THE ROMANCE OF UNDER-WATER WARFARE
“The Torpedo has brought into the Navy a fresh zest, a new romance,
and possibilities more daring than were ever existent before its
adoption.”
“ . . . . . . . .
For this cause I will make of your warfare a terrible thing,
A thing impossible, vain;
For a man shall set his hand to a handle and wither
Invisible armies and fleets,
And a lonely man with a breath shall exterminate armies,
With a whisper annihilate fleets;
And the captain shall sit in his chamber and level a city,
That far-off capital city.
Then the Tzar that dreameth in snow and broodeth in winter,
That foilèd dreamer in frost,
And the Teuton Emperor then, and the Gaul and the Briton
Shall cease from impossible war,
Discarding their glittering legions, armadas of iron
As children toys that are old.
As a man hath been brought, I will bring into judgment a nation;
Nor shall numbers be pleaded for sin.
And that people to whom I gave in commission the ocean,
To use my waters for fight,
Let them look to the inward things, to the searching of spirit,
And cease from boasting and noise.
Then nation shall cleave unto nation, and Babel shall fall:
They shall speak in a common tongue
And the soul of the Gaul shall leap to the soul of the Briton
Through all disguises and shows;
And soul shall speak unto soul—I weary of tongues,
I weary of babble and strife.
Lo! I am the bonder and knitter together of spirits,
I dispense with nations and shores.”
STEPHEN PHILLIPS.
“A blending of the heroic, the marvellous, the mysterious, and the
imaginative in actions, manners, ideas, language or literature; tendency
of mind to dwell upon or give expression to the heroic, the marvellous,
the mysterious or the imaginative.”
Such is one of the definitions given in the “Century Dictionary” for the
word “romance,” and as in the following pages there will be much of “the
heroic, the marvellous and the mysterious,” there is every justification
for using the term in connection with under-water warfare.
Some months since the writer was standing on the pier at Kyle of Loch
Alsh, a tiny village in South-west Rosshire, waiting for the boat going
south to Oban.
The sky was leaden, and ever and again a squall swept over from Skye and
blotted out the landscape for a time. Presently a little shiver of
excitement ran through the group of tourists, fisher folk, and idlers
gathered at the pier head. All eyes were directed up Loch Alsh, and for
a few minutes it was difficult to discover what it was that was
attracting so much attention.
Gradually there came into sight the first of a little flotilla of
torpedo boats, making their way, in single column, line ahead, to the
open sea. Each was painted black from bow to stern, each bore a number
in place of a name, and each crept along like a snake, surprised at
finding itself observed, and anxious to escape from the haunts of men.
One by one they passed by, gathering speed as they went, and in a little
while the last had disappeared into the mist and the rain and nothing
remained to show that they had passed save a few white patches of foam
scattered over the sullen waters.
What were the thoughts uppermost in the minds of those who watched these
tiny engines of destruction? Were they not of the next occasion on which
Great Britain shall require her navy to assume the offensive and “to
take arms” against the foe that dares to threaten her proud supremacy?
Were they not of the fate of the crews of these vessels in the next
great battle on the seas, and of the part they will be destined to play
when the “Real Thing” comes?
The torpedo boats and the destroyers of His Majesty’s Navy are manned by
brave and fearless officers and men, who take a keen interest in their
work and who mean to show of what their ships are capable if ever they
get the chance, while the torpedo lieutenant on a battleship, in spite
of the good-humoured sneers of his brother in arms, the gunnery
lieutenant, is not a whit less determined to inflict some injury with
the weapon which is his especial care. The commander of a destroyer when
he lies down at night in his “duffle suit” and endeavours to take his
well-earned repose dreams of a naval action in which he plays a
prominent part. It is a night attack, and the destroyers have orders to
seek the enemy and torpedo him. As silently, and withal as speedily as
possible, the mosquito fleet starts on its deadly mission. The pace is
tremendous and our commander, his nerves braced, his heart beating, and
his mouth set, peers forth from the conning tower into the darkness. His
funnels are flaming slightly but he dare not slacken speed, and all he
can do is to pray Heaven that they do not betray him. Suddenly the
foremost ship begins to signal. The quarry is discovered! Onward rush
the destroyers, and out to meet them come the destroyers of the enemy.
The twelve-pounders and the six-pounders are brought into play, and the
fight between the opposing forces waxes fierce. So far our commander and
his craft have escaped injury and the boat tears along, dodging its foes
like a three-quarter in Rugby football. He has set his heart on
torpedoing a mighty ironclad steaming ahead with her consorts at some
sixteen knots speed, and he means to get past the hostile destroyers or
die in the attempt. Shells are bursting all around and his armoured
conning tower has been hit, but so far luck has favoured him. Will the
gods be kind and allow him to accomplish his desire? He is now within
torpedo range, and the moment has arrived for the firing of the first
torpedo. Out of its tube rushes the Whitehead, plunges beneath the waves
and is seen no more. A few anxious seconds and then the commander knows
that it has missed its prey. Another must be fired, but the ironclad is
unpleasantly near, and her quick-firing guns are already discharging on
him a heavy and continuous fire.
