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Tragedy of the "Wilhelm Gustloff"
by Captain Paul Vollrath
I suppose
to piece a story together after 35 years is rather a tricky
job, yet this that I try to report, soberly and to the point,
will stand in my memory forever. Oftentimes
it appears to me as it only happened the other day. This
is an actual report, as I saw it, of the greatest disaster the
sea has ever seen and which, let us sincerely hope, will
remain forever a single tragedy.
It is the
report of the sinking of the liner Wilhelm
Gustloff, on which I served as senior second officer
at the time of the disaster. It
is the story of desperate people trying to escape from the
diabolic holocaust of war and everything connected with it.
This
tragedy at the end of the war seems to me to have been the
grand finale of the slaughter, murder and insanity and if for
no other reason, those people gave their lives, it may serve
for time immemorial as a reminder to those, who took part and
to generations to follow that wars should be prevented by all
means, whatever the cost may be.
I believe
this to be the first attempt to report this disaster by a
survivor who happened to be at the time in a senior position
on board this ill-fated ship. I
do know that quite a number of stories have appeared in
various papers and magazines, even a film has been made of
this tragedy but I regret to say that all these publications
were more or less highly distorted, exaggerated and had little
in common with the actual facts and events.
I believe
that with speculations and spine-chilling yarns little is
being achieved, although I do admit that that is what normally
brings the money in and boosts sales of individual papers. But
I sincerely believe, too, that in doing so a disservice is
done to those, who had to give their lives. If
we are not able to build a tombstone for those unfortunate
people, my report may help to keep the memory awake of those
who died, drowned, were disabled for life or lost their homes
and all they possessed.
We all know
too well the real background of the last months of the war in
Eastern Europe
and I do not wish to attempt to take these into consideration.
I merely would
like to report the events as they happened to me at the time. Brief
notes, which I made then, may assist me.
In November
1944 I was posted to the 2nd Submarine Training Division in Gdynia
[Gotenhafen]. Attached
to this unit were two ships, former passenger liners, to
accommodate staff and trainees. They
were the Hansa, a former liner of
the Hamburg-Amerika Line, prior to the war employed on the
North Atlantic run between Hamburg and New York and the Wilhelm
Gustloff a liner built for the "Strength through
Joy" [KdF]
movement of the party to take ordinary working-class people on
cruises to Norway, the Baltic Sea, Madeira and the
Mediterranean, who otherwise would never have been able to
afford that sort of enjoyment and recreation. She
was a big ship, 25,484 gross tons and while she was not
designed as a luxury liner as such, the latest comfort was
built in and considered just good enough. Money
seemingly did not play a very important role.
More
suitable ships for the purpose they were used for during the
war could not have been found. They
had everything, which otherwise would have had to be built
ashore; they were self-contained units, accommodation,
administration, catering, light, heating, everything was
available and what is more, men, fit for sea service, did not
have to be employed to keep the ships running.
A merchant
marine crew, men who were either unfit for active service, for
health reasons or old age kept the wheels going. In
addition a number of Yugoslav merchant seamen served as deck
crew on board. Both
ships were lying alongside a pier just opposite
Gdynia
in a part of the harbour which the Germans called Oxhöft and
which was inside the area set aside for training submarine
crews.
Even in
November 1944 the war in the East appeared to me still very
far away and the thought that one day we may have to abandon
Gdynia
looked like high treason to me.
But I
believe it was not a month later, during December, that
training was completely stopped and instead trainees, staff
and old submarine crews were armed with spades and shovels and
off we went to into the outer suburbs of Gdynia to dig tank
trenches. Even
then I explained this to myself to be no more than normal
precautions and not of an urgent nature. Little
we knew and less we were told or cared to know and no attempt
was made to bring light into this general confusion.
We still
believed that final victory would not be far off (so much for
the power of propaganda), but in spite of our eager faith we
heard at the time that Russian troops had broken through the
German lines and Russian tanks had been roaming at will far
behind the German lines. They
had been reported inside East and
West Prussia
. We saw refugees
from these parts of the country in
Gdynia
, who had left their homes obviously, so it seemed to me at
the time, to escape an imaginary danger. How right these
people had been, I only realised very much later. May
this foresight on their part have saved them?
