The Sinking of the Laconia

Actually, this was not the first liner named Laconia, for the Cunard Lines had launched an earlier ship with the same name in 1911.  Ironically, that ship was also sunk by a German submarine, but in 1917. 

The second ship named Laconia was launched in 1921 and was a popular liner for 17 years.  Over 600 feet long and noted for her luxurious accommodations, she was one of the first ships outfitted with special stabilizing water tanks to prevent rolling as she plied the North Seas.  When World War II started, she quickly became part of the British Royal Navy.  Her blue and white hull—offset by a red smokestack—was covered with battleship gray paint.  Her garden cafes were removed and naval guns were bolted to her decks.

Now regarded as an armed merchant cruiser, the Laconia was used by the British Navy for transport duty.  After carrying a load of gold bullion from the Isle of Wight to the United States, she was primarily used to transport British soldiers to the Middle East.  Early in 1942, after disembarking her passengers, the ship was loaded with Italian prisoners of war, most of whom had been captured in Libya. 

Bound for England, the ship was to sail south through the Suez Canal, round the Cape of Good Hope, then proceed north along the West coast of Africa.  On board were 463 ship’s officers and crew, 286 military personnel, 80 civilians (including women and children), 1,793 Italian prisoners of war, and 103 Polish guards.  In total, 2,725 people were on board.

Captain Spark took all the usual precautions—including steering zigzag courses during the day and steaming as fast as possible during the cover of night—his ship had been underway for over 2,000 miles when a coded radio dispatch ordered a course change.  The Laconia was to steer to the Northwest, crossing the equator midway between Africa and Brazil.  While no explanation was given, the ship’s officers believed that a later order would direct them to either Canada or the West Indies.  Regardless of their eventual destination, the ship was about as far from land as possible

At 8:07 PM on September 12, 1942, while the officers and civilians were dancing in the First Class Lounge, the first torpedo struck the ship’s starboard side, destroying many of the ships lifeboats.  Among those killed instantly were hundreds of Italian prisoners and the entire complement of the ship’s damage control and fire fighting crews.  Steam pipes broke, the ship’s lights failed, the telephone system became inoperative, and the vessel began listing to starboard.  Due to the concussion, the mainmast fell, taking with it the ship’s radio antennae.

Within minutes, a second torpedo hit the ship’s hold, allowing massive amounts of seawater to fill the prisoner-occupied hold, dooming the ship.  Realizing that the ship would soon founder, Captain Spark gave the order to abandon ship.  As passengers and crew rushed in the darkness to the boat deck to secure what was left of the lifeboats, the surviving prisoners were left locked in their cells. 

Realizing that they were being abandoned, the surviving prisoners of war began battering their cell doors or climbing up ventilation shafts.  When their Polish guards realized that the prisoners were “escaping”, many were bayoneted.  (Unknown to the prisoners, while the Polish guards carried rifles with fixed bayonets, they had not been issued ammunition.)

By the time prisoners reached the boat deck, all but one of the surviving lifeboats had already been launched.  Most of the prisoners had no choice but to leap from the sinking ship into the sea, despite their not having been issued flotation devices.  Most of the crew, soldiers, civilians, and even the Polish guards were eventually rescued, but only 419 of the Italian prisoners of war—out of almost 1,800–survived.  Survivors later testified that those who managed to swim to lifeboats were attacked with axes, so that many had their hands chopped off as they attempted to climb to the relative safety of the open boats.  The blood in the water soon attracted sharks.

After firing his two torpedoes, Korvettenkapitän Werner Hartenstein of the U-156 observed over two thousand of the ship’s passengers swimming in the water.  Realizing that most were civilians or prisoners of war, he launched a rescue operation—an action that was allowed under international law.  At the time, naval forces of both the Axis and the Allies were operating under the old prize laws.

