Best of Enemies

By Rainier George Weiner

Suppose fate placed you on an inflatable life-raft in the middle of the freezing Atlantic Ocean along with your most bitter enemy contrivable? Would the emotions of hatred, revenge and love of country trump the desire to survive, if killing that enemy ensured your own demise?

Captain Mat Richardson, USN, and Emil Gluckler, a German submarine commander, experience that option during the 2nd World War. Mat, captain of a small destroyer, and Emil, commander of an attacking submarine, become stranded on a life- raft after each of the combatant crafts sink each other during a fierce naval engagement. They subsequently experience 38 harrowing days striving for survival. If nothing else, this required the ultimate in mutual cooperation.

If the two survived, would the events have a lasting effect on their relationship? Or, if one had the opportunity to kill the other at a later date in a new war-time circumstance, would he do so, or not?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496971449

Rainier George Weiner

The author graduated from Santa Clara University with a Master’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering and has worked 40 years in the Engineering Field, awarded several patents in the glass fiber-forming process. George, however, has written extensively all his life including 5 other books: Mentor (historical narrative), Long Before Glasnost (history), Living On Lifesavers (memoir), Knee High to Hell (memoir) and How Changing World Demographics Affects your Investments & Careers (financial). Instead of rapaciously focusing only on cement, cold steel and unchangeable physical laws -- the holy grail of engineering -- during off hours and vacations his mind danced with ideas for books: conflicts, crises and resolutions, his own and the experiences of others, real and unreal. The author retired in 2006 giving him more time to focus on writing exclusively. His personal writing now includes the 6 books and a collection of 9 short stories. He concurrently served on the Board of Directors as Secretary and Newsletter contributor for 2 NGO non-profit organizations -- World Runners and Global Partners for Development.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2015 Rainier George Weiner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/05/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7145-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7146-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7144-9 (e)

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

INTRODUCTION

Suppose fate placed you on an inflatable life-raft in the middle of the freezing Atlantic Ocean along with your most bitter enemy contrivable? Would the emotions of hatred, revenge and love of country trump the desire to survive, if killing that enemy ensured your own demise?

Mat Richardson, Captain of a small United States Navy destroyer, has that fate become his for 38 long days during the 2nd World War. Along with a German submarine commander, the two men allow the other to live only because they require that other warm body to huddle against at night to avoid freezing to death.

If the two survived, would the events have a lasting effect on their relationship.? Would the mutual bond established by striving so precariously for survival in the dependent relationship establish an empathy and mutual respect for each other? If one had the opportunity to kill the other at a later date, would he do so? If he didn’t, for what reason would he decline?

How would the two interact if they had a long relationship as prisoner and guard in a German concentration camp? Would their previous experiences together affect their acceptanc of one-other? Or would their new situation place a lasting hatred and scornful wall of separation between the two?

What if the activities of the two became so partisan and the relationship so stressed by circumstances that they no longer had purposeful contact only to meet at a moment in history when they could change the fate of entire nations?

Capitan Mat Richardsen USN and German Field Commander Emil Gluekler answer those questions in action and word in the following chapters of the book.

CHAPTER 1

Rolling white-capped waves explode against the hull of the light-cruiser, Sentry, sending rhythmic shock waves along its frame from aft to stern. A fine mist pulses over its bow coating the handrails and deck with ice.

Why did we have to take this cold, God-forsaken rout, Captain?

Joe, you know the answer to that question. Captain Matthew Richardson places a cup of coffee next to the radar monitor on the shelf in front of the glass verandah of the bridge. If it gives us just a ten percent better chance of getting by without being intercepted by Nazi subs, we take it.

Yeah, I know, Navigator Joe Montague replies. Everything in this outfit is done according to percentages. I just don’t feel good about it.

Well, while you’re feeling around, why don’t you give me a reading on our location, the captain responds, smiling.

We’re exactly 59.1 degrees north and 25.3 degrees west -- about 24 hours off the northern tip of Ireland. We should be in Liverpool in about 36 hours -- late tomorrow night, sir.

Or in hell a lot sooner if the German subs do patrol this area, the captain remarks, smiling.

