"Kranz, 1st Lieutenant U.39, reported suddenly ill, Zeebrugge,
poisoning--you relieve him. Ship sails in one hour forty minutes from
now--my car leaves here in forty minutes and takes you to Zeebrugge.
Here are operation orders--inform Von Weissman he acknowledges receipt
direct to me on 'phone. That's all."
He handed me the envelope and I suppose I walked outside--at least I
found myself in the corridor turning the confounded envelope round and
round. For one mad moment I felt like rushing in and saying: "But, sir,
you don't understand I'm lunching with Zoe to-morrow!"
Then the mental picture which this idea conjured up made me shake with
suppressed laughter and I remembered that war was war and that I had
only thirty-five minutes in which to collect such gear as I had
handy--most of my sea things being in U.C.47--and say goodbye to Zoe.
I ran to my room and made the corridors echo with shouts for my
faithful Adolf. The excellent man was soon on the scene, and whilst he
stuffed underclothing, towels and other necessary gear into a bag he
had purloined from someone's room, I rang up Zoe. I wasted ten minutes
getting through, but at last I heard a deliciously sleepy voice murmur,
"Who's that?"
I told her, and added that I was off; to my secret joy, an intensely
disappointed and long-drawn "Oooh!" came over the wire. So she does
care a bit, I thought. Mad ideas of pretending to be suddenly ill
crossed my mind--anything to gain twenty-four hours--but the Fatherland
is above all such considerations, and after some pleasant talk and many
wishes of good luck from the darling girl, with a heavy heart I bade
her good-night.
The Old Man's car, which is a sixty horse-power Benz, was waiting at
the Mess entrance, and once clear of the sentries we raced down the
flat, well-metalled road to Zeebrugge in a very short time. The guard
at Bruges barrier had 'phoned us through to the Zeebrugge fortified
zone, and we were admitted without delay. In three-quarters of an hour
from my interview with old Max I was scrambling across a row of U-boats
to reach my new ship, U.39.
I went down the after hatch, reported myself to Von Weissman and
delivered his orders to him, of which he acknowledged receipt direct to
the Commodore according to instructions. Von Weissman is a very
different stamp of man to Alten; of medium height, he has
sandy-coloured hair, steel-grey eyes and a protruding jaw. He is what
he looks, a fine North Prussian, and is, of course, of excellent
family, as the Weissmans have been settled in Grinetz for a long
period.
He struck me as being about thirty years of age, and on his heart he
wore the Cross of the second class. I have heard of him before as being
well in the running towards an _ordre pour le mérite_.
An interesting chart is hanging in the wardroom, on which is marked the
last resting-place of every ship he has sunk. He puts a coloured dot,
the tint of which varies with the tonnage, black up to 2,000, blue from
2,000-5,000, brown 5,000-8,000, green 8,000-11,000, and a red spot with
the ship's name for anything over 11,000. He has got about 120,000 tons
at present. He opposes the Arnauld de la Perrière school of thought,
which pins faith on the gun, and Weissman has done nearly all his work
with the good old torpedo.
Altogether, undoubtedly a man to serve with.
The U.39 was in that buzzing and semi-active condition which to a
trained eye is a sure indication that the ship is about to sail.
Punctually at five minutes to 2 a.m. Weissman went to the bridge, and
at 2 a.m. the wires were slipped and we started on a ten days' trip. As
the dim lights on the mole disappeared and the ceaseless fountain of
star-shells, mingling with the flashing of guns, rose inland on our
port beam my mind travelled overland to the flat at Bruges, and I
wondered whether Zoe was lying awake listening to the ceaseless rumble
of the Flanders cannon. We went on at full speed, as it was our
intention to pass the Dover Straits before dawn. Though our
intelligence bureau issues the most alarming reports as to the
frightfulness of the defences here I was agreeably surprised at the
ease with which we passed. Von Weissman, to whom I had hinted that we
might find the passage tricky, rather laughed at my suggestion, and
described to me his method, which, at all events, has the merit of
simplicity.
