THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR AT SEA.
While our gallant soldiers are resting after their long retreat, we will make for
"The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever-free!"
and follow the fortunes of our sailors during the first two months of the war. In Chapter II., Volume I., you learnt that our first line of defence was fully prepared for active service the moment that war broke out. From the first we had the command of the seas. Our British Home Fleet was fully forty per cent. stronger than any fleet that the Germans could bring against it in the North Sea, and besides this we had many other squadrons scouring the oceans of the world, and the assistance of the French and Japanese navies. On the sea the Germans and Austrians were hopelessly inferior to the Allies.
Such being the case, the Germans, though they had long toasted "The Day" on which they were going to destroy our naval supremacy for ever, dared not leave their harbours and show fight. They were very wise in this respect. They knew that pitched battles could only end in one way—the entire destruction of their navy.
You read in Chapter XVII. of Volume I. that their plan was to strew the North Sea with mines, in the hope that our ships would bump upon them and be blown up. In this way they hoped that our strength would be slowly reduced to their own level. The Germans meant to keep their fleet in safety until they could fight us upon even terms. They believed that our sailors ploughing the sea day after day in search of an enemy that could not be found, and going in constant terror of floating mines and submarines, would grow stale and dispirited. Then when many of our ships had gone down, and our men were worn out in body and in mind, they meant to sally forth and crush British sea-power once and for all. It was an excellent plan—on paper.
Before I pass on to describe the first sea fight of the war, let us look for a moment at the coast line of Germany. It is, as you know, entirely confined to a strip on the North Sea, and to a long stretch on the Baltic Sea. On both these sea fronts Germany had to meet a naval power—the British in the North Sea, and the Russians in the Baltic. You were told on page 141 of Volume I. that, in order to enable German warships to pass rapidly from one front to the other, the Kiel Canal has been constructed. The work of widening and deepening this canal was completed some six weeks before the outbreak of war.
The German coast on the North Sea is only about a hundred miles from west to east, not counting indentations; and it is washed by very shallow waters, which are much impeded by sandbanks. The sea is gaining on the shore, as you may notice from the long line of fringing islands which were formerly part of the mainland. Close to the Dutch frontier, on the estuary of the Ems, is the port and manufacturing town of Emden. The Germans have spent much money in constructing at Emden a harbour big enough and deep enough to accommodate the largest liners and warships. Between the mouth of the Ems and the Jade there is a long, sandy stretch of coast, backed by dunes and broken by tidal creeks. On the west side of the Jade estuary stands Wilhelmshaven, the great North Sea naval base of Germany. It was established by the present Kaiser's grandfather in 1869, and is very strongly fortified. It boasts two harbours, several wet and dry docks, coaling basins, and a large naval barracks. In time of peace the First Squadron of the German High Sea Fleet is stationed at Wilhelmshaven.
On the east side of the estuary of the Weser is Bremerhaven, with three large harbour basins and several docks, including the dry dock of the North German Lloyd steamers. About twenty miles north of Bremerhaven, at the mouth of the Elbe, is Cuxhaven, which between 1892 and 1895 was turned into a port capable of berthing the largest ocean-going steamers. It is the outport of Hamburg, the greatest seaport on the Continent of Europe, and the Hamburg-America steamers make it their headquarters. Nature has already fortified the ports along this coast, for the estuaries on which they stand consist of a network of mazy channels winding amidst deadly sandbanks, which can only be threaded safely by pilots who spend their lives in the work. The Germans have, however, not trusted solely to this natural protection, but have set up very strong forts at all points where there is danger of attack.
The whole coast is followed by a double line of railways, built not for trade but for purposes of war—probably for an invasion of England. The Germans watch the coast most jealously, and will not allow visitors to approach the chief forts. In the year 1911 they imprisoned a British Territorial officer, Captain Bertrand Stewart—the first to give his life in the war—on the false charge of spying out the defences of the towns and islands along this precious seaboard.
The Island of Heligoland. Part of the harbour is shown on the right.
Photo, Exclusive News Agency.
