Germans Couldn’t Believe This Destroyer Rammed Them – Until 36 Fought Hand-To-Hand With Coffee Mugs

 

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May 6, 1944 — Atlantic Ocean, 20 miles west of the Cape Verde Islands.
The sea was glass-calm, the moon full, the stars cold and merciless. Beneath them, the USS Buckley (DE-51) cut a white V through the still water, her twin screws churning the dark Atlantic into silver foam. On her bridge stood Lieutenant Commander Brent Abel, 34 years old, lean, sun-burned, and running on black coffee and nerves. He had commanded Buckley barely a year, yet tonight he was about to fight the strangest battle in the history of modern naval warfare.

At 0216 hours, the radio crackled. The nasal voice of a Grumman TBF Avenger pilot filled the bridge:

“Contact sighted — surface sub, bearing one-six-zero degrees, twenty miles ahead, west of Cape Verde. She’s on batteries—charging—low speed.”

Abel’s gray eyes narrowed. “Plot it,” he ordered. “Sound general quarters.”
Klaxons wailed through the ship. Men tumbled from bunks, boots half-laced, helmets pulled over bare heads. Buckley’s decks hummed as the gun crews ran to their 3-inch mounts, 40-millimeter Bofors, and 20-millimeter Oerlikons.

The pilot’s sighting could mean only one thing: a German Type IXC/40 U-boat, and not just any boat. Intelligence had reported U-66, commanded by Korvettenkapitän Gerhard Seehausen, operating near these waters. U-66 was a killer—credited with thirty-three Allied ships sunk, over two hundred thousand tons lost to the deep. She had terrorized convoys from the Caribbean to Freetown. If that was the boat ahead, Buckley was about to meet one of the deadliest predators in the Atlantic.

“Flank speed,” Abel said. “All ahead — twenty-three and a half knots.”
The destroyer escort surged forward, bow cutting through the moonlit swells.

At 0300 hours, the Avenger above continued shadowing, radioing small course corrections. U-66 was on the surface, diesel engines roaring, recharging batteries after four months at sea. Her crew was exhausted, her air foul, her morale thin. They expected to meet a Milchkuh supply submarine, not an enemy.

At 0308, three red flares arced into the sky—a recognition signal.
The Germans believed Buckley was their rendezvous.

Abel’s lips twitched in disbelief. “Hold fire. Keep closing.”

Four thousand yards became three thousand. Two thousand. A thousand.
Then, as the Americans closed within musket distance, U-66’s lookouts realized the silhouette slicing toward them wasn’t German. “Achtung! Zerstörer!” someone shouted. A flash burst from her bow tube.

“Torpedo in the water! Starboard bearing!”

“Hard left rudder!” Abel roared.

Buckley heeled, foam spilling over her rails. The torpedo hissed past, close enough for men on deck to hear its propellers whining. Seconds later, it detonated harmlessly in the ship’s wake.

“Range two thousand yards. Open fire!”

The first salvo from Buckley’s forward 3-inch battery roared. The rounds streaked over the water and smashed into U-66’s forward deck, blowing her 88-millimeter gun into a fireball. Her bridge erupted in sparks.

Now every gun aboard Buckley joined in—3-inch, 40-millimeter, 20-millimeter, even small-arms fire from the bridge wings. The night turned white with tracer fire. The destroyer escort’s gunners poured over 100 rounds of high-explosive shells and thousands of cannon rounds into the submarine’s silhouette.

U-66 replied desperately with machine-gun bursts, but most went high, whistling through Buckley’s rigging.

At 0324, the U-boat fired another torpedo from her stern tubes. “Fish off the stern!” shouted the sonar operator. Abel yanked the helm hard to starboard. The torpedo foamed across their bow, missing by seconds.

The range closed to yards—mere yards. The two ships were racing side by side now, their guns so close the tracers seemed to cross mid-air.

Abel’s voice cut through the chaos: “Keep hammering!”

U-66’s conning tower was burning. Flames licked through the railing. German sailors, faces ghostly in the firelight, tried to man their deck guns but were torn apart by 20-millimeter bursts.

Sixteen minutes of continuous gunfire left Buckley’s decks littered with hot brass. The air reeked of cordite. Then the moment came when no more distance remained.

“Range twenty yards!” shouted the helmsman.

Abel made a decision that hadn’t been made in modern naval combat for a century.
“Hard right rudder — RAM HER!”

Buckley lurched. Her bow swung across U-66’s course, metal shrieking as she climbed the submarine’s forward deck. Sparks cascaded as steel met steel. For a frozen instant, the 1,400-ton escort literally rode atop the German U-boat.

“Engines reverse full!”

But before Buckley could disengage, shapes appeared in the firelight—German sailors, climbing out of the burning conning tower, pistols and knives glinting in their hands.

“They’re boarding us!” someone screamed.

The order to repel boarders hadn’t been shouted in the U.S. Navy since the nineteenth century, but it echoed again that night. Men grabbed anything they could reach—Thompson submachine guns, M1 carbines, pistols, wrenches, shell casings. When those ran empty, they swung fists, boots, even coffee mugs ripped from the galley.

