Why should I continue relating events which were coupled with less danger and were less remarkable than those we had already experienced and which I have already carefully described? The climax of the journey was reached at the encounter with the Ormea, and, after the climax is reached, one should be brief. For those interested, I can assure them that we did not let the schooner escape which had tried to save herself by flight, but hurried quickly after her, and, as soon as the crew had disembarked, torpedoed her. However, we regretted that the captain of the tug that tried to ram us escaped through her superior speed.

We were fortunate enough to make another catch on this same day, just as darkness was setting in, a steamer loaded with meat, inward bound from Sydney. We continued for several days through this fruitful field of operation in every direction and had both good and bad luck. Schweckerle had to bite into a bitter apple several times, as one after another of his children faithlessly abandoned him. But he had the joy of knowing that none of them went contrary to his good bringing-up and the care it had received.

Many successes we put down in our log and sometimes exciting episodes and narrow escapes, when our enemy’s destroyers and patrol ships came across our path of daily toil, so that we should not be too presumptuous and careless.

Then at last came the day when we decided to start our homeward journey. The torpedoes and shells were exhausted. Of oil, fresh water, and provisions we had such a scanty supply left that it was necessary for us to return. It was impossible to tell what kind of weather we would have on our return trip, and, if it did not storm, there might be strong head winds to hold us back.

I decided to take a new route for our journey home. The Witch-Kettle with its horrors was still fresh in our minds and we preferred to take a roundabout way, rather than to run risks which could be easily avoided after a successfully completed task. In this period of thirteen days our nerves had been affected and there was little power of resistance left in them. It would not be advisable to put them to another severe test.

So it came to pass on the fifteenth day after the start of the voyage, that a great storm hit us and for several days kept us hard at work. We found ourselves far up in the North Atlantic where the warm spring for a long time still wears its winter’s furs, and the sun never rises high. The icy, north wind, which blows three-quarters of the year, would in any event devour all his warmth.

Repentantly, we had again picked up our thick camel’s wool garments which we had laid off in the southern waters. The further we went north, the heavier the clothes that we donned.

In addition to the cold there came a storm, the like of which I had never seen during my entire service on the sea, and to describing which I will devote a few lines, because a storm on a U-boat is altogether different from a storm at sea in any other vessel.

The barometer had been uncertain for two days. Its hasty rising and falling in accordance with the changes of the atmosphere made us suspect we would soon get rough weather. It was the night between April twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth. We traveled submerged to a considerable depth, and I was lying in my bunk asleep, partly undressed. At about two o’clock I was awakened and received the report:

“Lieutenant Petersen asks that the Captain-Lieutenant kindly come to the ‘Centrale,’ as it is impossible for him to steer the boat any longer alone.”

I threw on my jacket and hurried for the stern. On my way, on account of the heavy rolling of the boat, I realized what was the trouble. There must be a terrific storm above accompanied by a sea which only the Atlantic could stir up.

Lieutenant Petersen confirmed my opinion of the conditions which had developed during the night and added that he had never had so much trouble with the diving rudder before in his life. This meant a great deal, for Petersen was with me when our U-boat had been equipped for service for the first time, and had already gone through all kinds of weather. In spite of all the watchfulness that he and the well-trained crew used, the diving rudder’s pressure was not powerful enough to resist the enormous strength of the waves. The boat was tossed up and down as if she had no rudder whatever. Only after we had submerged twice as deep as we had been were we able to steady the boat to any degree. We could still feel the force of the sea and knew the storm must be terrific.

When, at daybreak, we arose to the surface there was no chance to open the hatches. The opal green mountains of waves came rolling and foaming at us. They smothered the boat with the great masses of water, washed completely over the deck and even up over the tower. If any one had dared to open the hatch and go out on the conning tower, he would certainly have been lost. I was standing at the periscope and observed the wrath of the elements. It seemed as if we were in a land of mountains which the U-boat had to climb, only to be suddenly hurled down again. I could see only so far as the next ridge, which always seemed to be even higher than the last, and if there had been any chance of seeing more, it would have been impossible in the flying foam and spray. The rain whipped the water violently and darkened the sky so that it was like dusk. The boat worked itself laboriously through the heavy sea. The joints cracked and trembled when the boat slid down from the peak of a wave to be buried in the deep trough.

We had to cling to some oil-soaked object in order not to be tossed about. Through the strain put on the body by the terrible rolling of the boat, by the damp, vaporous air, and by lack of sleep and food, we finally became exhausted, but at this time we had no desire to eat. The storm continued for three days and nights without abating. Then the sky cleared, the wind dropped, and the sea became calmer. At noon of the third day the sun broke through the clouds for the first time. Shortly before this, we had dared open the conning tower hatch and greeted the rays of the sun, although we had to pay for this pleasure with a cold bath.

We had been drifting about for three days without knowing our location. No wonder we greeted our guide with great joy, and quickly produced the sextant to find out where we were. Our calculations showed that, during the entire time, we had been circling around in one spot and had not gotten one mile nearer our port. But what did that matter? The storm was abating, the sea was calming down, and our splendid, faithful boat had stood the test once more, and, in spite of all storms, had survived.

We reached the North Sea the next afternoon and could change our course to the south with happy hearts. Every meter, every mile, every hour brought us nearer home. No one who has not, himself, experienced this home-coming can understand the joy that fills a U-boat sailor’s heart when, after a successful voyage, he sees the coast of his fatherland; or when he turns the leaves of his log and, astonished, reads the scrawled lines which tell fairy tales of the dangers and joys and asks himself:

“Have you really gone through all that?”

Who can understand the joy of a commander’s heart when, sitting by his narrow writing table, he is carefully working out his report to his superiors? “Have sunk X steamers—X sailing ships.”

All around me were the happy faces of the crew. All were satisfied, every danger past and forgotten, thanks to the strength of youth and their stout hearts.

April 30—Nine-thirty A.M.

The lead was thrown. Now the water became shallow, for we are going into the bay—the German bay.

“It’s twenty-four meters deep,” reported Lohmann, who in his feverish desire to get ashore had been up on the conning tower since four o’clock, although he should really have been off watch at eight. He wanted to be the first one to sight land, because he is proud of his fine eyesight and was as happy as a child when he discovered something before his commander did.

“The lead shows twenty-four!”

“See if it agrees with the chart,” I called to the mate who sat in the conning tower with the chart on his knee.

“It agrees exactly,” the mate called back, after he had compared the measurement by the lead with the depth that was marked on the chart where we estimated we were.

“How far is it to land?”

“Eight and a half miles.”

In five more minutes, the German islands of the North Sea arose before our eyes. Now we were unable to restrain ourselves further. We tore off our caps and waved them exultantly, greeting our home soil with a roaring hurrah. Our cheer penetrated into the boat, from stern to prow, and even set Schweckerle’s heart on fire, where he was sitting alone and idle amongst the torpedo cradles.

Shortly thereafter we glided into the mouth of the river with the pennant bearing our name proudly fluttering from the masthead. This told all the ships that met us:

“Here comes U-boat 202!”

All knew by our announcement that we were returning from a long voyage and we were greeted with an enthusiastic and noisy reception. Officers and men thronged the decks, and in our inmost hearts we appreciated the great cheer:

“Three cheers for his Majesty’s U-202! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Thus the proud German high seas fleet received our little roughly-used boat.

At three o’clock on the afternoon of April 30 U-202 dropped her anchor in the U-boat harbor.