Printer Friendly


Captain Daniel Gallery and his hunter-group were out to capture a Nazi submarine intact. When U-505 popped to the surface, they pounced.

A HANDFUL OF American SAILORS scrambled down the hatch of a foundering, wave-tossed German submarine and disappeared inside. Not since the War of 1812 had the US Navy captured an enemy warship on the high seas. Now the American boarding party worked frantically to keep this rare prize, the U-505, from slipping beneath the waves and taking its secrets to the bottom of the sea.

U-505 was the prize of Captain Daniel V. Gallery's Task Group 22.3. A dedicated hunter-killer group, TG 22.3 had standing orders to destroy every German U-boat it could find. (U-boat is an Anglicized shortening of unterseeboot, "undersea boat"--a submarine.) But when one of the group's destroyer escorts forced U-505 to the surface some 150 miles off Africa's west coast on June 4, 1944, Gallery decided not to destroy his prey, but to capture it. Instead of becoming TG 22.3's third kill of the war, U-505 would become a treasure trove of inside knowledge about Nazi Germany's navy, its U-boats, and its top-secret communication code.

Gallery didn't make his decision on impulse. He had been thinking about attempting a capture since April 9, when his hunter-killer group sank the German sub U-515. Hounded by TG 22.3's aircraft and ships, the sub had surfaced, and the Americans hit it with everything they had, including the armor-piercing shells of the destroyer escorts' large-caliber guns. As it slipped beneath the waves to a watery grave, Gallery realized he might have been able to capture it along with its valuable contents if he had taken a different approach. Aircraft from TG 22.3 sank another German sub, U-68, the next night. As Gallery and his group returned to home base at Norfolk, Virginia, he resolved that on the next cruise he would be ready to attempt a capture.

The task group launched its second excursion on May 15. As Gallery wrote in a later report, "Task Group 22.3 sailed from Norfolk on this cruise with the avowed intention of capturing an enemy submarine." Gallery believed his group could fulfill that intention if it resorted to new tactics and different weapons. "The action in which U-515 was sunk on our previous cruise had convinced us that when a sub surfaces during an attack it is highly probable that he has no intention of fighting and his main objective is to save his hide," he explained. "We therefore determined, in case opportunity arose in this cruise, to assist and expedite the evacuation of the U-boat by concentrating anti-personnel weapons on it, to hold back with weapons that could sink the sub, and to attempt to board it as soon as possible."

In essence, the task group planned to overwhelm the next sub it blew to the surface, engulfing the target in a clatter of machine-gun fire from the destroyer escorts and from carrier planes flying overhead. Gallery believed this would cause the German crew to panic and abandon ship, leaving the sub free for his sailors to seize--along with its codes, logbooks, and other secrets.

At least on paper, TG 22.3 had the right equipment for the job. At the group's core was the aircraft carrier USS Guadalcanal (CVE-60), with Gallery as her skipper. She was a 512-foot long Casablanca-class escort carrier, smaller than a full-size carrier (almost 40 percent shorter than an Essex-class carrier, for instance) and therefore dubbed a "baby flattop" or "jeep carrier." Guadalcanal could carry a total of 27 Grumman F4F Wildcat fighter planes, each armed with six machine guns and capable of ranging far and wide in search of prey. Surrounding, protecting, and collaborating with the Guadalcanal were five Edsell-class destroyer escorts (fast destroyer-sized ships designed to escort cargo convoys).

A Man with a Mission

The Kaiser Shipyards in Vancouver, Washington, had launched Guadalcanal on June 5, 1943, almost exactly one year before the carrier's coming encounter with U-505. Built on a repurposed freighter hull, she was one of 50 escort carriers produced in 21 months at the Vancouver Kaiser yard, a facility renowned for its ability to turn out a Liberty or cargo ship in as few as 90 days.

The baby or jeep carriers were so lightly armored that some sailors wisecracked that CVE stood for combustible, vulnerable, and expendable (C actually indicated carrier, V was the navy designation for aircraft, and E meant escort). Other wags called the lightly armored carriers "two-torpedo ships," joking that the second torpedo would pass over the flight deck as the vessel sank. But the little carriers could travel at a fast 19 knots (22 mph), and with their planes and destroyer escorts they packed a formidable punch, making them useful for protecting convoys and taking the fight to the enemy.