A German petty officer leapt the rail and was met by a sailor who cracked him across the jaw with a metal coffee cup. Another sailor hurled an empty shell casing like a club. The deck became a frenzy of brawling figures illuminated by burning tracer rounds.

Below the bridge, a steward’s mate named John Andrews found himself face-to-face with a German who had crawled through an open hatch, knife in hand. Andrews snatched the nearest object—a scalding coffee pot—and smashed it into the intruder’s face. The man crumpled.

For two furious minutes, modern naval warfare reverted to the age of cutlasses and fists. Thirty-six Germans tried to swarm over Buckley’s forecastle; half were killed or wounded before they could retreat.

Lieutenant Klaus Herbig, U-66’s first officer, led the boarding attempt, hoping to draw American fire while Seehausen tried to free the sub. But the Americans outnumbered them, out-gunned them, and out-fought them.

Abel shouted from the bridge, “Engines reverse—break free!”

Buckley backed off, scraping down the submarine’s hull, leaving five stunned Germans on deck who were quickly captured.

Then U-66, still under power, swung around like a wounded animal and rammed Buckley in return. Her bow struck the destroyer escort’s starboard quarter, tearing open the engine room and shearing off one propeller shaft.

“Damage control, report!” Abel barked.

“Starboard shaft gone, flooding in the engine room, contained for now!”

As the ships parted, an American seaman glanced down into the open conning tower below them, pulled the pin on a Mk 2 hand grenade, and tossed it inside.

A flash. A roar. Fire belched from the tower like a blowtorch.

U-66 shuddered violently. Her engines screamed, her bow dipped. The submarine began to circle, out of control, fire still burning in her conning tower. Men were jumping overboard.

“Cease fire,” Abel ordered. “Let her go.”

At 0341 hours, U-66 slid beneath the Atlantic for the last time. Flames hissed out as seawater swallowed her. Her captain, Korvettenkapitän Seehausen, stayed at his post. Twenty-four of his men went down with him.

The battle had lasted sixteen minutes.

Buckley was left smoking, half-crippled, and taking on water. One propeller gone, hull torn, engine room flooded, 550 miles from the nearest port.

Yet she floated.

Thirty-six Germans bobbed in the water, some wounded, some stunned. Abel looked down from the bridge. These were the same men who had boarded his ship minutes earlier. His voice was steady.

“Lower the boats. We’re picking them up.”

The crew obeyed without hesitation. Tradition demanded it. You saved those who fought you once the fight was over.

One by one, the enemy sailors were hauled aboard. Some had burns, others bullet wounds. All were exhausted beyond words.

Dawn rose over a sea littered with debris and oil. The Atlantic was still again, as if erasing the chaos of the night before.

Buckley’s crew gathered on deck, silent, staring at the spot where U-66 had gone down. The smell of smoke clung to their uniforms.

Chief Engineer William Dixon approached the bridge. “Sir, flooding’s contained, but we’ve lost the starboard shaft completely. Port engine’s still running, but she won’t take more than twelve knots.”

Abel nodded. “Then twelve knots it is. Plot a course for New York.”

The engineer hesitated. “That’s two thousand miles on one screw.”

“Better than none.”

The radio officer handed Abel a fresh message—confirmation that USS Block Island and her escort group would rendezvous within hours. The carrier’s aircraft had been the ones that spotted U-66 in the first place. They’d provide cover on the long, limping voyage home.

Abel stepped to the bridge wing. The sea breeze was warm, thick with diesel and salt. Behind him, his men were tending to the wounded Germans, offering water, cigarettes, blankets. Some of the prisoners stared at the Americans in disbelief, as though unable to comprehend kindness so soon after bloodshed.

A boatswain’s mate whispered to another, “You ever think you’d fight Krauts with coffee mugs?”

The other man laughed weakly. “Hell, I didn’t think I’d live to drink from one again.”

By noon, Buckley was steaming eastward at twelve knots, her patched hull groaning, her decks streaked with soot. The Atlantic stretched endless and empty ahead.

The battle was over. The journey home had only begun.

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At 02:16 on May 6th, 1944, Lieutenant Commander Brent Ael stood on the bridge of USS Buckley as an Avenger pilot radioed urgent coordinates. German submarines surfaced 20 mi ahead west of Cape Verde Islands. Abel was 34 years old with 11 months commanding this destroyer escort, but Buckley had never faced a yubot this close.

 The submarine ahead was U66, the seventh most successful Yubot in the entire war. 33 Allied ships sunk. Over 200,000 tons sent to the bottom. Abel ordered flank speed, 23.5 knots. Buckley cut through calm Atlantic waters under bright moonlight. Perfect conditions for a surface engagement.

 The Avenger stayed overhead, feeding course corrections every few minutes. U66 was recharging batteries, waiting for a supply submarine. She’d been at sea since mid January, nearly 4 months without resupply. Her crew was exhausted, low on fuel, desperate. At 0308, three red flares shot up from the submarine. Recognition signal. The Germans thought Buckley was their supply boat. Abel held fire, kept closing.

