The American public outside the families of the Merchant Marine were ignorant of the catastrophe that was playing out all along the U.S. coast in the first six months after the U.S. declared war on Germany. Six-hundred ships—many of them ferrying supplies to besieged Britain—were sunk. Those months may well go down in history as the U.S. Navy’s most unsatisfactory performance.
By the time of U-176’s third patrol, Germany had moved its sub fleet to other sectors. Still, Dierksen’s boat managed to sink two tankers along Cuba’s North Coast before being sunk herself on May 15, 1943.
(The Cuban patrol boat that nailed U-176 with depth charges was the smallest vessel ever to sink a submarine. Part of the success of the attack was attributed to the skill of a black sonarman named Norberto Collado Abreu, whom the Germans might have been tempted to call “Coconut.”
Abreu would later pilot Granma, the boat that brought Fidel Castro back from Mexico to launch his revolution. Hailed as a great hero by the Cuban people, Abreau died in 2008.)
1:01 a.m., 12 May 1943: Manzanillo Bay
“Alright, men, just as we rehearsed it,” Dierksen whispered. “Searchlight, what’s the word?”
“Chimpanzee, sir”
“The rest of you, which eye?”
“The right eye,” the men whispered in unison.
Odelin Duvalier stood apart from the sailors huddled beneath the bridge, two duffle bags lying on the deck at his feet. His real name was Ahmed and his family came from the Tuareg people of North Africa. Ahmed could read and write in three languages and, living in Algiers, had also educated himself in the ways of the street. The Abwehr recruited him as an agent just before the war. He was aboard U-176 because of his proven loyalty, his ability to speak French and the fact that he was dark enough to pass for Haitian. The U-boatmen had nicknamed him “Coconut,” which he pretended did not bother him.
“Now I shall hail them with that Nazi password they assigned us,” Dierksen whispered to the Petty Officer. Schroder raised an eyebrow but kept silent.
“Arise!” Loud but not too loud.
From the small boat: “Germany!” Yes, too loud.
Dierksen counted backwards, speaking just loud enough so the gunners on the foredeck could hear.
“Three, two, one!”
At that instant, a hand switched on the sub’s powerful searchlight and aimed it at the boat 200 feet from the starboard bow. “Chim-pan-zee.” Off went the light and the surface crew opened their right eyes, having preserved their night vision, an advantage lost—in a flash—to the men in the rowboat.
“Gun crew, stand down,” Dierksen ordered. So far, so good: A correct countersign and four Dominicans armed only with oars, directed by the fat, florid white man at the stern. The captain felt the torsion in his gut unwind. Illuminated, the vessel had aspects of a cornucopia, with baskets of pineapples, bananas and fish among the men, all now alongside.
“Welcome to paradise, herr kapitan. The German agent said, voice low. “I bring you gifts. I am in the import-export business so I despise not having a cargo in both directions. Look. Lobsters!”
The sub crew busied themselves taking the baskets and crates passed up by the Dominicans. Then they helped their sub’s passenger descend into the small boat and passed his bags. Chief Schroeder spoke: “Too bad, Herr Coconut, just when the menu has improved. Viel glück. Good luck.”
“Many thanks. You are a patriot.” The captain touched forefinger to cap, bidding farewell to the German agent and the man he knew as Odelin. “Relay: Revs to half speed. Set a course, 315 degrees.” Dierksen turned to Schroder. “Our orders are to omit any mention of this detour from the log. Inform the men they are to forget everything they have seen. Now tell the mess to boil water. This day we eat like condemned men.”
14 April 1943: Churchill’s Lair, London
The fat man in the bathrobe lounged on the sofa smoking a cigar and sipping brandy—a post-midnight ritual. The clock on the mantle indicated just after three o’clock. “So, commander, a birdie tells me that you had to threaten our novelist friend,” he said.
“Only just, sir. He was all-in at the start, but when I explained that the ‘message’ was to be delivered from the barrel of a Webley, he started to have second thoughts. Turns out he is acquainted with the intended recipient’s son-in-law. He argued against guilt by association.”
Two other men sat in chairs alongside Fleming. One went by the codename Intrepid. The other was one of Intrepid’s hard men, who had helped establish a very special training camp in the Canadian backwoods. The Hard Man spoke.
“Hemingway has a point, sir. Why not just kill the bloody traitor and be done with it, him and his bitch wife?”
The fat man, turned on the sofa and planted both slippered feet on the floor. He lay his cigar on the ashtray and gripped the folds of his robe. “Arrange an accident? The Germans would declare us assassins, and they would be believed!
“Gentlemen, if we are going to retain this empire after the war, we need a monarchy that is not soiled by the revelation of Edward’s dealings with Hitler—Edward, who is at this very moment leading the cheer as the Nazis insinuate themselves into Latin America—all the while bombs rain down on London and Englishmen are dying on a dozen foreign fields.” The fat man paused and looked each man in the eye.