Taking the fight to the enemy was exactly what Gallery had in mind. He was an aggressive commander, a lifelong achiever, a man of action. After graduating from the US Naval Academy (where he had arrived as a 16-year-old) a year ahead of schedule in 1920, he became a naval aviator, earning his wings during the pioneering days of carrier air operations. During the Guadalcanal's shakedown cruise after her commissioning, he became the first pilot to take off from and land on her flight deck.

Gallery encouraged and trained his pilots to master taking off and landing at night--a challenging feat under the best circumstances that was made more difficult by the Guadalcanal's relatively short and narrow deck. Nighttime carrier operations were a novel idea at that time, and there were mishaps that resulted in the loss of a few planes. But being able to put planes in the air at night allowed TG 22.3 to sustain a sort of around-the-clock whack-amole game. No matter where a battery-depleted U-boat and its oxygen-starved crew attempted to surface in the task group's wide coverage area, there was an American ship or plane waiting to clobber it. For the task group's May 1944 cruise, with the goal of capturing a U-boat intact, Gallery made sure his men were prepared to subdue and seize any U-boat his planes or destroyers caught on the surface or blew there with depth charges. Volunteer boarding parties aboard each ship were drilled in getting inside a surfaced submarine and take command.

Gallery's ships headed out to sea eager for action, but for two straight weeks not a single U-boat crossed their path. Fuel started to run low, but Gallery continued his search, setting a course for West Africa and its coastal refueling stations. Then, on June 4, 1944, some 150 miles off French West Africa's Cape Blanco, the destroyer escort USS Chatelain (DE-149) spotted a German sub. Wheeling around to face the U-boat head-on, Chatelain fired a salvo of 20 hedgehog depth charges. (Launched all at once from a bristly-looking bow-mounted battery, hedgehog charges were designed to explode on contact with the hard surface of a U-boat.) There was no explosion. Had the depth charges missed? Had Chatelain's lookouts only imagined a sub?

OTHER DESTROYER ESCORTS prowled nearby, probing with sonar and ready to pounce. Suddenly, two Wildcats circling overhead started firing their .50-caliber machine guns into the sea, about 100 yards from where the hedgehogs had hit the water. The Chatelain wheeled again and fired a spread of 12 600-pound depth charges with fuses set to explode at a shallow depth. The ocean behind the Chatelain seemed to boil as a dozen geysers spouted up from the underwater explosions. "You've struck oil, Frenchy," one of the Wildcat pilots reported, calling Chatelain by her nickname. "The sub is surfacing!" It seemed as though Gallery's chance to seize a German submarine had come.

'I Want that Ship'

The CHATELAIN, the Wildcats, and every other ship within range opened fire on U-505 as she surfaced--but not with their big guns, only with machine guns, as Gallery had ordered. Suddenly, U-505's commander, Oberleutnant Harald Lange, apparently believing his vessel had been badly damaged (perhaps because the depth charges had caused spraying leaks in the engine room), ordered his crew to abandon ship. The German submariners hurried out of the U-boat and into the sea, where they bobbed in gentle swells, awaiting rescue--and capture--in relative safety.

Lieutenant Albert David of the USS Pillsbury (DE-133) and his small boarding party were the first Americans to reach U-505. The sub was moving in a clockwise circle, slowly, due to a jammed rudder, and was quickly taking on water, but they clambered aboard and made their way into the narrow confines. Heavily armed, they moved cautiously, not knowing what to expect. None of them had ever set foot aboard a submarine, let alone an enemy submarine. Not all of them knew how to swim, and one later said he was worried because he had torn his Mae West--his flotation vest--on the sub's conning tower while clambering aboard, and if the sub went down he would have had no way to save himself. Adding to the tension were the questions of whether the German crew had set demolition charges to blow the sub apart or whether enemy sailors waited in ambush somewhere inside its unfamiliar interior.

Fortunately for the boarding party, all the Germans were gone, and there were no sudden explosions to rip the sub apart. The truth was, the enemy sailors had scurried overboard so quickly they hadn't had time to set the demolition charges. But the enemy crew had opened seacocks--valves on the hull designed to let water in or out--in an effort to sink their sub. The Americans scrambled to close the seacocks, but a stream of water six to eight inches in diameter continued to gush through the sea strainer, an opening that filtered seawater flowing into the engine's cooling system. The flow had to be stopped, but the strainer's cover was nowhere in sight. Miraculously, one of the boarders found it in a corner of the control room and managed to force it into place. It was a close call. Had the Germans thrown the cover into the bilges (the sub's bottommost compartments) or tossed it overboard, the boarding party likely would not have been able to stem the inflow of water and U-505 would have gone to the bottom along with its would-be salvagers.