He always goes through with the tide, so as to take as short a time as
possible, and he always decides on a course and steers it as closely as
possible, keeping to the surface unless he sights anything, and diving
as soon as anything shows up. Even if he dives he goes on as fast as
possible on his course, irrespective of whether he is being bombed or
not.
I must say it worked very well last night. We shaped a course to pass
five miles west of Gris Nez, and when that light, which for some reason
the French had commodiously lit that night, was abeam, we sighted a
black object, probably a trawler or destroyer, about half a dozen miles
away right ahead. Weissman immediately dived and, without deviating a
degree from his course, held on at three-quarters speed on the motors.
Some time later the hydrophone watchkeeper reported the sound of
propellers in his listeners, and that he judged them to be close at
hand, so I imagine we passed very nearly directly underneath whatever
it was.
After an hour's submerging we rose, and found dawn breaking over a
leaden and choppy sea. Nothing being in sight, we continued on the
surface for an hour, charging batteries with the starboard engine (500
amps on each), but at 9 a.m., the clouds lying low and an aerial patrol
being frequent hereabouts, we dived and cruised steadily down channel
at slow speed, keeping periscope depth.
Several times in the course of the forenoon we sighted small destroyers
and convoy craft [1] in the distance, all steering westerly. They were
probably returning from escorting troopships over to France last night.
In every case we went to sixty feet long before they could have seen
our "stick." [2] Weissman is evidently as cautious in this matter as he
is hardy in others; the more I see of him the more I like him; he is a
man of breeding, and it is of value to serve in this boat.
[Footnote 1: Probably "P" boats.--ETIENNE.]
[Footnote 2: Periscope.--ETIENNE.]
As I write we are on the surface about ten miles east of the Isle of
Wight, still steering down channel. To-night at midnight we report our
position to Zeebrugge, up till now we have maintained wireless silence
for fear of the British and French directional stations picking up our
signals and fixing our position.
After supper this evening Von Weissman explained to me the general plan
of our operations for the next eight days. Our cruising billet is about
150 miles south-west of the Scillys, at the focal point where trade for
Liverpool and Bristol and the up-channel trade diverges. Von Weissman
says that this is a plum billet and we should do well.
I feel this is going to be better than those piffling little
mine-laying trips, and though we shall be away ten days, it will
qualify me for four days' leave in Belgium.
* * * * *
There was nearly an awkward moment last night, or, rather, there was an
awkward moment, and nearly an awkward accident. I relieved the
navigator at midnight (the pilot is an unassuming individual called
Siegel) and took on the middle watch. It was blowing about force 4 from
the south-west, and a nasty short, lumpy sea was running which caught
us just on the port bow. About once every ten seconds she missed her
step with the waves and, dipping her nose into it, shovelled up tons of
water, which, as the bow lifted, raced aft and, breaking against the
gun, flung itself in clouds of spray against the bridge. In a very few
minutes every exposed portion of me was streaming with water.
At about 2 a.m. I had turned my back to the sea for a moment, and my
thoughts were for an instant in Bruges, when, on facing forward once
again I saw a sight which effectually brought me back to earth.
This was the spectacle of two black shapes, evidently steamers, one on
either bow, distant, I should estimate, 600 or 700 metres. I had to
make a quick decision, and I decided that to fire a torpedo in that sea
with any hope of a hit, especially with the boat on surface, was
useless; furthermore, that at any moment either of the steamers might
sight us from their high bridge and turn and ram.
These thoughts were the work of an instant, and I at once rang the
diving bell, and, pushing the look-out before me, in five seconds I was
in the conning tower and had the hatch down. I at once proceeded down
into the boat, and the first thing that struck my eye was the diving
gauge with the needle practically stationary at two metres.
