Acting Commander F. B. Proudfoot, Royal Navy, had every reason to be pleased as darkness fell on the evening of 6 February 1943. As he stood on the bridge of HMS Vanessa and looked at the 61 ships of Convoy SC-118 stretching over a front of seven miles, the screening ships of British Escort Group B2 had things under firm control. But for one of the finest escort performances yet seen in the Battle of the Atlantic, disaster could have overtaken them, for SC-118 had encountered one bad break after another.
The convoy, consisting originally of 44 merchant ships and tankers, had departed New York on 24 January. Off Newfoundland on the last day of January, Proudfoot’s Group B2 had taken over from the Western Local Escort, and the convoy was joined by 19 more merchantmen from Halifax and St. Johns. B2 was a strong force numerically for a slow merchant convoy, and consisted of three British destroyers, three British corvettes, the Free French corvette, Lobelia, and the Coast Guard Cutter Bibb (WPG-31). However, all of the group had not worked together as a team.
Late in January, B Service, the cryptographic section of the German Navy High Command, intercepted and broke an encyphered Allied routing message concerning Convoy SC-118, scheduled from New York to the North Channel, with valuable cargoes for Russia. U-boat Command had its first clue.
The second soon followed. At the end of the month, the U-456 had sighted eastbound Convoy HX-224 in a heavy westerly gale, and set out in pursuit. Five other boats were available, but all were astern of the convoy, and would require several days to catch up. The U-456 went in alone and attacked, sinking three ships on 2 February. It was not a heavy kill from a large convoy, but the sinking of one tanker was to have far reaching implications. Two days later, the U-632 picked up a survivor from this tanker who gratuitously informed the U-boat commander that another slow convoy was following on the same route two days behind HX-224. This incredible act of carelessness or treason was to cost the lives of hundreds of seamen and soldiers.
When Admiral Karl Doenitz, Commander- in-Chief, Navy, received the information, it erased the last doubts from his mind. He had the proposed routing of SC-118 from the deciphered message, but had been doubtful that the slow convoy would adhere to the route because of the attacks on HX-224. With the latest confirming information from the U-632, he decided that they would and acted accordingly. Concentrating all available boats into a group, designated Pfeil (Dagger), he ordered them on to the estimated track of the oncoming convoy, to patrol to the westward. His reasoning was faultless, and the following night, SC-107 ran into the middle of Group Dagger, then passed on to the east undetected! No one on either side was the wiser.
But early in the morning darkness, despite specific warnings that had been passed, a careless merchant seaman on the SS Annik, tinkering with a snowflake projector, fired it! The brilliant pyrotechnic display burst in the sky over the convoy. Startled men on 71 ships stared as the burning embers fell, and 20 miles away, the alert watch on the U-187 also saw it. The U-187 was a new boat, and this was her first contact after 22 days on an uneventful maiden patrol. She closed the convoy, determined its course and speed, and in the early dawn darkness, began transmitting a sighting report.
The message was copied by U-boat command. It was also received by the rescue vessel Toward, at the stern of SC-118, which had high- frequency direction finder gear (HF/DF). The Toward obtained a bearing on the U- boat signal, and promptly transmitted to HMS Vanessa. HMS Beverly was ahead of the convoy at the time, and with commendable alertness, changed course and started out the bearing without awaiting orders from the Vanessa. She would, she informed the Vanessa, search out 20 miles.
Less than an hour later, she sighted the U-187 on the surface and went after her at 22 knots. When the range had closed to 5,000 yards, orders were given to commence firing. The Beverly, however, was an old ex-American flush-decker, and her fire control equipment was antiquated. The gun pointer, unable to see the U-boat in the troughs of the heavy swell, could not fire. When the range had closed to 4,000 yards, the U-187 dived.
The Beverly was joined by HMS Virny, and the two destroyers set up a systematic search around the area. The Vimy made Asdic contact, and delivered three depth charge attacks one after the other in rapid succession.
After the last attack, the U-boat broke surface near the Beverly, and as the destroyer dashed in firing, slid slowly under by the stern, while the crew abandoned ship. The Beverly picked up 40 officers and men before the Vimy signalled over, “Leave some for me!” The captain and last three men were obligingly left to the Vimy.
