IN THE RADIO-ROOM
In this strange warfare against an enemy who fought, for the most part,
under the sea, there was no more effective agency than the wireless
telegraph or radio. It enabled the convoys to receive warnings and to
steer safe courses, it brought help to hundreds of ships in distress,
and as an offensive weapon enabled the Allied naval forces to locate
and destroy a large number of German submarines. Without the highly
developed employment of radio communication, it would have been
impossible to protect the transportation of troops, food, and material.
More than any other factor, the radio won the war at sea.
As soon as directional wireless was perfected and used, it became
practicable to fix the position of a U-boat by means of the messages
sent from it, and, as Admiral Sims has said, “Their commanders were
particularly careless in the use of wireless. The Germanic passion for
conversation could not be suppressed, even though this national habit
might lead to the most serious consequences. Possibly also the solitary
submarine felt lonely; at any rate, as soon as it reached the Channel
or the North Sea, it started an almost uninterrupted flow of talk. The
U-boats communicated principally with each other, and also with the
Admiralty at home, and in doing this they gave away their position
to the assiduously listening Allies. The radio direction-finder, by
which we can instantaneously locate the position from which a wireless
message is sent, was the mechanism which furnished much of this
information. Of course, the Germans knew that their messages revealed
their locations, for they had direction-finders as well as we, but the
fear of discovery did not act as a curb upon a naturally loquacious
nature.”
The radio service of the _Corsair_ was considered unusually efficient
by no less an authority than Admiral Wilson, who had occasion to write
the following commendation:
_Brest, France_
_29 April, 1918_
From: Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France.
To: Commanding Officer U.S. _Corsair_.
Subject: Forwarding of radio dispatch.
1. An important message from the U.S.S. _Seattle_, addressed to the
Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France, was intercepted by the U.S.S.
_Corsair_ and forwarded to destination via the District Commander
Rochefort. This message was received in the Communication Office,
Brest, about three P.M. Sunday, 28 April, 1918.
2. The Commander U.S. Naval Forces in France is greatly pleased with
this proof of the alertness and efficiency of the radio personnel on
board the U.S.S. _Corsair_. The message was not heard by the French
high powered station, Brest, and while it was heard by the Flag
Radio Station in Brest, it was not copied in its entirety because of
interference from near-by stations, and the correct copy as received
from the U.S.S. _Corsair_ was of great assistance.
(Signed) WILSON
The Communications Officer of the ship, Ensign Gray, took the keenest
interest in maintaining the radio operations at the top notch and a
technical training at Annapolis aided a natural ability for this sort
of work. The chief radio operator, H. C. Breckel, was an unusually
valuable man for his position and felt a pride in the reputation of the
_Corsair’s_ radio-room which was shared by his “gang” of assistants.
The spirit of the organization was indicated in the incident which
caused Admiral Wilson to compliment it. The yacht was moored at
Pauillac at the time, and was not required to keep a radio watch, but
the operators were on the job nevertheless. The _Seattle_ was standing
by a Luckenbach steamer, more than a thousand miles out at sea, which
had stripped its turbines and was in urgent need of help from Brest.
The message went through because the _Corsair_ caught and relayed it.
Every hour of the day and night an operator sat at a table in the
little room which none of the crew was allowed to enter. With a
receiver clamped to his head, he listened and heard a myriad faint
and phantom voices. The air was filled with them. The mystery, the
incredible magic and romance of it all, had become commonplace. Ships
were talking to each other hundreds of miles apart, mere routine
sometimes, and then the call for help, or the thrilling report of
an escape from a submarine attack. And woven through it all was the
continuous communication of the high-powered shore stations which shot
into space the secret orders and inquiries of admiralties and war
departments and statesmen.
The radio log of the _Corsair_ recorded an immense variety of
conversations, some of them quite informal, such as this chat with
another vessel of the Breton Patrol:
“What do you know? What did you see last night?”
“We don’t know anything. We saw two submarines last night.”