Even with the sea strainer problem solved, David and his men were all alone aboard a "runaway enemy ship with machinery humming all around them, surrounded by a bewildering array of pipes, valves, levers and instruments with German labels on them," Gallery wrote in his memoir. The U-boat and its secrets were all theirs, as long as they didn't move the wrong lever, valve, or gizmo and blow up or sink the vessel. David ordered two men forward to the radio room, where they smashed open a few lockers, located the precious codebooks, and quickly passed them to men on deck. That ensured that the venture would have something of value to show even if the U-boat sank.

By this time U-505 was so low in the water that swells were breaking across her topsides and beginning to wash into the conning tower hatch. David ordered the one man who was still on deck to close the hatch while the others worked below. The sub, with its rudder still jammed, was traveling in circles at about six knots. That's when Gallery summoned Commander Earl Trosino, the Guadalcanal's chief engineer, to the bridge. "Trosino," Gallery said, "I want that ship. Take the men and get aboard. I want that ship."

Enter the Engineer

Trosino AND HIS MEN got a rude welcome to U-505. A large swell picked up their boat and dropped it unceremoniously on the sub's deck, spilling them across the top of the sub. Collecting himself, Trosino scrambled up the conning tower, only to discover the hatch wouldn't open. The resourceful Americans snatched a German bobbing in the water who showed them how to use a small valve to let air into the pressure hull, equalizing the pressures inside and allowing the hatch to be opened. Trosino thanked the German, who was then shoved by crewmen back into the water to await capture.

Once inside the U-boat, Trosino, who had worked as a chief engineer aboard Sunoco tankers before the war, was in his element. But although he knew his way around a standard engine room, he, like David and his men, had never been aboard a submarine. He quickly set to work figuring out how U-505 worked, crawling around under the floor plates, in the bilges, tracing pipelines. Somehow, he managed to close all the right valves and didn't open any of the wrong ones.

While Trosino worked his engineering magic, the other men went through U-505 searching for the 14 five-pound TNT demolition charges that intelligence reports said would be at various spots along the hull. They found 13, and none of them had been set. But where was number 14? It was a worrisome question that would go unanswered for three weeks before the charge turned up deep in U-505's bowels.

When U-505 was moving forward, she rode about 10 degrees down at the stern, Trosino reported to Gallery. When she slowed down, she lost lift in her stern diving planes and settled into a steeper angle that submerged the conning tower hatch. Clearly, towing would be the only way for Gallery to get his prize home safely. None of the task group's five destroyer escorts had towing capacity, however, and the job had to be done right. Earlier, when the Pillsbury had first brought U-505 alongside, the sub's port bow flipper had sliced a long gash in the destroyer escort's hull below the waterline. Two main compartments flooded, forcing Pillsbury to cut the sub free and back off to tend its own wounds.

In the end it seemed the job of hauling Junior, as the seamen nicknamed the captured U-boat, would fall to the Guadalcanal. But towing an uncooperative sub with its rudder jammed far to starboard presented challenges to Gallery, who also had to deal with getting four Wildcats back on board. Further complicating things, the carrier was low on fuel. In the end, Gallery detached the fleet tugboat USS Abnaki (ATF-96) to haul U-505 to Bermuda. Meanwhile, the oiler USS Kennebec (AO-36) arrived with the much-needed fuel.

ON THE WAY TO Bermuda, Trosino kept up his work (despite the unnerving possibility that there was still an undiscovered demolition charge on board). U-505 was one of Germany's Type IXC submarines, capable of traveling an estimated 13,450 miles (moving on the surface at 10 knots) between fuel fill-ups. Like most submarines of the day, U-505 was basically a diesel-powered surface vessel capable of running submerged for short periods on battery-powered electric motors.

Trosino determined that by disengaging the clutch to U-505's diesel engines and letting the propeller spin freely as the sub was towed, he could recharge the vessel's batteries and get the lights and entire electrical system working. That, in turn, enabled him to get U-505's pumps running, which leveled the vessel in the water. Soon, things were operating so well that Trosino suggested he could get the sub to Bermuda under its own power. Gallery scotched that idea, unwilling to risk losing his prize.

Opening a Secret Treasure

On June 19, after a voyage of some 1,960 miles, the Abnaki pulled U-505 into Port Royal Bay, Bermuda. At last, the time had come for a thorough study of Gallery's one-of-a-kind catch. U505 proved to be a treasure trove of useful intelligence for the US Navy, with an impact that would continue even after the war, as US submarine designs incorporated some of the findings.

