_Blockading the Blockade_
“_This blockade is a complete avowal of Germany’s weakness._”—LORD
ROBERT CECIL.
Shelling an enemy is merely a scientific way of throwing stones. When a
schoolboy in God’s open air is not quite sure of the nature of an
object, his primitive ancestors prompt him to fling something at it;
middle age, having the full advantage of civilization, pokes it with a
stick.
In naval warfare ‘throwing things’ is perfectly legitimate cricket, but
mining, which is invisible poking, is scarcely recognized as a worthy
substitute for football. Two or three years passed before the last mine
was swept from the waters that formed the theatre of the maritime drama
of the Russo-Japanese War; it may take thrice that time to clear up the
aftermath of the World Conflict. The prospect is not pleasant to
contemplate. The belligerents sowed these murderous canisters in many
latitudes. Germany, to her lasting shame, did not always provide the
necessary apparatus to render them innocuous when they broke loose, or
for those of the unanchored variety to become worthless “one hour at
most after the person who laid them shall have lost control over them,”
according to Article 1 of the Eighth Convention of The Hague Conference
of 1907. Her favourite trick after a naval engagement was to fling
floating mines overboard in the hope that the pursuing fleet would
blunder into them. Many thousands were scattered along the trade routes.
Let me hasten to add that in the use of mines Germany was well in
advance of every other belligerent in 1914. It was weeks before the
British Navy took advantage of what most salt-water sailors regard as a
device associated with the dirty, low-down trick of hitting below the
belt.
Mines, like their cousin the depth charge, played a very important part
in combating the submarine menace. As Germany showed a partiality for
them, we did our best to oblige her. The most extensive mine-field ever
planted was sown by Great Britain. It stretched from the Orkney Islands
to the fringe of the territorial waters of Norway, and covered an area
of not less than 22,000 square miles. Access to the Atlantic, rigidly
guarded by the naval police of the Patrol, was provided on the Scottish
side. Other British mine-fields existed at the farther end of the North
Sea, guarded by a hundred or more surface craft, and in the
neighbourhood of Flanders, Heligoland, and Denmark. The object of these
vast prohibited areas was to prevent U-boats from gaining easy access to
the great ocean routes. Germany early laid a mine-field inside the
Skager-Rack to prevent British submarines from entering the Baltic—which
it did not do—and afterward violated international law by taking similar
steps in the Cattegat. While the latter operation was proceeding,
certain of our naval forces came across a batch of enemy mine-layers at
their nefarious task, sank ten of them, and rescued their crews. The men
ought to have been ordered to walk the plank, _pour encourager les
autres_, as Voltaire said of Admiral Byng’s execution.
Britain’s bold bid to foil the U-boats was undertaken, in the words of
the official explanation, “in view of the unrestricted warfare carried
on by Germany at sea by means of mines and submarines, not only against
the Allied Powers, but also against neutral shipping,” and because
merchant ships were “constantly sunk without regard to the ultimate
safety of their crews.” The big northern mine-field proved very useful.
That was why the enemy immediately started a loud-mouthed campaign in
neutral countries in the hope of inciting their Governments to protest
against an effective method of warfare decidedly prejudicial to the
German cause.
A word or two about the surface barrage maintained across the Channel.
Every day and night, ceaselessly and relentlessly, in fair weather and
foul, over a hundred armed patrolling craft of various sorts and sizes
kept sentinel at the great southern gateway, and enabled troops and
munitions to cross the drawbridge from England to France. It was not so
difficult a task during the day as at night. When darkness fell the
guard burned flares that made the passage of a submarine travelling on
the surface an exceedingly dangerous undertaking. If a U-boat tried the
underwater route, there were other means of obstruction quite as deadly
as the methods of the fire-breathing trawlers. There is no truth in the
yarn that a steel net stretched across the Straits of Dover, thereby
guaranteeing with more or less certainty the immunity of transports from
attack by underwater vessels.
