Another of these unusual encounters occurred on the 19th June, 1917, when the French submarine Ariane was sunk by a U-boat in the Mediterranean. The vessel carried a crew of about thirty, of whom nine were saved.
I began this chapter by quoting a remark of Rear-Admiral Robison. I will end it with another anent Britain’s stalking submarines, whose duty he regarded as the most hazardous occupation of the war. He stated that at Harwich, in June 1918, “there was a record of twenty-five submarines which had gone out of port and had not come back.”
CHAPTER VIII
A Chapter of Accidents
“In the future as in the past, the German people will have to seek firm cohesion in its glorious Army and in its belaurelled young Fleet.”—Lt.-Gen. Baron von Freytag-Loringhoven.
All kinds of queer accidents happen to submarines. It was one thing to have a ‘joy-ride’ standing on the conning-tower of a spick-and-span craft in the neighbourhood of Haslar, and quite another to be compelled to lie ‘doggo’ hundreds of miles from the base owing to the near presence of German torpedo-boats out for slaughter. The following story has been told before, but may be thought worthy of repetition because it reveals the calm philosophy which is the submarine man’s sheet-anchor. Without it he would speedily be reduced to nothing more than a nervous wreck.
A British submarine, intent on business intimately connected with the enemy, broke surface at an awkward moment. A shell whizzed close enough to assure the commander that somebody was on the watch for the Paul Prys of the British Navy. She went under, and after lying quiet for four hours again ascended for the purpose of finding out things. She discovered them all right, although they were not exactly of the kind she sought. One of the shots made a hole that necessitated a certain amount of plugging in double quick time. The submarine submerged until after dark, then made off to report. “What did you do while you were at the bottom?” an inquisitive friend asked the commander as he was stretching his legs on the quay and forming a miniature smoke screen with whiffs of Navy Cut. “I did fine,” was the answer; “we played auction bridge all the time, and I made 4s. 11½d.”
The officers and crew of a French submarine had a much more exciting experience while engaged on similar duty in the early days of the war. They were proceeding cautiously toward the entrance of an enemy harbour. The periscope showed a delightful bag, but unfortunately the battleships that constituted it were protected by nets sufficiently substantial to make poaching impossible. There was no sign of movement other than in the smoke issuing languidly from the funnels. While the commander was taking observations, the ships began to show signs of life, and, with a number of torpedo-boats, denoted by their actions that they had every intention of weighing anchor. Here was an opportunity in a thousand, an unexpected one too, and the French officer seized it with avidity. As the enemy approached, he decided to go ahead a short distance so as to make assurance doubly sure. He wanted his aim to be absolutely certain. The submarine had not proceeded more than a few yards when there was a nasty jar. The rudder had become fixed as in a vice. It was caught so tightly in a steel cable that the boat could not budge an inch. The crews of the T.B.s knew exactly what had happened, though how they came by the knowledge remains their secret. The vessels raced to the spot, hoping that the submarine was sufficiently near the surface to be rammed. Providentially she was not, though her crew heard the thrashing of the screws as they passed perilously close to her carcase. Immediately they had gone a furious hail of shells ploughed the sea, and one or two torpedoes were discharged by the enemy on the off chance that they might hit the intruder. It was a hot spot, despite the cold water. One who was on board says it was a miracle they were not struck. “We thought we were done for,” he adds, “and we patiently awaited the explosion which would deliver us from the cruel suspense.”
Meanwhile something had to be done, and quickly. Death by being blown to pieces is infinitely preferable to suffocation. The one is speedy and certain; the other slow and agonizing. The water tanks were filled until they could hold no more. It was hoped that the added weight would force the craft down and snap the cable. Nothing happened. Then some one suggested that if the steering wheel were compelled to move, possibly the wire would snap. If it failed to do so, and merely smashed the rudder, it could scarcely add to their anxieties. A doomed ship might as well be without steering gear as otherwise.
Half a dozen men exerted their full strength on the spokes. The wheel remained rigid for one, two, three seconds, then spun round with a sudden jerk that was not good for the equilibrium of the sailors but entirely satisfactory from every other point of view. The submarine went down several fathoms before she was brought under control.
The commander thought it was time to make tracks for a healthier clime without further spying. Risks are to be run only when necessary. Some hours later he ventured to use his periscope, only to find that an enemy vessel was no great distance off, evidently on the watch for such as he. The craft reached her base somewhat overdue. “All’s well that ends well,” but there is often a painful interim.