Battleship Bismarck (48 page)

No survivor saw the Fleet Commander during the last battle. I assume that Admiral Lütjens and his staff fell at their action stations.

*
The
Bismarck’s
main battery fired one round per barrel every twenty-five seconds; her secondary battery fired ten rounds per barrel per minute.

*
“Action circuit aft” meant that the turrets were being directed by the after fire-control station through the after computer room. Then on duty in that computer room were the following men: Leutnant zur See Heinz Aengeneyndt and Stabsoberbootsmann (Chief Warrant Officer) Friedrich Adams, order-transmission officers for the main and secondary battery, respectively; Bootsmaat (Boatswain Petty Officer) Paul Rudek, range-averager; Matrosenhauptgefreiter Herbert Langer, firing data compiler; Matrosengefreiter Adolf Eich, direction and elevation transmitter; Matrosengefreiter Hans Halke, firing signal transmitter; and Matrosenobergefreiter Heinz Jucknat.

*
After the turn to the north, the
Rodney
, which had been astern of the
King George V
, became the lead ship. Russell Grenfell in
The Bismarck Episode
, pp. 181–82, suggests that this was perhaps the reason for the
Bismarck
shifting her fire to the
Rodney
, but such was not the case.

†
Russell Grenfell;
The Bismarck Episode
, says on page 182 that at 0927 our forward turrets fired a salvo together, which I consider extremely improbable. It would have been an extraordinary coincidence if the serious damage done to both turrets by hits they received shortly after 0900 had been repaired at so much the same pace that they were able to fire a last, joint salvo.

*
Petty Officer (Bandsman)

*
Chief Petty Officer (Ordnance)

†
Petty Officer (Machinist)

*
Lieutenant, Medical Corps

†
Seaman (Machinist)

*
Ludovic Kennedy,
Pursuit
, pp. 206, 208.

†
Ludovic Kennedy, p. 207.

‡
Russell Grenfell,
The Bismarck Episode
, p. 184.

§
Lieutenant Commander, Medical Corps. Dr. Busch was posthumously promoted to Geschwaderarzt (Squadron Surgeon]; Dr. Krüger, to Marineoberstabsarzt.

**
Assistant Surgeon (Reserve)

34    The Bismarck Sinks

While the little group I was with was waiting to starboard, forward of turret Dora, the
Bismarck
sank still deeper by her stern and her list to port increased. The gradual emergence of more and more of her hull on the starboard side told me that the moment to jump was approaching. “It’s that time,” I said, “inflate your life jackets, prepare to jump.” Just as earlier it was vital not to go over the side too soon, now, it was vital not to delay so long that we would be sucked down with the ship when she finally sank. “A salute to our fallen comrades,” I called. We all snapped our hands to our caps, glanced at the flag, and jumped.

In the water we were pushed together in a bunch, as we bobbed up and down like corks. At first we swam away from the sinking ship as hard as we could to escape her suction. When I got clear by some 150 meters, I stopped and turned around for one last look and to take in everything I could about her.

What I saw was that the
Bismarck
was listing still more. She had no stability left. She was also deeper down by her stern, her bow rearing steeply out of the water. The whole starboard side of her hull, all the way to the keel, was out of the water. I scrutinized it for signs of battle damage and was surprised that I saw no trace of any. Her port side had borne the brunt of the battle, and that side of her hull may have told a different story.

When swimmers close to the bow of the ship looked back, they saw Lindemann standing on the forecastle in front of turret Anton. His messenger, a seaman, was with him. Soon, both men went forward
and began climbing a steadily increasing slope. Lindemann’s gestures showed that he was urging his companion to go overboard and save himself. The man refused and stayed with his commanding officer until they reached where the jackstaff had been.
*
Then Lindemann walked out on the starboard side of the stem which, though rising ever higher, was becoming more level as the ship lay over. There he stopped and raised his hand to his white cap.

The
Bismarck
now lay completely on her side. Then, slowly, slowly, she and the saluting Lindemann went down. Who among us knew that at this moment there was being fulfilled the demonically strange youthful yearning of a man who at the age of thirteen had conceived a passion for the navy and had then repeatedly told his brothers and his friends that his “greatest wish” was one day to command his own ship and to go down in her “with colors flying.” Later a machinist wrote, “I always thought such things happened only in books, but I saw it with my own eyes.” The time was 1039 and the battleship’s position was approximately 48° 10’ north and 16° 12’ west.

At 1322 Group West radioed to Lütjens, “Reuter reports
Bismarck
sunk. Report situation immediately.” But at the place where such messages had previously been received and answered there was now only empty sea.

The sight of the sinking
Bismarck
and the thought of my many comrades who had gone down with her cut deep into my heart.

It suddenly occurred to me that a Lenbach
†
portrait of Prince Bismarck had sunk with the ship. It hung where the guard outside the commanding officer’s stateroom was posted. Three weeks earlier, when Hitler visited the ship. Lindemann pointed it out to him and was obviously concerned about the possibility of something happening to it during the war. Hitler shook his head. “If anything happens to the ship,” he said, “the picture might as well be lost, too.” Now it had come to pass.

