Copyright © 2005 by John T. Cullen. All Rights Reserved.

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Intersect: Danger

a novel

by John T. Cullen

28.

May 1945

On board U.S.S. Sutton, the submarine that lay before them awed the American sailors and officers. At 2720 tons fully loaded, she was more massive than the destroyer escort that had come to apprehend her.

The U.S.S. Sutton, DE-771, was a Cannon Class Destroyer Escort displacing 1,700 tons. She was 308 feet long, slightly longer than the submarine’s 280 feet. She measured 36’8” (across)at the beam, and carried a complement of 15 officers and 201 enlisted crewmen. She was built for speed, with two diesel-driven screws capable of cranking out 21 knots zigzagging around the convoys for whose protection she had been intended. She was lightly armed with three inch guns, depth charge tracks, and torpedo tubes. She was a relatively new ship, built at Tampa, Florida, and commissioned 22 December 1944.

Lieutenant T. W. Nazro, skipper of the Sutton, was duly impressed by the behemoth, although his ship and another DE, the Neal A. Scott (DE-769) were taken from patrol duty on 9 May to accept the voluntarily offered surrender of U-1228. Sutton left Scott to take charge of U-1228, a 1545 ton, approximately 230-foot boat of the IXC/40 type.

The sub rode easily in the water with her hatch open and a sprinkling of human figures visible on deck. She was flying the German navy war colors and black and white surrender pennants. Nazro regarded her long and cautiously through binoculars. Beside him, his officers did the same. All felt the same prickling under their collar—they’d been dealing with the fascist war machine for at least four years now, and wouldn’t put anything past these fanatics. Was it possible that some of these Krauts were actually going to surrender peacefully rather than fight to the death and take as many enemy with them as possible? But that was what was happening all over the Atlantic theater now that Hitler had committed suicide and Doenitz had officially surrendered.

Someone on board the sub spoke English, the stilted schoolboy pseudo-British kind, but it was well-inflected and easy to understand. “We have important documents and other materials on board,” the voice said.

“Yeah, yeah, so do all of you,” muttered Nazro to himself.

The added flash came: “Important general officer prisoner on board.”

Nazro sent back: “Acknowledge general officer. Stand by for boarding.”

Then Nazro said to his first officer: “Ready a launch, and keep those bastards on that sub under the gun.”

Minutes later, a boat was in the water, manned by sailors in helmets and flak jackets, several with tommy guns. A squad of Marines in fatigue uniform, similarly armed, were in the boat, and her small outboard motor started whining as the boat bucked up and down in the huge mid-ocean swells. Trailed by a bluish exhaust haze, the boat moved toward the sub.

During a tense quarter hour, every eyeball on the Sutton was trained on the U-boat. From the three inch deck guns on down, everything that could shoot was aimed at them. Many a man paused to wipe sweat from the orbits of his eyeballs, before returning a blinking eye to the barrel of his gun and a trembling finger to the sweat-slicked trigger guard.

A lot of things could go wrong now, instantly, causing a conflagration that would end with one ship or both going down. Every man knew it, and the chiefs kept walking up and down muttering, behind the men’s backs as the men leaned over the rail on the main deck: “Steady...steady...fingers off the triggers...nobody twitch, boys...if you gotta itch, scratch it with your trigger finger so you don’t make a mistake and let loose...”

On board the sub, a number of men stood silently waiting.

“Have them all raise their hands,” Nazro signaled.

A minute later, the Germans complied. The Marines positioned themselves in the protective shadows of the sail with their sidearms and tommy guns aimed at the line of Germans who filled the main deck—about 40 of them, Nazro estimated, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

Nazro anxiously kept looking back and forth from the boat to the sub and back to his men in the boat. The Sutton stayed far enough out of reach that any detonation on the sub would not hurt the destroyer escort. Most importantly, the U-boat’s deck gun was pointed away, with a canvas cover over the barrel, a sign that the German skipper wanted to play fair.

