_On Certain Happenings in the Baltic_
“_British submarines may take to themselves the credit of having
damaged our trade and shipping in the Baltic._”—CAPTAIN PERSIUS.
Before our Russian allies abandoned the sword and the ploughshare for
revolution and famine the Baltic was alive with naval doings.
Occasionally it even became the scene of intense activity. When the
former subjects of the Little Father obtained their liberty, and thereby
shackled themselves with a greater tyranny, the inland sea of Northern
Europe passed to the enemy. The unweaned democracy of Russia sought
peace with paper and not with a sword, hugging the delusion that a new
heaven and a new earth could be created with the aid of the devil and
the whirlwind. The Baltic became a vast German lake. With the acumen of
a committee of Frankfort Jews, and in pursuance of the much-vaunted
Mittel-Europa policy that was both commercial and political, the
Fatherland at once projected a canal between the Baltic and the Black
Sea. This, of course, would have rendered the Empire entirely
independent of the sea-water and long-distance route from Odessa, the
granary of the South.
Great Britain was Russia’s only ally in the Baltic before she
surrendered. Two or three battle-cruisers from the neighbourhood of the
Orkneys would doubtless have been a desirable addition to her naval
strength, but there were good and sufficient reasons why they were
withheld. What would have happened had there been no revolution can only
be surmised. Certainly there was a time when the appearance of large
British vessels was not regarded as altogether visionary. Sir John
Jellicoe, when Commander-in-Chief of the Grand Fleet, stated that it
would be difficult to go to the Baltic, but not impossible, and he hoped
the day might come when the two Navies would fight a common foe. That
day never arrived. Submarines alone represented the might and majesty of
the British Navy; and excellent representatives they made. These
underseas craft, which threaded their way through the tortuous channels
of the Cattegat and the Sound, or were conveyed in sections from
Archangel by inland water transport, rendered yeoman service. Some of
the boats put in three long years of hard and hazardous work before the
signature of the fatuous Brest-Litovsk Treaty negatived further effort
and the ice-bound condition of the frozen waters made escape impossible.
Their tasks accomplished, they were blown up by their own crews. The
battered plates of seven worthy successors of the gallant little
_Revenge_ lie buried deep in the Gulf of Finland. Not every British
victory is perpetuated to an apathetic posterity by such visible tokens
as a sail-of-the-line or a gun at the United Service Museum. There are
other and grimmer relics which will never meet the public eye.
Scouting for months in conditions bordering on life in the Arctic,
eternally on the prowl for the High Sea Fleet, sinking men-of-war and
German cargoes, holding the enemy at bay while the Russian Fleet secured
safety in the Gulf of Finland and the Huns sought to corner it at
Reval—these and other things must be put to the credit of British
submarines in the 160,000 odd square miles of waterway which constitute
the changeful northern sea. Flat and sandy coast, rocky and precipitous
cliff, treacherous shallows, weather as fitful as the temper of a
fractious child, added to the anxieties of the watchers. If ever there
existed a legitimate excuse for jumpy nerves, surely it was here. Yet
throughout their long vigil officers and men upheld the worthy tradition
of the British sea game. Not one enemy merchant ship was sunk without
warning, or before ample time had been afforded every member of the crew
to secure safety in the boats. No shot was fired until they had pulled
away from the danger zone. If the distance from land was great, the
submarine stood by until a neutral took charge of the refugees. “That
bloody wild beast that slumbers in man” of whom Robert Louis Stevenson
makes mention was never allowed to awake, though often enough there was
sufficient of insolence and bitter hate on the part of the enemy to
arouse it.
The case of the s.s. _Nicomedia_, of Hamburg, is typical of British
methods in the Baltic. This big steamer was laden with 6700 tons of
valuable ore for the hungry melting-pots of Essen. E 19 hauled her up,
gave her complement ‘fain’its’ to gather their belongings and stow them
into the boats, patiently waited for them to clear out, and then sent
the ship to the bottom with the assistance of a dynamite cartridge. No
cold-blooded-murder tricks sullied the fair fame of the English-speaking
seafarers, who thus gave the lie direct to the Teutonic assertion that
submarine warfare could only be carried on if it set at nought the
common decencies of humanity.