The boat was not going down properly! and for an instant I was rudely
shaken, until a cool voice from the wardroom remarked, "Helm hard
a-port," an order that was instantly obeyed, and as she began to turn
the moving needle on the depth gauge began its journey round the dial.
It was the Captain who had spoken. As soon as he heard the diving alarm
he was out of his bunk, and a glance at the gauge he has fitted in the
wardroom told him we were not sinking rapidly. In an instant he had put
his finger on the trouble, which was that we were almost head on to the
sea, with the result that he had given the order as stated above,
which, bringing us beam on to the sea, had caused her to dive with
ease. He is efficiency itself!
As I explained to him what had happened, the noise of propellers at
varying distances from us overhead led him to state his belief that we
had run into a convoy homeward bound to Southampton from the Atlantic.
He approved of my actions in every particular, save only in my omission
to bring the boat away from the sea as I began to dive.
This morning we are beginning to get the full force of what is
evidently going to be a south-westerly gale of some violence. The seas
are getting larger as we debouch into the Atlantic. This looks bad for
business.
* * * * *
At the moment we are practically hove to on the surface, with the port
engine just jogging to keep her head on to sea and the starboard
ticking round to give her a long, slow charge of 200 amps.
The wind is force 7-8 and a very big sea is running which makes it
entirely impossible to open the conning tower hatch; the engine is
getting its air through the special mushroom ventilator, which is
apparently not designed to supply both the boat's requirements and
those of the engine; the whole ventilator gets covered with sea every
now and then, during which period until the baffle drains get the water
away no air can get in, so the engine has a good suck at the air in the
boat, the result of all this being a slight vacuum in the boat. It is a
very unpleasant sensation, and made me very sick. This is really a form
of sickness due to the rarefied air.
I had a great surprise when I looked at the barograph this morning as
the needle had gone right off the paper at the bottom, and at first
glance I thought we had struck a tropical depression of the first
magnitude, which, flouting all the laws of meteorology, had somehow
found its way to the English Channel; but the engineer explained to me
that, as I have already stated, the low atmospheric pressure in the
boat was due to the conning-tower hatch being shut down.
[Illustration: "As the dim lights on the mole disappeared, the
ceaseless fountain of starshells mingling with the flashing of guns,
rose inland on our port beam."]
[Illustration: "We hit her aft for the second time."]
I have discovered that Von Weissman is a martyr to sea-sickness--all
day he has been lying down as white as a sheet and subsisting on milk
tablets and sips of brandy; yet such is the man's inflexibility of will
that he forces himself to make a tour of inspection right round the
boat every six hours, night and day. It is this will to conquer which
has made Germans unconquerable, though "Come the four corners of the
world in arms" against us, as the great poet says.
We are, of course, keeping watch from inside the conning tower; it is,
at all events, dry, but as to seeing anything one might as well be
looking out through a small glass window from inside a breakwater! To
bed till 4 a.m.
* * * * *
A most unprofitable day. I grudge every day away from Zoe on which we
do nothing. This morning about noon the gale blew itself out, but a
heavy confused sea continued to run.
At 2 p.m. we saw a most tantalizing spectacle. A big tank steamer,
fully 600 feet long and of probably 17,000 tons burthen hove in sight,
escorted by two destroyers. To attack with the gun was impossible, as
we could only keep the conning tower open when stern to sea, and in any
case the two destroyers prevented any surface work. We tried to get in
for an attack, but we had not seen her in time, and the best we could
do was to get within 3,000 yards, at which range it would have been
absurd to have wasted a torpedo, the chances of hitting being 100 to 1
against, even if the torpedo had run properly in the sea that was on.
I had a good look at her through the foremost periscope in between the
waves, and it maddened me to see all that oil, doubtless from Tampico
for the Grand Fleet, going safely by. The destroyers were having a bad
time of it, crashing into the sea like porpoises, their funnels white
with salt, and their bridges enveloped in sheets of water and spray.
