THE HUNTED
The hunter knows little, and cares little, about the feelings of the
hunted; and if he is hunting for food, or to exterminate vermin, his
indifference is not unreasonable. The submarine may be classed with
savage beasts, and is even less deserving of pity; but it is not
actually an animal, and the difference is important. It is controlled
by beings with human intelligence, speech, nerves and faculties; and
since they are our enemies, seeking our destruction while we seek
theirs, it must be of interest to us, and may be of advantage, to know
what are their feelings during the chase.
Information of this kind is not easy to obtain; but the enemy have
thought fit to publish, for their own people, a certain number of
accounts by submarine officers, and they have not been able to prevent
all of them from finding their way to this country. Here, for instance,
is an extract from the ‘War Diary of U. 202,’ by Lieut.-Commander
Freiherr Spiegel von und zu Peckelsheim.
‘At 4 o’clock I again came up to have a look through the
periscope.... On our starboard bow was a large French torpedo-boat
with 4 funnels, on the watch. There was no land in sight.
‘I should much have liked to sink the smart-looking Frenchman. But
the considerable probability, that in such a position I should then
have the whole pack hunting me, induced me to refrain. I must admit
that I found it very hard not to utilise this opportunity for a
shot, and very reluctantly I lowered the periscope and gave orders
to dive. This was our salvation. If we had continued a few minutes
longer at the level at which here one uses the periscope, I should
not be sitting to-day smoking cigarettes and writing my experiences.
‘We were still diving, and the depth-gauge showed 17 metres (56
feet). Suddenly we all had the sensation of having been struck on
the head with a hammer. For a second we lost consciousness; then we
picked ourselves up from the deck, or from the corners into which
we had been thrown, feeling pains in our heads, shoulders, and
other parts of our bodies. The whole boat throbbed and trembled.
Were we still alive? What had happened? Why was it so dark, black
as night? Ah! the light was out!
‘“Examine the fuse!”
‘“Fuse gone!”
‘“Put in spare fuse!”
‘Suddenly we had light again. This was all a matter of seconds,
happening in far less time than it takes to describe it.
‘What had happened? Was it really not the end of us? Was not the
water rushing into the boat somewhere, and carrying us down to the
bottom? It must have been a mine--a tremendous mine detonation
close to the boat. Reports were made automatically from all
compartments. “Bow compartment not making water; stern compartment
all right; engine-room no water.” No water anywhere!
‘Then the boat inclined itself at a peculiar angle--the bow went
down and the stern rose up. The boat was unaccountably trimmed by
the bow, although the hydroplanes were hard over in the opposite
direction.
‘“There is something wrong, sir,” reported the man at the
diving-wheel. “The boat won’t answer to her helm. We must be hung
up somewhere, by a rope, or perhaps a net!”
‘The devil! We are in a net, of course, and above us there are
mines secured to the net. It is enough to drive one out of one’s
mind.
‘“Pay attention!” I shouted from the conning-tower. “We have got to
get through! Hydroplanes hard up and hard down, utmost speed ahead
with both engines! Don’t let her rise! Whatever happens, keep down!
There are mines above us!”
‘The engines started, revolving at their highest revolutions. The
boat shot forward, caught in the net, strained against it, bored
itself a way downwards, tugged, tore, and finally left the wire net
all ripped apart.
‘“Hurrah! We are free! The boat answers to her helm!” cried the
helmsman from below.
‘“Go deeper, dive to 50 metres (164 feet),” I ordered. “This is an
evil spot hereabouts--it is hell itself.”
‘I sat down on the life-saving apparatus and buried my head in
my hands. Everything was going round with me like a mill-wheel.
Above my eyes I had a pain as though needles were sticking into my
forehead, and I had such a humming in my ears that I stopped them
up with my fingers.
‘“This is certainly an evil spot,” I repeated to myself, “but what
luck we had, most extraordinary luck, which has saved us!”
‘Some time elapsed before the pains in my head allowed me to fit
things together and understand what had happened. Yes, it was
pure luck that we had dived just in time. We were at a depth of
17 metres when the explosion occurred, our bows touching the net.
Things grew clearer and clearer to me as I thought them over.