The sportsmanlike behaviour of the British was entirely unappreciated by
the enemy. They deliberately falsified the accounts which they sent
broadcast throughout the world as part of their propaganda work. For
instance, neutrals were informed that the commander of a British
submarine had blown up the s.s. _Germania_ in Swedish territorial waters
by placing a bomb in her hold. When sighted off the Swedish coast the
vessel was bound for Stettin with a cargo of 2750 tons of concentrated
iron ore. Shots were fired as a signal to her captain to stop, and also
to warn him that he was making straight for a dangerous sandbank. They
were disregarded, with the inevitable result that the _Germania_ ran
ashore. Then, and not till then, the British boat entered Swedish
waters, intent only on saving the crew and helping to salve the vessel.
Not a soul was found on board. After spending an hour in a useless
endeavour to move the steamer, the ship’s papers and some fresh meat
were removed to the submarine. When the British officers and men left
the _Germania_ the engine-room was already partly submerged. On the
water reaching the boilers they quite naturally blew up. No attempt was
made to destroy the vessel.
After the high seas had been swept of much Teutonic baggage, the Baltic
alone remained to the German merchant service as a field for possible
operations with surface vessels. Westward of the Skager-Rack the way was
barred by the British Grand Fleet; eastward, the German High Sea Fleet
felt more or less confident of supremacy, though not positively sure.
The Russian Baltic Fleet, consisting of four pre-Dreadnought
battleships, six armoured cruisers, four protected cruisers, over a
hundred destroyers, twenty or more submarines, and four Dreadnoughts in
the making,[30] was obviously numerically weaker than that of the second
naval Power in the world. It was not in a position to undertake a
vigorous offensive. The strategy adopted, to quote Admiral Kanin, was
that of regarding the Baltic Fleet as “a continuation of the extreme
flank of the Army.” Its task was “as far as possible to support the
movements of the army, protecting it against envelopment by the German
Fleet.” The element of uncertainty, from the enemy’s point of view, was
introduced by England as usual. Had the latter not declared war, Germany
could have swamped the Russian Fleet and landed troops for the invasion
of Russia without fear of molestation from the sea. As it was she had to
keep both eyes open, for on each flank she had maritime enemies. It was
scarcely likely that any of Britain’s battleships would venture to
render assistance, but what of her submarines? The machines in which
Germany placed so much faith were not her secret. They represented no
new departure. Britain might attempt to get a squadron or two through
the narrow passageway. When the devil gets among tailors, complications
are more than likely.
Evidence that the Germans anticipated inroads from hostile underwater
craft is afforded by the vigilance of their guard at the doors affording
entry and exit. Three E boats once tried to make the passage in company.
Two of them got through unscathed, though trawlers were busily hunting
for poachers at the time. No. 3 got into difficulties with a sweep slung
between two of the afore-mentioned watch-dogs. She ran smack into the
hawser, seeing nothing, got entangled, and gave her commander furiously
to think on ways and means of possible extrication. By the ‘feel’ of it
the officer knew approximately where the cable had caught, so he went
astern, cocked the boat’s nose up a little, and attempted to ‘step’ over
it. The manœuvre was executed with celerity. Rapidity of movement is the
soul of underwater warfare. Once let the watchers above become aware
that they had a ‘bite,’ and an explosive charge would come rattling down
the line with the ease of a load of bricks on an aerial railway. Then
good-bye to the Baltic and all deeps. They must have felt the tug, but
it was so momentary that it is more than likely it was put down to
jetsam, and one does not waste good material on lumps of sunken
wreckage. The string of death rasped along the keel of the submarine,
slipped over the bow, and freed itself. If the commander of E — failed
to mutter an audible exclamation of thankfulness, he at least breathed a
little more freely as a sign of relieved tension. He had lived an hour
in less than sixty seconds, and for aught I know added a grey hair or
two to his head as outward and visible indications of inward
perturbation.
