The Surrender—Copenhagen, Denmark, May 1945: We were all lined up on the fantail of the heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen—our commander, the executive officer and we, the department officers. Facing us were the commander and department officers of the British cruiser HMS Dido. Upon order of the German Commander in Chief, our ship’s flag, jack, and pennant had been lowered earlier and replaced by the international code flag “C,” a randomly selected letter of the alphabet that replaced our name; we were no longer the Prinz Eugen. With typically impressive British ceremony, the ship was handed over to the Royal Navy.
Some days later she and the German light cruiser Nurnberg sailed around Skagen to Germany, escorted by British cruisers and destroyers. Before reaching the port of Wilhelmshaven our guards turned off, and from the Dido we received the appeasing blinker message in German: “K and K: Auf Wiedersehen in besseren Tagen” (Goodbye until better days).
Most members of the Prinz Eugen’s crew were eager to be released from the navy and return home. The rest of us, about one-third of the crew, remained on board.
The ship was taken into a dry dock to repair her war damages, and the British commander in charge told the German crew to see that the warship was maintained in a seaworthy condition. For the next few months our warship of the German Fleet fell under British command.
At the Potsdam Conference in July and August, the three Allies decided to turn over the Prinz Eugen to the United States. We had been nervous, lest our ship fall under Soviet control and we become prisoners of war. But the question remained: what was going to happen to our ship? The Allies showed their gratitude for our perseverance on board by granting short but most welcome home leave during which we were entitled to wear our uniforms and the officers and warrant officers allowed to carry their daggers. (This was a time of strict nonfratemization when civilians were not even allowed to have pocketknives.)
As the year 1945 was drawing to its close, rumors about the future of the Prinz Eugen circulated furiously. Everybody pretended to know better: “She will be incorporated in the U. S. Navy.’’
“No, impossible, think of the difference in the armoring system, the lack of spares—even the smallest part will require special manufacture.”
“The ship had been bought by an American multimillionaire to have her turned into a fancy hotel-restaurant.” “No, the U. S. admiralty would never agree.”
“She will be ground up and end as scrap metal.” “Maybe, but why then bestow the pain on the ship’s repair?”
Before Christmas 1945, the Prinz Eugen was moved to Bremerhaven, the U. S. enclave in Germany, and at long last the veil of secrecy was lifted. The German crew, after being brought up to the required strength, would sail the cruiser to the United States, on U. S. payroll, under the status “employed enemy personnel.” Said one of my junior radiomen, “You were right, Lieutenant Commander, advising to hang on and see what happens with the Prinz. ’ ’
A new period as crew members of a U. S. Navy ship was starting for every one of us. After the ship was moored to the supply quay, big U. S. Army trucks got alongside to unload piles of food, cigarettes, etc. They presented beaming countenances not only to us, but also to the crews of other smaller German warships and hospital vessels to whom all the Prinz Eugen's food of German origin was distributed. We had taken plenty of it on board at Gotenhafen in a shotgun action just before the Soviets arrived.
Activity was eager on the Prinz Eugen to prepare her to go to sea again and to ready accommodations for a skeleton U. S. crew of ten officers and 60 sailors. Several compartments were prepared to lodge the bluejackets. Our “lords” (a nickname for German sailors) were astonished to see comfortable berths put up and to learn that hammocks were unknown on U. S. ships of our size. A special cabin had to be found for one black sailor, who the Americans said had to be bunked separately. Our teleprinter’s room—out of service anyway—was accepted as a single.
From films we knew that the Americans were a coffee-drinking nation. But what about the Navy? Well, one of the very first actions on board the Prim Eugen was the installation of coffee machines—plenty of them, distributed over the whole ship, one in sight of another, and all fitted with gadgets for consuming the stimulating drink around the clock.
