The Diary of a U boat Commander by Anon

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I naturally disagreed, and did so the more readily that I
conscientiously disagree with him. I find that there is a tendency on
the part of some of these submarine officers, who have been U-boating a
long time, to get into narrow grooves. Most reserve officers are not
like this, as they have only been in during the war. Alten is an
exception; he left the Hamburg-Amerika on two years' half pay in 1912,
and was, of course, kept on in 1914. After all, the depot staff are
Germans, and as such labour for the Fatherland, and though their work
in office and workship is not so dangerous as ours, on the other hand
they have not got the stimulation before their eyes, of glory to be
gained. Personally I am of the opinion that the torpedo broke surface
because, being fired from the outside tubes, it probably started too
shallow, dived deep, recovered shallow and dived deep, broke surface
and dived very deep. A sticky motor or sluggish weight would give this
effect.

And are these external tubes water-tight? Theoretically, yes, but what
of practice? We have been down to forty metres several times during
this trip, and not once have we had a chance on the surface of getting
at the two external tubes; add to which our depth gear, with the pivots
of the weight exposed to water if the tube does flood and then you have
rust, corrosion and heaven knows what complications.

I saw a British Mark 11.50 torpedo at the torpedo shop at Bruges the
other day, and I was much struck with their deep depth gear, which is
of the unrestrained Uhlan type, i.e., weight and valve interdependent.
But then the main feature is that the whole gear is contained in a
separate water-tight chamber.

Our system is certainly a great saving in space, and is much neater in
design, whilst I prefer the Uhlan principle of valve conjuncting with
weight, but it would be interesting to know whether the British have
much trouble with the depth-keeping of their torpedo.

I have written quite a disquisition on depth gears; I must get on with
my record of events.

After lunch we had a good look round, but the small airship was still
hanging about, flying slowly in large circles.

We were rather surprised to meet one of these despicable little
sausages or "Zeppelin's Spawn," as the navigator calls them, so far
from land, and at dark we surfaced and proceeded on one engine on an
easterly course, charging the battery right up with the other engine.

Dawn revealed a blank horizon, not a vestige of mast, funnel or smoke
in sight.

We ambled along in fine though cold weather, and I took advantage of
the peacefulness of everything to do a really good series of Müller on
the upper deck, stripped to the waist, and allowed the keen air to play
its invigorating currents on my torso.

Alten silently watched me from the conning tower, with a sneering
expression on his face. The navigator, who is quite a decent youngster,
though of no family, was, I could plainly see, struck by my
development, and asked to be initiated into the series of exercises. I
agreed willingly enough to show them to him. I will confess I wish Zoe
could have seen me as I perspired with healthy exercise.

At about 11 a.m. a couple of masts, then two more, then another,
appeared above the horizon. The visibility was extreme, so we at once
dived and proceeded at full speed, ten metres.

We had been going thus for perhaps half an hour when Alten remarked
that he would have another look at the convoy. We eased speed, came up
to six metres, and Alten proceeded up into the conning tower to use "A"
periscope.

He had hardly applied his eye to the lens when he sharply ordered the
boat to ten metres, accompanying this order with another to the motor
room demanding utmost speed (_Ausserste Kraft_). I went up to the
conning tower and found him white with excitement.

"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to the periscope, entirely forgetful of
the fact that we were at ten metres. I looked, and of course saw
nothing; furious at the trick I considered he had played on me I turned
on him, to be disarmed by his apology.

"Sorry! I forgot! The whole British battle cruiser force is there."

It was now my turn to be excited, and I rushed down to the motor room
determined to give her every amp she would take. The port foremost
motor was sparking like the devil, rings of cursed sparks shooting
round the commutator, but this was no time for ceremony. I relentlessly
ordered the field current to be still further reduced.

We were actually running with an F.C. of 3.75 amps, [1] for a period,
when the sparking assumed the appearance of a ring of fire and, fearing
a commutator strip would melt, I ordered an F.C. of five amps.

[Footnote 1: The lower the field current the faster the motor goes.
3.75 is almost incredibly low for a motor of this type--at least
according to British practice.--ETIENNE.]

We thus passed a quarter of an hour full of strain, the tension of
which was reflected in the attitude of all the men. Alten had announced
his intention of using the stern torpedo tube after his failure in the
morning, and the crew of this tube were crouched at their stations like
a gun's crew in the last few seconds preparatory to opening fire. The
switchboard attendants gripped the regulating rheostatts as if by their
personal efforts they could urge the boat on faster. Old Schmitt, at
the helm, never lifted his eyes from the compass repeater.

