[The following takes place in the early days of WWII. Here, a crew of German merchant sailors are aboard a blockade-runner disguised as a Norwegian vessel, attempting to head back to German waters after a long and dangerous voyage back home. A German U-Boat had been tasked with meeting up with the vessel and, for some time, had been escorting her back to friendly waters near Spain while surfaced.]
My thoughts went out to our brave, good U-boat. I turned in her direction and discovered that she was gone. There was only a choppy sea, nothing else. My heart stopped for a moment. Hadn’t I been watchful enough? Why had the U-boat suddenly disappeared? I sensed danger, something imminent and realistic. “Watch out for planes!” I called to the men on lookout. “They must be coming from somewhere.”
Without experience in meeting enemy aircraft attacks, we had no idea from which direction or altitude they might suddenly spring.
”Have the Norwegian and swastika flags ready on the latches,” I ordered crewmen on the fore and aft decks. “And wait until I tell you which ones to roll out.” I yelled to the helmsman, “Port the wheel, but let her come easy, go on 10 degrees.” I directed another man to call the captain to the bridge. Hardly had I finished that order when from about two points to starboard three streaks rose over the horizon and proceeded steadily in our direction. “Ready for maneuvers,” I called down to the engine room. Then I dashed to the starboard wing of the bridge to watch the aircraft, which was now off the beam.
There was nothing else to do now but wait. I wondered if the boys in the U-boat had seen the plane earlier than we had, but then only a few minutes had passed since they went under. The minutes seemed to run into hours as we waited anxiously to see if friends or enemies were maneuvering in the distance. Our most recent cable traffic had alerted us to expect German reconnaissance planes along the north coast of Spain.
Low over the water they came, lower than our masts. Now we could see their round bellies and the bulges on each side of the wings where the engines were mounted. Their droning, like the sound of hornets, was dull and threatening, and still we were unable to identify their nationality. For a moment we stood glued to our positions. Then there came a loud jubilant cry from all, mixed with a tremendous roar of motors skimming just a couple of yards over the tips of our masts. There on the wings for all to see were the broad and mighty black crosses of the Luftwaffe. The aircraft were Focke-Wulf 200 Condor long-range bombers.
”Roll out the German flags on the latches,” Captain Prahm ordered. But the crewmen had already done that by themselves. They stood and laughed and waved at the planes. The pilots returned their salute, wagging the wings of their planes a couple of times. I was busy tapping “Welcome” on the key of our hand searchlight. In a matter of minutes they were headed away from the ship on a course for Bordeaux.
While all this was happening, the U-boat had surfaced again and a smiling commander appeared on her conning tower. He signaled to us, “You will make it now alone. The planes will check on you regularly, but keep your eyes and ears open. It has been a pleasure to be with you. Have a good trip!” With that he put his gloved hand to his shabby and wrinkled white cap in salute. We waved thankfully and signaled, “Hope to see you again, somewhere, sometime, good-bye and return safely to your base.”
Source:
Giese, Otto, and James E. Wise. “On the Home Stretch with the U-106.” Shooting the War: The Memoir and Photographs of a U-Boat Officer in World War II. Naval Institute, 2003. 102-4. Print.
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