But all
this could simply not be the whole truth, a simple argument,
yet it did not fit into our plans. As
easy as that, I may add that this was not the only opinion of
young fellows but old and sensible people had the same views.
But these
refugees also reported rape, murder and untold atrocities and
it was hard to believe that all these reports were far-fetched
fantasies and imagined dreams. No,
something had to be true, as otherwise these people would
never have left their homesteads, they would never have
exchanged a safe house against a very uncertain future. Their
looks and the state in which they arrived obviously spoke of a
severe urgency.
The
training course was abruptly stopped early in January 1945 and
I was posted to the 22nd Submarine Training Flotilla, which,
as part of the 2nd Submarine Training Division had its base in
the same grounds my former command occupied. My
new home was now U
351, a training submarine and here I was to complete
whatever was found to be necessary to make me a fully
qualified member of the submarine service.
Barely a
week was I on board, when one day we received orders to get
ready and evacuate
Gdynia
. The flotilla was
to withdraw to a new base,
Wilhelmshaven
(this may be called the German equivalent of
Portsmouth
) on the River Jade on the
North Sea
coast. U
351 was to go to the
port
of
Pillau
, further up the coast and serve as generator unit to keep the
lights in that port going, since all harbour installations had
been bombed.
I was to
report as second officer on board the Wilhelm
Gustloff, to relieve the regular second officer, who
had fallen seriously ill. I
had been picked for this job as a former merchant marine
officer. I remember not having been particularly delighted
about this change and I remember too, having told the chief
officer, who happened to be a friend of mine, something to
that effect and that I did not fancy the idea to lose a fifth
ship. I had lost
four ships already, almost five, during the war, three in the
Mediterranean Sea, one in the English Channel off
Boulogne
and almost one off
Le Havre
by mines, bombs and gunfire.
Not that I
had any premonitions, normally one has those things always
after the event, but experience had taught me that contrary to
what I had believed early during the war, that I would get
through unharmed and no ship I served on at any time would be
lost, now every ship I served on would get sunk, and me being
killed would only be a matter of time.
I didn't
think that I was a Jonah either; the ferocity of war was such
and the beating and hammering we received was so severe that
you could hardly expect otherwise at the end of the war.
Up to now I had been extremely lucky and it had become
to me a sort of routine job to lose ships. Could
I be lucky again? In any case I prepared for the worst as I
did not like to be taken by surprise or worse still with my
pants down. Cigarettes,
a bottle of "Half and Half" a popular spirit made by
Mampe at that time, a flash lamp, a knife and a Mauser pistol
I got ready.
I was
prepared. But what about all those thousands of refugees who
boarded the ship almost at the same time I joined her and who
thought that that was the easiest way to escape the merciless
war. Who thought
that a trip to
Denmark
across the
Baltic Sea
was nothing but just a trip, no more, and although their
belongings had to be left behind at least their lives had been
saved?
Without
causing unnecessary panic I could not very well tell anyone of
my thoughts. We
all sincerely hoped that nothing would happen and that we
would get through the mine infested
Baltic Sea
without mishap. It
was clear, though, to everyone that this would not be one of
those peace-time cruises. To some personal acquaintances I
gave, in strict confidence, some advice. Experience
had taught me that the upper decks, even when shelled, were
safest. I now know that three people were thus saved; their
parents however down in some of the cabins, perished.
During
these last days in port the crew was kept busy in getting
lifeboats ready, distributing life-belts to refugees, checking
rafts, roll-calls, charts and navigational equipment. During
the long years alongside various piers in a number of German
ports the Wilhelm
Gustloff had not received the attention which is
normally given a seagoing vessel. On
top of this quite a number of lifeboats had to be
requisitioned by the German Navy to serve a variety of
purposes.
Some of
these lifeboats had been anchored in various parts of the
harbour in
Gdynia
and bottles containing some chemical, which, when released,
caused fog, had been put on each boat, to serve, as it were,
as floating anti-aircraft fog dispenser. This
fog was to prevent enemy aircraft, during attack, to spot
their exact target. But
in spite of that they bombed whatever they wanted at liberty
and almost unharmed.