“We saw a ship torpedoed about 7.00 this morning, but did not see the
submarine.”
“Have you been copying much?”
“We have been copying mostly GLD messages and SOS messages and a few
CHGT.”
“Here is an SOS that came in at 1.10 P.M.—CG. GLD de FFK de “VEK”
47:45 08:40 W. 11025.”
“We got that one and it did not mean that the last message was at 8.00
P.M. last night. We have got a few SOS messages. Have heard a lot of
work.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Did you get that Allo from FFK?”
“I just got part of it and am waiting for a repetition.”
“Here it is. Allo 47:30 09:34 W. 1219.
“Thanks. Thanks.”
The garrulous U-boats seem to have kept up an endless stream of
chatter, and the radio force of the _Corsair_ learned to know and
identify some of them, by their manner of sending, as if they were old
acquaintances. One of the reports will give an idea of this curious
interchange of communication which was carried on between hostile
craft, unseen and hunting each other with deadly intent:
On November 21, 1917, the _Corsair_, _Smith_, _Preston_, _Flusser_,
and _Lamson_ were returning to Base, position approximately Latitude
47° 30′ North, Longitude 8° 40′ West. A number of enemy submarines
were intercommunicating as follows:
At 8.36 P.M. one sub called another who answered, and two messages
were sent. These signals came in very strong which indicated that subs
were close to us.
At 8.59 P.M. the same sub transmitted another message to the one
communicated with before.
At 9.01 P.M. a different sub called three others, one of which was the
first sender.
At 9.18 P.M. Bruges began sending a message to the sub that called at
9.01 P.M.
At 9.57 P.M. Bruges was still heard.
At 10.16 P.M. a different sub called another which was the one who
received the messages at 8.36 P.M.
At 9.36 P.M. the _Corsair_ was called and received a message from
Brest.
At 10.54 and again at 10.56 P.M. the _Corsair_ was called by an enemy
submarine using P.F.B., the same call used by Brest.
At 10.59 _Corsair_ answered and told him to go ahead. Sub sent “3 H 5”
and then his signals died out.
At 11.04 _P.M._ sub called _Corsair_ and told _Corsair_ to go ahead
with message.
At 11.10 _P.M._ the same sub called a British convoy.
At 11.15 _P.M._ sub called _Corsair_ and said go ahead with message.
At 11.16 _Corsair_ called sub and sent a message, the groups of which
were taken from several intercepted German messages.
At 11.17 sub acknowledged _Corsair’s_ message.
At 11.25 P.M. sub called _Corsair_ and asked for a repetition of the
second group.
_Corsair_ did not answer.
Sub repeated message. This time he was impatient as he said “Go ahead”
twice.
The subs continued to intercommunicate during the night, and also with
Bruges.
The radio service of the _Corsair_ in the war zone was so important
and essential a part of her activities that a description of it in
some detail seems well worth recounting. Chief Radio Electrician H. F.
Breckel went to the trouble of preparing a narrative which reads as
follows, and it goes without saying that he was the man best fitted to
undertake such a task:
I reported on board the U.S.S. _Corsair_, then at the Navy Yard,
Brooklyn, during the last week in May, 1917, in accordance with
orders from the Bureau of Navigation. At that time I was attached
to the U.S.S. _Ohio_, then at Yorktown, Virginia, which was the war
base of the Atlantic Fleet. Reporting to Ensign Gray, Communications
Officer of the _Corsair_, I was told that I would be in charge of the
operation of the radio department and to get things in shape for a
long cruise away from any established base of supplies.
