Death and Honor

[TWO]

Aboard U-boat 405 48 Degrees 85 Minutes South Latitude 59 Degrees 45 Minutes West Longitude 1250 7 July 1943

Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg, twenty-six years of age, was a large but gaunt Swabian—since leaving the submarine pens at St. Nazaire four months earlier, he had lost forty of his normal 190 pounds. Von Dattenberg took his eyes from the now no-longer-resilient rubber pads of the periscope and saw that both his chief of the boat and his number one had their eyes on him.

He issued two orders by making two gestures, first signaling by pointing to the deck . . .

“Down periscope!” the chief of the boat bellowed.

... then, accompanied by a smile, jerking his thumb upward.

“Prepare to surface!” the chief of the boat bellowed.

“Signals lampman, stand by to go to the conning tower,” Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg ordered.

“With the Herr Kapitänleutnant’s permission?” the chief of the boat asked softly.

He wants to operate the signal lamp himself?

Well, why not?

Von Dattenberg nodded.

“That’s either the Ciudad de Cádiz, Erich,” von Dattenberg said to his executive officer, Oberleutnant zur See Erich Müllenburg, “or His Brittanic Majesty’s cruiser Ajax very cleverly camouflaged.”

Müllenburg nodded and smiled, but said nothing.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He was one of the very few aboard who knew their fuel supply was down to only ten hours of cruising. Alternate plans had already been made, in case the Ciudad de Cádiz was not at the rendezvous point. They would make for the Falklands. When close, or the fuel ran out, whichever came first, the boat would be scuttled and the crew would try to make it to the remote islands in one dinghy, what rafts they could jury-rig, and the four fifteen-man rubber boats.

“Send ‘Sorry to be late,’ ” von Dattenberg ordered.

The chief of the boat put the lamp to his shoulder and flashed the message.

There was an immediate reply from the Ciudad de Cádiz.

The chief—unnecessarily, as von Dattenberg could read Morse code— waited until the message had finished, then reported: “The reply, sir, is, ‘Better late than never.’ ”

“Send. ‘Request permission to lay alongside.’ ”

Sixty seconds later, the chief reported, “ ‘Permission granted,’ sir.”

“Put the boat alongside, Oberleutnant Müllenburg,” von Dattenberg ordered. “Carefully. We don’t want to ram her.”

As the U-405 inched carefully up to the Ciudad de Cádiz, a huge watertight door near the waterline swung outward from her hull. A cushion— a web of old truck tires—was put over the side, and a series of neatly uniformed seamen tossed lines to crewmen of U-405 standing on the submarine’s deck.

As the lines were made tight, von Dattenberg saw neatly uniformed officers lined up behind a man with the four gold stripes of a captain on his sleeves. And then he saw that all the uniforms were not naval. Three of them were black.

The SS! What the hell is that all about?

Two gangways—one a simple ribbed plank, the other with rope railings— were put out from the Ciudad de Cádiz. The gangways were nearly level with the deck of U-405, with a slight upward incline.

If there was any fuel in my tanks, there would be a slight downward incline.

“You have the conn, Erich,” von Dattenberg said. “The chief and I are going aboard that absolutely beautiful ship.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”

Von Dattenberg and the chief of the boat climbed down from the conning tower and made their way to the gangplank with the rope railings.

The U-boat commander suddenly remembered his appearance. His beard was not neatly trimmed. He wore a sweater that was dirty and full of holes, a pair of equally dirty and worn trousers, a uniform tunic that was missing buttons, grease-soaked, oily tennis shoes, and an equally filthy brimmed cap.

He marched up the gangplank, not touching the railing, and stopped just inside the Ciudad de Cádiz. There he saluted.

"Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg, commanding U-boat 405,” he announced. “Request permission to come aboard.”

He saw that everyone was saluting as he had, by touching the brims of their uniform caps. Everyone but the SS officers—they gave the Nazi straight-armed salute.

“Permission granted,” Capitán José Francisco de Banderano said, then walked to the end of the gangplank and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Kapitän. I am Capitán de Banderano, master of the Ciudad de Cádiz.”

Von Dattenberg clicked his heels.

“Perhaps you would care to join me in my cabin, Kapitän, while my engineering officer shows your man our refueling facilities?”

“You are very kind, sir.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Kapitän,” de Banderano said when they were in his cabin. “Perhaps taking a chair at the table might be best. I somehow suspect that you will be gracious enough to accept my offer of a little something to eat.”

“With all respect, Capitán,” von Dattenberg replied not unpleasantly, “I’ll hold off on eating until my crew has had a little something.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering my stewards to send sandwiches aboard to give a little something to eat to half of your men, while the other half come aboard and go to the galley for a little something. Does that meet with your approval, Kapitän?”

“You are indeed very kind, sir.”

“How does ham and eggs sound for a little something for you, Kapitän?”

“Like manna from heaven, Capitán.”

De Banderano picked up his telephone and dialed a number.

“Ham and eggs to my cabin immediately,” he ordered. Then he went to a cabinet and came back with a bottle of Johnnie Walker scotch.