‘When we hit against the net we stretched it taut and thus actuated
the mine detonators, the mines being attached to the net at the
depth at which a submarine usually proceeds. If we had attempted
to attack the torpedo-boat, or for any other reasons had remained
a little longer at the depth at which the periscope can be used,
we should have run into the net in just the way that the enemy
would have wished--viz., so that the mines would have exploded
alongside or underneath us. What actually happened was that the
mine exploded above us, and the main force was expended in the line
of least resistance (viz., upwards), and we suffered nothing more
than a fearful fright, and perhaps a few disfigurements to the thin
plating of the superstructure.’
U. 202 was certainly lucky this time. And though she was saved by
sheer luck and nothing else, it is not unnatural, considering the
ever-growing roll of those which fail to escape, that Lieut.-Commander
Freiherr Spiegel von und zu Peckelsheim should enlarge upon his
terror at the moment and his self-congratulation afterwards. But he
is mistaken if he thinks that he has come through the worst that can
happen to a submarine commander. His struggle in the net was short and
easy, when compared with the feats of a Bruce or a Cochrane in passing
and repassing the barrage off Kilid Bahr; and the jar he got from
his mine seems to have affected his head more than his boat. In older
navies, and among less excitable nations, these things are reported
more quietly--more from a professional than a sensational point of
view. ‘I think,’ writes Commander Courtney Boyle of a very similar
accident, ‘I must have caught the moorings of a mine with my tail as I
was turning, and exploded it ... the whole boat was very badly shaken.’
Not a word more about it, though his cruise continued for more than ten
days afterwards. Without disparaging the German officer (who no doubt
shares the national temperament, and knows how to move his audience),
we may take pleasure in noting that the steadiness of nerve and the
scientific view are in our favour. Given anything like a fair fight,
and a reasonable time for play, it will not be the Peckelsheims who
will win against our men.
An experience of another kind is described in a number of the
_Illustrierte Zeitung_ of July 12, 1917. The date of the engagement was
February 22, in the same year.
‘Just at dinner time the watch reports a tank steamer in an E.N.E.
direction, steering a course approximately towards the boat. Masts,
bridge and funnel are visible above the horizon. Tank steamers are
very hard to sink, as they have stray bulkheads fitted to keep
their volatile cargo in check. The torpedo must hit the aftermost
engine to stop the tank steamer. The periscope must only be shown
occasionally for a very short time, so as not to alarm her. The
torpedo is fired at 700 metres (765 yards) away, the submarine
comes to the surface and fires a shot from her forward gun, as a
signal to stop. The steamer understands, lowers two boats, and the
crew abandon ship. Steam is blown off in a high white column. The
master appears to be a sensible man, who does not intend to expose
himself to shell fire for no purpose. The submarine approaches
submerged and takes stock of the vessel--a black tank steamer,
grey superstructure, no guns--the naval patent log hanging over
the stern. The submarine then makes for the boats. As soon as they
see her periscope, they hastily pull away. At length the submarine
finds a favourable position to come to the surface, outside the
boats, so that the latter are in the line of fire. She rises to
the surface, with compressed air in her midship diving-tanks, the
conning-tower hatch is opened and the process of blowing out the
tanks begins. The boats have pulled away a little further, and just
as they are being hailed there is a flash from the steamer.
‘A submarine trap! Alarm. Flood tanks, dive rapidly! The seconds
seem interminable. The superstructure abaft the conning-tower is
penetrated, and hardly has the hatch been closed when there is a
sharp report in the conning-tower, a yellow flash, and explosive
gases fill the air. A shell has penetrated the side of the
conning-tower and exploded inside. All the fittings are shattered
by splinters; there is a sound of breaking glass. Another shell
will fall directly and that will be the end of the war for us.
Water is splashing in through the shot hole; the boat is sinking
into the shelter of the deep. The conning-tower is cleared, the
inner hatch and voice-pipe cock are closed, and the leads laid into
the control room.
‘“Anyone injured in the conning-tower?” Only one, very slightly;
but their faces are black and their clothes look as though they had
seen service.
