Silver Wings, Iron Cross

by Tom Young

Genres: Action & Adventure; War & Military; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

From air combat veteran Tom Young comes the explosive saga of two enemy combatantsan American pilot and German U-boat officer united by fate in an epic fight for survival . . .

World War II Lieutenant Karl Hagan earned his wings the hard way. But when his plane is shot down behind enemy lines, hes forced to make the hardest decision of his life: trusting the enemy.

Oberleutnant Wilhelm Albrecht wore his Iron Cross with pride. But when his U-boat is attacked in a devastating air raid, he abandons ship and finds an unlikely ally: the pilot who bombed him.

From the smoke-filled skies over Europe to the fire-blasted waters of a Nazi naval base to the battle-scarred German countryside, the American and the German must form an uneasy truce if they hope to survive. It is November of 1944. The tides of war have turned. Allies have taken back France, and German troops have retreated. But for Karl and Wilhelm, the war is far from over. Each must be prepared to lie for the other, fight for the other, or die with the other. But their short-lived alliance wont truly be put to the test until they reach the end of the lineinside a POW camp . . .

Thrillingly tense, blisteringly authentic, and emotionally powerful, Silver Wings, Iron Cross is an unforgettable novel of World War II thats sure to become a classic in the field.

Release date: May 26, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 409

Sample

In the 94th Bomb Group’s briefing room, at the ungodly hour of 0400, Lieutenant Karl Hagan watched the S-2 officer reveal the map for the day’s mission. A length of red yarn depicted the planned flight. The yarn stretched from the 94th’s base at Rougham Field in Bury St Edmunds, England, across the English Channel, and into Germany. Pins stuck in the map at turn points angled the yarn through course changes en route to the primary target: Bremen. Karl felt ice form in his chest.

On this, Karl’s last assigned mission, the U.S. Eighth Air Force was ordering him to bomb his family. Although his parents had lived in Pennsylvania since leaving Germany at the end of the Great War, Karl still had relatives who worked in the factories and shipyards of Bremen, turning out aircraft and U-boats for the Third Reich. Those relatives included Karl’s uncle Rainer and aunt Federica.

As pilot and aircraft commander of a B-17 Flying Fortress, Karl had always known this could happen. But for thirty-four missions, he and his crew had struck targets far from any Hagan home: the submarine pens at Saint-Nazaire, the former automobile plants at Antwerp, the airfield at Beaumont-le-Roger. All the while, Karl hoped the war would end before his crew opened a bomb bay anywhere near his extended family.

Karl eyed the framed photographs on the wall in the briefing room: President Franklin D. Roosevelt, Secretary of War Henry Stimson, Supreme Allied Commander Dwight Eisenhower. The S-2’s words sounded distant and hollow; Karl could barely listen. This war presented so many ways to make people suffer, to force them to do unspeakable things, to face impossible decisions. Thus far, Karl had focused single-mindedly on his duty. If I do that, he figured, I can’t go wrong. Duty had become the magnetic north on his moral compass.

But now the compass spun, showed no direction.

I cannot do this, Karl thought. But I have to do this.

The S-2 stood with his hands on his hips, the very picture of military bearing in his Ike jacket and tie. “Your target for today, gentlemen,” he said, “is the Focke-Wulf aircraft factory in Bremen. I don’t need to tell you how the Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts have taken a toll on us. Your alternate target is the submarine facility on the River Weser. As you know, German U-boats have played hell with our merchant fleet. Whichever target you hit, now’s your chance to get payback.”

None of the two hundred men in the Nissen hut hooted or growled in bravado, and Karl knew why. Yes, payback was sweet, but the aircraft plant and sub pens would be heavily defended. This mission was no milk run to an easy target in occupied France. On this mission, German fighter planes and flak gunners would exact a toll. Statistics promised that some of the men sitting to Karl’s left and right, dressed in their leather A-2 jackets and flying coveralls, would not come back.

