A German submarine sinking after a combined attack by several aircraft.
In his introduction to Iron Coffins, Werner wrote: “Because I was one of the few U-boat commanders who fought through most of the war and who managed to survive, I felt it was my duty to my fallen comrades to set the record straight. . . . This book belongs to my dead comrades, stricken down wholesale in the prime of youth. I hope it pays them the honor they deserve. If I have succeeded in handing down to the reader the ancient lesson that each generation seems to forget—that war is evil ... then I consider this my most constructive deed.”
Werner took part in his first U-boat battle in May 1941, when he was just twenty-one years old. The following excerpt describes a grueling two-day clash that occurred in May of 1943, after the Allies had gained superiority in the Battle of the Atlantic. Werner was then the executive officer of U-230, second in command to the captain.
May 12. 0716: . . . Before we could risk resurfacing to race into a new attack position, we had to put distance between us and the convoy. . . . For almost two hours we traveled diagonally away from the giants of steel.
0915: U-230 surfaced. Mounting the bridge while the deck was still awash, I took a hurried look in a circle. Far to the northeast, mastheads and funnels moved along the sharp line which divided the ocean from the sky. U-230 forged through the sea, parallel to the convoy’s track, in an attempt to reach a forward position before dusk. . . .
0955: . . . I saw a twin-engined plane dropping out of the sun.
The moment of surprise was total.
“Alarrrmmm!” We plunged head over heels into the conning tower. The boat reacted at once and shot below the surface. . . . Four short, ferocious explosions shattered the water above and around us. The boat trembled and fell at a 60-degree angle. Water splashed, steel shrieked, ribs moaned, valves blew, deck-plates jumped, and the boat was thrown into darkness. As the lights flickered on, I saw astonishment in the . . . eyes of the men. They had every right to be astounded: the attack out of the sun was a complete mystery. Where had the small plane come from? It did not have the range to fly a round-trip between the nearest point of land and the middle of the Atlantic. The conclusion was inescapable that the convoy launched its own airplanes. . . . The idea of a convoy with its own air defense smashed our basic concept of U-boat warfare. No longer could we mount a surprise attack or escape without meeting savage counterattacks. . . .
1035: U-230 came up to periscope depth. A careful check with our “sky scope,” an instrument similar to the periscope, revealed no aircraft. We surfaced at high speed.
The hunt went on. We pressed forward obstinately. . . . I glanced only occasionally at the …horizon and concentrated on the sky. . . . 1110: I detected a glint of metal between the clouds. It was a small aircraft, and it was diving into the attack. “Alarrrmmm!”
Fifty seconds later, four explosions nearby taught us that the pilot was a well-trained bombardier. . . .
1125: U-230 surfaced. We drove forward and clung to the fringes of the convoy with grim determination . . .
1217: ”Aircraft dead astern, alarrrmmm!”
U-230 dived once more and descended rapidly. I bit my lip and waited for the final blast. At forty-five seconds, four booms whipped the boat with violent force. Every second we were able to snatch from the pursuing aircraft brought us closer to the convoy and success. But if we dived a second too late, bombs would end our hunt with sudden death. . . .
1323: Our radio mate delivered an urgent message to the Captain: ATTACKED BY AIRCRAFT. UNABLE TO DIVE. SINKING. . . . HELP. U-456.
“Have Prager check position,” Siegmann shouted back. “Maybe we can save the crew.”
The captain’s impulse to rescue our comrades might well result in suicide. We were closer to death than to life ourselves. But help was imperative—we would have expected the same. Moments later, Prager reported that U-456 was only twelve miles ahead. . . . Immediately, the Captain changed course.
1350: We spotted a plane circling four miles ahead. Then my glasses picked up the bow of U-456 poking out of the rough sea. The men clung to the slippery deck and to the steel cable strung from bow to bridge. Most of them stood in the water up to their chests. The aircraft kept circling above the sinking boat, making it foolhardy for us to approach. Another danger prevented rescue: astern, a corvette crept over the horizon, evidently summoned by the plane. Now our own lives were in jeopardy. We turned away from the aircraft, the escort, and U-456, and fled in the direction of the convoy. 1422: “Aircraft astern!”
. . . It was too late to dive. The single-engined plane came in low in a straight line [over us]. I fingered the trigger of my gun. . . . [It] was jammed. I kicked its magazine, clearing the jam. Then I emptied the gun at the menace. The mate’s automatic bellowed. Our boat veered to starboard, spoiling the plane’s bomb run. The pilot revved up his engine, circled, then roared toward us from dead ahead. As the plane dived very low, its engine sputtered, then stopped. Wing first, the plane crashed into the surging ocean, smashing its other wing on our superstructure as we raced by. The pilot, thrown out of his cockpit, lifted his arm and waved for help, but then I saw him disintegrate in the explosion of the four bombs which were meant to destroy us. Four violent shocks kicked into our starboard side astern, but we left the horrible scene unharmed. . . .