It had been a classic reaction by the escorts. The contact boat had been quickly pounced on as soon as it transmitted a sighting report and silenced for keeps. In the escort business, a little prevention is worth tons of cure.
But U-boat Command had copied the contact report on first transmission, and relayed it to the 16 boats of Group Dagger. Five from Group Haudegen were also ordered to the attack.
Group B2 was itching for a fight, despite the many breaks that had gone against them, and as the wolfpack closed in, they struck back sharply and aggressively. As the U-boats moved toward the convoy, chattering freely, the Toward and the Bibb obtained HF/DF bearings on their radio signals. When a loud signal indicated a U-boat close by, it was reported to the Vanessa, who would promptly order an escort to “cast out” on the bearing to locate and attack it. Throughout the afternoon and night, escorts were time and again cast out as far as 20 miles. The Beverly caught a surfaced U-boat, which got inside her turning circle, and a mad circling chase ensued, with the destroyer firing charges to the side from her K-guns whenever she could get the U-boat close abeam. Finally the U-boat managed to dive, and the Beverly rejoined, reporting that she had given her opponent a “good plastering.” During the next three hours, the Campanula, Bibb, Beverly, Vimy, Lobelia, and Mignonette made depth charge attacks on U- boats attempting to close the convoy. There Were targets aplenty for all. The hard-nosed escorts not only prevented any from getting inside the screen, but so badly harassed the U-boats that they lost contact with the convoy entirely. No one was molested during the night, and the Lobelia caught another U-boat on the surface, illuminated with a searchlight, and shook it up thoroughly as it dived.
After the Lobelia abandoned the search for the U-boat, she ran across the American transport Henry Mallory, straggling well astern of the convoy. Closing the big vessel, the Lobelia tried to raise her with a signal light, but could get no reply. The Mallory was a fast vessel capable of 14 knots, and there was no excuse for her to be so far astern, heavily loaded with troops as she was.
The steamer West Portal had straggled from the convoy during the night, and at 1300 the next day paid the usual price for such an act. A U-boat overtook her and sent her to the bottom. As she slowly settled, her desperate calls for help were received by the Vanessa. But her position was not known, and with U- boats again closing the convoy, no escorts could be sent to search. During the afternoon the Beverly made two attacks, and the Vimy made one. The convoy was still secure, but the West Portal died with all hands—a victim of her own wandering.
The lesson of the West Portal should have been taken to heart by the Mallory, but by 1500 she was again straggling well astern of the convoy. Three other stragglers were ten miles astern, and at 1915, the SS Polyktor dropped aft with a steering casualty. After two days of unceasing and successful effort, Commander Proudfoot still had a heavy cross to bear.
On the night of the 5th, my ship, the USCGC Ingham (WPG-35), joined after a highspeed run from Iceland, and we were being followed by the American destroyers Schenck (DD-159) and Babbitt (DD-128), dispatched on Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches, urgent request for support for Group B2. SC-118 would soon have 11 escorts, an unheard of number at that stage of the war.
Early in the morning, the weather improved and the first R.A.F. Liberator arrived from Iceland, firing a green identification flare before venturing within gun range of the convoy. The “Airedales” promptly got about their business, and within 20 minutes had chased the first U-boat down astern of the convoy where Ingham and Bibb, the only long- legged escorts, were ordered astern to work with the Liberators and sit on the contacts.
Numerous U-boat sightings were made, and four attacks carried out. The U-465 was badly damaged, and broke off to limp homeward. Eleven U-boats had sighted aircraft and been forced to dive, losing their freedom of movement as they did so. As a result, no U- boats were in contact with the convoy after mid-afternoon.
But the ocean was literally alive with U- boats, and the escorts could not be everywhere. At 1820, the radio silence was broken by an SOS, followed by the Polyktor’s call sign. The unfortunate straggler had run onto the C-266, and had gone down with heavy loss of life.
Shortly after dark, three boats made contact, and broadcast the convoy’s course and speed. It was now only a matter of time before others joined them for the attack.
