The Laconia Incident Read online

  Robby got the distinct impression that the man was genuinely glad to see him. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but nod and smile back at the man. But he’s the enemy! Robby’s mind screamed at him, one of the bastards that killed my family!

  “Der Kapitӓn,” his escort said, which, again, Robby understood well enough.

  His escort took Robby belowdecks, through a hatch well aft of the conning tower, and then led him forward on the submarine. The first thing to hit him was the belowdecks stench: diesel fuel, unwashed bodies, with a peculiar damp, musty, undertone. The first space he entered was crowded with people, and he could barely make his way forward through the boat.

  There were people he recognized now—at least some of them—people whose faces were familiar, almost all of whom he had never spoken to: women and children from among the Laconia’s passengers, and the wounded, mostly men, but some women and children as well.

  In the next compartment, he passed by the pulsing diesels. They were draped with drying clothing. He brushed by still more damp clothes hanging from lines hung willy-nilly in the compartment. The heat from the engines, and the steady draft created as they pulled in combustion air from the boat, aided the drying process.

  Robby’s escort chatted as they made their way forward, speaking pleasant-sounding enough German words, completely unintelligible to Robby. The tightness of the place, the way he could almost reach out and touch the inward-curved bulkheads with his hands, alarmed Robby. And how jammed up the tiny space was with pipes and cables and machinery! It all made him very uncomfortable, uncertain that the tiny space around him would hold enough air for him to breathe.

  Still inside the engine room, his German escort stopped Robby, then stepped back, sizing him up. Looking about, the man selected some of the hanging clothing—a shirt, some trousers, warm socks, underwear—and handed it to Robby. The bundle of clothes was warm and dry. It felt wonderful. His escort smiled and again said, “Kommen sie,” and then led Robby forward.

  Next, they passed through a round, watertight doorway and into what had to be the crew’s sleeping quarters, also crammed with women and children, and the wounded, all jammed in close together—the lucky ones in the bunks. Again, some he recognized, others not. Then, Robby was led through yet another doorway, into a crew’s mess: narrow tables and benches—same tightness, same oppressive feeling. How can these men live and work in such a place? he asked himself.

  There, in the mess, another seaman, an older man with a gravelly voice, pointing to Robby’s bundle of dry clothes, said in halting English, “You, get naked, put on this.”

  Understanding he was to get out of his wet clothes, and put on the dry ones he was holding, in front of these strangers, Robby was, at first, somewhat uncomfortable. But then he felt really stupid when he looked around the compartment, and saw other men doing just that: stripping down so as to exchange their wet clothes for dry ones. He then quickly—and gladly—shed his wet clothes.

  Whoever had worn Robby’s “new” clothes before was obviously bigger than him. No matter, he reasoned, the clothes are dry—and warm. Now to get out of this place and back into the open air!

  Back topside, and settled at his old spot near the bow, Robby, despite the damp darkness, felt grateful to be out of the cramped and stifling spaces belowdecks. He had heard that submarines were prime duty—for others, perhaps. Them that rides ‘em, he thought, is bloody well welcome to ‘em.

  Toward morning, Robby was given some biscuits and a cup of warm, thin soup, and was grateful for them. However, he was very confused. He had expected murder and mayhem from the enemy. But he had never expected mercy.

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  5

  Square 7721, Daylight, 13 September, 1942

  In the morning, Hartenstein notified BdU that there were 193 survivors aboard U-156. He was overjoyed to learn, in turn, that help was on the way, but dismayed that the inbound U-boats and surface vessels might not arrive for several days.

  Robby had passed the night alternately standing and squatting on the deck of the U-boat, so close to other survivors that he did not fall over, even when he surprised himself with a newly-realized ability to sleep in either position.

  Whenever he was awake, he realized that the Germans had been indiscriminately pulling survivors from the water; on deck around him were conversations in Italian and Polish, as well as in English.

  Upon reflection, he realized, They fished me out of the sea even after I answered ‘em in English, so why not anyone else live and afloat? But then I wouldn’t ’ve been in them straights in the first place, would I, if the U-boat hadn’t fired two torpedoes into my ship!

