IV. H.M.S. “Mary Rose”
H.M.S. Mary Rose left a Norwegian port in charge of a west-bound convoy of merchant ships in the afternoon of October 16th, 1917. At dawn on the 17th, from her position ten or twelve miles ahead of the convoy, flashes of gunfire were sighted astern. The captain of the Mary Rose, Lieutenant-Commander Charles Fox, who was on the bridge at the time, remarked that he supposed it was a submarine shelling the convoy, and promptly turned his ship to investigate; all hands were called to action stations. Mary Rose had increased to full speed, and in a short time three light cruisers were sighted coming towards them at high speed out of the morning mist; Mary Rose promptly challenged, and receiving no reply, opened fire with every gun that would bear at a range of about four miles. The German light cruisers appeared to have been nonplussed by this determined single-handed onslaught, as they did not return the fire until the range had closed to three miles. They then opened fire, and the Mary Rose held gallantly on through a barrage of bursting shell until only a mile separated her from the enemy. Up to this point the German marksmanship was poor, but as the British destroyer turned to bring her torpedo tubes to bear, a salvo struck her, bursting in the engine-room, and leaving her disabled, a log on the water. All guns, with the exception of the after one, were out of action, and their crews killed or wounded, but the after gun continued in action under the directions of Sub-Lieutenant Marsh, R.N.V.R., as long as the gun would bear. The captain came down from the wrecked bridge and passed aft, encouraging and cheering his deafened men. He stopped beside the wrecked remains of the midship gun and shouted to the survivors of its crew: “God bless my heart, lads, get her going again, we’re not done yet!”
The enemy were now pouring a concentrated fire into the motionless vessel. One of the boilers, struck by a shell, exploded, and through the inferno of escaping steam, smoke, and the vapour of bursting shell, came that familiar, cheery voice: “We’re not done yet.”
As the German light cruisers sped past, two able seamen (Able Seaman French and Able Seaman Bailey), who alone survived among the torpedo tubes’ crews, on their own initiative laid and fired the remaining torpedo. Able Seaman French was killed immediately, and Able Seaman Bailey badly wounded. Realising that the enemy had passed ahead, and that the 4-inch gun could no longer be brought to bear on them, the captain set about destroying his ciphers. The First Lieutenant (Lieutenant Bavin), seeing one of the light cruisers returning towards them, called the gunner and bade him sink the ship. The captain then gave the order, “Abandon ship.” All the boats had been shattered by shell fire at their davits, but the survivors launched a Carley raft and paddled clear of the ship. The German light cruiser detailed to administer the coup de grâce then approached to within 300 yards and poured a succession of salvos into the already riddled hull. The Mary Rose sank at 7.15 a.m. with colours flying. The captain, first lieutenant, and gunner were lost with the ship, but the handful of survivors, in charge of Sub-Lieutenant J. R. D. Freeman, on the Carley raft, fell in some hours later with a lifeboat belonging to one of the ships of the convoy. Sailing and rowing, they made the Norwegian coast some forty-eight hours later, and were tended with the utmost kindness by the Norwegian authorities. All survivors unite in testifying to the cheerful courage of the senior surviving officer, Sub-Lieutenant Freeman, throughout the last phase of this ordeal. Able Seaman Bailey, who, despite severe shrapnel wounds in the leg, persisted in taking his turn at the oar, is also specially mentioned for an invincible light-heartedness throughout.
The distinguished naval critics with whose assistance we are wont to belittle the achievements of our Navy, will have doubtless much to say about this action. From the point of view of tactics, it lies open to unquestionable criticism. Unhappily (since he was killed), there is no record of what was in the mind of the captain of the Mary Rose when he made that single-handed dash in the face of such preposterous odds. The convoy which was in his charge lay ahead of him, and, as he apparently supposed, was being attacked by the gunfire of a hostile submarine. When, on rushing to the rescue, he realised that it was to meet not a submarine, but three of Germany’s newest and fastest light cruisers, it is conceivable that the original intention of rescue was not supplanted in his mind by considerations of higher strategy. He held on unflinchingly, and he died, leaving to the annals of his service an episode not less glorious than that in which Sir Richard Greville perished.
CHAPTER V
THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN
He was nearer seventy than sixty: that is to say, he was an old man as they reckon age afloat. There was a stoop about his shoulders that hinted at the burden of his years, but his eyes, blue and direct beneath ragged white eyebrows, were young enough; and a man’s eyes are the mirrors of his spirit.
He stood on the quarter-deck of the armed yacht under his command, pacing slowly to and fro, with those craggy brows almost meeting above his great beak of a nose. There had been a day when a fleet would have trembled at the portent, and walked delicately, like Agag. That was when he was an admiral though, and the flag-lieutenant would have popped his head into the secretary’s cabin and murmured, “Blowing up for a storm—stand by!” Now, as he stalked with that unforgettable jerky stride of his up and down the narrow confine of the yacht’s poop, he was only a commander of the Royal Naval Reserve—a “dug-out” from the Retired List—with three curly rings of lace on the cuffs of a monkey-jacket cut in a style unfamiliar to the present generation.
Aft by the ensign-staff he halted, and pulled a letter out of the breast-pocket of the quaintly-cut monkey-jacket. It had come by the morning mail, a typewritten letter, on paper bearing the crest of Admiralty, and it was worded as tactfully as circumstances and the nature of the contents would allow. It referred to the strain of war under modern conditions. It reminded the Admiral that a critical stage of the world conflict had now been reached; and the two postulates, taken in conjunction, pointed to the necessity for young men being employed in all commands afloat. Their Lordships had therefore decided, with regret ... etc. etc.
That letter did what the strain of modern war had not yet done—it made the Admiral’s hand tremble: he tore it into small pieces and dropped them over the side. The stoop of his old shoulders seemed to have become suddenly accentuated. His firm mouth slackened: he looked what they said he was, an old man.