On another occasion a squadron of the High Sea Fleet left the sheltering
shores of Kiel Bay for a trip in the Baltic. Three additional British
submarines were detailed to pass through the Sound. No patrol work this;
their orders were to attack. They left their base in company, intending
to make the passage of fifty miles together on the first favourable
night. During the voyage one of the craft developed a minor malady, to
which submarines are subject. As she could not keep up with the others,
and instructions were not to be disregarded, the lame duck had perforce
to limp her way alone. Her consorts aroused no suspicion until they had
actually entered the Baltic. Then the enemy became aware of their
presence. While trawlers and torpedo-boats hunted for them, four
merchantmen in line abreast, supported by warships, swept the entrance
to prevent others from following suit.
The third submarine, restored to health, arrived twenty-four hours late.
The commander fully appreciated what was happening. He sought salvation
in bluff. As the sweepers were showing navigation lights he quite
reasonably argued that if he made a similar display he might possibly
get through. He came to the surface, lamps were placed in position, the
operation began. For a time it looked as if the artful little ruse would
be successful. Then from out the surrounding darkness a torpedo-boat was
felt rather than seen coming full tilt at the submarine. It took the
latter three minutes to submerge, according to the log-book; the surface
craft occupied a little longer in reaching the spot. Even then it was a
mighty close shave. There were not many feet of blue water between the
enemy’s keel and the submarine’s conning-tower.
After an interval the British commander thought he would try his luck
again, minus lights. He waited his opportunity, riding quietly on the
waves in the meantime, and keeping a pair of keen eyes to his
night-glasses. Presently a ship came along, seemingly intent on
navigating the difficult passage through the Sound. The low-lying craft
awakened into life, and followed at a respectful distance. There was
just a chance that she would not be detected. The blackness of the night
prevented the officer from being certain of the nature of his pilot,
otherwise he would scarcely have used her as a screen. A mouse does not
creep behind a cat. Meantime she was making no great speed, and looked
like some old tub loaded to the Plimsoll mark with merchandise.
Then for no apparent reason the vessel suddenly developed marked
eccentricity, went dead slow, then put on full speed, altered course,
and made in the direction of her follower. The submarine again sought
refuge in the chilly and inhospitable waters, and her company listened
to the threshing of propellers racing above. She returned home, “prior
to making a further attempt.” Thus the commander in his official
communication to My Lords of the Admiralty.
In October 1914 it was announced that the cruiser _Prinz Adalbert_ had
been sunk by two shots from a submarine off Libau, with the loss of most
of her crew. According to a Petrograd report, her demise “was effected
after much skilful manœuvring” by a British submarine. The cruiser was
not actually the _Prinz Adalbert_, but a vessel of the same class. The
warship bearing that name fell a victim to a British torpedo in the
autumn of the following year.[31]
A light cruiser—name unknown—and a torpedo-boat were taking an airing
when a certain British submarine of the celebrated ‘E’ class met them.
The larger vessel was torpedoed forward, apparently set on fire, and
showed signs of sinking by the head. As the torpedo-boat sought to
pounce on the enemy the submarine passed under her stern and struck the
cruiser in or near the after-magazine. There was a double explosion. The
torpedo-boat and her tornado of shell were dodged a second time. Three
minutes later the periscope showed no cruiser.
On the 10th October, 1914, an attempt was made by enemy submarines to
sink the Russian _Admiral Makaroff_, at the moment busily engaged in
searching a suspicious fishing-boat flying the Dutch commercial flag.
Several torpedoes were fired, but missed, and the armoured cruiser beat
off the enemy. On the next day, however, the German craft atoned for
previous bad marksmanship by sinking the _Pallada_, a sister ship of the
_Admiral Makaroff_, while she was scouting in company with the _Bayan_.
