Shadow Divers (21 page)

“Well, that’s it, man,” Sheard said. “You’ve identified the U-boat. All you have to do is find crewman Horenburg. Congratulations.”

“This might be the best artifact I’ve ever taken from any wreck,” Chatterton told the divers. “This guy actually carved his name into the knife. It’s not like a tag that was made in a factory. This is like a personal message. All I need to do is find Horenburg and the U-boat is identified.”

By this time, Kohler had climbed aboard the boat. He and the other divers took turns inspecting the knife and congratulating Chatterton, each of them gracious but also disappointed that he had not been the one to identify the wreck. “Call me tomorrow when you find Horenburg and let me know which boat this is,” the divers told Chatterton. Packer and Gatto, who had penetrated only the wreck’s stern on their second dive, shook Chatterton’s hand.

As the
Seeker
steamed back toward shore, Chatterton joined Nagle in the wheelhouse and took over the helm, and the two began a postmortem on the day. A few minutes later, Kohler walked in. Nagle offered him a beer and invited him to stay. Kohler mumbled additional congratulations to Chatterton. Nagle sensed that Kohler was still sore about Chatterton’s decision to dive first, and perhaps a little jealous over the knife. Never one to pass up a potential confrontation, especially after a few beers, Nagle elbowed the divers in trademark Nagle fashion.

“Richie, if you don’t like John splashing first, maybe you should put up a grate and lock him out,” Nagle said, cackling. “Maybe you should leave him a sign on the grate that says, ‘Closed for Inventory.’”

Nagle’s ear-to-ear grin looked half-satanic, half-schoolboy. Both divers knew that the captain adored confrontation, and each hated to be a pawn to this appetite. But the subject of the
Andrea Doria
grate had been festering since Kohler had joined the U-boat trip, and Nagle, the clever bastard, had lit a fuse.

“Maybe we should get things out in the open,” Kohler said.

“Fine,” Chatterton replied. “I’ll tell you this. I don’t like you Atlantic Wreck Divers. You tried to fuck me on the
Doria.
”

“Yeah, okay, we did,” Kohler said.

“If it wasn’t for one honest guy from your little club, we would never have known. I’m not going to tell you who it is, but it’s obvious only one of you guys has a conscience.”

“Look,” Kohler said. “I already came to terms with Bill on the grate. We did try to fuck you, yeah, I admit it. Do you want an apology? Do you want me to start crying and beg your forgiveness? Is that what you want?”

“I don’t need an apology,” Chatterton said. “We beat you at your own game. That grate was the best revenge. For me, it ended there.”

“So you won,” Kohler said. “I’m not going to flog myself. It ends there for me, too. And by the way, I don’t like your kind either. Everything is so serious with you about diving. At least we know how to have fun.”

“Mooning families on passing boats and making up pornographic dive schedules and wearing little matching uniforms is fun?”

“Hell yeah, it’s fun. You should try it.”

“That’s the problem with you guys—”

“We got no problems—”

“Oh, you got plenty of problems—”

“Ah, fuck it,” Kohler said, downing the last of his beer. He left the wheelhouse for the deck, where he found a seat on top of a giant cooler. A few minutes later, Chatterton came down the ladder and sat beside him. For a while, neither spoke.

“Listen, Richie,” Chatterton finally said. “I don’t need to be the first one to splash every time. If you don’t mind setting the hook, you’re welcome to go first next time. But remember, tying in is a gamble. If you run into trouble, you can blow your whole dive while you fix things.”

“I don’t mean to be a prick,” Kohler said. “I respect you. I just want a fair shot.”

Again neither spoke for a few minutes. Then Kohler began to tell Chatterton that he was feeling like the U-boat meant something more to him than the chance to load up on Nazi artifacts. He explained that he had been buying and reading books like a man possessed since his first trip to the wreck; that maybe something in his German heritage was connecting with this mission; that while he was eager to recover artifacts from this U-boat, he also found himself captivated by the history of the U-boat war and the men who had fought it. He asked if Chatterton had yet read Günter Hessler’s book
The U-boat War in the Atlantic, 1939–1945,
then provided a detailed review. To Chatterton, these were not the typical leanings of an Atlantic Wreck Diver.

Chatterton walked into the salon to get a package of peanut butter crackers. He came back and sat beside Kohler again.

“Listen,” Chatterton said. “I got a lot of calls and letters after the media got hold of this story. I think you might really find some of them interesting.”

