Der Teufel Germany's Super Submarine

By Grandpa Casey

During the Great War (World War One), Germany’s submarines were raising havoc on cargo ships heading for England.
Because the Atlantic Ocean is so big, they were unable to attack every ship that left Canada. To solve this problem, Germany decided to build Super Submarines, that could lie in wait and attack the convoys as they left Canadian waters. Also, as a terror tactic, they planned to attack ships docked in Canadian harbors.
The U-6160, that was code named “Der Teufel (The Devil)”, was to be the first one.
Where the Germans were building the submarine, a British raid by air, land, or sea, was impossible. Because of that, two volunteers were sent to destroy this new monster of the sea.
While in Germany, those agents were helped by a group, that called itself, “Polski Patrioci (Polish Patriots)”, who want to liberate their homeland.
To this day, the Germans deny the existence of the submarine. Because no records exist, those that knew about the U-boat, took that information to their graves. Except for anonymous testimony, even the British deny it ever existed.
This story, though considered fiction,
could be true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grandpa Casey
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370468997

Grandpa Casey

I'm a retired Grandfather who likes telling stories to my Grandchildren. Now that they are older I want to share them with everyone. My books are my credentials. A percentage of the profits, from all my books, will go to ZFRF, a nonprofit organization that helps families of people with cancer. For more information on ZFRF visit www.zfrf.net

Book preview

DER TEUFEL

(Germany’s Super Submarine)

By Grandpa Casey

Copyright 2018 Grandpa Casey

Smashwords Edition

All the characters in this story are fictional and any resemblance to real people, ships, or actual incidents are purely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

After taking a shower, with my toiletry bag in my right hand, a towel wrapped around my waist, and slippers on my feet, I walk down the dimly lit hallway; towards my eight-foot by eleven-foot room. Opening the door, a cold breeze, coming from the room’s broken window, smacks me in the face.

HOLY SHI… After stopping myself, as I enter the room, I mumble, When did the weather change? It wasn’t this cold when I left the room. I look around as I mumble, Now where’s my robe? AAH, there it is.

While quickly putting my robe on, I wonder, is the building’s custodian ever going to fix that thing. So far, the heavy curtains have kept the wind out but, winter is coming and it would be nice to have the option of closing the window. Normally, I wouldn’t care but, the opening is too big to be stuffed with a towel.

Plopping on my bed, which is barely long enough to accommodate a normal person, I stare at the pale white ceiling and think, should I make another written request for repairing the window. That form is such a pain, it has to be filled out in triplicate and the secretary is out of carbon paper (it’s a thin sheet of carbon coated paper, when placed between two sheets of regular paper, it allows what is printed or written on the top paper to transfer to the bottom paper). Then again, maybe I should, after all, it’s been six weeks since the last request and the one before that was over four months ago. Nah, I have a better idea, in the morning I’m going to tell the Ambassador himself; maybe he can do something about the delay. Busy or not, I’m sure the Custodian won’t refuse the Ambassador’s request…

Hearing footsteps, I stop thinking and mumble, Since, I’m not appropriately dressed for guests, I hope they’re not coming to see me.

When the footsteps pass my room, I relax and continue with my thoughts, since this building is an American Embassy, in the heart of London England, you would think they would take better care of it. But then, what does a brown haired, average looking, Navy Lieutenant know about maintaining a three-story building?

The building isn’t, what I would call huge, but, it is big enough to get lost in. We’re still looking for two missing waiters. Myself, I believe the two waiters quit and didn’t bother to tell anyone.

Because of the war, with labor shortages the way they are, that happens a lot here. Hiring bonuses are the main reason for them to change jobs. I’ve heard of one guy changing jobs, three times in one week. At each job, he’d only stay long enough to collect the bonus. The only ones that seem to stay put, are the ones who have jobs that are exempt from Military Service.

