their feet in rags, the cook was told they would give up eating for the day in preference to him clanking utensils and everybody was ordered to breathe through personal ventilators. These cumbersome contraptions were worn on the chest with a tube covering mouth and nose. A valve allowed air to be breathed directly from the surroundings but exhaled air passed through a tin containing potash for absorbing carbon dioxide.

Many men dropped off to sleep, exhausted after a long night’s work. Those on duty found the surface activity becoming more determined. What’s more they knew the early morning starry sky had indicated a clear day was to follow. The high-pitched whine of a destroyer stopped too frequently for comfort and shutting off its engine worried the men in U26. The water depth was only 60 metres. Aircraft flying overhead would probably see the submerged boat in the clearness of the Atlantic swell. Sunday, 10 September was neither a happy nor a comfortable day for the men in U26, yet it passed without serious incident. Of course, they didn’t know it then, but the Supreme Naval Command had already written them off and Dönitz, their flag officer, was chewing over his lunch with similar ideas in his head. The high-pitched whining destroyer, which stopped to listen with its sound detectors, didn’t hear the U-boat.

Less than twenty-four hours later the boot was on the other foot. With six torpedoes loaded in the tubes, U26 was ready, and, with deeper water under the keel, set course to pursue other targets. The first one was not as ill prepared as the peacetime illuminations on land had suggested. Running in zigzags, a steamer turned away at a distance of about 6 miles and then a small fishing boat with sails prevented U26 from giving chase on the surface. Several more of these obstacles were avoided before U26’s honorary deputy commander, the port oil pump, dictated the course of action. Once again, the engine had to be stopped while the machinery was taken to pieces.

Although 13 September was a Wednesday, not a Friday, it still brought nothing but bad luck for the men in U26. A number of suitable targets appeared, but they either ran away at too great a distance or an abundance of small fishing boats with sails blocked the path. It was infuriating, but Ewerth and his men were pleased to be back in the Atlantic. There was something exceptionally unnerving about the drifting fog over those calm Channel waters.

Despite having accomplished their special mission and having successfully come back from the lion’s den, the apprehension of war did not diminish. Having reloaded the six remaining torpedoes, they had to be withdrawn again because the radio ordered new settings to the heads. And then, those tiny nuisances continuously harassed U26; all of them small fishing boats with sails. There were too many of them and they could well be in direct communication with a big set of teeth in the form of destroyers or aircraft. The thought that they carried sound detection gear had occurred to the men in U26, but there was nothing they could do about it. Ewerth thought he might try creeping up on one, but that could bring more problems than it was worth and was not within his orders. The snag was that often there were more than one and knocking them off with torpedoes was hardly worth it. After all, one torpedo was almost bigger than the small pots and torpedoes were a good deal more expensive than these tiny fishing boats.

On one occasion, diving to avoid a trawler brought a positive advantage. U26’s listening gear produced a faint far-off noise no one had heard before. A convoy. Ewerth immediately guessed it had to be the one reported earlier by U31 and, glancing around at the nervous fidgeting of his men, he jumped up and ordered ‘battle stations’. From that moment on, seconds started dragging into an unbearable eternity. Everything appeared to be happening in slow motion, giving Ewerth plenty of time to reflect on his decision. Might it not have been better to allow the target to slip away quietly? Approaching too close was not a good idea. Kptlt. Johannes Habekost in U31 had reported strong air cover and U26’s sound detector heard the high-pitched whine of far-off destroyers. However, despite possible retribution, convoys made good targets. They could be attacked without warning and that was much safer than tackling lone ships. No matter what flag a lone ship might be flying, it had to be stopped and its papers inspected before any action could be taken. It could only be sunk if it was carrying war contraband, and even if it was, the crew still had to be given time to get off before launching an attack. On top of this, the submariners were supposed to assure the safety of the merchant sailors. So, convoys had some definite advantages.

Things were going to be tricky. What was more, U26’s machinery was not being terribly cooperative and there was no point taking the usual precautionary look. Both periscopes were full of water and the raising mechanism of the attack periscope made enough noise to frighten the enemy. In addition to this, several threads of the steel cable for raising and lowering the periscope had snapped, suggesting the whole contraption might break altogether and leave an unwanted mast sticking up. Tension was high. Everybody knew what was at stake. U26 could surface uncomfortably close to something with a big bite. Ewerth jumped out onto the dripping conning tower, glanced over the protective wall to check that there was no one around and then gave the all clear for the lookouts to follow.

The convoy was some 4 or 5 kilometres on the horizon and Ewerth lost no time in aiming the boat at it. Then, quite suddenly, an unexpected opportunity presented itself. The men’s stares were fixed on three overlapping freighters. They were a hell of a long way off, but looked like one large target. No one could miss it. Yet the IWO (First Watch Officer) was nervous. This was the first time he had done something like this for real. It took just over eight minutes for the sound of a detonation to reach their ears and then, almost immediately, the men tumbled back through the hatch while U26 dived to avoid an approaching fast warship. The term destroyer was rather alarming for men cooped up in the narrow confines of a submarine and the majority of commanders used less disturbing descriptions.

Four hours later, U26 was back on the surface, enjoying the fresh air over a hardly moving sea. The absence of a moon made everything seem blacker than normal, but not dark enough to miss a freighter on the horizon. Instantly the engines burst into life, pushing white surging foam away from the stern, but even with everything the boat had being thrust into driving the propellers, the freighter could not be caught and slowly vanished out of sight.