The fisherman’s device for catching members of the finny tribe was, of
course, applied to submarines. Long nets with meshes ten or fifteen feet
square proved of great service when the war was young. Dropped in the
course of an approaching U-boat, the probability was that she would poke
her nose into it and find extreme difficulty in getting out.
Subsequently cutters were fitted to the enemy’s craft, but nothing could
eliminate the movement of the net, which was supported on the surface by
small buoys or planks. Moored nets with mines attached boded no good to
the submarine that was unfortunate enough to encounter the obstacle.
An enemy commander found that his boat was towing a red buoy, and
shortly afterward that she was entangled in wire-netting. “For an hour
and a half,” he relates, “the netting carried us with it, and although I
made every effort to get clear of it, rising and then sinking with the
object of getting to the bottom of the netting, it was all in vain, for
we were always dragged back, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the
left.” By increasing the weight of water in the tanks the U-boat managed
to tear the netting. She remained under water for eighteen hours, came
up and found patrol craft in the vicinity, and was compelled to descend
for another six hours. After a further look round, the officer adds, “I
remained submerged for two hours, then slowly turned outward, and at a
distance of some fifty yards from the leading enemy craft passed toward
the open sea. At nine o’clock in the evening we were able to rise to the
surface in safety.”
The arming of traders gave the Central Powers furiously to think,
especially as the policy was a perfectly natural sequel to their own
misdoings. Details of the calibre of guns mounted by ships of the
British Mercantile Marine were withheld from Parliament as “not in the
public interest.” The French Minister of Marine was more communicative.
At the end of 1917 every French merchantman was armed with two 3.7–in.
guns. International law held that trading vessels during war-time must
be stopped and searched before further action could be taken.
Exceptional circumstances alone justified the sinking even of an enemy
vessel, the usual practice being to conduct the captive to port, the
final disposal being settled in the Prize Court. Neutral ships could in
no circumstances be destroyed. Germany’s difficulty was that it was next
to impossible for a submarine to follow this programme, which she
herself had recognized previous to the advent of the U-boat. While the
process of search was going on, a necessarily slow and tedious task, ten
to one a patrol boat would appear on the scene and show an untoward
amount of inquisitiveness. The natural development of blockade by
submarine was _via_ the line of least resistance. Rules and rights,
obligations and understandings must go by the board. The word
illegitimate was wiped out. From naval virtue to piracy is but a step;
the enemy took it. She would sink at sight.
As a direct consequence of the arming of merchantmen there was an
increase in the number of submerged attacks and a decrease in the use of
the gun on the part of the submarine. This was entirely to the good,
because it necessitated more frequent visits to the base to replenish
depleted magazines.
Elsewhere I have dealt at length with the wonderful way in which the men
of the Merchant Service settled down to the altered condition of
affairs.[33] The crews showed as much faith in their solitary weapon
mounted in the stern as a gun-layer of the _Queen Elizabeth_ believed in
the giant organs of destruction housed in the fore turret. They achieved
wonders with the little spitfires, though sometimes their confidence was
misplaced. Uncertainty is the only certainty in war.
Lest I should be accused of being a devotee of mere drum and trumpet
history, let me relate the story of a failure. At a few minutes to 3
a.m., in squally and heavy weather, the captain of a merchantman made
out the form of a U-boat right ahead. His attempt to ram missed by a few
feet. Putting the helm hard over to bring the submarine astern, he
ordered the gun to be brought into action. The first shot looked as
though it had struck the evil thing. But the bursting shell failed to
check the enemy, despite what the master called “a big, bright
flare-up.” A little later he observed what he presumed to be the wake of
a torpedo, followed by the appearance of the U-boat travelling parallel
to the steamer. Again the gun was fired, and again achieved nothing. As
the darkness made range-finding exceedingly difficult, and the flash of
the cordite betrayed the position of the steamer, the captain gave
orders to cease fire, and sent every available man to the stokehold.
