Chapter 19 – The Baron’s Wolfsrudel
December 19th. 0320. SMS Blücher. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 030 at 12 knots
“I’ll be in my sea cabin.”
Konteradmiral Albert Hopman stomped down the ladder to his cabin, too tired to stay on the bridge, yet too angry to sleep. No, not angry. Frustrated, with more than a crumb of embarrassment. He hadn’t felt this insufficient to the task since he was a seekadett.
The consolidation of his scouting forces and attached 6th Battleship Division with Rudburg’s fleet had been accomplished without collision or other overt damage, yet it had nonetheless been a fiasco of confusion and near-disaster – caused largely by his staff’s mistakes. His personal feeling of failure was rooted in an inability to understand what he was seeing in the dark, and keep his staff in check.
It was a dark night, overcast hiding the stars and the nearly new moon, yet he couldn’t take solace in that. Rudburg’s Sondergruppe ships had maneuvered like they were on parade at the Kaiser’s review, precision and timing without fault or hesitation. From Blücher’s bridge the dim recognition lights simply moved from astern, thence smartly into their new stations without fuss or misstep. Equally, the 6th Division and the kreuzers and torpedoboots that had come from the Hochseeflotte had maneuvered adroitly around each other in going to their various ordered stations. That fat kommander of torpedoboots had been particularly terrifying, driving his flotillas through gaps between much larger ships as if he had spent every day at sea doing just that!
Conversely, the light craft, minensuchers, and supply ships that he and his staff were shepherding had blundered about like a marching band composed of the blind, the halt, and the deaf.
There was but one inescapable conclusion: the ships and men of the Baltic fleet had not been driven like the men of the Hochseeflotte and were ill-prepared for wartime Fleet operations.
This must needs change.
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Hopman was taking a turn on the compass platform, still unable to sleep. The watery sun shyly cleared the horizon before almost immediately surrendering to the purplish low clouds that seemed almost masthead height.
How very like the ideas I have for improving my Scouting Gruppe staff; almost within my grasp then quickly disappearing.
“Herr Konteradmiral?”
“Ja?”
“The Chief of Staff sends his respects and wishes you to come to the staff chartroom to review a telefunken message.”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
Odd. Why didn’t he just send up a copy?
As he entered the tiny staff space the staff watch officer quickly departed, leaving the two senior officers alone. The Chief of Staff was red-faced, but calm.
“The mystery deepens, you have a message?”
Hopman read the message, then read it again, now seeing why his staff was acting oddly.
2nd Minensuch Division reported that T-75 had indeed been sunk by a Russer U-boot, which T-79 had then attacked and forced to submerge. No further contact or engagement. T-79 further reported a shot-up lifeboat filled with dead men clearly killed after leaving the sinking minensucher. They recovered two wounded men, both of whom succumbed to their wounds and the cold water, but not before confirming that the Russer had surfaced and then fired on the sinking T-75, the lifeboat, and men in the water.
Hopman drummed his fingers on the chart table, then looked the CoS in the eye. “Who has read this?”
“You, I, and the Funkenpuster, Herr Konteradmiral.”
“Keep it that way. Close Hold this message and brief the funkenpuster that he is to tell no one. No wait, I’ll talk to him, I need to get this to Rudburg without delay.
“While I’m doing that, get me an update on S-Flotilla and V-100’s floatplane launch.”
December 19th. 1005. SMS T-136. 16nm NW of Dagö Island. Heading 030 at 12 knots
“The ship is at Actions Stations Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
Conrad Thiessen nodded and murmured “Very well” without lowering his binoculars. Counting all the lookouts and deck officers in the S-Flotilla there had to be a hundred sets of eyes searching the waters. The odds that he would be the one to spot the enemy periscope were poor, yet it only took one set of eyes. There was logic behind the fact that all the boots in the specialist anti-U-boot flotilla boasted triple lookouts, all selected for their keen eyesight.
Thiessen was eager to come to grips with the Russer U-boot that had torpedoed T-75 yesterday. He’d taken over the flotilla from Hans Kaltwasser after T-130 had been sunk in the Kassar Wiek nine days ago, and he wished to wash away the bitterness of that grossly uneven battle. The S-Flotilla wasn’t formed to fight monstrous zerstörers; it was manned, trained, and equipped to hunt U-boots.
“Herr Kapitänleutnant, signal from V-100. The bird is up.”
“Excellent.”
The flotilla had worked with a reconnaissance heavier-than-air craft in the Bight a couple of months back, and while the floatplanes were imperfect scouts, when they did spot something, one could be sure there really was something there.
“Signal from T-102. Periscope 050-3.”
Every pair of eyes snapped to the port bow and T-102.
A single crack and puff of smoke from T-102, a shot landed well off the little boot’s starboard bow; the enemy U-boot’s last position.
“Signals! IMMEDIATE EXECUTE. JÄGER ANTON. QUICKEST SEQUENCE. T-102 IS FATHER.”
Jäger Anton was one of the primary tactics the flotilla had developed for a submerged U-boot. Without effective weapons that could hit a U-boot while submerged, their tactics aimed to frustrate the enemy and eventually force him to surface where they would use kanon fire.
In Jäger Anton each of the old torpedoboots would pair off and make runs over the last known location of the enemy, to be marked by a smoke float. They would run over the enemy, then peel off and turn to approach from a different direction while one of the other pairs made their run. If there was any evidence that the enemy had moved: a new periscope sighting, an oil slick in the water, or sometimes even spotting a very shallow U-boot through the water, the center point of the scrum would shift to follow the enemy.
The flotilla covered a lot of ocean in their maneuvers – making up for the often imprecise location of the enemy. It was relatively safe too since none of the hunters was ever on a steady course long enough to be vulnerable to an aimed torpedo attack.
As in all U-boot hunting, Thiessen knew it was critical to think like the enemy; to see the world through his eyes and thus divine his intentions. From the U-boot’s perspective, Jäger Anton would present him with constantly shifting propellor noises from all around the compass, making it impossible to surface without having a charging torpedoboot mere seconds away.
The German U-boots they’d practiced with had reported that there were three counters to Jäger Anton. The best counter, if the U-boot’s batteries were fully charged, was to run submerged at moderate speed until all the noise was lost astern. Secondly, he could simply wait until the flotilla lost interest and went away. Finally, if he was particularly aggressive or foolhardy, he could snap off torpedo shots without raising his scope.
Thiessen hoped that this Russer had acquired a taste for death after sinking T-75 and would try the third counter. His flotilla knew what they were about and were not at great risk, and a torpedo shot gave away the U-boot’s position.
Thiessen’s T-136 paired off with T-134 and prepared to run in from the southeast, last after the other three pairs. As they lined up for the run one the boots passing over the smoke veered to port and hoisted the “E-1” flags, indicating a periscope in sight. Their main kanon blossomed but he could not see where the shell splashed.
“Deck. Point their stern and be ready for when they drop a new smoke.”
When dropped, the new smoke suggested the Russer was running to the northeast, but he was too seasoned to fall into the trap of thinking just two sightings meant much of anything.
Three passes by the flotilla over the new smoke, and Thiessen was beginning to wonder if the Russer had learned patience. He would stay here as long as he could, but his coal stocks were already low. As he considered how long he could afford to continue Jäger Anton he was distracted by a lookout call.
“Aircraft in sight, port quarter, distant, elevation 1.”
Gut. With an aircraft overhead we can try Jäger Bruno, which uses much less coal.
His sense of relief was short lived as it quickly became apparent that the floatplane was heading away from them to the south. Before he could order the signalmen to try to reach him with flashing light the flyer disappeared into the low scudding clouds.
Verdammt!
Two hours and no additional sightings later, things went from frustrating to frantic in an instant as their running mate T-134 reported: Torpedo in the water!
The lookouts and bridge watch scanned the dark waters in search of the deadly fish. Instead, Thiessen looked over at T-134’s bridge and followed where everyone there was looking, many even pointing.
It is between us! There!
“Deck, steady as she goes. The fish is passing between us...it will clear to port.”
“Bridge. Forward Lookout. Second torpedo, three points to starboard, close!”