 4,000 yds became 3,000, 2,000. The gamble worked until U66’s lookouts realized their mistake. A torpedo launched. Buckley turned hard left. The fish passed down the starboard side, missing by yards. At 0320, Abel opened fire. First salvo from the 3-in guns hit U66 forward of the conning tower. Direct hit. The submarine’s deck gun was knocked out immediately.

 All of Buckley’s weapons engaged. 3-in, 40mm, 20 millimeter. The Yubot returned fire with machine guns, but most rounds went high. Buckley’s gunners hammered the conning tower. Hit after hit. At 0324, U66 fired another torpedo from her stern tubes. Abel saw it coming, turned hard right. The torpedo crossed ahead of Buckley’s bow. Close.

The range closed to 20 yards. Parallel course. Point blank fire raked U66 from stem to stern. The submarine’s conning tower was on fire. Germans were visible through the flames trying to fight back, but Buckley’s guns were overwhelming. 105 rounds of 3-in shells, 2700 rounds of 20 mm, 418 rounds of 40 mm, all in 16 minutes.

 What happens when a destroyer escort runs out of distance to shoot? Please hit the like button. It helps others discover these stories and subscribe. Back to Abel’s decision at 0329. At 0329, Abel made a choice no destroyer escort commander had made in modern naval warfare. Hard right rudder ram the submarine. Buckley’s bow rolled up onto U66’s forastle and stayed there. The two vessels locked together.

 Steel grinding against steel. Then Germans started climbing out of the conning tower. Some carried pistols, some had knives. They swarmed onto Buckley’s for castle. The Americans thought they were being boarded. What happened next hadn’t occurred in the United States Navy for over a century.

 Hand-to-h hand combat on the deck of a warship. Buckley’s crew grabbed whatever they could find. Thompson submachine guns, M1911 pistols, rifles. But when those ran empty, sailors fought with fists, with 3-in shell casings, with coffee mugs from the galley. One German made it inside the ship, reached the wardrobe. A steward’s mate beat him back with a coffee pot. The fight lasted 2 minutes.

 Germans fell, Americans fell. Klaus Herbig, U66’s first officer, led the boarding party from behind the anchor windless. He was trying to create a diversion, give his captain time to break free, but there were too many Americans, too much firepower. Herbig and his men shouted for surrender.

 Abel ordered engines reversed. Buckley backed away from U66, leaving five armed Germans on deck. They were subdued immediately, but U66 wasn’t finished. The submarine came around under power, aimed directly at Buckley’s starboard side. At 0335, she struck. The collision tore open Buckley’s engine room, sheared off the starboard propeller shaft, twisted the stern.

 As U66 passed, an American sailor looked down into her open conning tower and tossed a hand grenade inside. Fire blasted out. The submarine kept moving at 15 knots. Out of control. Conning tower hatch open. Forward hatch open. Germans abandoning ship. At 0341, U66 disappeared beneath the surface. Diesel power still running, fire still burning inside her. She went down with her captain still aboard.

 16 minutes from first shot to sinking. Buckley’s crew had just fought the only hand-to-hand battle on a US warship in World War II. 36 German survivors floated in the water, but Abel’s ship was crippled, engine room flooded, one propeller gone, and they were 550 mi from the nearest port. The engine room was flooding.

 Water poured through the gaping hole U66 had torn in Buckley’s starboard side. Chief engineer reported the damage at 0345. Starboard shaft completely severed, flooding contained, but spreading. Port engine still functional. Abel had one propeller and 550 mi of Atlantic Ocean between his crippled ship and safety. But 36 Germans were in the water. Some wounded, some in shock.

 All of them enemies 5 minutes ago. Abel ordered rescue operations. Buckley’s crew pulled survivors aboard one by one. No hesitation. The same men who just fought hand-to- hand now hauled exhausted Yubot sailors from the Atlantic. Naval tradition. You save lives first, settle scores later. The rescued Germans were in bad shape. Many had burns from the fires inside U66.

Some had gunshot wounds from the close quarters fight. Others were simply broken. Four months at sea, watching their submarine die beneath them. They were transferred to USS Block Island, the escort carrier whose aircraft had found U66 in the first place. 24 German sailors went down with their boat, including overlutinant Zerz Ghard Zhausen, U66’s commander.

 He stayed at his post until the end. U66 had been a scourge of the Atlantic. Her record spoke for itself. 33 merchant ships sunk across nine war patrols, over 200,000 gross register tons, eight American vessels among them. On January 16th, 1942, she torpedoed the Canadian passenger liner, Lady Hawkins. 246 people died. Civilians, Navy personnel, most never found.

 U66 was one of five Yubot that launched Operation Drumbbeat, the devastating attack on American coastal shipping in early 1942. Now she was gone, sunk by a destroyer escort that weighed 1,400 tons to U66’s 154. Sunk by a captain who’d been in command less than a year. Sunk in a fight that ended with coffee mugs and fists. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.

