_Life as a Latter-day Pirate_
“_The unrestricted U-boat war means a very strong naval offensive
against the Entente._”—ADMIRAL VON CAPELLE.
Writing in the early summer of 1915, a neutral who visited the once busy
ports of Danzig, Stettin, Hamburg, and Bremen remarked that “wherever
one goes in these cities, wherever one takes one’s meals, one hears the
word _Unterseeboot_. Amazing, and often untrue, stories are told of the
number of submarines that are being constructed, the size and speed of
the latest ones, and the great number of English ships that have been
sunk, but whose loss has been ‘concealed from the British public.’” The
submarine barometer was Set Fair. It soon dropped to Change.
Within six months the industrious and outspoken Captain Persius was
confessing in the _Berliner Tageblatt_ that “regarding the effectiveness
of our U-boats in the trade war, one hears frequently nowadays views
that bear little resemblance to the views uttered a year ago. Then,
alas, hopes were extravagant, owing to a disregard of facts which the
informed expert, indeed, observed, but which remained concealed from the
layman”—a confession of failure, notwithstanding the offer of
substantial rewards for every merchant vessel sunk, and pensions for
each man in a submarine which destroyed a transport.
Twenty months later Admiral von Scheer asserted that German submarine
losses were more than equalized by new construction. Note the definite
acknowledgment of losses and of the necessity for replacing them. In
April 1918 Admiral von Capelle, Imperial Secretary of State for the
Navy, endeavoured to explain the declining maritime death-rate of the
enemy by assuring the Main Committee of the Reichstag that the average
loss of British ships from submarine attacks alone, during 1917, was
600,000 tons per month. The truth of the matter was that the average
loss from all causes was not more than 333,000 gross tons. According to
an official statement circulated to the German Press on the 4th of the
following June, food conditions in England were “extraordinarily bad,”
because the U-boat campaign was “having the intended result of
constantly diminishing England’s food supply.” In actual fact, the
U-boats were then having a particularly rough time. So far as the German
Independent Socialists were concerned, they did not “look forward with
complete confidence,” as Dr Michaelis had professed to do in July 1917,
“to the further labours of our brave submarine warriors.” Herr Vogtherr,
a member of the party, bluntly remarked that “it cannot be seen that
U-boat warfare has brought peace nearer. Meanwhile we continue to
destroy tonnage which we shall need after the war in order to obtain
necessary raw materials.” As to the latter clause, the British
Mercantile Marine has already had something to say. It lost 14,661
gallant fellows through enemy action.
According to the statement of a member of the crew of the British
destroyer which rammed U 12, some of the prisoners at least were
thankful to be in despised England. They said that the coxswain had been
a North Sea pilot for fifteen years previous to the outbreak of war, and
though the veriest tyro in matters relating to underwater craft, was
compelled to take service, presumably because he was well acquainted
with the east coast of the United Kingdom. The story of crews being
forced with the gentle persuasion of a revolver to board other U-boats
while their own was docked to undergo repairs was not necessarily
exaggerated. There is evidence that on occasion German seamen were shot
for refusing to go on board a submarine. The mate of the Brazilian
steamer _Rio Branco_, when taking the ship’s papers to the commander of
an enemy U-boat, asked a member of the crew what life was like as a
latter-day pirate. He replied in a single word usually taken to denote
eternal misery, and added that although he and his mates would like to
mutiny, opportunity was never afforded them, because they were shot on
the slightest pretext. There is no reason to doubt that crews were sent
to sea with insufficient training, and that their _moral_ steadily
declined as Allied efforts to tackle the foe developed.
With a stoical philosophy which may have been specially intended for
neutral consumption,[17] Lieutenant-Commander Claus Hansen informed the
Kiel representative of the _New York World_ that “We need neither
doctors nor undertakers aboard U 16; if anything goes wrong with our
craft when below no doctor can help; and we carry our coffin with us.”
One can thoroughly appreciate his remark that the work “is fearfully
trying on the nerves. Every man does not stand it.”
The same article also furnishes other interesting particulars of the
life of a modern pirate which bear _prima facie_ evidence of truth. “We
steer entirely by chart and compass,” the commander averred. “As the air
heats it gets poor, and, mixed with odours of oil from machinery, the
atmosphere becomes fearful. An overpowering sleepiness often attacks new
men, who require the utmost will-power to remain awake. Day after day in
such cramped quarters, where there is hardly room to stretch the legs,
where one must be constantly alert, is a tremendous strain on the
nerves. I have sat or stood for eight hours with my eyes glued to the
periscope, peering into the brilliant glass until my eyes and head have
ached. When the crew is worn out, we seek a good sleep and rest under
the water, the boat often rocking gently, with a movement like that of a
cradle. Before ascending I always order silence for several minutes, to
determine whether one can hear any propellers in the vicinity through
the shell-like sides of the submarine, which act like a sounding-board.”