For the next three hours, Chatterton regaled Kohler with news of the last few weeks: of hearing from the Civil Air Patrol, of the blimp pilot, of the families and kooks and self-professed experts, of Harry Cooper of Sharkhunters, of U-boat ace Merten and the story of his colleague Weingärtner, who might just have had the gumption to flout orders and take his Type IX submarine to New Jersey instead of to the Indian Ocean. Kohler gulped the information and asked endless questions, all of which Chatterton found incisive and open-ended. As night fell and the
Seeker
made its way into the inlet near Brielle, the divers walked toward the salon to pack their belongings. Inside, Chatterton asked Kohler for his address.

“You going to send me something?” Kohler asked.

“I’d like to send you the videotape I shot today, and some others,” Chatterton said. “You have to promise me that you won’t show them to anyone or let them out of your hands—I’ve been burned by that before, as you know. But I think it can really help you navigate the wreck. I’m going to trust you with this.”

“Thanks, man,” Kohler said. He jotted down his address. “You have my word.”

That night, Chatterton took the knife he had discovered and placed it on his desk. The name
HORENBURG
looked as clearly carved as the day the crewman had inscribed it.

“Who were you?” he asked as he gazed at the knife. “What happened to your U-boat, and who were you?”

He closed the lights to his office and made his way to his bedroom.

“Just another day or two,” he said to himself. “Just another day or two and I’ll have the answer to the mystery of the U-boat.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

NOTHING AT THAT LOCATION

T
HE MORNING
after Chatterton recovered the knife he set out to find Horenburg. To this end, he wrote a letter detailing his discovery and mailed it to four experts, each of whom he believed could trace Horenburg and thereby identify the mystery U-boat. Those experts were:

—  Harry Cooper, president of Sharkhunters, whose connections ran deep in the U-boat world

—  Karl-Friedrich Merten, the U-boat ace in Germany with whom Chatterton had been corresponding (and who believed the mystery sub to be
U-851,
the one commanded by his colleague)

—  Charlie Grutzemacher, curator of the International Submarine Document Center in Deisenhofen, Germany, a renowned repository of U-boat information

—  Horst Bredow, a U-boat veteran and founder of the U-boat Archive in Cuxhaven-Altenbruch, Germany, the world’s leading repository of personal U-boat information and the place to which the German government often referred researchers

By Chatterton’s calculation, it should take no more than a week to receive the answer. For his part, Kohler continued to rampage through historical texts, learning the patrols of America-bound U-boats. In these pursuits—Chatterton with the knife, Kohler with the books—each was answering to more than a mystery. Each believed that once the U-boat was identified, he had a responsibility to the families of the fallen soldiers and to history to explain why the U-boat was in American waters, how it had slipped through history’s cracks, and how it had met its end. And if there was a Mrs. Horenburg, she deserved to know why her husband lay buried off the New Jersey coast and why no one in the world knew that he was there.

A week passed without reply. Then another week. Chatterton sat beside his phone willing it to ring. He checked between the pages of junk-mail flyers for the pale blue of an airmail envelope. A month passed without a reply. He wrote to his sources again. Each told him the same thing: There’s been some confusion—we’re still working on it. Just after Christmas, nearly two months after his initial inquiry, Chatterton’s phone rang. It was a U-boat enthusiast with whom Chatterton had recently become acquainted. The man had news.

“The knife is a dead end, Mr. Chatterton. You have to go back to the wreck.”

“What do you mean it’s a dead end?”

“There was only one man in the U-boat service named Horenburg. And he never served in the western Atlantic.”

“What U-boats did he serve on?”

“He doesn’t remember.”

For a moment Chatterton could not speak. Only the sound of telephone static convinced him that the man was still on the line. Finally, he choked out the question.

“Horenburg is alive?”

“He’s alive,” the man said.

“He survived the sinking?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What did Horenburg say?”

“He said it’s a dead end.”

“What’s a dead end?”

“The knife. He doesn’t remember the knife.”

“What else did he say?”

“Forget it, Mr. Chatterton. You should move on.”

“Wait a minute. I would like to talk to Horenburg—”

“That’s impossible. He talks to nobody.”

“Please. Tell him I’d like to speak to him. This is everything to me. If this is his knife I’d like to return it to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk.”

“Can you at least tell me what U-boat he was on?”

“He doesn’t recall anything. You need to go on from here. I’m sorry I can’t help you further. I must go. Good-bye.”

Chatterton sat stunned, unable to hang up. Horenburg is alive? He doesn’t remember the knife? He talks to nobody? Chatterton held the phone to his ear, oblivious to the phone company’s recorded warnings while he processed the impossible:
A knife with a crewman’s name—the best artifact I have ever found—and it’s a dead end?

