Fritz-Julius Lemp tracked the approaching ship in his submarine’s periscope. It had become a silhouette barely distinguishable against the darkening twilight sky, but Lemp was close enough to see the foaming white wave thrown up by its bow. He smiled when the spray arched higher, signaling the ship had begun changing course again.
“You’re right on schedule,” he said to the image in his eyepiece.
Lemp’s pulse quickened with the knowledge that his war was about to begin . . .
On September 1, 1939, the passenger liner Athenia set sail from Glasgow for Montreal by way of Belfast and Liverpool. She carried 1,100 passengers, nearly three-quarters of whom were women and children. On September 3, Athenia was torpedoed by a German submarine. In Without Warning, author Thomas C. Sanger tells the harrowing story of the sinking of the Athenia from the perspective of eight people: six passengers, Athenia’s chief officer, and the commander of the German U-boat.
Based on accounts written by passengers, personal interviews with survivors and descendants of survivors, books, newspaper stories, and original documents, Without Warning honors the memory of Athenia’s passengers, both living and dead.
Fritz-Julius Lemp tracked the approaching ship in his submarine’s periscope. It had become a silhouette barely distinguishable against the darkening twilight sky, but Lemp was close enough to see the foaming white wave thrown up by its bow. He smiled when the spray arched higher, signaling the ship had begun changing course again.
“You’re right on schedule,” he said to the image in his eyepiece.
Lemp’s pulse quickened with the knowledge that his war was about to begin . . .
On September 1, 1939, the passenger liner Athenia set sail from Glasgow for Montreal by way of Belfast and Liverpool. She carried 1,100 passengers, nearly three-quarters of whom were women and children. On September 3, Athenia was torpedoed by a German submarine. In Without Warning, author Thomas C. Sanger tells the harrowing story of the sinking of the Athenia from the perspective of eight people: six passengers, Athenia’s chief officer, and the commander of the German U-boat.
Based on accounts written by passengers, personal interviews with survivors and descendants of survivors, books, newspaper stories, and original documents, Without Warning honors the memory of Athenia’s passengers, both living and dead.
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Overview
Fritz-Julius Lemp tracked the approaching ship in his submarine’s periscope. It had become a silhouette barely distinguishable against the darkening twilight sky, but Lemp was close enough to see the foaming white wave thrown up by its bow. He smiled when the spray arched higher, signaling the ship had begun changing course again.
“You’re right on schedule,” he said to the image in his eyepiece.
Lemp’s pulse quickened with the knowledge that his war was about to begin . . .
On September 1, 1939, the passenger liner Athenia set sail from Glasgow for Montreal by way of Belfast and Liverpool. She carried 1,100 passengers, nearly three-quarters of whom were women and children. On September 3, Athenia was torpedoed by a German submarine. In Without Warning, author Thomas C. Sanger tells the harrowing story of the sinking of the Athenia from the perspective of eight people: six passengers, Athenia’s chief officer, and the commander of the German U-boat.
Based on accounts written by passengers, personal interviews with survivors and descendants of survivors, books, newspaper stories, and original documents, Without Warning honors the memory of Athenia’s passengers, both living and dead.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781632991416 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | River Grove Books |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2017 |
| Pages: | 318 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.71(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
PART I DEPARTURE
Article 22, 1930 Treaty of London
1. In their action with regard to merchant ships, submarines must conform to the rules of international law to which surface vessels are subject.
2. In particular, except in the case of persistent refusal to stop on being duly summoned, or of active resistance to visit or search, a warship, whether surface vessel or submarine, may not sink or render incapable of navigation a merchant vessel without having first placed passengers, crew, and ship's papers in a place of safety. For this purpose the ship's boats are not regarded as a place of safety unless the safety of the passengers and crew is assured, in the existing sea and weather conditions, by the proximity of land, or the presence of another vessel, which is in a position to take them on board.
— LONDON SUBMARINE PROTOCOL OF 1936
(A DISTANT ECHO of the "Prize Rules" that governed warfare in the age of sail, the 1936 protocol declared Article 22 of the 1930 treaty remained in force, and its terms were agreed to by thirty-five nations, including Germany.)
SUNDAY 7:38 P.M., SEPTEMBER 3, 1939
Oberleutnant Lemp
FRITZ-JULIUS LEMP TRACKED the approaching ship in his submarine's periscope. It had become a silhouette barely distinguishable against the darkening twilight sky, but Lemp was close enough to see the foaming white wave thrown up by its bow. He smiled when the spray arched higher, signaling the ship had begun changing course again.
"You're right on schedule," he said to the image in his eyepiece.
Lemp's pulse quickened with the knowledge that his war was about to begin. He called out the data that would guide his first salvo — the target's speed, distance, and course relative to his own. His second watch officer fed the details into the submarine's targeting device that electronically relayed a final course to the waiting torpedoes.