What the trusted gun had failed to do the engines might achieve. He then
told the steward to get coffee. What a delightful human touch! It
reminds one of Nelson writing a prayer when within sight of the Combined
Fleet, and of Sturdee shaving before giving battle to von Spee.
At 6.20 a.m. a torpedo struck the port side of the steamer, the boilers
burst, and ship and gun disappeared in a welter of steam, smoke, and
flame. The survivors were picked up a few hours later. But don’t think
for one moment that they blamed their armament. They attributed their
failure to unfortunate weather conditions.
Now for a more pleasing picture. A U-boat tried to torpedo the _Nyanza_,
an American steamer with an Imperial name, at a range of approximately
1000 yards. By quick manipulation of the helm the tin fish was skilfully
dodged, and the ship’s gun opened fire. The submarine thereupon brought
two guns to bear on the vessel. The running fight continued for two and
a half hours, and was ended by four shots from the _Nyanza_. The enemy
visibly staggered, slowly heeled over, and is now gathering rust and
barnacles on the ocean floor.
The first of all anti-submarine appliances is the human eye. “It is
seven to three on the ship if the submarine is sighted, and four to one
against it if it is not,” says Sir Eric Geddes. In every British
merchant vessel of 2500 gross tonnage and upward, four men possessing
the special Board of Trade certificate as to eyesight were required to
act as look-outs at the masthead or elsewhere in areas in which U-boats
were likely to be encountered. They kept watch in turn for not more than
two hours, and although not necessarily additional members of the crew,
were specially engaged and received extra pay.
The necessity for keeping a keen look-out was early recognized. The
Admiralty offered a reward not exceeding £1000 for information leading
to the capture or destruction of an enemy vessel, including a mine-layer
or submarine, and a sum up to £200 for information leading to the craft
being sighted and chased. Prominent shipowners and other patriotic
citizens aided and abetted these rewards by offering various sums to the
captain and crew of the first British merchantman who sank a U-boat.
In due course the idea of ‘camouflage’ was borrowed from the Army. In
military campaigns the ingenious daubing of guns with paint that
harmonized with the colours of the surrounding scenery became, if not
high art, a most skilful artistic device. It was found impossible to
make ships invisible at sea, but much was done to render them
considerably less conspicuous. The constantly changing light defeated
every plan that had invisibility for its aim.
While it is a wise thing to consume one’s own smoke, steamers are unable
to do so. Smoke is an excellent tell-tale. On the other hand it was not
always a friend of the enemy. Destroyers in battle often put up a
smoke-screen sufficiently dense to cover battleships and cruisers—it was
a marked device of the German fleet at Jutland—and many a ‘black gang’
in the stokehold have saved their ship by its means. Boxes filled with
smoke-making powder that burnt slowly and gave off black clouds when
flung in the sea have enabled many a vessel to escape behind a dense
pall. They played their part in the daring raids on Ostend and
Zeebrugge. Special smoke-funnels for use on board were also introduced
with success. The Compagnie Transatlantique liner _Le Gard_ escaped from
two U-boats by means of this system.
On those rare occasions when an unsuspecting U-boat popped up under the
very nose of a patrol boat the lance-bomb proved a thoroughly efficient
weapon. It consisted of a 14–lb. bomb that exploded on contact, placed
on the end of a shaft some 6 feet in length. An expert thrower could
hurl this naval hand-grenade quite a fair distance and with splendid
precision. A destroyer or chaser towing explosive charges at breakneck
speed was a sure and certain harbinger of death should a marauder happen
to be in the way.