“I regret that when the Ciudad de Cádiz was turned over to me by the Kriegsmarine they somehow failed to ensure that she had even one bottle of schnapps in her supplies. Can you force yourself to drink this decadent English whiskey? I brought this from my previous command.”

“Under the circumstances, I think I can force myself,” von Dattenberg said.

De Banderano poured three fingers of scotch in each of two glasses and handed one to von Dattenberg.

“We found each other,” de Banderano said. “I wasn’t sure it was going to happen.”

Von Dattenberg nodded solemnly. “I was down to between six and maybe nine hours of fuel,” he said.

Their eyes met for a moment, then de Banderano touched his glass to von Dattenberg’s. They took healthy swallows of their drinks.

Von Dattenberg exhaled audibly, then took another healthy sip, draining his glass.

De Banderano poured more for him and asked, “At the risk of being indelicate, Kapitän, would you mind a suggestion about your uniform?”

“A decent burial at sea?” von Dattenberg said. “What do you suggest I do with it?”

“We have clothing stocks aboard. If you will give me your measurements, by the time you have a shower, the ship’s tailor will have a proper uniform for you.”

“For my crew, too?”

De Banderano nodded, then said: “I think they, too, would prefer to wait until they’ve had a little something to eat.”

“At the risk of being indelicate, Capitán, my underwear is as dirty as my outerwear. ”

De Banderano nodded.

“Once you give me your sizes,” he said, “by the time you come out of there, there will be fresh underwear.”

He pointed at a door that von Dattenberg correctly suspected led to the Master’s Bath. Then he handed von Dattenberg a pencil and a notebook so that he could write down his sizes.

Ten minutes later, Capitán de Banderano was not in his cabin when von Dattenberg came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. But there was clean white underwear on the table. And an array of plates under chrome domes.

He had not shaved, and he wasn’t sure if that was because he thought it would be impolite to use de Banderano’s razor or because he had come to like the beard.

He took the underwear back into the Master’s Bath and put it on, then went to the table. Reminding himself that if he ate like a pig he was probably going to throw up, he sat down and started carefully lifting the domes.

He ate everything the domes had concealed, and was wondering when his stomach would rebel when there was a knock at the door.

“Come.”

A steward, young and blond and in a white jacket, came into the room carrying a uniform on a hanger.

He gave a Nazi salute and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

Von Dattenberg didn’t return the salute, but asked, “You’re German?”

“Rottenführer Plinzer, Herr Kapitän,” the boy barked.

Von Dattenberg took the uniform.

“That will be all, Plinzer. Thank you.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän,” Plinzer said, threw out his arm, barked, “Heil Hitler!” again, then stood there, obviously waiting for von Dattenberg to return the salute.

He almost didn’t.

Fuck the Nazis and their salute!

What’ll this kid do, report me to one of the SS officers?

And, anyway, what the hell could they do to me on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?

For that matter, what the hell is the SS doing on a submarine-replenishment vessel off the Falkland Islands?

In the end, he returned the salute by raising his arm from the elbow.

That arrogant kid would’ve reported me for not saluting.

But he’s not going to complain that my salute wasn’t as crisp or enthusiastic as he thought it should’ve been.

Capitán de Banderano came back to his cabin moments after von Dattenberg had put on the new uniform, still smelling of camphor mothballs.

He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture that said, Well, what a change!

Von Dattenberg smiled back.

“When the fuel’s running low, the first thing that gets shut down is the seawater distiller,” von Dattenberg said.

De Banderano nodded his understanding.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

"I don’t suppose you have a well-breasted blonde—or two—who just loves sailors?”

De Banderano chuckled as he shook his head.

“Thank you very much for all you’ve given me so far, Capitán.”

"My privilege, Kapitän,” de Banderano said. He looked at the young U-boat captain for a moment—he had liked him from the moment he saw him in the conning tower of the U-405—and decided to go ahead with what he had just about decided to do somewhat later.

“I have your orders, Kapitän,” de Banderano said. “I’m familiar with them. Would you like to have them now, or wait until Sturmbannführer Kötl, to whom the orders also apply, can join us?”

Without hesitation, von Dattenberg replied, “I’d prefer to have them now, if you don’t mind.”

De Banderano went to a wall safe, took three large gray manila envelopes from it, and handed one of them to von Dattenberg.

“Sir, the seal is broken,” von Dattenberg said.

“My orders gave me the authority to open yours,” de Banderano said.

MOST SECRET

Oberste Hauptsitze der Kriegsmarine

Berlin

2 June 1943

Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg

Commanding U-boat 405

(One): You have been entrusted with a mission of great importance to the Reich. You will be informed of the details thereof as considered necessary. The details of this mission will be shared with as few people as possible, consistent with executing the mission.

(Two): For the purposes of this mission, inasmuch as Kapitän Jose Francisco de Banderano, master of the motor vessel Ciudad de Cádiz, is acting at the direct orders of the undersigned, and despite his civilian status, he will be considered the senior officer of the German Reich present.