‘At 20 metres (65 feet) there are two sharp explosions, and the
boat trembles. The “poor shipwrecked men” have thrown depth-charges
after us. A few of the lights go out, and further damage to the
main switchboard is averted by timely action. The conning-tower is
filling. In theory the boat can still remain afloat, but no one has
yet survived to tell us how. The increasing weight causes the boat
to sink to 40 metres (131 feet) in spite of her being down by the
stern and with the engines at utmost speed. Water spurts through
the leaky places, and, owing to short circuits, half the lights
and important machinery break down successively--gyro compass,
main rudder, forward hydroplane (which, to make matters worse,
jams at ‘hard down’), trimming pumps, and all control apparatus.
The tricolour captured from the full-rigged ship _La Bayonne_ is
pressed into service to plug the leak. The boat must be lightened
by compressed air in the after and amidship diving tanks, and
brought on to an even keel. She rises, certainly, but is more down
by the stern than ever. The after compressed air service breaks
down. We must avoid coming to the surface, whatever happens, for up
above the enemy is lying in wait to fire at us. At 20 metres (65
feet) the diving-tank valves are opened, and all available men sent
forward, in order that their weight may cause the bow to sink. The
boat sinks by the bow, and the manœuvre is repeated. In another
twenty minutes it becomes impossible to proceed submerged. There
is now only one, not very promising, alternative--to come to the
surface suddenly and run away, firing as we go.
‘“Compressed air in all the tanks, open galley ventilator, man the
guns, Diesel engines ready, and put to utmost speed as soon as
possible.”
‘The boat comes to the surface, the galley hatch is opened. A
torrent of water rushes down; never mind, we shall have to swim
for it directly, anyhow. Now the way is clear to the surface.
The steamer is about 25 hms. (2734 yards) away, and firing as
fast as she can. “You haven’t got us yet--not by a long way!”
The guns quickly reply. Any result? The telescopic sights are
still in the flooded conning-tower. The M.A.N. motors are quickly
started--much more quickly than is permissible, but when all
is staked on one card there is no help for it. All the men who
are not occupied below are bringing up supply ammunition. The
sub-lieutenant suddenly feels his feet blown away from under him,
and staggers through a cloud of smoke against the gun. Poor fellow,
he has probably had both legs shot away. But no, only a few small
splinters--nothing more! The shell passed between the legs of
the foremost gunlayer, the drum of his ear was perforated by the
report, and there are some lumps and holes in the ready ammunition.
The shells pass through, close to the men; they look like black
specks in the air just before they fall. One of the railing
supports is shattered. A Leipzig man is standing in the stern at
the hand-wheel, steering calmly by the verbal directions of the
navigating warrant-officer--the compasses can no longer be used.
‘The telescopic sights can now be recovered from the conning-tower.
There is a report, “Destroyer to starboard.” Quite right. She is
proceeding on a parallel course at 80 hms. (8750 yards) and the
fire of her four guns mingles with that of the tank steamer. A
destroyer like that has a speed of over 30 knots, and carries
4-inch guns.
‘“On lifebelts!” Below the horizon, in a S.S.E. direction, there
must be a sailing-vessel; we sighted one this morning. Perhaps
the boat may be able to reach her, so as to save the crew from a
_Baralong_ fate.
‘The guns’ crews have become so deaf from the noise of their own
guns that it is only possible to direct one gun by verbal orders.
The decoy ship is now so far away that there is no further need
to fire at her. Open fire on the new foe then! This is not a
destroyer, however, but a “submarine-destroyer” of the _Foxglove_
class, about twice the size of the submarine, but no faster. At
the same moment the second-engineer reports that he can repair the
damaged conning-tower, and our hopes soar as far as neutral Spain.
‘“Open fire at 70 hms. (7655 yards)!” Soon the columns of water
from the shells, as high as the funnels, mark the fall of the
shots, and the enemy begins to zigzag to avoid the troublesome
shells, thereby interfering with the aim of her own guns. Suddenly
the superstructure is enveloped in black smoke. A hit! Another!
Several shells do not throw up a column of water; they must have
buried themselves in her hull. Now she turns away, escapes from the
zone of fire, and then follows in our wake.
‘The damage caused by the short circuit is repaired, ammunition
put ready beside the guns, and, like Wellington at Waterloo, we
await the coming of night. Our pursuer must have reported the
engagement by wireless, with position and course. Soon destroyers
will appear and compel the submarine to submerge. The leaking oil
supply will leave a track of oil on the surface, and indicate where
depth-charges should be dropped.