And another thought came to me. Had the great ship that had just sunk before my eyes borne the name not only of a great statesman, but also of a convinced navalist, a supporter of mighty battleships, such as the
Bismarck
had been? Hardly! To the contrary, as I remembered from what I had learned in school, in Bismarck’s day the policy
of the German Empire had been determined by fundamentally Continental concepts; Bismarck had once even referred to the “nearly pathological naval enthusiasm of 1848,” and when in 1897 the State Secretary of the Imperial Naval Office, Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, visited him at Friedrichsruhe, Bismarck had refrained from giving his hoped-for blessing to the great German naval buildup, which was then beginning. He had told Tirpitz that he did not hold with big warships, many small ones were needed instead, and almost angrily rejected the idea that Germany could enhance its alliance value by a strong fleet. No, to the end of his life Bismarck had retained his reservations about the building of a great German battle fleet, true to his earlier idea that in regard to England it would be well, in conjunction with France, to maintain a certain counterweight at sea, but that war with England was never to be desired. A battleship as big as the
Bismarck
or even a bunch of them would certainly not have been his goal. He had declined an invitation that Tirpitz transmitted on the occasion of his visit to Friedrichsruhe to participate in the launching of the armored cruiser
Fürst Bismarck
on grounds of age and health.

For us in the water the scene changed quickly. We found ourselves being continuously swept from one cluster of men to another. In the distance I saw the familiar faces of Kapitänleutnant (W)
*
Werner Schock, commander of Division 12 and second damage-control officer, and Oberleutnant (Ing) Gerhard Hinz, commander of Division 8 and the ship’s technical gunnery officer. I saw them briefly, then they were lost to sight, forever. All of a sudden I found myself next to the ordnanceman from my action station. “Careful, careful,” he called out “don’t get too close to me, I’ve lost a foot.” “Listen,” I replied, “we’ll soon be aboard a Briton, and they’ll take care of you.” Shortly thereafter he, too, disappeared in the swells.

Like toys, we floated on the heaving Atlantic. Only when we topped the crests of waves did we catch glimpses of the horizon. Were there any British ships around? Would they come to our rescue? Although there were none in sight, I was quite sure they would come. Repeatedly, I called to the men near me, “Stay together, as soon as a ship comes we’ll swim over and get aboard.” It wasn’t much encouragement but, I thought, better than none.

Even today, when I think about being out there in the Atlantic, it strikes me as remarkable that I was not conscious of the temperature
of the water. It was 13 degrees centigrade. Cool enough. But I was fully dressed, which helped keep me warm. And, still more important, the tension and excitement were such that external circumstances didn’t matter. In our helplessness, all we thought about was what’s going to happen, what’s coming next. The minutes flew past, and the water temperature meant nothing to me.

One thing that was really horrible was the fuel oil from our sunken ship that was floating on the surface of the water in a wide, thick sheet. Its odor stung our noses. It blackened our faces and forced its way into our eyes, noses, and ears. What luck it’s not burning, I thought, although I knew that was not much of a danger with heavy oil. My Tissot wristwatch stopped at 1031—salt water and fuel oil, the combination was too much for it. We continued to float in high swells. There were still no British ships to be seen.

When almost an hour had passed, from the crest of a wave I sighted a three-stack cruiser, her ensign stiff in the wind: the
Dorsetshire
. I urged my companions to hold on, “Cheer up, we’ll soon be aboard her.” The
Dorsetshire
steered for the thickest concentration of survivors and stopped shortly before reaching it. Soon she lay athwart the waves, drifting and rolling rather heavily. I had quite a long way to go to get to her. I told the men in my vicinity to be sure to head for the port, or lee, side of the ship and stay there.

The
Dorsetshire
threw lines over, a few of which had bowlines on the end. Lines and bowlines became so slippery from the oil in which they dangled that it was difficult to handle them, but it was that or nothing. I had a vision of a wide net up which a lot of men could climb at the same time, as they would up ratlines. But it was only a vision. At last, the
Dorsetshire
lowered a rectangular wooden raft (Carley float) for us to hold onto so that we could catch our breath.

Getting up those lines was not easy even for an experienced seaman. Not only were they slippery as eels but, because of the rolling of the ship, they were in the water one second and the next they were too far above our outstretched hands for us to grab. It was quite a trick to catch one at the right moment. Most of the men I saw were technicians, who had probably not had to use lines since they were in basic training, so I advised them to choose those that had bowlines. That, too, was easier said than done. I soon found that there was a limit to what the best-intentioned advice could accomplish. At some points men bunched up, all trying to grasp the same line, while lines nearby were ignored. Feeling that I was strong enough to do so, I decided to wait a while. Then I noticed that certain lines were almost always free. I called attention to this fact and swam to one with a bowline. I don’t remember how many times I was within a few feet of the line for a fraction of a second only to have it jerk far out of reach. I almost gave up, but then I was lucky. Just as the ship was about to roll back up, I got one foot firmly in the bowline, closed both hands round the line, and gave the two British seamen above the signal to hoist. They did, and slowly, slowly, I went up the gray hull, past the portholes—how high can a ship be?—to the upper deck. I reached one hand out to grab the lifeline, intending to hold on to it as I climbed out of the bowline. But my reach was longer than my grasp was strong. One hand was not enough to hold the line, and I fell back into the water. Fortunately, I didn’t land on anyone’s head, nor did I hurt myself, but it was very disheartening. Had I so greatly overestimated my reserve of strength? I wouldn’t wait long before I tried again. After getting my breath I looked for and found another line with a bowline. I glanced up and there were the same two seamen. Unwittingly, I had returned to the same line! They hoisted me up again. This time I kept both hands on the line and said, “Please, pull me on board.” They did, and there I was standing on the upper deck, aft of the second port lifeboat, a prisoner of war, in an oil-stained uniform. The first thing I did was take a look over the side at my comrades still in the water. There were hundreds of them, hundreds of yellow life jackets. Perhaps eight hundred, I estimated. It would take a good while to get them all on board. That they would all be saved, I had no doubt, but I was not allowed to stay on deck for long. Others were now the masters of my time. Also, my two rescuers had to carry on with their humanitarian work.