Were there any special requirements for the officers’ quarters? Yes. “Your leather bunks are damned hard,” said the Americans. “Let’s get another mattress on top.” While some of my shipmates had to move, I, in the meantime, offered to act as liaison officer between the U. S. and the German crew and therefore was allowed to keep my comfortable single underneath the ship’s bridge. The U. S. commanding officer. Captain A. H. Graubart, got his quarters in the Prinz Eugen's flag country, since the cruiser had been designed to carry a task force commander and staff. Our German commanding officer, Captain H. J. Reinicke, kept his quarters nearby; this was an ideal solution, especially since it allowed intellectual exchange between two men with quite different personalities.
5 January 1946: The Stars and Stripes were hoisted and the cruiser was put into service of the U. S. Navy as the USS Prim Eugen (IX-300). It was a very good feeling to see our ship flying a flag again. And we had a thrilling task—sailing her across the Atlantic!
The stormy voyage required the work of every hand and did not allow much time for us to have personal contact with our American mates, with whom we soon would spend so much time. However, the first test and subsequent verification of a functioning cooperation involved the communication department. The U. S. Liberty ship F. C. Hicks was calling for help 1,000 miles east of New York, so our ship turned back to rescue her. Later on, to everyone’s relief, we received the signal that the Hicks was seaworthy again and able to navigate under her own power.
What a thrill to see the U. S. East Coast and to moor in Boston Harbor! We had our first talks with American civilians—dockyard workers, engineers, and specialists of the shipbuilding yard. Said one: “Hey, you look like we do over here and behave like we do.” What was he expecting to see? A guy with a knife between his teeth? I dare not go into details.
The next day everyone was caught by surprise by the great attention the newspapers paid to the arrival of the Prim Eugen. The press reports and headlines varied— objective, impartial, strange, spiteful. No wonder. One rendered interview was quite amusing: “These Heinis are jolted not to find any evidence of heavy bomb damage at Boston Harbor as the Nazi propaganda had told them.” I was pretty sure that none of our crew expected to see such things. But our sailors were astonished to see that every dockyard workman seemed to own a car, while at home in Germany he would ride a bicycle; it took hours after cease-work until the last big American car had left the dockyard gates.
Both Americans and Germans exhibited great desire to exchange experiences and correct misperceptions based on lack of true information. The German captain and I were invited by radio station WCOP to talk about the ship’s history and to portray German postwar life. The show was broadcast nationwide and live without interruption.
We were very disappointed that no shore leave was granted to the German officers and crewmen. But we did hear of plans for conducted tours! One omniscient press correspondent, however, knew better: The tour “has been vetoed in Washington,” he wrote. Everyone was deeply disappointed.
The press, of course, also knew the ultimate fate of the Prinz Eugen. She would be put to sea again as guinea pig in an atom bomb test in the Pacific. Said our German captain during an interview: I’d rather see the ship atomized than go to the scrap heap. It’s a sad thing being the last captain of such a fine ship, but better she is sunk than left to rot. Perhaps through the tests the ship can be of great value to science.”
The disclosure of the cruiser’s final end did not really motivate the Americans in the crew to strive to acquaint themselves with the strange and complicated operations of a soon-to-be-scuttled warship. At the Philadelphia base all nontechnical members of the German crew were sent home and replaced with U. S. Navy crewmen and officers, whose training was continued. The training was not without friction, however; finding the appropriate English translation for name plates on valves, dials, meters, operating levers, etc., gave headaches to both sides. The narrowness of the German ship, in contrast to U. S. surface ships, meant that the Prinz Eugen lacked adequate ventilation. Moreover, all her engineering equipment jammed closely together. Naturally, all of this was irritating and did not support the teaching.
Now and then personal quarrels between members of the two crews over money or gambling required arbitration. Such cases were subject to captain’s mast in the presence of the German liaison officer. Finding a verdict presented problems when crew members’ declarations contradicted each other; who was to be believed? The bluejacket or the kraut? No such problems existed among the officers. The atmosphere was easygoing, both on duty and during leisure in the officers’ mess, with joint English-German movies and other entertainment. In some cases where language barriers did not exist, friendships developed. Occasionally the U. S. first lieutenant and I played music together.
