They came. After one minute he observed a very vivid flash on the water-line at the point of aim. This was immediately followed by a very heavy concussion, and the entire ship was hidden instantly in a huge column of thick grey smoke. Evidently the torpedo had exploded the fore magazine. The sky was filled with debris, and the smaller bits began falling in the water near the submarine. There was no use in spending time on the surface, and in one minute more, E. 8 was sliding down to fifty feet, where she stayed for eight minutes, to give the rest of the ship ample time to come down. At 9.42 Commander Goodhart rose to twenty feet, and took a survey through his periscope. There was no sign of the Prinz Adalbert. The two destroyers had closed on to the scene of the explosion, but it was not likely that they had been able to find any survivors, for the destruction of the ship had been instantaneous and complete. Commander Goodhart decided not to attack them, because, for all he knew, they were ignorant of his presence; if so, they might very probably imagine the damage to have been done by a mine, and give him future opportunities. The shot had been a long one, about 1,300 yards, and this was in the circumstances particularly fortunate; for at a shorter distance, such as 500 or 600 yards, the submarine herself would have felt a tremendous shock from the double explosion.
An hour later he saw four destroyers hovering about the place of the wreck. He turned away, and they made no attempt to follow. At dawn next day he reported by wireless, and then proceeded to his base.
In the meantime E. 19, Lieut.-Commander F. N. Cromie, had arrived. She set to work in earnest upon the German shipping engaged in the service of the naval and military departments of the enemy, towards the western end of the Baltic. Monday, October 11, was her best day, and the beginning of a downright panic in the Hamburg trade. ‘8.0 A.M.,’ says Lieut.-Commander Cromie, ‘started to chase merchant shipping.’ He had good hunting. At 9.40 A.M. he stopped the Walter Leonhardt, from Lulea to Hamburg, with iron ore. The crew abandoned ship, and were picked up by a Swedish steamer, considerately stopped for the purpose. A gun-cotton charge then sent the empty vessel to the bottom. By noon, E. 19 was chasing the Germania of Hamburg, signalling her to stop immediately. In spite of the signals and a warning gun-shot, she continued to bolt, and soon ran ashore. Lieut.-Commander Cromie went alongside cautiously to save her crew, but found that they had already abandoned ship. He tried to tow her off, but failed to move her—small wonder, for her cargo consisted of nearly three million kgs. of the finest concentrated iron ore, from Stockholm to Stettin. He left her filling with water, and at 2.0 gave chase to the Gutrune. By 3.0 he had towed her crew to the Swedish steamer, and started her for the bottom with her 4,500,000 kgs. of iron ore, from Lulea to Hamburg.
The game went forward merrily. At 4.25 he began to chase two more large steamers going south. In twenty minutes he had stopped one—the Swedish boat Nyland, with ore for Rotterdam and papers all correct—told her to proceed, and ten minutes later caught the Direktor Rippenhagen, with magnetic ore from Stockholm to Nadenheim. While she was sinking he stopped another Swede bound for Newcastle, and gave her the Direktor’s crew to take care of. An hour later, he proceeded to chase a large steamer, the Nicomedia, who tried to make off towards the Swedish coast. A shot across her bows brought her to a more resigned frame of mind. She proved to be a large and extremely well-fitted vessel, carrying six to seven million kgs. of magnetic ore from Lulea to Hamburg. The crew were sent ashore in boats, and E. 19 proceeded up the west of Gotland. Her cruise was marked by one more incident—a significant one. During the morning of October 12, Lieut.-Commander Cromie stopped the Nike, and went alongside to examine her. He found her to be in iron ore from Stockholm to Stettin, under command of Captain Anderson, whose passport, from the Liverpool Police, proved him to be a Swede. To a Hun, this would have made no difference; but Lieut.-Commander Cromie had British ideas on international law. He sent Lieutenant Mee on board with a prize crew of two men, in the good old style of our ancestors, and ordered them to take the prize into Reval for further investigation. After what we have already said about submarines and war policy, the point needs no pressing. War against trading vessels and non-combatants is possible within the rules, but only in certain circumstances. Even where those circumstances exist, there is no excuse for breaking the rules; and where they do not exist, only a barbarian would hack his way through the net of international law and common humanity. Our Navy has in all circumstances kept both these laws: the German submarines have deliberately and cruelly broken both.
Lieut.-Commander Cromie continued to have the good fortune he deserved. He ended the 1915 campaign with another war-ship in his bag. Cruising in the Western Baltic on the morning of November 7, he sighted a light cruiser and two destroyers, but was disappointed in his attempt to attack. Three hours later, at 1.20, in a favourable mist, he had a second chance. A light cruiser—perhaps the same—with one destroyer in attendance, came on at fifteen knots, steaming south and east. He dived at once, and at 1.45 fired his starboard torpedo. The range was about 1,100 yards, and the shot went home on the cruiser’s starboard side forward. She immediately swung round in a large circle and then stopped dead. She appeared to be on fire and sinking. But Lieut.-Commander Cromie was unwilling to leave her in uncertainty. He avoided the destroyer, passed under her stern, and manœuvred for a second shot. This was fired at 1,200 yards, and was aimed at the cruiser’s main-mast, just abaft of which it actually struck. A double explosion followed. Evidently the after magazine had blown up, and several large smoking masses were shot out some 200 yards in the direction of the submarine. The destroyer then opened a heavy fire on the periscope with H.E. shell. Down went E. 19 for her life; but three minutes later, she was up again to see what was happening. The cruiser—she was the Undine of 2,650 tons—was gone. The destroyer was picking up a few survivors, and after a restless half-hour made off to the southward, leaving on the scene only a ferry-boat flying the German mercantile flag. Lieut.-Commander Cromie left also, and arrived next day at Reval, where he reported the attack and added that, under existing weather conditions, it was only rendered possible by the sound judgment and prompt action of Lieutenant G. Sharp, who was officer of the watch at the time.
E. 19 was not alone in her successful campaign against the German iron-ore trade. A week after her fine break recorded above, E. 9 arrived on the scene; and Commander Max Horton, in two successive days, sank the Soderham, Pernambuco, Johannes-Russ, and Dall-Asfen—four serious losses to the German gun factories, and even more serious blows to the courage of their carrying trade. The captain of the Nike told Lieutenant Mee on his voyage to Reval, that after E. 19’s first raid no less than fifteen ships were held up at Lulea, awaiting convoys; and after E. 9’s success, the command of the Baltic seemed to have passed for the time out of German hands.
Such a state of things could not, of course, be continuously maintained—the Baltic weather alone made that impossible. E. 1, E. 8, and E. 18 followed their leaders, and all did good service during the autumn; but their reports show how severe were the conditions when the winter really set in. E. 9 had already noted very bad weather in November, and on the 25th ‘boat became covered with a large quantity of ice.’ On January 10, 1916, E. 18, commanded by Lieut.-Commander R. C. Halahan, reports ‘temperature very low: sea very rough; great difficulty in keeping conning-tower hatch clear of ice, as sea came over constantly and froze at once.’ Two days later she proceeded to Reval in company with a Russian ice-breaker. ‘The ice was very thick in places, but no difficulty was experienced in getting through.’ These hindrances continued for months. As late as April 28, we find E. 18 accompanied through Moon Sound by an ice-breaker ‘as there were occasional thick ice-fields.’ The next day some of these ice-fields came drifting down upon the anchorage, and E. 18 had to slip and anchor off until night. Even so, she could not be sure of escaping all danger; for the ice brought down large masses of stone, and deposited them in the channels.
‘The Russian ice-breakers freed them from the harbour ice.’
[See page [123].