About the centre of the North Sea line of coast, thirty-five miles to the northward of Cuxhaven, is the island of Heligoland, which is the fortified outer guard of the Kiel Canal and the key to the German coast defences. For eighty-three years the Union Jack waved over it, but in 1890 it was ceded to Germany. It is a sandstone islet, one mile in length and 650 yards in breadth, with almost vertical cliffs on all sides. So soft is the sandstone that the sea makes great inroads on it. In the year 800 A.D. the circumference of Heligoland was 120 miles, but by 1300 A.D. it had been reduced by the everlasting gnawing of the sea to forty-five miles. Now it is but three or four miles round. The Germans have surrounded it with a concrete wall, so that the sea can no longer eat it away.
In the heart of the rock, underground passages, chambers, and galleries have been excavated, and the whole island has been turned into an impregnable fortress. The many batteries are invisible from the sea, and the plateau on top of the island has been made bombproof. Only on the north side of the island can the cliffs be scaled by an invader, and the possible landing-places are all commanded by guns. On the highest point of the island—245 feet above the sea—are a lighthouse and a wireless station. Hangars for Zeppelins have been built on the plateau. These sheds are very cleverly constructed. They can be revolved so that the air-ships in them can be brought to the entrance, head to the wind, and, if necessary, they can be sunk into a valley out of sight of the sea. There is a large harbour for destroyers and submarines at the eastern end of the island, and also a small dockyard for repairing light craft.
When Heligoland passed into German hands a Russian soldier said that thenceforth a blockade of the North Sea German coast would be extremely difficult. A British blockading fleet would not only have to expect attack from the front, but both its flanks would be constantly threatened. Thus the German vessels would be able to slip out, make raids on the estuaries and ports of the east coast of Britain, and attack British ships in their own waters. We shall see later that this prophecy came true. Meanwhile the Germans strewed their own coast with mine-fields, and thus made it almost impossible of attack.
Immediately war broke out our Grand Fleet disappeared. It melted into space, as it were, and nothing was seen of it but the ships patrolling the coast. But though a thick veil was drawn over its movements, it made itself felt at once. It forced the Germans to keep their most powerful ships in harbour, and it put an end to all talk of invasion. In the year 1910 Sir Arthur Wilson, who was then First Sea Lord of the Admiralty, said that the really serious danger that we had to guard against in war was not an invasion of our shores, but the stoppage of our trade and the destruction of our merchant shipping. Our overseas trade is extremely important, and the destruction of our merchant shipping would, as you know, rob us of our food and compel us to starve or surrender. The Germans know this very well, and just before the war they sent out cruisers and armed liners to fall upon our peaceful merchant ships and sink them.
Sir John Jellicoe on board his flagship, the Iron Duke. Photo, Alfieri.
We had, of course, prepared against such attacks on our shipping. Our cruisers were in every quarter of the globe, and we immediately began to sweep the German commerce raiders from the seas. Our Government believed that we should lose 10 per cent. of our vessels, but by the beginning of October we had only lost 1¼ per cent., while Germany and Austria had lost 10 per cent. of their total shipping. This was a remarkable state of things, and quite contrary to our experience in former wars. During the year 1813, when the British navy was at the height of its power, and we were at war with the United States, the ships of the enemy captured 650 British vessels. From 4th August 1914 to 10th March 1915 the Germans only captured or sank 90 of our ships. By the end of October the trade routes were practically as free as they had ever been. British trade passed to and fro almost as freely as in time of peace. Our food supply was hardly molested, and though prices rose there was no shortage. It was said very truly that every British child ought to repeat this grace before meat: "Thank God for my good dinner and for the British Navy."
Before I tell you how the German commerce raiders came to grief, you shall hear the story of two German cruisers, the Goeben[85] and the Breslau. They were in the Mediterranean Sea, off the coast of Algeria, when war broke out. Probably they had been ordered to the Mediterranean to assist the Austrians, and also the Italians if they should elect to take a hand in the war. As you know, the Italians refused to fight along with their allies, because they believed that Germany and Austria had provoked the war. The Goeben was the fastest ship in the German fleet, and the Breslau was only slightly inferior in speed. The two ships began operations by shelling some of the unprotected coast towns of Algeria, and then turned northwards, with the object, it is believed, of making for the Strait of Gibraltar. They were headed off by a British fleet; but they outdistanced their pursuers, and early on the mornings of 5th August appeared off Messina. Here the captains and the officers made their wills, and handed them over, along with their valuables and signed portraits of the Kaiser, to the care of the German consul. Then the decks were cleared, and the bands struck up, and out they steamed, as everybody thought, to give battle to the British fleet.
