Authors: James Thayer
Colonel von Stihl was icy and seldom spoke. His blond hair was close-cropped and curly. He was average height and was barrel-chested, with thick, powerful arms and legs. Cords of neck muscle stood out even when he relaxed. He had critical eyes, severe lips, and a rather large, non-German nose. He spent much of his time aboard reading economics treatises in the petty officers' quarters. During the voyage from Germany, he had engaged in several discussions with the second watch officer, who had apparently read John Maynard Keynes, but the officer's knowledge and insights were soon exhausted. Many of the colonel's hours were spent staring catatonically at the sub's plumbing, lost in thought. After several days at sea, no one approached him.
Von Stihl's men had also disturbed U-513's crew. The giant Hans Graf let it be known he was in the SS Death's-Head regiment and seemed pleased that none of the sailors spoke with him from then on. The skin under Graf's right ear had been badly burned, and the scar had lost none of its purple anger. It pulled back the corner of his mouth into a small grin that gave his otherwise Teutonically handsome face a perpetual evil sneer. Graf was aware of this effect and exploited it effectively on his superiors, his lovers, and those he was about to murder in the name of the Reich.
The third stormtrooper was less sinister. In fact, Willi Lange was so inconspicuous he almost disappeared in the close confines of the U-boat. Lange was a slight man, barely reaching Graf's shoulders. He had a pug nose over a scrawny mustache. His beady black eyes never looked at the person addressing him, and his face suffered an oppressed expression, which he tried and failed to elevate to
one of mere insouciance. Graf derisively called him Schwachheit, saphead. But one of Lange's peculiarities kept Graf from overpowering him and the sailors from befriending him. Lange's sole diversion aboard the sub had been to unroll the watertight oilcloth in which he kept his Schmeisser submachine gun and constantly and lovingly disassemble, clean, oil, and reassemble it. The little man even unloaded the clips and cleaned the bullets. Once, en route, when von Stihl had suggested Lange read one of his books because the cleaning was unnerving the sailors, Lange had read a chapter or so with the book resting on the mess table while his hands skillfully cleaned and recleaned the weapon. Lange's eyes never left the text, and his hands never faltered with the gun's parts. Von Stihl quickly gave up his attempts at expanding Lange's mind.
The three commandos had been cysts on the commander's ship, and now they were gone. With them would go the tension and demoralizing effect they had on his crew. The commander doubted the three would ever return to German soil. At least, he had no orders to pick them up. Just as well. It was an order he could have easily misplaced or misinterpreted.
"Pass up the raft," shouted von Stihl from the bridge.
Two seamen who had lugged the deflated raft from the bow compartment hoisted it above their heads and shoved it through the conning-tower hatch, where it was passed to Graf, who one-handed it through the hatch.
"Now the compressor hose."
Up went the long rubber hose. Bracing himself against the bridge railing to prevent slipping on the bridge's treacherous plate metal, Graf unwrapped the raft from its canvas housing and shook out the folds. He attached the nozzle to the raft's nipple.
"Air," he shouted.
The hose stiffened and the raft began to inflate. Willi Lange wrapped his arms around one end of the raft to prevent it from being carried off by the wind.
"Report from the bridge," yelled the chief, relaying the commander's request.
"All clear, Chief."
The three spotters had not even glanced at the commandos. They peered into the darkness, looking for any suspicious dot or light. Then one yelled down the hatch, "Lighthouse at thirty degrees, Chief. Light's out."
The chief relayed the spotting to the commander, who was using the magnification of the sky periscope to survey the shore and had already found Owls Head Lighthouse.
After the raft was inflated, Graf and Lange held it over the bridge railing, which protected the raft from the gale. The heavy waterproof packs strapped to their backs and the wet suits made their movements awkward. Both had oilcloth bundles tied to their stomachs, the Schmeissers.
"Hand up the rope ladder," ordered von Stihl.
He deftly attached the ladder to the bridge with metal clasps and threw it overboard. The weighted end of the ladder quickly sunk alongside the sub's hull.
"Now the raft ropes."
Up came two lengths, which were quickly attached to each end of the raft. Lange and Graf released the raft and lowered it to the water. It landed upright and bobbed violently alongside U-513.
