THE BATTLE OF JUTLAND
Youth's passion, manhood's fierce intent,
With age's judgment wise,
They spent, and counted not they spent,
At daily sacrifice.
. . . . . .
Refraining e'en from lawful things,
They bowed the neck to bear
The unadornèd yoke that brings
Stark toil and sternest care.
Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;
Wherefore through them we stand
From all but sloth and pride secure,
In a delightsome land.
KIPLING
On Tuesday, May 30, 1916, we were at our northern base lying quietly
at anchor, when in the course of the afternoon a signal was received
from the Flagship ordering steam. From this we presumed that we should
shortly depart for one of our periodical trips to sea for the purpose
of executing manœuvres.
An hour or so later some of the light cruisers got under way, and on
our ship the bugle-call "Special Duty Men" was sounded off. The first
part of the watch on deck went on to the fo'c'sle to shorten in to
three shackles: that means to heave in the port or starboard cable, as
the case may be, to three shackles, preparatory to weighing anchor.
The Second Battle Squadron having got under way, we weighed and
proceeded to sea in their wake. It was a calm evening: my first watch
(8 to 12 P.M.) was uneventful, and when it was over I turned in. Next
morning I had my bath at 6.45, and when dressed repaired to the gunroom
in the hope that my seven-bell (naval phraseology for 7.30) breakfast,
which I had ordered overnight, would be ready for me.... Vain hope
triumphing over experience, and doomed to disappointment. As usual the
said breakfast did not materialize until five minutes to eight, which
left me exactly two minutes in which to consume it ... very bad for
digestion and temper!
That hurried meal over, I went up to the bridge to relieve the
officer in charge of submarine lookouts for the morning watch. It was
a glorious day, with a foretaste of summer in the air. The sea was
calm, and visibility rather below normal. The Fleet was proceeding
leisurely in usual formation. In accordance with custom, at 9.15
"General Quarters" was sounded off by the bugler, and the succeeding
two and a half hours at control stations passed without incident. This
over, the Commander (N.), i.e. navigator, sent down a chit to the
Senior Midshipman, which chit read as follows: "I consider this a good
opportunity for all Midshipmen to take sights." This, of course, raised
a moan, but collecting our sextants we paired off and went up to the
signal deck. On this occasion I was paired with Campbell.
"After you with the deck watch," I said to the Snotty who was using it.
He handed it over to me a minute later, and my partner and I compared
it with my watch, and then took up a good position for taking a sight.
I levelled my sextant at the sun. "Got it?" queried Campbell. "No,
blast the beastly thing. Why on earth do they provide us with upside
down telescopes. I can't get it—half a mo' though, there it is."
I moved the arm of the instrument along the arc to bring the sun down
to the horizon—in doing so, lost old Sol again about three times, but
eventually got it down, and then the horizon was promptly obliterated
by smoke from our funnels. No sooner had that cleared off than the ship
altered course to starboard, so the elusive orb once more disappeared,
this time obscured by the funnel, and we had to change to the other
side of the deck and start all over again. At last I managed to get my
reading, and after my partner had got his, we went off to the gunroom
to have lunch. That meal disposed of, we set to and worked out our
sights. Mine proved to be miles out, so after reworking it three times,
I came to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with my
sextant. I took it down from the shelf, and going to the scuttle,
proceeded to check all the usual errors. The index adjustment was
all right, but there were about three degrees of side error in the
instrument. I tried to take it out, but only succeeded in putting in
about double the amount of index error. After spending a considerable
amount of time in fiddling about, I shouted for help from any one who
felt capable of giving it. Campbell promptly volunteered, and we went
up on deck, where we began to try and adjust the sextant. We had only
been up there a few minutes when I saw a two-flag signal flutter to the
yard-arm of the Flagship.
"_Hallo_," I cried, "there's an _action_ signal from the Flag," and
picking up one of the telescopes belonging to the sextant I tried to
make out the hoist. It was—well, let us call it "X Y" since it would
not be permissible to give the real letters—and it indicated "Raise
steam for full speed with the utmost dispatch."
We wondered considerably what so unlooked for a signal might portend,
and after waiting a few minutes to see if anything more was coming
through, we went down to the gunroom to give the news to the others.
The more energetic spirits at once dashed up on deck to see if anything
further had transpired, and shortly afterwards returned with the
thrilling information that the signal "B N" had been hoisted.
Here was news indeed, for that signal meant that action with the enemy
was imminent, and this was the first time during the war that the Grand
Fleet (as distinct from the Battle Cruiser Fleet) had hoisted it.