This success was achieved through the ‘neutral flag’ trick. The
submarine lay in waiting behind a vessel displaying Dutch colours. The
ruse was discovered too late. Although subjected to a heavy fire, the
submarine got a shot home which apparently exploded the magazines. This
vessel, armed with two 8–in., eight 6–in., and many smaller guns, had a
normal complement of 568 men. Not a soul was saved. An interesting
sequel to this disaster was furnished by the announcement of the Russian
Naval Headquarters Staff that during the course of their predatory
operations on the 10th and 11th a German submersible had been sunk by
the fire of the _Bayan_, a second foundered through striking a mine, and
a third was put to flight by a torpedo-boat. Admiral von Essen,
Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Baltic Fleet, told the Tsar that
twenty unsuccessful submarine attacks had been made within two months
previous to the sinking of the _Pallada_.
Early in 1915 the German cruiser _Gazelle_ was attacked off the Danish
coast by a submarine whose nationality was not disclosed, although
rumour had it that she was Russian, but commanded by a British officer.
Despite a big hole in her side made by the explosion, the cruiser was
able to keep afloat and reach Sassnitz with the assistance of a ferry
steamer. As a withering fire was kept up by the enemy, and floating
mines were flung out indiscriminately as a further means of protection,
a second shot was impracticable.
A lonely Russian submarine boldly attacked an enemy squadron of ten
battleships and a swarm of torpedo-boats in the following summer. One
evening, when far out in the Baltic, the commander picked up dense black
clouds of smoke on the horizon. Then the funnels of warships and their
massive hulls rose out of the sea. They were proceeding in two columns,
the smaller vessels on the flanks of the larger ones.
An hour or more passed before the squadron was sufficiently near for
action. As the vessels approached, the commander concluded that his best
position would be on the port side of the oncoming ships, between the
enemy and the light. He raised his periscope, and believing he had ample
time to change his position before the torpedo-boat in the van of the
right column came abreast of him, proceeded to carry out the manœuvre.
The submarine rose a matter of fifteen feet to bring her periscope again
into use. The ‘eye’ revealed the distance between her and the first of
the oncoming battleships as certainly not more than sixty yards. The
officer fired a torpedo, dived immediately, and struck the ram of the
object at which he had aimed. As no German battleship draws less than
twenty-six feet of water, the boat had evidently not submerged
sufficiently rapidly.
Everybody on board firmly believed that their craft would founder. Only
those who have been in a similar occurrence or a railway collision can
appreciate the appalling suddenness of such a crash. The electric light
bulbs burst, the boat assumed a list to starboard, something in the
superstructure snapped, water came in. Apparently the engines had
sustained no damage from the shock, for they continued to work without
any appreciable loss of speed. The boat descended seventy-five feet.
Then the sound of a great tumult penetrated her steel plates. The
commander afterward declared that when he heard the explosion he was
perfectly convinced that the boat in her damaged state could not
withstand the pressure of the water. He tried to reach the surface
several times, but on each occasion was compelled to descend because the
thud of screws above told only too plainly that the enemy vessels were
still in the same area, some doubtless assisting the wounded battleship,
others zigzagging about in the hope that the assailant might be made to
pay the full penalty. When the officer tried to use the periscope he
found it to be irretrievably damaged, and about as useless as a broken
cowl on a chimney-stack. It revealed a blank. At 11.30 the commander,
hearing nothing to suggest the presence of the enemy, rose to the
surface after having been below four hours. The submarine reached port
without further incident, and was docked for repairs. To this day the
commander does not know whether the vessel he aimed at was put _hors de
combat_.
Late in June 1915 a number of enemy warships bombarded Windau with
9.4–in. guns, and also tried to effect a descent on the coast with a
view to co-operating with the German army in Courland. The invasion
project was entirely unsuccessful, and the naval forces were compelled
to retire. The defence seems mainly to have been the work of
torpedo-boats; no mention was made on either side of the presence of
submarines. A similar attempt made three weeks before had robbed the
Russians of the _Yenissei_, which fell a victim to a U-boat. According
to reports furnished by commanders of Russian submarines, three of the
enemy vessels were sunk or damaged by mines previously dropped by the
wrecked vessel.