‘The wireless aerial, which has been shot away, is repaired in
order to keep an eye on the enemy’s signals. Nothing to be heard.
A lucky shot must have destroyed our pursuer’s wireless, and
she cannot report. All the men who are not occupied below are
on deck smoking, discussing their impressions, experiences, and
premonitions; dreams, uncomfortable forebodings, fortune-telling
from cards, and all the means--such as green frogs--by which old
fortune-tellers and ancient augurs used to foretell the future.
‘The sun is sinking below the horizon; the chase has already lasted
more than three hours. The decoy ship has long passed out of sight,
and no new enemies have appeared. Suddenly shells begin falling
close by. The _Foxglove_ means to have another try as long as the
light holds, and we feel that this is an impertinence. “Man the
guns!”
‘Again the after gun carries off the honours of the engagement.
The rounds follow close on one another: sometimes three shells are
in the air at once. They will soon reach their target; the enemy
again tries to zigzag. Range and deflection are quickly adjusted,
and the shells leave her no peace. Once again that beautiful cloud
of black smoke envelopes her superstructure and several others fail
to raise the expected column of water. The enemy has ceased firing;
she turns sharply away at 92 hms. (10,000 yards), and follows us
only at a respectful distance. An hour later she disappears in the
darkness.’
The deliberately false German _communiqués_, and even the more
craftily composed stories in their press, are, as a rule, distinguished
only for their clumsiness and bad psychology. But this is a vivid and
quite possible account, and, if the details are accurate, the commander
of the submarine had a most trying experience and brought his boat
home by great luck. It is hard to imagine a moment more desperate than
that in which, after struggling to the surface and escaping from the
Q-boat’s guns, he heard the report of ‘Destroyer to starboard,’ and
knew that he could neither dive nor run from such an enemy. A good
deal might have been made of this by a more inventive writer; the
simple comment ‘Quite right!’ is much more convincing than any highly
coloured phrase, and is almost enough by itself to prove the narrative
genuine. Another intense moment lightly touched is that in which the
deadly ‘destroyer’ turns out to be only the little 10-knot patrol boat
_Alyssum_, with her small guns, and a flight for bare life becomes
suddenly a successful repulse of the enemy. It is noticeable, too, that
the commander is not once mentioned, and all his orders are given as
uttered rather than as heard; the narrator, moreover, is familiar with
the story of Wellington at Waterloo, and makes a country gentleman’s
joke about missing a hare. On the whole, I think it is plain that we
have here a true account.
Stories such as this are hard to come by, for the hunted seldom escape
so narrowly and with so good a tale to tell. But our own records show
at least one case of the kind, and it is one in which the crew of the
submarine passed through an even severer trial, for they were hunted by
their own side and had not the joy of a good fighting chance to sustain
them.
In August, 1917, Lieut.-Commander V. M. Cooper, in command of one of
H.M. submarines, was ordered to patrol a neighbouring coast, close in,
between certain parallels. He was warned not to arrive on his billet
before 10 A.M., for the very good reason that some of our own light
forces were conducting operations in that direction during the night,
and might be met returning at any time in the early morning. It must be
remembered that when such a meeting does occur, no system of signalling
is to be relied on for safety. A submarine will always be attacked on
sight by any ship, friend or enemy, for she is a danger too deadly to
be given a moment’s chance. Her colours, if she show any, may be false,
and only a seaplane can afford her the time necessary for answering a
private signal. Commander Cooper knew all about this. He decided to
arrive on his billet about noon, when the risk would presumably be over.
At 8 o’clock, then, on the finest summer morning of the year, Commander
Cooper was making his passage at normal surface speed, when the horizon
on his starboard bow began to be delicately shaded by faint pencilled
lines. Ten minutes more and a number of ships were visible, two points
on the bow, and five to six miles away. They were immediately in the
sun, and blurred by the haze, so that it was impossible to detect their
nationality. They might be our own squadron, coming back unexpectedly
early, or more likely a hostile force running from them. The only
thing certain was that they had sighted the submarine and were bent on
her destruction, for they were all bows on, bearing down upon her at
high speed--destroyers and cruisers--throwing up clouds of dense black
smoke.
