Looking U Over

By John Mitchell

I’m sure I can speak for everyone when saying we had a wonderful trip out to the U-869.  The toughest part of the trip was the ride down. Friday afternoon New York traffic was simply horrific. It was evident the heavy traffic would have everyone trickling in at different times throughout the evening.  But, we all managed to win the fight in time for our morning departure.

Early Saturday morning, a glowing sun poked its groggy brow over the horizon, promising a wonderful day. With everyone on board, Captain Zero fired up the engines of his new 50 foot John Jack and we motored along a southeast heading out into the open ocean. It was a four- hour ride to the resting waters of U-869. Most of us cat napped the along our aquatic journey hence making the trip seem shorter. The sea was behaving itself nicely and I was surprised at the number of recreational boaters so far off shore! 

We arrived at the wreck site around 11:30 AM and Bill Schmoldt, one of the John Jack’s crew, hopped in at hooked the wreck. By 12:30, we all began tending to equipment in anticipation of our adventure beneath the John Jack.

The shoreline hidden by distance lay 60 miles behind us.  It became both exciting and unnerving at the same instant.  Most intimidating, was the uncertainty between the surface and the seabed soaking 230 feet underneath. Not knowing the mood of the ocean, strength of the current, or darkness of the water,

I donned my twin tanks and two stage bottle tanks to prepare for having a look at what the PBS series Nova has labeled “Hitlers Lost U-boat”. As the ocean swept up and down, a delicate dance ensued between a rocking deck and myself. 

With a single step and rush of green silence, the familiar surroundings of my world instantly disappeared, as I entered a realm of total life support. Scanning below, 230 feet away, the U-boat slept somewhere in the sand. Yet I could not see a trace of it.  In life, the U-boat had relied on its ability to remain unseen; today, over 55 years distant, it continues to play that game well.

I paused at 20 feet for one final equipment check, and with everything to my satisfaction, I methodically started pulling one hand over the next for my descent on to history. My movements were careful and precise so as not to lose contact with the line and risk drifting out to sea.  Nearly 100 feet of depth dusk began creeping in and I felt an abrupt drop in water temperature. Flipping on the canister light, a 100-watt beam carved a tan-white tunnel through approaching dark.  Moving beyond 150 feet, I noticed a large dark spot beginning to form below. There were no solid outlines only a shapeless streak of night centered directly beneath.

The image below was still somewhat nebulous, but it appeared to expand with each downward pull I made.

Suddenly, as if a light switch had been flipped in the night, the decking began looming into view.  I could make out large ballast cylinders panning along the deck and viewed the conning tower lying off to the right side of the U-boat in the sand. The periscope and snorkel were still extended on the upper conning tower boom.

We had hooked right to the middle of the sub and I softly touched the bottom at 223 feet. Surprisingly, the visibility was very good, although in water that deep, it was also quite dark. Still, my dive light cut through the darkness like a knife and illuminated the wreck quite nicely. There was wreckage strewn all around me but the most obvious piece was the large section of conning tower resting within arms reach.

With a puff of air in my vest, I lifted off the bottom in a glide and began floating parallel to the U-boat. This afforded me a good look at the carnage. It was truly astounding. There was extensive damage to submarines’ mid-section. The entire control room and part of the radio compartment were completely exposed. Having multiple dives on the U-853, I am reasonably familiar with the internal layout of these type U-boats. The damage appeared much more traumatic then that of the U-853 off Block Island. This sub was nearly ripped in half. I can’t imagine it took more than a single minute for the entire boat to have flooded drenching all life inside. The hole appeared roughly some 20-25 feet in diameter with its jagged edges creased into the U-boat’s inner hull. It is believed the U-869 actually sank itself! The theory holds that one of it's own acoustic torpedoes homed in on the subs’ props when it fired. The results of that folly were visibly described in detail. The torpedo had not only separated the conning tower from the main deck, but had further smashed clear through the starboard side pressure hull, thus producing a three foot hole on the opposite side!

I poked around in there trying to avoid the maze of twisted metal that could easily puncture drysuits or vests.

As I continued my inspection of the blast hole I noticed other divers now beginning to swim into view.  Some had made their way out to the bow or to the stern. I stayed pretty much in the vicinity of the conning tower area for my first visit.

As I poked around the wreckage, the beeper on my computer sounded informing me fun time was over! It was time to ascend back to the John Jack and enjoy some of the cold cuts Dave and Heather had spread out while the remainder of us had been vacationing beneath.

I did manage a second dive that day. I reasoned as long as the weather was holding I would take advantage of the great conditions. As it turned out, the weather held both days and the Sunday morning divers enjoyed fantastic visibility and conditions!

We up anchored by noon and were back to port before 5PM.

I made two dives to the 869 and although I never solved the mystery of Hitler's Lost U-boat, I did get the unique opportunity to see it first hand. That’s an opportunity very few will ever get.

Many thanks go out to Dave and Heather for their efforts in piecing together a great trip to the U-869! Next stop…the Andrea Doria!