Thiessen practically leapt to the starboard side, only to see the second torpedo pass clear down the starboard side. They had been bracketed!
Phenomenal shooting! Mustn’t underestimate this Russer. (Note 1)
T-134 raced toward where they thought the torpedoes originated, T-136 matching her. To Thiessen this third location seemed to follow a line from the other two, heading north-northeast.
Suddenly T-134 veered away and slowed. Someone dropped a smoke float from her fantail.
“Bridge. Signals. From T-134: STRUCK UW OB. HULL DMG. MSA 6 KTS.”
“Deck, circle T-134,” Thiessen ordered, hoping he could protect his consort. At a maximum speed of 6 knots, she was a sitting duck.
He circled T-134 for another 45 minutes, both slowly moving away while the flotilla continued to run over the newest smoke float.
“Bridge. Signals. T-134 reports DMG MADE GOOD. MSA 25 KTS.”
“Gut. Deck. Rejoin the hunt.”
By midafternoon there had been no more sightings, and due to the coal situation becoming critical Thiessen reluctantly called off the search and turned toward the colliers waiting at Tagalaht Bay.
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Astern of the S-Flotilla and six fathoms below the surface the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
Running at periscope depth at a 2/3 bell, hoping to elude the annoying German torpedoboats long enough to use his periscope for a clean torpedo shot, Starshii' Leitenant Rodzyanko had been as surprised as anyone when the boat had suffered a violent knock and heeled perilously to port, followed by a torrent of water gushing into the control room through the periscope seals.
The boat quickly righted herself, and the positive seal on the periscope flange was tightened enough to stop all but a tiny piss-sized jet that the pumps could easily handle. Far worse was the subsequent report from the engine room that the shock of the collision – for surely, they had suffered a freak hit by one of the enemy ships – had cracked one of the petrol storage tanks.
Though stoppered up the tank continued to leak, so the remaining fuel was pumped into the other storage tank and the service tanks. There was still residual fuel leaking from the cracked tank and in the bilges, but he didn’t dare pump those overboard yet. Leaving a petrol slick would bring the German dogs back like a bitch in heat.
He’d tried closing the hatch to the engine room, but the Bars class lacked internal bulkheads and the non-airtight partitions allowed the smell to permeate the entire boat.
He had a headache from the smell, and his nose and throat burned.
He stayed submerged as long as he could. After the first engineers passed out, he’d evacuated the aft spaces forward where the gas concentrations were marginally more tolerable. For the last 30 minutes he’d been in the control room with only the helmsman and planesman. He was lightheaded and had begun coughing. It was hard to think. When the planesman passed out and fell from his chair, he stared at the man for many seconds trying to understand why the man was sleeping on watch. He came to his senses enough to bring men back aft to operate the valves to surface the boat. With no periscope it was a risk, but he now had no choice.
As the boat surfaced, he climbed up to the conning tower hatch, but it wouldn’t open no matter how hard he tried. He slumped back down to the deck and the world went gray.
Fresh air… or will die.
Rodzyanko passed out before the Torpedo Officer opened the main deck hatches on his own authority. He planned to surrender to the Germans, but as he scrambled up to the deck and heaved in lungfuls of clean sea air his first surprise was seeing the mangled state of the conning tower. His second surprise was the empty horizon.
A half an hour later the first men reentered the boat and found Rodzyanko breathing but unresponsive. They started the petrol engines and tied off the helm at amidships. They were headed away from the limpid glow of the sun as it neared the horizon. Good enough.
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Four hours earlier…
Oberleutnant zur See Friedrich Arnauld de la Perière looked out of the cockpit to port and spotted the ships of the S-Flotilla several nautical miles off.
Reaching the S-Flotilla many miles northeast of the Fleet had challenged his hard-earned flying skills. After being winched off V-100‘s fantail the seas had proven too rough to get the underpowered FF.31 into the air. Fortunately, V-100’s Kapitän had understood his dilemma and ran the big zerstörer alongside at high speed, creating a lee that flattened the seas just enough for takeoff. Getting back down in those seas would certainly be interesting.
Finding the S-Flotilla had been his next worry, as he had only a vague and very dated idea of their location. It certainly didn’t help that aeronautical navigation over water was no better than dead reckoning with a magnetic compass and a guess as to how fast he was flying. He had a quality wristwatch and kept a rigorous plot, but in all the exercises he had yet to make it back to V-100 without flying the length of the fleet first. (Note 2)
Finally here, flying a real mission, he would see what he could do to help the tiny torpedoboots.
Just as he began the turn to the north, his observer, Oberflugmeister Arns, turned around and pointed vigorously off to starboard (Note 3). Arnauld de la Perière pointed at the torpedoboots off to port, but Arns pointed at his eyes and then off to starboard.
There, cruising along without a care in the world, was a surfaced U-boot!
Arnauld de la Perière dropped his starboard wing and rolled into a shallow dive. Once pointed toward the enemy he couldn’t see directly ahead, so Arns gave him barely audible signals through the tiny voice tube. “Port….port… steady…raise the nose…steady…steady…starboard… easy…steady…level…LEVEL!...Hold.” He could tell they were below 50 meters altitude, the sea looked close enough to touch.
Arns reached into his tub and brought out one of his 12.5kg bombs, tossing it out using an eyeball estimate of lead, then repeated with three more before vigorously signaling ‘Up!’.
He felt rather than saw the first bomb go off, and then two more. As he pulled up, he looked over his shoulder and saw that they had closely bracketed the quickly diving U-boot. There were only three splashes, had one hit or was it a dud?
He gave Arns a thumbs up and then turned back to make another pass. By the time the slow-moving plane came around the U-boot was fully submerged, so he began a racetrack pattern parallel to the moving U-boot’s last course.
He flew the racetrack for thirty minutes without any further sightings before deciding to turn back. Arns clearly wanted to stay until the U-boot surfaced or used his periscope, but Arnauld de la Perière was watching his fuel closely. If they failed to find V-100, he had just enough reserve fuel to reach the nearest ‘friendly’ land on the north coast of Dägo.
As he began the turn back, Arns pointed off to the east where a tiny sliver of rocky coastline gave off a gray reflection. Looking at his chart he knew it had to be the island of Odinsholm (Note 4). With his navigation updated, he felt much more confident about getting back to V-100. Also, Odinsholm was a mere 20nm west of the naval base at Baltischport on the Estland coast.
The enemy was close.
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Badly shaken, but suffering only very minor damage, submarine Vepr was at that moment directly under the German floatplane. Vepr’s commander knew the enemy aircraft was close; he could hear the rumble of its engine as it passed overhead.
The aeroplane obviously knew right where he was, so he’d stay submerged as long as he possibly could. He’d had enough of this, and shaped course slowly for home.
December 19th. 1055. 4th Radfahrer Battalion. Kwiwast, Moon Island.
Oberstleutnant Kurtze rode his cycle into the hamlet of Kwiwast, though even hamlet was too grand a name for the five tiny homes clinging to the edge of the dirt road. The sole reason it even had a name was found just beyond; a wooden pier, no more than 15 meters long and barely wide enough for three bicycles to ride abreast. He understood it was the only pier on the eastern side of Moon Island, and thus a direct link across Ösel and Moon to the mainland.
Beyond the pier lay numerous small vessels, most sporting German flags. Farther out were two or three modest sized steamers. His reinforced 4th Radfahrer Battalion had travelled light from the landing at Tagalaht Bay, having only their cycles, arms, and what food and ammunition they could carry. His men would have no trouble climbing onto the smaller craft to be ferried out to the steamers. On the other hand, there was simply no way the korps’ artillery and other heavy equipment could be loaded from this pier.
“Hauptmann!,” He called out to the nearest of his kompanie kommanders. “Get a pair of your fastest riders. I have two urgent messages. Schnell.”
Hopefully elements of the korps’ pionier kompany are not too far back. They might be able to strengthen this pier to handle heavier loads (Note 5). If not, the two divisions might have to march all the way back to Arensburg to get on steamers at the port.
One note to the 37th Division about the pioniers, and a second to General von François suggesting the korps’ heavy equipment might load in Arensburg, though much of it was no doubt already on the road heading here. He added a postscript to the general with an observation that the shipping waiting here would only support a regiment to cross to the mainland at a time.