Hartenstein surfaced the submarine and began rescuing survivors, taking the wounded below and allowing the rest to assemble on the foredeck of his sub.  Sending a radio message in the clear (normally messages were coded), the submarine’s captain asked for any nearby vessels to assist in the rescue.  Germany sent several other U-boats, and the French Vichy Navy sent surface vessels.

After spreading Red Cross markers on the deck of his sub, Hartenstein began towing the assembled life boats towards a rendezvous with the French ships.  It was at this point that the strange flotilla was spotted by the air crew of an American B-24 Liberator bomber.  The crew reported the sub, that it was flying Red Cross markers, and that the deck was crowded with prisoners.  Nevertheless, the plane’s crew was ordered to attack the submarine by their commanders who were concerned about the number of Allied ships being sunk by German U-Boats.

The B-24 dropped bombs on the sub, then began to strafe the vessel with its machine guns.  When Hartenstein crash dived his boat, hundreds of survivors drowned. 

As more American planes arrived at the site of the vessel’s sinking, the U-506 was also attacked while rescuing survivors and was forced to submerge, leaving the people crowded on its deck to the mercy of the sea.

Altogether, 1,619 people perished with the sinking of the Laconia.  But, the death toll would continue to rise.

Grand Admiral Karl Dönitz, the man in charge of German submarine forces, after reviewing the events, issued the Laconia Order.  Realizing that airplanes could reach a surfaced submarine faster than the vessel could submerge to safety, Dönitz specifically forbade submarine commanders from engaging in any form of rescue operations.  This order effectively resulted in unrestricted submarine warfare for the remainder of the war by both the Axis and the Allies.

A blog is far too short a vehicle in which to list all the casualties that resulted from subsequent attacks.  Submarines routinely ignored the plight of downed aircrews and survivors of sunken ships.  While their stories are too numerous to relate, I can tell you what happened to a few of the people mentioned in this account.

Captain Sparks, who had already had one ship sunk from beneath him, was not among those rescued, and there are conflicting accounts of how he died.  The crew of the B-24 was awarded medals for its bravery.  After the war, Grand Admiral Dönitz was tried at Nuremberg—in part for issuing the Laconia Order.  Despite a letter from Admiral Chester Nimitz stating that American submarines also engaged in unrestricted warfare, the admiral was sentenced to ten years at Spandau Prison.

For Korvettenkapitän Werner Hartenstein and the U-156, the end came quicker.  On their next patrol, the German submarine was spotted by an American PBY flying near Barbados.  After dropping bombs, the crew observed the submarine breaking in two.  Eleven men surfaced from the doomed boat and the PBY circled back and dropped a rubber life raft.  Though some of the men made it into the life raft, when rescue ships later scoured the area, no sign of the life raft was ever found.

Comparisons with the loss of the Titanic seem inevitable.  There were loosely the same number of passengers, fairly close to the same number of casualties, and in both cases, the majority of the casualties came from a group of passengers who were physically prevented from boarding an inadequate number of lifeboats.  But, where almost everyone is fairly knowledgeable about the Titanic, very few people remember the Laconia—a tragedy where most of the loss of life could have been prevented.  Had it been the Nazis who had attacked those attempting such a rescue, I have no doubt that we would have all watched a great movie commemorating the event.

Raising Milliorns (or The Oldest Cat in Corpus Christi)

Sixty years ago, Robert Heinlein wrote a wonderful tale about a family living in the distant future, who kept a strange alien creature as a family pet.  Since the unusual beast lived for eleven generations, John Stuart left the slow-growing pet to his son to play with and care for. 

No one really knew where the creature had come from or much about it, but each generation loved, fed, and cared for it.  Finally, John Stuart XI encountered the beast’s relatives, who had been desperately searching for their wayward relative for centuries.  When asked what he had been doing for the last 250 years, the “pet”  calmly answered, “Raising John Stuarts.”

While the book, Star Beast, is considered one of the books comprising Heinlein’s Juvenile Series, this is not entirely apt.  In fact, there are a lot of books that people seem to believe are strictly for children—such as Gulliver’s Travels, Treasure Island, and Huckleberry Finn—that frequently have meanings that children miss and adults need.