(Three): You will receive from Kapitän de Banderano a special cargo which you will in absolute secrecy see safely ashore at a location in Argentina to be later identified to you. Attached are chart overlays and signal cryptographic matériel to be used in this connection.

(Four): Sturmbannführer Kötl will board the U-405 together with a small detachment of SS to protect the cargo until it is safely ashore. If the discharge operation is successful, the SS will remain ashore. If the mission encounters difficulty, the priorities are (1) to return the special cargo to the U-405 and (2) return the SS to the U-405.

(Five): Sturmbannführer Kötl’s responsibility and authority is limited to the protection of the special cargo. The decisions to attempt to land the special cargo, the methods of doing so, and, should it be necessary, to break off the attempt are entirely your responsibility.

(Six): The packaging of the special cargo is not to be opened under any circumstances.

(Seven): From the time the special cargo is placed aboard U-405, you will not engage any enemy warships or merchant vessels under any circumstances until the special cargo is safely ashore. Similarly, if the landing attempt is unsuccessful, and the special cargo is taken back aboard the U-405, you will undertake no hostile action of any kind until the special cargo is placed back aboard the Ciudad de Cádiz or other disposition of same is made.

Doenitz

Karl Doenitz

Grand Admiral

Concur:

Himmler

Heinrich Himmler

J. v. Ribbentrop

Reichsprotektor Joachim von Ribbentrop

Foreign Minister

Canari’s

Wilhelm Canaris

Rear Admiral

MOST SECRET

Kapitänleutnant von Dattenberg looked at Capitán de Banderano.

“What is this ‘special cargo’?” von Dattenberg said.

“Six wooden crates, each a meter long, three quarters of a meter wide, and three quarters of a meter deep.”

“And in them . . . ?”

“When we tried this the first time, I was told they contain radios and civilian clothing and other items intended to facilitate the escape of the officers from the Graf Spee from their internment.”

“When you tried this the first time?”

De Banderano nodded.

“Obviously without success,” von Dattenberg said. “What happened?”

“The Argentines were waiting for us. Oberst Grüner, the military attaché in Buenos Aires, and Standartenführer Goltz were killed.”

“But you managed to save the special cargo, obviously?”

“God spared Major von Wachtstein and me; we were able to get the crates off the beach.”

“Who did you say? Von Wachtstein?”

“A distinguished Luftwaffe officer. He received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the Führer personally.”

Von Dattenberg smiled. “He was not always that respectable, Capitán.”

“You know him?”

“We were almost sent down from university together. I mean, he was sent down, and I was lucky. He went into the Luftwaffe and became a corporal pilot. He flew in Spain with the Condor Legion. I’d heard, after he got the Knight’s Cross, that he’d been commissioned, but I didn’t know he’d been promoted major. One of the world’s good people, Capitán. And he’s involved in this, whatever it is?”

De Banderano was pleased to hear that von Dattenberg and von Wachtstein knew each other, that they were friends. He thought they were both fine young officers.

“I think his role was much like yours, Capitán, to assist in getting the special shipment ashore. Not more than that.”

“Radios and clothing to help the Graf Spee officers escape sounds fishy,” von Dattenberg said, making it a question.

“That’s what I was told; I didn’t ask questions.”

“An SS-sturmbannführer to guard some radios and clothing?” von Dattenberg pursued.

De Banderano shrugged.

“If I may offer a suggestion, Kapitän. It might not be wise to express your questions to Sturmbannführer Kötl.”

“I am young, Capitán, and inexperienced, but not stupid.”

“Shall I ask the sturmbannführer to join us?”

Sturmbannführer Alfred Kötl looked up after having read his orders. “This is highly unusual,” he objected, “subjecting an SS officer to the orders of a foreign citizen.”

“Perhaps that is why Reichsprotektor Himmler personally signed the concurrence of the SS to the Grand Admiral’s orders,” von Dattenberg offered.

“If you wish clarification of the orders, or confirmation, whatever, we can radio Berlin and get that in perhaps ten or twelve hours,” de Banderano said.

“When will the replenishment of your submarine be finished, von Dattenberg? ” Kötl asked bluntly. “Certainly that won’t take an additional ten or twelve hours.”

“There will be time to send a message, Kötl, if that’s what you want to do,” de Banderano said. “It is my decision that the crew of the U-405 should not undertake this mission until they have had twenty-four hours to recuperate from the ordeal of their voyage so far. Several hot meals and a night in a real bunk should do wonders for them.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest, Herr Kapitän, that I was questioning your orders. I merely was stating that they were highly unusual.”

“In other words, you don’t want me to radio Berlin?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

“When you have selected the men you’ll be taking with us, Herr Sturmbannführer, ” von Dattenberg said, “please instruct them that they may bring aboard one extra uniform, two changes of linen, one spare pair of shoes, their toilet kit, and such personal items as they may be able to hold in their armpit.”

"I don’t believe I can get even my smallest suitcase under my armpit,” Kötl said, smiling at his wit.

“And no suitcases, Herr Sturmbannführer. Space is at a premium aboard submarines.”