The Laconia Incident Page 9

Among the last people to abandon the Laconia were Tom Buckingham and Stanislaw Kominsky. Buckingham let himself down a rope hung over the port side into the water below. Like Robby Cotton, Stanislaw had jumped into the water. But Robby and Buckingham wore life jackets; Stanislaw had none—and he was a poor swimmer.

  Buckingham clung to a floating corpse for at least two hours, as a pink dusk slowly receded into darkness. All around him, sharks and barracuda were feasting on the dead, and even some of the living. When a lifeboat passed close by, he swam toward it. He had observed most of the lifeboats being loaded and launched. This one, like all the others, he knew would be overcrowded, but he pulled himself aboard anyway, with some help from the passengers. Once aboard, he noted that this boat, was, for some reason, not as packed as he had anticipated. Discerning the reason for Robby’s puzzled look, one of the passengers said, “We lost quite a few when the suspension lines broke and the boat went all askew.”

  “I see,” Buckingham acknowledged. “Thank you, Mr. Logan. I’m happy to see that Mrs. Logan and your child are safely aboard as well.”

  Logan and most of the other passengers in the lifeboat recognized Buckingham as Laconia’s third officer. Instinctively acknowledging his authority, they quickly fell into line as Buckingham ordered an inventory of the lifeboat’s stores and equipment. He soon brought some order into what had been only disorganization, bordering on chaos.

  * * * * *

  Stanislaw was almost exhausted to the point of giving up, just struggling to stay afloat in the swelling sea. His feet then bumped against something solid. He had managed to stumble upon what was a section of wooden grating floating just beneath the surface. It provided just enough buoyancy to keep him afloat with a minimum of effort. Now, it was past getting dark, and he knew that this night would be a long and sleepless one.

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  2

  South Atlantic, 12-13 September, 1942

  U-156 was still submerged, and Hartenstein was peering through the periscope at the dying Laconia, now framed against the pink dusk. “Leo,” he said, addressing his second officer standing in the conning tower beside him, “she’s in her death throes. I don’t think we need waste a third torpedo on her.”

  Leopold Schumacher just smiled back at his captain. Victory was always sweet.

  “And I think her gun is no longer of any concern either,” Hartenstein added. “It appears that the ship has been abandoned. I think it’s safe enough for us to surface now, and see if we can locate her captain and chief engineer.”

  “Jawhol, Kapitän,” Schumacher responded, and ordered the boat to the surface.

  Once the boat had surfaced, Hartenstein asked if there were any radio signals coming from the stricken ship. “Yes, Captain,” Schumacher reported, “a distress signal. But the radioman said the signal was very weak, and we have jammed it.”

  “Very good, Leo,” Hartenstein replied. “It would be unfortunate if we were interrupted before we completed our business here.”

  The U-boat slowly made its way toward the stricken target, which was still barely afloat. Hartenstein noted that several lifeboats had been launched—he could count at least seven—and that there were many people in the water. He headed the submarine toward the closest lifeboat, intent on locating the target’s captain and first officer, when someone in the water, and close by, called out to the passing U-boat, “Aiuto! Aiuto!”

  That’s Italian! Hartenstein thought, “an ally! A cold chill gripped him; was it possible the U-156 had sunk an ally’s ship? “Quickly,” he ordered, “bring that man aboard!”

  Once the Italian was brought aboard, Hartenstein, who spoke no Italian, had a crewman, who could speak that language, relay his questions. “What flag does the ship fly?” he asked.

  “Britannica.” The answer required no translation. Hartenstein was greatly relieved to hear that the target was, indeed, British; perhaps the Italian’s presence was just a coincidence? But, then, Hartenstein didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “What is the name of the ship? Why is an Italian aboard?”

  “The name I do not know, and I am—was—a prisoner of war. One of many.”

  “How many?”

  “Moltissimi. Non sono sicuro, ma migliaia.”

  The Italian was unsure, but said that there had been maybe “thousands” of Italians aboard.

  That, Hartenstein knew, had to be impossible, but there could still have very well been hundreds, rather than “thousands,” of prisoners aboard a liner that size.