What a kuddelmuddel!
December 19th. 1205. 31st Infantry Division. Ecks, Northern Livland.
“The attack is slowing, Herr Oberst. There is a steady stream of Russer reinforcements from the south.”
“Continue the attack.”
Oberst Mathias de la Motte stood in his stirrups and looked across the fields, struggling to get a sense of the battle developing to the south. His primary physical objective was Dorpat, the chief of northern Livland. More importantly, he was tasked with stopping any Russer Army units from breaking north, to attack the rear of Armee Abteilung Hutier as they drove north.
The division’s scouts, following the rail line, had already reached the outskirts of Dorpat, with his 70th Infantry Regiment following 10 kilometers behind as the tip of the 31st Division spear. Just south of the village of Ecks (Note 6) they’d run into Russer infantry that his leading battalion observed debarking from a train, thus outrunning his scouts’ reports.
So far, the fighting was a mess, as meeting engagements are wont to be. His men had quickly deployed from column into line and overwhelmed the leading Russer company before they could get organized. Until the latest report of more Russers, they’d driven the enemy back, but that fortune might not hold. How many more Russer reinforcements were there? Intelligence suggested that they had a brigade at Dorpat and a division to the south facing the previous front line in southern Livland. He would prefer to press farther south to get to better defensive ground before facing five or more brigades.
So far it had been a strictly infantry affair, but that was about to change as a battery from one of the division’s artillery regiments was almost in position just south of the village.
He looked over his shoulder. Where is the 174th?
Boom Boom-ooom-ooom.
He smiled as the first artillery fire began to support his regiment. With artillery support maybe I don’t even need another regiment. Give me both and no Russer brigade on earth can stop us.
December 19th. 1430. Zeppelin LZ 61. 110km Northeast of Ostrov Aerodrome. Heading 025 at 40 knots. 300m altitude.
“They aren’t stopping, Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
To Gelhaus, the Russer infantry streaming northeast along the railway seemed like a tumultuous living river, continuing far beyond the town, a settlement of a couple of thousand called Strugi Belye on his chart (Note 7). Apparently, the main offensive out of Pskow was doing well, despite this miserable Russian weather right on the cusp of winter.
“Not so far, Leutnant. I think they’ll run until someone points a rifle at them and yells “Stop!””
“They are what, twenty kilometers from the old front lines, and there are many lakes and rivers perpendicular to the railroad. It seems their kommanders would try to stop them here to take advantage of the terrain.”
Gelhaus chuckled. “First, those lakes and rivers are about to freeze, if they aren’t already. Instead of barriers they become broad straßen. And second, the brave Russer kommanders are either dead or prisoners. As for the ones that weren’t brave? Who do you think is out in front of all the fleeing men?”
The lieutenant laughed too, though Gelhaus could see he was disturbed by the notion of all the Russer leaders being absent, for one reason or another.
“We’ll continue north, to see if we can determine where they’ll dig in.”
The past week had passed in a whirl for Kapitänleutnant Gelhaus and his crew. Somehow the zeppelin, limping along on one engine and leaking hydrogen, had made it back to the depot at Thorn. Proximity to the more generous and slightly less overloaded rail network of West Prussia allowed the expeditious delivery of a new engine, and two new gasbags. Headquarters at Cuxhaven had refused to send replacement maschinengewehre to replace those he’d dumped to maintain altitude. They claimed that they would have to conduct an investigation first. Peace or war, the bastarde at headquarters never changed, but he’d figure out something.
Repaired, but still minus the armaments, LZ-61 had flown back to the forward aerodrome at Ostrov yesterday. A very happy Heer liaison officer had given him orders to fly a final mission in support of the Heer before he would be re-subordinated to the Fleet. Apparently, the ground-pounders had broken the latest Russer defenses, and they wanted to know how far north the Slavs would retreat before digging in again.
Pretty far, it seems.
December 19th. 1445. KuK 24th Feldjäger Battalion. Central Dagö Island.
Korvettenkapitän Jens Trapp kneeled behind a tree, like each of the jägers in the three zugs had done when word came back from the point that an ambush was imminent.
Trapp wasn’t one to act on feelings or hunches himself, but he knew that the man on point, Jäger Sebok, would be the first one shot if he didn’t trust his instincts, so the short kompany waited motionless and silent.
Finally, word filtered back and Unterjäger Basti of 4th Zug slid his massive bulk silently up alongside.
“Herr Korvettenkaptän, Jager Sebok reports he discovered ambush preparations ahead, and on the right of the trail. Felled trees and trampled underbrush, but there were no enemy troops at the site. He is going to probe ahead but recommends that we hold position for five minuten.”
At the end of the five minuten Trapp signaled the kompany to move out, but mere seconds after the kompany rose up, a loud voice called out from behind.
“You’re all dead.”
Turning around Trapp was mortified to see Oberjäger Dutka and 1st Zug, the enemy for this exercise, kneeling just within sight, huge grins on their faces over the rifle sights. The pitiful faces of the half-dozen men of his rearguard, captured by Dutka, must have mirrored his own.
Well, schieße.
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As they walked back to camp Dutka pulled no punches.
“Your movement along the trail was excellent; we wouldn’t have spotted anyone if not for the feldgrau uniforms standing out against the snow. We intentionally left marks so that your point would find the ambush site, and frankly, that little weasel Sebok did a good job looking over the area. The problem of course was that while you waited, I had time to bring 1st Zug around behind you.”
“Ja, I should have thought of that,” Trapp said with a hint of bitterness.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Herr Korvettenkapitän,” Dutka said with surprising gentleness “If the flanks and rearguard had done their jobs, they would have seen me circling back around. Ja, your failure was to be so focused ahead, on the possible ambush, that you didn’t think of an attack from another direction. On the other hand, you would be learning the wrong lesson if you think you need to always check up on your men. Show no trust in the men and they will not trust you.
“A suggestion, if you find yourself in a like situation, a quick signal to the zugsführers to look outward in all directions.”
Dutka made the handsignals for “Alert/All Around”.
“Keep them aware of what you want but let them worry how to do it.”
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Upon returning to the kompany’s forest camp, Trapp was surprised to see a bataillon messenger waiting alongside a wagon.
“Orders Herr Korvettenkapitän.”
Trapp opened the leather case and smiled. “We’re to march to Luidja Bay. There will be an Ersatz Jäger Regiment kommanders meeting there, and then we’ll embark on a steamer for our next operation. I think this is the big one.”
Dutka went over to the wagon and threw back the tarp. His rare laughter brought Trapp over. Inside were bundles of snow-white parkas, thick gloves, and heavy boot covers. Trapp read a note tucked into the top bundle; it was from the 27th, their Finnish brother bataillon.
“These you will need.”
December 19th. 1530. Hapsal, Estonia.
“Stop fussing with that!”
Generalleutnant von Blumenthal swatted the head of the medic poking at the wound on his leg.
“Wrap it back up and leave. I’m sure there are others more in need of your…services.”
With just the 148th Regiment’s 3rd Bataillon ashore here at Hapsal, there was no doctor to see to the half dozen wounded from the brief battle for the town. The woefully inexperienced medic knew how to slap a bandage on a bleeding mess, but not much else.
If this one is any example, Hippocrates was wrong. (Note 8 )
With the wound rebound, the medic scuttled off and von Blumenthal carefully rose to put weight on it. It hurt like Hades now that the rush of battle was gone, but he could get around.
He limped over to the windows looking out from the bürgermeister’s offices. Initially he’d hoped to set up his headquarters in the big schloss but was disappointed to find that except for parts of the attached cathedral it was no more than ruins. This would have to do.
Crimson and violet tinted the western sky. He looked at the clock and sighed.
These days are too verdammt short.
“Herr Generalleutnant?,” called the 3rd Bataillon’s ninny kommander, Oberstleutnant Stein.
“Ja. Report.”
“Herr Generalleutnant, the western defenses are set just outside the town limits, two companies and the maschinengewehre. There is no sign of organized enemy activity, though a half dozen militiamen tried to sneak back in. They surrendered without resistance.”
“Perhaps I should execute them, as a lesson to the civilians.”