“They’re gonna make us pay for our ticket home,” Adrian whispered, sitting next to Karl.

Adrian Baum had flown as Karl’s copilot for his entire tour. Son of a Bronx rabbi, Adrian fought and flew as if the survival of his people depended on him. He seldom went to London on pass. Instead, he spent most of his free time studying flight manuals, poring over aircraft performance charts, reviewing training films, and writing his parents. He spoke often of New York’s attractions, and he’d promised to show Karl the sights when they got home.

For Karl, Adrian, and the rest of their crew, this—their thirty-fifth mission—would end their war one way or another. Eighth Air Force regs said fliers who completed thirty-five bombing raids could go home for permanent Stateside duty. Crews reaching that goal joined “The Lucky Bastard Club,” and they celebrated with a send-off party, usually soaked with English ale and Scotch whisky. They received unofficial certificates with these words under their names:

Karl looked forward to joining the Lucky Bastard Club as much as anyone. But why did his price of membership have to be a raid on Bremen? He despised what Adolf Hitler had done to his parents’ homeland and took pride in his small role fighting Nazism. But dropping bombs on Bremen could mean dropping bombs on uncles and cousins, some of whom did not support National Socialism. Letters from Bremen had stopped coming, but Karl knew his uncle Rainer had been fired from his job at Bremer Vulkan AG for political reasons. Karl did not know the details, but Adrian had told him there were rumors of slave labor at German factories.

“If your uncle is the mensch you say he is,” Adrian had said, “maybe he got into trouble speaking out against forced labor at his company.”

A good guess, Karl supposed. He appreciated Adrian’s analytical mind and cool competence, both on the ground and in the air. Karl’s copilot was his right-hand man, quite literally.

As the briefing continued, the S-2 discussed mission details: formation type, assembly point, route, initial point, bombing altitude. He displayed a reconnaissance photo of the Focke-Wulf plant and surrounding area.

When the S-2 finished, the weather officer took the podium. “You can expect good VFR for takeoff and over your target,” the weatherman said. “Forecast for this morning here at Rougham is scattered clouds at five thousand feet, light and variable winds. CAVU for northern Germany—ceiling and visibility unlimited.”

Not good, Karl thought. If we can see the target, the flak gunners can see us.

To the left of the weather charts, another board listed the aircraft and crews on today’s mission, arranged by their places in the formation. A tail number and an aircraft commander’s name represented each airplane. Karl found HAGAN 632 at the number-five position in the low squadron. Call sign, Fireball Able. At least he had a good ship to fly: 632 meant Hellstorm, an F-model with a reputation for luck.

Hellstorm had taken more than her share of battle damage, but none of her crew members had ever been seriously hurt. She had undergone five engine changes, and the sheet metal guys had given her an entirely new rudder and vertical stabilizer. All the maintenance work reminded Karl of the old joke about the hundred-year-old ax: It’s had only two new heads and five new handles. But Hellstorm was still Hellstorm; you just felt it in the way she flew. Airplanes might not have souls, but they sure had personalities.

“Stations time is 0615,” the S-2 announced. “Aircraft commanders, take charge of your crews.”

With a scraping of chairs, the men stood up and set about their tasks. Karl’s waist gunners, Sergeants Chris Ryan and Thomas Firth, along with tail gunner Morgan Anders, checked with the armament shack to make sure Hellstorm had a full supply of .50-caliber ammunition. The gunners then joined Karl and the rest of the crew to wait in line for personal flight equipment. The men stood outside in the early-morning darkness, arms folded over their chests against a chilly breeze. As they talked, their breath became visible in the cool November air.

The crew consisted of ten men. In addition to the two pilots, two waist gunners, and the tail gunner, Karl’s team included navigator Richard Conrad, bombardier Billy Pell, ball turret gunner Dick “The Kid” Russo, flight engineer and top turret gunner Joe Fairburn, and radio operator Steven Baker. At nineteen, Russo was the youngest. Twenty-eight-year-old Fairburn was the oldest. Karl and Adrian were twenty-three.