 Germany’s seventh most successful yubot defeated in the most primitive combat imaginable. But Buckley was barely floating. Abel assessed the damage as dawn broke on May 6th. Port engine operational, steering functional, hull integrity compromised, but holding. The starboard propeller shaft wasn’t just broken. It was gone.

Sheared clean off. Every rotation of the port engine put stress on a ship designed for balanced twin screw propulsion. Maximum safe speed 12 knots, maybe 15 if they pushed it. New York was the closest major repair facility over 2,000 nautical miles northeast. Boston Navyyard could handle the damage, but that meant crossing the North Atlantic on one engine with a hole in the hole.

The alternative was limping to a forward base in the Azors, but they lacked the equipment for major repairs. Abel made the call. Set course for New York. Hope the weather held. Hope no other were hunting these waters. Task group 21.11 reformed around Buckley. USS Block Island provided air cover. Two other destroyer escorts took screening positions. They were exposed out here.

Every German submarine in the Atlantic had heard U66’s last transmissions. Some would be curious. Some would be hunting. A crippled destroyer escort made an attractive target. The damage control teams worked through the morning, shoring up bulkheads, pumping water, welding temporary patches over the worst holes. The engine room crew monitored the port engine constantly.

 Any failure now meant dead in the water, helpless. The Atlantic in May 1944 was still a war zone. The Allies were winning, but Hubot still prowled, still hunted, still killed. By noon, Buckley was making 13 knots. Steady course. The hull patches were holding. But every sailor aboard knew the truth. They were lucky.

 U66 could have put a torpedo into Buckley instead of ramming. Could have disabled both engines. Could have left them sinking instead of just crippled. The hand-to-hand fight made headlines later. The ram made history books. But the real story was simpler.

 Buckley survived because Abel had made the right decisions at the right moments and because his crew had fought with everything they had, including the coffee mugs. Abel stood on the bridge watching the horizon. They had six days of slow sailing ahead. 6 days vulnerable, 6 days hoping the Atlantic stayed calm and the Ubot stayed away. His ship had just won the most unusual naval engagement of the war. But winning didn’t mean safe. Not yet.

 Not with 1500 miles still to go. The first 24 hours were critical. Buckley maintained 13 knots on one engine, steering a careful course northeast. The welded patches on the hull held, but the engineering crew monitored every seam. One failure could flood compartments faster than pumps could handle. The Atlantic was calm.

 No swells over 6 ft. That was luck. A storm would have torn the temporary repairs apart. On May 7th, Block Island’s air patrols reported no submarine contacts within 200 m. That didn’t mean safety. Yubot could stay submerged for extended periods, surface only at night. By May 8th, Buckley had covered 300 m, still over,200 to go.

 The crew settled into a rhythm. Damage control teams ran constant checks. Lookouts scanned for periscopes. Gun crews stayed ready, but word was spreading. Radio intercepts confirmed it. German naval command knew U66 was gone. They knew how she died. Rammed by a destroyer escort, hand-to-hand combat on deck. The story seemed impossible.

 Ubot didn’t get boarded. They sank from death charges or torpedoes. They went down fighting at range, not in close quarters brawls. But Buckley’s action report was detailed, specific, undeniable. The coffee mugs bothered the Germans most. Official reports mentioned them three times.

 Ammunition expended included several General Mess coffee cups. That line appeared in the US Fleet anti-ubmarine bulletin in June 1944. American sailors had thrown their breakfast dishes at one of Germany’s most successful submarine crews. And it had worked. Some wounds on the German survivors were confirmed caused by ceramic impacts, coffee mugs, in naval combat in 1944.

The hand-to-hand fighting lasted approximately 2 minutes. According to Buckley’s action report, but those two minutes rewrote assumptions about modern naval warfare. Small arms fire accounted for 300 rounds of .045 caliber from M1911 pistols, 60 rounds of30 caliber from rifles, 30 rounds of double buckshot from shotguns. Thompson submachine guns added more.

 But the close quarters weapons, fists, shell casings, coffee equipment, those were what made the story unforgettable. One detail stood out in the survivor interrogations. Klaus Herbig, U66’s first officer, had led the boarding attempt, knowing it was hopeless. His goal was simple. Create a distraction. Give Zhousen time to break the submarine free.

 Herbig and his men climbed onto Buckley’s for castle with pistols and knives. They faced rifle fire from the repair party, Thompson gunfire from the Bridgewing, and when the Americans ran out of ammunition, they faced fists and improvised weapons. Herbig survived. He surrendered after realizing the diversion had failed. The German who reached Buckley’s wardroom also survived.

 He’d made it past the initial fighting on deck, found an open hatch, climbed down, thought he could sabotage something, find the radio room, maybe instead he encountered a steward’s maid in the galley. The American grabbed the nearest object, a coffee pot, and beat the German back toward the ladder. Other crew members arrived. The German surrendered.

 Later interrogation revealed he’d been aboard U66 for all nine patrols, survived depth charge attacks, survived aircraft strafing, but he couldn’t survive a Navy cook with a coffee pot. By May 10th, Buckley was halfway to New York, 600 mi covered, 600 more ahead.