“I detest him as much as you do but no. Edward must die later and, one hopes, in obscurity. We will speak no more of Edward’s assassination.” He took a sip of brandy.
“To the point, however. Sir Harry is not an innocent. He is a viper in our midst. He has funneled money to Mosby’s fascist crowd here at home. And Intrepid tells me that he, too, is using his wealth—wealth he has accumulated at the bosom of the British Empire—to support that Nazi-loving Swede in his Mexico gambit. We shall not miss him…Please continue, commander. Go on about your non-threat to Mr. Hemingway.”
“Yes, sir. I let slip there was one thing that Edgar Hoover did not have in his Hemingway file. Hoover, I said, knows nothing about your dalliance with the Soviet NKVD, but we do because we—that is, Intrepid’s people—have had his Soviet contact in New York under surveillance. I asked Hemingway what cover name had been assigned to him by the Soviets.”
“What was his reaction?” Intrepid spoke for the first time.
“He became angry. I thought he might sock me in the face. He referred again to the fact that America and the Soviet Union were allies. That may be true now, I told him, but that friendship of convenience was unlikely to hold once current hostilities end. That’s when a mean queen like Hoover could use Hemingway’s association with Moscow to destroy him.
“‘Ernie,’ I said, ‘half my Cambridge classmates were lefties. Many of us have dallied.’ I advised him most forcefully to back away from whatever arrangement he had made with the Soviets. I also pointed out that once his mission for us was completed, we would both have one another by the scrotum—a state of mutually assured silence.”
Intrepid spoke: “Hemingway’s next patrol is scheduled to begin in late May, and he will be staging his sorties from a remote area of Cuba’s North Coast. This will afford him the cover to make a detour to Nassau to er…deliver the messenger, who will deliver the message.”
“And this messenger, Intrepid, can we count on him?” the fat man asked.
“I’ll let my friend answer,” Intrepid said.
“He’s Polish-Canadian, name of Jimmy Bonkowski. Actually remembers Oakes from the gold fields and despises him for screwing his family in a business deal. Despises Germans, of course. Despises Russians. Tolerates the British, barely. He has killed before and gotten away with it, and that was before we taught him our tricks at Camp X. He is a cold-blooded villain.”
“Cry havoc!” The fat man stood, gesturing theatrically. “And let slip the dogs of war.”
24 May 1943: Cayo Guillermo, 180 Nautical Miles Southeast of Havana
The men on Pilar belonged to a subculture with its own peculiar set of rituals. Whatever bird or beast was seen first, or seen in the greatest number, that species was said to own the day. Today was a sting-ray day because they were showing off; dozens were leaping into the air from the shallows off Billy Key, as Hemingway liked to call the little island.
Hemingway and his “crooks” had landed on the beach like an invading force, toting guns, ammo, and their last cases of cold beer. Because who doesn’t enjoy drinking beer while throwing hand grenades and blazing away with Tommy guns.
The new man was the center of attention today. Jimmy Bonkowski, on temporary assignment from the Canadian Army, was going to perform a demonstration of his pistol training at mysterious Camp X. The boat’s other small-arms expert, Marine Sergeant Don Saxon was openly skeptical, adhering to Marine doctrine that called for sighting down the barrel and none of that “Wild West shit.”
“Our teacher was known by the name Dangerous Dan. Him and another crazy military type came up with what them guys call ‘point shooting’,” Bonkowski said, with an accent that advertised Eastern European origins. Like the others, he was shirtless. Unlike the others, his chest, back and arms were criss-crossed with scars and stitch marks. A big Webley was holstered on his left hip oriented for a right-hand cross-draw.
“Dangerous and his buddy also invent this,” he said, reaching down his right leg and drawing the double-edged knife from its sheath. In a wink, he flipped it, caught it by the blade and pitched it overhand like a tomahawk. The knife stuck in the trunk of a palm tree 40 feet away, and stuck good. The Pole from Canada had their attention. “Sometimes you get lucky, no?” he said.
“Carry on, Geronimo,” Hemingway said, reaching into the cooler for another cold one.
“Dangerous says point-shoot was needed in case of operation without long guns because maybe you are disguised and not being able to hide them.” He drew the Webley. “So we find many enemies to kill and they are all around us. For this we have half-hip position.” He demonstrated the stance, feet spread, facing forward, elbow cocked. “Now you go from enemy to enemy using entire body—not arm, not eye—to aim. Pivot, shoot. Pivot shoot. Kill them all.”
The Basque, who specialized in grenade throwing, asked a question in Spanish. Hemingway translated. “He wants to know how long it takes to master this killing art”
“It takes many months, but it is not just time, but place for training. At X we had ‘House of Horrors’ for pistol training. It was building with—what you call it?— obstacle course inside. Targets jumped up. Targets came down from the ceiling. Rooms filled with smoke, small explosions. All the time, we shoot, reload. Shoot, reload. Kill them all.”