But Proudfoot and pugnacious Group B2 were having no part of waiting like lambs for the slaughter. When the Bibb got a strong radio HF/DF signal to the south, the Vimy was ordered out on the bearing. Leaving her station on the port beam, the destroyer slipped ahead of the convoy and went boiling out to starboard. Fifteen miles from the convoy, Asdic contact was made. Slowing to 15 knots, she began a deliberate attack.
The U-267 had surfaced soon after dark, only to be driven down again within one minute by a Liberator which got in to two miles before being sighted. Now, 20 minutes later, she was listening with her hydrophone, attempting to pick up the convoy. A slight sound was heard to the north, where the convoy was estimated to be. Turning to the northeast, she eased up to periscope depth. Suddenly, the hydrophone operator yelled, “Loud screw beats. Destroyer!”
“Take her down! 300 feet!”
Before the startled control room crew could react, depth charges began exploding around her. The lights went out, and the U-boat became bow-heavy, nosing down at a 50-degree angle. Men fell and slid against the vertical bulkheads.
“Both back full!”
The dive was stopped, and with full up plane, engines were thrown ahead. But the boat again started down. Finally, at 700 feet, periously close to the depth at which water pressure would crush the boat’s hull, the descent was stopped by blowing all ballast. At half-speed on one engine, the other being disabled, the U-267 came back to 250 feet and crept slowly away from the convoy. Severely damaged, and trailing a wide oil slick, she turned for home on one noisy engine. The crew waited shaken and pale for the next attack. It never came. The Vimy was unable to regain Asdic contact, and returned to the convoy. Her people were not overly optimistic about their attack.
Throughout the evening, the pack attempted to penetrate the screen without success. The Lobelia, Abelia, and Babbitt caught U-boats on the surface and worked them over. The last attack by the Lobelia badly damaged the U-262, and she retreated at 300 feet, en route to a repair yard for a long stay.
It is unfortunate that at that instant the curtain could not have been dropped on what had been a great escort performance. For nearly three days, surrounded by 20 U-boats, SC-118 had battled on, and not one ship in convoy had been reported hit. Two distant stragglers, it is true, had been lost, but with the convoy seriously threatened, there was little anyone could have done to prevent their demise. The wolfpack, on the other hand, had been given a thorough working over. One boat had been sunk and several damaged. As February 7 arrived, U-boat Command, thoroughly discouraged, recorded in the War Diary that only 11 boats were left fit to operate, and the pack had lost contact. The staff was mystified. Why weren’t the boats able to get in and attack? At the very least, why weren’t they able to keep contact?
Had the choice been theirs, it is doubtful if Group B2 would have wished to end the scrap then. They were heavy winners, and like poker players with good hands and most of the chips stacked in front of them, there was a strong desire to see it through. Then a new player entered the game.
At 0213, his conning tower broke the water four miles to the starboard side of the convoy, then the hull shook itself clear of water and rose on the long swells. The captain climbed quickly to the bridge, followed by the watch officer and lookouts. He scanned the horizon carefully, and satisfied that it was clear, turned his attention to the convoy which could be dimly seen to the north.
Turning to the watch officer, he said, “Get out the contact report now.”
The message went out to U-boat Command:
“CONVOY AK6668, 60 DEGREES, 7 KNOTS.”
It was signed, FORSTNER.
Kapitänleutnant Baron Siegfried Paul Leo von Forstner was not only a crack U-boat commander, but one who appeared to be at his best against heavily escorted convoys, which most commanders were reluctant to attack. Some of us in the escorts protecting SC-118 had already observed his work in November, when he led the attack against Convoy SC-107 that resulted in the sinking of 15 ships, the worst convoy disaster of the year.