Hurriedly
some of these lifeboats were brought back and whatever else
could be found was requisitioned without much ado, such as
Carley floats, rafts, small motor launches and what else there
was in the shape of a boat or float. Wherever
there was place on the upper decks these additional crafts
were put and somehow tied up and secured. Not
having enough davits these crafts were to float up in the
event of an accident which in fact they eventually did and
thus saved a number of lives.
Instructions
as regards how to use and fasten life-belts were broadcast
ever the ship's intercom, and the passengers were instructed
what and what not to do during the passage. Many
of these refugees had never seen a ship before, let alone
sailed in one and it was difficult to acquaint them with
routine matters and explain that under no circumstances was
smoking on deck during passage allowed, that all portholes
were to be kept closed and that no attempt was to be made to
unfasten the heavy steel blinds and open them. We
at least wanted to make sure that no tell-tale lights could
escape and give our position away to any prowler in the dark.
Women,
children, old and invalid people were ordered to occupy the
many cabins. And during all these days refugees arrived in a
seemingly endless stream. They
probably had been waiting already for days and nights
patiently, uncertain whether or not they would be taken on
board and evacuated. I
believe trains at that time were still running to some
make-shift schedule but no one was able to say if they still
got away and through, because at that time the Russian army
was all over the place and in fact already West of Gdynia,
driving through Pomerania towards Mecklenburg as fast as their
tanks were able to carry them.
Rows of
rows of these unfortunate people waited patiently alongside
the ship for their turn, their last few belongings packed into
bundles, sleet, snow and ice covering everything with a white
blanket, reminding me of one of Hyronimus Bosch's frightful
paintings.
I certainly
do not remember that bribes had to be paid to get on board, or
that people were arrested and hustled ashore again. Perhaps
this might have happened but I wish to repeat that I never
heard of these things until after the war. We
could not care less who or who was not allowed aboard, we were
interested to get as many people on board as possible, as long
as they waited their turn.
At the same
time, at various other places, the same thing happened as with
us. There were the
other liners Hansa, Potsdam,
Cap Arcona, Hamburg,
Deutschland,
Robert
Ley and many more smaller cargo vessels, all getting
ready for the big retreat and likewise taking refugees on
board, columns of cars and lorries alongside with stores and
provisions. It was
the same picture in Königsberg, Pillau,
Danzig
as it was with us. This
operation was more improvised than organised, a set plan
seemingly had not been drawn up beforehand.
Wounded,
maimed and crippled soldiers with their whole nursing staff
and medical orderlies arrived from Kulm or Kulmsee. The
complete military hospital was taken aboard by us. They were
divided up and billeted into the large lounges and halls. As
well as it was possible under the circumstances they were made
comfortable on mattresses, chairs, settees and couches or
whatever else was available.
The
catering staff had been instructed to get as much food ready
as possible with emphasis on much, for many people had to be
fed and there could not be a question of choice selection. After
all the ship had originally been designed to carry
approximately 1,500 passengers and a crew of approximately
500. We now had
already over 5,000 people on board and more were coming all
the time. The main
thing was therefore to have something hot, never mind Cordon
Bleu standards.
The
nautical personnel was increased. Apart
from the captain, chief officer, myself as senior second
officer and the third officer, two additional captains and two
second officers reported for duty. In
addition to the civilian crew a number of navy personnel also
reported for duty.
Gdynia
at that time appeared to me like a humming beehive. People
were everywhere, the whole life of the town seemed to be
displayed on the street and in the open. Refugees,
with their meagre belongings on carts, prams and anything else
with two or four wheels and what could be called a vehicle,
stood around in clusters and exchanged latest news. Even
then their last few belongings disappeared, children were lost
and families and old friends and neighbours were separated.
In between
tanks, army units, naval personnel, nurses and Wrens [Women’s
Naval Auxiliary] tried to make their way. A knot of men,
soldiers, children, material, weapons, machinery, which I was
sure could not be disentangled. And
as it was ashore, so it was in the various harbour basins;
transporters bringing troops from the Baltic front,
destroyers, minesweepers, tankers, cruisers, patrol boats,
everything seemed to be on the move.