During leisure hours there was time to chat with wharf laborers and to make strange observations: a workman on deck throwing a brand-new carton containing dozens of brass bolts and nuts overboard after having taken out only a couple of them. His explanation: “Well, brother, returning the box entails lots of paperwork, five copies or so, and waiting time. Anyway, them guys making the stuff like to see them consumed so they can make more.”
Strolling about once before lunch, we saw one of the officers’ mess attendants opening pineapple tins. About every second one he threw one into the trash. His explanation: “Today’s menu card is offering sliced pineapple for sweets; therefore, I’m just sorting out the cube-shaped.” I asked him to stop the procedure and called one of the German boys. A bluejacket took great pleasure in cutting giant sausages into pieces and feeding the meat to shrieking sea gulls at the ship’s rail. Were these minor events not worth talking about? Maybe nowadays, but not 40 years ago. And besides, life does not consist only of big events.
At the beginning of February 1946, the Prinz Eugen was at sea again, operated by the German crew under E. S. supervision and carrying many technical observers. En route the cruiser’s heavy artillery and antiaircraft gunnery proved their skill for the last time by destroying floating targets within minutes. Most impressive and unforgettable was our run up the Delaware River, along a never-ending rows—so it seemed—of uncounted dry docks for launching Liberty ships. There were still quite a few ships in the docks, waiting to be finished. Every day during the war, so I was told, one hull was launched, ready to be taken for machinery and equipment to be installed. If only our admiralty had realized these facts—or did they?
At a Philadelphia dry dock two of our cruiser’s teeth were drawn. The eight-inch guns of the forward turret were removed for intensive inspection, together with parts of the fire-control system. Far less interest, however, was shown by competent navy specialists to the Prinz Eugen's radar equipment. After we showed them around to inspect the gear they declined to go through all the comprehensive literature and instruction books. “German radar was quite inferior to U. S. radar,” they said. “It will be replaced by ours, to be sure.” But how and when?
The solution was really quite simple: the wheels were taken off a U. S. Army trailer containing the latest type of radar, lifted with a crane to the top of the Prinz Eugen’s pilothouse, and welded on. A power supply unit was lashed on the forecastle deck and two cables were run up to the trailer. The radar was calibrated, a test was run, and everything was okay—all within two days! I wished we had had this kind of improvisation at German naval yards. But the new radar ruined the ship’s graceful appearance. Her silhouette had also been spoiled before, when the eight-inch guns were removed in Philadelphia.
The increasing number of visitors on board the Prinz Eugen caused great displeasure among some influential newspaper correspondents, who apparently were disinclined to any Germanophilia whatsoever. Their headlines: “5000 Rain Gifts on Germans at Party aboard Prinz Eugen." “Liquor flowed on Nazi vessel.” And it goes on. “Flushed-faced Germans and Americans raised their voices in German beer-hall songs,” “Whiskey is smuggled aboard and flows despite rules,” etc. The Navy Department in Washington ordered a full investigation, but the investigators found “no evidence of intoxication among visitors and the crew, whose conduct was at all times orderly.”
Mid-March 1946: We were on our way to the Pacific. One of the highlights of the voyage was sailing through the Panama Canal with its six double locks. At Gatun Bay where the canal widens, a Liberty ship carrying several hundred German prisoners of war passed us on the way home. It was an exciting scene, with passengers of both ships leaning over the rail and hailing greetings. But the attempt of two of our sailors to escape overshadowed the event. The attempt was silly, because we were in one of the most guarded zones of the continent. Naturally both were caught that very same night and returned to the justified anger of their shipmates, who, together with the would-be deserters, faced disgraceful consequences. In the future a heavily armored police vessel circulated around the Prinz Eugen day and night after her anchor had dropped. Moreover, the prospect for shore leave was canceled once and for all.
