He turned to the only landsman present, and reminded him that in a quarter-line, or bow-and-quarter line, the ships are echeloned each upon the quarter of the next ahead instead of directly astern. He added, ‘A will say that this is in his favour, because ships in a quarter-line are really in line ahead, only that each one in turn is a little out of the straight. And B will claim that he wins, because a quarter-line is merely a line abreast in which each ship lags a little more behind the true front. And C will tell us that the only thing which matters is that the quarter-line gives the unhappy submarine less chance of hitting, and more chance of being sunk than either of the other two formations. And thereupon the Court is adjourned.’
CHAPTER VIII
BRITISH SUBMARINES IN THE BALTIC
The story of our submarine campaign in the Baltic is the first of two romances of the sea—one Northern and one Southern—the like of which is not to be found in the annals of the last 300 years. War must often make us familiar with obscure or long-forgotten places, the scenes of old voyages, and battles long ago; but to adventure with our submarines into the Baltic, or the Sea of Marmora, is to slip through unimagined dangers into a legendary world beyond all history—sailing the seas of the past, with the captains of the future. The exploration under water of those intricate and perilous channels was alone a discovery of supreme skill and daring; and the brilliant acts of war achieved by the adventurers form only a minor part of the glory of being there at all.
The first of our submarine voyagers in the Baltic was Lieut.-Commander Max Horton, in E. 9. Before the War was a year old his fame had spread far and wide; but the details of his success are not even yet generally known, and cannot be given here. By October 6, 1914, he had sunk a German light cruiser and a destroyer, both in the ‘North Sea,’ and it may perhaps be guessed that he had, at any rate, thought of penetrating into the Baltic. By January, 1915, he was a full Commander, and had received the D.S.O. On the 29th of that month, he was not only in the Baltic, but was sinking a destroyer there; on May 11, he bagged a transport; and on June 5, he put to the credit of E. 9 another transport and another destroyer. Finally, on July 2, he torpedoed the Pommern, a 13,000-ton battle-ship of an older type, but armed with 11-inch guns.
On July 29, he slipped again, in company with E. 1 (Commander N. F. Laurence), and after some independent hunting, the two boats both arrived at Reval. E. 9 had attacked a cruiser and a submarine; and, on August 18, had had a covetous look at a squadron of battle-cruisers, detailed for the German attack on the Gulf of Riga. But as they were moving constantly in regular formation, and at high speed over a large area, it was not possible to deal satisfactorily with them. E. 1, however, had had better luck. On August 19, Commander Laurence came to observation depth at 8.0 A.M., and under cover of a fog succeeded in stalking the same squadron. They were manœuvring in line abreast, and within ten minutes came across E. 1’s bows, with destroyers on both flanks. Commander Laurence had, of course, only a single ship to aim at—the battle-cruiser on the wing nearest to him, which was ascertained to have been the Moltke, a 22,600-ton ship. At 8.20, he fired his starboard torpedo, and at the same moment dived to avoid a destroyer which was coming straight for him. His luck was good, both ways. The torpedo got home on the battle-cruiser, and the destroyer missed E. 1 by a few feet. The next day he reported to the Russian Admiral at Reval.
These two boats were followed, on August 15, by E. 8 and E. 13. The fate of E. 13 will not be forgotten while there is any rightful indignation left in Europe. On August 19, she got ashore on a neutral coast—the Danish island of Saltholm—and there, with her crew upon her, was deliberately shot to pieces by a German war-ship, in defiance of all humanity and international law. Her officers and men behaved with perfect courage, but many of them were killed before they could get away from the wreck of their boat.
Lieut.-Commander Goodhart’s account of the voyage of E. 8 is a plain and business-like document, but to read it, with a map beside it, is to look far away into a world of historic names and ever-present dangers. It is easy enough to imagine the passage up the Skager-Rak, always remembering that we must keep well out of the central line of traffic, and that in the afternoon we have to dive and pass under a whole fleet of steam trawlers. At 7 P.M. it is possible to come to the surface again. The Commander orders full speed, rounds the Skaw, and enters the Kattegat. In the fading twilight, several merchant-steamers are seen going north. The shore and island lights twinkle out one by one—Hamnskar, Vinga, Skaw, Trindelen, and Anholt. The night is short. By 3.0 A.M. we must dive again, and lie quietly on shoal ground, while the traffic goes over us. At 5.25 A.M. we venture to the surface, but are put down quickly by a steamer. At 7.0 we venture again, and do a scurry of 1½ hours in a friendly mist. Then down again, and crawl at 3 knots, till at 1.0 P.M. we are off the entrance to the Sound.
Here Commander Goodhart has to make the choice between going forward submerged, or waiting for darkness and then attempting the channel on the surface. He is confident of being able to get to his position under water, and decides accordingly to continue diving into the Sound and wait for night inside. He proceeds at fifty feet, and, by 3.6 P.M., has verified his position, coming up to twenty-one feet to do so. He goes down again to fifty feet, and alters course to pass through the northern narrows. At 4.10 P.M. he is east of Helsingör Light—‘By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!’ At 5.20, after another observation, he goes to bottom in eleven fathoms, feeling comfortably certain that he has not been detected—so far—on his passage.