Sea
fights of the Great War
. Page
14,
By W.L.
Wyllie R.A. & M.F. Wren
Incidents In Home Waters
It was in the middle of July 1914, and all the Fleets were
ordered round to Spit head for the Great Review-a review to be forever
famous in history.
How grand it was to see the different squadrons in line ahead,
each ship exactly in station, as they steamed to the appointed
anchorage. Two little flags fluttered to the Admiral’s
masthead-“Anchor instantly”-and all hands watching intently.
The men forward were ready, each in his appointed place.
“Stream the buoys,” and over they went with a splash; a few
moments passed, and then as the signal dropped tremendous cataracts of
foam burst under the bow of each warship when the ponderous anchors
clove their way downwards. Church
pennants broke out halfway up to the weather yardarms.
The chains thundered through the hawse-pipes with a roar, which
could be heard miles away. A
man in each ship, standing forward, held up a little numeral flag.
One shackle gone! Clunk!
Clunk! Clunk!
He held up another little flag, two shackles gone!
Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!
With clouds of brown dust, three shackles gone!
Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!
Clunk! More chain
ran out, and in succession more little numeral flags were held up.
Then white foam flew out over the propellers, turning hercely
astern. Gradually the great
super-Dreadnoughts lost their “way,” and at last the cables were bar
taut. At this moment each
ship dropped a second anchor, breaking out another church pennant at the
same time on the lee yardarm, and the capstans began to shorten-in the
chains, which but now were so swiftly rushing out.
Lastly, when each monster was in its right position, mid-way
between the two anchors, the mooring swivels were put on, the lower
booms were swung out, and the cutters were dropped.
They raced away to the flagship for orders, the evolution
completed.
Squadron after squadron appeared from over the horizon, and each
in turn made running moor. Spithead,
which that morning seemed so empty and so vast, was now all bustle and
ordered confusion. Five
long lines of battleships, cruisers, submarines and torpedo craft
stretched way almost out of sight.
The picket-boats were rushing in all directions and excursion
steamers crowded with sightseers began to make their way between the
warships, heeling far over as the “hurrah parties” pressed to the
sides.
The liberty steamers next appeared on the scene.
If there was not enough room in the tenders, Jack had to be towed
in cutters and launches by the picket-boats, and the rush of all the
mortley craft churned up the water with short, choppy waves which rushed
in all directions. Paddle
steamers which had come round specially from Devonport and Chatham,
Dockyard tugs, and even old flat-iron gunboats, each picked up a freight
from the warships, and soon the closely-packed liberty men were ferried
to the gun wharf in an endless stream.
The white cap-covers of thousands of blue jackets reminded one
somehow in their multitude of white daisies in spring.
Evening fell. A
brown haze hung over the great fleet, every funnel sending up its thin
wisp of smoke. Lights began
to glimmer between decks, then a rifle shot rang out from the flagship,
and all the colours came down together whilst the bugles rang out the
sunset call right along the lines.
Up against the twilight the masthead lights as last were
clattering in Morse. What a
lot there was to say and how fast they talked!
The picket boats still hurried in and out, their steaming lights
reflected in the churned up water, and the beat of their engines
resounding far and near until late into the night.
On the 18th, the day of the review, a new feature
appeared. A double line of
mooring buoys ran from Blockhouse over Hamilton Bank and right out to
Spithead. During the
forenoon great white seaplanes swooping from the sky dipped gracefully
down, each picking up it little wooden tub just as though it were the
easiest thing in the world. Soon,
every craft was riding head to wind and bobbing to the choppy waves.
There was no Royal salute, and the ships carried only masthead
flags, for the king was detained in London by affairs of State, and this
rather damped what must otherwise have proved a most interesting day.
Each ship sent in her boats, many of them protected by canvas
screens, and soon the guests, squeezed into cutters and launches, were
towed out over the dancing waves. Everyone
in charge was wonderfully careful, but, after all, one must expect a
little spray now and then. Sisters,
cousins, and aunts invaded gunroom, wardroom, and the captains and
admirals cabins, and all the death-dealing weapons were explained and
admired. Few knew how soon they were to be used in earnest.
The seaplanes, new and untried engines of war, slipped their
moorings and, rushing in a cloud of spray, gradually rose into the air
with whirr and buzz, circling high above the masts of the battleships.
Great silver airships steadied themselves serenely in the blue.
Meanwhile a long procession of liners, yachts, tugs, and
excursion boats steamed up and down the lines.