The cruiser’s sonar equipment had attracted the particular attention of U. S. Navy specialists during the preliminary inspection. In the Pacific, off the naval base at Balboa, it was now strenuously tested. In a spectacular action, four U. S. submarines launched 34 dummy torpedoes. The Prinz Eugen, much to the surprise of the observers, detected all of them in time. Each one of the attacks was recorded on gramophone discs and with a wire recorder (the forerunner of today’s tape recorder) for later noise analysis. But the grand spectacle of the Prinz Eugen cruising and roaming at maximum speed was exactly what a Hollywood team on board wanted to film. The producer asked me whether I would like to act in a sketch. “With pleasure,” I responded.
But then the cat was let out of the bag: “Are you familiar with the uniforms, decorations, etc., of the German SS?”
“No, sir,” I answered, “but thanks for your offer.”
The omnipotent U. S. press was at work again. Headline: “Today we paid $18,000 again to the German sailors. Are our bluejackets unable to run our war prize?” But there was one improvement; the majority of newspaper correspondents on the West Coast referred to German sailors while on the U. S. East Coast they talked about Nazi sailors.
At San Pedro Harbor the German crew was reduced another time, leaving only a skeleton crew. Those of us left were informed that our tour would end at San Diego, California, and not, as we were told before and had hoped, at Hawaii or even Bikini Atoll.
May 1946, San Diego: We said our last farewells to the ship and to a pleasant and easygoing time. Was it because of the agreeable climate? The lifestyles of the Americans? Anyway, more so than in previous ports I had the pleasing and interesting task of guiding visitors—naval officers of other U. S. units in the harbor, civilians, firms’ managers, and engineers who showed their interest in the ship’s technique—on the Prinz Eugen. A few visitors returned, leading, in some cases, to lasting friendships. A comprehensive talk with the big boss of the largest U. S. radio corporation ended with his offer for a job in his company— after immigration barriers were removed. Would they ever?
All too soon, time had come to say goodbye to friends, shipmates, and to the good old Prinz. It was comforting when our American commanding officer handed to all of the German volunteers the testimonial certifying our most efficient and cooperative work on board the Prinz Eugen during all times of the voyage. This praise formed an invaluable base for the besseren tagen at home, in Germany.
The Prinz Eugen—A Lucky Ship
One of the most fascinating ships to emerge from the naval history of World War II is the German heavy cruiser Prinz Eugen. Her popularity with historians and naval enthusiasts of all nations centers around her enviable war record and her most aesthetic design. Even her name has an interesting background; Prinz Eugen was an Austro-Hungarian military leader and ally of Britain’s Duke of Marlborough in Queen Anne’s war. His relationship with Marlborough has been compared with that between Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee in the Civil War.
Actually the Prinz Eugen was slated to carry a more traditional name along the lines of her sister ships—the Admiral Hipper, Blücher, Seydiitz, and Lützow— which were named for German admirals and battle cruisers of World War I. Politics, however, intervened in the naming process. German naval tradition gave ships under construction on the slipway a letter designation ship Bismarck on her first Atlantic operation, slated to begin in April 1941. Much has been written about her consort with the Bismarck, but after the action in which HMS Hood was sunk, the Prinz Eugen was detached to hunt alone while the damaged Bismarck made for the coast of France. After refueling from a German tanker, the cruiser spent a fruitless search for enemy shipping. On 1 June 1941 engine trouble forced her into Brest, where she and the battle cruisers Scharnhorst and or ersatz name. As heavy cruiser J neared her launch date in August 1938, Adolf Hitler was wooing the Hungarian dictator, Admiral Miklos Horthy, to join the Nazi alliance. They did reach agreement, and, to seal the pact, both leaders attended the launch of the ship whose new name was revealed for the first time.
The Prinz Eugen was commissioned into the Nazi navy in August 1940 at the height of the Battle of Britain. She was then assigned to join the new battle Gneisenau endured Royal Air force attack until the situation became untenable. Moreover, by early 1942 Hitler wanted the ships moved to Norway to attack 'he convoys supplying Murmansk.