Lowering the scope to avoid detection, Lemp tamped down his eagerness and let a minute tick by. When he raised the scope again, the big ship was exactly where he expected it to be. He curled his fingers around the upright firing lever.
"Tube one, fire," he barked into the speaking tube and pulled back on the lever.
A muffled whoosh sounded through the submarine's hull, signaling the torpedo and its six hundred pounds of high explosives had left the tube on its way to the target.
Chief Officer Copland
ABOARD THE BRITISH passenger ship Athenia, white-jacketed stewards moved among the tables in the ornate, domed dining saloon reserved for cabin-class passengers. Seated at a round table with six other guests, the ship's chief officer, Barnet Copland, ordered the curried chicken and resumed his conversation with an older woman to his right.
"To answer your question, Mrs. Penney, we are two hundred fifty miles northwest of Ireland." Copland leaned closer and lowered his voice. "I trust you won't relay that information to the German Navy."
"My lips are sealed," Mrs. Penney said. "Seriously, do you think we are out of danger?"
"I'd say we are fairly —"
A jarring crash shook the room. Copland leaned into the table for support as passengers screamed. Dishes rattled, stemware toppled, the lights blinked and went out. In the dark, he felt the room begin to tilt.
"Are you alright, Mrs. Penney?" The flickering light of matches struck by nearby diners illuminated the woman, who remained seated next to him.
"What in God's name was that?" she said.
Copland came to his feet. He ignored the question, intent on determining the extent of damage caused by the crash. Instinct told him it had occurred toward the stern on the port side.
Moving aft, he entered the galley and heard men shouting over the hiss of escaping steam. Copland inched along the bulkhead until he found the service stairway and used the banister to haul himself up. After climbing two flights of stairs, he exited and headed down a carpeted hallway as quickly as he dared in the dark. Distant clanging bells told him Athenia's watertight doors were closing.
The sickening realization washed over Copland that the ship's hull had been breached, and he broke into a run.
JUNE 1939
Chief Officer Copland
THE CROW'S NEST public house sat at the end of a row of shops across from the gray stone warehouses of Glasgow's busy waterfront. Barnet Copland entered the pub and was met by the din of shouted conversations and the mingled aroma of tobacco smoke and stale beer. He searched the crowd for his friend and fellow Merchant Navy officer, Gordon Dunbar. When he saw Gordon's rangy figure waving to him from across the room, Copland shouldered his way through the crowd to greet his friend and sit next to him on the maroon leather banquette.
"You're looking quite sleek," Gordon said, leaning in to be heard over the noonday clientele at the bar. "Ferrying passengers across the Atlantic must agree with you."
"It's the food, Gordy. We eat better than you poor donkeys hauling cargo. You should think about a transfer."
"God no," Gordon said, waving his hands. "I don't fancy working with any cargo that can talk back to me. Besides, you shouldn't be so smug about your passenger trade."
"And why is that?"
"There's some American company starting what they call 'air passenger service' from New York to London. It's only a matter of time before your passengers will fly right over your head, taking a day to cross the ocean instead of a week."
"Go on with you. The aeroplane will never replace the comfort of an ocean voyage."
"Times change, Barty. You've got to change with them."
Copland ignored the gentle jibe and went to the bar to order their drinks. When he returned, he placed a dark amber pint of Younger's Ale on the small table they shared.
"Where's yours?" Gordon asked.
"It's coming," Copland said. "Tell me, what do you hear from the Royal Navy? Will they take you up?"
Gordon shook his head. "I haven't heard a thing," he said. "The Admiralty says it's going to arm a few merchant ships as a precaution. If they do they'll likely call back officers with experience in fighting ships. I'm thinking unless Mr. Hitler does something really stupid, I won't be called."
A signal from the barman interrupted their conversation and Copland went to collect his order. He returned with a pot of tea and a china mug.
"You're not drinking?" Gordon asked.
"We sail in two days, so I've cut myself off."
"Seems a bit extreme. When did you start this routine?"
"A few years ago," Copland said, pouring himself a steaming cup of black tea. "Don't look so worried. It's only when I'm working."
"Aye, but I do worry. You're always with your head down, buried in your work. It's not healthy, Barty." Gordon took a gulp of ale and licked the foam off his upper lip.
"This is your fault, you know," Copland said. "You're the reason I became an officer. Can I help it if I love my work?"
"But do you have to be so intense about it?"
Gordon wasn't the first person to express concern about his driven work habits. In truth, Copland was unsure if his love of the sea had inspired him to work hard or his hard work had led to his love of the sea. The two elements were so intertwined in his mind he could no longer separate them.