By June 20, the code-related materials from the U-505 arrived at the Bletchley Park estate in Buckinghamshire, England, home of Great Britain's Government Code and Cypher School and its decryption unit. The new material saved considerable time in cracking the ever-changing German naval codes. U-505's codebooks and related tables made it easier to read German messages, and that helped Allied naval forces find and sink numerous Uboats. The newly gleaned information also enabled the Allies to reroute vital convoys away from lurking U-boat wolf packs.

Another important find aboard U-505 was its pair of G7es/T5 Zaunkonig ("Wren") acoustic torpedoes. These sophisticated weapons homed in on sound generated by passing ships. Extensive analysis of the torpedoes yielded ideas to better protect Allied transatlantic convoys and their naval escorts. Although the Americans didn't realize it at first, the G7es/T5s were temperamental; at sea, mechanics had to service them daily or moisture could detonate their complicated electrical fuses.

The U-505 capture would have made headlines on both sides of the Atlantic, but instead, mum was the word. If the Kriegsmarine, Nazi Germany's navy, were to learn that a U-boat had been seized, codebooks and all, the German code would change immediately, and the Allies would be back to square one when trying to read encrypted messages. So the US Navy did everything possible to make U-505 invisible, beginning with repainting it to look like an American sub and renaming it USS Nemo. The military also kept the 59 surviving U-505 sailors (one man had died in the seizure) apart from other POWs at Camp Ruston, Louisiana, and denied the Red Cross access to them. It was a flagrant violation of the Geneva Conventions, but the segregation helped conceal U-505's capture. The Germans eventually concluded that the sub and its crew had been lost at sea.

At Camp Ruston, the U-boat men worked clearing forests and picking cotton on nearby farms, impressing many farmers with their work ethic. To the Germans, picking cotton could be "odious," recalled POW Hans Goebeler. Snakes dropped from trees and large wasps--nicknamed Stukas after the Junkers Ju 87 dive-bomber aircraft--were everywhere. Goebeler noted that a farmer offered to adopt him as a son after the war, promising he would eventually inherit the farm.

Once the war in Europe ended, Goebeler and his crewmates were free to write letters to their families to assure them they had survived. On their way home, however, the men were diverted to Scotland, where they worked two years in forced labor before being released in late 1947.

The U-505 Legacy

Gallery was very proud of TG 23.3's historic capture of U-505 and the benefits that came from it. The hunter-killer "reception committees" that the Allies arranged as a result, Gallery wrote after the war, had a crippling effect on Germany's U-boat wolf packs in the Atlantic. The Kriegsmarine lost a total of 370 subs between January 1944 and the end of the war in Europe in May 1945. That amounts to a startling 48 percent of the 765 lost during the entire war, and that excludes subs scuttled at the war's end.

Gallery was also proud of the fact that the nearly 3,000 American sailors in his task group remained silent about the U-505 seizure. That helped keep the Germans in the dark about the sub's fate.

The navy honored the men involved in the capture. David, who daringly led the initial boarding party, received the Medal of Honor, the only one bestowed on an Atlantic fleet sailor in World War II. Torpedoman's Mate Third Class Arthur Knispel and Radioman Second Class Stanley Wdowiak received the Navy Cross; they were the first two men aboard U-505 after David. Boarding-party member Seaman First Class Earnest Beaver received the Silver Star. Gallery, for his role in conceiving and executing the plan to capture a U-boat, received the Navy Distinguished Service Medal, and Trosino received the Legion of Merit. The entire task group received a Presidential Unit Citation.

GALLERY WENT ON to a distinguished naval career, despite participating in the so-called Revolt of the Admirals starting in 1949, an outcry by top navy commanders against the government's postwar plans to gut the navy and other conventional forces and rely almost exclusively on airborne nuclear weapons. He retired in 1960 as a rear admiral. Trosino also rose to rear admiral prior to his retirement, in 1959.

As for U-505, at war's end the submarine at the center of Gallery's success was deteriorating at Maine's Portsmouth Navy Yard (named for its proximity to Portsmouth, New Hampshire). Finally, in 1946, the navy designated the sub to become a target for naval gunnery practice. When Gallery found out, he contacted his brother John, a Catholic priest in Chicago who had served as a WWII navy chaplain, to ask him to lead a preservation effort. John approached Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry about acquiring the sub as an exhibit. The museum was interested, and in 1954, after Chicago residents donated $250,000 for transportation costs, US Coast Guard vessels wended their way through the Great Lakes to deliver the captured artifact.