As Nazro watched, the Germans dropped rope ladders and the Americans swarmed up onto the deck. So far so good. There was an exchange of salutes, and a brief conversation. A U.S. signalman on the sub flashed over: “Wants to retire colors.”

Nazro had a man signal back: “Okay but secure deck hatch first.”

There was another brief consultation between the German skipper and Nazro’s officer. Two U.S. sailors dragged a heavy chain toward the hatch on the conning tower, along with a padlock, to secure the hatch open so the sub couldn’t suddenly dive. It was something of a futile gesture, Nazro knew, because if the Krauts were bent on suicide, what better way to go? The only other opportunity might come if she were tied up alongside the Sutton and decide to take one more U.S. ship down with her...Nazro had to plan for the worst while maintaining some basic optimism.

The Germans stood at attention on deck while the red, white, and black colors came down. That was not a Nazi insignium and would be stored on board the sub along with the captain’s papers if the bastard hadn’t already destroyed those. The Sutton and her crew and captain were mostly green, but there was one grizzled old chief on board who had done duty with U.S. subs until 1944, and he crossed to the U-boat with the Kapitänleutnant and his first mate to secure the boat for towing to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Nazro’s first mate and the German first mate descended into the sub, with the old chief, and were in there for about an hour.

Meanwhile, the launch ferried over a handful of passengers under the watchful eye of a Marine guard. Several of these carried what looked like sea bags. Nazro signaled: “Did you check their baggage?”

“Aye,” came the arm signals from the launch, from the chief petty officer in charge.

“Did you frisk them for sidearms?”

“Aye, all unarmed.”

A quarter hour later, the Germans came on board under the watchful eyes of the armed sailors all around. Nobody exchanged salutes. The Germans appeared sullen, and their eyeballs were like razors as they moved right and left—it was almost spooky, Nazro thought—and a chill went up and down his spine. Were these guys really human? He noted their dark faces, fierce eyes, and stiff body carriage, and felt a touch of anger as he stepped forth to meet them unceremoniously at the DE’s midsection. The Kraut skipper saluted, and Nazro returned the salute with a brief flicking motion of his fingertips over his eye brow, nothing more.

The most arresting figure among the Krauts was a tall flag officer in leather coat and boots with the peaked cap, monocle, the whole nine yards. Several American sailors tittered, and one or two muttered obscenities. Nazro didn’t like the breach of good behavior, but he understood his men’s emotions and shared them.

The Kraut skipper seemed loose enough, introducing himself as Failure. Failure in turn introduced the Hun general, Kessler, who bowed slightly and clicked his heels. “At your service, Captain.”

Nazro felt like telling Kessler, don’t click your heels on my ship, Nazi, or I’ll shoot you like a dog, but only nodded and managed to say in a thick, strangled voice: “If you people plan any tricks, you’ll pay for it.”

Failure understood this and said: “I have only the well-being of my crew in mind, Captain, thank you. We thank you for your hospitality.”

Kessler remained ever the stiff Hun. “We are prisoners of war and officers. We expect to be treated with all the respect and hospitality due us under the Geneva Convention and standard military courtesy.”

Nazro said: “General, you’ll be treated fair and square. Under the same conventions, if you step even one inch out of line, I’ll clap you in irons and stick you down in the hold on bread and water. Do yourself a favor—don’t click your heels on my boat. It annoys my crew. Understood, Schnauzer?”

Failure grinned a bit, and in contrast with Marshal Krepp he seemed almost like an okay guy. “I assure you, Captain, we will behave ourselves.”

Kessler said darkly: “No unpleasantness will be necessary.”

“Good,” Nazro said. “Look around, General. We’re all armed and would not hesitate to shoot you if necessary. With that in mind, you may want to remember to behave yourself and avoid any goose-stepping.”

“I have information of the utmost importance,” Kessler said. “It must be relayed to your superiors under the tightest security immediately.”