“But…but…they were unarmed.”
Von Blumenthal had no intention of killing the Russer prisoners, but it was enjoyable seeing Stein’s eyes bug out.
“Very well, but make sure they do not cause any trouble, or it will be on your head. The reserve kompany in town, what are they doing?’”
“They are resting and patrolling the town, Herr Generalleutnant.”
“The ones that are resting, I have a mission for them. The town is soon to become the base of operations for the entire korps. Have the men survey the warehouses and any other building that can serve. Get me a list, including sizes. The foodstuffs may remain but begin to empty out everything else.”
“Jawohl, I’ll get with the bürgermeister and have his people do the work.”
Good thinking. Maybe there is hope for Stein.
A knock at the door interrupted them. A messenger.
“Herr Generalleutnant, several steamers sighted to the west. Four or more.”
Finally! The rest of my brigade.
December 18th. 1850. SMS Augsburg. Moon Sound. Heading 270 at 6 knots
Korvettenkapitän Speck wondered what he had done to anger admiral Rudburg.
While every other major ship in the Baltic was gathering off the mouth of the Finnischer Meerbusen preparing to beard the lion in its den, he was stuck here in the Moon Sound playing nursemaid to minelayers and transport ships.
At least he knew when his exile should end. Vice Admiral Schultz’s 8th Linienshiff Division, the last of the Baltic’s heavy ships, should be here in three days to take charge of the archipelago’s defenses. Hopefully there would still be a few Russers left by then.
A tap on the cabin door produced the funker messenger.
“Cable from the SonderGruppe Kommander, Herr Korvettenkapitän. “
Perhaps I’m to get a reprieve. He realizes it was a mistake to leave Augsburg here…
Speck felt his face sag as he read the wireless.
Somebody had screwed up. The shipping allocated to move General von François’ korps from the islands to Hapsal was insufficient to the task. The entire campaign in Estland was endangered. Augsburg was tasked to ‘gather all available shipping to rectify the problem’.
Wunderbar. Just wunderbar.
He knew where to start. Those half dozen steamers that had gone into Hapsal a few hours ago would be useful. And he’d scour the ports and anchorages of the Sound for more. He couldn’t do this on his own. He dashed off a wireless for the ten torpedoboots of the 7th Flotilla, to have them come within visual signaling distance.
He’d send them out in ten different directions to gather everything in Moon Sound that floats. No, he wouldn’t stop there, he’d send some down into the Gulf of Riga, to Arensburg and Pernow.
Why stop there?
He’d dash off wireless requests to Riga and Libau and Windau too.
December 18th. 1925. SMS Markgraf. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 330 at 12 knots
Carl Rudburg smiled and reached out to shake Konteradmiral Hopman’s hand as he came through the door to the admiral’s cabin, last to join the meeting of the SonderGruppe’s four – almost five – flag officers.
“Albert. Welcome aboard. I’m sure you know Friedrich and Hermann from 5th and 6th Divisions, and may I introduce Karl Seiferling, Markgraf’s Flag Kapitän. He is soon to be out of uniform, as we’ve just received the very welcome news that he has been selected for promotion. He will detach on the new year to take up his broad stripe and kommand of 3rd Scouting, to be built around the two new Mine Steamers C and D.” (Note 9)
“Well met, and I congratulate you on both the promotion and the assignment,” Hopman said, with – it seemed to Rudburg – some degree of diffidence.
“Danke, Herr Konteradmiral,” Seiferling replied without seeming to notice. “Please everyone, let’s sit.”
The steward smoothly slid into the room and took drink orders: brandy, Underberg, glühwein, or tea. When everyone was served and settled Rudburg waited until the door to the pantry closed. The steward would no doubt listen in, but he was discreet, and the fiction of privacy allowed for a level of candor simply not possible within overt earshot of juniors.
Rudburg hoped this meeting would foster esprit de corps among his senior officers. Other than Albert Hopman they were all Hochseeflotte veterans and considered themselves among the Baron’s Wolfsrudel. He was certain that the two dreadnaught division kommanders would fight as he wished without unnecessary orders. Why, Karl Sieferling could finish his sentences!
But what of Albert Hopman?
As his Scouting Forces kommander, Hopman would be critical in the days ahead; he must be certain that Hopman shared the Baron’s animating spirit. Would he fight like the rest of us? Would he dare put it to the touch, to win or lose it all?
With a small smile Rudburg suddenly remembered the other unifying element in the battle-tested HSF officer korps. It had started with the Baron’s inner circle, then leeched out to the officers on the battlecruisers, then like a wildfire to the rest of the HSF. The Baron was clean-shaven, and now nearly the entire officer korps of the HSF was clean-shaven. He’d even heard some proudly declare themselves the Baron’s bartlose Krieger (Note 10). Of the men in his cabin all were clean-shaven except Albert Hopman. Perhaps it was a good sign that Hopman’s facial hair was as minimal and well-trimmed as it could possibly be.
Rudburg steered the initial conversations away from affaires navale, as the French would say. Music, the social scene in Berlin, their families were safe enough topics, and Karl helped keep things moving. Eventually, as he knew it would, someone brought up the food shortages that everyone was predicting for this winter. That of course meant a discussion of the Britischer blockade.
“I suspect we’ll know more when First Scouting concludes their latest foray into the North Sea,” Rudburg injected. “But I think perhaps instead now would be a good time to discuss our next steps in this campaign, eh?” Rudburg said, as the four others sat up strait and their eyes snapped over to him.
He spent a few minutes discussing the status of the land campaign, and the overriding imperative to keep the needs of the Heer foremost – even should that require risking the Fleet to the point of imprudence. To support the twin campaigns, it would be necessary to bring the Fleet within range of Reval and Helsingfors. The strong coastal defense fortifications, mines, U-boots, torpedo craft and even the Russer battle fleet could be anticipated.
A lively discussion of the expected Russer response and the Fleet’s various reactions and pre-planned responses ensued, and Rudburg was quite pleased that all the flags, and Hopman in particular, clearly were of one mind with him.
I think he will do, but let us see what he makes of tomorrow.
Turning to Hopman, he issued his orders.
“Tomorrow at first light 2nd Scouting will detach. Passing through the cleared channel you will scout the seas up to the line between Baltischport and Hango. A quick in and out to scout and gauge Russer reaction. Karl will have written orders to you before you leave.”
Notes
Note 1. T-136 had a beam of only 7.5m. A successful “down the throat” torpedo shot from a submerged submarine would have been truly a “Golden BB”.
Note 2. The Kriegsmarine and WWI were influential in the development of wristwatches. One of the first contracts for mass production of wristwatches was by Girard-Perregaux, exclusively for German Naval Officers in the 1880s. In 1904 Cartier developed the Cartier Santos wristwatch (originally developed for Brazilian aviator Carlos Santos) specifically to allow timed navigation without requiring the pilot to take his hands off the controls. WWI aviation and the requirements of trench warfare led to widespread use of durable and accurate wristwatches.
Note 3. Historically, both Friedrich Arnauld de la Perière (brother of top submarine ace Lothar) and OFM Eugen Arns flew in early war Friedrichshaven floatplanes. One of the first floatplanes was the FF.31, which had the Observer/Machinegunner in a tub forward of the pilot.
Note 4. Estonian Osmussaar Island.
Note 5. Great War German pioneers were what are today generally called combat engineers. Typically, one company was attached to each corps.
Note 6. Dorpat = Tartu, Estonia. Ecks = Tabivere, Estonia
Note 7. Modern Strugi Krasnye.
Note 8. Hippocrates is quoted as writing that “War is the only proper school of a surgeon.” An alternate quote is “"He who desires to practice surgery must go to war.” On the Surgery, Corpus Hippocraticum
Note 9. At the start of the war 3rd Scouting consisted of four elderly small cruisers and tender Hela. During most of Letterstime it has been inactive as a scouting group, stripped of ships to replace combat losses elsewhere. It is being reconstituted with Mine Steamers C and D (Brummer and Bremse) when they commission in Jan/Feb 1916.
Note 10. The Baron’s “Beardless Warriors”
December 19th. 0320. SMS Blücher. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 030 at 12 knots
“I’ll be in my sea cabin.”
