Our Battleship Fleet--Great Workshop of War--Preparations for Foreign
Service--On a Battleship During a Submarine Attack--The Wireless That
Went Wrong--The Torpedo That Missed--Attack on Submarine Bases of
Doubtful Expediency--When the German Fleet Comes Out--Establishment of
Station in the Azores
When the German fleet of battleships and battle-cruisers sallies forth
into the North Sea for a final fight against the British Grand Fleet,
they will find American dreadnoughts and superdreadnoughts ready and
eager to lend the material weight of their assistance to the Allied
cause. A substantial number of our capital ships, under command of
Rear-Admiral Hugh Rodman, are with the Grand Fleet, and have been for
some months. Both in Washington and in London a German sea offensive on
a grand scale has long been regarded as a possibility, and the admiralty
authorities at the Entente capitals are anxious for the supreme test,
and confident concerning its outcome. We have already noted Admiral
Beatty's action in assigning American battleships to the place of honor
in the line of sea-fighters which went forth to meet a reported German
attack some time ago. It was a false report, but the honor done our
naval fighters stands.
The expansion of the United States Navy has also included an enormous
increase in our battleships and battle-cruisers; definite details are
withheld, but it is not too much to say that we are thoroughly equipped
to assist Great Britain very vitally in this respect. In the summer of
1917 Secretary Daniels announced that the Atlantic Fleet--our Grand
Fleet--had been reorganized into two divisions, officially known as
"forces." Battleship Force One had as commander Vice-Admiral Albert W.
Grant, and Battleship Force Two was commanded by Vice-Admiral DeWitt
Coffman. Admiral Henry T. Mayo remained as commander-in-chief.
"There are," said Secretary Daniels in announcing the new
arrangement--July 18, 1917--"as many battleships in commission as we
ever had before; in fact, every battleship we have is in commission. The
whole purpose of the new organization is to keep our battleship fleet in
as perfect condition as possible, to put it in the highest state of
efficiency and readiness for action."
Eventually an appreciable number of our best fighters were sent to the
Grand Fleet--which, however, is by no means to be understood as implying
that our own coasts are unprotected. Not at all. The Navy Department has
a view-point which embraces all possible angles, and nothing in the way
of precaution has been overlooked. At the same time it has been the
theory of Secretary Daniels that the way to beat the submarine and the
German Navy in general was to go to the base of things, "to the neck of
the bottle," and this as much as anything--more, in sooth--accounts for
the hundreds of war-ships of various sorts that now fly our flag in the
war zone.
The orders dividing the fleet into two "forces" and despatching a
representation of our greatest fighters to the North Sea was preceded by
a period of preparation the like of which this country--perhaps the
world--never saw. The Atlantic Fleet was, indeed, converted into a huge
workshop of war, turning out its finished products--fighting men. A
visitor to the fleet, writing under date of May 14, expressed amazement
at the amount of well-ordered activity which characterized a day on
every one of the battleships. Here were men being trained for
armed-guard service on merchantmen, groups of neophytes on the after
deck undergoing instruction on the loading-machines; farther along a
group of qualified gunners were shattering a target with their 5-inch
gun. Other groups were hidden in the turrets with their long 14 and 12
inch guns, three or two to a turret. Signal-flags were whipping the air
aloft--classes in signalling; while from engine-room and fighting-tops
each battleship hummed with the activities of masters and pupils
teaching and learning every phase of the complicated calling of the
modern navy man.
And there were days when the great fleet put to sea for target practice
and for battle manoeuvres, the turrets and broadsides belching forth
their tons upon tons of steel and the observers aloft sending down their
messages of commendation for shots well aimed. It is the statement of
those in a position to know that never were jackies so quick to learn as
those of our war-time personnel. Whether the fact of war is an incentive
or whether American boys are adapted, through a life of competitive
sport, quickly to grasp the sailorman's trade, the truth remains that in
a very short space the boy who has never seen a ship develops swiftly
into a bluejacket, rolling, swaggering, but none the less deft, precise,
and indomitable.
"They come into the navy to fight," said one of the officers of the
fleet, "and they want to get into the thick of it. We turn out qualified
gun crews in three months--and that is going some." A large majority of
the new men of the fleet come from farms, especially from the Middle
West. More than 90 per cent of the seamen are native-born, and on any
ship may be heard the Southern drawl, the picturesque vernacular of the
lower East or West side of New York City, the twang of New England, the
rising intonation of the Western Pennsylvanian, and that indescribable
vocal cadence that comes only from west of Chicago.
Not only gunners were developed, but engineers, electricians, cooks,
bakers--what-not? They are still being developed on our home ships, but
in the meantime the fruits of what was done in the time dating from our
entrance into the war to the present summer are to be noted chiefly in
the North Sea, where our vessels lie waiting with their sisters of the
British Fleet for the appearance of the German armada.