Unfortunately for us, they evaded our ships. When, however, they were going full steam to the eastward, and were off Cape Matapan, the British cruiser Gloucester sighted them. Though she was only one ship against two, she gallantly engaged them, and did some damage to both. They took to their heels, and were next heard of in the Dardanelles, where, contrary to all the rules of war, they were sold to the Turkish Government. Such was the inglorious exploit of Germany's crack cruisers. It was a bad beginning for the German navy, but there was worse to follow.
The first of the German commerce raiders to go under was the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse[86]—far too big a mouthful for the British sailor, who promptly christened her "Billy the Grocer." She was a fine fast liner of 14,000 tons, and had been armed with 4-inch guns. Her business was to hold up sea traffic between Great Britain and the Cape of Good Hope. She captured and sank a few ships, amongst them the Kaipara, belonging to the New Zealand Shipping Company. Shortly after sinking the Kaipara she was attacked by H.M.S. Highflyer (August 27). The fight was fast and furious, but the guns of the Kaiser Wilhelm were easily outranged. The first shot from the Highflyer disabled the German's port gun and tore away part of her bridge. Shortly afterwards she sank riddled with shot. Our losses were one man killed and five slightly wounded. The German captain had placed his prisoners of war on board a collier before the duel began, and this and previous acts of humanity won him the approval of our Admiralty. When the news was flashed by wireless to Whitehall the Admiralty sent the following message to the Highflyer:—
"Bravo! you have rendered a service not only to Britain, but to the peaceful commerce of the world. The German officers and crew appear to have carried out their duties with humanity and restraint, and are therefore worthy of all seamanlike consideration."
On September 4 came news of disaster. The Speedy, a British torpedo gunboat of an old type, bumped against a mine and foundered. Next day H.M.S. Pathfinder was steaming northward on a calm sea, and was about twenty miles from St. Abb's Head, when suddenly a terrific explosion blew her almost to fragments. She had been torpedoed by a German submarine, the periscope of which was seen shortly before the explosion. The skipper of a trawler who witnessed the disaster said that he saw the ship surrounded by a cloud of smoke, and that when it cleared there was not a trace of her to be seen. He hurried to the rescue, and so did other fishing vessels in the neighbourhood, and by their exertions some of the crew were saved, but 250 men and 9 officers perished. For a few days the Admiralty kept back the news from the public, in the hope that one or more of the submarines in the neighbourhood might be trapped. Later on, it was reported that these venturesome craft had been scouting as far north as the Orkneys. German wireless news informed us that the Pathfinder had been sunk by the U22.[87]
The British navy had its revenge twelve days later. Submarine E9,[88] commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Max K. Horton, an officer of the greatest daring and skill, of whom we shall hear more later, pushed into the Bight of Heligoland, and, six miles south of the island, fell in with the German cruiser Hela. He discharged two torpedoes at her, one striking her at the bow and the other amidships. She burst into flames and sank in an hour, most of the crew being saved. When E9 returned to Harwich, flying a little yellow flag, and beneath it a white flag with the skull and cross bones, all seafaring men knew that she had been victorious. She had a great reception; the crews of the warships in the harbour cheered her again and again, and Lieutenant-Commander Horton was playfully dubbed by his comrades "The Double-toothed Pirate."
The Exploit of E9: the Sinking of the Hela.
On 20th September came the news of a serious misfortune. Since the outbreak of war H.M.S. Pegasus had been working from Zanzibar along the coast of German East Africa. She had destroyed the port of Dar-es-Salaam,[89] and had sunk a German gunboat and a floating dock. At 5 a.m. on the morning of Sunday, 20th September, she was lying at anchor in Zanzibar harbour, cleaning her boilers and repairing her machinery. Suddenly the German cruiser Königsberg appeared, and caught her unawares. The German ship was armed with guns which outranged those of the Pegasus, and she immediately began a fierce bombardment. The Pegasus discharged her broadside; but the Germans disabled her guns with three shots, and then for a quarter of an hour rained shells upon her, while she was helpless to reply. After a lull the Königsberg opened fire again, and the Pegasus by this time was able to return shot for shot. When the German steamed off to the southward the British ship was found to be badly holed, and was towed away and grounded on a sand spit. She had lost 25 killed and 80 wounded out of a crew of 234.