The cup-challenger, Shamrock, jury-rigged for crossing the
Atlantic, was towed through, cheering every ship widely as she passed. Then more tugs, more excursion boats, more yachts-some spick
and span, others untidy and dirty.
There is nothing in the world quite so forlorn as the low-class
yacht with its un-whipped ropes and crew of dirty pirates.
Always quite a number of these present themselves at every
review.
The day wore away, and it became time to say farewell to our kind
hosts and go once more into the cutters and launches past the lines of
battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines to the solid shore,
which seemed dull indeed after even the sheltered sea.
On Sunday, the 20th, the King tore himself away from
the troubles of State to pay a visit to the magnificent fleet brought
together in his honour, beneath his ever unconquered flag.
Without any ceremony His majesty paid a friendly visit to a
certain number of ships. Cruising
about among the lines with a crew of sea scouts in a steel lifeboat,
nothing could appear to be more simple or unostentatious than the whole
of the proceedings. The
only salute was fired from a big schooner, which had crossed the
Atlantic in record time, manned by a crew of cod fisherman from
Newfoundland, a compliment from the far-spread Empire.
Next morning the Royal yacht again put to sea and steaming out
beyond the Warner Light, anchored.
Then the battleships unmoored and steamed in what seemed an
everlasting line past the King, all heading to the East.
First the super-Dreadnoughts, “Dreadnoughts,” and the “Agamemnons”;
then the great battle cruisers which were destined to play such an
important part in the coming war. The
“King Edwards” and older squadrons followed next, and then the
cruisers; they seemed without number as they passed, ready and armed,
into the distance.
By this time the leading ships had sunk below the horizon,
leaving only a great cloud of smoke, which slowly spread, into a haze,
seeming to stretch into infinity. High
in the air seaplanes still buzzed above the murky smoke.
All of them, like the ships, flew past the Royal yacht, bound to
the Eastward. Ships, and
yet more ships unmoored and steamed away.
Light cruisers, destroyers, and “ mothers” of submarines,
floating workshops minelayers, every kind of craft, which flies the
White Ensign, ever and ever, to be eastward.
The hours passed and at last only a pall of brown vapour spread
itself into space in long filmy strata, while the mastheads of the last
of the great fleet melted into pale grey and dropped slowly below the
sea line. Some of them, alas, we shall never see again; some have
crowned their names with imperishable glory.
The political situation was now threatening (Austria had sent her
ultimatum to Serbia on the 23rd).
Prince Louis of Battenberg, the first Sea Lord, issued orders
late on the 26th for the fleet to stand fast until further
orders. The Dual Empire declared war on the 28th.
During the night of the 29th the First Fleet, with its
attendant cruisers and flotillas, steamed away to its war stations in
the North Sea. Balance
crews were filled up in the Second Fleet, patrol flotillas were brought
up to their full strength, and all steps were taken to forestall the
much-talked-of “bolt from the blue” on the part of Germany.
Prince Louis action must have been the determining factor in the
situation, comparable only to the prompt steps taken by Lord Barham on
receipt of Nelson’s news of the return of Villeneuve’s fleet from
the West Indies in 1805.
The Serajevo tragedy occurred on June 28th 1914.
The Austro-Hungarian ultimatum to Serbia was presented on July 23rd,
and war was declared on the 28th.
After this events moved rapidly, and Germany, without waiting for
Austria, declared war on Russia on August 1st.
War between Germany and France commenced on August 3rd,
and England declared war the following day.
Every tie of honour bound England to this action.
From the declaration of war onwards, there was great activity at
sea. The first duty the
Fleet had to perform was to clear the adjacent seas in order to permit
the sailing of the British Expeditionary Force to France.
The transporting of troops commenced on August 8th,
only four days after the outbreak of hostilities, and continued until
the 16th. The
whole task was completed so smoothly that the difficulties and dangers
of the operation never became, and never will come, apparent.
No enemy warships ever came with striking distance of the
transports, and not a single accident occurred from first to last.
But this was by no means all that the Fleet had to do.
Cruiser squadrons were out patrolling constantly, submarines
watched the mouths of German rivers, and the torpedo flotillas were
similarly engaged. The
Germans strewed mines broadcast all over the sea, so that trade routes
had to be kept safe for merchantmen, which were directed to keep within
swept areas. So well was
this work done that the average Briton hardly realised the Germans were
doing their best, by means of submarines and mines, to make sea
communication precarious, and that our fleet was meeting and overcoming
every fresh menace as soon as it was discovered.