  Upon further reflection, however, he decided, “But that’s, after all, their job. It’s what U-boats do, sink ships, and our two countries are at war.

  It just didn’t made sense. Robby had never, ever, expected humane treatment from the enemy—especially not this enemy. He had heard the stories of the atrocities committed by the Nazis on the Continent, and had expected nothing less at sea. Yet here he was, standing high and dry on the deck of a German submarine. And, yesterday, the boat’s commander had been downright gracious! It was all very confusing.

  The night had been dark black, despite the panoply of glittering stars spatter-painted across the inky backdrop. Now, at dawn, the first glimmering light rose up like a glimmering broom, sweeping those stars away from the eastern sky.

  “Robby, mate, that you?” a familiar voice came from Robby’s left, not six feet away.

  “Jim?” Robby replied. “You’re here?”

  “Pardon me, mate, pardon me,” Jim was saying, as he made his way past several other survivors to Robby’s side. “Yes, Minnow, it’s me. Have you been standing here all night? And me just a few feet behind?”

  “So it would seem, Jim!” Robby could barely contain his joy at seeing his friend, alive and well. “Bugger me, but it’s good to see you!” The two men hugged each other in what was definitely an uncharacteristic English fashion.

  “Seen any of the others?” Jim asked.

  “Not since we were aboard,” Robby replied. “Last I saw Fellows, he was pushin’ his way into a lifeboat. And then I tried to get Tinsdale to jump with me, but then I realized he hadn’t, only not until I was in the water. We’d lost track of Martin earlier.”

  “The lieutenant?” Jim asked.

  “Him neither. Last I saw Tillie he was helpin’ the crew load the lifeboats.”

  McLoughlin nodded, his face drawn. “Sounds like Tillie,” he said.

  In further comparing notes, Robby learned that McLoughlin had been fished out of the water just as he had, and that his treatment had been identical to his own, right down to the belowdecks tour, the dry clothes, and the biscuits and soup.

  “I never thought I’d make it to see this dawn,” Jim said. “I was gettin’ bloody tired, just treadin’ water, and I was sure I was shark bait, if I didn’t just drown first.”

  “Same with me,” Robby agreed. “And I was sure, when they found me, the Germans would shoot me where I swam.”

  “And me. Why, the U-boat captain was downright cordial! Greeted me after I was hauled aboard, asking me if I was hungry, and even offered me the food off his plate! I’m thinkin’ to myself, ‘Jim, lad, isn’t this the same bloke what just lobbed two torpedoes into your ship?’ And I had no answer to that, ‘cause here he was now, actin’ the perfect gentleman.”

  “And so he seems,” Robby agreed. “But, somehow, I keep waitin’ for all to go sideways!”

  “I know what you mean, Minnow. I know what you mean. Somehow, it’s all off kilter from the way you’d expect. It’s like you said, and I’m waitin’ for that other shoe to drop!”

  But little did the two friends suspect that it was not the U-boat commander who would drop the other shoe.

  * * * * *

  Hartenstein ordered his crew to start taking the lifeboats in tow just after sunrise that morning. As they were brought alongside, H
artenstein noted that in one boat in particular, the passengers were in some order, with women and children seated, and men standing or on their haunches in the well deck. Not a single passenger, unlike in the other lifeboats, was in apparent panic. He knew at once the reason for it.

  “May I enquire as to the officer aboard?” Hartenstein asked, calling out in English to the boat from his perch on the U-boat’s bridge, not fifteen feet away. Tom Buckingham stood up. “And you are, Sir?” Hartenstein inquired.

  “Thomas Buckingham, Sir, lieutenant, Royal Merchant Navy, and third officer late of His Majesty’s Transport Ship Laconia.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Buckingham,” Hartenstein replied. “I am Captain Hartenstein, and I do apologize for sinking your ship. But it is a war, after all, is it not?”

  “It is indeed, Sir,” Buckingham called back.

