Part 13

I have mentioned the case of "E 13," and described her shelling by the enemy when she lay aground on the Island of Saltholm. Of the survivors, two were at once sent to hospital, and the remainder were berthed aboard the Danish ship _Peder Skram_, all being treated with great kindness. The _Peder Skram_ took them to Copenhagen and transferred them to the naval barracks. Commander Layton at once began to think of escape, and, after three weeks in Copenhagen, withdrew his parole--due notice being given on his part and precautions taken on the part of the Danes. He knew that his only chance of escape was to so arrange matters that his absence should be undiscovered till he had time to cross the frontier to Sweden; this was done by the time-honoured method of leaving a dummy figure in his bed. He had to pass six sentries on his way out in addition to the one outside his door, but he had the assistance of his officers in this difficulty. Lieutenant Eddis distracted the door-sentry's attention while his captain crossed to Lieutenant Garriock's room, and then turned his attention to the two guard officers downstairs. Commander Layton changed in Lieutenant Garriock's room into a suit of "acquired" Danish sailor's clothes, and left by the window down a "hammock lashing." He walked through the kitchen and pantry of the officers' block, went through the pantry window (having already arranged for "distractions" for the outside sentries), and walked off towards the jetty. He passed the old mast crane (that is shown in pictures of the battle of Copenhagen, and which still looks out over waters that have seen wars innumerable), and hurried on to where the dockyard wall joins the sea. There he took to the water and swam some way along the shore till he landed under the lock bridge at the basin entrance. He was now in the town area; he took off his clothes, wrung them out and replaced them (there was 18° of frost), then walked to the Kristiansund-Copenhagen ferry pier. He boarded the ferry and made the passage amidst a crowd of Danish sailors and police, went to a rendezvous with a friend on arrival, changed his clothes, and became a Norwegian merchant-ship mate of Finnish birth and language (Finnish interpreters are generally scarce). He then caught the first train out to Christiania, called at the Legation for a passport, and went straight on to Bergen, changing his personality on the way to that of "George Perkins, U.S.A.--a Marine Overseer." At Bergen he boarded the Norwegian mail-boat for Newcastle, still posing as an American. His histrionic abilities, however, were rather discredited on the journey, as several fellow-passengers doubted that he really came from the States, and one tactlessly stated that he would have put him down as a British naval officer, "if he hadn't been told he was an American." At Newcastle he had considerable difficulty in establishing his identity--the sleuth instinct of a Boy Scout causing him some trouble--but he eventually cleared his character, and reached London on Tuesday, having broken out of prison at 7.30 P.M. the previous Friday. The hue-and-cry started too late to catch him, and, partly perhaps owing to Danish sympathy with this country, and also certainly owing to his personality having become popular with the Copenhagen people during his parole period, the chase was guided by the Danish newspapers into several wrong directions.

On the 15th April 1915, Submarine "E 15" (Lieut.-Commander T. S. Brodie) made the first attempt to enter the Sea of Marmora. She entered the Dardanelles at 2 A.M., dived at 4, and at 6.45 A.M. she struck the shore under the Turkish guns. The captain ordered all tanks to be blown, and under a terrific fire he tried to get the boat off by going full astern (she had bounced up the beach till her conning-tower and hull were exposed), and the survivors reported that he had just inquired if the hull was badly hit or not when a large shell passed through the conning-tower, killing him instantly. Orders were given to abandon the ship, and Lieutenants Price and Fitzgerald proceeded, while shell after shell struck the boat, to destroy the charts and papers. This boat was later further demolished by a gallant British picket-boat attack. A fortnight later "A E 2" was sent up, and, as has been told, was lost in the Marmora. The third and fourth boats, "E 11" and "E 14" got through safely. It is interesting to read in a German publication that the German Admiral on the spot stated later, "The English submarines in the Marmora performed magnificently.... The English submarine design is excellent." A German officer would not agree with the latter part of the remark, as every nation has a different type of boat, but certainly in the Marmora our submarine officers preferred the E type of boat to anything else.