They emerged from the flight equipment shop loaded with leather flying helmets, throat microphones, goggles, Mae West flotation devices, and parachute harnesses. Karl wore a standard-issue .45 pistol, Colt model M1911, under his jacket. A pouch in a lower leg pocket of his flight suit contained an escape kit with a silk map, candy and gum, razor blades, water purification tablets, and parachute cord. By the time the men clambered aboard jeeps and trucks to ride out to the hardstands, the first rays of sunrise painted blood-colored streaks across the east.

The bustle of activity—the rumble of the fuel trucks, the flutter of the wind sock, the mechanics pinning engine cowlings—refreshed Karl like a tonic. He felt he played a role in something vastly bigger than himself, that even if he made an utter mess of the rest of his life, he had already justified his presence on the planet, established a right to the air he breathed.

And yet . . . he could not forget his kin, across the English Channel, across lines on a map. If not for his father’s choices, Karl might live in Germany now. Would he have joined the Luftwaffe? Would he have become a hapless draftee in the army? Perhaps he would have remained in the civilian labor force. On this very morning, he might have risen for work at a factory, unaware that his workplace had finally made the target list.

The dawn illuminated scores of bombers bristling with guns and propellers, their lines sharp and hard and lethal despite the whimsical names and topless girls painted on their noses: Bouncin’ Annie, Lush Thrush, Passionate Witch. Underneath the names, swastikas represented German fighters downed by gunners, and orange bombs stood for completed missions.

Hellstorm’s nose bore four swastikas and twenty bombs. Another marking read: U.S. ARMY B-17-F, AIR FORCES SERIAL NO. 42-24632, SERVICE THIS AIRPLANE WITH 100 OCTANE FUEL. The truck groaned to a stop in front of Hellstorm’s left wing, and Karl jumped off the tailgate, inhaled the cold morning air and fumes of gas and oil. His crew disembarked behind him. The men lined up, and Karl inspected them for proper gear. After he found everything in order, he tried to think of stirring words for them—something along the lines of the St. Crispin’s Day speech, or perhaps the poem “Invictus.” He did the best he could, but he felt he came up short.

“We’ve gone to hell thirty-four times,” Karl said. “We’ve had each other’s back for every mile and every bullet and every bomb.”

He paused, too distracted to think of something better. “One more time, fellas,” he said finally. “One more time.” The men cheered, clapped, and turned to their duties.

“Let’s get it done,” Pell, the bombardier, said.

Karl hoisted his parachute bag from the truck and set it down at the B-17’s forward access hatch, under the nose of the aircraft.

“Pell,” he said, gloved fingers spread wide for emphasis, “I need you to drop ’em right down the pickle barrel this time.”

“You know I always do,” Pell said. “Anything special about today?”

Karl hesitated, considered what to tell the bombardier. “Ah, well, no,” he said. “I just want our last one perfect.”

“You got it, boss.”

Not as easy as Pell made it sound, Karl knew. The Norden bombsight, a highly classified gyroscopic instrument that could be coupled to the airplane’s autopilot, allowed bombing with greater precision than the old vector sights. Flight tests showed a much smaller circular error with bombs dropped by Norden-equipped airplanes. But in combat, that circle widened. Flak-rattled crews, smoke over the target, and shifting winds aloft created more variables than a bombardier could crank into the adjustment knobs. Technology could not clear the fog of war.

Karl did a walk-around inspection as his crew boarded the B-17. Normally, the walk-around fell to Adrian and the ground crew chief, but Karl did it occasionally, and today he had a special motivation. Part of him hoped to find something wrong—some reason Hellstorm couldn’t fly, some excuse to sit this one out. Yes, Karl knew, that Focke-Wulf plant needed to go. So did the shipyards and submarine pens in the area. To think civilians wouldn’t die was self-delusion. Bombs had to fall on Bremen in this autumn of 1944; there was no getting around it. But, he asked himself, do they have to fall from my airplane?