"My intensity only makes me a better officer. What's wrong with that?" he said, taking a sip of tea.
"All I'm saying is you need to apply some of that intensity to the other parts of your life."
"Now you sound like my ma."
"Maybe you should listen to her. You travel all over the world, Barty, but do you see what's in it?"
"When did you become such a philosopher?"
Gordon fixed him with a steady gaze. "When I realized a good friend of mine was missing so much of what life has to offer."
For a moment, Copland recalled a bright summer day and the image of a young woman walking away while he sat pinned to a park bench by the words she had spoken, words that still wounded after four years: "I'm sorry, Barty, but I can't wait any longer for you to establish your career. I truly hope you find what you're looking for."
The intensity of the memory surprised and unsettled him. Was Gordy right? No, he would not allow himself to believe the sacrifices he'd made for his career were too costly. But this was not something Copland wanted to discuss. Clearly, he needed to end their conversation or he risked saying something regrettable. He glanced at his watch without seeing the time.
"Gordy, I have to get back to the ship. I didn't realize it was so late." He stood and started buttoning his dark-blue cardigan.
"But we haven't eaten yet," Gordon protested.
"I know. I've a busy schedule. It was a mistake to try to squeeze in this lunch."
Gordon cocked his head and sat back into the padded banquette. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"
"Of course I have. I'm too wrapped up in my work. I know that, but I wouldn't know how to change even if I wanted to." Copland shook Gordon's hand. "Sorry, but I have to go."
"Mark my words, Barty. If war comes, your future may be very different from the one you have planned."
"I'll ring you when I come back next month." He turned and was out the door before his friend could say another word.
Spirydon Kucharczuk
BY TEN O'CLOCK in the morning, the sun beating down on Trosteniec's town square had become oppressive. As he walked in search of the fortune-teller's street, Spirydon felt the air's humid closeness and wondered if it held the possibility of an afternoon shower for his thirsty pasture. His dusty boots clopped along the cobblestones, adding to the clatter of horse-drawn carts, the rumble of an automobile, and the shouts of boys playing in the square. After twenty years, these were familiar sights and sounds, and he would miss them once he and his family left this little market town in eastern Poland for Canada.
"Spiro." A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see the butcher beckoning to him.
Spirydon waved and approached the short man who filled the doorway of his shop. "Good morning, Vitaly," he said. "How are you holding up in this heat?"
"Not so good, but at least I'm not going for a walk," the butcher said, wiping his hands on his apron with its rusty offal stains.
"What can I say?" Spirydon shrugged. "I told Ewdokia she shouldn't walk to town in this heat. So here I am."
"Oh Spiro," Vitaly said, shaking his head slowly, "you are too good to that woman. You make it hard for the rest of us. But as long as you're here, tell your wife if she has some eggs tomorrow, we could make a trade."
"I'll let her know." Spirydon turned to resume his errand then turned back. "Have you heard any more about Dr. Goebbels' speech in Danzig last week?"
"Not a thing. You're the one who reads the newspapers."
"Maybe you heard something from your customers?"
Vitaly frowned. "All I hear from them are questions about extending their credit. Why this concern about the Nazis? You're not Jewish. And who believes even half of the stories they tell about how Germans treat their Jews?" He cleared his throat and spit in the gutter.
"I believe them," Spirydon said. "You forget Kristallnacht. If they can do that to Jews, they can do it to Poles. And what makes you think the Nazis would be satisfied just with Danzig?" "Ha," the butcher snorted. "If they come after us, maybe Mother Russia will come to our rescue and we'll all be Ukrainians again."
"I worry about that, too," Spirydon said, turning to go.
"You worry too much, Spiro," Vitaly called after him.
*
SPIRYDON FOUND THE fortune-teller on the second floor of a dreary brick building two blocks off the square. He paused in front of the door, its chipped paint the color of harvested wheat. A practical man, he believed in the things he could see and feel — a straight furrow or the stout handle of an axe. For more abstract matters, he relied on the rituals of the church. But the church did not concern itself with the world of curses and prophecies, which is why he had come to the fortune-teller.
"Enter, please," a woman's voice responded after he finally knocked. Spirydon opened the door to a jumbled room with a pair of windows that looked out on the gray-green wall of another building. Gauzy purple curtains hung from the ceiling, dividing off a portion of the space. Books crowded the room's shelves, along with a few small mounted creatures under bell jars, an animal skull, and a few burning candles that filled the air with a flowery perfume. In the center of it all, the fortune-teller sat in a straight-back chair at a small, round wooden table. She wore a black blouse with a simple gold chain around her neck. Her pleasant, round face and dark eyes were youthful and welcoming.
"Not what you were expecting?" She seemed to read his bewilderment.
"I don't know. I thought you would be older."