  “Well, Captain,” Schumacher asked, “shall we begin to fish as many Italians as we can out of the water?”

  “And just let the non-Italians drown? Could you do that, Leo, could you just let the others die, just push them away from the boat, and pull aboard only Italians?”

  At first, Schumacher looked confused. Then he ordered all off-duty crewmen topside to begin rescue operations. Once the men were in place, he ordered, “Bring aboard anyone in the water who comes alongside. Tell those survivors in the lifeboats to stand off for now—that we must fish out those in the water first.” Hartenstein allowed himself a slight smile upon hearing his first officer’s orders.

  * * * * *

  Hartenstein stood on the U-boat’s tiny bridge and watched with satisfaction as his first officer continued to supervise the rescue operation. The crew had begun, as ordered, hauling aboard any person who came alongside the boat, regardless of the language they had used to cry for help, whatever their nationality.

  Hartenstein singled out a survivor in a British army uniform and invited him up to the bridge. He soon learned from the Englishman that he had struck the HMT Laconia, and that she had been carrying, perhaps, 1,500 Italian POWs.

  At 9:11 PM, barely visible against a moonless night sky, the Laconia’s stern lifted high out of the water, and the doomed liner sailed bow first beneath an inky, heaving sea. Just as her stern disappeared from sight, there was a loud underwater explosion, as Laconia, her boilers flooding, responded to the final insult hurled at her from the triumphant deep.

  * * * * *

  Schumacher saw to it that everyone brought aboard the submarine was made as comfortable as conditions allowed. Men who appeared fit enough, remained on the boat’s crowded deck. Women and children, and anyone injured, were brought below. The injured were attended to by the boat’s corpsman, and those men whose injuries were deemed as “not serious” were returned topside after treatment.

  The boat’s cook prepared a thin, hot, gruel and cups of the comforting fluid were passed to all the survivors aboard, including those topside. Eventually, either he, or his relief, would prepare food continuously over the next five days.

  When a lifeboat was brought alongside, the passengers were first asked if the ship’s captain, or first officer, was aboard. When they were not, women and children were offered the opportunity to come aboard. Some, but by no means all, demurred. Anyone injured was always brought aboard for treatment. All were fed the hot soup. Then the lifeboat was passed a line from the boat’s stern, and taken in tow.

  When it soon became clear that no more survivors could be accommodated belowdecks, those brought aboard had to remain topside until someone else could be brought up from below; then someone topside could take their place belowdecks. While topside, the survivors huddled together on deck. By 1:00 AM on the 13th, U-156 had rescued all Hartenstein thought his boat could comfortably hold aboard: ninety souls.

  Being aboard a lifeboat, or huddling topside aboard U-156, was unquestionably better than floating in the sea, but it was still fraught with hardship. With a freshening breeze, sea spray continually wet the survivors down. In the sunny daytime, the wetness would become a salt crust on skin and clothing, but now, in the night, it sucked the warmth from a body and left a person shuddering.

  Hartenstein well knew that the solution to the situation at hand was well beyond the capability of his boat and its crew by themselves. The surviving Italians alone, he saw, had to n
umber in the hundreds. At 1:25 on the morning of 13 September, he therefore radioed BdU in Paris, requesting that Vice Admiral Dönitz send instructions.

  The dispatch read:

  Sunk by Hartenstein, British Laconia, Qu FF 7721, 310 deg. Unfortunately with 1,500 Italian POWs. So far 90 fished. 157 cubic meters [fuel oil]. 19 [torpedoes], trade wind 3, request orders.

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  3

  Paris, 13 September, 1942

  Vice Admiral Karl Dönitz was awaken from a fitful sleep. A glance at the windup alarm clock next to his bed told him it was 0347. The meticulously uniformed messenger who had awakened him stood at attention as the admiral asked, “What is it, Herbst?”

  “An urgent dispatch from U-156 commander Hartenstein, Admiral!” he replied.

  “Give it here,” Dönitz said, as he swung is bare legs out from under the covers, sitting up. The air in the room was chilly, and raised goose bumps on his legs. Herbst then handed him the dispatch, and Dönitz quickly read it. It took him only seconds to absorb the contents. “Who has the duty?” he asked.