The son of an aristocratic Prussian family, whose men had for generations served with great distinction as Army and Navy officers, the young Baron von Forstner had entered the Kriegsmarine in 1930, followed by his brother Wolfgang, who also became a U-boat commander. Two other brothers were Army officers and, of the four, only Wolfgang was to survive the war. The Forstners’ uncle, George Gunther von Forstner, had commanded U-1 and U-28 in World War I with considerable success, and their interest in U-boats was keen. But when Siegfried von Forstner graduated from the Naval School, the new U-boat fleet had not yet begun building, and he applied for training as an artillery technical officer, after which he served four years in the cruiser Nürnberg. As a result, when he entered U-boat School in 1940, many of his year group were already at sea in submarines. His progress in the school appears to have been rapid, and shortly after graduation, having been slated for an early command, he was assigned for training as a student commander under the famous Otto Kretchmer, a Naval School classmate and the leading U-boat ace of the German Navy. After a long war patrol, with many “live” demonstrations by the high-scoring Kretchmer, Forstner in January 1941 took command of the new U-402.
Under him, she was to prove a lucky and successful boat, and morale was high. “He never demanded of others what he would not demand of himself,” recalls Admiral Doenitz. “His crew recognized this, and it made them perform extremely well.”
Not until July 1942, on her fourth war patrol, was she damaged by a heavy depth charge attack off Cape Hatteras. With batteries badly crippled, Forstner brought her back safely 3,000 miles to LaPallice, France. The close shave had little deterrent effect, and on the next cruise, he cut SC-107 to pieces, breaking off only when his last torpedo was expended.
Now, three weeks out of LaPallice on his sixth war patrol, and with a full load of torpedoes, the aggressive young Prussian had been driving hard for two days attempting to locate SC-118. Swinging toward the convoy and ringing up flank speed, he started his approach. In the darkness, the starboard column of the convoy loomed up clearly through the powerful telescope mounted on the bridge attack sight. Seconds later, the torpedo petty officer at the attack computer chanted, “on- on-on,” indicating that the solution was complete and the firing data was being accurately transmitted to the torpedoes. Of escorts, there were no signs.
Less than two hours before midnight, the Bibb had reported a strong HF/DF signal to the south of the convoy, and was promptly told to run it down. She had cast out, and was now 15 miles south of the convoy, and her station on the starboard side had not been filled with another vessel. As Forstner began his approach, the Mignonette picked up a contact astern of the convoy, and the Campanula moved from the starboard quarter to help. The entire starboard side and quarter of the convoy was uncovered and the U-402 moved in swiftly.
From 1,500 yards, Forstner hit a small freighter, which caught fire and sank. Quickly shifting targets, he fired two fish at a large tanker, but both missed.
Swinging with hard rudder, he fired from his stern tube, and was rewarded with a loud concussion two minutes later. The tanker turned on a red light and fired flares.
The man was a thorough workman. Doubtful whether or not the tanker would sink, he closed it again after ten minutes and put an “eel” (electric torpedo) in the engine room. Twenty minutes later, the American tanker R. E. Hopkins went down. The small freighter had been the convoy rescue vessel Toward, and her sinking was to have a consequence out of all proportion to her size.
After firing the fifth torpedo, Forstner cut astern of the convoy, and slowed down to trail while his crew worked feverishly to reload the torpedo tubes. Snowflakes and starshells lit up the night, and rafts, survivors, and boats marked his trail of destruction.
The tight rein that B2 had been holding on the U-boats began to unravel. Eight minutes after the U-402 put the second torpedo in the Hopkins, the U-614, taking advantage of the confusion on the starboard side, slipped in from port and sent the straggling freighter Harmala to the bottom with two torpedoes. The Harmala had contributed to her own destruction. After Forstner’s first attack to starboard, she had hauled out of the hot area, and had headed across the stern of the convoy for the port side. When she resumed course, she was three miles astern, and was hit six minutes later.
Three ships had been torpedoed in 20 minutes, and there was no rescue vessel to pick up survivors; the rescue crew were themselves the first victims. The Mignonette was told off to pick up survivors, with the Lobelia to cover her. Only two escorts, HMS Campanula and the USS Sc bench, were left to cover the stern of the convoy.
The newly arrived Schenck had been an irritant to Proudfoot all night. Earlier, he had told the American destroyer to take station on the port quarter to fill in the gap left by the Lobelia's departure. But, for some reason, she appeared to have lingered in the van between the Vanessa and the Abelia, where according to Proudfoot, “She was a nuisance.” Now, with three ships torpedoed, the Schenck was, he thought, up on the starboard bow, diagonally across the convoy from where she should have been. When the Campanula reported an Asdic contact astern, the Escort Commander decided to “dispose of” the Schenck by sending her to help the Campanula.
