Richard P. Henrick
The Golden U-Boat
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank Karl Ivar Bjornsen and the rest of the members of NUEX. Without your sharing of the “Norwegian experience,” this book wouldn’t have been possible.
Epigraph
“When one considers that right up to the end of the war there was virtually no increase in heavy-water stocks in Germany … it will be seen that it was the elimination of German heavy-water production in Norway that was the main factor in our failure to achieve an atomic bomb before the war ended.”
“The political stability of the Bonn government is slowly being undermined by millions of old fighters… who are deeply committed to a Nazi comeback. They dream of a military establishment with super modern weapons … in order to regain for Germany the status of a great world power.”
“We must hand down the brave, self-sacrificing U-boat spirit to our children and grandchildren.”
Chapter One
The footpath was little more than a narrow, earthen track that led from the rail yard into a thick birch forest.
Mikhail Kuznetsov first spotted it late the previous afternoon. They were still busy moving into their temporary barracks at that time, and he was forced to postpone any exploration of this promising trail until some free time presented itself. The opportunity came the very next morning.
The twenty-one-year old, newly commissioned junior lieutenant awoke long before reveille. There was a slight chill to the air as he slipped off his hard, straw mattress and headed for the latrine. The hut they had just moved into was normally reserved for railroad workers. Far from being luxurious, it was simply constructed out of native timber, but at least had indoor plumbing.
The dark blue sky was tinged with the first hint of dawn as he stepped outside. A gust of crisp air, fresh with the scent of the surrounding wood greeted him as he surveyed the compound. Several gray freight cars could be seen parked beside the main rail line. Directly adjoining this central track was the fuel depot. A massive heap of black coal was stored here, beside which was a soot-covered loading ramp. A large repair shed stood nearby, its grimy structure graced with several broken windows and a five-pointed, red star painted beneath its gabled roof. All in all, the view was far from inspiring, and Mikhail gratefully turned to his left and began his way toward the encircling birch wood.
The footpath that had called him from his warm bed led him into the forest of slender white trees. Soon the world of man was replaced by the lonely cries of a raven, and a muted creaking as the wind gusted through the tree limbs, causing them to sway like a single entity.
Mikhail felt instantly at ease in this peaceful environment.
Having grown up near a birch forest much like this one, he was no stranger to such a place. Yet for the past year and a half he had lived exclusively in the bustling city of Leningrad. Here, along with his twin brother Alexander, he attended the Frunze Naval Academy.
Their pace of study was intense, and innocent forest jaunts had all but become a pleasant memory. Thus to be out on his own this morning on a real hike was like a trip homeward, even though his birthplace was actually a thousand kilometers east of this spot, outside the city of Kirov.
As he followed the path into a dense thicket of underbrush, a fat, brown ground squirrel darted out in front of him. Seconds later, a covey of quail exploded from the nearby brush with blinding swiftness. Mikhail’s pulse quickened with the unexpected commotion. Regretting that he didn’t have a shotgun to bring with him, he began his way down into an oak-filled hollow. Many of the trees were gnarled with age, and an almost reverent atmosphere prevailed.
The sound of rushing water sounded in the distance and Mikhail soon set his eyes on the swift current responsible for this pleasantly distinctive racket. It proved to be a good-sized stream. Many of the crystal clear pools appeared quite deep and no doubt provided a comfortable habitat for the local variety of trout. Halting beside a portion of the brook where the bubbling waters swirled against a series of partially submerged boulders, Mikhail’s thoughts went back in time, for it was at a spot much like this one that his father had taught him and Alexander their first lessons in the art of fly fishing.
Their father had been an avid fisherman, and devoted much of his free time designing and tying his own lures.
As a veteran naval officer, whose specialty was submarines, Dmitri Kuznetsov had spent much of his adult life at sea. His leaves were therefore precious to him, and he utilized them to their fullest extent.
Family outings drew the Kuznetsovs to such diverse places as beautiful Lake Baikal, the desolate Siberian taiga, and the tropical shores of the Black Sea. On each of these trips, Dmitri made certain to take along a variety of fishing and hunting gear, so that he could further instruct his twin sons in the intricacies of wilderness survival.
Trout and salmon fishing were his father’s greatest passions. He would spend hours working a stream, applying the same intense concentration that he used to stalk a naval target on the high seas. More often than not, his efforts paid off in the form of a trophy-sized fish, whose flesh could feed the entire family and then some.
Mikhail was proud of his father’s skill with a rod and reel, and had tried hard to emulate him. Patience was a virtue that every good fisherman had plenty of, and Mikhail did his best to control the natural impatience of youth and focus solely on the prey at hand. He thus did his best to imitate his father’s every move, often working a single pool for an entire afternoon.
His twin brother, Alexander had found it impossible to summon such self control. Easily bored, Alexander would give the fish an hour or so to take his bait before giving up and taking off to explore the surrounding countryside. In this aspect he was more like their mother, who was content to limit her participation in fishing to preparing the catch for dinner.
Mikhail peered out to a promising pool of deep water and sighed as he recalled the last family outing that had taken place two years ago. They had camped deep in the Ural mountains. It was early summer, and both Mikhail and Alexander were celebrating their recent acceptance to the Frunze Academy. Though proud that his boys were following in his footsteps, their father had seemed preoccupied during the entire stay. The fishing was poor, and several times they had to resort to shooting game to fill their empty plates.
It was three weeks after their return home from that trip that they received notice of their father’s death at sea. The submarine he had been commanding failed to ascend from a test dive. Though a faulty valve was suspected, the true cause of the tragedy that took the lives of sixty-three Soviet sailors lay hidden in the frigid depths of the Barents Sea.
Sobered by the news, Mikhail and Alexander applied themselves to their studies with renewed intensity. Their efforts had recently been rewarded as both graduated in the top tenth of their Academy class. When queried as to the nature of their future naval service with the Motherland’s fleet, both chose submarines without a second’s hesitation. Though their mother had wept when told of their choice, all eventually agreed that this was the way Dmitri Kuznetsov would have wanted it.
Mikhail turned from the stream and began his way back through the stand of oak. It was only when he crossed the clearing that he realized the sun had long since risen in the intensely blue sky. It appeared as if it would be another hot, sultry day, for the newly commissioned naval officer’s brow was already shining with sweat. Mikhail was reaching for his handkerchief when the deep-pitched whistle of a distant train broke the silence.