Looking at my toenails, I realize they could use a clipping. While doing so, I think about how the building is laid out. The Assistant to the Ambassador and his family, occupy the west quarter of the main buildings’ second floor. With a wall and separate entrance, the rest of the second floor is for visiting dignitaries. It’s my understanding that those quarters can accommodate up to three separate groups of dignitaries. Then there’s the third floor. Half of it is used for billeting the military, such as myself, the guards and their officers. The other half, dubbed ‘The War Room’ is walled off and has its own entrance. I’ve been told that, ‘The War Room’, is so secret that even the Ambassador doesn’t know what’s done there and probably doesn’t want to. The first floor, other than the reception area, is for the Ambassador’s Office, Dining Room, kitchen and banquet area. In the banquet area, by closing or opening the pocket doors, you can have one to three separate rooms. The basement is for storage, with a walk-in safe to hold the classified material.

I stop thinking and mumble, Enough about the building, I better get up and put on my pajamas. Who knows, what the Ambassador has planned for me tomorrow?

While putting my pajamas on, I think, now that the wind has subsided it’s not so bad in here. My eyes light up as I think, a pillow, I can use a pillow. YES, THAT’S IT. In the morning, I’ll go to the laundry room and ask the Head Laundress for two more pillows and a bedsheet. I grab the pillow off my bed and place it in the windows opening. While imagining how wide two pillows, side by side, will be, I think, by wrapping the bedsheet around the pillows they should be wide enough and high enough, to stuff into the opening without falling out.

As I’m putting my pillow back on the bed, I mumble, I’m a genius. Also, since this window faces the street, I’m sure it won’t take long before the Ambassador gets on the custodian’s case to repair it.

Looking around the room, I think, now what else can I fix around here. Painting the room would be nice; Olive Green walls are not my color. Other than that, I’ve got everything I need, a bed, dresser, nightstand and desk. BUT, the Embassy’s garden could use a major overhaul; it’s too European looking for me. We’re Americans and should show it. I’m not talking about walking around with ten-gallon hats on our heads and pistols strapped to our hips; which thanks to motion pictures, is the European image of us. I’m talking about a teepee, in the far corner of the garden and a few statues or busts of famous Americans, tastefully placed around the fountain.

Seeing a letter on the desk, I snap my fingers as I say, I almost forgot, I still haven’t read my mail. While opening the letter, I continue mumbling, I hope it’s good news. After today, I could use some. Let’s just say that I’ve had better days.

After reading the letter, I get melancholy and wonder, did I make a mistake. Six months ago, when I was offered this assignment, I jumped at the chance. At the time, being temporarily assigned to England was a change of a lifetime. But now, with most of the European Countries fighting each other, I’m having second thoughts.

Plopping on the bed again, I continue with, I have to admit, something good did come out of this assignment. Before leaving the USA, I did receive a thirty-day leave and, during that leave, I became engaged to my beloved Clarice. She agreed to marry me but, refused to tie the knot if it meant living apart. When I asked her what she meant by that, she said, I’m not living in New England while you’re gallivanting in…..

I sit up and mumble, That reminds me, did I remember to…? Yes, I did that this morning.

I lay back down and smile when my thoughts return to Clarice, she lives in town with her parents. Her father works in the tanning plant and her mother is a seamstress; they’re not exactly pillars of the community, but they are good people; at least I think so.

Feeling lonely, I start thinking about how Clarice and I met. We’ve known each other since the fifth-grade, but only by sight. We were what you would call school acquaintances and nothing more. But that all changed, in the Eighth Grade. On the first day of school, not paying attention, while entering the classroom, I bumped into her. At first, I didn’t recognize her; in four short months, she turned from a slightly homely looking girl, with pigtails, to a tall sleek woman with long wavy hair. If it wasn’t for her nose, which was slightly bigger them most, I never would have recognized her. When she smiled, she stirred something in me that I couldn’t shake and, to this day, every time I see her or look at her picture, I still can’t. During that year, several times, I attempted to ask her out, but each time, for whatever reason, I didn’t.

Then I chastise myself. Come on Bill, admit it, you got cold feet and chickened out. Okay, okay, I admit it, each time I had the chance to ask her out, I backed down. My excuse was, why should she go out with a guy that’s an inch shorter than her. Also, I feared that the guys would razz me about her being taller.

I stop thinking and mumble, Who am I kidding, none of that bothered me, I was just afraid of being turned down.

After sitting up, I continue with my thoughts. Then, six years ago, the Saturday before the Fourth of July Picnic, my life changed. That morning, when I walked into Kelsey’s General Store, there was Clarice, rummaging through bolts of dress material. I don’t know what came over me, but I walked up to her and asked if she would accompany me to the Fourth of July Picnic. When she said ‘Yes’, I couldn’t believe my ears, so I asked her again.