The great reward came at eight o’clock the following night when British radio announced the sinking of the 6,000-ton Belgian freighter Alex van Opstal in the English Channel. It had to be result of the mines laid near Weymouth. Then the radio also described the sinking of an 8,000-ton tanker in a convoy. For a time the men wondered whether this could have been their long-range attack against those three overlapping ships, but that has never been confirmed, suggesting that none of them went down.

There followed no shortage of ships, but the next one turned out to have been the United States freighter Eglantine on her way from Manchester to Houston (Texas). Germany wasn’t at war with the United States, so she was allowed to proceed on her way. The next two ships sounded as if they were accompanied by the characteristic high-pitched whine of a fast warship’s turbine and as it did not have a functioning periscope, it was better for U26 to remain submerged. The ship after that turned out to be another neutral, the Estonian Otto Estri, a small pot of less than 2,000 tons. Then U26 stopped the Swedish Luzie Justero. A bit bigger, but also not engaged in warring activities and she was allowed to continue her journey to pick up coal from Newcastle in England for the gas works in Stockholm. Finding out what the ship was doing and what cargo it was carrying was dangerous and time consuming. The submarine had to wait for the merchant seamen to lower a boat and row over with their ship’s papers. At the best of times, the restless Atlantic was not an ideal place for this type of sailing. U-boat men didn’t like it either; anyone could have attacked at the critical moments while they stood still. Some ships even retaliated by attempting to ram the submarine which was trying to stop them. However, the majority obeyed the grim international laws, known by the grand title of Prize Ordinance Regulations, which all German submarine commanders were ordered to follow to the letter.

Arriving back in the Jade Estuary made Ewerth curse again. The lightship didn’t answer and it took a while before they dared approach the narrow channel leading to Wilhelmshaven. Those who felt like swearing did. The bright moon added a splendid silvery sheen to the water, making the low landline in the far distance stand out as a dominant streak, but Ewerth didn’t dare approach any closer. He guessed the deep-water channel would now be well protected and he didn’t wish to become a target for the Luftwaffe. So he waited patiently, bobbing around on moderate waves, until the authorities gave him permission to enter port. In any case, there was no point arriving in Wilhelmshaven unless the lock keepers were awake.

It wasn’t until after he had made fast at 0300 hours on 26 September that he learned about the virtually non-existant coastal defences. Later he found out that his boss, Kapitän zur See und Kommodore Karl Dönitz had not been shunted sideways into a position where he had less cause to argue with his superiors in Berlin. Dönitz had in fact become a rear admiral and Ewerth had also been awarded another stripe, making him a Korvettenkapitän (Commander), but the promotion wasn’t important at that moment. The best reward was being back home. Many historians have claimed that Dönitz’s promotion came about as a result of U47’s attack against the British battleship HMS Royal Oak in the Royal Navy’s anchorage at Scapa Flow, but this is not correct as Dönitz had been wearing the rear admiral’s stripe since 12 September 1939.

3

BATTLES AGAINST IMPOSSIBLE REGULATIONS

Kptlt. Wilhelm Rollmann joined the navy as an officer candidate in 1926 and took command of U34 almost one year before the beginning of the Second World War. U34 was one of the last seagoing Type VIIA boats to have been built at Germaniawerft in Kiel before production switched to the modified Type VIIB. It had a single hull instead of U26’s double hull and was marginally smaller, but had been designed for roughly the same purpose.

In the middle of August 1939, the officer commanding the 2nd U-boat Flotilla (Flotilla Saltzwedel), ordered U34 to prepare quietly for war. U26 under Klaus Ewerth belonged to the same flotilla, based at Germany’s only purpose-built U-boat station in Bant (Wilhelmshaven). These preparations were nothing new. Submarines had been put on war alert during previous political crises and this passed off as just another one of those irritating exercises. Outwardly everything looked calm, the same as it had always done, but this time U34 left with provisions for the considerably longer cruise of six weeks as well as six electric torpedoes of Type G7e and four faster varieties (G7a), driven by internal combustion engines. These had the advantage of requiring less maintenance but they left a noticeable trail of bubbles and oil as they sped through the water. Thus they could not be used during daylight, when the target could easily spot the eruption coming towards it.

At 0800 hours on 18 August, when U34 nosed out of the sea locks for trimming and diving trials, Rollmann still didn’t know what all the fuss was about and it is highly likely that the flotilla commander wasn’t any the wiser. They were obviously aware of problems flaring up with the Polish and British governments, but not many in Germany had any serious thoughts about war. Rollmann didn’t even know where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do. The Supreme Naval Command in Berlin had drawn up the emergency Three Front War Programme, which the flotilla staff had been instructed to implement. The orders for this had been lying for some time in sealed envelopes, locked in safes. In order to preserve secrecy, very few knew the exact details. To make sure nothing leaked out, commanders were not allowed to open the envelopes until they were at sea and after they had received a special order to do so. This time, however, Rollmann didn’t just take the envelopes to sea and bring them home again. He was also told to look inside. Things appeared serious, although the instructions were simple: put the boat onto a war footing and without being observed, take up a waiting position to the west of Ireland, roughly in line with Land’s End in Cornwall (England).