The Belt

It was a rare opportunity for all of them. A chance to see the sun and take a breath of air not redolent in the filth of so many men, in so small a space. The pale, squinting, bearded faces emerged into the sunlight holding hands above their eyes, unaccustomed to the bright light. For all but the few officers and the crew that manned the conning tower it had been months since they had seen the out of doors, and it came as a welcome relief from the cramped quarters of U-27.


Korvettenkapitän Franz was taking a risk by allowing such a privilege. Then again these days it was always a dance with death to surface. The allies new radar and planes made such a thing nearly suicidal. Franz knew the crew's morale desperately needed something, however, as it was as low as he had yet known in the war. von Friedeberg had nearly killed them all.


Franz, had taken leave for nearly three months due to the crippling sickness that his child had contracted, and Doenitz, whipped and cajoled by the Fuhrer, such as he was, was insistent that the boat be fitted and returned to patrol immediately sans its captain. And he saw with sadness that nearly matched his grief of his youngest sons death, at what price this patrol had cost his beloved crew. He was met at the shipyard in Wilhemshaven not with smiles and welcome or condolence, but with a haggard, sunken eyed crew, who were virtually collapsed in relief that the most recent patrol was finished. U-27 sat at is berth, echoing the sailors sentiment, dented and bruised, the pitch forked devil on its con tower scraped and marred nearly beyond recognition, to all but the trained eye. They had both seen hell, and came home to tell of it.


A small army of welders and metal workers worked day and night to repair the boat throwing hissing sparks into the water, while a small processional of ants bearing foodstuffs loaded the berths below the waterline, in preparation for the next patrol. The men had only three days before they begrudgingly walked back into the boat, and set off to sea once more.


As the men slowly came back to life, a smile was to be seen here and there, timidly though, as if the smiles themselves might be taken with their lives, at any moment. Earlier in the week, several hundred kilometers southwest of Scotland, sonar contact had been made, and against every hunters instinct, Franz had begged off the chase, steering a course into the opposite direction. The crew was just not ready for battle. The relief of his haggard crew and officers was palpable, and their love and respect for their commander increased greatly.


The men above jumped quickly into the frigid sea, and hurriedly were scooped out again, shivering, but happy to have the diesel and body odor knocked off their pale, skinny bodies. The men below waited impatiently, eager for their turn at such a treat.


"How' the water up there?" Karl, a small machinists mate asked one of his dripping comrades as he scooted past the line of waiting sailors.


"It's as warm as a bath! But lucky for me, the Kapitan gave us all a cold beer after the swim. Too bad for you, we've drank it all up!"


"To Hell with the beer! I want to scrub the shit stains out of my underwear! That's worth all the beer in Bavaria after all these months," quipped Karl, getting the line of sailors chuckling.

"I'll scrub your mouth with soap Karl," replied Oberleutnant Kelbling, "now be quiet so that I can hear from topside."


August Graebler, the sonar operator began his ascent of the cold and wet rungs of the ladder that led to above. A young man of nineteen years of age, he had shown his worth and skill having saved his crewman many times, showing an almost uncanny skill at reckoning with his ear pointed out to sea. Kapitan Franz tried his best never to show favoritism to any of his crew or officers, but always walked past the sonar desk and gave the dutifully consumed Graebler a squeeze on the shoulder, and asked "How are my ears today?" August burned with a quiet intensity and didn't earn the enmity of his shipmates by culling such appreciation of his Kapitan, by being the least aware of the attention out of all of them. He was quite different from most all others on the boat, being quiet and book warmish, and seldom reminiscing of home and of girls.


His first large breath of the sea salted air was as refreshing to him as all of his other shipmates however, all differences aside for such a simple pleasure. He shouldered his way past the ever vigilant watch duty, with their binoculars scanning the horizon and sky tirelessly, either searching for prey or looking for the planes that had come to be synonymous with death. They were especially on edge at the moment considering that they had been on the surface with clear weather for nearly forty minutes so far, this morning.


"Are my "ears" going to enjoy this mornings swim?" asked Kapitan Franz of August as he walked by.


"Yes Kapitan, I am greatly looking forward to it."
"Hurry along then, I am sure Churchill will be along shortly to ruin it, as he often does these days."


The water was shocking. As much was to be expected of the Atlantic at this latitude, but for some reason the joking below had dulled his expectations. He worked quickly scrubbing a brush through his hair, infusing the tangles with salt water, feeling more clean by the moment. He scrubbed his underwear vigorously on both sides, they being one of the chief complaints of the crew. There was no way to wash them for months at a time, and having been reversed so many times, either side was sure to be filthy and the source for many an uncomfortable rash.
The two minutes was up before he knew it and his fellow sailors waiting on the slightly bobbing boat threw a line to him and hauled his shivering self back aboard. The last sailors entered the water to begin their scrub as the entire boat readied for their normal stations once more.


As August started from the aft of the boat back to conning tower, prepared to be sealed up again, a thought crossed his mind and moving past one of the sentries, asked the Kapitan permission to inspect his top mounted hydrophone, that he used to listen to the sea. The Kapitan looked once more to the sky then nodded in the direction of the hydrophone on the bow of the craft.


"Be quick about it Graebler."


Down below the waterline, at the desk where Graebler spent the majority of his time, a wheel was mounted to the wall in front of the desk. The wheel was marked by 360 degrees of a circle, and where August turned the wheel the hydro-phones both above and below the Uboat turned with it. Thusly, Graebler was able to determine the bering of a contact, and with training, the speed and even direction of the ship, by its sound alone. Occasionally the tremendous pounding of the sea on the hull of the U-boat while traveling surfaced, would slightly alter the calibration of these sensitive devices. Ever the perfectionist, Graebler moved forward to inspect the alignment of the cone, as a measure of both the success of the endeavors of his station, and to the continued safety of himself and his fellow sailors.


Graebler swung under the thick, braided wire that ran from the bow of the U boat to the tip of the conning tower, and then back again to its stern. These wires served as antennae to both receive and transmit back to the closest listening stations. Communications were usually concise, and short, but definitely encrypted as the enemy's ear was ever turned to sea as well, determined to help prevent anymore of Britain's lifeblood and supply lines falling prey to Doenitz' wolf packs. Already, millions of tons had been sent to a watery domain, and the Atlantic was awash in such terrible flotsam, bearing witness to what modern war was capable of. The tide had turned for the U boats and their fated crews. They were once the mighty, and unseen hunters, surfacing amongst great convoys, sending them scurrying away at flank speed in abject horror at the thought of going under like so many before them. Victory had been closer than most had ever known, an entire country defeated by submerged warriors. The winds of war had shifted however, and carrier fleets carrying their spotter planes laden with depth charges, and the once secret radar, had changed the ocean and leveled the field of play for the allies. The hunters had become the hunted.


Accessing a recessed panel built into the deck of the U boat, Graebler retrieved a special hexagonal wrench, designed specifically with his approaching task at hand. A quick inspection confirmed his suspicion that the phone was slightly off kilter, and he began to adjust it sparing a glance to the tower. Korvettenkapitän Franz watched on, and nodded his approval from above.

He worked quickly, but dropped the wrench several times, his goose pimpled flesh, and achy hands, testament to the chill of the ocean breeze on his still damp trousers. He doubled his efforts, and was in such a state of concentration, that he didn't even here the terrified shouts of his comrades, as all Hell broke loose on U-27.