After the third yes, it finally sunk in and I shouted, for everyone in the store to hear, Are you sure you want to go out with me?

To this day, I still recall her response and how she responded, with a big smile on her face and laughter in her voice, she said, "Yes Bill, I’m sure. In fact, I was wondering if you would ever ask me out."

Well, we’ve been an item ever since. And guess what, no razzing, I don’t know if the guys did that out of respect for me or their fear of Clarice. Right or wrong, she’s not afraid to stand her ground...

Realizing that there’s one more thing I need to do, I mumble, Speaking of Clarice, I better write that letter. If I don’t, I won’t be in the doghouse, she’ll bury me under it.

After getting up, I walk to the desk, sit down, open its center drawer and pullout my writing pad. While staring at the writing pad, I realize I need something to write with.

Not able to find the pen, I get frustrated as I mumble, Now, where is that thing!

Before pulling the drawer out and throwing it on the ground, I stand up and walk away. While staring at the desk, I think, careful Bill, just because you had a bad day, there’s no reason to take it out on the desk. If you break that drawer they’ll make you pay for it. After calming down, I return to the desk and sit down.

While looking in the drawer again, I mumble, Pen, where are you pen? I know you’re in here. Finally, out of frustration, I pull the drawer out and say, Where the h…. Before throwing the drawer on the floor, I see the pen and smile, There you are. You, sneaky little bugger, thought you could get away from me, did you?

With pen in hand, I start writing:

Dear Clarice:

I apologize for my delay in writing you. I’d love to explain why, but as you know I cannot.

I pause a moment to think, if it wasn’t for the ‘Top Secret’ excuse, I’d have to make my dull days sound interesting. Speaking of interesting, I should mention something about this war, that England got itself into; but what? Before I start writing, something dawns on me. There is one problem with that, back home they probably know more about what’s going on, in this war, than I do. Then, I realize something, I know what I’ll write about. It’s something that I’m sure, with a few embellishments here and there, will make Clarice the talk of the town. Nobody and I mean nobody, in the town of Adams, knows more about submarines than I do. I’m not talking about the sandwich, that I’ve seen advertised in a Philadelphia delicatessen, I’m talking about those boats that swim under water and sink ships by firing torpedoes at them. If I get desperate, I can always explain the difference between a boat and a ship.

I look at the paper and mumble, First, I’ll start with a short synopsis about the war, then lead into the part about the submarines.

Raising my head, I turn to my right and look across the room at my reflection in the mirror and scold myself, You should quit talking and do it. After looking at the clock, I realize it’s getting late, Well, here goes.

Before the war, some French Elite, labeled everyone, as ‘Imbéciles (Fools)’, who believed that Germany would have the ‘Gonads (male testicles)’, to invade France through the neutral country of Belgium. When the Germans did just that, those French Elite never spouted their words of wit again; except to demand that France sue for peace, so their lives are not disrupted.

Since the start of, what some Brits call, ‘The Great War’, it’s been a total disaster for the Allies, especially for France. The Germans did exactly what they were not supposed to do; they invaded France through Belgium.

Figuratively, when the German invasion began, the French were caught with their pants down. Overwhelmed, they only had one choice, to save their Army, the French Army had to retreat, to a place where they can regroup.

Finally, some twenty-five miles East of Paris, the French Army managed to stop the German advance. Since the distance between the opposing armies is approximately one to two football fields apart, for their own safety, the soldiers on both sides used craters, that were made by cannon fire, as shelter from the other guys bullets.

When it became evident that the German advance had stalled, to strengthen their positions, each side dug deep slits or trenches to connect the bomb craters that they occupied. Eventually, to keep the enemy form going around their flank (end of their line of defense), both sides kept making the trenches longer. They didn’t stop digging until the trenches stretched from the North Sea to the border of Switzerland. This was the start of, what is now called, ‘The Trench War’. Since the trenches were formed, the line has pretty much stayed in the same place. The only thing that changes is the number of dead soldiers.

I stop for a moment and think, this may not be exactly what happened but it’s close enough. Now, to the part about the submarines.