In actual fact, the much maligned Schenck was on her assigned station on the port quarter. It is likely that the destroyer in the van was the Babbitt, a sister ship of the Schenck, which at 0100 had made Asdic contact ahead of the convoy, and dropped back into the inner screen while attacking. But when the orders came through to assist on the starboard quarter, the Schenck dutifully started out, cutting across the stern of the convoy, where a brilliant display of pyrotechnics marked the spot the U-614 had gotten in her lick. At 0323, the destroyer sighted life rafts, and using them as the datum, began an antisubmarine sweep. A radar contact was made at two miles, and starshells were fired, revealing a black shape ahead. Receiving no reply to her challenge, the Schenck barrelled in to ram. At the last minute, the target was identified as the Campanula. Both engines were backed full, the rudder put hard over, and a collision was narrowly averted.
With the Schenck and the Campanula tangled up with each other, the Mignonette and the Lobelia picking up survivors, and the Bibb running down an HF/DF bearing, the stern was devoid of escorts. Proudfoot had lost control of the situation.
That it had occurred is no reflection on an able escort commander. Communications were so jammed that he was unaware of the exact whereabouts of many of his units, and the Vanessa's radar had no PPI scope to provide an over-all view of their disposition. Also, like other British escort commanders, he had the burden of handling his own ship as well as directing the escort and the convoy. In a night convoy melee, the U. S. system of having the escort commander riding on another captain’s ship has obvious advantages.
Faced with a rapidly worsening situation, he still might have restored control by taking the Vanessa astern of the convoy to see what was happening. But he remained ahead— a good position for a cavalry leader, but not for the escort commander of a slow convoy.
Quick to take advantage of the vast gap left in the screen astern, Forstner overhauled the convoy and at 0340 hit the big tanker Daghild, leaving her sinking.
Confused and hurt though they were by Forstner’s deadly thrusts, Group B2 refused to fold and struck back hard.
The little Lobelia, after her TKO over U-262, had headed back toward the convoy for the nth time. En route she ran upon the pitifully few survivors of the Harmala, and stopped to pick them up. Before she could do so, radar contact was made on a target three miles away. It was the U-609, coming in to see what was going on. The submarine had picked the wrong man. Lieutenant Pierre de Morsier, a fighting Frenchman in every sense of the word, took off after the U-boat, and a long chase began. Alternately firing starshells and HE from his one forward gun, he gradually closed the range, and when the U-boat headed for the cellar, established Asdic contact and plastered it with a well placed pattern. Thirty seconds after the last charge exploded, there was a low rumbling noise, followed by a loud explosion. The Asdic contact became woolly and faded as the shattered remains of the U-609 sank 2,000 fathoms to the bottom.
The Abelia, on the port bow, had been watching the running fight between the Lobelia and the U-609 when she was herself confronted with a radar contact just ahead of the convoy. Racing in, she got within three ship lengths before the U-boat slid under, followed by a full pattern of depth charges. One more U-boat limped away out of the fight.
Fighting B2 had again regained the initiative. Only the bolder U-boat men were attempting to penetrate the screen, and they were being badly mauled.
But the fatal void of escorts astern of the convoy had still not been filled, and SC-118 was vulnerable to any U-boat commander making a thrust from astern. One ship was even more exposed than the rest, and in the cold darkness before dawn, the American troopship Henry Mallory, straggling well astern of the convoy, and jampacked with troops, was struck by a torpedo.
The sinking of the Henry Mallory was a grim spectacle, and as the story unfolded, it became uglier. Questionable planning by naval authorities, poor station keeping, an inadequately trained crew, lack of leadership, and panic contributed to the disaster. The story is not made prettier by the knowledge that, even after she was hit, the loss of life need not have been heavy. The only bright spots were the isolated cases of individual sacrifice and heroism, and the rescue efforts of the escorts, led by the Coast Guard Cutter Bibb.
The Mallory had been chartered by the Navy from the Clyde Mallory Line as a troop transport, and in addition to 81 crew members, carried 136 Army, 173 Navy, and 72 Marine personnel. There was also a Navy Armed Guard of 34 men, for the ship was well armed.
