The Lost Choice (23 page)

The millionaire didn't answer. Instead, he asked, “What is your estimate of our present speed?”

“Slow! ‘Slow' is my estimate,” Frohman barked. “We are six days at sea. You, yourself, know that the
Lusitania
once made the voyage from New York to Liverpool in five days— six, many times—and yet here we are . . . paddling along at eighteen knots. Why, when she can do twenty-six?”

“It has been foggy almost every night, C. F.”

“Well, it's not foggy now,” Frohman practically yelled.

Conceding the point,Vanderbilt raised another possibility. “Perhaps Captain Turner is intending to increase his speed this evening. And remember, British warships are patrolling these waters as well. I've been assured we will receive multiple naval escorts into the channel.”

Frohman tossed his unfinished cigar into the water far below and sighed.“One last comment,Alfred, then I promise to leave the subject for good, and we can join the talent show. Here it is: I have listened carefully to the condescending drivel heaped upon us by Captain Turner and his ilk, and I must tell you, old son, their words of ‘safety' ring hollow to me. I have been in the entertainment business all my life and have seen more convincing acting jobs from dance-hall girls.

“I am quite certain that it does not even slightly matter whether we have an escort, multiple escorts, or no escort at all! These deep-water, daughters of the devil are depressingly unfair. One cannot defend against that which one cannot see. These submarines are cowardly assassins, sneaking up behind a man and blowing his brains out. They are new weapons for a world that has changed,my friend . . . and no one asked my opinion before they made the changes.”

THE MEN FOUND THE FIRST-CLASS SALOON FILLED to overflowing. This was not only one of the more popular events of the voyage, but an opportunity for the second-class passengers to enter what was an otherwise off-limits area.

It was almost 11 PM when the last performer—an elderly man pounding out a barely recognizable Irving Berlin tune on the piano—finally finished. Though the passenger talent show was a tradition on all ocean liners and usually enjoyed by everyone, this particular production held little interest for Captain Turner. His only purpose in attending at all had been to make an effort at calming the restless passengers and perhaps quelling some of the rumors that were becoming rampant. Anxious to return to the bridge, the captain nevertheless put a smile on his face and, applauding dutifully for the dreadful keyboard mauling he had just witnessed, stepped up onto the stage.

“As many years as I have been at sea,” he said, as the room hushed, “I can honestly say that this particular passenger list, for whatever reason, holds the finest display of pure, unmitigated talent I have ever seen . . . and it was all on this stage this evening!” The audience applauded again as the captain joined them, nodding his head vigorously in agreement. “I should also like to take this opportunity to assure everyone of your absolute safety . . .”

Charles Frohman, seated at a table with Vanderbilt leaned over to him and whispered loudly, “Unbelievable! The man has been onstage for two seconds. He's covered two subjects with two sentences—and already told two lies!”

If the captain heard him, he gave no indication. Vanderbilt, on the other hand, struggled mightily to refrain from bursting out with laughter.“Be quiet, C. F.!” he ordered in an amused, but considerably softer, voice. “You have an admirable immunity to embarrassment, but the rest of us haven't been vaccinated!”

Frohman beamed with pleasure at the remark. His life in the theater had imbued him with a great appreciation for witty repartee, and Vanderbilt could always be counted upon to display his mastery.

“On entering the war zone tomorrow,” Captain Turner was saying,“we shall be securely in the care of the Royal Navy. Of course there is no need for alarm. Please enjoy the rest of your evening, and in closing, may I remind the gentlemen, due to the blackout conditions, please avoid lighting any tobacco on deck. Smoking indoors only. Thank you, and good night.”

As the audience stood to applaud the captain's exit, Frohman opened his mouth to speak. Before he could utter a word,Vanderbilt interrupted. “I know, C. F. I heard him. ‘You are absolutely safe, but for goodness' sake, don't light a match and let them see us.' Yes, I heard it too.” Frohman smiled, nodding, then suddenly frowned, deciding it wasn't that funny after all.