Much deliberation, planning, and coordination between the Luftwaffe and the Kriegsmarine (a rarity in World War II), produced the decision to bring the three ships home to Germany by inning them up the English Channel. The ships set out with a squadron of escorting destroyers and aircraft on the night of H February 1942. Luck was with the Germans as they remained undetected until they reached the Straits of Dover at noon on the 12th. A barrage from long-range British guns on the cliffs failed to hit any of the ships. Now they were into the North Sea, but faced a steady barrage of British attacks from the sea and air. Mines inflicted the most damage, but all the German ships reached home on 13 February. The “Channel Dash,” as this episode became known, is often referred to as °ne of the most daring and successful acts of World War II.
This was a high-water mark of the Kriegsmarine, for the luck that had held until now began to run out—except for the Prinz Eugen. After working up in Germany, she headed for Norway almost one year after going there with the Bismarck. While entering the German base at Trondheim, however, she was hit in the stem by a torpedo from the British submarine Trident. The explosion almost tore off the extreme stern of the ship and the rudders but left the propellers relatively intact. It took several weeks to install a jury rig, but with that in place, the ship dodged British air attacks to return to Kiel in northwest Germany so she could receive more permanent repairs.
The Prinz Eugen spent the rest of World War II in the Baltic. For the remainder of 1943 and the first half of 1944 she was engaged in training duties, but, as the situation on the Soviet front deteriorated for the Germans, the Kriegsmarine's large ships in the Baltic were called upon to provide gunfire support for the retreating Wehr- macht. The closer the Soviet Army moved down the Baltic coast, the more frequent were the calls for gunfire support.
The Prinz Eugen, making runs between the front and her replenishment base at Gotenhafen, accidently rammed the light cruiser Leipzig in October 1944. This laid up the Prinz Eugen for almost a month but she quickly returned to the front, where she remained until December, when she went into the shipyard for relining of her guns and a refit.
Although she returned to fight in January 1945, ammunition was running low because Germany was collapsing. As the war drew to an end, the Prinz Eugen moved to Copenhagen, where she surrendered to the British.
With the war over, the U. S. Navy took over the Prinz Eugen and brought her to Boston in 1946 for a thorough examination. There, the Americans removed some of her guns and equipment, including her Arado 196 scout plane, which today is in the Smithsonian Museum. From Boston she sailed to San Diego and Pearl Harbor to take part in the Bikini A-bomb tests.
The Prinz Eugen survived the Able test on 1 July 1946, although she sat only about a mile from the center of the blast. The Baker test resulted in some damage, mainly underwater, but she remained afloat and was towed to Kwajalein in highly radioactive condition. Here the flooding worsened and the ship was beached on Carlos Island, where she capsized on 22 December 1946. The Prinz Eugen remains there to this day, with only her screws and part of her stem showing.
P. C. Coker III
The Meticulously Built Model
Ever since I wrote the book. Building Warship Models (Charleston, SC: CokerCraft Press) in 1974 I have seen literally thousands of models and photos of models of modem Nwarships. Of all of those, West German Heinz Hering’s model of the Prinz Eugen is one of the finest. Hering spent some 6,500 hours building this model on 1:72 (approximately a three- sixteenths-inch equals one foot) scale.
Hering, an aerial weapons instructor at the air base in Furstenfeldbruck, West Germany, was trained from 1937 to 1940 by the Zeiss-Ikon works in Dresden to make optics. On the river Elbe in Dresden he indulged his fascination with ships. First he built submarines that really submerged. Once he got started with this hobby, he could not let go. An early model of the battle cruiser Scharnhorst met disaster when it fell apart as soon as it was put in the water. The materials in those days were poor compared with today. But with practice he became better, and by the 1960s he was ready to build a real ship model. Hering chose the Prinz Eugen because he was smitten with the “beauty of [her] form, the lines, the concentrated strength.” He preferred the aesthetics of this handsome ship—admittedly the aesthetics of destruction—to an ocean liner or sailing ship.
He built his first model of this ship on 1:100 scale over a four-year period and sold it to a private collector in Germany for about two months worth of wages. This gave him incentive to try again, but this time he sought perfection. Hering wanted to construct a new Prinz Eugen, bigger, better, and more accurate.
