In case anyone failed to notice, let me tell you: November's here. It's a good thing people have lots of food and family-time to look forward to because I find myself a little underwhelmed by bare trees and gray skies, but in all fairness, October's a tough act to follow...
I've committed myself to a huge undertaking this month. Rather than continue to inflate my progress on the "List" by picking off the lighter, less challenging reads, I am going to dedicate November (and probably December, maybe even January) to getting through Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace. This is one of those books I bought because of its reputation as a novel that everyone should at least pretend to read before they die. I wanted to challenge myself, and I'm of the general opinion that they're classics for a reason. Few disappoint, and when I'm done with this one, I can feel as though I've redeemed myself in advance for seeing Breaking Dawn, Part II. Not that I would ever watch something so vapid and shallow...but yes...yes, I would.
So here's hoping Mr. Tolstoy keeps me warm this winter. Wish me luck, everybody!
On an unrelated note, I've been overloading my instant queue with WWII documentaries lately. Ever since Phil and I watched Schindler's List a few nights ago, the Hitler-centric documentaries Netflix is constantly inundating me with have seemed all the more intriguing. The one I watched this morning, called Imaginary Witness, examined Hollywood's portrayal of the Holocaust. It was an interesting approach to the subject, but what I think most struck me was the fact that there are so few survivors left in the world today.
As one man explained it, the window on that time period is closing, and it won't be long before there's no one left to ask about this turning-point in humanity. His statements, in context, were meant to emphasize the importance of accuracy in depicting such things as the Holocaust, but he opened my mind to a perspective of history that I hadn't previously considered. It may seem like a simple notion, but it really drove home for me the idea that history is happening all around us. Even today, I'm bearing witness to events that will one day be understood in a very limited way if they aren't forgotten altogether. It has increased my awe of (and respect for) the world around me.
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Germany. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Sunday, October 21, 2012
A Blast from the Past
Phil and I got up bright and early yesterday so we could be at the Museum of Science and Industry by 7:30 a.m. We bought tickets last month for a tour of the German U-505, and first on our schedule was breakfast with a few volunteer navy vets from the '50s and '60s. These men were kind enough to come in on a Saturday morning and answer whatever questions we had about the submarine over coffee and donuts.
I don't think I'll reiterate ALL the facts and tid-bits I picked up yesterday, just the few that left me reeling. I'll start with a picture I took of the sleeping quarters.
Now, I don't know how well you can see through the hatch, but there are a series of bunk beds lining the walls, and between them is a 3,200 pound torpedo. It took roughly 60 men to operate the submarine, so it was two to a bed at any given time, and did I mention that water was in such short supply that showers were totally out of the question? Not only were these German sailors sleeping in four hour shifts, they were rooming with dozens of unwashed men, legions of lice, and several hundred pounds of explosives.
Moving on down the line, we pass by what can only loosely be described as a kitchen. Consisting of three hot-plates and an oven that is literally the size of a shoebox, I feel it necessary to remind you that these appliances were meant to accommodate no less than sixty men.
Because we were in such small confines, it was difficult for me to get a coherent photo of the control room that followed the galley. There were so many buttons, levers, and valves that it was difficult for me to believe that anyone could operate it, but operate it they did, and oftentimes in the dark. The valves and cranks are of so many varying sizes and shapes for the express purpose of being recognizable with little to no visibility. It was of such necessity to conserve battery-life that only the most important instruments were dimly lit when submerged. Hopefully the photo below will give you some idea of what a perfect mess the whole thing was.
To give you an even better idea of how cramped we were, I've included a photo of Phil and I in the control room with five other people.
As the tour moved on through the boat, we came next to the diesel engine room:
We were told that the temperature in this room would, at times, get upwards of 110 degrees. The extreme heat, coupled with the stench of unwashed bodies and cologne (which failed to compensate), made for harsh living conditions aboard the U-505.
In contrast, American submarines of the same time period came equipped not only with air conditioning, but with ice cream machines, and the differences didn't end there. American ships boasted not one, but two galleys, along with 70 beds (for 60 men). The most noteworthy difference, however, was that an on-board septic tank was provided for American sailors, while their German counterparts tended to relieve themselves in buckets that were emptied only when the submarine re-emerged...