A young seaman in white fatigues slides the glass doorway open with his foot, enters and places two trays of food on the shelf in front of the captain.

Bon apatite, gentlemen.

Thank you, Yeoman. Watch the stairs on the way down, they’re slippery.

The men eat their light lunches silently standing on the bridge of the small military craft. The captain, at 6ft. 2inches, stood about three inches above his navigator. At only 34 years of age, he looked too young for the gold bars on his short-sleeved officer’s shirt. In wartime, however, commissions often come quickly. With his broad shoulders, long, fine features, and a square jaw line he appeared more typical of someone on horseback under a ten-gallon hat than a Navy Captain.

Somehow, we’ve got to get this ship to the Brits, Joe, the captain remarks setting his knife and fork on his tray. There’s talk about a possible invasion in the next year. They will need all the protection for the landing crafts they can get.

From where, the young navigator asks.

Nobody knows that. No one will find that out till they get there. Normandy, the Bay of Biscay are possibilities. Wherever, it will take a lot of firepower and a lot of protection.

How’s the wife, Captain, Joe asks. Did you hear from her before we left?

Before the captain can answer, the red light on the bridge operation’s panel flash red off and on.

Oh, oh. We may have talked our way into it, the captain remarks sharply, reaching for the microphone lying on the bridge shelf.

Where! Where is it? He barks into the microphone.

About half a mile southwest, sir. He’s not moving at all. Just looks like a dot. But it’s metallic for sure, sir." The radar technician, peering into his screen on the deck directly below shouts into the intercom.

Hard right! 90 degrees, the captain shouts. At full speed.

The whine of the rudder shaft gearing drowns out the conversation of the two men for the next two moments. They lean to the right.

An explosion rocks the bridge knocking the two trays of empty dishes onto the floor.

The roar of the rudder gears continues.

First mate Rodgers, sir. We’ve taken a torpedo just under the tip of the bow. … . glanced somewhat, sir. … We got around about 35 degrees, I believe.

Damage? The captain now presses several buttons before repeating the question. Damage? Who’s out there? How bad it is?

Several moments go by without a sound over the intercom.

Ensign Brown here, sir. … It looks like it put hole in the tip of the stern. . . We have been able to section that small area off. I think we’re O K … We will lose some speed though, sir.

Joe, if we try to out-run them, they will follow, offset about 500 yards, When they become parallel with us, they will turn 90 degrees and hit us again.

Sir, we’ve completed the turn. They’re directly behind us now, the radar technician calls through the intercom.

Three seconds of silence.

All right, listen up -- everyone. Immediately. We’re going to make a 180 degree turn with a short a radius as possible at full speed. We head straight for them. Keep your eye on the radar screen and head directly and accurately as possible in their direction. The captain sets the intercom down and looks out the side window.

The whine of the rudder shaft gears again rake through the bridge as the captain and navigator lean to the right.

Joe, I don’t think they will try to hit us while we are in such a close-radius turn. Also, I don’t think they will try to hit as small a target as they will see heading straight at them. We have to take our chances. Only one of us will leave this area. The other must go down.

All right, let’s get ready. Make sure the depth charges are armed and in position to launch. Don’t forget that they will travel in the direction we travel for quite a while under water. The captain now had the loudspeaker on and looked out the front of the bridge while he talked. Joe, make sure that we chart our course as directly over them as possible. They will go lower and try to move at a right angle as soon as we pass.

Wooh! They did try to hit us as we turned, captain, a high-pitch voice squeals over the intercom. Missed us on the starboard side, sir."

Good! That’s one less torpedo we have to worry about. I’m told they can’t carry more than six. They have used two.

Joe, are we able to course directly for them.

Yes, sir. They are trying to move north, but we have adjusted our direction, here. The young navigator points to satellite radar screen on the bridge. We will pass over them in about twenty seconds, sir."

Are we ready to launch, the captain cries out.

Yes sir. Both launching units ready, armed and standing by.

Pete, are you ready to give the command.

Yes sir. Just waiting for the radar reading of directly overhead minus fifty yards.