They little thought that, barely a mile away, amidst the tumbling,
crested waves a German eye was watching them!
There is no doubt these damned British have pluck, for it was the last
sort of weather in which one would have expected to find destroyers at
sea, and yet I suppose they do this throughout the winter.
After all, one would expect them to be tough fellows--they are of
Teutonic stock--though by their bearing one might imagine that the
Creator made an Englishman and then Adam.
Let's hope we get some decent weather to-morrow. I have just been
refreshing my memory by reading of what I wrote in the book, concerning
the day in the forest with the adorable girl. There is an exquisite
pleasure in transporting the mind into such memories of the past when
the body is in such surroundings as the present, if only I could will
myself to dream of her!
* * * * *
A fine day in every sense of the word. The weather has been and remains
excellent, and I have been present at my first sinking. It was absurdly
commonplace. At 10 a.m. this morning a column of smoke crept upwards
from the southern horizon.
Von Weissman steered towards it on the surface until two masts and the
top of a funnel appeared. We dived and proceeded slowly under water on
a southerly course.
Half an hour passed and Von Weissman brought the boat up to periscope
depth and had a look. He called to me to come and see, an invitation I
accepted with alacrity.
With natural excitement I looked through the periscope and there she
was, unconsciously ambling to her doom like a fat sheep.
She was a steamer (British) of about 4,000 tons, slugging home at a
steady ten knots, but she was destined to come to her last mooring
place ahead of schedule time!
We dipped our periscope and I went forward to the tubes. Five minutes
elapsed and the order instrument bell rang, the pointer flicking to
"Stand by." I personally removed the firing gear safety pin and put the
repeat to "Ready." A breathless pause, then a slight shake and
destruction was on its way, whilst I realized by the angle of the boat
that Weissman was taking us down a few metres.
That shows his coolness, he didn't even trouble to watch his shot.
Anxiously I watch the second hand of my stop watch. Weissman had told
me the range would be about 500 metres--30 seconds--31--32--33--has he
missed?--34--35--3--A dull rumble comes through the water and the
whole boat shakes. Hurra! we have hit, and the order "Surface" comes
along the voice pipe.
The cheerful voice of the blower is heard, evacuating the tanks; I run
to the conning tower and closely follow Weissman up the ladder. At last
I am on the bridge. There she is! What a sight!
I feel that I shall never forget what she looked like, though, if all
goes well, I shall see many another fine ship go to her grave.
But she was my first; I felt the same sensation when, as a boy, I shot
my first roe-deer in the Black Forest, one instant a living thing
beautiful to perfection, the next my rifle spoke and a bleeding carcase
lay beneath the fine trees. So with this ship. I am a sailor, and to
every sailor every ship that floats has, as it were, a soul, a
personality, an entity; to carry the analogy further, a merchant craft
is like some fat beast of utility, an ox, a cow, or a sheep, whilst a
warship is a lion if she is a battleship, a leopard if she is a light
cruiser, etc.; in all cases worthy game.
But War has little use for sentimentality! and in my usual wandering
manner I see that I have meandered from the point and quite forgotten
what she did look like.
What I saw was this:
I saw that the steamer had been hit forward on the starboard side. The
upper portion of the stem piece was almost down to the water level, her
foremost hold was obviously filling rapidly. Her stern was high out of
water, the red ensign of England flapping impotently on the ensign
staff. Her propeller, which was still slowly revolving, thrashed the
water, and this heightened the impression that I was watching the
struggles of a dying animal. The propeller was revolving in spasmodic
jerks, due, I imagine, to the fast failing steam only forcing the
cranks over their dead centres with an effort.
A boat was being lowered with haste from the two davits abreast the
funnel on one side, but when she was full of men and, due to the angle
of the ship, well down by the bow, someone inboard let go the foremost
fall or else it broke, for the bows of the boat fell downwards and half
a dozen figures were projected in grotesque attitudes into the sea. For
a few seconds the boat swung backwards and forwards, like a pendulum.
