Wiener died two hours ago. I should say the immediate cause of death
was shock and loss of blood. I did my best.
* * * * *
We have been out on this extended patrol area seven days, but not a
wisp of smoke greets our eyes.
Nothing but sea, sea, sea. Oh, how monotonous it is! I cannot make out
where the shipping has got to. Tomorrow I am going to close the North
Cape again. I think everything must be going inside me. I am too far
out here.
* * * * *
The North Cape bears due east. Nothing afloat in sight. Where the devil
can all the shipping be? In ten days' time I am due to meet my supply
ship; meanwhile I think I'll have to take another cast out, of three
hundred miles or so.
* * * * *
Nothing in sight, nothing, nothing.
The barometer falling fast and we are in for a gale. I have decided to
make the coast again, as I don't want to fail to turn up punctually at
the rendezvous.
* * * * *
In the Standarak-Landholm Fjord--thank heavens.
Heavens! we have had a time. We were still two hundred and fifty miles
from the coast when we were caught by the gale. And a gale up here is a
gale, and no second thoughts about it. To say it blew with the force of
ten thousand devils is to understate the case. The sea came on to us in
huge foaming rollers like waves of attacking infantry intent on
overwhelming us.
We struggled east at about three knots. But she stuck it magnificently.
Low scudding clouds obscured the sky and came like a procession of
ghosts from the north-east. Sun observations were impossible for two
reasons. Firstly, no one could get on deck; secondly, there was no
visible sun. This lasted for three days, at the end of which time we
had only the vaguest idea as to where we were.
The gale then blew out, but, contrary to all expectations, was
succeeded by a most abominable fog, thick and white like cotton-wool.
These were hardly ideal conditions under which to close a rocky and
unknown coast, but it had to be done. The trouble was that it was
entirely useless taking soundings, as the twenty-metre depth-line on
the chart went right up to the land. We crept slowly eastwards, till,
when by dead reckoning we were ten miles inside the coast, the
Navigator accidentally leant on the whistle lever; this action on his
part probably saved the ship, as an immediate echo answered the blast.
In an instant we were going full-speed astern. We altered course
sixteen points and proceeded ten miles westerly, where we lay on and
off the coast all night, cursing the fog.
Next day it lifted, and we spent the whole time trying to find the
entrance to the S. Landholm Fjord. The coast appeared to bear no
resemblance to the chart whatsoever.
The cliffs stand up to a height of several hundred metres, with
occasional clefts where a stream runs down. There are no trees, houses,
animals, or any signs of life, except sea birds, of which there are
myriads. The Engineer declares he saw a reindeer, but five other people
on deck failed to see any signs of the beast.
After hours of nosing about, during which my heart was in my mouth, as
I quite expected to fetch up on a pinnacle rock, items which are
officially described in the Handbook as being "very numerous," we
rounded a bluff and got into a place which seems to answer the
description of S. Landholm. At any rate, it is a snug anchorage, and
here I intend to remain for a few days, and hope for my store-ship to
turn up.
I've posted a daylight look-out on top of the bluff; it would be very
awkward to be caught unawares in this place, which is only about 150
metres wide in places.
I'm taking advantage of the rest to give the crew some exercises and
execute various minor repairs to the Diesels.
* * * * *
Yesterday we fought what must be one of the most remarkable single-ship
actions of the war.
At 9 a.m. the look-out on the cliffs reported smoke to the northward.
I got the anchor up and made ready to push off, but still kept the
look-out ashore. At 9.30 he reported a destroyer in sight, which seemed
serious if she chose to look into my particular nook.
At any rate, I thought, I wouldn't be caught like a rat, so I got my
look-out on board--a matter of ten minutes--and then proceeded out,
trimmed down and ready for diving.
When I drew clear of the entrance I saw the enemy distant about a
thousand metres. I at once recognized her as being one of the oldest
type of Russian torpedo boats afloat. When I established this fact, a
devil entered into my mind, and did a most foolhardy act.
I decided that I would not retreat beneath the sea, but that I would
fight her as one service ship to another.
When I make up my mind, I do so in no uncertain manner--indecision is
abhorrent to me--and I sharply ordered, "Gun's Crew--Action."
I can still see the comical look of wonderment which passed over my
First Lieutenant's face, but he knows me, and did not hesitate an
instant. We drilled like a battleship, and in sixty-five seconds--I
timed it as a matter of interest--from my order we fired the first
shot. It fell short.
Extraordinary to relate, the torpedo boat, without firing a gun, put
her helm hard over, and started to steam away at her full speed, which
I suppose was about seventeen knots.
I actually began to chase her--a submarine chasing a torpedo boat! It
was ludicrous.
With broad smiles on their faces, my good gun's crew rapidly fired the
gun, and we had the satisfaction of striking her once, near her after
funnel, but it did no vital damage, as a few minutes afterwards she
drew out of range! What a pack of incompetent cowards!