As if that’s not bad enough, the German submarines seem to be unstoppable. These submarines are able to sink merchant ships, which are the lifeline of England, with impunity. To onlookers, it seems inevitable that Germany and her cohorts will win this war.

I wonder how many people, who spouted that submarines are nothing but toys for the Navy are now eating their words?

I stop writing and mumble, I better stop there, I don’t need to belittle her Cousin Alfred in this letter. I’d rather do it to his face. Alfred and I will have our talk when I see him again. He had no right upsetting Clarice with his statement of, ‘There’s a good chance that your Navy Boyfriend will drown in one of those, flimsy looking, English toys’.

After taking a moment to calm down, I continue writing:

For the English, there is one upside to all of this; if you can call it an upside. Though effective, the German Submarines have one major flaw and that flaw is their size. Because the submarines are small, they need frequent refueling and restocking. To do that, it’s either go back to their base or rendezvous with a supply ship.

The use of supply ships, on the open sea, is the most efficient way but, it’s also the most dangerous. Refueling the submarines, depending on the weather, can take hours. During that time, the supply ship and submarine, are sitting duc…

A knock on my door interrupts me. Putting the pen down, I walk to the door and open it. As I do, a soldier comes to attention and salutes.

After returning his salute, the soldier says, Sir, your presence is requested by Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty.

Hearing that, I blurt out, NOW? After a pause, I continue, You’ve got to be kidding me?

The soldier immediately says, No Sir, I’m not. There’s a car outside, waiting for you. Should I tell the driver that you’re not available?

With a blank stare, I think, should I have him tell the driver to bugger off (a British phrase that means to go away or leave) and come back in the morning? Is it wise to disregard the direct request of the First Lord of the Admiralty? If I do that, the Ambassador may….

I stop thinking when the soldier asks me, Sir, what do I…

I interrupt him and say Uh, tell the driver that I’ll be right out.

The soldier snaps to attention and, while saluting, he says, Yes Sir.

After I return his salute, the soldier turns to his right and walks away.

While closing the door, I mumble, What in blazes, could Churchill possibly want with me. I’ll be glad when this day is over. Today is just not my day. Normally, I’m not this grouchy; there must be a full moon out.

With my uniform on, as I’m looking in the mirror and combing my hair, I think, when I got this assignment, I thought that being attached to the American Embassy in England, as a Naval Attaché, would mean observing and reporting on British Naval tactics. Nobody said that I’d be doing late-night meetings with Churchill. How does he even know who I am? Wait, I was introduced to him last month. Does a two second meeting entitle him to summon me at his whim? What gives him that right, we’re not even in the same Na….

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear another knock on my door.

Figuring that it’s the messenger again, I say, Hold your horses, I’m still getting dressed.

Someone in a muffled tone says, Lieutenant, may I come in.

Knowing that no soldier would say that to an Officer, I respond with, The door’s open.

Joe Tripper, the mild-mannered Assistant to the Ambassador, opens the door and enters my room. As I look at him, I wonder how a person, who looks so meek, ever got to be the Ambassador’s assistant. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe under that sheepish looking facade he’s a real tiger; like Napoleon. In fact, if the lights are dim and you squint your eyes, he does look a little like Napoleon Bonaparte.

While holding something in his hand, the assistant Ambassador says, Lieutenant, I hear that you have a meeting with Churchill. As he hands me the package, he continues, Here, take this with you. Churchill likes his whiskey and the Ambassador wants to keep him happy.

Stunned, I ask, How did you know I was going to see Churchill?

The Assistant Ambassador smiles, as he says, We have our ways.

In my opinion, his attempt at humor, if he meant it to be humorous, wasn’t funny but, I gave him a chuckle anyway; gotta stay on the old boy’s good side.

Seeing my smile, the Assistant Ambassador resumes talking, Since it’s after hours and the Ambassador isn’t here, the Officer on duty called me, to let me know. You must admit, at this time of night, it is an unusual request.

Yes, it is. Then, while placing the package on the table, I ask, Sir, if I may ask, why does the Ambassador feel that we need Churchill as an ally? From what I hear, Churchill and the King are not exactly bosom buddies.