The second torpedo is fired, and the destroyer waits not another second
but makes away at topmost speed. But “her mission is through.” The sound
of a mighty explosion is heard and the commander knows that he has
accounted for one of the battleships of the enemy.
The lieutenant of to-day thanks his stars for the opportunities that the
torpedo has afforded him of assuming the command of a torpedo-boat or a
destroyer at an early age, or of acting as torpedo lieutenant on a big
ship. There is no fear of his rusting or of his finding his life
uneventful while such posts as these are open to him, and there is also
the chance of his acquiring great fame when the day of battle comes.
“... They are young,” says Mr. Rudyard Kipling, “on the destroyers,—the
chattering black decks are no place for the middle aged—they have
learned how to handle 200 feet of shod death that cover a mile in two
minutes, turn in their own length, and leap to racing speed almost
before a man knows he has signalled the engine room. In these craft they
risk the extreme perils of the sea and make experiments of a kind that
would not read well in print. It would take much to astonish them when,
at the completion of their command, they are shifted say to a racing
cruiser. They have been within spitting distance of collision and
bumping distance of the bottom; they have tested their craft in
long-drawn channel jobs, not grudgingly or of necessity because they
could not find harbour, but because they ‘wanted to know, don’t you
know,’ and in the embroilment have been very literally thrown together
with their men. This makes for hardiness, coolness of head, and, above
all, resource.”
There is yet another dream that is dreamed by the younger of our young
naval lieutenants, and this relates to an engagement in which the diving
torpedo-boat plays a part.
Great Britain is at war with a rival Power; hostilities have barely
commenced, and one of the enemy’s swiftest cruisers has been sent to
gather information as to the probable movements of the British squadron.
Her captain is noted for his daring and resource, and he has succeeded
in obtaining news of a valuable character respecting the condition of
our ships and their immediate destination. Accompanied by two
first-class torpedo-boats, he has come, has seen, and is now making off
to join his fleet and to relate his news to the Admiral. It is of the
utmost importance that his message should not be delivered; the British
fleet is not quite ready to strike, and it does not wish the enemy to
know this. Onward steams the cruiser, the fastest vessel of her class in
the world. It is broad daylight, and she can be seen by our own cruisers
who, unhappily, are half a knot slower than she is. British destroyers
have attempted to torpedo her as she steams quickly by, but her
quick-firing guns and her attendant torpedo craft have so far foiled
their purpose and the daylight is against them.
There is only one chance—the submarine flotilla.
It is lying off a port which the cruiser must soon pass on her way down
channel, and a wireless message which the cruiser is powerless to
intercept has been sent to the commander of the “mother ship,” a torpedo
gunboat, to send out his tiny fleet and endeavour to torpedo the
cruiser. The “catcher” has no chance herself against the enemy’s swift
torpedo-boats, so she keeps in the background ready to render assistance
to her “ducklings” should they happen to require it.
The cruiser and her attendants is sighted, and the order to dive is at
once given. In a few moments there is nothing to be seen of the five
boats, and the look-out on the cruiser is in blissful ignorance of his
hidden foes. Suddenly Submarine No. 1 comes to the surface to take
bearings. She is observed by the look-out, the quick-firers are
immediately trained on her, and the torpedo-boats, with booms slung out,
rush to the attack. But she has disappeared before they can reach her,
and no one has any idea which direction she has taken. The excitement is
intense. The hearts of the cruiser’s captain and crew beat fast, and
eager eyes scan the face of the waters for any sign of the submarines,
but there is nothing to be seen. All at once a lieutenant on the cruiser
gazing down into the water shouts to his captain. He has seen a
submarine missile, but it is too late! The torpedo strikes, an explosion
ensues, and the cruiser’s fate is sealed. Her satellites dart hither and
thither like policemen in chase of a burglar, but their prey has eluded
them and is now making off to fort. The commander of the submarine
flotilla has done his work well. After coming momentarily to the surface
he dived below and by wireless telegraphy communicated to the other
vessels the position of the cruiser, her speed and her direction:
calculations were made, and at a given signal all five discharged their
torpedoes. Four missed, but one was more fortunate and was enough to
encompass the destruction of the enemy. After the explosion the
commander threw his tiny periscope on the surface and as a glance
assured him that the cruiser would float no more, he made off with his
boats to the shelter of port.
The two destroyers did not escape; hunting for the submarines they
forgot to consider the possibility of an attack on themselves, and it
was only when they saw four British destroyers at no great distance that
they sought refuge in flight. But they had delayed too long. The four
point sevens had something to say to them, their own three-pounders were
quickly silenced, and they were soon drifting about channel, hopeless
wrecks.
[Illustration:
THE “GOUBET” OUT OF WATER.
]
[Illustration:
INTERIOR OF A BRITISH SUBMARINE.
]