[Illustration: H. A. BRECKEL, CHIEF RADIO OPERATOR]
[Illustration: ELECTRICIANS SWAN AND PLUMMER, OF THE HIGHLY EFFICIENT
“RADIO GANG”]
My first step was to make sure of a personnel which would furnish
efficient service under all conditions. Four operators were necessary
and this number was soon sent to the ship, and a better group of men
could not have been found in any vessel. The radio force comprised:
Ensign Gray, U.S.N.R.F. (Radio Officer)
Harry F. Breckel, U.S.N. (Chief Electrician, Radio)
James A. Plummer, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 1st Class, Radio)
Meriam H. Swan, U.S.N.R.F. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)
Ivan E. Davis, U.S.N. (Electrician, 2nd Class, Radio)
Each man was given a thorough examination when he reported on board
and the results indicated that all of them were proficient and
reliable operators. We promptly set to work and the radio-room fairly
hummed, day and night. The transmitting apparatus was inspected,
calibrated to the proper wave lengths, and tested. The receiving
apparatus was also overhauled, minor repairs made, and adjusted to
receive the various wave lengths used by other U.S. naval vessels.
Then the inspection included the various switch-boards, storage
batteries, heating and lighting systems, motor generators, etc.
The radio-room was located on the main deck with doors opening
directly on deck, so it was necessary to devise a lighting circuit
which should automatically switch off the lamps when the doors were
opened, as the ship moved in total darkness. After stocking up with
spare parts, the antenna was given careful attention, for nothing is
more exasperating than to have your wires carry away and to have to
replace them in heavy weather.
During a trial run in Long Island Sound, the radio installation was
tested under normal conditions of service and was found to be in first
class shape. The very fine type of apparatus aboard the _Corsair_
made only a few changes necessary in order to make it conform with
the standards of the Navy. We operators were fortunate in stepping
into a radio-room so efficiently and completely furnished. There was a
large desk with space for the Radio Officer in his work of coding and
decoding despatches, a bookshelf, several chairs, a large wall settee
which I used as a bunk, and a safe in which were kept the code books,
ciphers, and other confidential material. With regard to comfort,
there was no better “radio shack” aboard any ship of the Navy.
There was steam heat and running water which was cold, but we
discovered that we could obtain hot water for scrubbing clothes,
paint-work, etc., from the steam radiator. I ask you, fellow
“Sparks” and “ex-Sparks” of the Navy, can you picture such comfort
and convenience in a real, honest-to-goodness man-of-war? And it
all helped to maintain good service. Our gang also had a percolator
along with the necessary watts from the ship’s generator, and the
outfit could turn out a brew of “boiler compound” that would keep a
Mississippi colored gentleman with the hook-worm wide awake. We surely
had a home on board the old _Corsair_!
At last, on that memorable 14th of June the ship pointed her bow to
the eastward and steamed slowly down the Bay, with the dreary moans of
fog-horns for farewell, and no cheers or blaring bands or fluttering
flags. In the radio-room there was very little to do as we had been
instructed to keep communication down to the minimum, for the enemy
might infer from the amount of radio traffic in the air that some
unusual movement was under way, or he might plot the exact positions
by means of a direction-finder or radio compass. At the beginning of
the war, naval vessels had a characteristic “spark” or “tone” quite
different from the average commercial or naval shore stations, and an
operator familiar with these variations could readily tell which was
which. It was easy to understand why the troop convoys were kept as
silent as possible.
For several days there was little radio work besides copying the Time
and Weather reports which were broadcasted from the Arlington station,
and intercepting for the skipper’s information all radio traffic
heard by the operator on watch. In mid-ocean almost nothing was heard
because we were out of range of the ordinary “spark stations,” but our
“long wave” receiver, constructed by our own force, had no trouble in
copying messages from such stations as Darien (Canal Zone), Tuckerton,
New Jersey, Boston, and other high-powered naval radio stations while
the _Corsair_ was half way across the Atlantic. It was excellent work
when you consider the fact that the special apparatus and “hook up”
used were of the simplest type and that an amateur Audion detector
bulb was employed.