For the next several days, Chatterton thought obsessively of Horenburg. The man had survived the war, lived into old age, and was in a position to announce the answer to the mystery. Yet he wouldn’t talk. Why not? What reason could he have for not at least providing his U-boat number?

A few days later, Chatterton received replies from Merten, Bredow, and Grutzemacher. Each of them had reached the same conclusion: there had been only one Horenburg in the German navy—Martin Horenburg, a
Funkmeister,
or senior radioman, in the U-boat service. His last patrol had been aboard
U-869,
a U-boat sunk by Allied forces off Africa in 1945. That U-boat’s entire crew, including Horenburg, had been killed in the attack. It was the only patrol
U-869
had ever made. It had happened 3,650 miles from the mystery wreck site.

Now Chatterton was furious. He was certain that his three German sources—all respected experts—were correct about Horenburg. That meant, however, that the U-boat enthusiast had not spoken to Martin Horenburg, if he had spoken to anyone. On the spot, Chatterton wrote the man off and resolved never to speak to him again. Still, he remained unconvinced that his German sources had pursued the matter to the ends of the earth, as he would have. Perhaps there had been another Horenburg they had overlooked. Chatterton had heard about a U-boat memorial in Germany inscribed with the names of U-boat veterans killed in action. If he traveled to Germany, he could inspect that memorial himself, every last listing if necessary, in search of another Horenburg. Yes, if he went to Germany, he could study that memorial, visit the U-boat museum, and have at Bredow’s archive himself. He checked his calendar. March would be a good month to do this right.

Chatterton invited Yurga and Kohler to accompany him to Germany. Yurga accepted. Kohler, who ran his own business, could not free himself for the weeklong expedition. But the invitation moved him. Chatterton was serious about this mission and would not have included anyone he did not respect or whose help he could not rely on.

“I’ll work stateside,” Kohler told Chatterton. “I’ll keep my end going here.”

As the March trip approached, Chatterton received a telephone call unlike any since the media storm had begun. An elderly gentleman introduced himself as Gordon Vaeth, a former intelligence officer for the Atlantic Fleet airships during World War II—the blimp squadrons. He had read of the divers’ discovery and asked about any research Chatterton had undertaken. Chatterton told him of his slow correspondence with the Naval Historical Center.

“If you’d like to come to Washington, I would be more than happy to introduce you to the heads of the center, who are my friends,” Vaeth said. “Maybe they can help you find what you’re looking for. I don’t intend to insinuate myself, but if I can help in any way it should be my pleasure.”

Chatterton could scarcely believe his good fortune. Vaeth had been on the spot for antisubmarine warfare, in intelligence no less. And he had connections at the NHC. They made a date to meet in Washington for late February. As Chatterton hung up, he wondered if the trip to Germany would be necessary anymore. If anyone knew the answer to the mystery, it had to be the American government. Now, with Vaeth’s help, he would be escorted straight to the source.

A few days later, Chatterton made the four-hour drive to Washington, D.C. He was due to meet Vaeth at the Naval Historical Center at 10:00
A.M.
He arrived an hour early and pulled into the vast Washington Navy Yard, an ancient-looking complex of trolley tracks, cobblestoned roads, libraries, and classrooms. A retired navy destroyer moored in the Anacostia River peeked at Chatterton from behind a stone building as he made his way to the NHC, storehouse for many of the navy’s historical documents and artifacts. Inside, a snowy-haired man dressed in a tweed jacket rose to greet Chatterton. He introduced himself as Gordon Vaeth.

The men became acquainted, and Vaeth outlined his plan for the visit. He would introduce Chatterton to Bernard Cavalcante, the head of operational archives and a world-renowned U-boat expert, and Dr. Dean Allard, the director of the center. Those two men, Vaeth suggested, had access to nearly everything the United States knew about U-boats. Chatterton breathed deeply. He now believed himself minutes away from the answer to the mystery.

Vaeth escorted Chatterton into Cavalcante’s office. These rooms, Vaeth explained, contain the vast majority of American naval records, and it is Cavalcante, a passionate historian born for the job, who oversees them. “And he’s particularly expert in U-boats,” Vaeth whispered as Cavalcante, a slightly built, middle-aged man in a checked sport coat and drooping reading glasses, emerged from an adjacent room. Cavalcante greeted the men warmly but with a cocked eyebrow, as if to say, “Oh, jeez, another U-boat nut in my office.”

The men sat down and Vaeth asked Chatterton to tell his story. Chatterton was direct and economical. He and other divers had discovered a World War II U-boat about sixty miles off the New Jersey coast. They had recovered artifacts proving as much, yet had not been able to identify the submarine. They had checked the history books but found no mention of any U-boat within one hundred miles of the wreck site. The divers had used loran to return to the site three times, so the location was solid. They had shot videotapes, a compilation of which he had brought along.