 The port engine was showing strain, oil pressure fluctuating, temperature running higher than normal. Chief engineer recommended reducing speed to 11 knots. Abel agreed. Better slow than dead in the water. They adjusted course slightly, aiming for calmer seas. The crews morale was strange. They’d won an impossible fight, sunk a legendary yubot, fought handto hand, and survived, but their ship was crippled.

 Every day at sea was a risk. Every hour the port engine ran was borrowed time. They celebrated quietly. No loud talk about the battle, just acknowledgement. They’d done something nobody else in the US Navy had done in over a century. Repelled borders on a warship in the Atlantic with coffee mugs. On May 11th, a new concern emerged. The starboard side damage was worse than initially assessed.

 Saltwater corrosion was spreading faster than expected. The temporary welds were holding, but barely. Another storm would be catastrophic. Abel checked weather reports constantly. High pressure system holding over the North Atlantic. forecast stable for the next 72 hours. After that, nobody knew. And they still had 4 days of sailing ahead, 4 days hoping the weather held.

 4 days hoping the engine didn’t fail. 4 days wondering if another Yubot was tracking them right now. May 12th brought the first real test. Weather reports showed a low pressure system developing 400 m northwest. Not a full storm, but enough to generate swells. 8 to 10 ft predicted. Buckley’s damaged hull could handle six, maybe seven. 10 feet would strain every weld.

 Abel altered course slightly south, trying to skirt the worst of it. The swells arrived that afternoon. 8 ft rising. Buckley pitched and rolled. The temporary hull patches groaned with each wave. Down in the engine room, the port engine labored. Oil pressure dropped. Temperature climbed. Chief engineer reduced power. speed dropped to 9 knots, then eight. The math was simple.

 At 8 knots, New York was 6 days away instead of four. Six more days exposed. Six more days hoping nothing broke. By May 13th, the swells peaked at 9 ft, close to the limit. Water seeped through two of the hole patches, not flooding, but steady leaks. Damage control teams worked in shifts, reinforcing, pumping, monitoring. Nobody slept much.

 The port engine temperature was climbing into the red zone. They needed to shut it down for maintenance. But stopping in the middle of the Atlantic meant drifting. Helpless. Abel made another decision. Reduce speed to 6 knots. Let the engine cool slightly while still maintaining steerage. It worked. Temperature dropped 5°. Stayed there.

 But six knots meant 8 days to New York. 8 days of exposure. The mathematics of survival kept changing. Every hour brought new calculations, new risks, new decisions. Meanwhile, the story of U66 was spreading beyond military channels. Navy public affairs officers saw the propaganda value immediately. American destroyer defeats legendary Yubot in hand-to-hand combat. Perfect morale boost.

 They wanted details, photographs, interviews. But Buckley was still at sea, still damaged, still vulnerable. The celebration would have to wait. The German survivors aboard Block Island were providing their version of events. Interrogation reports confirmed the basic facts. U66 had indeed tried to board Buckley. Klaus Herbig had led approximately 12 men onto the American ship’s forks.

 They’d encountered immediate resistance, small arms fire, hand-to-hand fighting. The coffee mugs were real. One German sailor had a facial injury consistent with ceramic impact. The medical officer’s report was specific. Blunt force trauma, circular impact pattern, approximately 3 in in diameter, coffee mug sized. What the Germans couldn’t understand was why Buckley had rammed them.

 Standard destroyer escort tactics called for depth charges, hedgehog mortars, gunfire at range, not ramming. Ramming was obsolete, hadn’t been used since the age of sail, but Abel had closed to 20 yards, and the submarine was too close for most weapons. Ramming was the only option, so he’d taken it, and it had worked.

 By May 14th, Buckley had covered 900 m from the engagement site, 300 m to New York. The weather was improving. Swells down to 6 ft. Port engine stable at reduced power. The hull patches were holding. Barely, but holding. The crew allowed themselves cautious optimism. Three more days, maybe four. They could make it. Then the port engine oil pressure dropped again sharply.

 Chief engineer reported bearing damage, probably from the extended running at reduced power with asymmetric loading. The engine needed immediate shutdown for inspection, but they were still 280 mi from port. Too far to drift, too far to tow. Abel ordered speed reduced to four knots. Absolute minimum to maintain steerage. The bearing held. Temperature climbed but stabilized.

 Four knots meant six more days. But 6 days limping was better than dead in the water. On May 15th, Block Island’s air patrols detected a submarine contact 70 mi south of Buckley’s position. Possibly Yubot, possibly hunting. The contact submerged before aircraft could attack. Direction uncertain.

 Could be heading toward Buckley. Could be heading away. Nobody knew. And Buckley was making four knots. A surface yubot could do 18. If it was hunting the destroyer escort, Buckley couldn’t run, couldn’t maneuver, could barely defend herself. Abel ordered battle stations and waited again. The submarine contact stayed submerged for 6 hours.