Early in the following month Russian naval forces came across two enemy
light cruisers and destroyers on outpost duty between Gothland and
Windau. On this occasion the tables were turned, and the Germans lost a
mine-layer. The _Albatross_, the ship in question, was so severely
handled that she ran aground near Oestergarn, and became a total wreck,
her consort, the _Augsburg_, managing to escape in the fog. While the
Russian squadron continued its course northward, two cruisers, four
destroyers, and a flotilla of U-boats joined battle, but speedily
retreated after the armoured cruiser _Roon_ had been badly damaged. On
being reinforced by a battle squadron, another attempt was made against
the Russian vessels, including a spirited submarine attack on the
_Rurik_. The latter was saved by a destroyer, which was reported to have
sunk one of the hostile underwater craft. The 2nd July was a disastrous
day for Germany in the Baltic. In addition to the _Albatross_ she lost a
battleship of the _Pommern_ type at the hands of Commander Max K.
Horton.[32] On the 30th, E 1 sank a large transport, despite a
determined effort on the part of the latter to run down the attacking
party.
The next happening of importance from the point of view of the submarine
war was a dramatic series of actions at the entrance of the Gulf of Riga
in the succeeding August. These were carried out with the object of
assisting Hindenburg’s land offensive in the direction of the great
seaport of Riga, whose fall would open the road to Petrograd. The
weather, mostly calm and foggy, was entirely favourable to the enemy,
who slipped past the patrols and were able to sweep up many mines that
barred further progress. In this dangerous operation it would have been
nothing short of miraculous had the enemy escaped scot-free, and one or
two vessels were destroyed. The Russian warships put up an excellent
defence, with the result that the attempt to capture the old city of the
Merchant-Venturers completely failed and the Gulf was evacuated.
Again British submarines were to the fore. Commander Noel F. Laurence in
E 1 torpedoed the Dreadnought cruiser _Moltke_ in thick weather on the
19th. This great vessel of 23,000 tons, a sister ship of the more
romantic _Goeben_, mounting ten 11–in. guns, was believed to have taken
part in the infamous raid on Scarborough. Although the _Moltke_ did not
sink, she was sufficiently damaged to be placed temporarily out of
commission, thereby easing the situation for a time by denuding Germany
of a very formidable fighting machine. Laurence, whose boat had been the
first British submarine to penetrate the Baltic, narrowly escaped having
E 1 rammed on this occasion. A torpedo-boat missed her by a few feet
only. The Tsar acknowledged the officer’s services by decorating him
with the St George’s Cross of the Fourth Class.
In this month of August 1915, so big with events in the Baltic, the
enemy committed a flagrant breach of international law by firing on the
British submarine E 13 while she was ashore in Danish territorial
waters. The outrage was intensified by the attacking torpedo-boat firing
shrapnel and bringing machine-guns to bear on the members of the crew
struggling in the water.
E 13, in charge of Lieutenant-Commander Layton, grounded on the island
of Saltholm, and was given the usual twenty-four hours’ grace to get
off. Long before the time-limit had expired a German torpedo-boat let
off a torpedo at a range of about 300 yards, and opened fire with all
her other available weapons. The torpedo exploded on hitting the bottom,
close to E 13. Within a few seconds the submarine was a mass of flame.
Unable to offer any defence, the officer ordered the crew to abandon the
ship. Had it not been for the intervention of a Danish man-of-war, which
lowered her boats and steamed between the attacker and the attacked,
probably not a soul would have been saved.
Fishermen who witnessed the tragedy avowed they had never seen any
bravery to equal that of the helpless crew. When E 13 was refloated by
the Danish authorities the hull was found to be riddled with shells, but
her colours were still on the charred staff. Fifteen bluejackets lost
their lives in an attack which Sweden’s leading newspaper characterized
as “wilful murder.”
Acting under the orders of the Russian Commander-in-Chief, the British
boats in the Baltic carried on as before. They rendered valuable support
to the Allies by cutting off supplies of timber, ore, and coal consigned
to the Fatherland, and sinking transports and merchantmen whenever
bigger prey was undiscoverable. “The capture of an enemy’s merchant
ships,” as Mr David Hannay has so well said, “is the maritime equivalent
for the occupation of territory.” This active warfare was carried out
despite vigorous search on the part of Zeppelins and seaplanes.