Fighting commenced at sea before it began on land.
Konigin Luise, of the Hamburg-Amerika line, a passenger steamer
of 2,163 tons, specially fitted, as a minelayer, and carrying a cargo of
these deadly inventions, must have left her home waters before the
expiry of the ultimatum. On
the evening of August 5th the destroyers Lance and Landrail
sighted her on her return from laying mines off the English coast.
A chase at once began, and the German was brought to long-range
action. Half an hour later
two more destroyers, Lark and Linnet, joined up, and subsequently the
whole flotilla appeared and opened fire.
By this time the flying minelayer had been badly damaged and her
speed much reduced; her crew began jumping overboard, while their ship
turned almost a complete circle to port, slowly listing over as she did
so. Finally going right on to her beam-ends she sank
ignominiously.
Out of a crew of one hundred about forty-five were picked up,
some badly wounded. Twenty
of them were in Amphion when she struck one of the German mines on the
following morning and sank. Of
these only two were saved.
On the 9th one of the cruiser submarines at sea
attacked squadrons attached to the main fleet, but they were driven off
without loss. One of the
German submarines, U 15, a boat built about 1911, was rammed by
Birmingham and sunk with all hands, a forerunner of many others.
The following incident, written as far as possible in the words
of the narrator, gives a good idea of the work done by minesweepers.
On August 27th word was brought that a herring boat,
drifting with her nets, had been set by the tide on to a German mine,
and had been blown up. Four
torpedo boats steamed out, and, following the directions given them by
the fishermen, at last came to the line of floats, which marked the nets
of the wrecked herring drifter.
The commander steered his boat, No. 13, along the net, and at the
end where the tragedy had taken place, picked up the hawser and made it
fast to his bow, for he thought the tide would be sure to carry him back
over the spot where the Huns had laid their minefield.
The net appeared to be full of herrings, and the crew, to pass
the time, began to haul it up, shaking the bright fish out as they came
over the side, just as though they wee in a drifter instead of a
fighting ship. Whilst the amateur fisherman were immersed in their sport, a
sailing vessel was seen steering directly towards the spot where the
minefield was supposed to be orders were at once given to cut away the
net and slip the hawser, and No. 13 steamed at full speed towards the
unsuspecting stranger to warn her of the danger.
The torpedo boat spurted forward, raising her forefoot out of the
sea and leaving a seething line of white foam behind her, rushing
headlong on her errand of mercy, but she proved too late.
Before the word could be passed to the unfortunate ship she had
driven on to a mine. Then
suddenly a tremendous column of spray entirely his the forepart of the
vessel, rising up savagely in the sky.
Bits of spars, gear, and sail-indeed, an odd miscellany of
articles-went flying into the air, and when No. 13 arrived on the scene
of the explosion only the captain and two men were alive.
Goee, for that was the name of the ill-fated vessel-a Danish
ship, had only left Newcastle that morning.
The rescued men were made as comfortable as possible, and the
torpedo boats remained on the spot to warn unwary seafarers of the
hidden danger close at hand.
Whilst No. 13 was moving slowly through the glassy, transparent
water one of her hands, who had been sitting on the after torpedo-tube,
went to the side to spit-a sailor’s habit, handed down for
generations. He saw a round, black object some way below the surface-a
thing like a very large, dark coloured jellyfish.
He rushed forward and reported it at once, with a certain amount
of trepidation. But soon
the boat reached an area where there seemed quite a number of these
deadly, black objects. Looking
down through the green water it was possible to make out their shape
quite clearly, and even to see the projecting horns, ominous of their
powers of death. Indeed, at
low water, the torpedo boat, driving sideways with the current, fouled
one of them, and the sound, as the monstrous weapon of modern naval war
went scraping and grinding under the ship’s bottom, gave a feeling to
those on board as though oysters were creeping up their spines, cold and
deadly in their clammy hold, with menace in their slow speed and
audacious tenacity of evil purpose.
Shortly afterwards a wireless message ran through to say that a
fleet of minesweepers was under way.
Soon the whole of them arrived and began busily working in pairs
and exploding the mines as they swept them up.
The torpedo boats stood away outside the minefield, still warning
unsuspecting strangers of its position, and paid little attention to the
noise of the detonations. The
crews heard afterwards that two of the minesweepers had been blown to
atoms. It was odd next
morning to see the commander-in-chief of the sweepers (who had been
flung right through the top of his little charthouse) quite gravely
discussing how he would carry out his next sweep.
He seemed not a bit worse for the ducking and shock.