 Block Islands Avengers maintained patrol patterns, dropping sonab buoys, listening, tracking. At 1,800 hours on May 15th, the contact surfaced 60 mi south, moving west, away from Buckley, not hunting, probably heading to patrol stations further out. The threat passed, but it reminded everyone how vulnerable they were.

 Four knots, damaged hull, one engine barely functioning. Easy prey. May 16th brought better news. Weather forecasts showed clear conditions for the next 72 hours. Calm seas. The port engine bearing was degrading but holding. Chief engineer estimated they could maintain four knots for another 4 days, maybe five if they got lucky. New York was 220 mi northeast.

 4 days at four knots was 384 miles. They had margin. Not much, but some. Abel received a message from Comm Dant, Commander Destroyer Force Atlantic. Buckley was front page news. The New York Times ran the story May 14th. Destroyer escort sinks Yubot in hand-to-hand fight. The Associated Press picked it up.

 Radio broadcasts mentioned it. The coffee mugs were the hook everyone used. American sailors defeat elite German submarine crew with breakfast dishes. It sounded like propaganda, but it was true. The Navy wanted Abel and his crew ready for public appearances when they reached port. Speeches, interviews, photographs, war bond rallies.

 The hand-to-hand combat angle was perfect for morale, showed American fighting spirit, showed resourcefulness, showed courage, everything the public wanted to hear. But Abel was focused on getting his ship home. The publicity could wait. By May 17th, Buckley was 140 miles from New York. The engine was running hot but steady. Hall patches were leaking slightly more, but still controllable. They’d covered over 1,000 mi on one engine with a hole in the side.

 The crew was exhausted, sleepdeprived, running on adrenaline and determination, but they were close now. Close enough to see the finish line. Then the bearing failed. Not catastrophically, just degraded to the point where continuing was dangerous.

 Chief engineer recommended immediate shutdown, but they were still 135 mi out. Too far to drift. Abel made a call. Run the engine to destruction if necessary. Get close enough for a tow. The bearing might last another 24 hours. Might not. Only one way to find out. The engine ran. Temperature climbed into critical range. Vibration increased. Oil pressure dropped. But it ran hour after hour, mile after mile.

 By midnight May 17th, they were 90 miles from New York. Close enough. Abel requested tug assistance. Two oceangoing tugs departed New York Harbor at 0200 May 18th. Estimated rendevous time, 1,400 hours. At 06:30 May 18th, the port engine seized, bearing failure, complete loss of power. But Buckley was 70 mi from New York. The tugs were in route. All they had to do was drift. Wait, stay afloat.

After 12 days of limping across the Atlantic, they could finally stop. The engine room crew secured everything, shut down systems, assessed damage. The engine was destroyed, would need complete rebuilding, but they didn’t need it anymore. The tugs arrived at 14:15. Line secured. Tow established. Speed three knots. Buckley was under tow heading home.

 The crew lined the rails, watching New York skyline emerge from the haze. They’d fought the only hand-to-hand naval battle of the war, sunk one of Germany’s deadliest submarines, sailed over a thousand miles on one engine, and survived. At 2200 hours May 18th, Buckley entered New York Harbor. Tugs guided her toward the Brooklyn Navyyard. Crowds lined the shore.

 News cameras were set up. Reporters waited. The coffee mug story had made them famous. But the crew wasn’t thinking about fame. They were thinking about solid ground, hot showers, real sleep, and the fact that they’d actually made it home. The tugs positioned Buckley alongside Pier 12 at Brooklyn Navyyard.

 Line secured, engines shut down, or what was left of them. gang way extended. But before anyone could disembark, Abel gathered his crew, told them what they already knew. They’d done something extraordinary. Not just sinking U66, but bringing Buckley home against impossible odds. The hand-to-hand fight would make headlines, but the 12-day journey home was the real achievement.

 That’s what he wanted them to remember. May 19th, Buckley was moved to Boston Navyyard for detailed damage assessment. The initial inspection at Brooklyn revealed the repairs would take weeks, possibly months. Boston had better facilities for destroyer escort work, better dry dock capacity. The ship was towed north, arriving May 20th.

In dry dock, the full extent of damage became clear. The bow was bent 12° to port from ramming U66. Internal compartments forward were crushed. The starboard propeller shaft wasn’t just sheared. The stern tube was cracked. The engine room flooding had damaged electrical systems throughout the aft third of the ship. Hole plating showed stress fractures in six locations.

 And the port engine was completely destroyed, bearings gone, crankshaft damaged, total rebuild required. Navy engineers estimated 6 weeks minimum for repairs, probably eight. The bow needed complete reconstruction. The stern needed new shaft and tube assembly. The engine required parts that weren’t in stock, had to be manufactured.

 Meanwhile, Buckley sat in dry dock, a battered reminder of what close quarters combat did to modern warships. But the crew was already famous. The coffee mug story had captured public imagination. Newspapers ran it for days. Radio shows mentioned it. News reels wanted footage. The Navy obliged. Cameramen filmed the damaged bow, the bent hull, the crushed compartments.

 visual proof of the ramming. Then they interviewed the crew, asked about the hand-to-hand fighting, asked about the coffee mugs. The sailors were uncomfortable with celebrity. They’d done their job, fought when fighting was necessary, used whatever weapons were available. That included coffee mugs. It wasn’t heroic.