Two seamen dressed for the weather emerged from the hatch to handle the lines to the raft. Von Stihl climbed over the bridge railing and began the descent. The hull was slippery and could not be trusted for rappelling. He cautiously shoved each foot into the rope crosspieces before lowering himself another step. The wind and spray blinded him as he neared the waterline. He kicked out with one leg and
hooked the raft gunwales with his foot, and then sank to his knees on the inflated tubes and steadied the rope ladder for Lange.
"Need some help, Schwachheit?" Graf yelled jeeringly over the wind.
Lange climbed over the rail without answering or looking at Graf. He arched his back forward so the package strapped to his stomach would not bang against the railing as his feet found the ladder. Von Stihl held the rope ladder slightly away from the hull, making Lange's task of placing his feet on the rope rungs easier. The swells rose and fell, lifting and lowering the raft. Lange released his grip on the ladder, but he had misjudged the swells, and he dropped six feet into the raft. One leg caught the gunwales, and he pitched wildly forward into the bottom of the raft. He heard Graf's short laugh above him.
The big German lifted a leg over the bridge railing, mockingly saluted the sailors holding the line, and grabbed the ladder. He did not use his feet, but descended the ladder hand over hand and lighted easily on the raft. Immediately, a package of provisions was lowered on a third line. Strapped to the package were two short oars. Graf unleashed them and used one to steady the raft. Von Stihl unhooked the fore and aft lines, and they were quickly withdrawn. He kicked off from the sub.
"Let's go," he commanded. They knew the routine without further orders. They had one minute to clear the submarine before it dived. If the raft was too near, it would be sucked under.
The colonel and Graf sat side by side to man the oars. As they pulled in time, the lookouts disappeared from the bridge, and von Stihl heard the dull clang of the hatch being closed. The submarine appeared and disappeared as the raft bobbed in the heavy sea.
Through the spray, the commandos saw the U-boat tilt
slightly, pause, and slip beneath the surface. Not a bubble or ripple marked its departure, and not a sound reached them. They were alone in the Atlantic gale.
Von Stihl and Graf pulled against the sea. Lange alternately searched the shoreline and bailed with a half-liter tin. Sea spray steadily blew into the raft. Bailing was as exhausting as rowing. The shore was a black smudge on the horizon, visible only when the raft crested a swell. They pulled and bailed, pulled and bailed, and the smudge seemed to draw no closer.
"Christ," Graf shouted into the wind, "if I had wanted to row, I would have joined the Italian Navy." He laughed merrily, oblivious of the freezing spray.
Lange's dark eyes riveted to the shore each time the boat rose. It would be his job to track down any unfortunate soul walking on the beach who Lange would assume saw the raft. Not that their craft or its crew would be easily spotted. The raft had been colored black to blend with the night. The three stormtroopers were wearing black rubber diving suits, both for camouflage and for warmth. Warmth, thought von Stihl, what a laugh.
Tests by the German Navy showed that such a raft and crew were almost invisible at night one hundred yards away. And the foul weather ensured their invisibility. Only when they were almost to shore, when the black raft contrasted with white surf, would they be in danger of being spotted. But the chances anyone was braving the inclement November weather for a walk along the beach were remote. Their landing point, three hundred yards north of Dodge Point, on the head, was not populated, so no one would be inconveniently looking out a window at the surf.
They rowed and bailed, rowed and bailed. Trying to exclude the cold, von Stihl concentrated on the mechanical back-and-forth motion. His pumping arms began a satisfying burn as the muscles worked to and fro. The scab
covering the infected sore on his tailbone, which had rubbed raw the first day of training and had not healed, was already torn off by the raft seat. The wet suit ground saltwater into the sore with each stroke.
Willi Lange bailed frantically but was losing. As they neared shore, the swells began to crest and pour white water into the raft's stern. Lange scooped water like an automaton, and his arms were on fire. It was little solace that the inflated raft would not sink even if filled with water to the top of the gunwales. No forward progress would be made. If they were to make it to land, Lange had to bail out more water than swept in. The water was gaining, and the exhausted Lange pushed back the pain and redoubled his efforts.