All the
refugees whom we took on board during all these last days and
who did not seem to diminish were counted bodily by our purser
and his staff and the few remaining stewards brought them to
their places or cabins. Apart
from these refugees we had a considerable number of naval
personnel on board, belonging to various units but mainly
belonging to the 2nd Submarine Training Division.
Sailing day
was to be January 30 and during the evening of the 29th the
gangways were drawn and no more people were allowed on board. As
far as I can remember we were to proceed, together with the Hansa,
the submarine
depot ship Wilhelm Bauer, destroyers, some
submarines and quite a number of other, smaller ships and
naval units in a proper convoy, to some port in Denmark.
[**Note from webmaster:
Kiel
then Flensberg were the actual destination ports, not
Denmark
.]
At noon we
did in fact proceed. It was difficult to get away from the
pier as firstly the ship drew too much water,
Gdynia
not having been designed in the first place to accommodate
ships of her size; secondly during her long stay in port a
heavy mud layer had formed around the hull of the ship.
However eventually and with the help of some tugs we succeeded
after about two hours. We passed the breakwater and there,
still at anchor we saw the Hansa still taking
refugees on board, who had been brought alongside by tenders.
But instead
of the convoy assembling and proceeding together as originally
planned, we proceeded on our own toward the
peninsula
of
Hela
with one minesweeper as escort ahead of us. There
too we did not stop but instead a small torpedo boat, Löwe,
a former Norwegian torpedo boat Gylter, introduced
herself as our escort, together with an even smaller
torpedo-retriever boat TF
I of 500 tons. This
was our spectacular escort force, two small units of the
German Navy without any practical experience of escort duties,
no submarine chasers and that in spite of a submarine warning
having been circularised and being imminent in the very area
we were to pass through. For
the first time during the whole war Russian submarines had
been able to clear the very extensive minefields and nets laid
at the mouth of the
Gulf of Finland
and broken out.
Shortly
before we left it had been agreed that it was advisable to
take the more northerly route instead of the coastal route. This
was supposed to be a mineswept channel called route No. 58,
running approx. 20 nautical miles North of the Pomeranian
coast parallel to it. The
coastal lane was supposed to be mine infested. The whole
Baltic Sea
was at that time already mine infested, dropped by planes and
certain lanes, which were marked every five nautical miles or
so by marker buoys were kept clean. This
was of course, more wishful thinking, as the available
minesweeping force did not by far suffice to do a proper job.
Apart from
that a minesweeper could sweep a lane up to a 100 times and a
ship passing over the 101st time blew up. The
intricate devices incorporated into the last magnetic and
acoustic mines defied any normal mine detecting devices, no
matter how modern they were.
It is
futile to argue today what would have been the better way to
sail. A certain
risk either way had to be taken; it was just a choice between
mines or torpedoes. But
in deciding on the deep water way the naval authorities should
have provided us with a better escort force.
With the
help of the naval personnel we introduced an effective
look-out system. As
far as I can remember each watch had eight look-out men,
everyone his own sector to starboard and port. We
had a walkie-talkie radio set inside the chart room to get in
direct and quick touch with our escort. Granted,
the look-out men were not of much use, particularly as there
was sleet and snow and anyone who ever had to do that job will
readily agree with me that one could not see much under those
weather conditions.
Who was to
spot a conning tower in that foul weather, pitch dark? Yet,
by chance perhaps the wake of a ship, the bow wave could have
been detected in time, we could not take any chances. All
a likely attacker had to do during this memorable night was
just to pick on one of the marker buoys, stay put and wait,
something was bound to pass along, sooner or later. And
that we were on the retreat was most certainly known to the
Russians, for movements of
this magnitude could not be kept secret for long.
For about 1½
hours we sailed a northerly course out of the
Bay
of
Danzig
to arrive at the turning point leading us into lane No. 58. Our
escorts tried to keep pace with us, as best they could. Not
that we were speeding along; the ship had originally been
designed for a speed of 15 knots, now we made approximately
10-11 knots due to the fact that some damage had been caused
to the shafts as a result of a near mine explosion sometime
earlier during the war.