Armed yachts and fast motor-boats displayed their sea-keeping qualities
as never before, and to these were added capacities as auxiliary
fighting vessels. One of the former picked up an S O S signal. The
sender proved to be a trader, and at no great distance from her was a
periscope. The enemy was just a little too late in getting under, for
the ‘eye’ had scarcely disappeared when the yacht cut right across her
back. A couple of depth charges were thrown out to complete the
business, and the yacht was swung round to cross the spot again after
the explosion had subsided, when a peculiar disturbance was noticed in
another direction. A third depth charge added considerably to the
turmoil. As the sailors watched a human form came to the surface. The
‘peculiar disturbance’ was doubtless the death-rattle of the U-boat, and
as she broke in halves the solitary survivor was flung up. He did not
live to relate his terrible experience.
The celebrated submarine-chasers, while they varied in design, were
usually stubby craft mounting a remarkably serviceable quick-firer on a
high forecastle and carrying a liberal supply of ‘pills’ in the stern.
As the range of the former was about three and a half miles, and the
engines were capable of attaining a speed of thirty or more knots an
hour in calm weather, a submarine was at considerable disadvantage
unless she managed to deliver the first blow. Should a U-boat consider
it worth while to risk a fight on the surface or attempt to torpedo the
‘weasel’ from below, the speed of the chaser was obviously her greatest
asset. Italian chasers, by the way, resembled small submarines, minus
the conning-tower; those of France were very similar to our own. When
the United States entered the war one of President Wilson’s first
measures was to order the construction of a large number of these
vessels.
Many of the motor launches in the Service were commanded by former
amateur yachtsmen, who soon became hardy seafarers. Pluck, energy, and
resource characterized their hazardous work. “Day after day, year after
year,” as a senior naval officer reports, “they have kept the sea in the
worst weather when other craft have had to run for shelter.” One story
must suffice as typical of many others.
Three motor launches of the Auxiliary Patrol were forging ahead one
morning when a look-out saw certain movements known as ‘white feathers,’
sure indications of the presence of a U-boat. The Germans led them many
miles afield in their effort to escape. The launches hung on, and
gradually worked themselves into a position which cornered the
submersible. Overboard went several depth charges, followed by
convulsions and the end of the ‘spasm’—naval for submarine chase.
Several ingenious inventions having sound as their basis were
introduced. Of these the microphone, enabling the listener to detect the
rhythm of submarine motors when submerged, is undoubtedly the most
important. The télémétriste and the hydrophone, somewhat similar
contrivances, were fitted on certain ships of the French Navy.
The convoy system of gathering together a group of merchantmen and
conducting them through the danger zone was merely the revival of a
venerable institution. Its modern application met with considerably
greater success than was often evident in the past. The First Dutch War
of 1652–4, for instance, consisted very largely, so far as England was
concerned, of attacks on convoys. The necessity for protecting them was
responsible for four of the seven battles fought.
Beginning in a comparatively small way, the idea of shepherding merchant
shipping was gradually enlarged until few vessels sailed overseas
unattended. The system was extraordinarily successful. Before it was
introduced nearly 10 per cent. of Britain’s food ships were sent to the
bottom by an enemy bent on starving England into submission. When the
vessels were assembled and protected only 1 per cent. was lost, and
26,000,000 tons of foodstuffs were brought over from different parts of
the world, in addition to 35,000,000 tons of munitions of various kinds.
The whole of the Argentine wheat crop was transported to Great Britain,
France, and Italy in 307 ships, of which only one was lost through enemy
action.
The celebrated ‘Q’ ships are mystery ships no longer. The idea of these
decoy vessels was obviously suggested by the raider _Möwe_, which
resembled a tramp and was really a powerfully armed fighting unit of the
German Navy, as many a captain of the Mercantile Marine found to his
cost. Officered and manned by volunteers, the avowal of Sir Eric Geddes
that the crews were made up of “the very bravest that our sea service
can produce” was more than a mere figure of speech. No fewer than eight
of their commanders won the V.C.