All right! Now, as soon as we drop the charges, we head in the direction opposite from the sub. We need room between us to make another sharp-radius 180 degree turn. We do this while they try to survive the charges. Unless, of course, they don’t.

We’re there sir, the gunnery shouts. 200. . . 150 … 100 . . 50 Fire one. After 5 seconds. Fire 2. Another five seconds, Fire three."

Knifing through the rolling seascape the gray-colored craft lofts projectiles the size of small oil drums from each side of its tail railing.

Charges splash, appear larger underwater, fraction light into a rainbow of colors and sink. This repeats six times. After the sixth round, the captain barks into the loudspeaker: Done! … That should do it for now. Where are we?

We should be directly overhead now, sir!

Good. What’s their direction? The captain turns and looks out the back of the bridge.

They’re heading northwest, sir.

All right, let’s get out of here -- southeast -- all engines. Straight one-half nautical mile. Then start the 180 turn.

Before the crew can respond, the first of the depth charges detonates. In three second intervals the screen flickers six times and stops.

That should keep them amused for a while, Joe calls out over the speaker.

We start our turn in two minutes, sir he calls over to the captain.

If they made it through those pills, they will surely turn and may try to hit us at the top of our turn. Make sure we make that radius as tight as possible.

Like a baby’s butt, sir.

Several moments of silence ensue before Matt’s coffee cup on the table slides to the end of the front-window counter, hits the retaining edge, pops up, drops and smashes on the floor. Joe and Matt lean to the left.

The rudder gear mechanism squeals again.

Whooh! Is that tight enough, sir? Joe smiles at the captain holding on to the counter.

For the next three minutes, all turbines at full throttle, billows of black smoke pour out the single stack on the small cruiser. The sun, now directly overhead, projects a long, curved shadow above the bubbling wake behind the straining craft.

Alright. Listen up, everybody on this call. We’re a small group. In about two minutes we will be approaching the top of our 180 degree turn -- or, broadsides to the sub position. The captain stands with both hands on the counter above the microphone looking through the glass window forward. We cannot go any faster; but, we could slow down. Get out you field glasses. Look for a trail. We’ re not a battleship. At our size we might play ‘dodge-ball.’

Heading directly east, the sun reflects off the port cabin window interfering somewhat with the captain’s view. He steps outside the bridge for a moment, but leaves the door open.

Sir, Jensen, here. About a mile out, about one quarter mile starboard. Do you see it?!

The captain adjusts his field glasses, looks and then runs back into the bridge. Joe, do you see it?

Yes.

What do you think?

The young navigator looks through his field glasses and pauses. Finally, he slides his finger across his throat.

Reverse engines! All engines in reverse! Do it -— now, the captain screams in to the intercom.

The field glasses case on the table now slid forward and hits against the bulkhead. The captain and navigator, one hand holding the field glasses, the other pressed against the front window for support freeze for an instant. The churning turbines vibrate the length of the hull from stem to stern, causing the case on the table to bounce up and down.

Dropping their glasses on the counter, both hands pressed against the front window, the two glare forward as a small trail approaches and passes only twenty or thirty feet in front of their bow. Navigator, Joe, raises a clenched fist and yells, Yes! Yes!

All engines full forward and continue the tight radius, the captain barks in to the intercom. They may try again. We can’t sit here. Again, keep your eyes open. the captain says, looking over at Joe. By the way, good job, kid. Your called it right on the money.

Thank you, sir. Wasn’t all that sure.

Well, we should be able to make a smaller radius starting up, so, I think we will make it through the turn.

Running to the microphone at the center of the bridge, the captain speaks quickly: They’re just sitting out there. Let’s do it again. When we finish our turn, head directly for them. Arm and prepare the depth charges. We should be over them in about 4 minutes. Watch for trails.

The noon-day sun now stands at the apex of its orbit. Because of the winter season and the northern latitude, it tilts at about a 45 degree angle toward the south casting a long shadow of the small craft making its turn. The seemingly-limitless rolling-wave landscape dwarfs the tiny objects random movements; Its orderly calm belies the intense struggle for survival going on between the two combatants.