“Let’s have the demonstration, then,” Hemingway said. He and the men had planted driftwood stakes in a close pattern. They had pinned scraps of cloth on some and balanced cans on the rest. They constituted eight “enemies,” semi-surrounding Bonkowski. The onlookers stood back in the non-semi zone, positioned out of the line of likely fire, they hoped, with the cooler.
“Ready, set….Fire!” Hemingway shouted.
In under five seconds, Bonkowski had pivoted, shot and killed six of the enemies. He went down on one knee, opened the top break, ejected the shells and refilled the cylinder using a bullet speedloader. He rose and killed the last two. Pivot, shoot. Pivot, shoot.
“In my humble opinion,” Saxon said. “Those last two woulda got you.”
“Yes, if I am alone, I am dead,” Bonkowski said. “But maybe you are with me, eh?”
“Jimmy, you’ve still got four shots. I want you to plug the next sting-ray that jumps,” Hemingway said. Bonkowski pivoted and faced the shallows. A few seconds passed before two rays leaped into the air, one after another, beautiful things, flapping their great wings as if they really might fly. Bonkowski fired twice and the rays fell like a pair of clay pigeons.
“Good shooting, soldier.” The crew applauded, and Hemingway cocked his gangster gun. “Now, I’m gonna give it a shot with the Thompson.”
When the slaughter had ended, the men had gathered five of the dead rays to bring back to Pilar. “Jimmy, ever eaten scallops?” Hemingway asked.
“Scallops no. Are scallops sting rays?” Bonkowski asked.
“No scallops are a bivalve, like a clam—a real delicacy—but sting rays can be disguised to become scallops. Back at the boat, we’ll have Gregorio pound a sharpened pipe through these wings, the meat looks, tastes and feels like the muscle of a scallop, and Gregorio uses hot peppers, onions and lime juice to make what the Cubans call ceviche. You’re going to love it, my friend.
“Besides we must eat what we kill. My wife says so. She says we mustn’t machine gun rays for fun. I tell her it’s not for fun, but for the purpose of military training. Then she points out that we train while getting drunk. Point taken. So because we are having fun, we must pay homage to the rays, and therefore we must eat them like scallops.”
14 April 1943: Kriegsmarine Headquarters, Berlin
The admirals were old friends. Karl Doenitz was leader of the German Navy. His visitor, Wilhelm Canaris, directed the Abwehr German foreign intelligence service. Besides professional and personal ties the two men shared a hearty disdain for Nazi Foreign Minister Joachim Von Ribbentrop.
“We are losing the war in the East. Our U-Boats losses are way up, and that jackass thinks our priority should be to deliver a medal to the Duke of Windsor, a traitor and a jackass?” Doenitz said. “And so soon after the disaster with your spies.”
“And he has prevailed on the Fuhrer, who tells us to make it so,” Canaris said. Hitler had rebuked Canaris a year earlier after the Americans had quickly captured, tried and executed eight Abwehr agents that had been landed in the U.S. by U-boat.
“Our Swedish friend in Mexico reports that the Duke’s faith in Germany has begun to flag since the disaster at Stalingrad and the American invasion of North Africa. Secretly awarding this medal, the Order of the German Eagle, is Von Ribbentrop’s ludicrous way of compensating for our setbacks on the battlefield.”
“Give the prince a shiny object and he will continue to be our friend, eh Willy?” Doenitz forced a smile. “Isn’t that the same medal we gave to Mussolini? At least he has an army of sorts.”
“For what it’s worth, we think we have good plan, and, of course, it requires a U-boat insertion in the Caribbean.” Canaris said. “The delivery boy is a Francophone African, who will pose as Haitian and ride a Haitian sloop to Nassau, capital of the Bahamas; even today much island freight moves under sail.”
Canaris continued: “To us blacks are blacks, but the slightly lighter skinned people of the Bahamas look upon the Haitians as untermenschen. Haitian sloops bring cheap produce and charcoal to the Bahamas, and sometimes the crews stay to work the worst types of jobs. Another agent of ours, a trader in the Dominican Republic, says being the lowest of the low renders the Haitians nearly invisible to the white authorities.”
“U-176 with Dierksen is leaving for a patrol to that sector at the end of the month,” Doenitz said. “Have your African’s case officer meet with Dierksen and myself next week to work out the details, and we’ll see that the Duke receives his honors in a timely fashion. By the way, isn’t it a bit risky for a British ‘civil servant’ to be in possession a German Eagle in wartime?”
“Goering’s Swedish friend, Axel Wenner-Gren, though he is now exiled to Mexico, has arranged for a sympathetic third party in Nassau to ‘hold the bag’ as it were. The Duke will have to be satisfied with visiting rights until our ultimate victory,” Canaris said.
Doenitz thought he detected irony in the other man’s tone. Be careful, my friend. Be very careful.
Next: As they prepare for voyages, Hemingway cautions his captain not to feed the crew barracuda, and a spy from Africa gets to know his Haitian mates.