Some of the Q class were sailing ships, others looked like colliers or
aged cargo boats; all resembled slow-going, nondescript tubs likely to
attract the fond attention of the Germans. When a submarine appeared and
called upon the captain to surrender, a special ‘panic party’ would
abandon ship in a terrible state of consternation. They showed beyond
doubt that the U-boat campaign had put the fear of the Hun in their
hearts. Sometimes the poor fools of Englishmen were not given an
opportunity to get away. Fire was opened on the innocent babe without
palaver. The panic party would then go frantic with terror, try to
launch the boats, occasionally upsetting one in their haste to get away,
or leaving it dangling like a skeleton on a gibbet. Not until the
submersible popped up alongside or presented a ‘dead certain’ target was
the true nature of the vessel revealed. Sometimes the ship was
torpedoed, shelled, set on fire, and sunk almost to the water’s edge
before the captain deemed that the psychological moment had arrived.
Then flaps dropped that uncovered guns guaranteed by Woolwich to sink
the stoutest submersible afloat, bullets spat from chicken coops, and
hell was let loose on the surprised enemy. The story of the Q ships is
full of dramatic incidents, but words fail to describe the agony of
waiting for action or the cool courage of the men who went through
strange performances to order when under fire.
H.M.S. _Stock Force_ was a steam mystery ship of only 360 tons. What she
lacked in size she more than made up for in impudence. On the 30th July,
1918, at 5 p.m. by the captain’s chronometer, a torpedo struck her
abreast No. 1 hatch. Her stubby nose was blown off, its component parts
and contents hurled sky-high, and the bridge completely wrecked. This
was a bad beginning, particularly as several of the crew of the foremost
guns were wounded. One poor fellow was pinned under the weapon it was
his duty to serve when occasion arose, and there he remained throughout
the action. A few seconds later lumps of iron, planks, and unexploded
shells flung up from the fore part of the ship by the force of the
explosion fell on deck and added to the injuries already sustained by
the ratings, at the same time wounding the first lieutenant and the
navigating officer. As the vessel began to settle down forward the panic
party pushed off. Although the lower deck was flooded, the surgeon got
to work standing up to his waist in water, and the engine-room staff
went on with their labours. The captain and two guns’ crews alone had
nothing to do at the moment beyond keeping themselves out of sight.
Sometimes waiting is the hardest of all tasks.
The attacking U-boat behaved in a most irritating way. She came to the
surface straight ahead, and showed no immediate intention of approaching
nearer. Meanwhile the _Stock Force_ was going down. There was not the
slightest doubt about that. It was then that the panic party played
their second act. They began to row back to the ship, hoping to entice
the enemy nearer. The U-boat swallowed the bait, approaching slowly.
When she was abeam, up went the White Ensign, the contraptions fell
away, and two guns crashed out. Three rounds smashed the conning-tower,
felled a periscope, and tore a great rent in the hull on the water-line.
Several Germans were blown out through the hole, while the officer on
watch got a sudden rise in the world.
As the water rushed into the stricken U-boat her bows rose, to be
instantly subjected to a terrific bombardment. Then she disappeared. Her
assailant kept afloat until 9.25 p.m. Officers and men were taken off by
torpedo-boats and a trawler.
For nearly half an hour after the panic party had pulled away from
H.M.S. _Prize_, another Q ship, the guns’ crews were lying face downward
on the deck subjected to heavy fire from a U-boat. When the enemy came
abeam the schooner’s weapons were revealed in no uncertain fashion. The
action was over in four minutes. One shell shattered the foremost gun of
the U-boat, killing everybody near it. Another wrecked the
conning-tower, and the interior of the craft became a mass of flame.
Three survivors were rescued, though how they escaped passes
understanding. The _Prize_ had been so badly holed that she looked like
following her victim. Q boats, however, were built to stand a lot of
knocking about. More often than not they were severely handled before
they got an opportunity to retaliate. On this particular occasion every
available man turned carpenter or lent a hand with the pumps. The
nearest port was 120 miles off. The Q ship sailed to within five miles
of the ‘haven where she would be’ before accepting assistance. She was
then given a friendly tow by a nimble little motor-launch.
