The Adventures of the Submariner’s Son

Life on Hitler’s U-boats was like traveling steerage. A foul smell was only one of the many inconveniences of having dozens of men living in close, often unventilated quarters for long periods. Latrine odors were unavoidable and, although the men did their best to keep themselves clean, there was never enough fresh water except for cooking and drinking. Salt water was used for nearly everything else. As for noise, there was almost always the hammering of the engine, propeller vibrations, a hustle of shipmates, or the ceaseless motion of the boat. On the western side of a narrow channel southwest of Fort Taylor a few feet of ocean covered the submarine’s conning tower while underway. After midnight, the U-47 stopped and settled to the bottom in only 36 feet of water – and she waited. A hammock was rigged close to the captain’s bunk. Thomas didn’t find it comfortable but the crew were preparing for action and nobody expected to sleep. A few kind-sounding words, and some not kind, were said to Tom in German before the captain was able to come and sit nearby. “How are you doing?” he asked. Thomas, who hadn’t been sleeping, lifted his head. “If I want to go home, can I go?” he asked, almost pleading. It was a question the captain didn’t expect to hear again so soon. “That’s something you don’t want to be concerned about,” he replied, trying not to show displeasure. Thomas did nothing to hide growing traces of rebellion. “I don’t like it here!” he said. Annoyance showed on Captain Prien’s face. He was feeling pressure thinking about the forthcoming maneuver, and the additional responsibility of having an unhappy youngster aboard made nothing easier. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to America and take you back in luxury on the Queen Mary but there’s a war on,” he snapped sarcastically. “I know you don’t like the hammock. It won’t last forever. A little hardship is good. It’s part of growing up and becoming a man.” “I’d rather be at home. I have a real bed.” The captain sighed and reached out to the boy. His displeasure subsided. “Thomas, take my bunk,” he said, making certain his voice was low and reassuring. “I’ll take the hammock. I slept in one for years.” Tom didn’t hesitate to make the change. The captain’s quarters consisted of little more than a wash basin that when covered became a writing desk, an overhead speaking tube, and a green curtain Prien could draw for privacy. As Günther made room for Thomas to sit on the bunk a tremor went through the sub. An expression of alarm appeared on the boy’s face. “What’s that?” he asked. “It’s Krause’s preparing for business this evening.” “I saw the map. I know what you’re going to do,” Tom angrily exclaimed. “You’re going inside a minefield.” “Don’t worry about it.” “You’re going to sink lots of ships and cause people to get killed!” “Go to sleep, Thomas. I can’t be a nursemaid tonight. Do as I say.” “My grandpa pilots ships. He could get hurt.” Before Günther replied a buzzer sounded. He looked at his wristwatch. “I have to go now. Do not get in the way. That’s an order. Don’t wander around or you’ll have to be tied. Understand?” “Yes.” “We’ll talk later,” Prien said and looked deep into the boy’s eyes, whereupon he smiled faintly, readjusted his white hat on the top of his head, and went forward. He and his men would go over their plans for the final time. The immediate intention was to surface undetected in the wake of a large merchant ship, the Delta Monarch. Then in the dark they would closely follow that fully loaded vessel in a narrow channel through treacherous reefs. The Monarch was being piloted into the anchorage by Captain Pinder on an inbound trip. Neither he nor his grandson had any way of knowing the other was close. There was to be a traditional libation before taking the U-47 into action. A single case of Schlitz had been purchased in Key West by two of the boat’s crew the previous evening and Kapitan Prien ordered the beer opened for a muted celebration. Every man on the sub was allowed half a bottle. “This is our hour of destiny,” Prien declared, holding his beer high. With straight-forward intensity he said, “May all of you be heroes and may our next hundred beers be drunk in the Fatherland. Heil Hitler!” The U-47’s crew unanimously responded. Tom, having disobediently worked his way into the sub’s control area, watched as the sailors dispersed to their battle stations. One of the youngest put a beer bottle to Thomas’ lips and offered him the last drop. Tom turned his head away and headed for the chart table, took a long satisfying look, and without alerting anyone, moved to the periscope, grasped the handles and peered through the lens. A few seconds elapsed as he looked through the glass before anyone challenged him. When he was noticed Lt. Krause shouted, “What in hell are you doing, boy? Get away from there!” Prien rushed forward, put his hands on Tom’s waist, and pulled him back. “What did I tell you?” he forcibly asked. The boy pressed his lips together and refused to answer. Prien’s officers restrained their anger, not knowing what to say about an intruder the captain claimed was his son. All agreed, however, that it would not be prudent to risk an unforeseen mishap. At Günther’s suggestion, Chief Hoenig walked Thomas forward to the bow compartment where the U-boat’s heavy torpedoes and firing tubes were located. Prien remained behind, but on his orders the boy’s hands were tied again, this time by an energetic, pimple-faced seaman. It was Hoenig’s idea to also tie Tom’s wrists to an eye pad in the deck. The rope was short requiring the boy to sit on the metal deck where he was uncomfortable but could be watched. Hoenig moved away to make a verbal report and the sailor with pimples came forward. He had spent his high school years in South Africa and didn’t get along with most people. “We got you on a short leash – just like a dog,” he sneered. “Why don’t you let me loose?” Tom replied. The sailor threw his head back, laughed, and turned to point at four convex metal discs covering the bow torpedo tubes. They were mounted in pairs on each side of the boat’s centerline, waist high in the bulkhead. “Do you know what these are?” he asked. Tom apprehensively shook his head in the affirmative. The sailor laughed again, then remembered he should be quiet, and put a hand over his mouth. “They’re not just tubes for torpedoes,” he said. “You piss off the captain and he’ll stick your ass inside one. Then he’ll shoot you off into the ocean!” “No!” Tom exclaimed, beginning to struggle. “Let me loose!” The sailor was still amused. “Do you know what these are?” he asked, sadistically reaching up to finger four red-painted levers protruding from the steel bulkhead. “If the chief pulls one of these, say it’s the one matching the tube Captain Prien stuffed you in, well, that’s all it takes. You get fired off – you go blub blub!” Tom frantically increased his effort to free himself. Hearing the commotion Hoenig returned. “Get away, pest! Leave the boy alone,” he ordered, pushing the sailor who, without being discouraged, departed with a snicker. Sensing an opportunity, Tom said, “Please let me loose?” The big chief petty officer shook his head. “You must stay put. It won’t be forever. We are going to war in a few minutes. The quiet will end. This place will become a battlefield and I can’t take the chance you’ll be where you shouldn’t.” Thomas wasn’t listening. He began shouting, “Help! Help me!” Hoenig reacted angrily. He easily created a makeshift gag with a grease rag and impatiently forced it into Tom’s mouth. “You asked for this,” Hoenig declared, positioning his ugly eye close to Thomas face. “Stay put this time or I’ll be your worst enemy. Your daddy doesn’t want you messing with his periscope. And don’t forget the big sharks out there are still waiting to be fed.” Tom had a sickening feeling.