That is the sort of stuff the Navy is made of.
He was a “dug-out,” too, and had left the service some time,
coming back to do his bit when the war broke out; a brave man always,
now urged by a supreme crisis into showing his true mettle.
On August 4th, three hours after the declaration of
war, Lieut-Commander Cecil P. Talbort, in submarine E 6, and Lieut-Commander
Francis H. H. Goodhard, in E 8, started off together to Heligoland
Bight, where they collected much useful information at considerable risk
to themselves.
The British Expeditionary Force had to be transported across the
Channel. On August 8th
the first troops were landed, and for eight days there was an unceasing
flow of men, horses, guns, and stores, until the whole of our
“contemptible” had been safely ferried to the aid of our Allies on
the historic fields of Flanders and of France.
Commodore Keyes, who flew his broad pennant in Lurcher (a fast
destroyer), was in command of the Eighth Submarine Flotilla, and during
these eventful days he and his crews kept watch day and night, without
relief, on the entrances to the German Rivers.
They were the sleepless guardians of our safety.
The little force was so placed that it could attack the High Sea
Fleet the moment it issued forth to interfere with our transports in the
channel, and though the German torpedo craft hunted them with gunfire,
torpedoes, and every anti-submarine weapon, our seamen ceaselessly
patrolled the enemy’s waters, bringing information of his every
movement. Day after day the
watch went on, and at last a scheme was matured for luring the German
fleets away from their bases and falling on them with Admiral Beatty’s
battle cruisers.
At midnight on August 27th Commodore Keyes started in
Lurcher, with Firedrake, another destroyer, and submarines D 2, D8, E 5,
E 6, E 7, E 8, and E 9, to take his part in the operations arranged for
August 28th.
Lurcher and Firedrake scouted all next day, and at nightfall the
submarines took up independent positions, from which they could help the
flotillas of destroyers, which were to join in the scheme under
Commodore Tyrwhitt, who flew his broad pennant in the light cruiser
Arethusa. At day break on
the 28th Lurcher and Firedrake searched for German submarines
in the area through which Admiral Beatty’s battle cruisers were to
advance, pushing towards Heligoland in the wake of submarines E 6, E 7,
E 8, which were exposing themselves with the object of inducing the
enemy to chase them to the westward.
The weather, which had been clear up to now, began to grow hazy,
“and this added considerably to the anxieties and responsibilities of
the commanding officers of submarines, which handled their vessels with
coolness and judgement in an area which was necessarily occupied by
friends as well as foes.”
Let us now follow Commodore Tyrwhitt.
“At 6.53 an enemy destroyer was sighted and chased until
‘Arethusa and the Third Flotilla became engaged with numerous German
destroyers and torpedo boats which were making for Heligoland.
Course was altered to port to cut them off.”
At 7.57 two German cruisers were sighted on the port bow, with
several destroyers, and a hot action commenced.
Arethusa was in the thick of it until 8.15, when one of the
enemies, a four-funnel cruiser, transferred her fire to Fearless.
In the meantime another enemy, with two funnels, worked her way
closer until a 6-inch shell from Arethusa wrecked her fore bridge and
she turned away towards Heligoland, which was just beginning to loon up
through the haze. All ships
were now ordered to turn to the westward, and speed was reduced to
twenty knots.
My first picture represents the Fourth Division of the Third
Flotilla, which, steaming in the mist suddenly became aware that the
German cruiser Mainz was lying right across their path.
The enemy opened a very hot fire, and as the range was only a
little over 3,000 yards the little craft soon found themselves in the
midst of flying shells. They
altered course ten points to port, returning the German fire with
interest, but receiving many wounds themselves, for the Mainz gunners
got the range at once and took full advantage of it.
Laurel steamed away, a mass of smoke, her foremost funnel
shattered, and the amidships gun platform knocked to pieces.
The gun itself remained mounted, but was a poor and
solitary-looking object. Liberty’s
commander was killed, her bridge damaged, and her mast shot away.
Laertes, which stopped and fired a torpedo, was put out of
action, her port boat being shattered and a hole knocked in her second
funnel. The torpedo,
however, hit Mainz, which soon began to show signs of the mauling she
was receiving.
In another part of the battle the destroyers of the Third and
Fifth Divisions were engaged with German torpedo boats, sinking the
commodore, V 187. Defender,
one of our destroyers, hoisted out two of her boats, which were rowing
to rescue the survivors; but whilst they were engaged in their work of
mercy a German cruiser steamed out of the mist, firing on our flotilla.