He checked the tires: no cuts in the treads, no leaks from the brake lines. Good pressure on the gear struts: Both showed an inch and a half of the shiny silver inner cylinder. Karl spun the supercharger wheels on all four engines, checked the linkage on the wastegates. The Wright R-1820 engines showed normal oil seepage, but no bad leaks. Props looked good; there were no dings or cracks. At the trailing edge of the left wing, Karl found just the right amount of play in the aileron trim tab. Nothing about Hellstorm looked even remotely out of sorts.

Karl made his way back to the forward crew access hatch and shoved his parachute bag inside. Then he reached up to the sides of the hatch and pulled himself through. The hatch offered no steps or boarding stairs: The Flying Fortress was built for agile young men.

Inside the Fort, a familiar smell filled Karl’s nostrils: that oil-and-gunmetal odor of a military aircraft. He climbed into the cockpit and settled into the left seat. Adrian was already strapping himself into the right seat. From down below in the Plexiglas-tipped nose section, Karl heard the bombardier and navigator take their positions.

Through the windscreen, Karl saw other crews manning their ships. A weapons carrier with a load of bombs rolled past, splashing through oily pools of water on the taxiway. Atop the cubical control tower, the cups of the anemometer spun in the light breeze. Officers lined the tower’s iron-railed balcony, observing the 94th gird for battle. Karl checked his watch: almost time for engine start.

“You guys ready?” he asked.

“Born ready,” Adrian said.

“Yes, sir,” said Fairburn, the flight engineer. Fairburn stood behind the pilots’ seats to monitor gauges during engine start. He handed Karl the maintenance document, Form 1-A. Karl checked the fuel and bomb loads, noted the status mark—a red diagonal. That symbol meant the aircraft had only minor maintenance write-ups, nothing to prevent flight. Karl signed the form and passed it back to Fairburn.

“Let’s get the checklist started,” Karl said.

Adrian reached for a checklist stored in a plastic sheet protector. “Gyros,” he said.

Karl checked the artificial horizon and the heading indicator. “Uncaged,” he replied.

“Fuel shutoff switches.”

“Open.”

“Landing gear switch.”

“Neutral.”

“Mixture levers.”

“Idle cutoff.”

The singsong routine of checklist procedures had always comforted Karl. It put him in mind of a train rolling along a track, rails locking the wheels onto proper course. Each crew member became a moving part in a greater machine aimed at a common purpose. Nearly all aviators found reassurance in teamwork. Karl knew a navigator in his squadron who walked behind the airplane and threw up before every mission. But once you got him on headset and talking, he did okay.

Today, however, routine brought Karl no comfort. Now the train thundered toward a place he did not want to go. He could find no justification to stop the process: Nothing was wrong with the airplane. He flipped on the master and ignition switches. Checked batteries one, two, and three separately, then turned on all of them. Switched on the inverters, and the instruments hummed to life.

To save the batteries, Karl signaled for a ground crewman to connect external power: He put both arms out the left window and clamped his left hand over his right fist. The ground crewman plugged an electrical cord into the side of Hellstorm. The cord snaked from a portable generator, which growled like a lawn mower when started.

Another ground crewman stood fireguard with an extinguisher. Karl motioned with his index finger: Stand by to start number one. The crewman positioned himself behind the outboard engine on the left wing. Karl cracked the throttles open about half an inch.

“Start number one,” Karl ordered.

With one hand, Adrian held the start switch for the number-one engine. With the other hand, he pumped the hand primer to force air out of the fuel line. After a few seconds, he pressed the mesh switch. The number-one prop began turning, and the nine-cylinder engine coughed and fired.

Karl set the throttle for 1000 RPM and watched the oil pressure rise. He glanced through the windscreen and saw the number-one props turning on a dozen ships. The tang of exhaust smoke seasoned the air.