During the fight the British flag was twice shot away. It could not be nailed to the mast as in the days of Nelson, for masts are now made of iron; yet it had to fly in sight of the enemy, for without it the ship would seem to have surrendered. Rather than let this dishonour attach to them, two marines seized the flag and held it up while a new flagstaff was being rigged. It was still fluttering its defiance when the Königsberg steamed away.
I have told you in these pages of scores of heroic deeds; in the multitude of them let us not forget the brave and devoted men who kept the flag flying in Zanzibar harbour, and thus showed the enemy that the British navy of to-day is still inspired by the old unconquerable spirit of Blake and Nelson.
Early in September we first heard of the famous German raider the Emden. She had been on the China station when war broke out, and now she appeared in the Bay of Bengal and began her career of destruction. I will tell you her full story later on, when I come to the day when she was sunk.
Now we will learn how the German commerce raider Cap Trafalgar was sent to her doom. She was a fast liner, armed with eight 4-inch guns and machine guns. Strange to say, her victorious opponent was a British armed liner, the Carmania, of the White Star line. Liverpool boys and girls are sure to have seen the Carmania lying in the Mersey, or at the Prince's landing-stage, for she has regularly crossed the Atlantic since 1905.
On 14th September the crew of the Carmania were just sitting down to their midday meal when the lookout men sighted a strange vessel. She was a liner as big as the Carmania. She was not at first recognized as an enemy, because she had rigged up a dummy funnel, and made herself look something like a Union Castle liner. The British captain, however, was suspicious, so he ordered a shot to be fired across the stranger's bows as a signal to heave-to. No sooner had the shot plumped into the water than the stranger opened fire, and the German flag fluttered to her masthead.
The Carmania let fly her port guns, and soon both vessels were fighting hammer and tongs. Both were big ships, and very good targets: the Carmania, for example, is 675 feet long and 60 feet out of the water, and aiming at her is like shooting at the side of a street. The Cap Trafalgar hit the Carmania more than three hundred times, but only two of the shots were serious. For the most part the shells flew high, and only damaged the Carmania's rigging and upper works. The British gunners aimed low, and her captain so manoeuvred the ship that she was end on to her enemy most of the time.
How they kept the Flag flying.
Shot after shot hit the Cap Trafalgar on the water line, and soon she caught fire. After the duel had lasted one hour and forty-five minutes she heeled over at such an angle that the men on the Carmania could actually look down her funnels. Then there was an explosion, and her bows went under; another explosion followed, and she slowly disappeared. Many of the men struggling in the water were rescued by the empty collier that accompanied her. The Carmania was prevented from sending her boats to the rescue because she was on fire forward. Our loss was nine men killed, five seriously wounded, and twenty-one slightly wounded. The following message was received from the Admiralty soon after the news reached London:—
"Well done. You have fought a fine action to a successful finish."
On the night before the Battle of Trafalgar Nelson knelt in his cabin on the Victory and wrote a beautiful prayer, in which he besought, "May humanity after victory be the predominant feature in the British fleet." It has always been so, and it will always be so. I must now tell you of an action in which humanity before victory led to a great disaster. On 22nd September three British cruisers, the Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy, were cruising off the coast of Holland. They were old ships, and they were at sea for the last time; the Admiralty had already decided to sell them for breaking up.
The weather was bad, and the usual escort of destroyers had been delayed. Suddenly there was a terrible explosion on board the Aboukir. She had been hit by a torpedo from a submarine right under one of her magazines. The submarine, the famous U9, commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Weddingen, had got within range under cover of a trawler flying the Dutch flag. The Aboukir sank rapidly, and at once the Hogue and the Cressy slowed down, and began to lower their boats in order to save the survivors who were struggling in the water.
This was a splendid chance for the German submarine; for, as I have already told you, it is very difficult for under-water craft to torpedo a ship travelling zigzag at a high speed. She has to aim herself at her target, and only by chance can she do this when her quarry is rapidly changing its course. When, however, it comes to rest, the submarine has an easy task.