  “Kapitӓnleutnant Zimmermann, Admiral.”

  “Very good. Tell Zimmerman I want my staff assembled in the operations center in half an hour. See to it!”

  “Yes, Admiral,” the messenger replied, and hurried from the room.

  “Hartenstein,” Dönitz said aloud to himself, “now what have you gotten yourself into?”

  * * * * *

  Karl Dönitz surveyed the room, his steel gray eyes passing from one of his staff to the next. All were, as was he, in full uniform. Some appeared rested, despite the early hour, but most were bleary-eyed, obviously recently awaken from sound sleep.

  “Gentlemen,” Dönitz said, handing the copy of Hartenstein’s dispatch to his chief of staff, and indicating that it be passed around the table. “It seems that Korvettenkapitӓn Hartenstein has put us in somewhat of a pickle. His U-156 has just successfully dispatched an armed British troop transport, the Laconia—which is the good news. It appears, however, that the ship was transporting what appears to be 1,500 Italian prisoners of war—which is the not-so-good news. Hartenstein has begun a rescue operation, doing what he can for both the Italians and the other survivors, but there is a limit to what one U-boat can do. He has asked for instructions. Obviously, we must do what we can, at least for our Italian allies.” He paused, and again looked around the table, as if taking each man’s measure, then said, “I am asking you for your input. Comments, gentlemen?”

  Dönitz’s chief of staff, a Kapitän zur See, or captain, spoke up. “We have some assets in the area, Admiral, Würdermann’s U-506, Schadt’s U-507, and a supply boat, Wiliamowitz-Mollendorf’s U-459.”

  “Very good,” Dönitz responded. “Dispatch all three to square 7721 at full speed. Any other ideas?”

  “What about the Italians? Can’t they help?” another aide, a fregattenkapitän, or junior captain, asked.

  “Or the French, perhaps?” asked another.

  “For the French, the Vichy are technically neutral, so we will need Raeder,” Dönitz said, referring to his boss and head of the Kreigsmarine, Großadmiral (Grand Admiral) Erich Raeder. “I will call the grand admiral in Berlin first thing—after I call my Italian counterpart. The Italian surface fleet may well be bottled up in the Mediterranean, but perhaps there is a submarine or two in the area that can help us. Get me Admiral Parona on the telephone.”

  A call was put through to Rear Admiral Angelo Parona, commander of the Italian submarine fleet, at BETASOM, the Italian submarine base, in Bordeaux, France. He quickly agreed to dispatch his closest submarine, the Commandante Cappellini, to the area.

  * * * * *

  In Berlin, later that morning, and before contacting the French for assistance, Grand Admiral Raeder had the unenviable task of informing Hitler of the situation in the South Atlantic. Der Fuhrer, needless to say, was not pleased, having already let his feelings be known about enemy ship survivors. On the other hand, he had come to hold Dönitz and his U-boat commanders in high regard. Their successes in the North Atlantic were taking the Third Reich far closer to bringing England to its knees than Hermann Göring’s Luftwaffe had done. His portly and pompous air marshall had promised to do just that, to “bring England to her knees,” but with no measurable success. He had had to shift his air arm’s mission in any case, it was needed in support of the Russian campaign. Now his U-boats were the single most effective weapon against the British and the Americans.

  “Do not expose our U-boats to any danger,” Hitler ordered, “and see to it that the matter is dealt with, and over quickly.” Raeder passed on that exact message on to Dönitz.

  Raeder then contacted Admiral Collinet, the French fleet commander in Dakar, Senegal. In explaining the situation, Raeder neglected to note that the survivors included British citizens. The French were still livid over Churchill’s decision to destroy much of the French fleet to avoid its falling into German hands. Collinet agreed to dispatch two sloops, the Dumont-d’Urville, and the Annamite, and the cruiser Gloire to the scene.

  U- 459’s commander, Wiliamowitz-Mollendorf, then notified BdU that he was too far away from the area to reach it in time to do any good. BdU therefore withdrew the order for the supply boat to join the rescue effort.