They hastily retreated, leaving the boats to shift for
themselves.
Now a wonderful thing happened which, if we had read of it in
some boy’s book of adventure, we might have dismissed as too highly
coloured and improbable.
Lieut-Commander Ernest W. Leir, in submarine E 4, had seen the
sinking of the German commodore through his periscope and had also
spotted the rescue party left behind when the German cruiser drove off
the destroyers. He tried to
get near enough to use his torpedoes, but the enemy, unfortunately,
moved out of range, so he worked his way to the abandoned boats crews
and, rising to the surface, took on board a lieutenant and nine
Englishmen, and of the Germans one officer, a petty officer and one man
untouched by the action. The
commander had not enough accommodation for eighteen wounded men who were
still left in the boats, so one of the captured officers and six of the
efficient Germans were given water, biscuits, and a compass, and told to
navigate their way to Helogoland.
Neither of the boats crews reached that island, though it was
only a few miles away, and the weather remained fine.
Possibly one of the German warships sighted them, and on finding
the craft of English build, reckoned that the wounded were survivors
from one of our ships, and rammed them or sunk them by gunfire in the
gentle, German, chivalrous fashion.
During the early part of the action Arethusa had been hit many
times and considerably damaged. Only
one 6-inch gun remained fit for action, all the other guns, and also the
torpedo tubes, having been temporarily disabled.
A shell exploding some ammunition caused a fire, and there was a
terrific blaze for a short time, leaving the deck burning.
Chief Petty Officer Frederick W. Wrench extinguished this.
It was now noticed that Arethusa’a speed had been much reduced.
She and her destroyers had been in action with Koln and another
cruiser with four funnels perhaps Strassburg.
There can be no doubt that the situation of the British might
have become critical at any moment.
At 10 a.m. Commodore Tyrwhitt heard by signal that light cruisers
were chasing Lurcher and Firedrake, so he, with Fearless and the First
Flotilla, went to their assistance.
He failed to find them. A
little later he sighted a German four-funnelled cruiser, which opened a
very heavy fire. He says:
“All guns, except two 4-inch, were again in working order, and the
upper deck supply of ammunition was replenished.
“Our position being somewhat critical I ordered Fearless to
attack, and the First Flotilla to attack with torpedoes, which they
proceeded to do with Great Spirit.
The cruiser at once turned away, disappeared in the haze, and
evaded the attack.
“About ten minutes later the same cruiser appeared on our
starboard quarter. Opened
fire on her with both 6-inch guns; Fearless also engaged her, and one
division of destroyers attacked her with torpedoes without success.
The state of affairs and our position were then reported to the
Admiral commanding Battle-cruiser Squadron.”
The German cruiser fired very rapidly at ‘Arethusa, salvo after
salvo falling between ten and thirty yards short, so that not a single
shell struck, and two well-directed torpedoes also failed to reach the
ship. The 6-inch guns of
Arethusa, and the splendidly directed fire from Fearless, soon began to
take effect on the four-funnelled cruiser, and she once more turned away
towards Heligoland.
Four minutes later Mains appeared, and Arethusa and Fearless,
with their destroyers, were for twenty-five minutes in action with this
new enemy, which had already suffered heavy losses in her fight with the
Fourth Division. She began
to sink by the head, and as the Light Cruiser Squadron now came up and
fired into her also, the commodore recalled Fearless and the destroyers.
Just after he had ordered, “cease fire” yet another ship was
seen on the starboard quarter-a large, four-funnelled cruiser. Broadsides were exchanged with the new corner, but the range
was long and the firing was without visible effect. At this moment Admiral Beatty, with his big battle cruisers,
came rushing up, and the 13.5 guns soon sent the large German to the
Bottom.
Let us now return to Mainz, which had been pounded by the light
cruisers into a total wreck; volumes of black smoke and flame were
belching from below, and a red-hot glow radiated from her torn plating.
She was down by the head, and it was evident that she would only
float a very short time when Keyes ordered the commander of Lurcher to
lay his vessel alongside her. The
dead and wounded were lying in ghastly heaps, but as he neared the wreck
he saw a sailor climbing the foremast to reeve fresh halyards for the
ensign, which had been shot away. Some
German officers trained a gun at Lurcher’s bridge.
“Don’t fire, I am coming to save life,” exclaimed the
commodore, and as the craft came together the crews passed the maimed
and torn victims over the side as rapidly as possible.