Konteradmiral Albert Hopman stomped down the ladder to his cabin, too tired to stay on the bridge, yet too angry to sleep. No, not angry. Frustrated, with more than a crumb of embarrassment. He hadn’t felt this insufficient to the task since he was a seekadett.
The consolidation of his scouting forces and attached 6th Battleship Division with Rudburg’s fleet had been accomplished without collision or other overt damage, yet it had nonetheless been a fiasco of confusion and near-disaster – caused largely by his staff’s mistakes. His personal feeling of failure was rooted in an inability to understand what he was seeing in the dark, and keep his staff in check.
It was a dark night, overcast hiding the stars and the nearly new moon, yet he couldn’t take solace in that. Rudburg’s Sondergruppe ships had maneuvered like they were on parade at the Kaiser’s review, precision and timing without fault or hesitation. From Blücher’s bridge the dim recognition lights simply moved from astern, thence smartly into their new stations without fuss or misstep. Equally, the 6th Division and the kreuzers and torpedoboots that had come from the Hochseeflotte had maneuvered adroitly around each other in going to their various ordered stations. That fat kommander of torpedoboots had been particularly terrifying, driving his flotillas through gaps between much larger ships as if he had spent every day at sea doing just that!
Conversely, the light craft, minensuchers, and supply ships that he and his staff were shepherding had blundered about like a marching band composed of the blind, the halt, and the deaf.
There was but one inescapable conclusion: the ships and men of the Baltic fleet had not been driven like the men of the Hochseeflotte and were ill-prepared for wartime Fleet operations.
This must needs change.
----------------------------------------------------
Hopman was taking a turn on the compass platform, still unable to sleep. The watery sun shyly cleared the horizon before almost immediately surrendering to the purplish low clouds that seemed almost masthead height.
How very like the ideas I have for improving my Scouting Gruppe staff; almost within my grasp then quickly disappearing.
“Herr Konteradmiral?”
“Ja?”
“The Chief of Staff sends his respects and wishes you to come to the staff chartroom to review a telefunken message.”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
Odd. Why didn’t he just send up a copy?
As he entered the tiny staff space the staff watch officer quickly departed, leaving the two senior officers alone. The Chief of Staff was red-faced, but calm.
“The mystery deepens, you have a message?”
Hopman read the message, then read it again, now seeing why his staff was acting oddly.
2nd Minensuch Division reported that T-75 had indeed been sunk by a Russer U-boot, which T-79 had then attacked and forced to submerge. No further contact or engagement. T-79 further reported a shot-up lifeboat filled with dead men clearly killed after leaving the sinking minensucher. They recovered two wounded men, both of whom succumbed to their wounds and the cold water, but not before confirming that the Russer had surfaced and then fired on the sinking T-75, the lifeboat, and men in the water.
Hopman drummed his fingers on the chart table, then looked the CoS in the eye. “Who has read this?”
“You, I, and the Funkenpuster, Herr Konteradmiral.”
“Keep it that way. Close Hold this message and brief the funkenpuster that he is to tell no one. No wait, I’ll talk to him, I need to get this to Rudburg without delay.
“While I’m doing that, get me an update on S-Flotilla and V-100’s floatplane launch.”
December 19th. 1005. SMS T-136. 16nm NW of Dagö Island. Heading 030 at 12 knots
“The ship is at Actions Stations Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
Conrad Thiessen nodded and murmured “Very well” without lowering his binoculars. Counting all the lookouts and deck officers in the S-Flotilla there had to be a hundred sets of eyes searching the waters. The odds that he would be the one to spot the enemy periscope were poor, yet it only took one set of eyes. There was logic behind the fact that all the boots in the specialist anti-U-boot flotilla boasted triple lookouts, all selected for their keen eyesight.
Thiessen was eager to come to grips with the Russer U-boot that had torpedoed T-75 yesterday. He’d taken over the flotilla from Hans Kaltwasser after T-130 had been sunk in the Kassar Wiek nine days ago, and he wished to wash away the bitterness of that grossly uneven battle. The S-Flotilla wasn’t formed to fight monstrous zerstörers; it was manned, trained, and equipped to hunt U-boots.
“Herr Kapitänleutnant, signal from V-100. The bird is up.”
“Excellent.”
The flotilla had worked with a reconnaissance heavier-than-air craft in the Bight a couple of months back, and while the floatplanes were imperfect scouts, when they did spot something, one could be sure there really was something there.
“Signal from T-102. Periscope 050-3.”
Every pair of eyes snapped to the port bow and T-102.
A single crack and puff of smoke from T-102, a shot landed well off the little boot’s starboard bow; the enemy U-boot’s last position.
“Signals! IMMEDIATE EXECUTE. JÄGER ANTON. QUICKEST SEQUENCE. T-102 IS FATHER.”
Jäger Anton was one of the primary tactics the flotilla had developed for a submerged U-boot. Without effective weapons that could hit a U-boot while submerged, their tactics aimed to frustrate the enemy and eventually force him to surface where they would use kanon fire.
In Jäger Anton each of the old torpedoboots would pair off and make runs over the last known location of the enemy, to be marked by a smoke float. They would run over the enemy, then peel off and turn to approach from a different direction while one of the other pairs made their run. If there was any evidence that the enemy had moved: a new periscope sighting, an oil slick in the water, or sometimes even spotting a very shallow U-boot through the water, the center point of the scrum would shift to follow the enemy.
The flotilla covered a lot of ocean in their maneuvers – making up for the often imprecise location of the enemy. It was relatively safe too since none of the hunters was ever on a steady course long enough to be vulnerable to an aimed torpedo attack.
As in all U-boot hunting, Thiessen knew it was critical to think like the enemy; to see the world through his eyes and thus divine his intentions. From the U-boot’s perspective, Jäger Anton would present him with constantly shifting propellor noises from all around the compass, making it impossible to surface without having a charging torpedoboot mere seconds away.
The German U-boots they’d practiced with had reported that there were three counters to Jäger Anton. The best counter, if the U-boot’s batteries were fully charged, was to run submerged at moderate speed until all the noise was lost astern. Secondly, he could simply wait until the flotilla lost interest and went away. Finally, if he was particularly aggressive or foolhardy, he could snap off torpedo shots without raising his scope.
Thiessen hoped that this Russer had acquired a taste for death after sinking T-75 and would try the third counter. His flotilla knew what they were about and were not at great risk, and a torpedo shot gave away the U-boot’s position.
Thiessen’s T-136 paired off with T-134 and prepared to run in from the southeast, last after the other three pairs. As they lined up for the run one the boots passing over the smoke veered to port and hoisted the “E-1” flags, indicating a periscope in sight. Their main kanon blossomed but he could not see where the shell splashed.
“Deck. Point their stern and be ready for when they drop a new smoke.”
When dropped, the new smoke suggested the Russer was running to the northeast, but he was too seasoned to fall into the trap of thinking just two sightings meant much of anything.
Three passes by the flotilla over the new smoke, and Thiessen was beginning to wonder if the Russer had learned patience. He would stay here as long as he could, but his coal stocks were already low. As he considered how long he could afford to continue Jäger Anton he was distracted by a lookout call.
“Aircraft in sight, port quarter, distant, elevation 1.”
Gut. With an aircraft overhead we can try Jäger Bruno, which uses much less coal.
His sense of relief was short lived as it quickly became apparent that the floatplane was heading away from them to the south. Before he could order the signalmen to try to reach him with flashing light the flyer disappeared into the low scudding clouds.
Verdammt!
Two hours and no additional sightings later, things went from frustrating to frantic in an instant as their running mate T-134 reported: Torpedo in the water!
The lookouts and bridge watch scanned the dark waters in search of the deadly fish. Instead, Thiessen looked over at T-134’s bridge and followed where everyone there was looking, many even pointing.
It is between us! There!
“Deck, steady as she goes. The fish is passing between us...it will clear to port.”
“Bridge. Forward Lookout. Second torpedo, three points to starboard, close!”
Thiessen practically leapt to the starboard side, only to see the second torpedo pass clear down the starboard side. They had been bracketed!