There was, however, no time for discussion just then, as "Control
Parties" was immediately sounded off, and we all hurried to our
appointed "action" stations.
I was stationed in the conning-tower with a Lieutenant and two other
Mids, and here also were the chief quartermaster, who manipulates the
wheel in action, a telegraph operator, and one or two other seaman
ratings. Presently a signalman came down and showed us a signal which
read: "Commodore T. [the Commodore in command of all unattached torpedo
craft] in the light cruiser —— reports in touch with the enemy light
forces."
This naturally caused some excitement, but, in our long months of
monotonous watching and waiting, hope had been so often deferred that
we had grown sceptical of ever having the good fortune to really engage
the enemy. By this time the whole Fleet was proceeding at 18 knots,
great clouds of smoke pouring from all funnels. This smoke, however,
ceased as soon as the fires had been made up sufficiently to give the
necessary head of steam, and as in our modern battleships with their
marvellous turbine engines vibration is practically non-existent, only
the swift rush of the wind through the slits in the conning-tower
enabled us to realize the speed the Fleet had now attained.
About twenty minutes later (3.45 P.M.) a signal came from the
Vice-Admiral commanding the battle cruisers, stating that he was in
action with the enemy Battle-Cruiser Fleet. This was shortly followed
by another which said that he was now engaging the enemy High Sea Fleet
in latitude ——, longitude ——. The position indicated was barely fifty
miles on our starboard bow. On receipt we further increased speed,
holding on our original course, as the engaging ships were proceeding
in a north-westerly direction. All this being eminently satisfactory,
we then went to tea.
That is to say, half of our number went, the rest remaining at
their posts until the first batch had finished. The foretop and
conning-tower's crews being told off to relieve each other for meals,
and the senior officer "Guns" being in the foretop, they went first,
and as usual took more than their fair share of the allotted time. When
they had at last satisfied their voracious appetites and our turn came,
we found nearly all peace lights out between deck and in the gunroom
mess. During tea much speculation was rife, but we dared hardly hope
even now that we should indeed get into touch with the enemy.
We stayed below as long as we possibly could, and eventually returned
to our "action" stations about five o'clock.
Encountering the Yeoman of Signals just outside the conning-tower, I
asked for the latest news, but nothing fresh had been received.
Half an hour later we sighted a sailing ship right ahead. She seemed
to draw near with uncanny speed, and when we were able to make out her
colours she proved to be Norwegian. It was when she was nearly abreast
of us that we first heard the dull far-away boom of guns. The sound
rapidly increased in volume and intensity, but as yet nothing could
be seen of the action taking place just beyond the horizon, and the
sailing ship gliding quietly along, her canvas, spread to the summer
breeze, and the wide expanse of still blue water together formed a
picture so emblematic of all the peaceful, everyday things of seafaring
life that it seemed almost impossible to realize that within so short
a time we should be in the thick of the greatest naval battle the world
had ever known.
But scarcely had the Norwegian passed astern when the yellowish haze
on our starboard bow was broken by lurid red flashes, while here and
there the sun glinted momentarily on the pale grey hulls of the battle
cruisers which loomed up like great ghosts in the midst of the cordite
smoke.
Now our light cruisers and destroyers dashed ahead belching forth
clouds of black smoke, the water churning and foaming in their wake.
The battle cruisers, by this time a bare half-mile away, the bow waves
raised by their swift passage creaming to their fo'c'sles, were firing
rapidly with all guns. From the deck of their Flagship, just abreast
her foremost turrets, a thin wisp of blue smoke and little flickers of
greenish flame showed where an enemy shell had found its mark. Under
her 'midship funnel a gaping rent was torn in her side, revealing a
mass of twisted metal where another projectile had burst. One gun of
her 'midship turret, thrown out of action, drooped towards the deck
licked by hungry tongues of flame—but her remaining armament was still
firing doggedly.
Away to starboard the enemy's guns flashed continuously through the
battle haze. Our light craft swung 8 points to port, heeling right over
under pressure of the helm. Close beside us a small cruiser of the ——
class lay hove to and awaiting a chance to dash through the lines. She
was so close that we could see her crew standing laughing and joking
round their guns—plainly exulting in the longed-for chance of action.
A moment later the enemy opened on our destroyers, their shells
flinging columns of white spray high in the air—but, as yet, our ships
held their fire.
Now the Flagship hoisted the signal:
"_Remember the glorious First of June and avenge Belgium._"
This was passed down to all quarters with the added message from our
Captain:
"_Keep calm. Remember the traditions of the British Navy._"
Now our Admiral and his staff came down to the conning-tower. First
came the Flag Lieutenant, followed shortly by the Admiral's legs.