Von Tirpitz, an officer on board, took no part, but stood on the
bridge with a scornful smile. Another
young German officer was, on the contrary, very active in aiding the
helpless cases. At last all
the survivors on board Mainz, with the exception of Tirpitz, the young
officer and the man aloft, were safe on board Lurcher.
“Come along,” said the commodore to the young officer,
“you’ve done your share.”
“No, thank you,” was the answer. Meanwhile Firedrake had
picked up 27 of the crew of Mainz, who had apparently jumped overboard
to avoid our cruisers fire.
By this time Mains was very low in the water, and steam as well
as smoke and fire came pouring out through the shell holes.
The captain of Liverpool had signalled that the ship might blow
up at any moment, and the cutter and whaler, lowered by that ship, stood
off waiting. Prior to the
arrival of Lurcher, they had each taken a boatload of wounded from Mainz
to Liverpool and were responsible for saving more than 70 Germans.
The commodore gave the order to cast off, the engines were turned
astern not a moment too soon. Just
as Lurcher backed away the German heeled over to port and sank, leaving
a cloud of dirty brown smoke and steam.
As she went all the unwounded Huns, who had been ordered to sit
down on the forecastle of the destroyer, sprang to their feet and gave
three cheers; “Hoch!” “Hoch!”
“Hoch!”
Readers will be glad to know that the young German officer, whose
devotion to duty made him stick to his ship as long as she floated, was
afterwards picked up, together with Tirpitz, by Liverpool’s boats.
As a record of the above narrative the picture facing this page
shows the situation of the Fourth Division of the Third Flotilla.
Lapwing has now come to the assistance of the seriously damaged
Laertes; she has passed a wire hawser on board and is trying to tow her
consort out of danger. As
ill-luck will have it the hawser parts, but just at this moment Admiral
Beatty, in Lion, with the rest of his battle cruisers, comes rushing up
out of the mist, firing salvos from 13.5-inch guns at the distant enemy.
The crew of Lapwing are cheering, for they know that the whole
position is now changed, the weight of metal is at last on our side, and
victory safe. Mainz is in
flames fore and aft, only a funnel and a mast are still standing; very
much down the head, she will soon turn on her side and sink.
Lysander is lying in the line of fire, and beyond her the
splashes show that the gunners are slowly getting the range.
Fearless is coming up at full speed from the south and will tow
the lane into safety.
Admiral Beatty, in his dispatches, tells how he passed through
the prearranged rendezvous, receiving signals from both commodores at
intervals indicating that they were in need of assistance.
In the meantime three submarines attacked the Battle cruiser
squadron. Destroyers were
ordered to drive them off, and the big ships rapidly manoeuvring
frustrated the attempts of the U boats.
The light cruisers were sent to support the torpedo flotillas,
and later, as Commodore Tyrwhitt appeared to be hard pressed, and the
reports indicated the presence of many enemy ships-one a large
cruiser-the situation appeared to Sir David to be critical. He
turned his battle cruisers to E.S.E. and worked up to full speed.
“It was evident that to be of any value the support must be
overwhelming and carried out at the highest speed possible.
“I had not lost sight of the risk of submarines and possible
sortie in force from the enemy’s base, especially in view of the mist
to the south-east.
“Our high speed, however, made submarine attack difficult, and
the smoothness of the sea made their detection comparatively easy.
I considered that we were powerful enough to deal with any sortie
except by a battle squadron, which was unlikely to come out in time,
provided our stroke was sufficiently rapid.
“At 12.15 p.m. Fearless and First Flotilla were sighted
retiring west. At the same
time the Light Cruiser Squadron was observed to be engaging an enemy
ship ahead. They appeared to have her beat.
“I then steered N.E. to sounds of firing ahead, and at 12.30
sighted Arethusa and Third Flotilla retiring to the westward, engaging a
cruiser of the ‘Kolberg’ class on our port below.
I steered to cut her off from Heligoland, and at 12.37 p.m.
opened fire.
“At 12.42 the enemy turned to N. E., and we chased at 27 knots.
“ At 12.56 p.m. sighted and engaged a two-funnelled cruiser
ahead. Lion fired two
salvoes at her, which took effect, and she disappeared in the mist,
burning furiously and in a sinking condition.
In view of the mist and that she was steering at high speed at
right angles to Lion, who was herself steaming at 28 knots, Lion’s
firing was very creditable.
“Our destroyers had reported the presence of floating mines to
the eastward, and in considered it inadvisable to pursue her.
It was also essential that the squadron should remain
concentrated, and I accordingly ordered a withdrawal.
