THE NIGHT A U.S. DESTROYER FOUGHT A GERMAN SUBMARINE WITH FISTS, COFFEE MUGS, AND COURAGE

May 1944 — Somewhere in the dark waters of the Atlantic Ocean, an American destroyer escort cut through the waves with steady confidence. The USS Buckley (DE-51), a relatively small but agile vessel, had been built for one purpose: stopping submarines before they could strike Allied supply convoys. Nobody aboard expected that within hours, they would be engaged in one of the most extraordinary confrontations of the entire naval war — a battle that would defy doctrine, logic, and every textbook ever written about sea combat.

It would become a moment whispered about in wardrooms for years afterward:
the night a U.S. warship and a German U-boat collided, and both crews met in a chaotic fistfight on the open deck.

A SHADOW IN THE NIGHT

In the early hours of May 6, 1944, the Atlantic was quiet except for the hum of Buckley’s engines and the wind sliding across her superstructure. The destroyer escort was part of a hunter-killer group tracking submarines along a broad sweep of ocean routes east of the Cape Verde Islands.

Just after 3 a.m., the radar operator stiffened.

“Contact bearing zero-eight-five, range eight thousand yards.”

Commander Brent M. Abel, a calm, precise officer, stepped to the radar screen. The faint blip slid across the display, just barely strong enough to differentiate from the clutter.

A surfaced submarine.

The most dangerous kind.

Buckley altered course. Engines roared. Men scrambled to their stations with practiced discipline. The destroyer escort knifed through the dark, every eye scanning the horizon.

Then, at last — a silhouette.

Sleek, low, unmistakable.

“U-boat in sight!”

Below them, the German submarine U-66, commanded by Oberleutnant Gerhard Seehausen, was also preparing for battle. U-66 was no inexperienced opponent. She was one of the most successful submarines still afloat, boasting dozens of sinkings over years of operations.

But tonight, she was running low on fuel, low on torpedoes, and low on time.

THE FIRST EXCHANGE

Spotlights snapped on.
U-66’s crew responded instantly.

Tracer fire streaked across the water.

20mm and 37mm cannon shells arced upward as German gunners unleashed everything they had. The Buckley shook as rounds clattered off her superstructure. A few ricocheted into the night; others punched through metal.

The order came sharp and immediate:

“Return fire!”

The destroyer escort answered with a thunderous broadside. 3-inch guns, 40mm Bofors cannons, and 20mm Oerlikons tore into the submarine’s deck. Sparks flew like welding arcs.

The U-boat’s anti-aircraft guns went silent one by one as gunners fell or were forced below decks. Smoke curled into the night sky.

The German vessel tried to maneuver, twisting desperately to bring torpedo tubes into position.

Buckley’s sonar room erupted:

“Torpedo in the water! Starboard bow!”

The destroyer executed a sharp turn. The white wake of the torpedo flashed past harmlessly — just feet away.

Commander Abel saw his moment.

“RAM IT!”

In most naval manuals, ramming is an outdated relic — something reserved for ancient triremes or ships with no other choice. But Abel knew this was his best chance to disable the submarine before it could fire again.

He gave the order with an edge of finality:

“Prepare to ram!”

The ship lurched as engines surged.
Steel met steel.

Buckley struck U-66 behind the conning tower, climbing onto the submarine’s deck before sliding back into the water. Men on both sides were thrown to the deck.

Then something nobody expected happened.

From the submarine’s hatchway, silhouettes emerged — armed, desperate, and now only feet away.

The U-boat crew boarded Buckley.

THE FIGHT NOBODY TRAINED FOR

What followed was not naval warfare.
It was mayhem.

German sailors leapt across the narrow gap, landing on Buckley’s deck in a clash of boots and shouted commands. American sailors, stunned for only a heartbeat, responded instinctively.

Sidearms barked.
Knives flashed.
Bare fists swung.