After extensive restoration, the U-boat credited with sending eight Allied ships totaling nearly 46,000 tons to the bottom of the sea went on display outside the museum. Fresh renovations came in 2004-2005, when U-505 was moved indoors to a special exhibit area. There, visitors can safely tour the war prize so boldly captured by Gallery and his men on the high seas.

Phil Zimmer, a Vietnam-era staff sergeant with the US Army Reserve, has written extensively on World War II for various national periodicals. For more about the U-505 exhibit in Chicago, see the Landings article "A Nazi Sub Resurfaces in Chicago" by Joe Razes in the June 2007 issue of America in WWII.

RELATED ARTICLE: The GERMAN Side of the Story.

June 4, 1944, was "the worst day of my life," said U-505 crewman Hans Goebeler. That day, after the capture of his sub, he and other crew members were prisoners, locked inside a steel cage aboard the USS Guadalcanal as "searing heat from the ship's engines turned the already stifling tropical air in the cage into a virtual blast furnace." It was all the worse when they learned their efforts to scuttle their sub had failed. U-505 was being towed "like some wounded gray wolf being dragged into captivity."

It was an inglorious end for a submarine that had been raiding since January 1941 and had sunk eight Allied cargo ships. But U-505 had seen her share of troubles. She had frequently cut her patrols short due to mechanical problems, many seemingly the result of sabotage by French workers at her home base, Lorient, France. Oberleutnant zur See ("Senior Lieutenant at Sea") Harald Lange, U-505's skipper, had assumed command on November 18, 1943, after the morale-crushing suicide of his predecessor, who shot himself while the sub was submerged and under a severe depth-charge attack. The tragedy added to U505's growing reputation as a hard-luck vessel. It fell to Lange to turn things around.

The 40-year-old Lange was U-505's eldest crew member and the oldest captain of a battle-ready U-boat. He had been a merchant mariner until 1939, when he was activated as a member of Germany's naval reserve. Serving several years on surface vessels before being assigned to U-boats, he would lead U-505 on her 11th and 12th missions.

U-505 left Brest, France, on her 12th mission on March 16, 1944. At one point, the outer hatch to torpedo tube number two wouldn't close completely, rendering the sub incapable of diving below 65 feet. That made her particularly vulnerable, especially to Allied planes. Just as bad, an undetonated and moisture-sensitive acoustic torpedo was trapped in the tube. Goebeler remarked that the sub was "stranded near the surface like a sitting duck with a time bomb stuck in our rear." Eventually, crew members donned breathing devices, swam out, and after 20 hours' work, fixed the cover, allowing the torpedo to be pulled inside and serviced.

Sunday, June 4, began like any other day, except that U-505 was low on oxygen, so men not on duty were confined to their bunks to conserve air. Goebeler quietly whispered prayers from the small Bible his mother had given him and by late morning was back on duty. That's when the hydrophone man reported faint propeller noises. Lange ordered the periscope up and immediately shouted, "Destroyer!"

Lange had time to identify three enemy destroyers, planes overhead, and another ship, probably an aircraft carrier. Clearly, the U-boat's underwater sound equipment had failed, because a hunter-killer task force was nearly on top of them. Firing a torpedo as a distraction, Lange ordered a dive. Hedgehog depth charges from one of the destroyers missed, but then the U-boat men heard a puzzling metallic clinking from above. Most said it sounded like a heavy chain being dragged across the sub. A chill ran up Goebeler's spine; he feared the sub had snagged the mooring chain of a mine, and he expected an explosion at any time. The sound was actually bullets from American planes, pinging off the hull. The planes were marking the sub's location for the destroyers.

U-505 was running at about 200 feet when 600-pound depth charges exploded around her, knocking her crewmen off their feet. The lights went out and, although the emergency lights came on, electrical devices were inoperable. The aft torpedo room was flooding. Lange ordered it evacuated and the watertight hatch closed. The main rudder was jammed, and because the auxiliary rudder control was inaccessible in the flooded torpedo room, the sub was forced to turn in a tight circle, starboard.