Though capable of 14 knots, unusually fast compared to most merchant vessels running the North Atlantic, the Mallory had been assigned to a slow, seven-knot convoy. On noting her in the convoy, the Escort Commander expressed surprise at her presence in such a slow group of vessels.
It is likely that the Convoy and Routing Section of COMINCH considered that her speed, though high enough to justify independent routing with cargo, was not great enough to justify the risk with troops aboard. The decision to place her in a slow SC convoy rather than the faster HX 224 which preceded it was undoubtedly due to the fact that no Iceland section was being detached from HX-224.
Even her position within the convoy was ill chosen. She was easily the most valuable ship, and should have been well up in the middle of the convoy. Instead, she was well to the left side and aft, where she was subject to attacks from port or astern.
Her assignment within the convoy is somewhat academic, for during the trip she repeatedly dropped astern and straggled, an inexcusable thing for a ship of her speed. The temptation of an inexperienced master to leave a convoy under attack and seek a cooler spot is understandable, though such a course of action often proves fatal. The Mallory, however, had straggled on the 4th and 5th when the convoy was not under attack and the escorts had the U-boats firmly under their thumbs. To add to the damning indictment of poor judgment, the Mallory did not zig-zag while straggling. With her speed she could have made a radical zig-zag pattern and still kept up with the convoy. Had she done so, she would have proven a more difficult target.
One survivor claimed that the ship ahead of the Mallory was continually surging back and forth, making station keeping difficult. During the night the ship astern of the Mallory had pulled up alongside, then had moved ahead, forcing the transport to drop aft. The master of this “snuggler” must at least be given credit for a more developed sense of preservation than the master of the Mallory, for during the early hours of 7 February, the trooper had dropped well astern of the convoy, where she was steering a straight course at seven knots, an easy target for the first U-boat to come along.
At 0600, lookouts were relieved, and some of the gun crews were allowed to secure. The weather was cloudy with snow squalls, the wind was rising, and the sea was rough. The oncoming watch and lookouts were not yet adapted to the dark, and in the reduced visibility, could see little. It would be another 15 minutes or so before most of them could see well in the darkness.
A number of eyes were well accustomed to the night, however. Less than a mile away, four pairs of excellent Zeiss binoculars were trained on the dark shape of the Mallory. The captain of the U-boat called down the hatch, describing what he saw.
“This is a very large freighter of about 9,000 tons with five hatches and a high funnel. Looks like a Mathura type. Range, one thousand, five hundred. Bow right, angle one-oh- oh. Speed eight. Standby to fire!”
The U-boat was the U-402, with the ubiquitous Forstner and his deadly crew. He now had four scalps on his belt for the night, for after hitting the Daghild, he had sunk the Ajrika within the convoy. But with four torpedoes remaining, he was again on the hunt.
Forstner wasted no time, and promptly cut toward the target, which was cruising slowly along on a straight course, with no escorts anywhere around. It was a setup where even a green Leutnant zur See could not miss. Perhaps he should let the executive officer or watch officer make this attack. But he quickly dismissed the notion. The range had closed to 1,300 yards, and there wasn’t time. Everything was ready. One “eel” would be enough on a setup like this, He took a last bearing.
“Fire!”
Aboard the Mallory, there was no warning, no torpedo track, no submarine sighted. The torpedo crashed into No. 3 hold on the starboard side, wrecked the sick bay, destroyed one lifeboat, and blew off No. 4 hatch. Damage was heavy in the Marines’ compartment. The concussion lifted the bunks out of their supports, dropping them onto the ones below. Many Marines were injured and dazed in the pileup. The refrigerating plant was wrecked, and the nauseous ammonia fumes, mixed with the smoke of explosives, spread through many compartments.
No general alarm was sounded. Most of the passengers and crew were jarred awake by the explosion and rushed on deck, many only partially clothed. But in some compartments, men slept through the explosion, being unable to distinguish the shock from those caused by the ship pounding in the heavy seas.