My son, The-Other-One (not What’s-His-Name), brought Heinlein’s book to mind this week.  Unfortunately, a beloved family pet passed away after twenty years.  According to the veterinarian, Hobbes was the oldest cat in Corpus Christi.

I saw in the news last week that behavioral scientists have determined that cats really do form attachments to people.   I sure as hell hope they didn’t spend a lot of taxpayer money on that study, for their conclusion was evident the day he brought that little black and white kitten home.  It took one look at my youngest son and the cat to see that the link was obvious.  The cat had picked his human.

My son was in Middle School, which was a daily trial for Hobbes.  About half an hour before the school bus was due to arrive, Hobbes would sit down by the front door and wait for the boy to arrive.  For some reason, those same behavioral scientists don’t believe that cats have any sense of time.  (Or, maybe they just say that in hopes of getting more grant money to conduct another research project.)

During non-school days, boy and cat were seldom separated.  And at night, Hobbes slept in a “hammock” his boy had made from an old t-shirt above the  bed, just inches over his sleeping boy’s head.  I never actually told my son to go to bed, instead I would tell him to take his cat to bed.

Hobbes stuck with his boy through high  school and college, and followed his boy when his career moved him all over Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona.  Few cats like to travel, and Hobbes was no exception, but after every move, he accepted his responsibility to help turn a house into a home. 

When my son married, Hobbes accepted this new responsibility, too.  Though it took time—and much biting her hair while she watched television and practiced yoga—eventually she, too was worthy of being accepted into Hobbes’ family.

And of course, in time, there were new Milliorns to raise, for my son has three daughters, all of whom at one time or another briefly believed that Hobbes was a special form of animated toy.  I am not going to say that he was especially gentle and loving with children, for Hobbes practiced a form of tough love with strict rules.   The girls learned from Hobbes, even if some of the lessons required bandaids. 

As Mark Twain said, “A person that started in to carry a cat home by the tail was getting knowledge that was always going to be useful to him, and warn't ever going to grow dim or doubtful.”

The girls learned quickly, and eventually were lovingly added to Hobbes’ growing family.

We forget all the lessons that a harmless, necessary cat can teach us.  We learn patience—for a cat only knows two meanings of time; now and never.  When they are hungry, you need to feed them NOW, because the last time you fed them was NEVER.  Since you have NEVER scratched their ears, you need to do so NOW!

Cats teach us dignity and to be calm.  By their very nature, they bring us peace.  As Albert Schweitzer said, “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”  In a pinch, you can do without the music.

Cats evidently teach us to read.  I don’t have any direct evidence of this, but every time I look for a book, I inevitably find my cat asleep on it.  And it is almost impossible to read a book without a cat in your lap, checking to see if you are doing it correctly.

Strangely, he seems to have taught my youngest granddaughter to talk.  Her first word was neither “Mama” nor “Daddy”.  Instead, she learned to make a noise exactly like Hobbes.  Only the two of them know exactly what it means.

Most importantly, cats teach people to be good and decent room mates.  Cats are independent, have no sense of humor, and don’t associate long with people who don’t deserve their attention.   Like every other cat, Hobbes made a big show of saying hello.  He was loud and noisy as he approached you, rubbed your ankles and expected to be noticed.  But when Hobbes was done with you, he walked away without looking back.  And Hobbes would never, ever return unless you deserved it.  (He was, however, a pushover for someone with a brush for his fur!)

The fact that he loved my son every day of his life is the best proof possible that my son was worthy of such affection.  I am proud of my son for many reasons, not the least of which is that everyday he was worthy of (and generously returned) Hobbes’ devotion.

Hobbes was twenty years old when his work was finally done.  He will certainly be missed by his boy, the boy’s wife, their daughters, and yes—two grandparents.  His work is done—he has done a fine job of raising Milliorns.