E — was treated with three bombs from an enemy aircraft. Then the
latter, apparently not satisfied with the result, dropped seven more.
Sixty minutes later the submarine came up to have a look round, and was
obliged to retreat hurriedly on account of a biplane coming toward her
at great speed. Five bombs followed her passage below. After a lapse of
forty-five minutes E — again rose to the surface. Subsequent events are
best related by reference to the commander’s log:
Decided to rise and get the gun into action. Got under way on a
north course at 10 knots with the upper deck awash. The biplane was
sighted on the starboard bow at 6.20 p.m., and we opened fire at
3000 yards. The biplane immediately sheered off, and got out of
range after the eighth round, and then kept three miles astern of
us. I decided to run north till dark or till the aeroplane retired,
and then to return under water to —— position. At 7.30 we lost sight
of the aeroplane, and at 8.30 decided to turn and dive south. Just
then the aeroplane was sighted. Dived. Heard nine distant
explosions. Decided to remain down till dark.
For a month business was bad in the ‘big event’ line, but things
brightened in October, although E 19, sighting a German cruiser and two
escorts outside Danish territorial waters off Klintholm Moen, had rather
an unpleasant ten minutes in trying to hit one of them. The large
warship opened fire with great promptitude, while the smaller fry
cruised about trailing high explosive charges. E 19 dodged, got in a
neat shot at one of the torpedo-boats, and was rewarded by the knowledge
that she sank.
On the 23rd October the cruiser _Prinz Adalbert_, although escorted by a
couple of destroyers, one on each bow, was sent to the bottom by a
British submarine near Libau. Regarding the manner of her death, the
commander of the boat which wrought her destruction has this to say:
Fired bow tube at enemy’s fore-bridge. Observed very vivid flash of
explosion along water-line at point of aim. This was immediately
followed by very large concussion, and entire ship was immediately
hidden in huge columns of thick grey smoke, fore magazine having
evidently been exploded by torpedo.
For some unknown reason a newspaper correspondent’s account of the loss
of this ship was allowed to be sent by the German official wireless to
New York. The writer asserted that the affair took place in hazy
weather—“ideal conditions for an attack,” according to the British
commander—and that the vessel was struck by two torpedoes almost
simultaneously. According to him the _Prinz Adalbert_ went down
“immediately, like a piece of iron.” How the following paragraph came to
be passed by the censor is a greater mystery: “The enemy submarines in
the Baltic offer a difficult problem. The Admiralty is confronted with
the practically impossible task of keeping them out. The Admiralty can
mine or set barrier nets in the Sound between Denmark and Sweden only up
to the three-mile limit, where the neutral waters of the two countries
begin. The problem is causing the Admiralty serious thought.”
The range was some 1300 yards, and the “very large concussion” so great
that it upset the working of the torpedo mechanism of the submarine and
necessitated the craft’s burying herself in deep water to avoid injury
from the great masses of _débris_ that were falling over a wide area.
The _Prinz Adalbert_ was not wrecked, but annihilated.
The light cruiser _Undine_ was dispatched by two torpedoes in three
minutes, while convoying the steam ferry _Preussen_ from Trelleborg to
Sassnitz on the 7th November, 1915. The first missile missed, and merely
put a couple of attendant torpedo-boats on the _qui vive_. In attempting
to ram the assailant, one of them uncovered her charge, with the result
that the second weapon struck the _Undine_ full amidships. The
underwater craft, uninjured by the withering fire of the disconcerted
cruiser, ducked and was seen no more. As a neutral captain remarked,
“the submarines pop up everywhere, and disappear again with an alertness
which only an intimate knowledge of the waters would allow. Several
times they have been seen in close proximity to the mine-field, but they
seem to be as much at home as in the North Sea.” A little later the
_Preussen_ played into the enemy’s hands by ramming and sinking her
escorting torpedo-boat, of whose company only five were picked up.