Sir, Jensen here, they’re moving southeast -- to our right.

That’s O K. We’ll head them off. They won’t have time to turn. We have the angle to reach them.

The small cruiser, still in an acceleration mode, spouts a thick, black bilge of smoke as it steams toward the small dot on the radar screen.

Sir, Jensen here, we’re at about 1000 yards.

Are we ready, Ensign Levy?

Yes, sir, armed and ready to launch.

This time perhaps we should lead them a little more. Maybe we overshot last time.

Will do, sir.

Vacuous silence over the intercom for the next 20 seconds.

250. …200. . . 150. . . 100, Fire one! … Fire two. … Fire three. . . There’s six early Christmas gifts. Have a happy new year in hell, you Heinie bastards!

O K, that’s it, again. What way are they heading, Joe?

Southwest, sir. It looks like they never stopped moving in the same direction.

Northeast, full throttle, the captain barks into the intercom. Don’t give them time turn around and catch us in our turn.

The cups of coffee on the counter again bounce up three times at five-second intervals as the depth charges embroil the surface of the wake trailing the craft.

I think we got them this time, sir Jensen rasps over the intercom.

Don’t count on it, the captain cautions. Just make sure we get out of here as quickly as possible and make our radius as tight as we can.

Will do, sir.

Navigator Joe Fortune, still a youngster at 20 years of age -- his round face and dimples making him look more like a high-school-ROTC candidate than a naval officer -- always appeared more excited than others in the crew. Captain, this attack will surely bring us into Liverpool a day late. Should we radio and let them know?

No, we have orders to keep our destination confidential. We can’t radio, even if we go down, the captain replies.

Captain, Jensen, here. They still show up as moving on sonar; and, no oil or debris coming up; so, they’re evidently still out there.

Right. Here we go again. Now it’s their turn. Something we must be doing wrong in dropping those pills. Keep your eyes open on the turn.

Jenson, how far are we from the start of the turn?

The rudder gearing mechanism howls through the open doorway to the bridge answering the captain’s query.

The captain and navigator look straight through the glass window holding on to the counter saying nothing for several moments. The captain takes a step backwards to speak into the intercom hanging from the ceiling, but has to grasp the counter again as the floor suddenly lurches upward and coffee cups slam up and over the counter rails.

Report. The captain barks, grasping the hanging intercom.

Silence for 10 seconds.

Brown, have you heard anything?

Nothing!

Jensen?

Murphy says we got hit in the tail section. Again, at about 45 degrees. Did not penetrate deeply, thank God. They must have followed us and knew approximately where we would start our turn and led us a bit. We couldn’t see it.

Are the screws and rudder still operable?

Murphy says he thinks so. We haven’t slowed.

Brown?

Smitty says that we have the doors closed to the rear boilers, sir. He’s working on the doors to the forward sections. I think we’re OK. Know for sure in a few minutes.

"Everyone, now remember -- we still have to make that long radius. Their best shot at us is at the tip of that curve. Use those glasses. We may have to adjust our speed again. Jensen, do you think we have lost any speed.

Can’t say for sure, sir. We must lose something with another hole in our hull.

We’re playing the wrong game at the wrong park We’re down two to nothing and they haven’t even got their uniforms dirty.

Several more moments of silence.

All right, listen up. We made it past the tip of the curve. They probably don’t want to give up one of their last torpedoes. The captain hesitates for a moment and looks at his navigator as if seeking some form of reassurance. We’ve lost a lot of mobility. This time we have to stay and mix it up with them longer. Jensen, are we tracking them?

Yes, sir. We should be over them in about three moments.

This time we slow down to idle speed above them and drop at least eight sets of charges. Two second intervals, instead of three. We can’t make it through another round of this game. They have to go down.

The captain looks over at his navigator who nods his head, but says nothing.

500 yards sir. …250. …150. …50. . . Fire 1. . . Fire 2. . . Fire 3. . Fire 4. . . Fire 5. . .Fire 6. . .Fire 7. . .Fire 8. On each side of the ship’s wake, starting farthest away, dull explosions rock the ship and boil the water in patches working their way forward.