THE COMMANDER SAT IN THE ONLY CHAIR ON THE bridge with Gerta asleep in his lap. Except for Lanz, who was monitoring the controls, and Voegele, who stood at attention just outside the room, most of the men were sleeping. The U-20 was ballasted perfectly for seventy feet and drifting with the currents. Schwieger spit onto the sub's floor, drank from a canteen of oily water, and spit on the floor again. He could not rid his mouth of its metallic taste—or his mind, the thought of it.

The curved walls of the tiny space reflected unearthly shadows as the green glow of the instrument panel bored through Schwieger's eyes and deeply into his brain, compounding his ever-present headache. He hated nights like this—the total waste of time! Darkness, by itself, had never been a problem. Schwieger could always depend upon a quickly opened door or the cigarette of a disobedient crew member to yield just enough light for betrayal. Darkness with fog, however, was a different story.

The year before, Schwieger had almost been rammed by a ship he had not seen until the last moment. Cruising on the surface, recharging the wet-cell batteries, he had narrowly averted disaster when a freighter appeared out of the fog less than a hundred feet away. He dived under its bow, actually scraping the tail fin of the U-20, but was so shaken by the experience that he never thought to turn and torpedo the ship that had almost sunk him. Ever since that night, when fog rolled in, Schwieger dived the U-20 to safe levels, well underneath the spinning propellers of other vessels that, at close range, were as dangerous to him, as he was to them.

On the morning of May 7, the commander ordered the submarine to the surface at five o'clock, six o'clock, and then again at seven to find the same motionless fog that had plagued the U-20 all night. Schwieger continued to monitor the conditions every hour until, at ten o'clock, the curtain of smoky mist had sufficiently lifted, allowing the day's hunt to begin. At that moment, records reveal that Commander Schwieger's U-20 and Captain Turner's
Lusitania
were eighty-five miles apart.

FIFTEEN

ATLANTIC OCEAN—MAY 7, 1915

DAYLIGHT CAME AS A WELCOME RELIEF FOR THE PASSENGERS AND CREW OF THE great ocean liner. As the morning wore on and the thick fog burned off, people gathered on deck, greeting each other, increasingly comfortable in the knowledge that the voyage was almost over. At 11:45, the western tip of Ireland was sighted off the port bow, causing great cheers and congratulations among passengers and crew alike.

Five minutes later, in the U-20, Commander Schwieger ordered Lanz to dive. His lookouts had reported a navy cruiser steaming directly toward them. Unsure as to whether he had actually been spotted, Schwieger drifted the sub quietly at seventy-nine feet until they plainly heard the diesels of the British warship
Juno
passing directly overhead. He ascended warily to thirty-six feet in hopes of launching a torpedo, but watched through the periscope as the
Juno,
thwarting any attempt on her life, zigzagged, changing course and speed, all the way into Queenstown. Schwieger decided to remain in the area, patrolling the harbor mouth for at least the day, watching, waiting for another ship to make its way into the Irish port. Or for one to try to come out.

The
Lusitania
edged ever closer to the incredible green of the coastline. It seemed that the entire ship's population was on deck enjoying the increasing view of land after so long at sea. Chief Purser McCubbin had his binoculars out and was sharing them with anyone who wanted to look. A newspaper photographer was busy making extra money by taking pictures of anyone who wanted a memento of the trip.

When the U-20 surfaced at 1:20 PM, Charles Voegele noticed the calm seas immediately and, though not allowed topside as the hatch was opened, he inhaled the fresh air and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Seasickness tormented the young man, and as might have been expected, he received no sympathy from the crew.
But I am not a sailor!
he wanted to scream. Taken from his family's farm by force,Voegele was compelled by threat of death—his family's as well as his own—to serve the Imperial German Navy in whatever capacity they might deem appropriate.

Voegele's skills as an electrician eventually landed him aboard the U-20 where by his own reckoning, he had been vomiting, about to vomit, or just finished vomiting, ever since.
Life is very good,
he thought, displaying to himself the sense of humor that he had not lost and that, in fact, had kept him sane.
I am standing at attention just outside the bridge of a tin cigar that is commanded by a psychopath who slaughters people and kisses dogs!