When about five days out, the real job began. The _Corsair_ was called
by the flagship _Seattle_ and a long code message received by the
operator on watch. The apparatus functioned perfectly and there was
every reason to believe that very little trouble, barring accidents,
would be encountered. Soon we received orders to get in touch with the
_Birmingham_, flagship of the second division of the convoy and to
forward a message to her. After joining the second division, there
was absolute silence for several days, and no radio signals were heard
at all until we drew near to the coast of France and the edge of the
war zone. Then traffic began to be heavy and the operators were busy
copying messages into the “intercepted log book” almost every minute
of the day and night.
This log was of great value to the captain, for the radio station of
a fighting ship is an information bureau which maintains intimate
touch with events occurring in other areas. In these days a man-of-war
without a radio-room would be almost deaf, dumb, and blind. We knew
that we were actually in the war when the distress calls from sinking
ships or those which were under attack by submarines began to come
hurtling through the air. This in itself was enough to prove the
priceless value of the radio in saving life. For some time I kept
a chart upon which were plotted all the positions of vessels which
transmitted radio calls for help, but within two months so many of
these calls had been received that I had little space left in which to
record the new ones.
A typical distress call would come in like this:
_SOS SOS SOS_ 48° 12′ _North_, 12° 00′ _West_. _Torpedoed Sinking._
_S.S. John Luckenbach_ 1025.
When a submarine was sighted by an Allied vessel, a simple form of
position report was broadcasted by the operator at once, as follows:
_Allo_ (_French for Hello_) 49° 15′ _N._ 09° 06′ _W._ 0815 _MXA_.
The radio operator continued to broadcast these signals until an
acknowledgment was received from one of the larger, more powerful
coastal radio stations which immediately broadcasted the message on
high power to all ships and stations for their information. The radio
operators on vessels at sea which received this general warning would
at once notify the captain who could thereby avoid the dangerous
locality or proceed to the aid of the ship in distress.
After we had arrived at Saint-Nazaire the work of the radio-room
did not cease, for we kept a continuous watch, intercepting every
message of importance which we were able to copy. When the _Corsair_
was ordered to proceed to Brest, it was necessary to observe the
regulation which required all vessels desiring to enter that port
to transmit by radio a special form of message, addressed to the
port authorities, requesting permission. Failure to do so would have
risked bombardment by the shore batteries. The reply from Brest stated
whether or not the channel was clear of mines and enemy submarines.
The radio shore station at Brest was about five miles from the
American naval base and was an old type, low frequency installation.
The “spark” at the time of our arrival was very difficult to read
through atmospheric electrical disturbances, and did not have
sufficient range. However, after the American base was permanently
organized, a modern installation replaced the old one and American
naval operators were placed on duty to handle all radio traffic that
concerned our naval and other shipping. This was a great improvement
over the early method of letting the French operators handle it.
When the _Corsair_ went out on patrol duty, the radio force caught
many distress calls and submarine warnings, and the information
enabled the ship to render aid on several occasions. In working with
the Aphrodite when we covered adjoining patrol areas, the captains
were able to exchange information concerning new situations to be
dealt with and to operate in concert. The messages intercepted from
the British radio station at Lands End were particularly useful and
the operators kept a sharp lookout for them. At least one crew of
survivors of a French fishing vessel was rescued by the _Corsair_
because of a message intercepted from this coastal station.
In the later duty on escort with the convoys, the amount of traffic
handled by the radio force was largely increased. Because of
difficulties unforeseen, such as stormy weather, break-downs, etc., it
was rarely that a convoy was sighted in the exact position designated.
The radio enabled the escort commander to ask the convoy for definite
information as to location, course, direction, and speed. It also kept
the convoys clear of the enemy mine-fields. I recall an instance when
the _Corsair_ put into Penzance. The day before sailing from that
port the radio operator on duty intercepted a message from the French
high-powered station at Nantes, stating that the entrance to Brest had
been mined by German submarines and that all ships were forbidden to
approach. The _Corsair_ thereupon waited at Penzance with her convoy
until word was received that the Brest channel had been swept clear.