One thing that this war has shown us is that the Germans have not got a monopoly in the manufacture of first-class optical lenses. In 1914 the German periscope was a lot better than ours; in 1915 we put out contracts for periscopes to new firms in this country; in 1916 our new periscopes equalled those of the enemy; in 1918 our latest periscopes were the best in the world. This advance was accomplished by our firms in face of two handicaps--one, that our periscopes ordered were some seven feet longer than the enemy's; the other, that ours were to be practically vibrationless. The results gained have broken the bubble of reputation previously raised by the Jena glass factories. In the Diesel oil-engine the Germans probably lead us--in steam turbines we lead them. In general submarine design and practice we are a long way ahead, while in certain minor details they give us points to copy. Among a mass of clumsy fittings in their boats (fittings which had long ago been eliminated or simplified with us) one finds small labour-saving "gadgets" installed which we have either not thought of, or have neglected to supply. A typically German piece of thoroughness is to be seen--one specimen on Zeebrugge Mole, the other at Wilhelmshaven. This is a raised platform carrying a gun on top; the platform works on eccentric bearings which are able, through the use of a separate motor, to roll or pitch the gun to a variable amount while the submarine gunlayer under training endeavours to carry out practice at a target towed past him out at sea. It is also reported that this arrangement is sometimes used to cure submarine sailors of excessive sea-sickness: this is probably true, as an hour's stay on the rocking platform would cure the most hardened case. As our boats did not use the gun much, such a contrivance was not needed; but in any case such shore training, as opposed to practice at sea, is against the usual habit of our Navy. Which method is right--well, there's something to be said for both sides.

Early in the war the U-boats were faster than the E's by quite two knots. Later our patrol boats became two knots faster than the later U's, while, of course, our Fleet submarines were much faster still. In gun-power the U-boats were always better, because they wanted guns more for their work. This implied that our boats were always the faster under water. In speed of diving, _i.e_. in time of getting under, there was practically no difference between the two types. In endurance the types were, ton for ton, the same, though our boats were probably far more comfortable and roomy to live in. In torpedo armament (_i.e_. in number of tubes) there was no comparison--our boats were always the more heavily armed. In wireless installations we were behindhand in 1914-15, but were ahead in 1918. In general steadiness of diving and control and in under-water handling we were always ahead. In structural strength and capacity to resist the pressures of great depths of water the enemy were probably slightly better. In hydroplane installations the American boats seem to be ahead of both of us. Neither the English nor German boats recorded a success due to the use of hydrophones, and they appear to have been little used by either Submarine Service. Both, however, used the under-water sound-signalling gear (of Fessenden type) with success, and it was found to be a useful adjunct to submarine work. Each Navy was fitting larger torpedoes and warheads in 1918 in view of the fact that the modern surface war-ship was found to be difficult to sink with the usual eighteen-inch weapon.

It will be gathered from the above that we had and still have a lead in design and construction. What is far more important, however, is the lead we have kept in training and quality of the officers and men. The Germans improvised a Submarine Service--we had one already before the war, and we simply expanded it "according to plan," as more boats were needed.

On the outbreak of war, the Submarine Service, as did the surface fleet, added to its personnel by the use of Royal Naval Reserve officers, and "hostilities only" ratings, the latter being usually men with experience as motor mechanics or workshop engineers. These ratings were employed either in the depot ship workshops or in the engine-rooms of sea-going submarines, and they there justified their presence by the sound and keen work they performed under strange and often dangerous circumstances. The R.N.R. officers were used as watch-keepers and navigators in the boats, and their history in the war is shown in their long list of decorations and casualties. They were not expected to learn much of the technicalities of submarines--there were other officers aboard who could look after that side of the business--but in many cases they taught themselves far more than had been expected, with the result that they were able to substitute on occasions the regularly trained officers. Their chief duty, however, lay in watch-keeping and navigating: nothing could approach the air of calm detachment with which an R.N.R. would go forward to his bunk to turn in, after he had--half-way through his night-watch on deck--pressed the button of the diving alarm at sight of an enemy patrol boat close aboard, closed the lid, descended with a rush, and reported the cause of the alarm to the captain. By the time the captain had checked the descent and levelled the boat at sixty feet, the R.N.R. lieutenant would be snoring peacefully, the matter being out of his head once he had taken his decision to give the "crash-dive" order. All through the war we carried an R.N.R. officer aboard every sea-going submarine as a "third-hand," and the Service owes a very great deal to the help of these competent and loyal auxiliaries.

The following is written of a combination of two or more true war incidents. It is intended to illustrate what the writer considers to be the true strategic use of patrol submarines.

After 1916 the Submarine Patrol flotillas that watched the exit of the Heligoland Bight were given certain orders, which altered altogether their duties and their _raison d'être_. These were to the effect that no outward-bound ship of the enemy was to be attacked or fired at until a signal had first been made by the sighting submarine, to report such enemy's presence and movement; only homeward-bound ships could be fired at, and if outward-bound ships were seen, the reporting signal was to be made at all costs. This alteration detracted somewhat from the interest of submarine war, but it added largely to the strategic usefulness of our patrol boats. It is of no use to torpedo an enemy ship and thereby lose a chance for the Grand Fleet of cutting off the whole enemy force, and a torpedo fired meant that an hour or more of depth-charging would follow the shot, and prevent the signal being made before the news of the enemy's position had grown cold.