  “I regret that we are out of dry clothing for the moment, but my men will take you in tow and give you and your people some tea and something to eat.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Buckingham replied, and meaning it.

  “And I see there’s a young woman with a baby aboard,” Hartenstein observed. “She is welcome to come aboard straightaway and go belowdecks. I’m sure she and the child will be more comfortable there.”

  Violet Logan, upon hearing Hartenstein’s offer, spoke up. “Thank you, Captain, but I would prefer to stay with my husband.”

  “As you wish, Madam,” Hartenstein replied, touching the rim of his cap.

  * * * * *

  The lifeboat carrying Marco Scarpetti had drifted off during the night and become separated from the others. Also during the night, two passengers, one Englishman, whose arm had been ripped open, and a fellow Italian, who had been shot, died. At first light, some of the other passengers said a few prayers, and their bodies were rolled over the side with as much dignity as such a maneuver would allow.

  Later in the morning, the lifeboat passed close aboard a man who seemed to float straight up, only his shoulders and head showing. His eyes were shut, and everyone in the lifeboat assumed he was dead, until his eyes opened wide, and the man stood up straight in the water, the water then covering only his legs. He shouted something unintelligible, and waved his arms.

  “Stanislaw?” Marco called out, recognizing his friend.

  “Marco!” Stanislaw called back.

  Using oars, two of the men in the boat awkwardly maneuvered it close to the man in the water. It was only when they heard the “clunk” as the boat struck the underwater grating that had supported Stanislaw throughout the night, did they understand his strange ability to stand upright in the sea. Stanislaw was able to then simply walk two steps to the boat, and enter it. Marco’s clothes had dried somewhat during the night, but were quickly wet again as he hugged his sea-soaked friend.

  “Stanislaw!” Marco kept repeating as he embraced his friend. “How good it is to see you!”

  * * * * *

  It was still early morning that Sunday when a frustrated Hartenstein did something unprecedented. He was unsure as to when any help would arrive, and was dismayed by the number of people still in the water. He was also somewhat concerned that the Italians in the lifeboats might decide to seek revenge over their former captors. And so, Hartenstein decided to send a message out over the international emergency frequency in English and in the clear:

  If any ship will assist the wrecked Laconia crew, I will not attack her, provided I am not being attacked by ship or air force. I picked up 193 men. 4⁰ - 50” South, 11⁰ - 26” West—German submarine.

  The British in Freetown, Sierra Leone, received the message, but didn’t credit it, assuming it was some Nazi trick. The French at Dakar also heard the signal, and also figured it was some sort of German ruse. The Americans on Ascension Island heard nothing.

  Aboard U-156, Hartenstein ordered his men to paint a red cross on a white bed sheet, and to then drape it over the forward gun mount. The banner was in place shortly after noon that morning, Sunday, 13 September.

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  6

  Square 7721, Monday and Tuesday, 14-15 September, 1942

  It was late Monday morning when U-506 arrived on the scene. Her captain, Kapitanleutnant Erich Würdermann, could see that U-156 had at least 100 men on her narrow deck, and a half-dozen lifeboats in tow, each one filled to the gunwales with survivors. He drew his boat close aboard to U-156. Hartenstein, who had slept very little the night before, was on the bridge, and greeted his counterpart, calling out in German, “Erich, my friend, how goes it?”

  “Never mind that, Werner,” Würdermann shouted back in the same language, his thin lips in a broad smile, “What kind of a mess have you gotten us into now?” Würdermann was hardly an example of Hitler’s pure Aryan. He was short and dark, with brown eyes and slicked-down black hair that he parted in the middle.

  “It is indeed a mess,” Hartenstein acknowledged, “but I couldn’t just sail away and do nothing—especially since the greater part of the survivors are our allies!’

  “So I understand.”

  “I am concerned that our Italian allies aboard will take it in their heads to revenge themselves against their former keepers. Would you be willing to take all the Italians on board my boat onto yours?”

  “If you wish. Have you have seen no other ships nor aircraft?”