 It was practical. When Germans are climbing onto your deck with weapons, you use whatever is closest. Sometimes that’s a rifle. Sometimes it’s a coffee cup. The crew didn’t see the distinction. The public did. On August 31st, 1944, formal awards ceremony at Boston Navyyard. Captain George Menal presided. Lieutenant Commander Brent Ael stepped forward first. Navy Cross.

 The citation read, “For extraordinary heroism and distinguished service in the line of his profession as commanding officer of the destroyer escort USS Buckley in offensive action against a German submarine during patrol of the Atlantic coast on the early morning of May 6th, 1944.” The citation detailed Abel’s decisions.

 the undetected high-speed approach in bright moonlight, silencing U66’s guns within four minutes despite torpedo and automatic weapon fire, the ramming, the defense against boarding. Every choice Abel made that night was recognized, but the citation didn’t mention coffee mugs. That detail stayed in the action reports. The official awards focused on tactics and leadership. Lieutenant Junior Grade Boris Kramer received Bronze Star for meritorious performance during the engagement. Other crew members received commendations.

 The entire ship earned Navy unit commenation. Buckley’s bow would forever carry a battle star in the European African Theater ribbon. Physical proof of that 16-minute fight west of Cape Verde. The repairs continued through June. New bow section fabricated and installed. Starboard shaft replaced. Engine rebuilt from components. Electrical systems rewired.

By June 14th, Buckley was whole again. Not new, but functional, ready to return to the Atlantic. The coffee mugs that survived the fight were saved, became unofficial relics. Some crew members kept them. Reminders of the strangest weapons ever used in US naval combat. But Buckley’s war wasn’t over.

 After refresher training at Casco Bay, Maine, she escorted convoys to North Africa from July through November 1944. Then resumed anti-ubmarine duty along the eastern seabboard. On April 19th, 1945, Buckley and destroyer escort Ruben James sank U548 in the North Atlantic. No ramming this time, no hand-to-hand combat, just depth charges and coordinated attack. Standard procedure.

The war in Europe ended May 8th, 1945. Buckley escorted one final convoy to Algeria in June and July, then returned to the United States. Her combat record was complete. Two Ubot sunk, dozens of convoys escorted, thousands of miles patrolled, and one impossible fight that nobody would forget.

 The hand-to-hand engagement became required reading at Naval Academy. case study in unconventional tactics. Proof that modern warfare sometimes required ancient solutions, even if those solutions involved breakfast dishes. But the real lesson wasn’t about coffee mugs.

 It was about adaptability, about using whatever tools were available when standard weapons failed. Abel had rammed because ramming was the only option. The crew had fought hand-to- hand because the enemy was too close for guns. They’d improvised, survived, won. That was the lesson, not the coffee mugs. Those were just the memorable detail that made the story unforgettable.

 Buckley was decommissioned July 3rd, 1946. Placed in reserve at St. John’s River, Florida. The war was over. The Atlantic was safe. Destroyer escorts were no longer needed in the numbers built during wartime. Buckley joined hundreds of other ships in Mothballs, preserved, maintained, ready for reactivation if another war came.

 On April 26th, 1949, Buckley was reclassified DER-51, radar picket destroyer escort, new role, new mission. But she never returned to active service in that capacity. The reclassification was administrative. On September 29th, 1954, she was reclassified again, back to DE51, original designation, but still in reserve, still waiting. 23 years Buckley sat in reserve.

 paint fading, systems aging. The bent bow from ramming U66 remained visible even decades later, a permanent scar, a physical reminder of that May night in 1944. Sailors who served on other ships would visit, point out the damage, tell the story. The coffee mugs always got mentioned. In 1969, Buckley was struck from the naval register, sold for scrap.

The Navy determined she was too old for further service, too outdated. Modern anti-ubmarine warfare had evolved beyond World War II destroyer escorts. Buckley’s era had passed. She was towed to a breaker’s yard, cut apart, recycled. The bow that had rammed U66 was separated from the rest of the hull. Some sailors tried to preserve it as a memorial. The effort failed.

 Budget constraints, lack of interest. By 1970, Buckley was gone completely. But the story survived. The hand-to-hand combat, the coffee mugs. Naval historians kept it alive. The US Naval Academy used it as a teaching example. Case study in tactical flexibility. In 1973, a former U66 crewman contacted Brent Ael. His name was Herman Hartman.

He’d been one of the 36 survivors Buckley had pulled from the Atlantic. Hartman wanted to thank Abel for the fair treatment aboard Buckley for saving their lives. Abel was surprised. Nearly 30 years had passed since the engagement. He’d moved on. Practiced law in California after the war. But Hartman’s letter was sincere, respectful. It mentioned something Abel hadn’t considered.