Phenomenal shooting! Mustn’t underestimate this Russer. (Note 1)
T-134 raced toward where they thought the torpedoes originated, T-136 matching her. To Thiessen this third location seemed to follow a line from the other two, heading north-northeast.
Suddenly T-134 veered away and slowed. Someone dropped a smoke float from her fantail.
“Bridge. Signals. From T-134: STRUCK UW OB. HULL DMG. MSA 6 KTS.”
“Deck, circle T-134,” Thiessen ordered, hoping he could protect his consort. At a maximum speed of 6 knots, she was a sitting duck.
He circled T-134 for another 45 minutes, both slowly moving away while the flotilla continued to run over the newest smoke float.
“Bridge. Signals. T-134 reports DMG MADE GOOD. MSA 25 KTS.”
“Gut. Deck. Rejoin the hunt.”
By midafternoon there had been no more sightings, and due to the coal situation becoming critical Thiessen reluctantly called off the search and turned toward the colliers waiting at Tagalaht Bay.
---------------------------------
Astern of the S-Flotilla and six fathoms below the surface the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
Running at periscope depth at a 2/3 bell, hoping to elude the annoying German torpedoboats long enough to use his periscope for a clean torpedo shot, Starshii' Leitenant Rodzyanko had been as surprised as anyone when the boat had suffered a violent knock and heeled perilously to port, followed by a torrent of water gushing into the control room through the periscope seals.
The boat quickly righted herself, and the positive seal on the periscope flange was tightened enough to stop all but a tiny piss-sized jet that the pumps could easily handle. Far worse was the subsequent report from the engine room that the shock of the collision – for surely, they had suffered a freak hit by one of the enemy ships – had cracked one of the petrol storage tanks.
Though stoppered up the tank continued to leak, so the remaining fuel was pumped into the other storage tank and the service tanks. There was still residual fuel leaking from the cracked tank and in the bilges, but he didn’t dare pump those overboard yet. Leaving a petrol slick would bring the German dogs back like a bitch in heat.
He’d tried closing the hatch to the engine room, but the Bars class lacked internal bulkheads and the non-airtight partitions allowed the smell to permeate the entire boat.
He had a headache from the smell, and his nose and throat burned.
He stayed submerged as long as he could. After the first engineers passed out, he’d evacuated the aft spaces forward where the gas concentrations were marginally more tolerable. For the last 30 minutes he’d been in the control room with only the helmsman and planesman. He was lightheaded and had begun coughing. It was hard to think. When the planesman passed out and fell from his chair, he stared at the man for many seconds trying to understand why the man was sleeping on watch. He came to his senses enough to bring men back aft to operate the valves to surface the boat. With no periscope it was a risk, but he now had no choice.
As the boat surfaced, he climbed up to the conning tower hatch, but it wouldn’t open no matter how hard he tried. He slumped back down to the deck and the world went gray.
Fresh air… or will die.
Rodzyanko passed out before the Torpedo Officer opened the main deck hatches on his own authority. He planned to surrender to the Germans, but as he scrambled up to the deck and heaved in lungfuls of clean sea air his first surprise was seeing the mangled state of the conning tower. His second surprise was the empty horizon.
A half an hour later the first men reentered the boat and found Rodzyanko breathing but unresponsive. They started the petrol engines and tied off the helm at amidships. They were headed away from the limpid glow of the sun as it neared the horizon. Good enough.
---------------------------------
Four hours earlier…
Oberleutnant zur See Friedrich Arnauld de la Perière looked out of the cockpit to port and spotted the ships of the S-Flotilla several nautical miles off.
Reaching the S-Flotilla many miles northeast of the Fleet had challenged his hard-earned flying skills. After being winched off V-100‘s fantail the seas had proven too rough to get the underpowered FF.31 into the air. Fortunately, V-100’s Kapitän had understood his dilemma and ran the big zerstörer alongside at high speed, creating a lee that flattened the seas just enough for takeoff. Getting back down in those seas would certainly be interesting.
Finding the S-Flotilla had been his next worry, as he had only a vague and very dated idea of their location. It certainly didn’t help that aeronautical navigation over water was no better than dead reckoning with a magnetic compass and a guess as to how fast he was flying. He had a quality wristwatch and kept a rigorous plot, but in all the exercises he had yet to make it back to V-100 without flying the length of the fleet first. (Note 2)
Finally here, flying a real mission, he would see what he could do to help the tiny torpedoboots.
Just as he began the turn to the north, his observer, Oberflugmeister Arns, turned around and pointed vigorously off to starboard (Note 3). Arnauld de la Perière pointed at the torpedoboots off to port, but Arns pointed at his eyes and then off to starboard.
There, cruising along without a care in the world, was a surfaced U-boot!
Arnauld de la Perière dropped his starboard wing and rolled into a shallow dive. Once pointed toward the enemy he couldn’t see directly ahead, so Arns gave him barely audible signals through the tiny voice tube. “Port….port… steady…raise the nose…steady…steady…starboard… easy…steady…level…LEVEL!...Hold.” He could tell they were below 50 meters altitude, the sea looked close enough to touch.
Arns reached into his tub and brought out one of his 12.5kg bombs, tossing it out using an eyeball estimate of lead, then repeated with three more before vigorously signaling ‘Up!’.
He felt rather than saw the first bomb go off, and then two more. As he pulled up, he looked over his shoulder and saw that they had closely bracketed the quickly diving U-boot. There were only three splashes, had one hit or was it a dud?
He gave Arns a thumbs up and then turned back to make another pass. By the time the slow-moving plane came around the U-boot was fully submerged, so he began a racetrack pattern parallel to the moving U-boot’s last course.
He flew the racetrack for thirty minutes without any further sightings before deciding to turn back. Arns clearly wanted to stay until the U-boot surfaced or used his periscope, but Arnauld de la Perière was watching his fuel closely. If they failed to find V-100, he had just enough reserve fuel to reach the nearest ‘friendly’ land on the north coast of Dägo.
As he began the turn back, Arns pointed off to the east where a tiny sliver of rocky coastline gave off a gray reflection. Looking at his chart he knew it had to be the island of Odinsholm (Note 4). With his navigation updated, he felt much more confident about getting back to V-100. Also, Odinsholm was a mere 20nm west of the naval base at Baltischport on the Estland coast.
The enemy was close.
---------------------------------
Badly shaken, but suffering only very minor damage, submarine Vepr was at that moment directly under the German floatplane. Vepr’s commander knew the enemy aircraft was close; he could hear the rumble of its engine as it passed overhead.
The aeroplane obviously knew right where he was, so he’d stay submerged as long as he possibly could. He’d had enough of this, and shaped course slowly for home.
December 19th. 1055. 4th Radfahrer Battalion. Kwiwast, Moon Island.
Oberstleutnant Kurtze rode his cycle into the hamlet of Kwiwast, though even hamlet was too grand a name for the five tiny homes clinging to the edge of the dirt road. The sole reason it even had a name was found just beyond; a wooden pier, no more than 15 meters long and barely wide enough for three bicycles to ride abreast. He understood it was the only pier on the eastern side of Moon Island, and thus a direct link across Ösel and Moon to the mainland.
Beyond the pier lay numerous small vessels, most sporting German flags. Farther out were two or three modest sized steamers. His reinforced 4th Radfahrer Battalion had travelled light from the landing at Tagalaht Bay, having only their cycles, arms, and what food and ammunition they could carry. His men would have no trouble climbing onto the smaller craft to be ferried out to the steamers. On the other hand, there was simply no way the korps’ artillery and other heavy equipment could be loaded from this pier.
“Hauptmann!,” He called out to the nearest of his kompanie kommanders. “Get a pair of your fastest riders. I have two urgent messages. Schnell.”
Hopefully elements of the korps’ pionier kompany are not too far back. They might be able to strengthen this pier to handle heavier loads (Note 5). If not, the two divisions might have to march all the way back to Arensburg to get on steamers at the port.
One note to the 37th Division about the pioniers, and a second to General von François suggesting the korps’ heavy equipment might load in Arensburg, though much of it was no doubt already on the road heading here. He added a postscript to the general with an observation that the shipping waiting here would only support a regiment to cross to the mainland at a time.