When she came to rest, hanging vertically downwards from the stern, I
noticed that a few men were still clinging like flies to her thwarts.
Truly, anything is better than the Atlantic in winter. Meanwhile the
ship had ceased to sink as far as outward signs went.
I mentioned this to Von Weissman, who was at my side with a slight
smile on his face, amused doubtless at the eagerness with which I
watched every detail of this, to me, novel tragedy. He answered me that
I need not worry, that she was being supported by an air lock somewhere
forward, that the water was slowly creeping into her and her boilers
would probably soon go.
This remarkable man was absolutely correct.
There was an interval of about five minutes, during which another boat,
evidently successfully lowered from the other side, came round her
stern, picked up one or two men from the water and also collected the
survivors in the hanging boat; then the steamer suddenly sank another
two feet, there was a dull rumbling, as of heavy machinery falling from
a height, a muffled report, a cloud of steam and smoke, a sucking noise
and then a pool in the water, in the middle of which odd bits of wood
and other buoyant debris kept on bobbing up. Nothing else!
No! I am wrong, there were two other things: a U-boat, representing the
might of Germany, and a whaler with perhaps twenty men in it,
representing the plight of England!
As she went I felt hushed and solemn, it was an impressive moment; a
slight chuckle came from imperturbable Weissman; he had seen too many
go to think much of it, and he gave an order for the helm to be put
over, so that we might approach the whaler.
They were horribly overcrowded, and were engaged in trying to sort
themselves into some sort of order. We passed by them at 50 yards and
Weissman, seizing his megaphone, shouted in English: "Goodbye! steer
west for America!" A cold horror gripped my heart. It was an awful
moment. I dare not write the thoughts that entered my head.
I turned away my head and faced aft, that he should not see my face;
looking back I saw the whaler rocking dangerously in our wash, and then
a commotion took place in her stern, from which a huge bearded man
arose and, shaking his fist in our direction, shouted something or
other before his companions pulled him down.
Von Weissman heard and his lips narrowed in. I held my breath in
suspense, but he evidently decided against what he had been about to
do, for with the order, "Course north! ten knots," he went below.
I remained on deck watching the rapidly receding whaler through my
glasses until she was a mere speck--alone on the ocean, 150 miles from
land, Then the navigator came up, and with strangely mixed feelings of
exultant joy and depressing sorrow I went below.
Von Weissman was in the wardroom. I watched him unobserved. He was
humming a tune to himself and had just completed putting a green dot on
the chart. This done he lay back on the settee and closed his
eyes--strange, insoluble man!
For long hours I could not forget that whaler; I see it now as I write.
I suppose I shall get used to it all. What would Zoe say?
The most wonderful thing about man is that he can stand the strain of
his own invention of modern war!
* * * * *
I am rather tired to-night, but must just jot down briefly what has
taken place to-day, as there is never any time in the daylight hours.
Soon after dawn, at about 8 a.m., we sighted a fair-sized steamer of
about 3,000 tons, which we sunk, but I cannot say what she looked like,
or whether anyone escaped, as we never came to the surface at all, Von
Weissman sighting smoke on the western horizon just as he hit her. We
accordingly steered in that direction. However, I think she went almost
at once as Von Weissman put a dot (black) on the chart as we made
towards number 3.
I very much wanted to know whether there were any survivors, but I did
not like to ask him at the time and he has been in such an infernal
temper ever since that I haven't had a suitable opportunity.
The cause of his rage was as follows:
Steamer number 3 turned out to be a fine fat chap (of the Clan Line,
Von Weissman said, when we first sighted her). We moved in to attack
and fired our port bow tube. I waited in vain by the tubes for the
expected explosion--nothing happened, but after a couple of minutes a
snarl came down the voice pipe: "Surface, GUN ACTION STATIONS!"