One of a Crew That Was Saved Tells of the Thrilling Moments Just Before
the Final Plunge
Many submarines, rammed or shot, were sent to the bottom with their
crews, and for the most part the world has been left to imagine how the
doomed men met their fate. There is always a desire, deeper than mere
curiosity, to know how men behave in such circumstances; now and then
the desire is gratified, and we have learned that brave men go down
to death cooped in a submarine with the same resolute calm with which
brave men meet death in any guise. That the spirit of man is a wondrous
thing the war has given new proof in myriad ways.
A survivor tells the story of the crew of the _Monge_, a French
submarine commanded by Lieutenant Morillot, rammed by an Austrian
warship and sunk in the Adriatic, Dec. 29, 1915. It was more than a
year after that date before any of the details became known. Then the
letter of one of the crew released from an Austrian military prison
was published, giving the thrilling particulars. After telling how the
warship smashed into the submarine the letter continued:
“The water enters in torrents. The safety hatch is closed, but the
_Monge_ descends very swiftly; it reaches a depth of 200 feet, and the
plates crack under the pressure of the water. We give ourselves up as
forever lost. Our vessel is being crushed; we feel it flattening in
upon us. No one says a word, but everybody works. Orders are executed
as in ordinary times; no panic, not a cry.
“We are facing the most certain and perhaps the most hideous death,
yet our commander is superb in his coolness, and he has a crew that is
worthy of him. The steel braces supporting the hull—bars as thick as
my fist—are twisted like so many wires. The accumulators fall down on
each other; the electric current is intensified, the fuses burn out,
the acid decomposes—it is the second phase; after the crushing comes
asphyxiation.
“‘Courage! Courage! We are rising!’ That is the cry of the second
torpedo master, for to him belongs the most delicate and certain of all
our remedies. In fact, we feel that we are rising, and in a minute or
two we have gone from a depth of 200 feet to the surface. We are saved!
“Alas! A third ordeal! The Austrians have seen us and begin shelling us
at short range. A single shell pierces our hull. The commandant orders
for the third time: ‘To your posts for the dive!’ This time all is
indeed ended; the motors no longer act, none of the machinery runs,
and the water keeps pouring in. Everybody goes to his post without a
murmur, and yet we all know that this time death awaits us—and what
a death! The commandant changes his mind. Our vessel is lost; why
sacrifice the crew? He lets his arms drop, and two big tears roll down
his cheeks, tears of pride and of impotence.
“In a calm voice, however, he tells us to save ourselves. The
impossible had been attempted; we could give up with a light heart.
[Illustration: The Conning Tower of a New British Submarine of the “L”
Type]
“Before rising to the surface the commandant asks us to cry three
times, ‘_Vive la France!_’ and to sing the ‘_Marseillaise_.’ Such
were the last words and orders of the man who was and remained the
commandant of the _Monge_, for he chose not to leave his beloved
boat. As soon as we reached the deck we complied with his request
and thrice shouted ‘_Vive la France!_’ and sang the refrain of the
‘_Marseillaise_.’ When the water rose to our waists we had only time
to throw ourselves into the sea. The _Monge_ sank on Dec. 29, 1915, at
2:30 in the morning. There were three deaths—the commandant and two
mechanician quartermasters.”
Afterward the French Government honored Lieutenant Morillot by giving
his name to a ship captured from the enemy; but one wonders why so
gallant an officer should have been so unprofitably sacrificed to a
naval tradition. Captains go down with their ships because tradition
and court-martials have made it more honorable than living to serve
their country in new duties and responsibilities.