  Dönitz then contacted Hartenstein by radiotelephone, telling him exactly what help was on the way, and when to expect it.

  “Tell me, Werner, was an SOS sent by the Laconia?” Dӧnitz asked.

  “Yes Admiral. They got a signal off before we could jam it.”

  “Very well. Carry on, Werner,” the admiral replied, and then ended the transmission.

  Now, Dönitz worried about his vulnerable submarines and the other allied shipping he had heading to the scene. He shuddered at the distinct possibility that every enemy ship in the area would be converging on square 7721 as well. Nonetheless, he did not withdraw the order for U-506, U-507, and the other vessels to join the rescue effort.

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  4

  Square 7721, Nighttime Sunday, 13 September, 1942

  Robby Cotton leaned back on his life jacket, knees bent, arms out, just as he had been taught at HMS Drake, conserving his energy. The swelling ocean water wasn’t terribly cold, but it was still below his body temperature, and, he knew, was therefore pulling heat from his body. At some point, without food, he would succumb to hypothermia—that is, of course, if he didn’t die of thirst first. Or wasn’t attacked by a shark—or a barracuda.

  Are there barracuda in these waters? he wondered. There were sharks for sure. He had seen them from the deck of Laconia only yesterday, swimming lazily alongside. At least, now, any fear he had felt had left him completely—now that death was a distinct, even imminent, possibility, he was somehow no longer afraid.

  Robby found himself thinking about God—something he had done very little of since he had lost his family to the Nazi bombs. He hadn’t behaved very well since he had joined the Navy. He hadn’t really behaved very well even before then. He wondered if God would let him into Heaven, anyway. He hoped He would. And so, Robby prayed.

  Robby could see nothing. There was no moon whatever, save a thin crescent, and all was an inky black. There were people around. He could hear them, but could see no one. Despite fighting to stay awake and pray, Robby was just dozing off, when he suddenly found himself bathed in light. It was coming from a grey eminence approaching from the darkness to his right.

  “Hallo, kannst du mich hӧren?” a voice called out from the light. “Can you hear me?”

  German. The thought flashed through Robby’s mind. Answering in English might just well earn him a hail of bullets. But perhaps that would be better than dying of thirst or being eaten by a shark. Bugger all! But what if it’s God what sent them, whoever they are? Then he thought, Guess there’s nothing for it. Finally, he cried out, aloud “Over here,” answering the disembodied voice. He had half expected a hail of bullets in reply, but
minutes later, strong arms were hauling him aboard a German submarine.

  * * * * *

  With Laconia now committed to the deep, U-156 had been maneuvering in the area, checking on those in the lifeboats, offering hot coffee, or tea, and some food, and pulling still more survivors from the water. This continued throughout the night. Somehow, the Germans had managed to cram another hundred people aboard, and were towing still more in their lifeboats.

  * * * * *

  Hauled aboard U-156, Robby looked around him. He was very close to the boat’s bow, and from what he could make out in the dark, there were people everywhere on deck. If they were off the Laconia—and they had to be—he should recognize at least some of them. But it was too dark; they were all just gray ghosts. Some were huddled under blankets in groups of three or more, others just squatting on the deck or standing. What the devil is going on? he asked himself. This is the enemy—the same lot of Nazi bastards that murdered my family, and the same U-boat bastards that sank the Barham. What kind of devious shite is this? What are these German bastards up to?

  He was given a cup of warm tea to drink by a German sailor, which he downed quickly and, he hated to admit, gratefully. A while later, another German sailor, a young man about his own age with a pleasant smile, came up to him, and said something to him in German, which, of course, Robby couldn’t understand. The sailor, however, was gesturing for Robby to follow him, saying, “Kommen sie,” which Robby understood well enough. Then, padding after him in his stocking feet, Robby warily followed the man aft, as they weaved their way between the squatters along the crowded deck.

  As they passed under and alongside the bridge, where some lights had been strung up, a man, wearing a German naval officer’s cap and a cadaverous smile, greeted Robby with “Hello, Royal Navy!”