There was
no gale but the sea was short, force 5, and the wind blew with
the same force from a westerly direction. Shortly
after passing the
peninsula
of
Hela
on our port beam, the small torpedo-retriever boat reported
making water in her engine room. She stood at that time astern
of us and had to be released and returned to port. These
comparatively small boats were not really meant to due sea
duty, they were more or less coastal craft and useless in even
moderate weather.
I was on
watch from 16.00 to 20.00 hours and up to that time nothing
really happened. But when darkness fell, shortly after 4 p.m.,
I noticed that the steaming and position lights had been
turned on. This is
normally the duty of the officer of the watch and I stormed
into the wheelhouse to demand an explanation and was told that
a convoy was expected ahead of us on a converging course and
to avoid collision the lights had been turned on. I
had never heard such nonsense during all my war time career;
no lights, absolutely no lights were to be shown under any
circumstances and the fact that perhaps we might run the risk
of colliding with another ship in the dark did not worry me as
much as showing tell-tale lights to prowlers. We
might as well have smoked openly on deck.
Anyway I
strongly objected to this and eventually the steaming lights
were turned off. At 20.00 I was relieved and before leaving
the bridge I passed on course and all other details to the
next officer of the watch. Shortly
before a German aeroplane passed nearby and we exchanged
recognition signals and I was wondering why that had been
done.
The command
position was rather confused. Here
was a merchant ship, with a merchant crew, assisted by
naval personnel and all sorts of suggestions were
passed on - suggestions made by naval personnel. In
short disagreement between the two commands was in evidence,
which certainly did not help.
Our supper
was brought up into our cabins, as that was about the only
place left, since the whole ship was taken up by refugees and
naval personnel. After
supper we talked shop for a little while and at about 21.00
hours the two officers of my watch left for their own quarters
to retire.
At 21.09 I
was just about to swing myself into the bunk, of course, fully
dressed, when we received the first hit. Mine
was my immediate reaction but shortly after that a second and
third explosion almost tore the ship apart. There
was no doubt any longer, these were torpedoes. How
I got out of the bunk and into my shoes, which I had taken off
against better judgement and how I got my life-belt into
position I do not remember, but I do remember that tying up
the strings on the life-belt caused difficulties.
My hands
were trembling; I am not ashamed to admit that. I was
shivering with fright all over, as I had experienced each time
I had lost a ship. But
perhaps instinctively I did the right things; it was by now,
after all, a routine job to lose ships. With
my two small parcels, cigarettes, bottle, flash lamp, revolver
tucked underneath the life-belt, flashlamp at the ready (the
light was shut off immediately after the torpedoes struck) I
made my way to the chartroom. The
door was blocked and no matter how hard I tried I could not
open it. Anyway, I
said to myself, there are plenty of staff around, they can
look after themselves so I went back and passed out onto the
bridge deck through a side door on the starboard side.
What I had
to face here already so soon after the explosions made me
forget altogether to get to the bridge. Immediately
after we had been hit by the torpedoes the ship stopped and
listed to port side. Emergency
lights had been switched on in the meanwhile and at least one
could see better. I
lit a cigar, perhaps just to cool my nerves and a lady came up
to me, begging to be saved. Well,
I said, there is nothing to worry about, don't you see I am
enjoying a cigar.
On the
starboard side people had assembled already and tried to get
into the lifeboats. But
unfortunately, because of the already heavy list and the fact
that the lifeboats hung in gravity davits, the centre of
gravity had already shifted too much to the port and the
lifeboats did not move. Perhaps,
and in addition to that the falls and rollers of the lifeboats
were iced up and acted as stoppers and as much as we tried to
get the boats moving, we did not succeed.
On the
upper decks of the ship the crowds assembled patiently.
Granted, there was a certain amount of commotion and
excitement, granted there was pushing and shouting going on
but there were no signs of panic. In
resignation people waited around or just gave a hand. I do
admit that I do not know what went on below decks and in the
cabins; I was too busy getting people from the starboard side
to the port side into the boats. But
I cannot, in spite of various stories which appeared later on,
verify that people committed suicide or that people were shot.