That’s it, sir, 16 in all. Now! do we get out of here full speed?

"No! Start the radius now -- at only half speed. We go right back over them again.

Several moments later, half way through the turn: Sir, that may not be necessary. Look! Boiler operator, Chief Watson is standing amidships pointing straight out over the railing screaming. I think we got him.

Thick, black oil gushes up in a circular area and spreads itself immediately over a widening circle. Various forms of lighter-than-water containers and debris leap up several feet from the surface and fall onto the spreading oil. Tiny bubbles burst at the center of a flat, boiling patch amidst the calm, rolling-wave background.

Doors slam open along the starboard side of the ship and three sailors in white fatigue dress and chef’s caps run out to the railing, arms raised above their heads, cheering. The antiaircraft cannon on the bow of the ship discharges a series of rounds into the air. The ship’s horn releases a single, ten-second long blast.

On the bridge, The captain and navigator stand with one arm in an embrace and the other raised in the air. The captain clears his voice with a short cough and leans toward the intercom microphone. Gentlemen, we are on our way to Liverpool. Full speed ahead.

First-Lieutenant Richards, without his cap, his thick blond hair covering the side of his face, throws the bridge door open and runs toward the two in the center of the room.

Before he can reach them, however, a blast rips through the cabin and drops the young ensign to his knees. The coffee cup on the counter— this time -- leaps straight upward. Red lights automatically blink on/off on the bridge and on the deck.

Oh my God! The captain drops from his embrace, looks out the bridge side glass, grasps the microphone and shouts, Could they have gotten one last round off before sinking? Report! Anyone!

For several seconds only a static rasps out of the loudspeaker in both corners of the room.

Captain, Gordon, here. I think this one is bad sir. … Hit us flush. 25 maintenance doesn’t answer.

Brown, are we getting the doors closed on both sides?

I can’t get anybody to copy my calls in that area, sir. I’m on my way down myself. Soon as I get there I’ll let you know.

Captain, Specialist Wilson here. Boiler room is on fire. Brown was inside. We can’t get inside. Heat’s to great.

Flood it. Open the doors and flood it.

We can’t, sir. We don’t have the ballast. Taking on too much water next door.

Automatic sprinklers. Why don’t they put it out?

They must have been disabled by the blast, sir.

What about the oil storage compartment next door?

That’s the problem, sir. If the fire reaches that room, it’s all over.

Jensen! Still nobody hear from him?

No, sir. Must have been with Murphy in the boiler room.

Gordon, how much water are we taking on?

Plenty, sir. Hit us in the food storage lockers next to the boiler room. Can’t get doors shut in time. Pressure’s to great. Screws have stopped, also.

We’re starting to list starboard.

Yes sir, I don’t think we can hold it. Water’s in the sleeping quarters -- coming up the stairs to our …

Wilson, where are you? …Wilson? … Anyone? Report!

The coffee cup on the table now slides forward on the counter and hits the long curved bridge window frame and smashes.

Joe, sound the abandon ship.

Repeated short blasts from the stack pierce the cabin as over the intercom the words, Abandon ship repeat every four seconds. The two men hold on to the counter as the floor lurches forward.

Captain, we won’t have time to get lifeboats in the water.

Put on your vest and try. The one over there. The captain points with his finger

Matt, your coming with us. Here, put this on. Let’s go, the young navigator screams handing one of the life preservers to the captain. I owe that to your wife if nothing else.

No! No! I can’t go. That’s the way it is. You know that.

With all due respect, Sir. That’s not the way it is. You’re just the same -- like everyone else. It’s no use.

No. Someone’s got to be here to give the last orders.

Sir! You’ve given the last orders.

Joe. Get out of here, now! That’s an order. Richards, grab him and drag him if you have to.

Ensign Richards, about 6-3, 250 pounds, places his arm on the shoulder of the young navigator and leads him reluctantly out the sliding glass door.

Anyone out there, come in!

The captain receives no response for several seconds.

Captain, Gordon here. Trying to get lifeboat 4 loose. Can’t. . …

The intercom system rasps statically and then goes silent.

Gordon! Gordon!