Nazro ignored him and turned to the bridge. He yelled up: “What’s the progress on board that iron sausage over there?”

A yeoman hollered down: “Chief says it’s looking good, Sir. They’re going through with a mallet and a crowbar, disabling the weapons systems. He says there are no torpedoes or mines on board—it’s all cargo storage.”

“Good. Tell them to take their time and make sure she doesn’t dive again.”

Kessler stepped forward in a convulsive, red-faced rage: “Captain, you must not—“

Immediately, a dozen safeties clicked. One could hear the scrape of men’s rubber soles as they shifted their bodies in preparation to fill Kessler with lead. Kessler froze, dark as night, with those spooky white-gray eyes looking up left and right. He reminded Nazro of a rat that has gone after some cheese and realized at the last split second that it has one foot on the mechanism of a giant trap that is about to snap its back in half.

For a split second, every soul on board was frozen stiff.

“Easy,” a chief muttered to nobody in particular as silence filled the air.

“Sorry,” Failure whispered, then told Kessler softly: “Immer sanfte, immer sanfte.” Easy does it.

Kessler stood back. “Sorry. There is strategic cargo of the greatest significance on board, which must not be lost. Your superiors at the highest levels will concur, Captain.” He added in an imitation American drawl: “It’s your ass if you screw up, Captain.”

“He is right, Sir,” said the Kraut captain. “Please listen to him.”

“All right,” Nazro said. “You two.” He pointed to Kessler and Failure. “In my board room.” He pointed to his nearby master at arms and told the chief: “I want two armed men on each of these two every second of the time, understood?”

“Aye sir,” said the blue-clad chief with his white pistol belt, a skinny man in his mid 30s with graying black hair. His name tag read Shapiro and there was no doubt how seriously he would take Nazro’s order.

Nazro told the two Germans: “It’s this simple. I’m not risking my men and my ship over some piece of paper you jackals signed someplace and then violated every chance you got. If I see the slightest sign of trouble, I’ll kill you myself and take the consequences afterward. Hopefully you understand my position, because I make no jokes.”

Kessler closed his eyes and nodded his head forward ever so slightly in an implied and infinitely pained heel-click of the chin.

“There is dangerous cargo on board,” Kessler said. “They must not break open the cargo without knowing what they are doing.”

Nazro considered this briefly. If there were some trick involved, it didn’t make sense that Kessler would warn about it. “Very well, General.” He yelled an order up to the bridge, which was semaphored immediately to the watch on deck on the sub.

Nazro gave orders for this first mate to sort out the Germans, based on the sub’s cargo manifest and a list of passengers and crew the German skipper provided. From the spelling on the manifest, Nazro understood now the correct spelling of his counterpart’s name—Fehler. He was already beginning to like the bright-eyed, regular skipper type a bit. They understood each other in a way that the stiff-necked general never would.

They trooped down the ship’s corridors to Nazro’s stateroom, which had a fairly sizeable conference table and benches, with an actual window overlooking the sea. The thick blackout curtains were up, and might not be lowered again in the ship’s lifetime except under drill conditions.

They sat around the table and a yeoman brought a coffee service. Kessler waited until the yeoman left. “Can you clear out the guards for a short while. They must not hear what I have to tell you.”

Nazro looked at Fehler.

“I believe it is the right thing,” Fehler said. “It is a matter of the highest security. I suggest you and the general speak privately for a few minutes. You will understand.”

Nazro said: “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Chief, you keep Fehler under guard. I’ll take Kessler down to my private wardroom for a few minutes and see what he has to say.”

Nazro and the general trooped around the corner, along another corridor, to Nazro’s private quarters. A cook carrying a pot of beans, a mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag, a pharmacist yeoman with a first aid box, all stepped aside to let them pass, but glared after them before going on with their duties.

Nazro closed the door as Kessler stood in a corner of the small room. Nazro sat on the bunk. “All right, General. What is your story?”