At length: "Slow both!" "Bring her to six metres!" came from the
conning tower, to which place I proceeded to hear the news.

Slowly the periscope was raised and I held my breath; a groan came from
Alten and he turned away. For a fraction of a second I was almost
pleased at his obvious pain, then, sick with disappointment, I took his
place.

Yes! it was all over. There they were, and with hungry eyes and
depressed heart I saw five great battle cruisers, of which I recognized
the _Tiger_ with her three great funnels, the _Princess Royal_, _Lion_
and two others, zigzagging along at 25 knots, at a distance of 12,000
metres, across our bow.

They were surrounded by a numerous screen of destroyers and light
cruisers, the former at that range through the periscope appearing as
black smudges.

It is not often one is permitted such a spectacle in modern war, and I
could not tear myself away from the sight of those great brutes, whom I
had fought when in the _Derflingger_ at Dogger Bank and again when in
the _König_ at Jutland. So near and yet so far, and as they rapidly
drew away so did all the visions of an Iron Cross. As soon as they were
out of sight, we surfaced in order to report what we had seen to
Zeebrugge and Heligoland.

Everything seemed against us. I had gone on the bridge with the
navigator; Alten, with a face as black as hell, had gone to the
wardroom. About ten minutes elapsed when I heard a fearful altercation
going on below. I stepped down to find the young wireless operator
trembling in front of Alten, who was overwhelming him with a flood of
abuse. As I reached the wardroom, Alten shook his fist in the man's
face and bellowed:

"Make the d---- thing work, I tell you."

"Impossible, Captain, the main condenser----" the man began.

Purple with rage, Alten seized a heavy pair of parallel rulers, and
before I could check him hurled them full in the operator's face.
Bleeding copiously, the youth fell to the deck in a stunned condition.

It was then, for the first time, that I noticed a half-empty bottle of
spirits on the table, which colossal quantity he must have consumed in
about a quarter of an hour.

Turning to me, this semi-madman pointed to the wireless operator with
his foot and growled:

"Have him removed."

This I did, and then, lowering the periscope, I ordered the boat to
fifteen metres. We proceeded at this depth until 8 p.m., when I was
informed that the Captain was in his bunk and wished to see me.

I discovered him with his face to the ship's side, and upon my
reporting myself he ordered me, firstly to throw that blasted bottle
overboard (an unnecessary proceeding, as it was empty), and secondly to
surface and shape course for Zeebrugge.

At midnight he relieved me, apparently perfectly normal.

The wireless operator has been laid up all day and has a nasty cut on
the head. The navigator, a great scandal-monger, has heard from the
engineer that Alten was speaking to him alone this morning, and the
engineer believes that Alten has given him five hundred marks to say he
fell down a hatch.

Hooray! Blankenberg buoy has just been reported in sight! Soon I shall
see my Zoe!

* * * * *

With what high hopes did I write the last few lines a few hours ago,
and how they were dashed to the ground, for on going into the Mess at
Bruges I found amongst my letters a note from her, which was terrible
in its brevity. She simply said:

"DEAR KARL,

"I am going away for some days, and as I shall be travelling it is no
good giving you an address. To our next meeting!

"ZOE."

How horribly vague; not an indication of her destination, her object,
or the probable length of her absence. Of course I rushed round to the
flat, but found the place shut up. The porter told me she had gone away
with her maid. He couldn't say when she'd be back--if at all! I gave
him ten marks, and he said she might be away a fortnight. If I'd given
him twenty he'd have said a week; he obviously didn't know.

I feel I could do anything to-night; any mad, evil thing would appeal
to me.

There is a most fearful uproar coming from the guest-room, where a
large and rowdy party are entertaining the chorus of a travelling
_revue_ company. I saw them when they arrived, horribly common-looking
women, with legs like mine tubes.

* * * * *

Another day and still no news; I don't know how I shall stick it. She
might have had the softness of heart to write to me. She knows my
address.