But here, I regret to say, a slight hitch occurred, for his "lammy"
coat so hampered his usual agile movements that the remainder of
his person stuck fast in the manhole, and he was left incontinently
suspended in mid-air. From above the Captain pushed vigorously at his
shoulders, while "Flags" hauled at his august lower limbs. It was a
comic interlude, but the combined efforts of his subordinates finally
prevailed, and a few seconds later he stood safely on the deck.
In a very few minutes the Captain found that the conning-tower did not
give him a sufficiently comprehensive view of the proceedings, and,
disdaining this place of comparative safety, dashed away to the bridge,
in which exposed position he remained for the greater part of the
action.
Now the air filled with the drone and shriek of shells of every size
which began to burst round us. One huge projectile—a ricochet—went
lolloping over our fo'c'sle head, its yellow colour and the dark bands
on its body being plainly visible.
The blast from our first salvo swept the Admiral's cap from his head,
and confusion reigned in the crowded area of the tower while "Flags"
pursued the errant headgear, finally retrieving it, and handing it back
politely to his Chief, who rammed it resentfully down over his eyes.
But at the next salvo it again flew off, this time disappearing through
a slit in the conning-tower and landing on the deck outside, where it
remained till the end of the action. "Flags," who seemed to feel in
some obscure way responsible for its vagaries being thereby reduced to
absolute frenzy!
Another of the enemy's funnels went overboard ere the mist closed
down and hid her. But we had the satisfaction of seeing that she was
stopped, and on fire fore and aft.
Some time later, there being no more enemy craft in sight, I left my
instrument and went to one of the slits in the conning-tower to see
what there was to be seen.
Close on our starboard beam the British destroyer —— could be seen
with a jagged shell-hole in her starboard quarter, another on her port
bow, and one of her 4-inch guns dismounted and lying on the deck with
dead and wounded all around. A portion of her crew was busy getting
out the collision-mats, but paused in their work to give us a cheer as
we forged past. Her gunner (T.), who had only been transferred to her
from our ship a week before, waved and shouted greetings to us from her
quarter-deck. Away on our port beam could be seen the stern and bow of
a big ship which had been split clean in half. A destroyer was lying
off ready to rescue survivors, but only three figures were visible
standing on the stern of the wreck just by the huge propellers.
About this time I recollect that the C.-in-C. made the signal to turn
two points towards the enemy together. By now the whole of our main
armament was firing at the Hun destroyers, and they, finding it a good
deal too hot for them, turned away. One had already been blown up, and
as I watched another was sunk by our fire.
H.M.S. ——, having got somewhat out of station, was firing across our
fo'c'sle, which made things very unpleasant in the conning-tower, as we
got the full benefit of the blast from each of her salvos. One of her
shells severed our forestay and it fell on the head of the Snotty on
the forebridge, causing him to express himself in sanguinary terms, but
not really injuring him at all.
At this juncture there came a yell from "Torps": "_Look._ There's a
d——d great Hun Dreadnought over there!" And, sure enough, there emerged
through the fog the bow of a huge ship not more than 8000 yards away.
Hurriedly we got the main armament trained on her, and instantly
opened fire. She had already opened on us. Through the glasses of my
instrument I could plainly see every detail of the German's hull and
superstructure—she was of the _Derflinger_ class. Our first salvo was
"over," and no sooner had it fallen than I saw the right gun of every
one of her turrets fire simultaneously. There was an anxious moment as
we waited for the fall of the shells. In about twenty seconds came a
roar and a crash of rending steel, accompanied by a vivid green flash.
For a moment the heat in the conning-tower was intense, and it filled
with the stifling fumes of the high explosive. On our gun deck a fierce
fire flared up, followed by a cry for stretcher parties and water for
the wounded, and the Torpedo Lieutenant was dispatched to endeavour to
extinguish the blaze. Two of the enemy shells had hit us, but one did
no harm bar taking the sounding platform overboard.
Our next salvo hit—and gaping rents appeared in the Hun's sides.
However, this apparently did not seriously affect her fighting
efficiency, as she instantly fired at us again, but now, happily, her
range was out and the shells pitched short, bursting on the water and
enveloping the fore part of our ship in a cloud of spray.
A few minutes later "Torps" returned, having with the aid of the guns'
crews successfully dealt with the fire, and he reported to the Captain
that all danger from that cause was now over.