The extent of panic may never be known, for the testimony of survivors is conflicting. That there was confusion and fright is certain, and understandable. In such circumstances, it can occur in the best disciplined man-of- war. In the minutes immediately after the explosion, men were caught in one compartment by a jammed door. In another, the ladder leading topside was blown away. When men are trapped and their accustomed exits blocked, the classic ingredients for panic are there, and it is likely that it momentarily took over. But cooler heads prevailed and the door was forced open. Lines were thrown down into the other compartment, and men began to help others out. But some were not as steady, and one survivor related, “We were all helping each other, then I saw a bayonet come out. I grabbed a rope and climbed out hand over hand.”
Leadership, the best panic preventer, was not forthcoming from the ship’s company. No commands came from the bridge after the attack. No flares were sent up. No radio distress message was sent out. No orders were given to abandon ship. As the ship settled slowly, individual boats and rafts were put over, apparently at the initiative of the men gathered around each boat.
Though the seas were rough, the boats and rafts should have been able to get away safely, for there was ample time, and the ship was settling on an even keel. But the crew was not up to the task. Only five of the nine undamaged boats got away from the ship. One of these was partially swamped with water, and another was badly overloaded. A third was only partially loaded, and capsized soon afterwards. A fourth was launched with the seacock open and began flooding. The pumps did not work, and the desperate men bailed with hands and caps in a futile attempt to keep the water down. Three boats had capsized as they were lowered, one of them being loaded with injured men. No. 4 boat hung up while being lowered, and was cut from the falls, falling into the water where dozens of men were swimming. The absence of supervision turned the abandoned ship into a riot, and the soldier and sailor passengers were left to fend for themselves.
Thirty minutes after the Mallory rolled over and went down, the cries of the swimmers, the wounded, and dying had ceased, leaving only the survivors in boats and rafts. As SC-118 opened out further to the eastward no one in the convoy or screen even knew the ship had been hit.
Had they known, it is doubtful if escorts would have been detached to help, for Forstner was again among the merchantmen. After firing one torpedo at the Mallory, he had set off in pursuit of the convoy. Fortunately, he had not realized that his latest victim was a loaded trooper, or he might have fired another torpedo to administer the coup de grace. In the next hour, the U-402 torpedoed the Greek Kalliopi, and only with the coming of dawn did Forstner finally submerge to reload tubes and give his weary crew a brief rest. But before noon, he was again on the surface and racing after the convoy.
Within an hour after the Mallory was hit, the Schenck, sweeping astern of the convoy, sighted numerous lights in the water and requested permission to check them and, if they were survivors, pick them up. The Escort Commander refused the request, advised that the Lobelia would pick up any survivors, and directed the destroyer to resume her station. Neither the Escort Commander nor the Schenck realized that, at the time, the Lobelia was fully engaged 25 miles astern. The lights undoubtedly marked the scene of the Mallory's sinking, and with the Schenck's departure from the area went the last chance of survival for many in the water.
About 20 minutes later, the cutter Bibb, running down an HF/DF bearing astern of the convoy, chanced onto the survivors of the Mallory and commenced rescue operations. Several hours later, she was joined by the Ingham and two corvettes. The rescue vessels cruised through the area, covered with debris and hundreds of bodies, picking up those who survived from the stormy seas. The Bibb recovered 212; the Ingham, 22; one of the corvettes, four. Less than half of the Mallory's people survived.
With dawn, R.A.F. Liberators arrived and, throughout the day, tore into the trailing submarines. One was sunk, and most of the rest dived and gave up the chase. But Forstner continued doggedly after the convoy. Several times he was forced to dive by approaching aircraft, and each time he quickly surfaced and continued on. In mid-afternoon, he received a radio message:
FORSTNER WELL DONE. STAY THERE AND HOLD CONTACT. ALL BOATS MUST ARRIVE YET. THE DEPTH CHARGES ALSO GIVE OUT. STAY TOUGH. THE CONVOY IS FRIGHTFULLY IMPORTANT. DOENITZ.