This evening a letter from the little mother, who asks whether I can
find time to go to Frankfurt when I have leave; at the end of the
letter she mentions that Rosa has joined the Women's Voluntary
Auxiliary Corps of Army Nurses. I suppose she thought she'd like her
photograph taken in some fancy uniform as "Rosa Freinland, one of our
Frankfurt beauties, now on war work!" Holding the patient's hand is
about the only work she intends doing.

Women as a class are the same the world over. We are well supplied with
English papers in the Mess here; they come regularly from Amsterdam,
and in their pages I see, just as in ours, pictures of the Countess
this and the Lord that, photographed in becoming attitudes doing war
work. It seems agricultural pursuits are the fashion in England at
present--wait till our U-boat war gets its knife well into their fat
guts, it will be more than fashionable to work in the fields then.

The British Empire is undeniably a great creation, or rather not so
much a creation as a thing arrived at accidentally, but it lacks
solidarity. It sprawls, a confused mass of races and creeds, around the
world. Its very immensity lays it open to attack, it has a dozen
Achilles heels from Ireland to Egypt and South Africa to India.

I met a man only yesterday who was recently at the propaganda
department of the Foreign Office, and without going into details he
gave me a very good idea of the good work that is going on in Britain's
canker spots.

Ireland is considered particularly promising to those in the know.

Now for an agitated night! To think that a girl should disturb me so!

* * * * *

Two days have passed, or, rather, dragged their interminable lengths
away, for there is still not a vestige of news. I have been twice to
the flat with no result, except to receive a piece of impertinence from
the porter the last time I was there.

No news.

* * * * *

Still no news, and we sail in forty-eight hours.

_At sea, off the Isle of Wight_.

It is some days since I turned for solace and enjoyment, amidst the
discomforts of this life, to my pen and notebook.

What strange tricks fate plays with us, and how lucky it is that one
cannot foresee the future.

Here I am in U.39--but I must start at the beginning. My last entry was
the depressing one of still no news. Well, I have had news, but it was
like a drop of water in the mouth of a parched-up man. Another
agonizing twenty-four hours passed, and I was sitting in my room about
ten o'clock, trying to resign myself to the idea that the next night I
should be starting out for my third trip without news of her, when the
telephone bell rang. I lifted the receiver and to my amazed joy heard a
voice that I could have recognized in a thousand. It was Zoe!

I was quite incapable of any remark, and my confusion was further
increased when, after a few "Hello's," which I idiotically repeated,
her clear, level tones said: "Is that you, Karl? How are you?" How was
I? What a question to ask! I wanted to tell her that I was bubbling
with joy, that a thousand-kilogramme load had been lifted from my
chest, that my blood was coursing through my veins, that I, usually so
cool, was trembling with excitement, that I could have kissed the
mouthpiece of the humble instrument that linked us together. Yet I was
quite incapable of answering her simple question! I can't imagine what
I expected her to say, for upon reflection her remark was a very
ordinary one, and indeed under the circumstances quite natural, but, as
I say, in actual fact I was tongue-tied.

I suppose I must have said something, for I next remember her saying:
"Well, you might ask how I am;" and to my horror I realized that she
thought I was being rude!

My abject apologies were cut short by her tantalizing laugh, and I
understood that the adorable one was teasing me. When at length I made
myself believe that I really was talking to this most elusive and
delightful woman I wasted no time in suggesting that, late though it
was, I might be permitted to go round and see her. She would not permit
this, as she said it would create grave scandal, and the Colonel might
hear about it upon his return. I pleaded hard and urged my departure in
twenty-four hours.

She was firm and reproved me for discussing movements over the
telephone. She was right; I was a fool to do so; but Zoe destroys all
my caution. However, she said that I might lunch with her next day, and
that she had some new music to play to me. I ventured to ask where she
had been, but this question was plainly unpleasing to my lady, so I
dropped the subject. I blew her a goodnight kiss over the telephone, to
which I think I caught an answer, and then she rang off.

Ten minutes had not elapsed, when a messenger entered and informed me
that I was wanted at the Commodore's office at once.

A strange feeling of uneasiness and that of impending misfortune
overcame me. I felt like a naughty school-boy about to interview the
headmaster.

I followed the messenger into the Commodore's office, and found myself
alone with the great man. He was seated at a huge roll-top desk, which
was the only article of furniture in a room which was to all intents
and purposes papered with large scale charts of the east and south
coasts of England and of the Channel and North Sea.