By this time we had twice fired again and secured several more hits
on the enemy and a dull red glow appeared in the holes in her sides,
showing that fire was getting a hold on her vitals. Great clouds
of smoke and long tongues of flame shot up from her quarter-deck.
Most of her guns appeared to be out of action, but a few still fired
spasmodically.
Now some German destroyers hurried up and made a smoke-screen between
us and our prey as she turned eight points to port, and listing heavily
fled into the mist.... But we knew she was done for.
The visibility on our bow had now slightly increased, and we could see
the whole of the High Sea Fleet steaming on a course parallel to our
own and firing at our battle line. We at once got the guns trained on
their leaders and gave them a few salvos, but they were too far away
for our shooting to be effective. The sun was already sinking below the
horizon, and, whereas we were silhouetted against the western sky, the
enemy were fast disappearing in the gathering twilight, and in another
five minutes they were entirely lost to view.... It is maddening to
think of what we might have achieved had Fate but granted us another
hour of daylight. As it was, our part in the battle here ended.
Periodical bursts of firing were still audible from ahead, where our
battle cruisers were harrying the rear of the fast retreating enemy.
We remained at our action stations for another half-hour, and then
"Hands to Night Defence" was sounded off. After packing up in the
conning-tower we all rushed off to see what damage the ship had
sustained.
After my look round I went to the gunroom and managed to get a glass of
very flat beer, a hunk of bread, and a piece of pressed beef. This was
the only food I had between tea and breakfast the next morning. Then I
went up on to the bridge, and had not been there long when the lights
of some strange ship were sighted on our port bow. The 4-in. guns'
crews immediately closed up, but as we drew nearer the suspect proved
to be nothing but an inoffensive trawler.
This incident over, I went aft to my night defence station—a little
platform screened by canvas, barely six feet square, and a good fifty
feet above the water-line. It is commonly known as the "Eiffel Tower,"
and in this small space a party of eight had to spend the night.
Obviously there was no room to lie down, and, further, it was bitterly
cold.
All night the Hun destroyers tried to press home an attack on the
Battle Fleet, but our light craft continually beat them off, sinking
many in the process. At intervals the whole sky was lighted up with
a lurid glare as one or other of the enemy ships flared skyward and
crashed to her doom. All around the eastern horizon the flash of guns
was distinctly visible, only dying away in one quarter to blaze up in
another. Had I been less busy—or less cold—I might have thought of
Tennyson's lines in "The Revenge":
Ship after ship the whole night long
With her battle-thunder and flame,
Ship after ship the whole night long
Drew back with her dead and her shame.
For some were sunk and many were crippled
And so could fight us no more.
God of Battles! was ever a battle like this in the world before?
But, as a matter of fact, nothing was farther from my mind than poetry.
The sounding off of "General Quarters" at 2.30 came with a mighty
relief, as this meant that we could return to our more comfortable
"action stations," and our spell at "night defence" was over.
About 4 A.M. we sighted a Zeppelin, which passed over astern of us.
Those ships within range opened fire on her, but at every flash from
the salvos she dipped, dropping about 200 feet, and thus avoided the
shells. For a long time she was visible—a dark body against the eastern
sky—but she finally disappeared in the direction of Heligoland just as
the sun was rising.
At six o'clock next morning, Friday, June 2, we entered harbour and
dropped anchor without further incident.
Coaling started immediately, and as soon as the collier had shoved
off we were invaded by dockyard "mateys," and the cracked boat booms
were shored up. We had hoped that the necessary repairs would take
long enough to ensure our getting some leave, but in this we were
disappointed, for the damage we had sustained in the battle was not
considered sufficiently serious to necessitate docking. As we were the
only ship in the Grand Fleet that had been hit, we were naturally an
object of great interest, and very proud of ourselves in consequence.
We really had marvellous luck, for although about seven of the ship's
company were wounded—one poor chap having his arm shattered—we did not
lose a man.
So here ends my personal experience of the famous Battle of Jutland.
It will be readily understood that it is only a fraction of the whole.
As is now well known the Fifth Battle Squadron and the Battle-Cruiser
Fleet did their job so efficiently that the Germans fled to their
base—thus robbing the Grand Fleet of the chance to win a decisive
victory.
The Huns, with that genius for mendacity which they have exhibited
throughout the war, claimed to have defeated the British Navy—a claim
based presumably on the idea that "he who fights and runs away will
live to fight another day." Subsequent events must have convinced even
their own people of the fallacy of that claim, and there remains the
proven fact that with their whole forces in action they refused to face
more than a quarter of our Fleet.