The Lost Choice

  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.

  The rudder of the submarine kept her in place despite the strong current. The U-20 hung at exactly thirty-six feet as Commander Schwieger tersely called out coordinates. “Range is four thousand feet and closing to our starboard. Estimated speed of target . . . seventeen knots. Weisbach?” The answer was not quick enough.“Weisbach!”

  “Yes, Commander!”

  “Arm the torpedo. Set depth to ten feet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Schwieger, sensing a person close by, looked away from the periscope for a second and saw Charles Voegele standing there with Gerta under his arm. In actuality, he had just captured the dog as she was about to run between the commander’s legs. Schwieger, however, misunderstood the boy’s presence and assuming he wanted to look through the periscope, spoke sharply.“This is not the time,Voegele! Quickly, look.”The boy started to explain, but Schwieger snapped fiercely, “Do it! Do it now!” So, he did.

  The commander turned to double-check Weisbach’s work, touching and mentally listing the settings on the torpedo hydroplanes and rudder.“Lanz!” he called.“Speed?”

  “Current drift, three knots, sir. Holding steady.”

  “Excellent,” Schwieger said as he stepped back to the periscope. Gerta, on the floor for some reason, jumped against his leg. He clenched his jaw and ignored the distraction of the puppy, which was now running free in the control room. She barked once, then again, as the commander said,“Voegele, get the dog.”

  “Nein,” the young electrician answered.

  No was a word not often heard on a German submarine, and it was doubtful whether Commander Schwieger had ever heard it. The word, spoken aloud, produces a simple sound, short and easily duplicated, but with a power all its own. Everyone heard it. And despite the tension and immediacy of the moment, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at Voegele. He still gripped the handles of the periscope though he was no longer looking into the viewfinder. The blood had drained from his face.

  “What did you say?” Schwieger asked in stunned disbelief. Then, realizing he had but moments to act and knowing he would be able to deal with the incident later, he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he ordered, “Move, Voegele,” and received the same response.

  “Nein.”

  This time, there was no hesitation. With the back of his hand, Commander Schwieger hit the boy across the face, tearing him loose from the periscope and sending him flying into the wall of the control room, where he slid to the floor. Grasping the handles and pulling the periscope into place, Schwieger found the target in the eyepiece and said, “Range is twenty-four hundred feet. Speed is still—”

  “It is a passenger vessel!” Charles Voegele croaked from where he had landed. “There are women and children aboard. I saw them.”

  Lanz and Weisbach, confused, looked from their commander to the electrician, who was now bleeding from the nose, and back to Schwieger,who called out,“Twenty-one hundred. Prepare to fire.”

  “We cannot do this!”Voegele screamed as he struggled to his feet.“I saw a baby. There are mothers with babies on that ship!”

  “Sir?” It was Weisbach, the torpedo officer. He said the word with the barest question in his voice.

  In one continuous, fluid motion, Schwieger pointed at Weisbach, hissing,“I said,‘Prepare to fire,’” and then grabbed Voegele by the shirt front and savagely ran his head into the steel wall. Dropping him unconscious to the floor, the commander gripped the periscope yet again.

  “Range, eighteen hundred. Los!” Shoot! A tremor ran through the U-20 as the torpedo left the bow tube.

  “Torpedo away,”Weisbach reported.

  “Time, Lanz. Log the time, please,” Schwieger requested. “2:09, sir.”

  ALFRED VANDERBILT WAS SEATED WITH CHARLES Frohman and Staff Captain Anderson by a window on the starboard side of the first-class dining room. Having finished their meal, the three were joined by Elbert Hubbard, who had eaten with his wife, Alice, at another table. She had retired to their suite for a nap, leaving the men to enjoy the afternoon together—a last hurrah before they arrived in Liverpool that evening.

  The orchestra in the front of the dining room was playing “The Blue Danube Waltz.” As they talked and drank coffee,Vanderbilt was amused to notice a boy at the next table—seven or eight years old—who had become fascinated by a tiny spot of reflected sunlight that was bouncing around his table and the column next to it. Alfred quickly realized that the reflection was a product of the sun beaming through the window and catching the cuff link of his left sleeve. It produced a bright, pinpoint reflection that Vanderbilt was able to control by tilting his wrist slightly this way or that.