1545: A report from the radio room put our small victory into proper perspective: DEPTH CHARGES BY THREE DESTROYERS. SINKING. U-186. This new loss was the 11th we had heard of since our patrol began. . . .
1600: U-230 cut into the projected path of the convoy. I saw four columns of ships creep over the sharp horizon in the southwest, headed in our direction. We had to halt them. . . . 1638: . . . Siegmann . . . cried, “Down with the boat, Chief, take her down for God’s sake, destroyer in ramming position. . . . “ . . . As the boat swiftly descended, the harrowing sound of the destroyer’s engines and propellers hit the steel of our hull. It grew so fast, and echoed so deafeningly, that we were all unable to move. Only our boat was moving, and she went downward much too slowly to escape the blow.
An ear shattering boom ruptured the sea. A spread of six depth charges lifted the boat, tossed her out of the water, and left her on the surface at the mercy of four British destroyers. The screws of U-230 rotated in highest revolutions, driving us ahead. For seconds there was silence. For seconds the British were baffled and stunned. After a whole eternity, our bow dipped and the boat sank—and sank. A new series of exploding charges lifted our stern with a mighty force. Our boat, entirely out of control, was catapulted toward the bottom five miles below. . . . U-230 tumbled to 250 meters before [we were] able to reverse her fall. . . .
1716: A new spread deafened us and took our breath away. . . . The steel knocked and shrieked and valves were thrown into open position. . . . Water everywhere. Its weight forced the boat deeper into the depths. In the meantime, the convoy crawled in a thunderous procession over our boat.
1740: The uproar was at its peak. A sudden splash told us that we had 10 or 15 seconds to brace against another barrage. The charges went off just beyond lethal range. . . . Perhaps we should risk going deeper. I did not know where our limit was, where the hull would finally crack. No one knew. Those who had found out took their knowledge into the depths. For hours we suffered the punishment and sank gradually deeper. In a constant pattern, spreads of twenty-four charges battered our boat every twenty minutes. . . . 2000: [A] new group [of escorts] launched its first attack, then another, and another. We sat helpless 265 meters below. . . . Our bodies were stiff from cold, stress, and fear. . . . The bilges were flooded with water, oil, and urine. Our washrooms were under lock and key; to use them then would have meant instant death, for the tremendous outside pressure would have acted in reverse. . . . Added to the stench of waste, sweat, and oil was the stink of the battery gases. The increasing humidity condensed on the cold steel, dropped into the bilges, dripped from pipes, and soaked our clothes. By midnight, the Captain realized that the British would not let up in their bombardment, and he ordered the distribution of potash cartridges to supplement breathing. Soon every man was equipped with a large metal box attached to his chest, a rubber hose leading to his mouth, and a clamp on his nose. . . .
May 13. . . . [As of] 0400 . . . we had been under assault for 12 hours and there was no sign of relief. This day was my birthday and I wondered whether it would be my last. . . . May 14. By midnight, we had approached the limit for boat and crew. We had reached a depth of 280 meters and the boat was still sinking. I dragged myself through the aisle, pushing and tossing men around, forcing them to stay awake. Whoever fell asleep might never be awakened.
0310: A thunderous spread rattled down, but without effect. We were closer to being crushed by the mounting pressure than by the exploding canisters. As the echo of the last blast slowly subsided, something else attracted our attention. It was the thrashing of retreating propellers. For a long time we listened to the fading sound, unable to believe that the Tommies had given up the hunt. 0430: . . . U-230 broke through to air and life. We pushed ourselves up to the bridge. Around us spread the infinite beauty of night, sky, and ocean. . . . We could not believe that death had kept his finger on us for thirty-five gruesome hours.
Abruptly I felt the impact of the oxygen- rich air upon my system. Almost losing consciousness, I sagged to my knees and slumped over the rim of the bridge. . . . The diesels coughed to life. Since the convoy had disappeared long ago, we traveled south, toward our last position. The engines muttered reassuringly. . . . The bilges were emptied, the foul air expelled, and the accumulated refuse thrown overboard. When the darkness dissolved and a new day dawned, U-230 was again ready for combat. (Werner, pp. 119-26)
Werner was promoted to commander in December of 1943 and began his training in January 1944. By that time the Germans were losing the Battle of the Atlantic. British, American, and Canadian bombers were working together to provide air cover over the Atlantic from North America to Europe.
In April of 1944 Werner took command of his own U-boat, U-415. He and his crew successfully evaded heavy bombing raids that spring, only to sink in July while docked at Brest Harbor, a seaport off France’s northwestern coast. (The submarine activated a mine that had been laid in the port by the British.) In August Werner assumed command of U-953, a dilapidated boat with an inexperienced crew. They managed to survive until war’s end.