"You mustn't judge by appearances alone," the woman said. Her voice was confident and reassuring. She gestured to the chair across the table from her and Spirydon sat down. "Now, what is the reason for your visit?"
"It's my wife. She wants to know if our family is cursed."
The woman shook her head. "I cannot tell you if your family is cursed. I can only tell you about the future. You must decide if it is cursed."
Spirydon thought for a moment. "We plan to travel to Canada," he said. "Can you tell me anything about that?"
"Of course." The woman picked up a well-worn deck of oversized cards from the table, handed the deck to him, and asked him to shuffle the cards. When he concluded, she took back the deck and laid out nine cards face up on the table in front of her. The pictures on the cards were a mystery to Spirydon — a jaunty fellow in a red cape, another holding a golden cup — and he watched the woman as she studied the images.
"You have a large family," she said. He nodded.
She picked up the cards, put them back in the deck, and asked him to shuffle them once more. When he finished, the woman took the deck and laid out another nine cards in the same configuration as before. This time, however, she glanced at the cards, quickly gathered them up with a frown, and stared at the empty table top. Spirydon thought he had done something wrong, but after a long pause the woman looked up at him.
"You will travel to Canada soon," she said, "but not all of your family will arrive with you."
*
"THAT IS WHAT she said?" Ewdokia asked her husband later that evening. "'Not all of your family will arrive with you'?"
"Yes, her exact words," he said as they sat by the vegetable garden at the side of their small wooden farmhouse. Spirydon had carried the chairs outside so they could enjoy the temperate evening and gain some privacy from the children.
"But she didn't say they would never arrive," Ewdokia said. "Perhaps she meant some would come later?"
"She didn't explain," he said, thinking Ewdokia should have gone to the fortune-teller so she could have asked all the questions that hadn't occurred to him.
"Does this mean we are cursed?" she asked. If it weren't for his fear of the German Army, Spirydon would have found it amusing that his sensible wife could be so obsessed about a curse supposedly arranged by her oldest sister over a dispute involving her family's land.
"No," he said with all the conviction he could muster. "I think the fortuneteller meant that Jan will stay here with his political friends rather than come with us to Canada."
"Oh no, Spiro. He must come. He is the oldest. You will need him to help with the new farm."
"That would be nice." Spirydon's wistful tone reflected just how far apart he and Jan had drifted over the last year. "The trouble is he's a dreamer, not a farmer."
"And whose fault is that? You were too lenient with him when he was a boy."
He had to admit there was some truth to Ewdokia's observation. His childhood had been so bleak that he invariably identified with his children whenever they forgot their chores or made a mess. In the end he simply found it easier to leave the discipline to her.
"Right or wrong, I cannot change things now," he said. "I don't want to leave Jan behind any more than you, but what can I do? Every time we talk, we end up in an argument."
Ewdokia folded her arms across her chest. "I am not leaving without all of my children." Her declaration worried him. If he could not convince her to leave, he could not save his family.
"Think about what you're saying," Spirydon said. "Jan is twenty. He's not a boy anymore. He will do what is best for him, and we must do what is best for the family."
"But what happens if the Germans don't come?"
"Evka, this is madness. I tell you they are coming. Either Poland gives the Nazis what they want, or they will come and take it. Sooner or later, we will all be living under Hitler's boot. If you refuse to go, then you are putting all our lives in German hands. Is that what you want?"
"No, but maybe we could wait another month."
"If we are going, we must start planning now," he said. "It took weeks for Niko and your sister to arrange all their travel documents for Canada. And before we can go, we have to sell the farm. That won't be easy with money so scarce."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Without Warning"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Thomas C. Sanger.
Excerpted by permission of River Grove Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Cover,
Title Page,
Copyright,
Dedication,
Author's Note,
Principal Characters,
Part I: Departure,
Sunday 7:38 P.M., September 3, 1939,
June 1939,
August 1939,
Friday, September 1,
Saturday Morning, September 2,
Saturday Afternoon, September 2,
Saturday Late Afternoon & Evening, September 2,
Sunday Morning, September 3,
Sunday Afternoon, September 3,
Sunday Late Afternoon, September 3,
Part II: Rescue,
Sunday 7:39 P.M., September 3,
Sunday 7:50–8:15 P.M., September 3,
Sunday 8:15–9:10 P.M., September 3,
Sunday 9:10–11:30 P.M., September 3,
Monday 0:15–3:00 A.M., September 4,
Monday, 3:30–5:00 A.M., September 4,
Part III: Reunion,
Monday, Dawn, September 4,
Monday, September 4, 1939,
Tuesday, September 5, 1939,
Thursday, September 7, 1939,
September 8–17, 1939,
September 19–27, 1939,
May 9, 1941,
Afterword,
Acknowledgments,
About the Author,