Hansen gave the interviewer to understand that lying dormant many
fathoms deep was not exactly a treat to his crew. “When the weather or
the proximity of the enemy make it necessary to remain down so long that
the air becomes unusually bad, every man except those actually on duty
is ordered to lie down, and to remain absolutely quiet, making no
unnecessary movements, as movement causes the lungs to use more oxygen,
and oxygen must be saved, just as the famished man in the desert tries
to make the most of his last drop of water. As there can be no fire,
because fire burns oxygen, and the electric power from the accumulators
is too precious to be wasted for cooking, we have to dine cold when
cruising.” This chat, it is necessary to add, took place in March 1915.
Since then many improvements have been made in submarines, including
ventilation and roominess.
At this particular period everything possible was being done to arouse
the enthusiasm of the German nation for the Underseas War. Carefully
written articles by naval men, syndicated by official or semi-official
Press bureaux, made their appearance with almost bewildering frequency.
German submarines had found their way to the Dardanelles, a feat
attended by much metaphorical trumpet-blowing and flag-waving. To quote
Captain von Kühlewetter, a devout worshipper at the shrine of Tirpitz:
“The layman can hardly imagine what it means for a craft of only 1000
tons displacement, about 230 feet long and 19 or 20 feet beam at its
widest point, to make with a crew of thirty a trip as far as from
Hamburg to New York. The little vessel can only travel at moderate speed
in order that the petrol may last. It is always ready to meet the enemy
without help of any kind on a journey through hostile waters for the
entire distance. And these submarines did meet the enemy often.”
There is a charming _naïveté_ about the narrative of a U-boat man who
spent some time reconnoitring the coast of Scotland. His vessel left her
base in company with several others, including U 15, which failed to
return. “She fell before the enemy” is his pathetic little epitaph to
her memory. Each of the ten days spent on the trip was divided into four
shifts for alternate sleep and work. For variety there was “a little
while under, a little while on top.” The only sensational phase of the
cruise appears to have been when “one after another had to leave his
place for a minute and take a peep through the periscope. It was the
prettiest picture I ever saw. Up there, like a flock of peaceful lambs,
lay an English squadron without a care, as if there were no German
sea-wolves in armoured clothing. For two hours we lay there under water
on the outposts. We could with certainty have succeeded in bringing
under a big cruiser, but we must not. We were on patrol. Our boat had
other work to do. It was a lot to expect from our commander. So near to
the enemy, and the torpedo must remain in its tube! He must have felt
like a hunter who, before deer-stalking begins, suddenly sights a fine
buck thirty paces in front of him.”
The reference to British cruisers resembling peaceful lambs is
delicious. The writer seems to have forgotten that so far as ‘armoured
clothing’ goes they are considerably better provided than the toughest
submarine afloat. And what kind of a wolf was it to let such easy prey
escape? One surmises a reason connected with the British patrol rather
than with its German counterfeit.
An American sailor-boy was taken on board U 39 after that submarine had
torpedoed his ship. The lad afterward characterized the unenviable
experience as “a dog’s life in a steel can,” accompanied by a constant
succession of rings of the gong that sent every member to his appointed
station as though the Last Trump had blown. The usual menu was stew and
coffee, the liquid refreshment being varied on occasion by the
substitution of raspberry juice.
Three captains—a Briton, an American, and a Norwegian—were made
prisoners on U 49. For days they were confined in a tiny cabin
containing three bunks. They took turns in the solitary chair that was
the only furniture other than a folding table. As no light was allowed,
conversation and change of position were their only occupations. They
found plenty to talk about, but even desultory chatter becomes irksome
when it is centred around the topic, What will happen? Still, misery
loves company, even if it does not appreciate cramp. The prisoners were
kept in this Dark Hole of the Underseas except for occasional airings on
deck when the craft was running awash and there was ‘nothin’ doin’’ in
the piracy or anti-piracy line. Even then they were closely watched by
armed guards. Their rations consisted of an unpalatable concoction
called stew, black bread, rancid butter, and alleged marmalade, any one
of which might have been guaranteed to engender _mal de mer_.
When off the coast of Spain the commander of U 49 hailed a Swedish
steamer. The captain must have been deeply relieved when he found that
his services were merely required as temporary gaoler. He was
peremptorily told to take charge of the prisoners, and land them in the
neighbourhood of Camarina. Neither ship nor cargo was interfered with.
Never were mariners more pleased to set foot on solid earth.
This particular barbarian was not quite so callous as the presiding
genius of U 34. Four of the crew of the trawler _Victoria_, of Milford,
which he had sunk, were picked up by the submarine. Six of their
comrades had passed to where there is no sea, and required no favours
from enemy or friend. As though they were not sufficiently well
acquainted with the ways of U 34, the survivors were summoned on deck
the following morning to receive a further object-lesson in humanity as
the Hun understands it. They were compelled to watch the death and
burial of a Cardiff trawler. “England,” explained one of the German
officers, “began the war, and we shall sink every ship we see flying the
British flag.” When the latest victim of U 34 had gone to her watery
grave, the men were given a handful of biscuits, placed in a boat, and
left to the mercy of the sea.
