The seething flames of economic supremacy that were consuming Europe had threatened from the beginning of the war to creep into the Occident, as we shall see in the chapter on "Japan and the Far East." Moreover, as described in "Naval Operations," it was in the waters of the Near East that the first big incident of the war on the sea took place.
Despite the fact that the public had been looking forward to an immediate clash of the dreadnought squadrons of the two countries somewhere between the east coast of Scotland and the Dutch shore, nothing of the kind happened. Instead, both grand fleets ran to safety in the landlocked harbors of their respective countries.
In was to the Mediterranean in the first week of August, 1914, that the attention of the world was first drawn by events. Two German warships, the Goeben and the Breslau, were off the coast of Algeria. The first was one of the finest ships of the German navy, a superdreadnought battleship cruiser of 23,000 tons, capable of making more than 28 knots an hour. Her main battery consisted of ten 11-inch guns, and in addition she mounted twelve 5.9-inch guns and twelve 21 pounders. She was capable therefore of meeting on equal terms any enemy vessel in the Mediterranean, and more than capable of outrunning any of the heavier vessels of the French or British navy stationed in those waters. The Breslau was capable of a similar speed, but was a much weaker vessel, being a light cruiser of only 4,478 tons. Both of these vessels had enormous coal capacities, the Breslau, in particular, being able to travel more than 6,000 miles without refilling her bunkers.
The speed and the coal capacity of these vessels were to prove of vital importance in the events of the next few days. For their rôle was to be one of flight, not to battle. England alone and, in an overwhelming degree, England and France combined hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned the two German warships in the Mediterranean. Realizing this, the German commander, after firing a few shots into the Algerian coast towns of Bone and Philippville, steamed northwest with the intention either of outwitting the English and French squadron commanders, or of running through Gibraltar and so on to the broad Atlantic to wage war upon the British mercantile marine. The British, however, were alive to this danger and headed off the two German warships. Whereupon they turned northeast.
Early on the morning of Wednesday, August 5, 1914, these ships were discovered steaming into the harbor of Messina, Italy. The English and French fleets, close upon the heels of the enemy, immediately took up positions at either end of the Straits of Messina, confident that they had successfully bottled up the Germans.
Then quickly there developed one of the most dramatic incidents in the history of naval warfare. It is described in this chapter as well as in the narrative on "Naval Operations" because of its direct bearing on Turkish politics and policies. The captain and officers of the Goeben and the Breslau went ashore at Messina, made their wills and deposited their valuables with the German consul. The decks of the apparently doomed vessels were cleared for action, flags run up to the resounding cheers of the sailors and with the brass bands of the boats playing "Heil dir im Siegerkranz" they steamed swiftly out of Messina harbor to what seemed like certain destruction.
A blood-red sun was quickly setting in the perfect Italian sky. The bands were hushed aboard the German warships, every light was dimmed, and the sailors were ordered to their posts. In tense whispers they discussed the coming fight. The ships were already at top speed plowing through the waters of the Mediterranean as fast as the throbbing engines could urge them. A sharp lookout was kept for the enemy, but as one hour, two hours, three hours passed and none was seen it became apparent that for the time at least they had evaded detection. Rounding the southern coast of Italy, they turned due east and the course laid for Constantinople.
Morning came and still, at 28 knots an hour, the German warships were speeding toward the Turkish capital—and safety. To the rear, too far to reveal their funnels, the pursuing French and English squadron followed, thin lazy strips of smoke attested their presence to the men aboard the Breslau and the Goeben.
Suddenly far to the southeast the masts of a single vessel were seen on the horizon. Then the smokestacks of the British light cruiser Gloucester poked their tops above the skyline and daringly she opened fire on the mighty Goeben. Tempting, however, as the opportunity was for the German commander with an overwhelming force at his heels he dared waste no time nor run the risk of a chance shot disabling his vessel. He sheered off sharply to the northeast and in a few hours lost the plucky Gloucester to view.
At the end of this week in August the Goeben and the Breslau, their engines hot from constant steaming at forced speed, but with flags flying and bands playing, steamed through the narrow channel of the Dardanelles, through the sea of Marmora, and cast anchor off the gloriously beautiful city of Constantinople. As quickly as the formalities would permit the two German warships were transferred to Turkish sovereignty, and to all intents and purposes, as future events proved, the Ottoman Empire entered the war as an ally of Germany and Austria.