“ The battle cruisers turned north and circled to port to
complete the description of the vessel first engaged.
She was sighted again at 1.25 p.m. steaming S.E. with colours
still flying. Lion opened
fire with turrets, and at 1.35 p.m., after receiving two salvoes, she
sank.
“The four attached destroyers were sent to pick up survivors,
but I deeply regret that they subsequently reported that they searched
the area but found none.
“At 1.40 p.m. the battle cruisers turned to the northward, and
Queen Mary was again attacked by a submarine.
The attack was avoided by the use of the helm.
Lowestoft was also unsuccessfully attacked
“By 6 p.m. the retirement having been well executed and all the
destroyers accounted for, I altered course, spread the light cruisers,
and swept northwards in accordance with the Commander-in-Chief’s
orders.
“At 7.45 p.m. I detached Liverpool to rosyth with German
prisoners, 7 officers and 79 men, survivors from Mainz.
No further incident occurred.
“I have the honour to be, Sir,
“Your obedient Servant,
“David Beatty, Vice-Admiral”
Evening has come and the battle is at an end.
The surviving German ships have steamed back to the shelter of
their batteries and minefields. Two
new cruisers, Mainz and Koln, and one rather older, Ariadne, are gone.
A four-funnelled cruiser, Strassburg or Yorck, is badly damaged,
and one sent to the bottom. The Germans are believed to have lost about 700 men killed,
300 more being taken prisoners. In
the place facing this page we may see some of them being transferred in
boats to Fearless. Our own
killed and wounded are also being transhipped from the different
destroyers in cutters and whalers.
Our casualties numbered thirty-two killed and fifty-two wounded.
Not one of our ships was lost.
The operation has been thus described by Rear-Admiral Christian
(in command of Light Cruisers):
“The cruiser force under Rear-Admiral Campbell, with Euryalus
(my flagship) and Amethyst, was stationed to intercept any enemy vessels
chased to the westward. At
4.30 p.m. on the 28th August these cruisers, having proceeded
to the eastward, fell in with Lurcher and three other destroyers, and
the wounded and prisoners in these vessels were transferred in boats to
Bacchante and Cressy, which left for the Nore.”
Both before and after the battle of the bight the North Sea and
all home waters were constantly under the guard of our fleets.
Ships were continually at sea, and a stay of more than
twenty-four hours in port was nearly always remarked on as an unusual
occurrence; their duty was patrolling ceaselessly, tirelessly-they were
the watchdogs of the deep.
The doings of a cruiser can be cited as a sample of the strain
imposed upon our Navy. It
is so easy to overlook the continuous work and irksome monotony of
routine month after month if only exciting incidents and fights can be
recorded. Work without an
action is, therefore, purposely selected to illustrate how the command
of the sea is kept for the 300 or more days in the year on which there
is no fighting. On August
31st some of our cruisers returned to their port at 10 p.m.
from a patrol cruise to the Norwegian coast.
It is of interest to note that it was believed at the time that
this was carried out to cover the transport of Russian troops to England
from the White Sea. Hundreds
of mischievous or credulous people testified to having seen these troops
in transit. This of course, was subsequently contradicted.
Coaling commenced at 11.30 a.m. and was finished at 5 a.m. the
next day. A ship with
ammunition and stores came alongside at 8 a.m., and these were
transhipped by noon. The
hands had only had four hours sleep in the preceding thirty-six hours.
Leave was given to chief petty officers and petty officers from 1
to 7 p.m.
And so the work went on, constant patrolling relieved by a few
strenuous days in port spent, for the most part, rendering the ship once
more ready for the sea. When
in port the men were taken route marching.
At sea they were exercised daily doubling round the decks.
Naval incidents occurred from time to time; but, for the most
part, ships went for months without being able to meet or sight an enemy
at all.
In home waters on September 5th Pathfinder
(“Scout” class) was torpedoed.
On the 13th British submarine E 9 sank Hela, a small
German cruiser off the German coast.
On the 22nd Cressy, Aboukir, and Hogue were torpedoed
and sunk. This last incident merits some description.
The ships formed three out of a class of six cruisers laid down
in 1898. The carried two
9.2-inch and twelve guns. They
were designed for twenty-one knots, but being rather old none of them
could then attain that speed. Shortly
after 6 a.m. while patrolling in the North Sea, a torpedo from a
submarine on the starboard beam struck Aboukir.
All ships of course, ran the risk of such an accident whenever
they entered the war area in the North.