While I was
still busy on the starboard side I heard someone mentioning
that the captain and officers on the bridge had committed
suicide. Indeed
shots had been fired but in the excitement people did not know
that red starshells had been fired to attract ships in the
vicinity and come for help. I
went forward to the bridge to report how things were going
with the lifeboats and secondly to try and stop these
starshell shootings.
Whoever
happened to be at sea at that night inside an area of 10
nautical miles must have heard the explosions. Apart
from that, as I found out when entering the chartroom, our VHF
transmitter was working and calling for help. In
fact here too, there was no need to do that either because our
escort had been close at hand. Our
normal wireless transmitter was out of action right away but
to me all that was immaterial.
Back I went
to the starboard lifeboats. What
was I to do? How
were we to save all the thousands of people in so short a
time, because the ship was listing fast and I knew that she
would not last much longer. I
knew too that not by far enough life-saving equipment and
lifeboats were available. Regretfully
I have to admit that. We
survivors may always remember that thousands of people drowned
or froze to death for us in the biggest of all sea disasters.
It was now
high time for me to look after my own lifeboat, No. 6, on the
port side. I had given strict instructions that, no matter
what, without my permission the boat should not be lowered and
I tried to get as many people from the starboard side to the
port side, but strangely, most did not want to come, thinking
that it was safer on the high side of the ship and away from
the water. They
may have feared too that they might be sucked under.
On my way
to the port side I passed through the main hall and saw a
casual acquaintance of mine, a Wren, whom I had given some
advice of how and what to do, just in case. I
asked her, in an act of bravado, to give me a kiss, which I
got without hesitation, though kisses were not so easily
exchanged then as they are now.
The port
side appeared to be strangely deserted. All
of the davits were empty and all the boats bar mine gone. I
encountered the chief officer lying
in the scuppers with a leg injury, an old man of 68 years of
age, visibly shaken and unable to move, so I helped him into
my boat. Once more
I went back to the starboard side to get more people, which I
found to be hard since by now the list was quite heavy and it
was an uphill struggle.
But in
spite of this I got there and luckily some more people joined
me and back once more we went. At
22.00 hours I finally joined my boat and down we went into the
dark uncertainty. Perhaps
less than 15 ft., that was all the boat had to be lowered for the
Wilhelm Gustloff was almost lying on her
side. It was a
little difficult to get away from the ship, as lots of debris
was floating around, the boat being packed to over capacity
was hard to handle and the oars could not be used immediately
as people were milling around everywhere.
Apart from
that it was pitch dark and there was hardly a seaman in the
boat who was able to help me; the people in their fright
shouted around and screamed, helplessly.
This was
the only time that I remember someone taking his revolver in
his hand and threatening to shoot people if they were not
instantly silent and did what they were told, and that was I.
Perhaps my shouting did more to restore order than the gun,
which could not be seen anyway. In
any case very quickly I had the boat under control and away we
went.
One of the
captains stood in the bridge wing, about 20 ft. above us and
shouted who was in charge of the boat and I replied to that.
To this his reply was "Mach's gut!" - "Good
luck!" Around
us, all around us were humans floating and shouting for help,
debris, floats, wooden planks, rafts, everything that could
float.
Without
endangering the lives of the people in my boat I could not
have taken on any more. These
boats were designed to take about 60 people and a quick nose
count had given me the figure of 90. The
boat was heavily weighted in the water, much more than it was
designed to carry. The
gunwales were almost down to sea level.
Perhaps the
decision not to take any more people and leave them to their
fate was the hardest I ever had to make. Here
was comparative safety inside the boat, on the other side
certain death. Even
today I often ask myself why did you not at least attempt to
get some more into the boat. But
still my answer is that should I have done so, the boat would
have capsized, there were too many people swimming in the
water.
Luckily
enough the wind and sea had died down, as otherwise I am not
sure if the boat would have made it. At 22.10 hours, one hour
dead after the first torpedoes had struck, the Wilhelm Gustloff
went down I had stopped rowing, as that was senseless and
it would have meant getting too far away from the spot. We
were perhaps 50 yards away; the emergency lights on the upper
decks were still burning and I saw someone standing on the
side of the huge funnel, even at sea level.