Lange ordered U-505 to the surface. American bullets slammed against the conning tower. Lange did his duty, being the first man to step out into the firestorm to determine whether to fight or abandon ship. Cut down by shrapnel, he crawled back to the conning tower and ordered the men to scuttle and abandon the sub. First watch officer Oberleutnant zur See Paul Meyer followed Lange out, as procedure dictated; he, too, was wounded, depriving U-505 of her second-in-command. Chief engineer Joseph Hauser, the only man left aboard who could set the sub's demolition charges, then decided to scamper. Acting on his own initiative, machinist Alfred-Karl Holdenried opened the valves on the diving cells to flood them, but the valves jammed only partway open. Goebeler opened the sea strainer, six to eight inches in diameter. That might have scuttled the boat had the diving-cell valves not jammed or had the American boarders hesitated just a bit longer before clambering aboard.

Goebeler later wrote about his experience aboard U-505 and his captivity. Once released, he was excited to rejoin his family in the now-divided Germany, but he bristled at the de-Nazification program the Allies required. He managed to jump off a train just before it reached the German border and relied on "sympathetic smugglers" to get him across before making his way home to Bettendorf, thus avoiding the re-education process.

Later, upon learning that U-505 was being installed as a museum exhibit in Chicago, he began to think about seeing her again. In retirement, he and his wife moved to Chicago and organized reunions of the Americans and Germans involved in the capture of his beloved submarine. At a 1982 reunion, Goebeler, then 59, had an opportunity to raise a stein of beer and toast Earl Trosino, then 75, who as the USS Guadalcanal's chief engineer had played a crucial role in saving U-505 nearly four decades earlier.

Goebeler, who died in the late 1990s, openly admitted surprise that the Americans were able to save U-505. "We couldn't believe it," he said. "We thought that no one would be brave enough to board that sinking ship."

Phil Zimmer

Caption: Opposite: Old Glory tops the flagstaff of U-505, the only German sub captured in World War II, and the first vessel the US Navy had captured at sea since 1815. Captain Daniel Gallery, who claimed this rare prize, stands on her conning tower flanked by men who kept her from sinking. Lieutenant Junior Grade Albert David (right) led the gutsy boarding party that clambered onto the sub and closed water inlets. Commander Earl Trosino (left), a naval engineer, stabilized her and got her home. Above: Securing the sub required removal of a damaged torpedo.

Caption: Opposite: Lieutenant David's boarding and salvage crew sets to work on U-505. The abandoned sub is dangerously low in the water, and the peril to the Americans is immense. If the swamped U-boat suddenly sinks to the bottom, anyone inside is going with her. Above: From a gun tub aboard the escort carrier USS Guadalcanal (CVE-60), Captain Gallery's flagship, sailors and officers watch U-505 riding behind their ship under tow. A tugboat would soon take over the job of hauling the U-boat nearly 2,000 miles from a spot off the West African coast to Bermuda.

Caption: Above, left: Commander Trosino oversaw a thorough study of U-505. The sub, which had sunk eight Allied ships, packed hefty firepower. Here are forward torpedo tubes 1, 2, 3, and 4, photographed by Trosino's crew. Above, right: U-505's sonar and radio center. The hydrophone--sound sensors on the sub's exterior--failed on the day of Captain Gallery's attack, giving the Americans the advantage of surprise. Opposite: As for U-505's crewmen, they became prisoners aboard Guadalcanal. Here, a sailor hoses them down with saltwater to give them relief from the day's heat.

Caption: Above: The tug Abnaki hauls U-505, with a large US flag flying over it, toward Bermuda. Below: Commander Trosino got U-505 into working order, but Captain Gallery, seen aboard Guadalcanal wearing the German skipper's hat, wouldn't untether his prize.

Caption: After abandoning ship, rescue meant capture for the men of U-505. These sailors from the sub's 60-man crew are climbing climb aboard Guadalcanal from a lifeboat that also bears the body of their shipmate, the only German killed in the attack.
COPYRIGHT 2019 310 Publishing LLC
No portion of this article can be reproduced without the express written permission from the copyright holder.
Copyright 2019 Gale, Cengage Learning. All rights reserved.

Article Details
Printer friendly Cite/link Email Feedback
Title Annotation:Daniel Gallery, World War II submarine warfare
Author:Zimmer, Phil
Publication:America in WWII
Date:Apr 1, 2019
Previous Article:one mic against the reich: CBS Radio newsman Edward R. Murrow brought the ugly truth about Nazi aggression to America's living rooms direct from...
Next Article:A WWII Scrapbook.

Terms of use | Privacy policy | Copyright © 2019 Farlex, Inc. | Feedback | For webmasters