For a moment there was only silence. Cavalcante looked to Vaeth with the vaguest grin, then to Chatterton. He reached into his desk and pushed some papers forward for Chatterton to sign—if the NHC was to accept the video, it had to be bequeathed properly. Chatterton had never felt so important signing his name. Cavalcante took the tape, then looked Chatterton in the eye.

“We are the United States Navy, sir,” Cavalcante said. “We know a good bit about what lies in the ocean. But we cannot necessarily reveal that information. You understand that, Mr. Chatterton, correct?”

“Absolutely, sir, I do.”

“We have an accounting of shipwrecks off the East Coast. We track this for military reasons, not for historical reasons, not for researchers or . . . if you’ll excuse me, for divers. We have this list here. But I cannot show it to you. I’m sorry.”

Chatterton’s heart sank. The answer was on the other side of Cavalcante’s office, and the man would not open the door. Vaeth remained seated, erect and dignified, but said nothing. Cavalcante said nothing. Chatterton wondered if the meeting was over. He was not willing to allow for that possibility.

“Mr. Cavalcante, I don’t have to see the list,” Chatterton said. “I’m just interested in this particular wreck at this particular location. This has become very important to me. Putting a name on this grave is the right thing to do for the families, and it’s the right thing to do for history. There are dozens of dead sailors down there, and no one seems to know who they are or why they are there.”

Cavalcante settled his chin between his thumb and forefinger. Vaeth cocked his head slightly as if to ask, “Well, what now, Bernie?” Cavalcante nodded slightly.

“Well, I suppose I can look it up,” he said. “But you cannot have any photocopies of the information, and you cannot take any photographs with you.”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Chatterton replied. “I will be satisfied with you verbalizing to me whatever information you might have about this wreck.”

Chatterton wrote down the U-boat’s latitude and longitude and handed them to Cavalcante, who excused himself into a fortress of documents. Vaeth grinned and gave Chatterton a nod that said, “Nice going.” The answer was moments away.

Several minutes later Cavalcante returned, a massive binder under his arm, and sat at his desk. He looked at Chatterton with that cocked eyebrow again.

“Are you sure about that location?” he asked.

“Positive,” Chatterton replied. “We’ve been there three times.”

“Well, we do not appear to have anything at that location. There is no U-boat—or anything else—at that location.”

Vaeth’s grin, kept in check throughout the meeting, surrendered to a smile.

“This is fascinating,” Cavalcante said finally. “This is absolutely fascinating. Let’s take the videotape to Dr. Allard and watch it together. He has to see this. I have to tell you, Mr. Chatterton, we hear from an awful lot of people who believe they’ve discovered a U-boat or have secret U-boat information. It’s almost always nothing. But this is just fascinating.”

Cavalcante ushered Vaeth and Chatterton into a stately office. Soon the men were greeted by a middle-aged man with wavy salt-and-pepper hair parted in the middle, wire-rimmed glasses, a bow tie, and a tweed jacket. The man introduced himself as Dr. Dean Allard, director of the center, and asked his visitors to sit down.

Cavalcante launched into the story. Mr. Chatterton, he said, had found a U-boat off the New Jersey coast: location definite, vintage definite, casualties definite, videotape available. All the while, Allard listened through weary ears. He had heard such claims a thousand times. Always, they were groundless.

Cavalcante paused a bit for effect.

“Here’s the thing, Dr. Allard,” Cavalcante continued. “I’ve checked the books. There’s nothing there.”

Allard nodded slowly.

“I see,” he said. “I understand you have a videotape, Mr. Chatterton. May we view it?”

As Cavalcante prepared the tape, Allard called William Dudley, his second in command, into his office. Allard dimmed the lights and the five men viewed scenes of Chatterton moving about the conning tower, then forward toward the torpedo room. Various murmurs—“Fascinating,” “Unbelievable,” “Astonishing”—wafted through the office until the forty-minute tape had finished.

“I can’t believe there’s a World War II German U-boat out there and we don’t know anything about it,” Allard said. “Mr. Chatterton, if I can get a navy ship and divers to go to your location, would you be willing to work with the navy to identify this U-boat?”

It took Chatterton a moment to process the magnitude of the offer. He was a New Jersey guy with a couple of scuba tanks fighting the ocean in an eleven-knot boat. Now Allard was offering to send a team of hard-hat divers and the muscle and resources of the United States Navy to solve his mystery. He began to fashion a sophisticated acceptance to fit the grandeur of the moment. Instead, he could only utter, “Definitely!”