Han her consorts left her, and avoided attack by use of speed and
helm, probably nothing further would have happened.
But naval traditions are not lightly thrown aside, and no
tradition is stronger in the British Navy than that of saving life at
sea whenever possible, be it the life of friend or enemy.
Her two sisters ships, therefore, turned and went to Aboukir’s
assistance. Two boats were
lowered by Hogue, but before the launch could be hoisted out Hogue
herself was struck amidships by two torpedoes at from ten to twenty
seconds interval, and mortally wounded, she at once began to heel to
starboard. Apparently, at
about this time, the three cruisers and their submarine enemy were at
the corners of a four-sided figure.
The submarine could, therefore, aim at each of them by merely
swinging in a rough semicircle, without any further manoeuvring.
Fire was opened on her, but without result.
The boats of Cressy had got away even before those Hogue, and
they were returning full of Aboukir’s men when Hogue was struck.
Cressy was, therefore, manoeuvred to go nearer to the sinking
ship, and was herself torpedoed on the starboard side, just in front of
the after bridge, from a range of five or six hundred yards.
A second torpedo was fired at her and missed, but a third hit her
again on the starboard beam. All
three ships turned turtle before they sank.
Aboukir and Hogue floated bottom up for about five minutes;
Cressy turned over slowly, and it was about three quarters of an hour
before she finally sank-the last victim to bravery and tradition.
Needless to say that all hands behaved in an exemplary manner,
quickly carrying out orders given.
Anything that could float was thrown overboard and, consequently,
the submarine’s periscope was all the harder to observe.
It was believed at the time that two submarines had been acting
together for the occasion, but the German Admiralty, who announced that
one U boat only, commanded by Lieut, denied this. Otto Weddigen, was
engaged. Weddigen, the best
German submarine commander in the early part of the war, was awarded the
order of Merit for his feat, and he had certainly occasioned heavy loss
of life and won a strategic victory.
Later in the war, when Weddigen was sunk with his vessel, the
German newspapers invented a tale that he had been sunk by a merchant
ship which he approached on the surface to summon to surrender, instead
of sinking her at sight in accordance with the usual German sense of
duty. This was only their
method of using all their venom to blacken the English.
As a matter of fact, Weddington-fine sailor that he was-took his
ship into the midst of a battle squadron and was sunk, luckily before he
could do any damage.
On October 8, E 9 again scored by sinking the German destroyer S
126, which was built in 1904. On
the 15th Hawke was sunk in the North Sea by a German
submarine; and later Undaunted, a light cruiser, with four destroyers of
the “L” class-Lennox, Lance, Legion, and Loyal-steaming north about
twenty miles off the Texel, sighted on their port bow four German
torpedo boats.
The
enemy were spread out wide apart, and were also on a northerly course.
I will call them A, B, C, and D.
Lennox and Lance, which were leading, gave chase to the most
easterly D and Loyal, passing under Undaunted’s stern, steamed to the
nor’-west to cut off A, whilst Legion held a middle course so as to
engage B and C.
After they had been steaming away at full speed for some time it
became plain to the Germans that they had no chance of escape, and as
their guns were much inferior to those of the British they determined to
come to close quarters and use their torpedoes.
A, the most westerly of the torpedo boats, boldly turned and came
at Loyal, but the fight was too unequal and she was silenced in a very
short time. B and C also
turned and engaged Legion, but Loyal having wiped out her first
adversary came up to assist and was soon in hot action.
The Germans fired torpedoes and machine guns, but were no match
for the British destroyers helped by Undaunted, which kept up a
long-range fire at all the enemy in turn. Lance, having left D for Lennox to finish, came back at full
speed and assisted Loyal to sink C.
The enemy fought in a most plucky and gallant manner against
tremendous odds. The plate
facing this page shows the survivors being picked up after all the
torpedo boats had been sunk.
The German destroyers S 115, S 117, S 118, and S 119 were
completed in 1904. They had
a speed of twenty-eight knots. Undaunted
is one of the new light cruisers; our destroyers were all recent boats.
Our loss was one officer and four men wounded; thirty-one German
prisoners were taken
On October 18, for the first time, British warships co-operated
in the bombardment of the Belgian coast.
On the 25th Badger sank a German submarine.
On the 31st a German submarine in the Straits of Dover
sank Hermes.
Prince Louis of Battenberg resigned his position as First Sea
Lord at the end of the month, and was succeeded by Lord Fisher.
This catalogue completes the list of naval incidents in home
waters down to the end of October 1916.