In the frenzy, one American grabbed an empty shell casing and swung it like a club. Another sailor hurled a coffee mug at a boarder, knocking him off balance long enough for two shipmates to tackle him overboard.

One German sailor charged forward wielding a wrench the size of his forearm. An American radioman countered with the only thing he had — a fire extinguisher — smashing it into the sailor’s shoulder before both men tumbled into the railings.

A boatswain’s mate later described the scene in disbelief:

“It stopped being a battle and turned into a brawl.
Like two crews trapped in the same nightmare.”

Above them, the submarine — still grinding against Buckley’s hull — was in chaos of its own. Flames licked across its deck where American fire had struck fuel lines.

THE END OF U-66

As the melee raged, Buckley pulled clear of the submarine. German sailors who had boarded were pushed back into the sea or surrendered outright.

The destroyer escort’s crew quickly regained their stations. Damage control parties scrambled to contain fires and repair ruptured pipes.

Someone shouted:

“Throw grenades into the hatch! End it now!”

A series of explosions rocked the U-boat’s interior. The submarine shuddered violently, losing power. Water surged through hull breaches.

Its fate was sealed.

Moments later, U-66 slipped beneath the waves, stern-first, swallowed by the Atlantic.

The fight was over.
The crew of Buckley stood breathless, stunned that the surreal combat had lasted barely an hour.

THE AFTERMATH: HEROISM, LOSS, AND AN IMPOSSIBLE VICTORY

Buckley immediately began pulling survivors from the water.
German sailors, numbed by shock, injuries, and the sudden end of their vessel, clung to life rafts and debris.

36 men from U-66 were rescued.

Not a single American sailor had been killed.

The news spread quickly across the Allied fleet: a destroyer escort had not only defeated an enemy submarine in a close-quarters battle — it had literally fought its crew on deck before sinking it.

The official Navy report described the engagement with conservative understatement:

“Boarders repelled.”

Sailors would later say it was the most modest sentence ever written about the wildest naval fight of the war.

Commander Abel received the Navy Cross, and the men under his command were commended for extraordinary bravery under conditions nobody could have anticipated.

WHY THE BATTLE STILL MATTERS

The sinking of U-66 wasn’t just a tactical victory. It symbolized something deeper, especially to those who had endured years of submarine warfare in the Atlantic.

U-boats had once stalked Allied ships with near impunity. In 1942, some commanders boasted that American waters were a “hunting ground.”

But by 1944, the tables had turned.

Radar had become more effective.

Escort carriers now ranged farther.

Destroyer escorts like Buckley were hunting, not fleeing.

The fistfight on Buckley’s deck was the clearest possible sign of a shifting tide:
the hunters had become the hunted.

For the men who served aboard the ship, it was a moment that defined the rest of their lives. Many would recall the fight with disbelief, humor, or somber reflection — depending on which moment their memory returned to first.

Some remembered the chaotic boarding.
Others recalled the eerie silence after the submarine slipped away.
Most remembered the teamwork, the training, and the unspoken bonds that had carried them through a battle no one could have rehearsed.

A PLACE IN NAVAL LEGEND

The U.S. Navy has fought countless engagements across its long history, but few match the sheer improbability of what happened aboard the USS Buckley that night.

A destroyer escort — built quickly, staffed by young sailors, designed for speed rather than glory — went head-to-head with a submarine veteran of the Atlantic campaign.

It won through:

relentless aggression,

quick tactical judgment,

and the willingness of its crew to fight with whatever they had on hand.

That combination, more than any blueprint or doctrine, is what secured victory.

To this day, the encounter stands as one of the strangest and most dramatic naval confrontations ever recorded — a testament to courage, improvisation, and the unpredictable realities of war.

And like the heroic stand of Flight Lieutenant David Hornell in the freezing Norwegian seas, it reminds us that some of the greatest acts of bravery occur far from the headlines, in moments where men refuse to yield.