Commander Cooper was in no indecent hurry, but he knew what he had to
do. He must get down, or be put down. Moreover, he must get well down;
for the water was very clear, and the sea flat calm, without a ripple.
After a last look at the charging squadron he dived to ninety feet,
changing his course to 185°.
His troubles began at once: the helm was reported jammed--it was
amidships. He sent the first-lieutenant to inspect, the report was
that the gear was all correct--the jamming seemed to be due to the
tightening of the rudder-post gland, either from external pressure,
or from some distortion of the after compartment of the ship. In any
case, nothing could be done for the moment, and there were plenty of
distractions coming. At 8.37 the sound of propellers was recorded on
the hydrophone--the destroyers were passing from port to starboard
overhead, like hounds abreast trying to pick up a scent.
One of them, must have thought she had hit it off, for a tremendous
explosion shook the submarine--a depth-charge had been dropped not far
behind her, shaking her stern violently. In her steering flat, the
first-lieutenant and his men were lifted bodily off their feet. The
commander continued his dive, and to his great comfort took bottom at
125 feet on the gauge.
Within three minutes of the first explosion, a second one followed.
It was equally violent, and to Commander Cooper appeared even louder;
but he told himself that this effect was probably due to the relative
position of the bomb, which had apparently detonated in a line with the
conning-tower. As he was himself in the control-room, in the centre of
the ship, the explosion would naturally sound louder, being on the
starboard beam instead of aft.
The boat was well built, and the commander had perfect confidence in
her. This was not his first experience of the kind. Exactly a year
before, he had been out in the Cattegat in an E-boat and had met ‘a
wrong un’--a _Greif_ or _Möwe_, which had opened fire on him with four
6-inch guns at 2000 yards and straddled him at once. The boat had to
dive as she was, in complete surface trim. Shot after shot fell close
to her; she was shaken by explosives and struck by splinters. Finally a
6-inch shell came alongside and threw up a huge column of water which
fell plump on the commander as he descended through the hatch. Part of
it accompanied him down the ladder, but he had the presence of mind to
draw the lid down behind him, and he and his boat lived to tell the
tale. So he knew that a British submarine can stand a shock or two. But
what made him really anxious was the question--which he hoped would
occur to no one else on board--why did those two depth-charges fall so
near one another: why did the enemy drop the second so close to the
first? The horrible suspicion came into his mind that his position was
being given away by something that he could only guess at--some noise
or some escape of air bubbles or oil which was reaching the surface.
[Illustration: ‘A huge column of water which fell plump on the
commander.’]
What was to be done? Nothing, but to lie closer than ever, and enjoy
the calm of the man who has done all that is possible. The order was
given to stop all motors, even the Sperry motor for running the gyro
compass. All vent valves, and other possible leaking places, were
inspected and reported tight.
Then came the third explosion, the most violent of all. Lights went
out suddenly, and the crew--groping in darkness--thought that the end
had come.
For a moment the ship seemed to be stunned; then the lights reappeared.
They had not been injured, but the shock had thrown all the
chopper-switches on the auxiliary switchboard to the ‘Off’ position.
Not a trace of a leak could be discovered--the ship was alive still,
and without a mortal wound. In her commander’s judgment it would take a
direct hit, or something very near it, to kill her.
Perhaps the most trying time of all was that which now followed. What
happened? Nothing happened. It was that which was so trying. From
9.5 A.M., when the third depth-charge exploded, till 4.7 P.M., the
submarine lay motionless on the sea-bed; no one on board knew when
it would be safe to move, or even whether it would be possible at
all--for both helm and hydroplanes were jammed and other defects might
be discovered. This was a test of moral stability as severe as any yet
recorded, even in the submarine service, and it is not surprising that
Commander Cooper was eventually ordered to add to his report a special
statement on the moral effects of the strain upon his ship’s company.
