Submarine Warfare, Past, Present, and Future

by Herbert C. Fyfe

If wars ever die out, it will certainly not be owing to the destructive capabilities of the weapons employed. In the eyes of old Geoffrey de Vinesauf the naval conflicts of his time were as terrible as he could well imagine them to be, but a hundred years hence a Conference will doubtless be held at Tokyo to consider what restrictions should be placed on the use of submarine boats and aerial machines in time of war.

Those who are in favour of utilising the latest resources of science for the purpose of warfare are in reality more humane in the truest sense of the word than those who seek to limit nations in their choice of weapons. Vice-Admiral Sir John Fisher, who was one of those chosen to represent Great Britain at the Hague Conference, expressed himself strongly on the cruelty of making war on “humane” or moderate principles, and it is an undoubted fact that in spite of the deadly nature of modern arms, wars, on land at least, are not so destructive of life nor do they cause so much misery and suffering as they did formerly.

We can speak with more certainty with regard to warfare on land than we can to warfare on sea, but though the next great naval fight between two nations will certainly entail terrible suffering on the combatants (especially on those whose stations are below), it may be said that on the whole they will neither cause such wholesale misery nor be so protracted as the naval battles of old.

“Every war,” said Captain Herbert in a recent lecture at the Royal United Service Institution on “The Ethics of Warfare,” “marks a step. In 1885 the Servians, when they invaded Bulgaria, paid conscientiously in good coin for every fowl or pig seized in farmhouses, for every glass of brandy drunk in village inns; and when the tables were turned, and the Bulgarians invaded Servia, the Bulgarian soldiers and the Servian traders fraternised most cordially in the alehouses of Pirot. To come to the latest European war—that between Turkey and Greece in 1897—we have the testimony of the war correspondents that the behaviour of the Ottoman soldiery was quite exemplary. If things continue in this wise we shall perchance hear in the next century of every rifle discharge being preceded by a conciliatory caution and every bursted shell being followed by a humble apology.”

Dr. J. Macdonell, in a recent lecture, has touched on this subject. “It must be owned,” he says, “that the progress in mitigating the evils of war have been immense—that acts of useless violence which were once habitual are now exceptional, and are punished or condemned by military opinion. Ask those who say, ‘Things are much as they were: the grim realities of war no better than before,’ to note the matter-of-fact way Comines de Hoissard relates cruelties as the necessary accompaniments of warfare; then compare with such passages some of the many handbooks published by European Governments for the use of their troops. It has been truly said that the difference between the methods of the Thirty Years’ War and of the War of the Spanish Succession is the difference between darkness and twilight; the difference between warfare as understood by Tilly and Pappenheim and that described in modern official Manuals is the difference between light and darkness. Everywhere is recognised that only effective injuries are justifiable. The modern soldier strikes hard, he doesn’t mutilate or destroy for the love of destruction.”

The Rev. Edmund Warre has drawn a vivid picture of the wretched plight of the slaves labouring at the oars, who suffered intense discomfort and were in continual danger.

“In a hot climate, with but very little ventilation, it must have been exceedingly trying to take part in a laborious mechanical toil with perhaps some hundred or two of human beings stark naked and packed so closely that there was not room, as Cicero says, for even one man more. The heat, the smells, the toil must have been terrible to any one undergoing it against his will—so terrible as to suggest that even death itself were better than such drudgery. A dull dead feeling of despair must have crept over man and crew in such a case, and though the lash might keep them going under ordinary circumstances, such spirits could not be relied upon in times of emergency, Besides the question of discomfort, the actual danger was very great. The crews were liable at any moment to be drowned or burnt, or, in the case of defeat, butchered by the victors—perhaps, as at Sybota, deliberately in cold blood. Conceive the moment of conflict and its horrors, when the sharp-pointed beak came crashing through the timbers, smashing them right and left along with the helpless mass of human beings, while the water followed swift upon the blow, perhaps just giving time to the Thranites (the rowers on the topmost of the three benches in the Trireme, who had the most work and the longest oars) to swarm up upon the deck, while the helpless Thalamites (the rowers on the lowest bench) were drowned at once.”

Science, although she is continually placing man in possession of weapons more terrible and more destructive than those of the previous generation, really acts for the good of humanity at large, who owe a debt of gratitude to the mechanical geniuses who have evolved modes of warfare which enable war to be waged with as little unpleasantness as possible to the peaceful populations that have no concern with it.

In one respect at least modern warfare is certainly more humane than that of olden times, and this is in the treatment of the wounded and the captured. In ancient warfare the fate of the captive was death or slavery, and in early battles no quarter was given, except to personages of great distinction, and the object of both sides was to slay as many of their opponents as possible, and as surrender only made the prisoner the perquisite of his captor, the fighting was both bloody and fierce. Even as late as 1780 a prisoner was still viewed as the property of the victor, and there was a regular scale or tariff of payments.

One instance culled from an account of a battle between Christians and Turks, written by Geoffrey de Vinesauf, must suffice.