The following is the official account of what happened to H.M.S. Q 5 on
the 17th February 1917, after she had been torpedoed abreast of No. 3
hold. The chief hero of the exploit was Commander Gordon Campbell, who
had been awarded the D.S.O. for sinking a U-boat when in command of
H.M.S. _Farnborough_ nearly a year before.
Action stations were sounded and the ‘panic party’ abandoned ship.
The engineer officer reported that the engine-room was flooding, and
was ordered to remain at his post as long as possible, which he and
his staff, several of whom were severely wounded, most gallantly
did. The submarine was observed on the starboard quarter 200 yards
distant, watching the proceedings through his periscope. He ran past
the ship on the starboard side so closely that the whole hull was
visible beneath the surface, finally emerging about 300 yards off on
the port bow. The enemy came down the port side of the ship, and
fire was withheld until all guns could bear at point-blank range.
The first shot beheaded the captain of the submarine as he was
climbing out of the conning-tower, and the submarine finally sank
with conning-tower open and crew pouring out. One officer and one
man were rescued on the surface and taken prisoner, after which the
boats were recalled, and all hands proceeded to do their utmost to
keep the ship afloat. A wireless signal for assistance had been sent
out when (but not until) the fate of the submarine was assured, and
a destroyer and sloop arrived a couple of hours later, and took Q 5
in tow. She was finally beached in safety the following evening.
The action may be regarded as the supreme test of naval discipline.
The chief engineer and engine-room watch remained at their posts to
keep the dynamo working until driven out by the water, then
remaining concealed on top of the cylinders. The guns’ crews had to
remain concealed in their gun-houses for nearly half an hour, while
the ship slowly sank lower in the water.
One such adventure would suffice most men. Not so Commander Gordon
Campbell. He was ‘at it again’ in August 1917, when in command of
another Q ship, the _Dunraven_. This particular vessel was ostensibly an
armed British trader. On the U-boat beginning the action, the
undisguised stern gun was brought into play, the speed of the ship
reduced so that the submarine might overtake her, and wireless calls for
help were sent out. She caught fire aft, in the vicinity of a magazine,
above which was a concealed gun with its crew ready for immediate
service. Shortly after the panic party left the vessel the magazine
exploded, starting the electric gongs that signalled ‘Action’ at the
other gun positions. This was unfortunate, for only one weapon could be
brought to bear on the enemy, then in the act of submerging. Although
the _Dunraven_ was on fire, a wireless code message was sent to warn
approaching traffic not to intervene. After two torpedoes had struck the
vessel a second panic party abandoned ship, leaving the guns unmasked.
Apparently not a soul remained on board, but the commander of the
submarine was evidently not quite sure. For nearly an hour he regarded
discretion as the better part of valour. He merely watched and waited
for the ship to blow up or go down. As the mystery ship did neither, the
U-boat pounded her for twenty minutes, then slowly passed at a distance
of about 150 yards. A torpedo fired by the _Dunraven_ missed by a
hair-breadth, but was apparently unperceived. A second torpedo was tried
as the enemy returned on the other side. That likewise failed. Uncertain
as to the next proceeding of her astonishing antagonist, the U-boat made
off. When destroyers arrived on the scene the fire on the gallant little
ship was got under, and a valiant attempt made to keep her afloat. She
eventually succumbed to bad weather. But what a career, and what superb
courage! You will not meet the like in fiction.
These wonderful mystery ships, that took such a lot of sinking, that
purposely courted trouble to entice their aggressors into the same, were
no ordinary vessels. Externally, as I have said, they resembled rusty
old tramps; internally they were built for battering. Iron girders gave
them additional strength, and bales of cork served to check the shock of
a torpedo and keep them afloat. No wonder Fritz got scared and threw up
the game!