The Commodore was sealing an envelope as I came in; he looked up and
saw me, then, without taking any further notice of me, he resumed his
business with the envelope. I felt that I was in the presence of a
personality, and I was, for "Old Man Max" is one of the ten men who
count in the Naval Administration. He had a reading lamp on his desk,
and I remember noticing that the light shining through its green shade
imparted a yellow parchment-like effect to the top of his old bald
head. With dainty care he finished sealing the envelope, then, picking
up a telephone transmitter, he snapped "Admiralty!" In about a minute
he was connected, and to my astonishment I realized that he was talking
to the duty captain of the operations department in Berlin.

His words chilled my heart, for he said: "Commodore speaking! U.39
sails at 2 a.m. for operation F.Q.H.--Repeat."

His words were apparently repeated to his satisfaction, for while I was
vainly endeavouring to convince myself that I was unconnected with the
sailing of U.39, he banged the receiver into place (Old Man Max does
everything in bangs) and snapped at me.

"You Lieutenant Von Schenk?"

I admitted I was, and then heard this disgusting news.

"Kranz, 1st Lieutenant U.39, reported suddenly ill, Zeebrugge,
poisoning--you relieve him. Ship sails in one hour forty minutes from
now--my car leaves here in forty minutes and takes you to Zeebrugge.
Here are operation orders--inform Von Weissman he acknowledges receipt
direct to me on 'phone. That's all."

He handed me the envelope and I suppose I walked outside--at least I
found myself in the corridor turning the confounded envelope round and
round. For one mad moment I felt like rushing in and saying: "But, sir,
you don't understand I'm lunching with Zoe to-morrow!"

Then the mental picture which this idea conjured up made me shake with
suppressed laughter and I remembered that war was war and that I had
only thirty-five minutes in which to collect such gear as I had
handy--most of my sea things being in U.C.47--and say goodbye to Zoe.

I ran to my room and made the corridors echo with shouts for my
faithful Adolf. The excellent man was soon on the scene, and whilst he
stuffed underclothing, towels and other necessary gear into a bag he
had purloined from someone's room, I rang up Zoe. I wasted ten minutes
getting through, but at last I heard a deliciously sleepy voice murmur,
"Who's that?"

I told her, and added that I was off; to my secret joy, an intensely
disappointed and long-drawn "Oooh!" came over the wire. So she does
care a bit, I thought. Mad ideas of pretending to be suddenly ill
crossed my mind--anything to gain twenty-four hours--but the Fatherland
is above all such considerations, and after some pleasant talk and many
wishes of good luck from the darling girl, with a heavy heart I bade
her good-night.

The Old Man's car, which is a sixty horse-power Benz, was waiting at
the Mess entrance, and once clear of the sentries we raced down the
flat, well-metalled road to Zeebrugge in a very short time. The guard
at Bruges barrier had 'phoned us through to the Zeebrugge fortified
zone, and we were admitted without delay. In three-quarters of an hour
from my interview with old Max I was scrambling across a row of U-boats
to reach my new ship, U.39.

I went down the after hatch, reported myself to Von Weissman and
delivered his orders to him, of which he acknowledged receipt direct to
the Commodore according to instructions. Von Weissman is a very
different stamp of man to Alten; of medium height, he has
sandy-coloured hair, steel-grey eyes and a protruding jaw. He is what
he looks, a fine North Prussian, and is, of course, of excellent
family, as the Weissmans have been settled in Grinetz for a long
period.

He struck me as being about thirty years of age, and on his heart he
wore the Cross of the second class. I have heard of him before as being
well in the running towards an _ordre pour le mérite_.

An interesting chart is hanging in the wardroom, on which is marked the
last resting-place of every ship he has sunk. He puts a coloured dot,
the tint of which varies with the tonnage, black up to 2,000, blue from
2,000-5,000, brown 5,000-8,000, green 8,000-11,000, and a red spot with
the ship's name for anything over 11,000. He has got about 120,000 tons
at present. He opposes the Arnauld de la Perrière school of thought,
which pins faith on the gun, and Weissman has done nearly all his work
with the good old torpedo.

Altogether, undoubtedly a man to serve with.