  “Nein, none whatever.

  “Do you think, if any enemy ships or aircraft come, that your red cross banner will stop them from attacking?”

  “One can only hope,” Hartenstein replied, “that they would respect international law.”

  Würdermann shrugged. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

  With that, the crews of the two boats began the business of transferring all the Italians aboard U-156 to U-506. First, the two boats tied up alongside each other. The sea was relatively calm, with gentle swells, the two boats moving together in almost perfect rhythm. Even so, most of the former POWs were frightened, and reluctant to leap from one deck to the other. None-too-gracious prodding by the seasoned submarine sailors was, therefore, required to move the operation forward. Even so, the transfer took well over an hour to complete. When the transfer was complete, Würdermann had ninety-three Italians aboard.

  When the boats were finally uncoupled, Würdermann maneuvered his boat well apart from U-156. Once Hartenstein’s boat was out of sight, U-506 began to roam the area, setting about the task of fishing other survivors from the water. Würdermann also took aboard women, children, and the injured from whatever adrift lifeboats U-506 came across. Soon it made little difference that the Italians had been transferred aboard his boat, since Würdermann could no more rescue just Italians, than Hartenstein could earlier.

  By day’s end, U-506 had over 200 survivors aboard, and U-156 was well out of the range of tactical radio. How long before the French arrive? Würdermann wondered. How long before I can be free of this mess?

  As the situation continued to develop, it turned out that Hartenstein had been worried over nothing. Not one of the former POWs ever took it in his head to seek reprisals against his former captors. The Italian survivors, it seemed, were just grateful to have been spared, and to be in safe hands.

  * * * * *

  The lifeboat containing Marco and Stanislaw had become separated from those nearby and had drifted off. Most of those aboard were English passengers, including a smattering of British army and RAF troops. And many of those had been wounded in battle, and were aboard Laconia for passage home. Marco now counted eighty-two souls in the boat, including Stanislaw and himself. Another passenger, he knew, had died the previous night, and his body had been let gently over the side.

  At least two or three others were in a bad way, and probably wouldn’t survive another day without skilled medical attention. By the third day after the sinking, two of the three had died, and were also committed to the deep. Everyone still alive aboard the lifeboat was dehydrated and listless. The previous two nights had been
cold and wet (especially wet for those, who, like Stanislaw, had been fished from the water), and the days under the tropical sun were hot and oppressive. There was a little fresh water aboard, and some tins of biscuits; the senior military man, an RAF 1st Lt., had taken it upon himself to ration and distribute those, and no one had argued.

  There was also a compass, and most aboard knew that Africa was somewhere off to the east. But, since nobody knew exactly where they were, or how far off landfall was, the consensus was that setting the sail, or rowing the boat, was pretty much useless. The unspoken resolve of the majority was to tough it out and wait to be rescued. Marco wasn’t sure he agreed, but was just too tired to come up with an alternative plan.

  * * * * *

  In the early afternoon of Tuesday, 15 September, U-507, Korvettenkapitän Harro Schacht commanding, arrived on the scene. Schacht was dismayed with the situation in which he found U-156, as was Würdermann.

  Schacht, in a rubber boat launched from the deck of his U-boat, came alongside U-156. The sun was high in the sky, there was no breeze whatever, and the mirror sea was dead calm. The survivors crowded on the deck of U-156 somehow parted, making way for Schacht, as he was pulled aboard to join Hartenstein on the U-boat’s bridge. The men who had rowed their captain over, pushed off, letting the rubber boat drift away and stand off from U-156.

  “I can only wonder how Dönitz convinced Der Fuehrer to go along with this,” Schacht said, as he greeted Hartenstein. Unlike Würdermann, Harro Schacht was light-skinned, blue-eyed, and sandy-haired, the very model of Hitler’s super race.

  “Well, Schacht,” Hartenstein replied, “I don’t imagine the admiral asked Der Fuehrer for permission. He probably said that we had no choice, since hundreds of our Italian allies were among the survivors”