Let us transfer ourselves for the time being from the general to the
particular: in other words, to the deck of a great American dreadnought,
which, together with others of her type, has been detached from the
Atlantic Fleet and assigned to duty with Admiral Beatty's great company
of battleships and battle-cruisers. This battleship has entered the war
zone, en route to a certain rendezvous, whence all the American units
will proceed to their ultimate destination in company.
It is night. It is a black night. The stars are viewless and the ocean
through which the great steel hull is rushing, with only a slight hiss
where the sharp cutwater parts the waves, is merely a part of the same
gloom. Aloft and on deck the battleship is a part of the night. Below
deck all is dark save perchance a thin, knife-like ray emanating from a
battle-lantern. The lookouts, straining their eyes into the black for
long, arduous stretches, are relieved and half-blind and dizzy they
grope along the deck to their hammocks, stumbling over the prostrate
forms of men sleeping beside the 5-inch guns, exchanging elbow thrusts
with those of the gun crews who are on watch.
The trip this far has been a constant succession of drills and
instruction in the art of submarine fighting--all to the tune of general
alarm and torpedo defense bells. And the while preparations for sighting
the enemy have never been minimized. They involved precautions not
dissimilar to those on board a destroyer or other patrol-vessel, but
were of course conducted on a vastly greater scale. As suggesting an
outline of measures of watchfulness, we may regard this battleship as
the centre of a pie, with special watches detailed to cover their given
slice of this pie. These slices are called water sectors, and each
sector, or slice, extends at a given angle from the course of the ship
out to the horizon. Of course as the vessel is constantly moving at a
rapid rate, the centre of the pie shifts, too. In this way every foot of
water within the great circle of the horizon is under constant
supervision night and day by a small army of lookouts, armed with
binoculars and gun telescopes.
And so our battleship goes on through the night. On the bridge all is
quiet. Officers move to and fro with padded footfalls, and the throb of
the great engines is felt rather than heard. The wind begins to change,
and presently the captain glancing out the door of the chart-house
clucks his chagrin. For the night has begun to reveal itself, thanks, or
rather, no thanks, to the moon, which has torn away from a shrouding
mass of clouds and sends its rays down upon the waters of the sea. It
had been a fine night to dodge the lurking submarine, but now the silver
light of the moon, falling upon the leaden side of the battleship,
converts her into a fine target.
"Nature is certainly good to the Germans," chuckles an officer to a
companion, taking care that the captain does not hear.
"Yes," comes the sententious reply. The lookouts grow more rigid, for
whereas formerly they could see nothing, objects on the water are now
pencilled out in luminous relief.
Deep down below the water there is a listening "ear"--a submarine
telephone device through which a submarine betrays its presence; any
sound the undersea boat makes, the beating of the propellers, for
instance, is heard by this ear, and in turn by the ear of the man who
holds the receiver.
Presently the man who is on detector watch grows tense. He listens
attentively and then stands immobile for a moment or so. Then he steps
to a telephone and a bell rings in the chart-house where the captain and
his navigating and watch officers are working out the courses and
positions.
"I hear a submarine signalling, sir," comes the voice from the depths to
the captain who stands by the desk with the receiver at his ear.
"What signal?" barks the skipper.
"MQ repeated several times. Sounds as if one boat was calling another."
(The sailor referred to the practice which submarines have of sending
subaqueous signals to one another, signals which are frequently caught
by listening war-ships of the Allies.)
The captain orders the detector man to miss nothing, and then a general
alarm (to quarters) is passed through the great vessel by word of mouth.
This is no time for the clanging of bells and the like. The lookouts are
advised as to the situation.
"I hope we're not steaming into a nest." The captain frowns and picks up
the telephone. "Anything more?" he asks.
"Still getting signals, sir; same as before; same direction and
distance."
Down to the bridge through a speaking-tube, running from the top of the
forward basket-mast comes a weird voice.
"Bright light, port bow, sir. Distance about 4,000 yards." (Pause.)
"Light growing dim. Very dim now."
From other lookouts come confirmatory words.
"Dim light; port bow."
"The light has gone."
"It's a sub, of course," murmurs an officer. "No craft but a submarine
would carry a night light on her periscope. She must be signalling." A
thrill goes through the battleship. In a minute the big steel fighter
may be lying on her side, stricken; or there may be the opportunity for
a fair fight.
The captain sends an officer below to the detector and changes the
course of the ship. Every one awaits developments, tensely.
The wireless operator enters the chart-house.
"I can't get your message to the ---- (another battleship), sir. I can't
raise her. Been trying for ten minutes."
The officer who has been below at the detector comes up and hears the
plight of the wireless man. He smiles.
"In exactly five minutes," he says, "you signal again." The radio man
goes to his room and the officer descends to the detector. In precisely
five minutes he hears the signal which had bothered the man on detector
watch. He hurries to the bridge with the solution of the incident. The
wireless had become disconnected and its signals had come in contact
with the detector. So there was no submarine. Everything serene. The
battleship settles down to her night routine.