Suddenly,Voegele became aware of a commotion in the control room as Weisbach, the torpedo officer who had been on watch, slid down the ladder, excitedly jabbering to Schwieger about “many ships” and “a forest of masts and stacks.” The young French conscript did not catch every word, but understood enough German to realize that the sub was being readied for an attack.

“Tauchen!”
Schwieger ordered. “Alarm! Everyone to diving stations!”

Moments later, as the U-20 blew her ballast tanks and canted downward, the commander deployed the periscope. “Lanz—level at thirty-six feet. Weisbach—where are the ships?”

“On the horizon, sir. Port, twenty degrees.”

For several stressful moments, the men quietly waited for their commander's next words. Finally, Schwieger lifted his head from the periscope and ordered, “Maintain course. Full speed. Weisbach, there are not multiple targets. The masts and stacks you saw are from one ship. She is less than four miles away. I want everyone at battle stations.”

As the submarine crew prepared the U-20 for action, Schwieger reset the periscope and watched the ship carefully. She was steering an uneven course, though her speed seemed constant. Soon the target was less than three miles away.

“Engineering is ready, sir,” a man reported as he appeared at the entrance to the control room.

“Fine,” Schwieger said as he backed away from the metal column of the periscope. “Here . . . take a look. Sturmer, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the engineer acknowledged as he settled his face into the periscope sight. Schwieger had long practiced the leadership principle of involving all subordinates. He encouraged every member of the U-20 crew—from the officers to the conscripts—to occasionally take a turn viewing targets through the periscope. In any case, the long approaches before an attack were usually more waiting than anything else. Rather than mindlessly performing a duty day after day with no idea where one's efforts fit into the scheme of things, Schwieger felt that a few moments now and again in the very position of authority kept them involved and gave them a sense of the team's mission. It was good for morale.

“An excellent target, sir,” Sturmer said as he stepped away.“Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Thank you for your work, Sturmer,” the commander replied as he looked again through the periscope and checked the target's progress. Quickly, he allowed two other men to take their turns seeing the ship as it steamed closer. Then, repositioning himself in front of the faceplate, Schwieger readied himself for the final run.

“She is two miles and closing,” he said. All was quiet for several minutes until Schwieger ordered, “Come starboard . . . five degrees. Eight degrees. Starboard, eight degrees!” he said louder. “Ahh . . . no. No, no!” Schwieger cursed. “Ach! She is changing course!”He watched a moment, then cursed again. Pushing himself away from the eyepiece and slapping at the periscope as if it had let him down, the commander told his officers, “A massive target—30,000 tons, at least— and we are out of position! There is nothing we can do.”

It was true. The
Lusitania
was steaming a route that would place her well beyond the reach of the U-20. By altering her course, the liner had become the apparent victor of this winner-take-all game of blindman's buff. The contest was played out twenty-four hours a day in these waters, and the stakes were life itself.

This was a game in which the submarines held all the cards. Like a bully in one's backyard, the sub commanders made up the rules as they went along . . . and everyone else was forced to play their way. The guidelines were simple:
My ship can do only one-third the speed of your ship. But you don't know where I am. Proper positioning wins all contests . . . and you will never know where that proper position is.As you race into an area, I will have maneuvered there ahead of you. Your speed merely brings you to my fist.

In the dark Atlantic waters of 1915, submarines had the home-team advantage. They competed with the fearlessness of an undefeated champion. In gambling parlance, they were “the house.”

In all games of chance, the odds favor the house. One may enter the game with high ideals, a feeling of invincibility, a system for success, or an optimistic attitude. One may even do well for a time . . . but old adages are seldom proven wrong. And it is dangerous to forget that when the stakes are your life and the game is played for keeps— sooner or later the house always wins.

Such was the probability when the
Lusitania
changed course again. As Schwieger watched in wonder through the periscope, the pride of Britain steadily turned and made directly for the U-20. Schwieger later recorded in his war diary:
She could not have steered a more perfect course if she had deliberately tried to give us a dead shot. A short fast run and we waited.