The submarine was a J boat, and her station was at the western end of the North Dogger Bank-Heligoland swept channel. The weather had been rough and wet for the first four days of her patrol, reducing the periscope visibility to a few hundred yards' range across grey and foaming seas. The boat had patrolled at twenty feet depth (which is shallow for a big boat) in order to see anything at all, and because of the steep seas she had kept always beam to them, except for the turns at the end of her ten-mile beat. Each turn had caused her to either break surface or slip down to eighty feet, owing to the quick inclinations given her as the waves met her end-on. The weather cleared suddenly on the fourth night, and next morning she dived at dawn, under a gentle swell that hourly died down to a calm deep blue ocean. The visibility was good--how good her captain had hardly realised until through his high-power periscope he picked up the unmistakable line of brown blurs to the east that meant an approaching enemy squadron at a range of at least ten miles. He turned and dived at half-speed towards them, calling his crew to "action stations" at once. He knew that his orders forbade him to fire, but there was always the chance of his having to use his torpedoes in self-defence--self-defence, that is, of a legitimate kind, not of the type said to be used in certain districts where only mad elephants are allowed to be killed, but where all the elephants are said to became indubitably mad "after the first shot." As the smoke-blurs grew he eased speed to "dead slow"; the enemy was shown by the rate of change of his bearings to be steering a course which would take him past the J boat at easy range. The periscope slid along very slowly, only about a foot of its length showing above water; the captain knew that he could see Zeppelins if they were about, but an aeroplane, especially against the sun, is a different proposition, and he did not want to risk being observed before his wireless had done its work. Twenty minutes from sighting the smoke he turned to east to pass parallel to the enemy, and he moved slowly past their line. Looking closely at them with the high-power instrument, and with his periscope top now a bold three feet above the surface, he spoke rapidly and briefly to his third officer, who, notebook in hand, stood at his elbow--

... "Four light cruisers--_Pillau_, _Königsberg_, and two more--line ahead two cables--speed twenty--course west. A destroyer screen on each bow--two a side. Away to starboard of them at five miles are five battle-cruisers--the usual lot with a big screen--too smoky to count. Cut that down, make a signal of it and get it coded, quick!"

He trained the periscope to eastward again, stared for a minute at the horizon, and then lowered the big instrument down into its well. There was apparently nothing following the two squadrons, and he intended to rise and snap in his wireless signal as soon as they had left him far enough astern--say seven miles--to make it fairly safe for him to do so. After ten minutes he raised his periscope for a look, then lowered it and studied his watch for ten minutes more. Another searching sweep of the horizon and--"Stand by for surface--Smack that signal off the moment the aerial's up, Pilot--all ready there? _Surface_...."

The lid swung open as the top of the hull showed, and the captain nipped straight up on to the bridge rail and looked astern towards the haze of brown smoke that marked where the German battle-cruisers were steaming on. After one glance he twisted round to look forward and raised his glasses; lowering them, he gave a general look round and overhead, then beckoned to the messenger (a seaman who stood in the conning-tower with his head just below the lid of the hatch). "Tell the first lieutenant to stop blowing and to come up...."

Twenty seconds later his subordinate was beside him, and he spoke over his shoulder, watching the horizon to the east. "More of 'em coming out--tell the operator to get a hustle on--I'll have to dip in five minutes or they'll see us."

The first lieutenant nodded and turned to jump down the ladder. "Zeppelin to starboard," he said as he vanished; "long way up."

The captain nodded--glanced at the distant airship, and continued his watch on the approaching ships. He had a mild contempt both for a Zeppelin's offensive powers and for her capability of seeing submarine conning-towers at anything but short range. In any case, she was five minutes' flight away at least, and he hoped to be under water again by that time. The enemy squadron appeared at long range to be composed of four more light cruisers with no destroyer screen, and steaming in either quarter-line or line abreast--a formation perhaps adopted as a precaution against submarine attack. After three minutes he began to tap his hand impatiently against the periscope standard; after five, he stepped down and looked anxiously down the conning-tower. The first lieutenant was just coming up the ladder.

"Well?"

"He's burnt out a coil, sir, and it'll take a few minutes; signal's not started yet."

The captain swore shortly; then--"Open up engines----"