The dark wears into dawn, and the early morning, with the dusk, is the
favorite hunting-time of the submarine, for the reason that then a
periscope, while seeing clearly, is not itself easily to be discerned.
The lookouts, straining their eyes out over the steely surge, pick up
what appears to be a spar. But no. The water is rushing on either side
of it like a mill race. A periscope.
There is a hurry of feet on the bridge. The navigating officer seizes
the engine-room telegraph and signals full speed ahead. While the ship
groans and lists under the sudden turn at high speed, the
ammunition-hoists drone as they bring powder and shell up to gun and
turret. From the range-finding and plotting-stations come orders to the
sight-setters, and in an instant there is a stupendous roar as every gun
on the port side sends forth its steel messenger.
Again and again comes the broadside, while the ocean for acres about the
periscope boils with the steel rain. It is much too hot for the
submarine which sinks so that the periscope is invisible. From the
plotting-stations come orders for a change of range, and on the sea a
mile or so away rise huge geysers which pause for a moment, glistening
in the light of the new sun, and then fall in spray to the waves, whence
they were lifted by the hurtling projectiles. The shells do not
ricochet. "Where they hit they dig," to quote a navy man. This is one of
the inventions of the war, the non-ricochet shell. One may easily
imagine how greatly superior are the shells that dig to those that
strike the water and then glance. Then comes the cry:
"Torpedo!"
All see it, a white streak upon the water, circling from the outer rim
of shell-fire on a wide arc, so as to allow for the speed of the
battleship. With a hiss the venomous projectile dashes past the bow,
perhaps thirty yards away. Had not the battleship swung about on a new
course as soon as the vigilant lookout descried the advancing torpedo,
it would have been a fair hit amidships. As it was, the explosive went
harmlessly on its way through the open sea. A short cheer from the crew
marks the miss, and the firing increases in intensity. The battleship so
turns that her bow is in the direction of the submarine, presenting,
thus, a mark which may be hit only through a lucky shot, since the
submarine is a mile away. Accurate shooting even at a mile is expected
of torpedo-men when the mark is a broadside, but hitting a "bow-on"
object is a different matter.
Two more torpedoes zip past, and then over the seas comes bounding a
destroyer, smoke bellying from her funnels. She is over the probable
hiding-place of the submarine, and a great explosion and a high column
of water tell those on the battleship that she has released a
depth-bomb. Suddenly a signal flutters to the stay of the destroyer. The
crew of the battleship cheer. There is no more to fear from that
submarine, for oil is slowly spreading itself over the surface of the
ocean--oil and pieces of wreckage.
The dawn establishes itself fully. The battleship resumes her course
toward the appointed rendezvous.
Our navy has always held the idea that the Germans could be routed out
from their submarine bases, has believed that, after all, that is the
one sure way of ridding the seas of the Kaiser's pirates for good. It
may be assumed that the recent attacks of the British upon Ostend and
Zeebrugge, as a cover to blocking the canal entrances through sinking
old war-ships, were highly approved by Vice-Admiral Sims. Secretary
Daniels has considered the advisability of direct methods in dealing
with the German Navy. No doubt the temptation has been great, if only
because of the fact that with the British and American and French navies
combined, we have a force which could stand an appreciable amount of
destruction and yet be in a position to cope with the German fleet. Yet,
of course, that is taking chances. And:
"It is all very well to say 'damn the torpedoes,'" said Secretary
Daniels, in discussing this point, "but a navy cannot invite
annihilation by going into mined harbors, and ships can do little or
nothing against coast fortifications equipped with 14-inch guns.
Experience at Gallipoli emphasizes this fact. And yet"--here the
secretary became cryptic--"there is more than one way to kill a cat. No
place is impregnable. Nothing is impossible."
The British showed how damage might be dealt naval bases supposedly
secure under the guns of fortifications, but something more than a sally
will be necessary to smoke out the German fleet, or to root out the
nests of submarines along the coast of Belgium. Again, there is the
theory that eventually the Germans will come out and give battle. There
is a psychological backing for this assumption, for the irksomeness of
being penned up wears and wears until it is not to be borne. At least
this seems to have been the case in blockades in past wars, notably the
dash of Admiral Cervera's squadron from Santiago Harbor.
But when the Germans come it will be no such forlorn hope as that--at
least not according to the German expectation; what they expect,
however, and what they may get are contingencies lying wide apart.
In connection with our far-flung naval policy the establishment of a
naval base on the Azores Islands was announced last spring. The
arrangement was made with the full consent of Portugal, and the design
was the protection of the Atlantic trade routes to southern Europe. Guns
have already been landed on the island, and fortifications are now in
process of construction. The station, besides being used as a naval base
for American submarines, destroyers, and other small craft, will serve
as an important homing-station for our airplanes, a number of which have
already been assembled there.
The establishment of this station greatly simplifies the task of
protecting the great trade routes, not only to southern Europe and the
Mediterranean, but also returning traffic to South American and southern
Gulf ports in the United States.