  The boy, who reminded the millionaire so much of his older son, was mesmerized by the dancing dot of light. When at last he figured out what was happening and who was teasing him, the boy broke into a broad grin. Vanderbilt laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny, Alfred?” Hubbard asked, seeing the boy laugh as well.

  “The sunlight caught my cuff link. I was teasing the boy by . . .” Vanderbilt frowned. Mentioning the sun, he had glanced over his left shoulder, giving his peripheral vision a split second to register a disturbance on the smooth water in the distance. He turned in his seat and held a hand to his brow, shading his eyes, trying to find the object that had captured his attention a moment earlier.

  “What is it, sir?” the staff captain asked.

  “I don’t know. I saw something . . . there!”Another man, two tables beyond them, but also next to the window was standing, pointing out the same object to the people at his table. Moving steadily, it was three hundred yards or so away—too far to see clearly or identify.

  All four men were standing. “Is it a dolphin?” Frohman asked. No one answered. “Is it a dolphin?” he asked a second time.

  “Is that . . . whatever it is . . . is it paralleling us?” Hubbard askedVanderbilt.“Or is it . . .you know . . .”Then to Anderson, “Do you see it?”The staff captain nodded.

  Everyone in the dining room stood now. The orchestra had stopped in the middle of their performance and was crowding the starboard windows with everyone else. The object was about 150 yards away when Staff Captain Anderson suddenly gasped,“Dear God!” and wheeled away.

  At the same instant, a woman shrieked the word Torpedo! and as if someone had flipped a switch, the place was bedlam. Screams and curses filled the air as people pushed and punched, desperate to exit the dining room.

  Calmly, as if watching the story line of a great Broadway drama unfold, Vanderbilt leaned his forehead against the glass. The torpedo was moving in a swift, straight line, throwing a white wake as it bubbled along the surface, now only fifty yards away.

  From where he stood inside the dining room,Alfred was unable to watch the final few yards of the torpedo’s track. It appeared to him as though the missile had simply disappeared under the ship. He had actually considered this possibility—the moment of impact—several times during the past six days. In his mind’s eye,Vanderbilt had always conjured a scene reminiscent of the Titanic, which had involved a relatively silent ripping of the ship’s hull.

  Newspaper accounts of that tragedy revealed that most passengers had actually needed to be informed that they were sinking.To most of them, the physical evidences of danger were almost undetectable for nearly an hour, and as word had spread through the ship, people took time to pack, to write letters, or to listen to the orchestra, which had continued to play. In total, it seemed to Vanderbilt that the Titanic disaster had been, everything considered, a rather orderly affair. After all, she had taken more than four hours to sink. Even had Vanderbilt somehow gained foreknowledge of the events that were about to play out, it would still have been inconceivable to him that
the Lusitania would sink in less than eighteen minutes.

  When the torpedo found its mark, it did so between the second and third funnels—slightly ahead of the Lusitania’s dead center. Michael Byrne, an accountant from Philadelphia, described the impact as “a million-ton hammer hitting a steel boiler.” The subsequent explosion threw water, wood, and hot steel a hundred feet in the air. But a mysterious second explosion, following the first in the blink of an eye, actually lifted the bow of the ship out of the water.

  Debris showered the decks, injuring many of the panic-stricken passengers, most of whom had been enjoying the sunshine and blue skies of the last afternoon of their cruise. For most of them, it would be the last afternoon of their lives. Captain Turner ordered the lifeboats lowered to the promenade deck.“Make certain that the women and children get aboard first,” he instructed.

  Bob Leith, the wireless operator, had begun transmitting an SOS with their location, but knew that the electricity was failing. He had hopes, however, for the emergency generators. His assistant had fled his post as soon as the explosion occurred.

  Making his way along the promenade deck,Vanderbilt was intending to go to his suite. When the torpedo had struck, his first thought had been of his family and the favorite photograph of his boys that was on his bedside table. Having traveled with it for years, he was determined to save that, at least. The medallion on the shelf in his closet was also on his mind.

  Vanderbilt saw Frohman standing by the rail, out of the way of the stampeding people. Dodging across the deck, Alfred reached his older friend. “Are you all right, C. F.?” Vanderbilt asked.

  “Yes, thank you,Alfred.” Frohman had the barest hint of a smile. “What would you say the list is at present? Ten degrees? Fifteen?”

  “Fifteen, C. F., and she’s tilting more by the second. Come with me. We need to get the life jacket from your suite. I did read the instructions after your little speech yesterday. Hurry now.”