The captain watched the first lieutenant's cap vanish below, then turned to watch the approaching enemy. He was going to cut it rather fine, and the knowledge of the chances he was taking removed his impatience and anxiety. Now that he had made up his mind he felt quite cheerful again. If luck was against him he might get sunk, but the enemy's chance of damaging him in five minutes was small. As he raised his glasses he saw the dull red flash he had been expecting break out from the bows of three of the four cruisers, followed a couple of seconds later by the flame of the fourth. Each cruiser was hidden a moment in a brown ball of smoke, which dissipated before she had passed through it. Through his glasses he saw, high up over their mastheads, a group of little black dots that rose and grew larger; the dots seemed to swerve a little to the left in their flight, as a low-sliced cleek-shot would do, then they slowly descended towards him. When they were some ten degrees above the horizon he lost sight of them, and at the instant the water, four hundred yards short of the J boat, leaped up in fifty-foot spouts to the sound of great cart-whips cracking. A big lump of broken shell passed over with a rhythmical whine and stutter--a lump obviously of bad stream-line shape for flying at high speed. The fourth shell pitched a long way short, failed to burst, and came over in a high ricochet, making a noise like a goods train passing. The J boat's helm went over, and she steered for the white mist that still hung where the first shells fell. As she steadied on her course the water under her bows--fifty yards off--turned white, and leaped up in a high solid pillar to the impact of the next salvo. Her helm went hard over, but too late to avoid her bath; she passed through the edge of the waterspout and took the full rain of it over her bridge and conning-tower. The first lieutenant arrived on deck in time to receive a full douche of spray, and to see, a moment later, the fourth ship's erratic contribution fall explosively two hundred yards on the bow and short again. He wiped the water from his face with the sodden sleeve of his sweater and spoke quickly: "Signal's passing now, sir. Shall he wait for an acknowledgment?"

"No, make it twice and stand by to dip. We can stand another salvo or two...."

"Are they only using bow guns?"

"Yes; if they turn and fire all guns it won't be safe. They'll be astern next salvo...."

The first lieutenant had vanished again--the boat had spun round (on the principle of steering for the last general splash, and trusting to the meticulous routine of German gunnery corrections) when, with a vicious crack, the three shells passed over the bridge and burst on the water close aboard beyond the hull. The captain ducked--not so much from surprise, but to avoid what he knew was coming; he looked down the conning-tower and saw the third officer's mouth frame the words, "Signal passed"; he jumped down, pressing the diving alarm with one hand as he reached up with the other to close the lid. Then number four shell came, falling a few yards short of his saddle tanks, and sending a shower of water and small splinters across the boat: as usually happens, the bad shot had come nearest, though splinters are not of much use against a submarine hull. The lid snapped down and the tail kicked up a little, and a ragged salvo of shell from the broadsides of four light cruisers whitened the sea where the target had been. The ships tinned again and started on a wide sweep round the spot before edging back to their leader's course. (No ship unattended by destroyers will risk approaching the place where a submarine has dived.) Up the ladder to the leader's bridge ten miles ahead a messenger ran, and stood panting as he held out a signal from the wireless office for the Rear-Admiral to read. The Admiral nodded and looked astern--"No doubt of its origin," he said, frowning. "They call that their Submarine Emergency Reporting Code. We shall alter course----"

The fight between the submarine and its enemies has been waged throughout the war with great intensity of feeling. The submarine weapon aroused hatred aboard surface ships just because it made them feel helpless (I am not referring to acts outside the pale of International or Human laws). The submarine felt--well, not hatred, but fear. There is a ruthlessness of action which is apparently born of cruelty, but which is really due to instincts of self-preservation alone. When U 18 torpedoed and sank "E 22," she rose, in spite of the danger of attack by other E boats near, and picked up the survivors; she could, in view of the fact that her enemies were three miles off, risk doing this. Our own boats have on practically every occasion picked up the survivors of the U-boats they have sunk,--this because, having command of the sea, we could be sure in local waters of nothing hostile interfering. When Lieutenant D'Oyley-Hughes, however, sank U 153 off Cape St Vincent, and rose to pick up the men in the water, he saw another U-boat dive at him from close quarters, which forced him to go under also. In consequence the survivors were drowned--a contingency which might have been avoided if the two belligerent submarines diving round the spot could have trusted each other sufficiently to rise with a white flag flying. As things were, neither would risk being torpedoed on the surface. This spirit was induced early in the war (the incidents which started the feeling need not be quoted), and it is regretted that there was throughout no International arrangement by which a submarine could "go out of play" for a while with a white flag hoisted. The fact that the enemy's War-Book directly permits a breach of rules, if such breach is of vital necessity, is a great bar to the drawing up of humane and decent laws on the subject; while, of course, a breach of the rules by an angry surface vessel (no unlikely thing to occur) would at once abrogate all the rules in the minds of submarine people. There is no doubt that a new weapon calls for new laws to control and guide its use. The enemy boats were used illegally because the enemy Government ordered such use. In certain cases the U-boat captains exceeded their instructions and acted yet more illegally. In such cases it rests with the enemy Government to repudiate or approve their subordinates' actions. In our submarine service we had no orders to be "frightful," and therefore we were humane and acted legally; if we had had such orders as the enemy gave, we would have carried them out, and, from a technical point of view, carried them out much better. But we would have had no instances of personal excess in such acts, just because that sort of thing would not have appealed to our officers. I should mention that the cases of "excess" among U-boat captains were confined to a few, in comparison with the numbers employed, and certain of those few met their deaths before they could return to tell of their deeds.