They never fired a shot at us. I suppose half of them were drunk or
else in a state of semi-mutiny, for one hears strange tales of affairs
in Russia these days.
The whole incident was quite humorous, but I realized that I had hardly
been wise, as without doubt the English will hear of this, and these
trawlers of theirs will turn up, and I'm certainly not going to try any
heroics with John Bull, who is as tough a fighter as we are.
Meanwhile, what of the supply ship, for I'm supposed to meet her here,
and it's already twenty-four hours since yesterday's epoch-making
battle and I expect the English any moment.
* * * * *
My doubts were removed for me since I received special orders at noon
by high-power wireless from Nordreich, and on decoding them found that,
for some reason or other, we are ordered to proceed to Muckle Flugga
Cape, and thence down the coast of Shetlands to the Fair Island
Channel, where we are directed to cruise till further orders. Special
warning is included as to encountering friendly submarines.
It appears to me that a special concentration of U-boats is being
ordered round about the Orkneys, and that some big scheme is on hand.
We are now steering south-westerly to make Muckle Flugga, which I hope
to do in four days' time if the weather holds.
These Northern waters have proved very barren of shipping in the last
few weeks, and this fact, coupled with the approaching winter weather,
which must be fiendish in these latitudes, makes me quite ready to
exchange the Archangel billet for the work round the Orkneys and
Shetlands, though this is damnable enough in the winter, in all
conscience.
There is only one fly in the ointment, and that is that this premature
return to North Sea waters might conceivably mean a visit to Zeebrugge,
though this class are not likely to be sent there.
Though it is many weeks since I left Zoe, I have not been able to
forget her. I continually wonder what she is doing, and often when I am
not on my guard she wanders into my thoughts.
Whilst I am up here, it does not matter much, except that it causes me
unhappiness, but if I found myself at Bruges it would be very hard.
However, I don't suppose I shall ever see her again.
* * * * *
Sighted Muckle Flugga this morning, and shaped course for Fair Island.
* * * * *
Oh! what a hell I have passed through. I can hardly realize that I am
alive, but I am, though whether I shall be to-morrow morning is
doubtful--it all depends on the weather, and who would willingly stake
their life on North Sea weather at this time of the year?
Curses on the man who sent us to the Fair Island Channel. Where the
devil is our Intelligence Service? If we make Flanders I have a story
to tell that will open their eyes, blind bats that they are,
luxuriating in the comfort of their fat staff jobs ashore.
The Fair Island Channel is an English death-trap; it stinks with death.
By cursed luck we arrived there just as the English were trying one of
their new devices, and it is the devil. Exactly what the system is, I
don't quite know, and I hope never again to have to investigate it.
For forty-seven, hours we have been hunted like a rat, and now, with
the pressure hull leaking in three places, and the boat half full of
chlorine, we are struggling back on the surface, practically incapable
of diving at least for more than ten minutes at a time. Even on the
surface, with all the fans working, one must wear a gas mask to
penetrate the fore compartment. Oh! these English, what devils they
are!
Here is what happened:
Fair Island was away on our port beam when we sighted a large English
trawler, which I suspected of being a patrol. To be on the safe side, I
dived and proceeded at twenty metres for about an hour.
At 5 p.m. (approximately) I came up to periscope depth to have a look
round, but quickly dived again as I discovered a trawler, steering on
the same course as myself, about a thousand metres astern of me. This
was the more disconcerting, as in the short time at my disposal it
seemed to me that she was remarkably similar to the craft I had seen in
the afternoon, and yet this hardly seemed likely, as I did not think
she could have sighted me then.
On diving, I altered course ninety degrees, and proceeded for half an
hour at full speed, then altered another ninety degrees, in the same
direction as the previous alteration, and diving to thirty metres I
proceeded at dead slow. By midnight I had been diving so much that I
decided to get a charge on the batteries before dawn; I also wanted to
be up at 1 a.m. to make my position report.
I surfaced after a good look round through the right periscope, which,
as usual, revealed nothing. I had hardly got on the bridge, when a
flash of flame stabbed the night on the starboard beam and a shell
moaned just overhead.
I crash-dived at once, but could not get under before the enemy fired a
second shot at us, which fortunately missed us. As we dived I ordered
the helm hard a starboard, to counteract the expected depth-charge
attack. We must have been a hundred and fifty metres from the first
charge and a little below it, five others followed in rapid succession,
but were further away, and we suffered no damage beyond a couple of
broken lights. The situation was now extremely unpleasant. I did not
dare venture to the surface, and thus missed my 1 a.m. signal from
Headquarters. I wanted a charge badly, and so proceeded at the lowest
possible speed. At regular intervals our enemy dropped one depth-charge
somewhere astern of us, but these reports always seemed the same
distance away.
At dawn I very cautiously came up to periscope depth, and had a look.
To my consternation I discovered our relentless pursuer about 1,500
metres away on the port quarter. In some extraordinary manner he had
tracked us during the night.