The U.39 was in that buzzing and semi-active condition which to a
trained eye is a sure indication that the ship is about to sail.
Punctually at five minutes to 2 a.m. Weissman went to the bridge, and
at 2 a.m. the wires were slipped and we started on a ten days' trip. As
the dim lights on the mole disappeared and the ceaseless fountain of
star-shells, mingling with the flashing of guns, rose inland on our
port beam my mind travelled overland to the flat at Bruges, and I
wondered whether Zoe was lying awake listening to the ceaseless rumble
of the Flanders cannon. We went on at full speed, as it was our
intention to pass the Dover Straits before dawn. Though our
intelligence bureau issues the most alarming reports as to the
frightfulness of the defences here I was agreeably surprised at the
ease with which we passed. Von Weissman, to whom I had hinted that we
might find the passage tricky, rather laughed at my suggestion, and
described to me his method, which, at all events, has the merit of
simplicity.

He always goes through with the tide, so as to take as short a time as
possible, and he always decides on a course and steers it as closely as
possible, keeping to the surface unless he sights anything, and diving
as soon as anything shows up. Even if he dives he goes on as fast as
possible on his course, irrespective of whether he is being bombed or
not.

I must say it worked very well last night. We shaped a course to pass
five miles west of Gris Nez, and when that light, which for some reason
the French had commodiously lit that night, was abeam, we sighted a
black object, probably a trawler or destroyer, about half a dozen miles
away right ahead. Weissman immediately dived and, without deviating a
degree from his course, held on at three-quarters speed on the motors.
Some time later the hydrophone watchkeeper reported the sound of
propellers in his listeners, and that he judged them to be close at
hand, so I imagine we passed very nearly directly underneath whatever
it was.

After an hour's submerging we rose, and found dawn breaking over a
leaden and choppy sea. Nothing being in sight, we continued on the
surface for an hour, charging batteries with the starboard engine (500
amps on each), but at 9 a.m., the clouds lying low and an aerial patrol
being frequent hereabouts, we dived and cruised steadily down channel
at slow speed, keeping periscope depth.

Several times in the course of the forenoon we sighted small destroyers
and convoy craft [1] in the distance, all steering westerly. They were
probably returning from escorting troopships over to France last night.
In every case we went to sixty feet long before they could have seen
our "stick." [2] Weissman is evidently as cautious in this matter as he
is hardy in others; the more I see of him the more I like him; he is a
man of breeding, and it is of value to serve in this boat.

[Footnote 1: Probably "P" boats.--ETIENNE.]

[Footnote 2: Periscope.--ETIENNE.]

As I write we are on the surface about ten miles east of the Isle of
Wight, still steering down channel. To-night at midnight we report our
position to Zeebrugge, up till now we have maintained wireless silence
for fear of the British and French directional stations picking up our
signals and fixing our position.

After supper this evening Von Weissman explained to me the general plan
of our operations for the next eight days. Our cruising billet is about
150 miles south-west of the Scillys, at the focal point where trade for
Liverpool and Bristol and the up-channel trade diverges. Von Weissman
says that this is a plum billet and we should do well.

I feel this is going to be better than those piffling little
mine-laying trips, and though we shall be away ten days, it will
qualify me for four days' leave in Belgium.

* * * * *

There was nearly an awkward moment last night, or, rather, there was an
awkward moment, and nearly an awkward accident. I relieved the
navigator at midnight (the pilot is an unassuming individual called
Siegel) and took on the middle watch. It was blowing about force 4 from
the south-west, and a nasty short, lumpy sea was running which caught
us just on the port bow. About once every ten seconds she missed her
step with the waves and, dipping her nose into it, shovelled up tons of
water, which, as the bow lifted, raced aft and, breaking against the
gun, flung itself in clouds of spray against the bridge. In a very few
minutes every exposed portion of me was streaming with water.

At about 2 a.m. I had turned my back to the sea for a moment, and my
thoughts were for an instant in Bruges, when, on facing forward once
again I saw a sight which effectually brought me back to earth.

This was the spectacle of two black shapes, evidently steamers, one on
either bow, distant, I should estimate, 600 or 700 metres. I had to
make a quick decision, and I decided that to fire a torpedo in that sea
with any hope of a hit, especially with the boat on surface, was
useless; furthermore, that at any moment either of the steamers might
sight us from their high bridge and turn and ram.

These thoughts were the work of an instant, and I at once rang the
diving bell, and, pushing the look-out before me, in five seconds I was
in the conning tower and had the hatch down. I at once proceeded down
into the boat, and the first thing that struck my eye was the diving
gauge with the needle practically stationary at two metres.

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