Kessler for the first time dropped his arrogance and spoke pleadingly. “Captain, you must relay a message by the most secret means possible to the highest echelons of your War Department. What you must tell them is that U-234 carries a cargo of uranium oxide. That’s all you need to tell them. Do you understand?”

“I think I can remember that,” Nazro said. “Uranium oxide? I think I remember that—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Kessler interrupted. “With all due respect, Captain, don’t trouble your mind over it. The less you know, the better. Just get that message off as fast as possible. Also, make sure the U-boat isn’t lost, because your government will be anxious to have its cargo. And make sure nobody touches any of the cargo holds, understood? The consequences would be dreadful.”

Nazro, who had an engineering background, understood only that uranium was radioactive and figured in a lot of the most advanced particle research being conducted since the work of Marie and Pierre Curie in the early 1900s. The newspapers occasionally carried short articles about the theories of Bohr and Einstein, though come to think of it, little had been broached in the popular press since the early days of the war.

“Hurry, please, I beg of you,” Kessler pleaded. He added: “Captain—“

“Yes?”

“—The ones you want to keep an eye on are Nieschling and a few of the junior officers above all. Fehler will give you a list. I can assure you, I hate the Nazis as much as you do, obviously for different reasons. Fehler and I pledge that we will keep the Nazis under control. Their fangs are gone, and their bark is nothing now. Don’t worry about them.”

Still mistrustful, Nazro put his hand on the doorknob. As a last private gesture, he said softly: “Okay, General. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you,” Kessler said. “Captain—“

“Yes?”

“If I am put on trial, please, if you would mention that I cooperated in every way...”

Nazro began to see where the German was coming from. It seemed rather pathetic. “I read you, General. I’ll tell the truth if anyone ever asks me. Just behave yourself, and keep the rest of them in line.”

All the Germans behaved themselves admirably in their cramped POW quarters below.

A skeleton crew of U.S. chiefs and German mechanics stayed on board the U-234, whose hatch was released from its chain in case of rough weather as the pair of ships made their way north northwest toward New England. Apparently, as Nazro learned, Kessler and Fehler had not been joking. Nazro’s transmission up his chain of command resulted in a frantic flurry of transmissions, and then radio silence. Shortly, they were joined by two other Cannon Class destroyer escorts, U.S.S. Carter (DE-112) and U.S.S. Muir (DE-770). The three American warships steamed alongside U-234 in a protective formation as if doing the most dangerous Atlantic convoy duty of the war. Nazro learned nothing more of his cargo, but his own Navy’s actions spoke louder than any words.

Once in Portsmouth, U-234 joined several other U-boats at dockside. She was moored beside another surrendered German sub, U-805.

Nazro had heard through the grapevine that only three days earlier in Boston, the skipper of U-805 had committed suicide in his cell by breaking his eyeglasses and slitting an artery, after he and his crew were paraded through the streets of Boston and pelted with insults and garbage by irate citizens. No such treatment would be accorded this German crew. The boat herself was brought to dock and tied up under strictest security. Armed Marines were stationed all around with fixed bayonets, keeping curious and angrily pressing crowds at bay. Even news reporters were forbidden to set foot anywhere near the boat, and Nazro and his crew were debriefed and ordered to keep their mouths shut tightly or face federal felony charges including treason.

Before the convoy reached Portsmouth, a Coast Guard cutter, U.S.S. Argo, steamed up at full speed, lay alongside, to remove Kessler and some of the officers and civilians who had been on board U-234.

At the same time, Argo left a platoon of eager, unmilitary looking scientific types who started crawling around on the sub. U-234 was briefly detained offshore while a determination was made whether to remove her cargo there or bring her to shore first. Meanwhile all three destroyer escorts cooled their heels, and their crews remained on the highest alert as if an enemy attack were expected any moment. Nazro wondered quietly: if not from the Nazis, then from which quarter? The Japs? But that seemed unlikely—the Japs were busy defending their backyard in Okinawa and hardly had the resources to attack halfway around the world. Then who?