“Number two,” Karl said. He held two fingers out the window, repeated the start procedure.

A few minutes later, all four engines hummed at idle, and Hellstorm vibrated with life and power, a beast awakened. The ground crew unplugged external power. Across the airfield, the props of the other bombers blew a man-made gale, sweeping dust and exhaust smoke above the trees. Karl and Adrian, along with Fairburn standing behind them, buckled on their throat mikes and put on their headsets so they could talk over the interphone.

“Crew, check in on headset,” Karl ordered.

“Copilot’s up,” Adrian said. He raised his fist above the throttles, and Karl bumped it with his own fist. Ready to go.

“Engineer,” Fairburn responded, still standing behind the pilots.

“Bombardier.”

“Navigator.”

“Radio.”

“Ball turret.”

“Left waist gunner.”

“Right waist.”

“Tail gunner.”

Karl knew the tone and timbre of their voices as if each man were a brother. They didn’t need to call out crew positions; they could have said anything, and in one word, Karl would have known who was checking in. Back in the radio room, Baker was clearly at work: Pops and hums sounded in Karl’s headset as the radios warmed up and came alive. On the command set, tower gave the lead ship clearance to taxi.

At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.

Maybe something else would cause a mission scrub. Perhaps the weather forecast had worsened. Wouldn’t be the first time Karl had seen raids called off at the last minute.

When his turn came, Karl released brakes, taxied out of the hardstand, and joined the procession of bombers lumbering for takeoff. The lead ship, piloted by the group commander, stopped at the runway hold-short line. Prop blast rippled the stubbled remains of a wheat field next to the runway.

The control tower’s Aldis lamp flashed green.

The mission was a go.

Oberleutnant Wilhelm Albrecht balanced himself by pure instinct as the German submarine U-351 pitched and rolled on the surface of a choppy sea. The boat’s diesels turned twin screws that propelled the sixty-seven-meter boat at fourteen knots. Sissing froth spilled over the hull. Spray flecked Wilhelm’s beard as he stood on the bridge: Shaving was not permitted on U-boats because it wasted fresh water. The Milky Way sparkled overhead in silver glory. Warrant Officer Heidrich stood next to Wilhelm, bracing himself against the swells.

“A fine night for hunting, sir,” Heidrich remarked.

Wilhelm, the twenty-five-year-old executive officer and second in command of this Type VII Kriegsmarine U-boat, grunted in response. The fine nights for hunting were more than two years past, a period U-boat men called “The Happy Time.” In 1942 alone, German subs, then the terror of merchantmen, had sent more than a thousand Allied ships to the bottom.

The U-351 had done her share. From a distance, a convoy would appear as insects dotting the surface of a pond. Closer, the funnels and mastheads would materialize in the periscope, plump targets with holds full of ammunition, trucks, fuel, and food. This was a war of machines, of entire economies. Victory or disaster might depend on whether U.S. supplies and parts wound up in Churchill’s ports or on the ocean floor.

The skipper would select a victim, maybe even two or three. Wilhelm would calculate target values, adjust speed and course, order tubes opened, and fire. The torpedoes would launch with a hiss of compressed air, the submarine shuddering with each shot. Tense seconds followed for the U-boat crew, short heartbeats, shallow breaths.

Then the ocean would erupt in fire. Billowing flames, towering smoke. Flares and star shells arcing into the sky as stricken vessels signaled for help. The U-boat would make a crash dive as destroyer escorts came seeking vengeance. A quick escape, then on to more hunting. Happy times, indeed, but now those days seemed from another life.

The next time Heidrich spoke, it was not idle chatter about the weather: “Shadow bearing two-one-zero.”

Wilhelm turned to see a dark patch on the horizon, stars blanked out in the shape of a ship. From this angle, he couldn’t say with certainty what type of vessel. But definitely not a tanker. Perhaps something more dangerous.

“We have a target,” Wilhelm shouted through the bridge hatch. “Call the skipper.”