The Admiral was right. Some of the escorts did not have enough depth charges for a full pattern, and others were approaching fuel exhaustion. Forstner continued after the convoy, and shortly before midnight, saw the destroyer Babbitt stopped by the sinking Greek freighter Adamas, which had been rammed in the convoy by another merchant ship. The American destroyer was a tempting target, but Forstner had only one torpedo left, and the heavily laden merchantmen were up ahead. Just after midnight, he caught up with and sank the British Newton Ash with his last torpedo. Unable to make further attacks, he took over the trailer’s job, and began transmitting continuous beacon signals.
This tenacity nearly cost him his life, for the Bibb picked up the beacon signal on HF/DF and homed in. Her newly installed SG radar made contact at 4,500 yards, and the cutter went to general quarters. At 1,700 yards, believing the U-boat to be in position for a shot at the convoy, Commander Roy L. Raney of the Bibb opened up with starshells. They lit off over the surprised U-boat, but the shock of the third salvo knocked out the Bibb's radar, and her gunners were blinded by the gun flashes. Turning away, with the cutter only a half mile off, the U-402 escaped unseen on the surface.
Ireland-based Liberators and Sunderlands arrived at dawn, and at 1000, the last U-boat broke off the chase. Characteristically, it was the U-402. He headed for the barn with one engine running on five cylinders, a hot thrust bearing, and both compressors leaking.
On the German side, Group Dagger had been badly mauled. Three U-boats had been sunk, four heavily damaged, and several others were limping home badly shaken. Admiral Doenitz said, “It was perhaps the hardest convoy battle of the whole war.”
What was not realized at the time was that in this bitter pitched battle, of the eight ships sunk within the convoy by U-boats, seven were sunk by one man. Three others were sunk while straggling, and one in a collision.
Except for Forstner, the week-long battle around SC-118 would have been an overwhelming victory for the escorts. One determined individual had proven that, in a struggle increasingly dependent on sophisticated weapons systems, the human could still prevail.
No surface escort was ever to get him. Following his great one-man performance against SC-118, von Forstner sailed from LaPallice on 20 April 1943 for the North Atlantic. On 13 May, he fell in with Convoy SC-129. It was protected by a strong Group B2, as well as a support group, Liberators, and carrier aircraft. The Escort Commander was now the experienced Commander Donald Macintyre, Royal Navy, a highly successful U-boat killer who had cut short the careers of two top U- boat aces, Schepke and Kretchmer, in one night. In the battle that followed, Forstner’s was the only one of the 12 boats engaged which managed to penetrate the screen, and after getting into the convoy, he sank two ships. In the counterattack that followed, the U-402 was heavily damaged by depth charges but escaped. Three months were spent refitting at LaPallice before she sailed again on her 8th war patrol, during which she was one of the wolfpack which attacked ON-202 in mid- September, using acoustic homing torpedoes for the first time. Six merchantmen and three escorts were sunk with heavy loss of life, and three U-boats were destroyed by the escorts. During this battle a Liberator made a run on the U-402 but was driven off by heavy antiaircraft fire, a success which may have influenced Forstner’s subsequent actions.
On the morning of 13 October, Forstner, who had then been at sea for over five weeks, was on the surface several hundred miles north of the Azores racing southward for a rendezvous with a “milch cow” to replenish his nearly empty tanks. Just after noon, a TBF from the USS Card (CVE-11), piloted by Lieutenant Commander Howard M. Avery, U. S. Navy, the squadron commander of VC-9, sighted the U-boat 25 miles south of the carrier and dived in to attack with guns blazing. Seeing that the boat was not diving, and having no depth bombs, Avery pulled up, circled a mile astern to avoid the German fire, and called for help. Another TBF, piloted by Ensign B. C. Shelia, U. S. Navy, arrived, caught the U-402 by surprise, but missed by 200 yards with a depth bomb. Forstner saw his chance and pulled the plug. As the rusty conning tower sank beneath the sea, Avery raced in and dropped one of the new Mk-24 homing mines 100 feet beyond the swirl where the U-402 had disappeared. The mine homed on the cavitation noises of the speeding U-boat, and 25 seconds later went off with a violent explosion. Soon the spot was marked only by a spreading oil slick and three cylindrical metal objects. There were no survivors. Another of the Aces was gone and Doenitz would be hard pressed to replace him. Men who could “stay tough” were not common.