What a kuddelmuddel!
December 19th. 1205. 31st Infantry Division. Ecks, Northern Livland.
“The attack is slowing, Herr Oberst. There is a steady stream of Russer reinforcements from the south.”
“Continue the attack.”
Oberst Mathias de la Motte stood in his stirrups and looked across the fields, struggling to get a sense of the battle developing to the south. His primary physical objective was Dorpat, the chief of northern Livland. More importantly, he was tasked with stopping any Russer Army units from breaking north, to attack the rear of Armee Abteilung Hutier as they drove north.
The division’s scouts, following the rail line, had already reached the outskirts of Dorpat, with his 70th Infantry Regiment following 10 kilometers behind as the tip of the 31st Division spear. Just south of the village of Ecks (Note 6) they’d run into Russer infantry that his leading battalion observed debarking from a train, thus outrunning his scouts’ reports.
So far, the fighting was a mess, as meeting engagements are wont to be. His men had quickly deployed from column into line and overwhelmed the leading Russer company before they could get organized. Until the latest report of more Russers, they’d driven the enemy back, but that fortune might not hold. How many more Russer reinforcements were there? Intelligence suggested that they had a brigade at Dorpat and a division to the south facing the previous front line in southern Livland. He would prefer to press farther south to get to better defensive ground before facing five or more brigades.
So far it had been a strictly infantry affair, but that was about to change as a battery from one of the division’s artillery regiments was almost in position just south of the village.
He looked over his shoulder. Where is the 174th?
Boom Boom-ooom-ooom.
He smiled as the first artillery fire began to support his regiment. With artillery support maybe I don’t even need another regiment. Give me both and no Russer brigade on earth can stop us.
December 19th. 1430. Zeppelin LZ 61. 110km Northeast of Ostrov Aerodrome. Heading 025 at 40 knots. 300m altitude.
“They aren’t stopping, Herr Kapitänleutnant.”
To Gelhaus, the Russer infantry streaming northeast along the railway seemed like a tumultuous living river, continuing far beyond the town, a settlement of a couple of thousand called Strugi Belye on his chart (Note 7). Apparently, the main offensive out of Pskow was doing well, despite this miserable Russian weather right on the cusp of winter.
“Not so far, Leutnant. I think they’ll run until someone points a rifle at them and yells “Stop!””
“They are what, twenty kilometers from the old front lines, and there are many lakes and rivers perpendicular to the railroad. It seems their kommanders would try to stop them here to take advantage of the terrain.”
Gelhaus chuckled. “First, those lakes and rivers are about to freeze, if they aren’t already. Instead of barriers they become broad straßen. And second, the brave Russer kommanders are either dead or prisoners. As for the ones that weren’t brave? Who do you think is out in front of all the fleeing men?”
The lieutenant laughed too, though Gelhaus could see he was disturbed by the notion of all the Russer leaders being absent, for one reason or another.
“We’ll continue north, to see if we can determine where they’ll dig in.”
The past week had passed in a whirl for Kapitänleutnant Gelhaus and his crew. Somehow the zeppelin, limping along on one engine and leaking hydrogen, had made it back to the depot at Thorn. Proximity to the more generous and slightly less overloaded rail network of West Prussia allowed the expeditious delivery of a new engine, and two new gasbags. Headquarters at Cuxhaven had refused to send replacement maschinengewehre to replace those he’d dumped to maintain altitude. They claimed that they would have to conduct an investigation first. Peace or war, the bastarde at headquarters never changed, but he’d figure out something.
Repaired, but still minus the armaments, LZ-61 had flown back to the forward aerodrome at Ostrov yesterday. A very happy Heer liaison officer had given him orders to fly a final mission in support of the Heer before he would be re-subordinated to the Fleet. Apparently, the ground-pounders had broken the latest Russer defenses, and they wanted to know how far north the Slavs would retreat before digging in again.
Pretty far, it seems.
December 19th. 1445. KuK 24th Feldjäger Battalion. Central Dagö Island.
Korvettenkapitän Jens Trapp kneeled behind a tree, like each of the jägers in the three zugs had done when word came back from the point that an ambush was imminent.
Trapp wasn’t one to act on feelings or hunches himself, but he knew that the man on point, Jäger Sebok, would be the first one shot if he didn’t trust his instincts, so the short kompany waited motionless and silent.
Finally, word filtered back and Unterjäger Basti of 4th Zug slid his massive bulk silently up alongside.
“Herr Korvettenkaptän, Jager Sebok reports he discovered ambush preparations ahead, and on the right of the trail. Felled trees and trampled underbrush, but there were no enemy troops at the site. He is going to probe ahead but recommends that we hold position for five minuten.”
At the end of the five minuten Trapp signaled the kompany to move out, but mere seconds after the kompany rose up, a loud voice called out from behind.
“You’re all dead.”
Turning around Trapp was mortified to see Oberjäger Dutka and 1st Zug, the enemy for this exercise, kneeling just within sight, huge grins on their faces over the rifle sights. The pitiful faces of the half-dozen men of his rearguard, captured by Dutka, must have mirrored his own.
Well, schieße.
---------------------------------
As they walked back to camp Dutka pulled no punches.
“Your movement along the trail was excellent; we wouldn’t have spotted anyone if not for the feldgrau uniforms standing out against the snow. We intentionally left marks so that your point would find the ambush site, and frankly, that little weasel Sebok did a good job looking over the area. The problem of course was that while you waited, I had time to bring 1st Zug around behind you.”
“Ja, I should have thought of that,” Trapp said with a hint of bitterness.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Herr Korvettenkapitän,” Dutka said with surprising gentleness “If the flanks and rearguard had done their jobs, they would have seen me circling back around. Ja, your failure was to be so focused ahead, on the possible ambush, that you didn’t think of an attack from another direction. On the other hand, you would be learning the wrong lesson if you think you need to always check up on your men. Show no trust in the men and they will not trust you.
“A suggestion, if you find yourself in a like situation, a quick signal to the zugsführers to look outward in all directions.”
Dutka made the handsignals for “Alert/All Around”.
“Keep them aware of what you want but let them worry how to do it.”
---------------------------------
Upon returning to the kompany’s forest camp, Trapp was surprised to see a bataillon messenger waiting alongside a wagon.
“Orders Herr Korvettenkapitän.”
Trapp opened the leather case and smiled. “We’re to march to Luidja Bay. There will be an Ersatz Jäger Regiment kommanders meeting there, and then we’ll embark on a steamer for our next operation. I think this is the big one.”
Dutka went over to the wagon and threw back the tarp. His rare laughter brought Trapp over. Inside were bundles of snow-white parkas, thick gloves, and heavy boot covers. Trapp read a note tucked into the top bundle; it was from the 27th, their Finnish brother bataillon.
“These you will need.”
December 19th. 1530. Hapsal, Estonia.
“Stop fussing with that!”
Generalleutnant von Blumenthal swatted the head of the medic poking at the wound on his leg.
“Wrap it back up and leave. I’m sure there are others more in need of your…services.”
With just the 148th Regiment’s 3rd Bataillon ashore here at Hapsal, there was no doctor to see to the half dozen wounded from the brief battle for the town. The woefully inexperienced medic knew how to slap a bandage on a bleeding mess, but not much else.
If this one is any example, Hippocrates was wrong. (Note 8 )
With the wound rebound, the medic scuttled off and von Blumenthal carefully rose to put weight on it. It hurt like Hades now that the rush of battle was gone, but he could get around.
He limped over to the windows looking out from the bürgermeister’s offices. Initially he’d hoped to set up his headquarters in the big schloss but was disappointed to find that except for parts of the attached cathedral it was no more than ruins. This would have to do.
Crimson and violet tinted the western sky. He looked at the clock and sighed.
These days are too verdammt short.
“Herr Generalleutnant?,” called the 3rd Bataillon’s ninny kommander, Oberstleutnant Stein.
“Ja. Report.”
“Herr Generalleutnant, the western defenses are set just outside the town limits, two companies and the maschinengewehre. There is no sign of organized enemy activity, though a half dozen militiamen tried to sneak back in. They surrendered without resistance.”