I really didn't think it would be this hard to condense all the information we were given into a simple blog post, but I think I'll have to go ahead and take you outside the U-boat and talk about the weapons it carried before I develop arthritis.
The U-505 was armed with 22 acoustic torpedoes which responded to sounds characteristic of enemy ships in the water. They were guided by sonar to their intended targets at speeds of approximately 30-40 knots, and they could travel as far as six nautical miles once fired. And the price tag on one of these babies? A mere $10,000.
The ship was equipped, too, with an anti-aircraft machine gun on deck. Extra men were brought on-board the ship in anticipation of heavy losses when firing from the conning tower.
...and for all the information I've included here, there's even more I'll have to leave out! If I learned nothing at all yesterday, I did leave the museum with a better understanding of how much havoc was wrought by these machines on Allied forces in the Atlantic. It's sometimes difficult in a museum setting to bear in mind that these things were operated by real people and that they played a pivotal role in world history. Where I walked and snapped pictures, men once ate, slept, and administered war.
It blows my mind.
 |
| The U-505 at the Museum of Science and Industry. |
I don't think I'll reiterate ALL the facts and tid-bits I picked up yesterday, just the few that left me reeling. I'll start with a picture I took of the sleeping quarters.
Now, I don't know how well you can see through the hatch, but there are a series of bunk beds lining the walls, and between them is a 3,200 pound torpedo. It took roughly 60 men to operate the submarine, so it was two to a bed at any given time, and did I mention that water was in such short supply that showers were totally out of the question? Not only were these German sailors sleeping in four hour shifts, they were rooming with dozens of unwashed men, legions of lice, and several hundred pounds of explosives.
 |
| This image gives you a better idea of how big the cots were. They're 67 inches in length and were likely a tight squeeze for the grown men expected to sleep there (and like it). |
Moving on down the line, we pass by what can only loosely be described as a kitchen. Consisting of three hot-plates and an oven that is literally the size of a shoebox, I feel it necessary to remind you that these appliances were meant to accommodate no less than sixty men.
Because we were in such small confines, it was difficult for me to get a coherent photo of the control room that followed the galley. There were so many buttons, levers, and valves that it was difficult for me to believe that anyone could operate it, but operate it they did, and oftentimes in the dark. The valves and cranks are of so many varying sizes and shapes for the express purpose of being recognizable with little to no visibility. It was of such necessity to conserve battery-life that only the most important instruments were dimly lit when submerged. Hopefully the photo below will give you some idea of what a perfect mess the whole thing was.
To give you an even better idea of how cramped we were, I've included a photo of Phil and I in the control room with five other people.
 |
| This is all the more space we could fit between us, and we were unable to move from this spot until someone else exited the control room. |
We were told that the temperature in this room would, at times, get upwards of 110 degrees. The extreme heat, coupled with the stench of unwashed bodies and cologne (which failed to compensate), made for harsh living conditions aboard the U-505.
In contrast, American submarines of the same time period came equipped not only with air conditioning, but with ice cream machines, and the differences didn't end there. American ships boasted not one, but two galleys, along with 70 beds (for 60 men). The most noteworthy difference, however, was that an on-board septic tank was provided for American sailors, while their German counterparts tended to relieve themselves in buckets that were emptied only when the submarine re-emerged...
I really didn't think it would be this hard to condense all the information we were given into a simple blog post, but I think I'll have to go ahead and take you outside the U-boat and talk about the weapons it carried before I develop arthritis.
The U-505 was armed with 22 acoustic torpedoes which responded to sounds characteristic of enemy ships in the water. They were guided by sonar to their intended targets at speeds of approximately 30-40 knots, and they could travel as far as six nautical miles once fired. And the price tag on one of these babies? A mere $10,000.
The ship was equipped, too, with an anti-aircraft machine gun on deck. Extra men were brought on-board the ship in anticipation of heavy losses when firing from the conning tower.
...and for all the information I've included here, there's even more I'll have to leave out! If I learned nothing at all yesterday, I did leave the museum with a better understanding of how much havoc was wrought by these machines on Allied forces in the Atlantic. It's sometimes difficult in a museum setting to bear in mind that these things were operated by real people and that they played a pivotal role in world history. Where I walked and snapped pictures, men once ate, slept, and administered war.
It blows my mind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)