The severest test for the radio personnel came in December, 1917,
when a hurricane almost finished the yacht. Early in the storm it
was almost impossible for the operator on watch to stay in his chair
although it was screwed to the deck. The climax came in the dead of
night when a terrific sea struck the _Corsair_ on the port side, stove
in bulkheads, and lifted the hatch over the radio-room clear of the
deck and allowed about a ton of icy sea water to pour in. The operator
was half-drowned, as well as the whole installation, and the apparatus
was rendered useless for the time. As the seas got worse, the water
forced itself into the radio-room through the doors in spite of
the fact that every crack was calked as tightly as possible. More
than a foot of water piled up on the floor and there was no system of
drainage, so every time the vessel rolled or pitched it all swashed up
at one side of the room or the other.
[Illustration: AT THE EMERGENCY WHEEL. HEAVY WEATHER OFFSHORE]
[Illustration: THE TRIM, IMMACULATE NAVY MAN. AFTER COALING SHIP]
About this time the depth charges washed overboard and I can tell
you that the “Sparks” on board the _Corsair_ were sure they were up
against a big proposition. Here we were, with the entire receiver
swimming in water, the transmitting panel splashed with it, the motor
generator submerged most of the time, our lead-in insulator and
lead-in frequently grounded by the huge waves which swept clear over
us, and yet facing a probable order from the skipper to send out a
distress call. We were all soaked to the skin, impossible to brew any
Java to warm us up, and all the time working hard to get the apparatus
back into shape.
I gave up the receiver as hopeless and tried to clear the grounds
on the motor generator while the rest of the gang tried to bale out
the water, but the ocean came in faster than they could scoop it
out. However, we managed to keep the water below the level of the
commutator and the collector rings of the motor generator, and after
clearing some of the worst grounds, during which the toilers were most
beautifully “jolted,” we gave the transmitter a short test and it
worked fairly well, considering the circumstances. Then I made my way
up to the boat deck and between seas managed to clean a layer of salt
off the lead-in insulator and gave it a heavy coat of oil.
Plummer and the rest of the gang were drying the various switches and
other parts of the transmitter and we managed to fix things so that an
S.O.S. could have been sent out. And all hands thought it was about
time to shoot it. The deck force succeeded in nailing up some doors
and canvas along the weather side of the radio-room, which was all
that prevented it from being smashed in. If our bulkheads had gone
there would have been no chance of keeping the transmitter in working
condition.
When we found refuge at Vigo, a survey of the damage was made. The
radio-room was simply a mess, like the rest of the ship, but within
eight hours we had the entire installation restored to the best of
health and ready for any emergency. Considering the fact that the
radio-room had been flooded with sea water for two and a half days, we
flattered ourselves that it was mighty speedy work.
During the long stay at Lisbon for repairs, we made a thorough
overhauling of the radio equipment but had no traffic to handle
excepting the press news from the Eiffel Tower which we copied for the
crew and for the American Legation. Our visit at Lisbon will always
be remembered as a very happy one. The people were most hospitable
and seemed to enjoy entertaining the bluejackets. The radio-room was
still in communication with Brest, 850 miles distant, but there was no
occasion for talking with the base station.
The work of the radio force while on escort duty, after we returned to
France, was much like that of the earlier cruises. It made us proud to
receive a letter of commendation from Admiral Wilson for forwarding
a message intercepted from the _Seattle_. I was sorry when, for a
time, I was transferred to shore duty with the District Commander at
Cherbourg and had to leave the radio-room of the _Corsair_. Plummer,
my right-hand man, was left in charge of the situation. Shortly before
the yacht sailed to the United States, I was lucky enough to make a
little visit aboard. Nothing would have pleased me more than a chance
to make the homeward bound voyage with the old crowd.
When the _Corsair_ went to France, she had as fine a crew of men as
were ever assembled on a deck. The radio force, with whom I worked
and lived, got on splendidly together and made a record of successful
operation which, I feel sure, compared favorably with that of any
other naval vessel engaged in similar duties and laboring under the
same kind of difficulties.