He reported accordingly, not in the picturesque style of the German
officer, exhilarated by his successful fight, but with the brevity
of a man of science and the simplicity of a narrator who has nothing
to prove. The behaviour of the officers he assumes without a word;
that of the men, he says, was admirable. Naturally it varied with the
individual; the older and more experienced men observed the demeanour
of their officers, and were content to abide by it; the younger ones
showed more difference, each in accordance with his temperament; but
they, too, did excellently, and having been assured that all was well,
the whole company settled down to read or to occupy themselves in other
ways. In the majority of cases the events of the day had no permanent
effect, though for a short time afterwards some of the men would start
on being wakened or touched suddenly by others. As to himself, the
commander declares that he thought the chances of being destroyed by
depth-charges small. To retain this opinion in the circumstances was
a proof of remarkable constancy; the constancy of the ‘man convinced
against his will’ in the proverb. And he felt at the time, as he
frankly says, that he would much rather remain on the surface and
engage an enemy, however large, and at all costs, than endure the
strain of a further experience of the kind. It would be likely, he
thought, to affect the judgment for some days, causing a tendency to
act over-cautiously or over-rashly.
None the less he carried on. At 4.7 the submarine left the bottom and
rose to a depth of 28 feet; at 8.35 in the evening she came to the
surface and proceeded to her billet. There she carried out the duties
of her patrol, and six days later, ‘at 1 P.M., British Summer Time,’
she returned to her base.
Of the hunted who do not return to their base we cannot hope to hear
much. But there was a smart engagement towards the end of 1917 between
an American convoy-escort and a German submarine, of which accounts
have been given by both sides, those above water and those below. The
convoy was approaching our shores towards dusk of a November afternoon
when the attack was made. The U-boat’s periscope--a ‘finger’ one,
of only two inches diameter--was sighted by the U.S.S. (destroyer)
_Fanning_, which was at the moment turning to port at a speed of about
fifteen knots. The submarine was 3 points on the _Fanning’s_ port bow,
distant about 400 yards, and going some two knots. The other destroyers
had just passed the spot where she was seen; the second of these,
U.S.S. _Nicholson_, was now on the _Fanning’s_ starboard bow, and very
handy for what was to follow. The commander of the _Fanning_, in order
to continue his swing to port, put his helm hard over and at the same
time increased speed to full. The periscope, of course, disappeared
instantly. But every eye on the _Fanning_ had marked her position.
The commander, when he had turned about 30°, ported his helm so as to
bring his ship right over the desired place, slightly ahead of the
periscope’s last position, and there he dropped a depth-charge, within
three minutes of the first alarm. It was a fine piece of work, and, as
it turned out, a decisive stroke.
Nothing was seen for the moment, beyond the upheaval of water caused by
the detonation. The _Fanning_ continued to turn under starboard helm;
the _Nicholson_ altered course to starboard, turned, and headed for the
spot where the charge had been dropped, intending, no doubt, to drop a
shot of her own in the same place. She could not have made a luckier
move. The conning-tower of the submarine suddenly broke surface between
her and the convoy, about 500 yards from where it had disappeared. The
boat was one of the new large-type U-boats, and was evidently hit, for
she could neither submerge properly nor keep an even keel, but went
rolling up and down like a gigantic porpoise in the direction of the
convoy. The two destroyers headed for her at full speed; _Nicholson_,
who was, of course, leading, passed over her, dropped her depth-charge,
and turned to port, firing three rounds from her stern gun into the
wash. Once more the enemy’s bow came up with a bound. This time he made
a desperate effort to keep on the surface, and struggled along at two
knots, being about 30° down by the stern. Finally he righted himself,
no doubt by filling tanks and crowding men forward, and his speed
seemed to increase. But by this time _Fanning’s_ guns were speaking to
him in unmistakable language; after the third shot the hatch opened, a
white shirt was waved, and the whole crew came on deck holding up their
hands.
[Illustration: ‘The submarine suddenly broke surface.’]
It was now 4.28; the fight had taken no more than eighteen minutes from
first to last, and ten minutes later the U-boat sank. Her crew had
opened the sea valves and nearly paid the penalty, for they were all in
the water before they could be got off to the destroyer, and one who
could not swim was rescued by two chivalrous Americans. They jumped
into the dark, cold sea for him, forgetting all about the German rules
of war, and were disappointed when he died on deck.