Minute after freezing minute passed. Von Stihl fought the desperate need to let his body crank back and forth on its own volition so he could turn his mind off and shut out the cold and the gnawing ache in his arms, which seemingly evolved from the pleasant burn hours ago. At every stroke, his biceps convulsed with effort, and pain shot up his arms and into his shoulders. The training is never sufficient. The thought pleased him, and he focused on it. Never sufficient. Stroke, forward. Never sufficient. Stroke, forward.
"Fifty meters to shore," Willi Lange yelled through a cold blast of spray. He pointed a new tack designed to bring the raft to shore at a ninety-degree angle to the crashing waves. Von Stihl lifted his oar out of the water while Graf took two extra strokes to turn the raft. Von Stihl's back muscles immediately cramped, and he almost shouted with pain as he dipped his oars and pulled again.
The swells gained momentum and size as they approached the beach. Now the wave crests were not frothing cold nuisances blown over by the wind, but were a force unto themselves. Tons of water spilled off the crests as the
undertow from the beach topped the swells. The colonel and Graf stroked with renewed urgency as the raft was caught by the foaming surf. Bailing was useless now. Willi Lange threw away his tin bailer and grasped the gunwale straps with both hands. Despite his fear, his eyes did not stop scanning the beach. He gripped fiercely as a crest of turbulent white water spilled over his shoulders and into the raft, where it rushed over the sodden rowers. The craft dived into the trough of the wave and rushed up the backside of the next watery giant. Neither von Stihl nor Graf lost a stroke as they fought to keep the raft facing the shore. Another wave and another ton of seawater boiled into the raft. The noise was deafening. Lange glanced at the pack tied tightly around his stomach and prayed that the saltwater had not breached the oilskin and soaked its contents.
"Shore's twenty meters," Lange yelled.
Now the waves were monsters lifting the raft into the air and dropping it to the troughs in stomach-wrenching descents. Lange stood precariously in the back of the raft and spotted the wave behind him that they would ride to shore. The most dangerous seconds of their three-thousand-mile journey were at hand.
The giant wave, their wave, crested and began its onslaught. Unlike others before it, their wave was propelled by human anger and purpose, wanting to terrify, to humble, and finally to crush its trespassers. It thundered to them.
"Now. Stroke," shrieked Lange.
The oars bit into the water as the immense wave lifted the raft up its crest. The seething crest hovered in the black sky above them and then violently cascaded down. Whirling water smothered the raft.
Where there had been air was now bubbling, freezing, swirling water. The oar was ripped from von Stihl's grasp.
He inhaled saltwater and gagged and convulsed and swallowed more water. He was vaguely aware of being thrown upside down, and then something heavy smashed into his jaw. He rolled over and over in the turbulence. Flailing his arms against the onrush had no effect. In mid-somersault, the colonel slammed into the abrasive ocean floor and felt skin on the back of his hand scrape away. Over and over he was flung. Where's the surface? Where's the shore? The questions were drowned in the overpowering, frothing tumult.
Water dropped away, and von Stihl's butt hit the pebbly beach. He blinked burning grains of sand from his eyes and saw the water rush back to the sea, preparing for the next assault. He rolled to his hands and knees and crawled up the beach just as the next wave lapped his legs, trying to pull him back to sea.
Over the roar of the waves, von Stihl heard a hacking cough. Graf was thirty yards north, bent on all fours, retching saltwater. The colonel weakly stood and looked for Lange. He saw nothing but driftwood and boulders and crashing water. He waded into the surf and felt the sand under his feet being pulled to sea by the undertow. Von Stihl looked frantically. The mission required three men. He had to find Lange. The colonel waded to his knees and stupidly tried to part the water with his hands.
Another wave swamped the shore, and a submerged body plowed into von Stihl's legs and dropped him to his knees. He plunged his hands about until he grabbed Lange's pack. Von Stihl backpedaled to firmer ground and lifted Lange above the water. The diminutive, waterlogged German spasmodically coughed and inhaled great quaffs of air. Only after a dozen breaths did Lange open his eyes and try to firm his rubbery legs. Von Stihl put an arm around Lange's waist and led him to shore.
Hans Graf had climbed onto a boulder and lay on his pack propped by his elbows. He was spitting water, and his
chest rose and fell like a furnace bellows. Von Stihl helped Lange onto the rock and lowered him near Graf. The colonel sat heavily and waited for his head to stop spinning.