Apparently U-boats were not keen on fine weather. “A smooth sea and a
lull in the wind are very disagreeable for U-boats,” said Dr Helfferich,
the Vice-Chancellor, “especially in view of the enemy’s defensive
measures, particularly as regards aircraft. Some U-boat commanders are
of opinion that U-boat warfare can be carried on with still better
results when the weather is not too fine and the nights are longer.”
A certain submarine left her lair at Zeebrugge a few days before
Vice-Admiral Sir Roger Keyes and his band of heroes gave an enforced
holiday to those that remained. She had not proceeded any great distance
before she encountered a mine. It did not completely put her ‘out of
mess,’ but sent her staggering backward in inky darkness to the bottom.
The electric light had failed with the quickness of a candle meeting a
sudden draught. To restore the current was obviously the first thing to
do. It was not easy working with the aid of torches, the boat tipped up
on end, her stern buried deep in the bed of the sea. Primitive man, his
tail not yet worn off, would have fared better. Eventually the supply
was restored, and it became possible to make a more thorough survey of
the damage. The engineers found that the shock had paralysed the nervous
system of the machinery. Not only was the boat leaking badly, but the
pumps refused to blow out the ballast tanks.
On an even keel the problem would be easier to tackle. The men were
therefore ordered to assemble in the stern and rush forward on the word
of command. Their combined movement had the desired effect. Slowly the
extra weight in the bow caused the ooze to loose its grip. The submarine
sank down with languid grace. There was now nothing to hamper movement.
Each member of the crew had a pair of hands ready for service instead of
having to employ one for the purpose of hanging on.
The engineers tried to start the motors. They refused to budge.
Sea-water found its way into the accumulators, adding a further terror
to the overwrought men by the introduction of poison gas in an
atmosphere already charged with death. Pirates might laugh when they saw
British sailors struggling for life in icy water, might derive
entertainment from shelling frail craft laden to the gunwale with
survivors from ships sunk in pursuance of the German cult of
frightfulness, but they failed to appreciate the humour of the situation
when they were the victims and the tragedy was enacted 100 feet beneath
the surface. The traditional Nero would never have fiddled had he felt
the scorch of the flames that burnt Rome. There is little enough of the
alleged glory of war in being trapped like a rat. Much of its glamour in
any circumstance is imaginary, and exists chiefly in the minds of
scribblers. This is not pacificism, but fact.
The sea mounted higher and higher in the lonely prison cell. Officers
and crew tried to staunch the inflow, to stop the leaks with tow and
other likely material. These devices held for a little, then burst away.
Some sought to make their escape through the conning-tower, as Goodhart
of the British Navy had done;[18] others tried to force a way out _via_
the torpedo-tubes. Bolts were wrenched off, fastenings filed through.
The doors held firm. The mighty efforts of the men met with no reward.
They fell back exhausted and covered with sweat. The pressure from
without would have thwarted a score of Samsons. The hatches remained
immovable.
They read the handwriting on the curved walls of their prison: “No
hope!” The crew must have cursed the Hohenzollerns then. Despair robbed
them of reason. One fellow went mad, then another, followed by a third.
A man plunged into the water, now up to his knees. His overwrought brain
could stand the terrible strain no longer. He drowned in two feet of
water. Nobody moved to pull him out. The place became a Bedlam. A
comrade tried to shoot himself. The revolver merely clicked. In a
passion of rage he flung both weapon and himself into the rising flood.
Death was the most desired of all things.
A plate burst, letting in a Niagara. The swirl of waters increased the
pressure of air against the hatches. One of them burst open. Those who
remained alive were carried off their feet and hurled through the
aperture. The blind forces of Nature succeeded where man had failed. A
mangled mass of human flotsam was flung to the surface. Two maimed
bodies alone had life in them when a British trawler steamed by. A boat
was lowered, the half-dead forms fished out of the sea. Then the enemy,
potential victims of these men but an hour before, did what they could
to alleviate their agony. That is the spirit and the tradition of the
British Sea Service, though the sufferer be the Devil himself.
A survivor of a neutral ship blown up by a U-boat, who was kept swimming
about for ten minutes before being rescued because the officers wanted
to take some snap-shots, avowed that he and his mates were compelled to
lend a hand with the ammunition. That was the Huns’ method of making
them pay their way. Their ‘dungeon,’ to quote the narrator, was
“furnished with tubes, pressure gauges, flywheels, torpedoes, and the
floor paved with shells.” The life he characterized as “monotonous.”
During their stay of twelve days five vessels were sunk.
As “a recognition of meritorious work during the war” the Kaiser created
a special decoration for officers, petty officers, and crews of
submarines on the completion of their third voyage. That did not make
them any the more enamoured of mines and _wasserbomben_.