For the next few years Hering collected every bit of reference material that he could on the Prinz Eugen. He wrote to the archives in Germany, Britain, and the United States for photographs, and amassed 15 volumes of pictures. A serious model builder’s biggest problem lies in obtaining precise information such as detailed photographs, sketches, or plans of the various weapons and small equipment— the items that complete the appearance. The layman will not note these details, but the naval enthusiast does and Hering wanted to build a model that would be above reproach. Fortunately, most navies use standard equipment on their ships, so when he could not find a clear photograph of a searchlight or gig on the Prinz Eugen he could use one from the Admiral Hip- per or even the Graf Spee.
He chose the scale of 1:72 because it allowed the accurate reproduction of details but was not as large as the official naval models on scales of 1:50 and one-fourth of an inch to one foot. Even at 1:72, the model is almost ten feet long, but the small details such as stanchions, chains, and small antiaircraft guns are reproduced faithfully. In addition, this scale is popular with aircraft and tank model builders so Hering’s model can appear in true proportion next to them.
As a basis for construction Hering chose the SMB plans of the Prinz Eugen on 1:200 scale by Franz Mrva. These plans were drawn with the supervision of the former gunnery officer of the Prinz Eugen, Paul Schmalenbach, and show the ship in her final configuration in May 1945. Since most naval ships, particularly the larger ones, are changed frequently during their lives, especially during war, Hering wanted to be sure to capture the Prinz Eugen—every gun and piece of equipment—in a particular period. Because the best photographic documentation shows the ship in her final configuration and the original plans of the ship showing her 1945 appearance were available from the U. S. Navy Technical Mission in Europe reports, it was most practical to build the ship as she was at the end of the war.
Hering revamped his work area and bought new equipment and, by early 1976, he was ready to start. For six years, from 1730 to 2030 each weekday evening and around the clock on weekends, he worked on this model with the precision of a watchmaker.
Hering built much of the superstructure first and then built the hull. He built the hull plank-on-frame style in birch, beech, maple and linden woods and covered it with fiberglass. The keel is one-and-one-half inches square and runs from the bow to the rudder. The one- half-inch thick frames were cut from an old wardrobe and were inserted into the keel. To these frames he attached one-eighth by three-eighths-inch planks running fore to aft, fitting them well into the shape of the bow. The stem is a massive chunk of maple. To prevent cracks in the wood, Hering covered the hull inside and out with polyester resin and the exterior with fiberglass. To avoid cracking on the paint covering wood surfaces resulting from stress or temperature changes, he covered all of these surfaces with 0.2-millimeter thick aluminum foil attached with contact cement. This saved hours of time by obviating the need to fill pores, to patch, or to sand. He created the many portholes from hollow brass grommets and the main deck is six-millimeter plexiglass covered with 1,000 planks of teak veneer.
Hering constructed many details of the ship from unusual materials. Gun barrels are injection needles from the local doctor, ballpoint pen inserts went into the masts, and thumbtacks became hand wheels. Lumber yards and cabinet makers provided cheap scrap wood pieces.
Even the painting required careful research into the actual colors used on the ship. Much of this information can be found in various books and in the hobby shops that carry the correct colors. Hering used no gloss paints—only flat paints or camouflage schemes corresponding to the originals. Like other professional model builders, Hering spray-painted the parts before attaching them to the model.
The result of Hering’s labors delights anyone who understands the art of model-making and the ship depicted. Once the masterpiece was finished, the experts stared in wonder. Specialty magazines in Germany asked for reports and photographs. Other model builders wrote for advice and former naval personnel sent admiring letters.
Now that the model is complete, there arose a problem— moving the hull itself, which can be separated from the superstructure, into the dining room from the balcony, where it was built. The staircase was too small by inches to handle it.
Now the model can only leave via the balcony using a forklift or crane. Hering is not dismayed though, because the model will not have to be cut up to get out of their home! Today the model has been appraised at about 100,000 German marks or about $50,000 and weighs some 130 pounds.