“Perhaps I should execute them, as a lesson to the civilians.”
“But…but…they were unarmed.”
Von Blumenthal had no intention of killing the Russer prisoners, but it was enjoyable seeing Stein’s eyes bug out.
“Very well, but make sure they do not cause any trouble, or it will be on your head. The reserve kompany in town, what are they doing?’”
“They are resting and patrolling the town, Herr Generalleutnant.”
“The ones that are resting, I have a mission for them. The town is soon to become the base of operations for the entire korps. Have the men survey the warehouses and any other building that can serve. Get me a list, including sizes. The foodstuffs may remain but begin to empty out everything else.”
“Jawohl, I’ll get with the bürgermeister and have his people do the work.”
Good thinking. Maybe there is hope for Stein.
A knock at the door interrupted them. A messenger.
“Herr Generalleutnant, several steamers sighted to the west. Four or more.”
Finally! The rest of my brigade.
December 18th. 1850. SMS Augsburg. Moon Sound. Heading 270 at 6 knots
Korvettenkapitän Speck wondered what he had done to anger admiral Rudburg.
While every other major ship in the Baltic was gathering off the mouth of the Finnischer Meerbusen preparing to beard the lion in its den, he was stuck here in the Moon Sound playing nursemaid to minelayers and transport ships.
At least he knew when his exile should end. Vice Admiral Schultz’s 8th Linienshiff Division, the last of the Baltic’s heavy ships, should be here in three days to take charge of the archipelago’s defenses. Hopefully there would still be a few Russers left by then.
A tap on the cabin door produced the funker messenger.
“Cable from the SonderGruppe Kommander, Herr Korvettenkapitän. “
Perhaps I’m to get a reprieve. He realizes it was a mistake to leave Augsburg here…
Speck felt his face sag as he read the wireless.
Somebody had screwed up. The shipping allocated to move General von François’ korps from the islands to Hapsal was insufficient to the task. The entire campaign in Estland was endangered. Augsburg was tasked to ‘gather all available shipping to rectify the problem’.
Wunderbar. Just wunderbar.
He knew where to start. Those half dozen steamers that had gone into Hapsal a few hours ago would be useful. And he’d scour the ports and anchorages of the Sound for more. He couldn’t do this on his own. He dashed off a wireless for the ten torpedoboots of the 7th Flotilla, to have them come within visual signaling distance.
He’d send them out in ten different directions to gather everything in Moon Sound that floats. No, he wouldn’t stop there, he’d send some down into the Gulf of Riga, to Arensburg and Pernow.
Why stop there?
He’d dash off wireless requests to Riga and Libau and Windau too.
December 18th. 1925. SMS Markgraf. NW of Dagö Island. Heading 330 at 12 knots
Carl Rudburg smiled and reached out to shake Konteradmiral Hopman’s hand as he came through the door to the admiral’s cabin, last to join the meeting of the SonderGruppe’s four – almost five – flag officers.
“Albert. Welcome aboard. I’m sure you know Friedrich and Hermann from 5th and 6th Divisions, and may I introduce Karl Seiferling, Markgraf’s Flag Kapitän. He is soon to be out of uniform, as we’ve just received the very welcome news that he has been selected for promotion. He will detach on the new year to take up his broad stripe and kommand of 3rd Scouting, to be built around the two new Mine Steamers C and D.” (Note 9)
“Well met, and I congratulate you on both the promotion and the assignment,” Hopman said, with – it seemed to Rudburg – some degree of diffidence.
“Danke, Herr Konteradmiral,” Seiferling replied without seeming to notice. “Please everyone, let’s sit.”
The steward smoothly slid into the room and took drink orders: brandy, Underberg, glühwein, or tea. When everyone was served and settled Rudburg waited until the door to the pantry closed. The steward would no doubt listen in, but he was discreet, and the fiction of privacy allowed for a level of candor simply not possible within overt earshot of juniors.
Rudburg hoped this meeting would foster esprit de corps among his senior officers. Other than Albert Hopman they were all Hochseeflotte veterans and considered themselves among the Baron’s Wolfsrudel. He was certain that the two dreadnaught division kommanders would fight as he wished without unnecessary orders. Why, Karl Sieferling could finish his sentences!
But what of Albert Hopman?
As his Scouting Forces kommander, Hopman would be critical in the days ahead; he must be certain that Hopman shared the Baron’s animating spirit. Would he fight like the rest of us? Would he dare put it to the touch, to win or lose it all?
With a small smile Rudburg suddenly remembered the other unifying element in the battle-tested HSF officer korps. It had started with the Baron’s inner circle, then leeched out to the officers on the battlecruisers, then like a wildfire to the rest of the HSF. The Baron was clean-shaven, and now nearly the entire officer korps of the HSF was clean-shaven. He’d even heard some proudly declare themselves the Baron’s bartlose Krieger (Note 10). Of the men in his cabin all were clean-shaven except Albert Hopman. Perhaps it was a good sign that Hopman’s facial hair was as minimal and well-trimmed as it could possibly be.
Rudburg steered the initial conversations away from affaires navale, as the French would say. Music, the social scene in Berlin, their families were safe enough topics, and Karl helped keep things moving. Eventually, as he knew it would, someone brought up the food shortages that everyone was predicting for this winter. That of course meant a discussion of the Britischer blockade.
“I suspect we’ll know more when First Scouting concludes their latest foray into the North Sea,” Rudburg injected. “But I think perhaps instead now would be a good time to discuss our next steps in this campaign, eh?” Rudburg said, as the four others sat up strait and their eyes snapped over to him.
He spent a few minutes discussing the status of the land campaign, and the overriding imperative to keep the needs of the Heer foremost – even should that require risking the Fleet to the point of imprudence. To support the twin campaigns, it would be necessary to bring the Fleet within range of Reval and Helsingfors. The strong coastal defense fortifications, mines, U-boots, torpedo craft and even the Russer battle fleet could be anticipated.
A lively discussion of the expected Russer response and the Fleet’s various reactions and pre-planned responses ensued, and Rudburg was quite pleased that all the flags, and Hopman in particular, clearly were of one mind with him.
I think he will do, but let us see what he makes of tomorrow.
Turning to Hopman, he issued his orders.
“Tomorrow at first light 2nd Scouting will detach. Passing through the cleared channel you will scout the seas up to the line between Baltischport and Hango. A quick in and out to scout and gauge Russer reaction. Karl will have written orders to you before you leave.”
Notes
Note 1. T-136 had a beam of only 7.5m. A successful “down the throat” torpedo shot from a submerged submarine would have been truly a “Golden BB”.
Note 2. The Kriegsmarine and WWI were influential in the development of wristwatches. One of the first contracts for mass production of wristwatches was by Girard-Perregaux, exclusively for German Naval Officers in the 1880s. In 1904 Cartier developed the Cartier Santos wristwatch (originally developed for Brazilian aviator Carlos Santos) specifically to allow timed navigation without requiring the pilot to take his hands off the controls. WWI aviation and the requirements of trench warfare led to widespread use of durable and accurate wristwatches.
Note 3. Historically, both Friedrich Arnauld de la Perière (brother of top submarine ace Lothar) and OFM Eugen Arns flew in early war Friedrichshaven floatplanes. One of the first floatplanes was the FF.31, which had the Observer/Machinegunner in a tub forward of the pilot.
Note 4. Estonian Osmussaar Island.
Note 5. Great War German pioneers were what are today generally called combat engineers. Typically, one company was attached to each corps.
Note 6. Dorpat = Tartu, Estonia. Ecks = Tabivere, Estonia
Note 7. Modern Strugi Krasnye.
Note 8. Hippocrates is quoted as writing that “War is the only proper school of a surgeon.” An alternate quote is “"He who desires to practice surgery must go to war.” On the Surgery, Corpus Hippocraticum
Note 9. At the start of the war 3rd Scouting consisted of four elderly small cruisers and tender Hela. During most of Letterstime it has been inactive as a scouting group, stripped of ships to replace combat losses elsewhere. It is being reconstituted with Mine Steamers C and D (Brummer and Bremse) when they commission in Jan/Feb 1916.
Note 10. The Baron’s “Beardless Warriors”
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