Captain Brauer climbed the tower ladder and sent Heidrich to the control room. Wilhelm swung the Target Bearing Transmitter toward the shadow. Boots clanged on the deck plates below as men rushed to battle stations.

Brauer shouted orders into the voice tube: “Left full rudder, steer two-zero-zero. Engines full ahead.”

The captain was stalking, maneuvering carefully for a good shot—the way a wolf might angle around prey before tearing in for the kill. Wilhelm knew why Brauer was being careful. This target could be a destroyer, and U-boats did not normally attack warships. The subs saved their torpedoes for merchantmen carrying enemy supplies and equipment. But targets had proved scarce during this patrol. We’ll get only one chance to fire, Wilhelm thought, and God help us if we miss.

For an hour, the U-351 closed on her target. Plenty of darkness remained. The captain ordered two minor course changes and bided his time. Then came the moment when Brauer’s posture changed; his stance grew straighter. Wilhelm recognized the body language: The skipper was ready to fire.

Heidrich, now in position in the control room, called from below: “Target speed fifteen knots, course one-eight-zero.”

“Prepare tubes two and three,” Brauer ordered. “Surface attack.”

Wilhelm’s pulse quickened. He forgot about the chill of his damp navy-issued sweater and the seawater that splashed into his boots. These moments pushed to the back of his mind all the discomforts of submarine life: the cramped spaces, the rotten food, the condensation and mold, the stench of urine and oil. Now he felt only the thrill of the hunt.

“Tubes two and three ready,” Heidrich called.

Wilhelm needed to keep the Target Bearing Transmitter aimed at the shadow. For the last several minutes, that task had required little movement. But now he had to swing the TBT several degrees. Then several more. The vessel was taking evasive action.

“She’s turning fast!” Heidrich shouted.

The target’s maneuver was no precautionary course change by a sleepy helmsman in the wheelhouse of a freighter. This was almost certainly an Allied destroyer coming hard about. Somehow, the U-351 had been detected. And the target’s evasive turn placed the U-boat out of position to shoot.

“Alaaarm!” Brauer cried. “Verdammt.”

Wilhelm and Brauer leaped for the bridge hatch. Wilhelm scrambled down the tower ladder first; whenever the skipper was on the bridge and ordered a crash dive, he always waited to make sure everyone else was safely below. Brauer followed Wilhelm, slammed the hatch closed, and locked it.

“Dive to one-sixty meters,” Brauer ordered. “Now, now, now.”

Sailors yanked valve handles and turned handwheels. The ballast tanks opened and began to fill with salt water. The rush of water and the hiss of escaping air combined into a roar that reminded Wilhelm of an avalanche he’d witnessed during a ski trip in the Alps—back before the war, an eternity ago. He felt the boat tilt and descend at an angle. The depth gauge needle began dropping: thirty meters, forty meters, fifty.

The destroyer surged overhead, engines turning its screws at high RPM. Sound traveled four times faster in water than in air, and the U-boat men could hear their enemy in pursuit. Loud pings struck the U-351: Asdic impulses sent from a U.S. vessel trying to pinpoint the sub’s location. To Wilhelm, they felt like needles piercing his eardrums. The pings grew louder, the pain unbearable. The chugging of pistons joined the pings. Above all the noise came three distinct splashes.

Depth charges.

“Right full rudder,” Brauer ordered. “Keep her coming down.”

Wilhelm felt the U-boat turn: With her course and depth constantly changing, she became a more difficult target. The destroyer’s engines grew fainter. Each man held his breath. The depth gauge read ninety meters and dropping.

Thunder rocked the ocean.

The explosion shook the boat, flickered the lights. Two seconds later, a closer blast pushed the U-351 deeper into the water. Anything not bolted down went flying. Pencils, charts, and canned food clattered against decks and pipes. Glass faces of gauges cracked. Wilhelm fell against the edge of a chart table so hard, he cracked the table. Pain seared through his hip bone. Men cursed and shouted in fear and anger.