Fortunately
there was a doctor in the boat and I told him to look after
the people. My
cigarettes and the bottle were passed around and this
certainly helped to keep up morale and courage. There
was not much else one could do. For
about an hour we drifted around; every now and then I made out
the shadow of a ship. I saw a destroyer, a merchant ship the
Minden
, if
I remember correctly, and the cruiser Admiral
Hipper. Slowly they moved around, sometimes even
stopping and picking up survivors.
At about
23.00 hours the Löwe came alongside to pick us
up but I shouted over to them not to bother, we were fine and
to look after those still in the water and on rafts. Later
on they once more came close and told us through the megaphone
that they were going to drop depth charges and indeed a short
time later we heard the explosions and the boat made creaking
noises.
For this
sort of treatment these lifeboats had certainly not been
constructed. The
water shock was too severe and sudden and I feared that the
boat may split open. I
sensed that there was a murmuring of disapproval going on in
the boat and I could not make out why at first.
After the
ship had gone down there was a dead silence around us, each of
us left with our thoughts alone. It
was incredible to believe that hardly an hour had passed
between the life and death of thousands, wiped out, swept
away, drowned, frozen to death. How
many of approximately 8,000 people had been saved? This
was a question I asked myself again and again.
Only then
did I remember that when drifting away from the Gustloff's
side I had seen a huge hole, the ship having been torn open up
to the fore-deck. And
just there, deep down, where the swimming pool was, 60 Wrens
had been billeted. One
hour this inferno had lasted and dragged love, hopes and
wishes down to the bottom of the sea. What
is one hour, 60 minutes, 3,600 seconds? Sometimes
it may appear to be eternity and I am sure no one will ever
forget this.
I remember,
too, that when the ship went down the siren went off, like a
last greeting or the moaning of a dying animal. I
had encountered that experience before and landlubbers always
say that ships do not have a soul. Technically
this behaviour is easily explained by stress but I thought
that it so very much reminded me of the last outcry of a dying
animal.
At about
2.30 hours the Löwe finally came alongside and
took us over. One
may question how she so easily found us each time but my
flashlamp did indeed give good service. How
many more people could have been saved if lifejackets had been
supplied with flashlamps. It
was not so very difficult to get alongside the torpedo boat
and get the survivors transferred. She
was low in the water, flush deck and the people scrambled over
to her into safety. And
only then did I notice that we had a completely crippled old
man in the boat, unable to move, funny how fate works. Once
on board the torpedo boat a lady came up to me and told me
that she nor others did not like me sending the boat away time
and time again, to rescue others first; that was the
explanation for the grumbling in the lifeboat at the time, but
she told me that I had been right after all.
The crew of
the Löwe did outstanding work in spite of many
attempts to save lives having been futile. Men and women
were stripped and hosed down with hot water and put into
bunks, in twos and threes, nude as God had made them, happy to
be alive, no care in the world if they were lying next to the
opposite sex or not. Hot
drinks were served and blankets dished out. I
saw members of the ship's complement stripped; they had given
their clothes to the survivors.
Up to 4.00
hours the Löwe drifted around picking up more
survivors until it was realised that nothing more could be
done.
Of the
total number of survivors of about 800 people the Löwe saved
about 300 people, indeed a splendid feat for so small a craft.
After a few
days in Kolberg, a small seaport on the Pomeranian coast,
where we had been landed, we made our way further West by
submarine first to Sassnitz on the
island
of
Ruegen
and thence by ship, rail, road on foot home.
The Wilhelm
Gustloff sank in lat. 55 deg. 8.4 min. N. long. 17
deg. 39.5 min. E. in 61 m. depth. This
position I had been given immediately I had come on board the Löwe
by her commanding officer.
In 1947 I
passed over this spot again in a merchant ship and once more
everything came to life, an epitaph stood before my inner eye
and I clearly saw the inscription in huge letters: "NEVER
AGAIN!".
source:
Sea Breezes April 1981 Vol.55 No.424 www.seabreezes.co.im
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