Before he leaves, the Assistant Ambassador says, Whether we like it or not, the Ambassador believes that eventually we’ll be in this war and we’ll need people like Churchill on our side.

Feeling argumentative, I ask, Sir, what if we join the other side? Then…"

Before I can finish, the Assistant Ambassador gives me a shocked look while saying, Don’t even think such a thing. We’re an English-speaking nation, not that other… Oh, never mind.

After the Assistant Ambassador leaves my room, I carefully unwrap the package. Staring at the bottle, I think, it seems like such a waist to give this bottle to one man. With shortages as they are, if I were to sell this brand of whiskey on the black market, it would fetch enough money to feed a family of six for at least a week, maybe even longer. While rewrapping the bottle, I continue thinking, then again, I shouldn’t be so judgmental, at times, even political wheels need to be greased; no-matter what the cost.

Then, while putting my writing pad away, I mumble, Sorry Clarice, for now, my letter to you will have to wait; duty calls.

After rewrapping the bottle, I grab it and walk out of my room. Reaching the front desk, since it’s after hours, I sign out and walk outside. After, exiting the outer gate, a British soldier opens the car’s rear door, snaps to attention and stands that way until I enter the vehicle.

Once inside the vehicle, as we leave, I look at the sky and think, yep, my hunch was correct, it is a full moon. While staring at the moon, I get melancholy, on a night like this, I’d rather be going for a midnight stroll with Clarice than meeting Winston Churchill. Then I snap out of it and think, either this meeting is important or Churchill’s out of whiskey. Well, I hope it’s important, I’d hate to think that I’m demoted to the Ambassador’s delivery…

The sudden stop, causes me to surge forward. It’s a good thing that I was holding on to the passenger assist strap, that’s located above the door. Back home, we call these, passenger assist straps, Chicken Straps. Well, chicken or not, over here they’re a necessary evil.

After several near misses, as I get out of the car and I wonder if I should tip the driver for getting me here alive or if I should get down on my knees and kiss the ground. I decide to do neither. I’m broke and it wouldn’t look becoming for an American Naval Officer to grovel on his knees.

Before heading towards the building’s doors, I turn to the driver and say, Thank You.

Once inside the Building, because I’m not allowed to roam their halls alone, it takes several minutes to find someone to escort me through the checkpoints and there are several of them.

After the last checkpoint, the escort takes me to a room, opens the door and says, Sir, please wait here. Someone will come for you shortly.

As the minutes pass, I start to get antsy and begin pacing back and forth. While doing so, I think, Lord of the Admiralty or not, I should leave the package at the front desk and…

Before I can finish my thoughts, a Sargent opens the door, snaps to attention and while saluting, says, SAAR (a British way of saying Sir), I’m Sargent Woodby and I’ll be your escort. Please follow me.

I return his salute and say, Sargent, lead the way.

Sargent Woodby, standing motionless, says, Saar, yes Saar.

Then, the Sargent stumps his right foot, does an about face and, after stomping his foot again, he marches forward.

While following him, I think, that’s something new. I’ve never seen Royal Marines stomp their feet like that before. I’ll bet it’s something that only certain regiments do. I must say, it does put emphasis on a particular movement. I’m glad the US Military doesn’t do that; it has to be hard on the ankles and knees.

While walking down the third flight of stairs, I start to worry, is this Sargent taking me to the brig (prison)? Well, if he is, at least I have a bottle of expensive whiskey to keep me company. When we stop in front of a door, as the Sargent opens it, I see Churchill sitting at a desk and think, OH WELL, I guess this means no drink of whiskey for me.

The Sargent steps aside, to let me in. When I enter the room, he closes the door behind me. Since Winston Churchill is busy with someone, I stand there, at attention and wait.

While waiting, I search my brain for what I know about Winston Churchill, let’s see, he’s stout, a few inches shorter than I am and you can tell he’s losing his hair. By mentioning that he’s stout I don’t mean obese. For a man in his forty’s he carries himself well. He was an officer and has seen battle….

I stop thinking when I see the other person leave and Churchill, without looking up, motioning for me to walk towards him.

Stopping in front of his desk, I come to attention (without stomping my foot) and say, Sir, US Navy Lieutenant William Arnold reporting as requested.

After about a minute, Churchill looks at me and says, "I’m sorry about the delay.