 The German survivors had always wanted to meet their adversaries, shake hands, acknowledge the shared experience. War had made them enemies. Peace allowed them to be something else. Abel helped organize a reunion. Germany, 1978. Former Buckley crew members met former U66 crew members. They were all older now, gray hair, slower movements, but the memories were sharp.

 The Germans remembered the coffee mugs. The Americans remembered the desperation in Klaus Herbig’s eyes as he surrendered. Both sides remembered the violence, the fear, the confusion of close quarters combat. The reunion was emotional. These men had tried to kill each other, had succeeded in some cases.

 24 Germans died when U66 sank, but the survivors bore no grudges. They understood war was war. Duty was duty. They’d both done their jobs. And afterward, Abel’s crew had saved German lives instead of leaving them to drown. That mattered, maybe more than the fighting. One German sailor brought photographs. U66 before the war.

 The crew young and confident. Another photo showed the submarine docking at Lauron. Happy faces. They didn’t know yet what the Atlantic would cost them. Another showed damage from an earlier encounter with Allied aircraft. U66 had been attacked multiple times before meeting Buckley.

 Had survived depth charges, strafing runs, near misses, but she couldn’t survive 16 minutes with a determined destroyer escort. Abel brought Buckley’s action report, the official account, detailed, specific. The Germans read it carefully, nodded at certain parts, disputed minor details, but agreed on the essentials.

 The fight had happened exactly as described, including the coffee mugs, including the hand-to-hand combat, including the final moments when U66 went down with her captain still aboard. The reunion ended with mutual respect. These men had shared something few others could understand. Combat at ranges measured in feet instead of miles. Personal violence in an impersonal war.

 They’d survived both sides. And that created a bond stronger than former enmity. Abel said later he was proud of sinking U66, proud of his crew, but he wished he could have saved more German lives, including Zhousen, including the 24 who went down with the submarine. Brent Ael died in 2007. He was 91 years old, had lived a full life after the Navy, law, practice, family.

But his obituary led with USS Buckley and U66, the coffee mug battle. That’s what people remembered. That’s what defined his naval service, not the thousands of miles patrolled, not the convoys escorted, not even sinking U548 the following year, just those 16 minutes on May 6th, 1944.

 The survivors from both sides kept in touch after the 78 reunion. Letters, occasional phone calls, they formed an unlikely fraternity. Men who’d fought each other in the most primitive way possible during a technologically advanced war. The irony never escaped them. Radar had detected U66. Sonar tractor radio coordinated the attack, but the fight ended with fists and coffee mugs.

 Klaus Herbig, U66’s first officer who led the boarding attempt, attended multiple reunions over the years. He never apologized for trying to board Buckley. It had been his duty. Create a diversion. Give his captain a chance. The fact that it failed didn’t make it wrong. Abel understood, respected it. Both men had made hard choices that night. Both had done what they thought necessary.

 That’s what warriors did. The coffee mugs achieved legendary status. Naval museums wanted them. Collectors offered money. But the crew members who kept them refused to sell. These weren’t artifacts. They were personal reminders. Proof that war sometimes reduced to the simplest terms. Survive. Use whatever is available. Win.

One mug ended up at the Navy Museum in Washington DC. Donated after a veteran’s death. Display case labeled coffee mug used as weapon. USS Buckley versus U66, May 6th, 1944. Thousands of visitors saw it every year. Most assumed it was metaphorical. It wasn’t. The academic studies came later. Naval warfare analysts examined the engagement from every angle.

 Tactical decisions, weapon effectiveness, damage assessment. But they kept returning to the same question. Why had U66 attempted to board? Standard procedure was to disengage when rammed, dive if possible, scuttle if not, but Sehousen had tried to turn the tables, use the ram against Buckley. It nearly worked.

 The collision damage to Buckley’s engine room proved that if U66 had hit 6 ft further aft, Buckley might have sunk. The boarding attempt, hopeless as it was, created the opportunity for that strike. So, the engagement wasn’t just hand-to-hand chaos. It was calculated desperation. Both commanders understood they were in a fight to the death. Both used unconventional tactics. Abel rammed.

 Seahausen attempted boarding and counter ramming. The coffee mugs were just the visible symbol of a deeper truth. When survival is at stake, conventional rules disappear. You use what works. Even if it’s breakfast dishes. The engagement influenced destroyer escort tactics for the remainder of the war.

 Not the ramming specifically, but the close quarters mindset. Training emphasized readiness for unconventional situations. Small arms drills increased. Damage control teams practiced repelling borders. Nobody expected another hand-to-hand fight, but Buckley proved it could happen. Better prepared than surprised. U66’s wreck was never found. She went down in 17° 17 minutes north, 32° 24 minutes west.

 Depth approximately 3,000 meters, too deep for salvage or exploration in 1944. May be accessible with modern equipment, but nobody’s looked. The wreck isn’t the story. The fight is those 16 minutes when modern naval warfare became ancient. When technology failed and humans prevailed through courage and improvisation. If this story moved you the way it moved us, do me a favor, hit that like button.

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