The account given by the survivors was full of interest. They
were forty-one in number, including a captain-lieutenant, a
first-lieutenant, a lieutenant and a chief-engineer. The boat had
come straight from her base for the express purpose of attacking this
particular convoy, and had been lying in wait for two days, paying
no attention to any other ships. She carried twelve torpedoes, and
she carries them still, for not one had been fired when she went
down. The first depth-charge from _Fanning_ had been practically a
direct hit; it had wrecked her motors, diving gear, and oil leads, and
sent her diving entirely out of control to a depth of 200 feet. The
commanding officer thought at first that he would never be able to
stop her, and that she would go on until the deep-sea pressure burst
her sides in. He had only one possible course--he blew out all his
four water-ballast tanks at once. This stopped the dive but brought
the boat back to the surface with a rush and made her unmanageable.
One witness in the destroyers says that she ‘leaped clear of the water
like a breaching whale.’ It was then that _Nicholson_ overtook her and
dropped the second depth-charge; but even without this the end was
inevitable, for in her porpoise-like gambols she could have been shot
or rammed with certainty. Given a sufficient supply of patrol boats and
depth-charges in the submarine chase there will be but few and evil
days for the hunted. The American naval authorities have grasped this
truth at once and founded a building policy upon it. The boats will
be provided in any number, and if they are handled as the _Fanning_
and _Nicholson_ were handled, the U-boat will spend her short life in
dodging a perpetual bombardment.
That the end of the pirate, when it does come, is terrible, may easily
be conjectured, but probably no imagination could give any idea of
the actual experience. There is, however, in existence a narrative,
compiled by a neutral from the evidence of two Germans who survived,
by an extraordinary chance, the destruction of their ship. These men
were among the crew of a U-boat of the largest and newest type, one of
the last to come out of Zeebrugge before the harbour was bottled up by
the _Intrepid_ and _Iphigenia_. She had not gone far from port when she
hit a mine and exploded it. The shock was severe, but did not at once
appear to be fatal. The electric switches were thrown out of position,
the lights in some compartments went out, and the vessel began to sink
rapidly by the stern; but the lighting did not take long to restore,
and the crew were immediately ordered to trim the boat by making a
combined rush forward. This manœuvre was successful in bringing her
to an even keel, but by no effort could she be induced to rise to the
surface.
Now began the terror; the plating of the ship had been shaken and
forced apart by the explosion; water was pouring in; the leaks were
rapidly enlarging, and all attempts to stop them failed. In very few
minutes the boat would be filled either with water or with chlorine
gas from the batteries. It was hardly possible to escape from the
death-trap; but there was one desperate chance, if the conning-tower
and forward hatches could be forced open against the pressure of the
sea.
The commanding officer and the chief engineer entered the conning-tower
and ordered their men to open one of the forward hatches. If this could
be done, though the crew would have little hope of pushing their way up
through the incoming torrent, the air-pressure inside the boat would
be so greatly increased that the officers would be probably enabled
to open the conning-tower and escape. But the outside pressure was
too great for the hatch to be moved. The most violent efforts were
made, the men working in relays and using their strength desperately,
while their companions urged them on with terrible cries. Meantime it
was becoming more and more difficult to breathe; the salt water was
penetrating the batteries and giving off chlorine gas. The stern of the
vessel was now fully flooded and the internal air pressure was rapidly
increasing as the free space grew less. The moment of suffocation was
near. But the hatch could not be raised.
At this point, some of the crew lost control and behaved like madmen.
They crammed cotton waste into their ears and nostrils, and plunged
beneath the water, which was now knee-deep. One man turned his revolver
upon himself; it missed fire; he hurled it from him and plunged after
his comrades. One, who still kept his head, with a final effort forced
open one of the torpedo tubes and let in the water to end the struggle
one way or another. Hope returned for a moment. The internal air
pressure increased to such a pitch that the conning-tower and forward
hatch could both be opened. Officers and men sprang and fought their
way upwards through the inrush.
Perhaps twenty in all made their way out of the ship; but it was only
passing from one death to another. Human lungs are not adapted for
the sudden change from a deep-sea pressure to surface conditions. The
shrieks of these unfortunate men were heard by a trawler which happened
to be passing near; but before she could reach them all were dead but
two, and those two were broken men, bleeding from the lungs and crushed
in spirit. They had digged a cruel pit and fallen into the midst of it
themselves.