Two torpedoes in quick succession now sped towards the Hogue, and five minutes later she had gone under, and the sea was dotted with men swimming for dear life or clinging desperately to bits of wreckage. Soon afterwards there was another explosion, and the Cressy suffered the same fate. Three torpedoes had been fired at her, and two of them had hit her. Two Dutch trawlers now came to the rescue, and their crews worked like Trojans to save the lives of our men. British destroyers also arrived, and took part in the work of rescue; but the loss of life was very great. About 60 officers and 1,400 men were killed or drowned. The ships themselves were no great loss, but the 1,460 brave and highly-trained men who went down on that fateful day can never be replaced. "The conduct of the crew," says the commander of the Cressy, "was excellent throughout." "There was no panic of any sort," wrote the commander of the Hogue, "the men taking off their clothes as ordered, and falling in with hammock or wood. . . . All the men behaved extraordinarily well, obeying orders even when in the water and swimming for their lives. I witnessed many cases of great self-sacrifice and gallantry. Farmstone, able seaman, of the Hogue, jumped overboard from the launch to make room for others, and would not avail himself of assistance until all men near by were picked up; he was in the water about half an hour."
The sinking of the Aboukir, Hogue, and Cressy.
This illustration shows the Cressy making a gallant attempt to ram the submarine.
The Admiralty afterwards sent a message to the Fleet, pointing out that though this heavy loss of life was due to the natural desire of our sailors to save their fellows in distress, it ought to have been avoided, and would probably not have taken place if the Hogue and the Cressy had kept on their courses, and left the work of succour to small craft. The stoppage of these vessels was no doubt a mistake, but I think that we shall all be ready to forgive those who made it when we remember that they laid down their lives while trying to save their comrades from a watery grave.
A sailor who was saved tells the following story:—
"The best thing I saw was the coolness of a little cadet. Not more than fourteen he looked. He drifted near me; he and a seaman clinging with their hands and elbows to the same bit of wood. I never saw anything as calm as that lad. He was talking to the seaman with him. 'Well,' he says, 'we've got to carry on like this, and if we die we shall die game.' And with that he begins to talk about everyday things on the sunken ship. 'What's the new engineer like?' he says, and chats about the little incidents in the mess. Only fourteen—a little light-haired boy. I hope he was saved."
So do we all. If he was rescued, we all hope that in days to come he will command one of the King's ships, and play his part as nobly as he did when floating on the sea, face to face with death.
There were about sixteen midshipmen on board the three ships. Some of them were cadets at Osborne or Devonport when the war began. All the older boys were hurried off to the sea, and were proud and happy to go. Some of them have kept the "Watch on the Brine" all through the long and bitter winter; others have helped to patrol distant seas and capture enemy ships; some have fought a good fight in the naval battles; all have done their duty, and many have died for their country.
There was a very lucky middy on board the Aboukir when she went down. One of the survivors asks: "What do you think of this regarding one of our brave midshipmen? He was on board the first ship which was struck, and as she was settling down he jumped overboard and swam clear of the swirling water caused by the sinking vessel. He was picked up by another of the cruisers; but she also was struck, and in her turn began to sink. The midshipman was uninjured by the explosion, and again he jumped and cleared the downward suction. He was picked up and put on board the third cruiser; but before long she, too, received her death wound. Again he got clear, and clung to a piece of wreckage, from which he was finally rescued."
A ship's carpenter on board the Aboukir had a similar experience. He was on board all the three cruisers when they were torpedoed. When the Cressy went down he swam to a raft, which towed him along for some distance, until a ship's boat picked him up.
A middy of the Cressy, a lad of sixteen, named Cazalet, commanded a whaler which was engaged in the work of rescue. He was actually the means of saving some eighty-eight lives. Altogether he picked up three boatloads of men, and not until there were no more survivors in sight did he seek refuge on board a Dutch trawler.
A fifteen-year-old drummer boy of the Marines managed to keep his head above water for about four hours. An empty rum cask floated by him, and he seized it and clung on to it until he was rescued. Strange to say, he suffered no harm from his long bath in the stormy sea.