Another detonation put out the lights altogether. Despite Wilhelm’s tightest grip on a valve handle, he got thrown into that damned table again. Someone fell against him. A loud cry came from somewhere aft. Wilhelm felt the boat moving. Was she sinking? Had the hull ruptured? He braced for an icy rush of seawater and the chest-rending agony of drowning.

Brauer clicked on a flashlight. “Emergency lighting,” he ordered. Someone found switches and flipped them.

The dim light revealed water pouring, dripping, or spraying from dozens of ruptured gaskets. As exec, Wilhelm’s duties included helping the skipper with damage control, and he considered ordering bilge pumps turned on. He decided to wait. The pumps’ hammering would tell the enemy that the U-351 was not quite dead.

Wilhelm glanced at the depth gauge. Mein Gott, two hundred meters. Crush depth was 230.

“Blow tanks two and three,” Brauer called.

The hiss of compressed air reverberated through the hull. Wilhelm felt the deck angle shifting; the bow rose, then dropped again. Steel groaned. Hydraulic fluid dripped from unsealed valves. The depth needle slowed but kept moving. Two hundred ten meters.

“Blow one and four,” the skipper ordered.

Another shot of compressed air forced seawater out of the tanks. With four ballast tanks now empty, the boat should have started an ascent. But still she fell. Two hundred twenty meters.

“Exec,” Brauer said, “we’re taking in water somewhere. Better find it if you ever want to see the sun again.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said.

A call from an aft compartment confirmed the skipper’s suspicions: “Engine room’s flooded!”

“Bilge pumps on,” Wilhelm ordered. The boat had to purge that water whether the enemy heard the pumps or not. He wasn’t even sure if the pumps would work at this depth against the enormous pressure of outside water. He should have turned them on earlier.

Wilhelm grabbed a flashlight and headed aft. Stumbled over the body of a machinist lying on the deck, the side of his head broken open with brain matter exposed. Probst, the fisherman’s son from Rostock. Wilhelm hated to step across his body, as if it were so much flotsam, but he had no time for grief. The hull continued to groan. Was the boat still descending?

The farther aft Wilhelm moved, the deeper the water splashed over his boots. It had seeped inside from frigid black depths, and he began to shiver. In the engine room, in knee-deep brine, Wilhelm and a petty officer found the offending valve. Water gurgled from the ruptured valve like a fountain. Wilhelm kneeled and grabbed the submerged valve wheel. The wheel turned freely in both directions, but did not close the valve—because the wheel was attached to a broken spindle.

“Get the schematics,” Wilhelm ordered. “See if there’s an upstream valve.”

A sailor flipped open a soggy engineering manual. Another held a flashlight. The men flipped pages, looked along the maze of plumbing.

“There,” Petty Officer Wuerth said, pointing.

A sailor turned the valve wheel. The gurgling ended. The fatal leak stopped.

Wilhelm reported the news to the control room, then asked, “What’s our depth, sir?”

“Two hundred thirty-five meters.”

The men in the engine room looked at one another, then at the steel that surrounded them. According to the books, the hull should have collapsed by now. German craftsmanship, and perhaps Neptune’s mercy, had granted a few extra meters. But one more centimeter, one more minute, could bring a fury of rending metal, bone-crushing pressure, cold blackness, and death.

Liter by liter, the bilge pumps emptied water from inside the hull. Meter by meter, the U-351 began to rise. At 180 meters, Brauer told Wilhelm to stop the pumps.

The depth stabilized. No longer in danger of collapsing like a crushed tin can, the boat hung motionless in the water. This depth still offered protection from charges dropped by enemy warships. Submariners didn’t normally control their buoyancy by starting and stopping bilge pumps, but for the moment, the technique had worked.

Sailors went to work on less serious leaks, and Wilhelm surveyed the damage. He found a bent shaft on one of the diesel engines, ten tripped relays, and cracked cells