The _Flying Dutchman_ of the Great War was surely the German light
cruiser _Bremen_, completed in 1904 at the port whose name she bore.
This little 3200–ton warship, mounting ten 4.1–in. guns and fourteen
smaller weapons, was reported from time to time as having been seen in
the Atlantic, the North Sea, and the Pacific. Then she appeared—and
disappeared—in the Baltic. On the 18th December, 1915, Berlin admitted
her loss, together with a torpedo-boat escorting her. This double event
of the previous day was due to a British submarine.
In May 1916, when the eastern and southern parts of the Baltic were once
more free from ice, British submarines lost no time in renewing their
activity, to the utter discomfiture of traders who did not mind running
big risks for big money. A German convoy was also intercepted off the
coast of Sweden by Russian torpedo-boats, destroyers, and submarines.
The squadron sank the auxiliary cruiser _König von Sachsen_, and set
fire to another auxiliary ship, the _Hermann_. The latter was afterward
blown up by her crew.
The raid in the Gulf of Finland in November 1916, again under cover of a
fog, showed the efficiency of the Russian Baltic Fleet to be still
unimpaired, but the Revolution achieved what the enemy failed to do.
“Confusion and mistrust prevailed”: in these words Admiral Koltchak
summed up the whole unhappy situation. In October 1917 the German High
Sea Fleet held the mastery of the Gulf of Riga. The most belligerent
representative of the London Press went frantic because the enemy’s
object had been carried out “without any interference from the British
Fleet, which, as we are accustomed to say, commands the sea.” Presumably
it would have had battleships and vessels of Sir David Beatty’s
celebrated ‘Cat Class’ forging ahead through the entrance, disregarding
the imminent likelihood of their being sent to the bottom by U-boats and
mine-fields. The difficulties surmounted by underwater craft in
penetrating the Baltic, to which I have already drawn attention, is
surely sufficient answer to the most amateur of amateur strategists,
who, indeed, were somewhat roughly handled by Sir Eric Geddes in the
House of Commons. What it was possible for the British Navy to do it
achieved.
On the 23rd it was announced that a British submarine had fired two
torpedoes at an enemy Dreadnought of the _Markgraf_ class mounting ten
12–in. guns, with what result was unknown. The Germans made it somewhat
too hot with shells from ships and bombs from seaplanes for her
commanding officer to wait and see. She certainly succeeded in blowing
up a big transport.
Opportunity is four-fifths of the battle where underwater craft are
concerned. As the war progressed and Britain learned how to tackle those
of the enemy, so the Germans gained experience in dodging our boats.
Three Dreadnoughts, a light cruiser, and several torpedo craft hailing
from Kiel were chased for four hours by one of our submarines. Every
ounce of energy was got out of the motors, but never once did she
succeed in getting closer than eight miles. A decent-sized gun would
have reached readily enough, but no torpedo has ever achieved so distant
a range. The squadron covered a wide area of sea, frequently changed
course, and manœuvred in such a way that the British skipper candidly
confessed that his German rival “made use of very confusing and
successful anti-submarine tactics.”
This chapter cannot be other than a faint and incomplete outline of
happenings in the Baltic between 1914 and 1917. The British campaign
ended in April 1918. When the German naval forces and transports
approached Hangö, South-west Finland, four ‘E’ and three ‘C’ boats were
taken outside the harbour of Helsingfors and blown up. The crews made
their way, not without difficulty and danger, to Petrograd. “Whether it
be wise in men to do such actions or no,” said Sir William Temple over
two centuries ago, “I am sure it is so in States to honour them.”
Russia had gone into ‘Committee.’ The Baltic had ceased to be a battle
area. A chapter in which the names of Horton, Laurence, Goodhart, and
Crombie afforded something more than a tinge of romance had been added
to the history books. To quote Admiral Kanin, successor to the
hard-working and reforming von Essen, Russia had been “helped
extraordinarily by the English submarines.” The boats were
“magnificent,” the officers “fine young fellows.” Their bearing was
“wonderful—and their coolness!”