THE WHITE ENSIGN
I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand,
Her children’s sharp swords out;
Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red
When rose the closing shout;
But soon the steeds rushed masterless,
By tower and town and wood;
For lordly France her fiery youth
Poured o’er them like a flood.
Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels,
And let your steeds run free;
Then come to our unconquered decks,
And learn to reign at sea.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
After the War broke out, a wise man declared that every British child
ought to say this grace before meat:
“Thank God for my good dinner and for the British Navy.”
Perhaps you will wonder why he put the dinner and the Navy together in
this way. It is because British children during the war owed their
dinners, and all their other meals also, to the Navy. This may sound
strange, but it is perfectly true. The Navy guarded the thousands of
merchant ships which bring us food and other things from abroad.
We do not grow nearly enough corn at home to feed everybody, so we have
to buy from Canada, America, and other countries. The German Navy would
have liked to capture the ships which brought us this corn, but owing to
the British Navy it could not do so.
But that is not all that the British Navy did.
I have told you how the Germans invaded Belgium and there were terrible
fighting and ravaging, in which not only soldiers but also women and
children were killed. Well, the Germans were even more angry with
Britain than with Belgium. They would have dearly liked to send over
hundreds of thousands of soldiers in big ships to land on the east coast
of England, perhaps at Cromer, or Hunstanton, or Felixstowe, or other
places where children often go for their summer holidays.
In our next chapter you will hear of how Napoleon waited impatiently at
Boulogne in the hope of swooping down on England. There is a tradition
in Dorsetshire that he did come secretly just to see what stretch of
shore on that lonely coast would be most suitable for a landing of
troops. This tradition or old belief is embodied in a wonderful short
story by Mr. Thomas Hardy.
What would the German soldiers have done to us if they had landed? I am
afraid they would have treated us even worse than they treated Belgium.
The whole countryside would have been laid waste with fire and sword,
and thousands of innocent people might have been killed.
Be thankful that England was not invaded like that. Be thankful that,
while the poor Belgians were being bullied and beaten down, we could all
sleep safely in our beds.
You know why that was. We owed our safety entirely to the strong arm of
our Navy. All round our shores, day and night, our gallant tars were
watching, watching. And the ships full of German soldiers could not
think of coming. Our Navy would have blown them to pieces if they had
tried.
Still, it was a terribly anxious time for Admiral Sir John Jellicoe and
the brave officers and men under him. Many accidents can happen at sea
which could not happen on land, and the whole Fleet knew well that the
Germans might make a dash for it, and perhaps land a small force of men
after all.
The portraits of Sir John Jellicoe show him as a man with a very strong
face and a determined mouth and chin, but the expression of his eyes is
full of kindness.
He earned his great position by sheer hard work. When he was a naval
cadet, he took three firsts, and won a prize of £80 as well at the Royal
Naval College. Afterwards, he studied naval guns and the art of firing
them.
Admiral Jellicoe is one of the officers of the Royal Navy who have
received the Board of Trade medal for gallantry in saving life at sea.
He himself, too, has been saved from drowning at sea, for he was in
command of the Victoria which was rammed by the Camperdown twenty-one
years ago; in fact, he was one of the very few who were saved in that
terrible disaster.
Quite early in the war, a bluejacket of H.M.S. Zealandia, the fine
battleship which was given to the Mother Country by the great Dominion
of New Zealand, wrote a poem called “The Walls of Jellicoe.”
He sent it to his aunt, and she, aunt-like, was so pleased with it that
she sent it to a paper! There I read it, and I thought it so good and so
true that I cut it out. Here are the verses I like best. But I like them
all.
“On the flagship’s bridge a man
Takes a long and quiet scan
Of a certain bit of coastline lying east,
Vaterland.
And it’s him who has to think
How to get your food and drink
And likewise how to save you from
‘The Beast.’
· · · · ·
There’s no one by to say
‘Can I lend a hand, J. J.?’
There’s no one near to treat him
Like a friend.
He’s the loneliest man at sea,
And thank God it isn’t me;
But you are safe while he is
Keeping up his end.
He’s Admiralissimo,
Which is Johnny Jellicoe,
And I hope you’ll breathe his name in all your prayers,
And don’t forget.
For he’s you and me and all,
And if his old walls fall,
Earth would close for alterations and repairs,
Burn the map!”
This sailor poet expresses in his homely way the exact truth. Admiral
Jellicoe had indeed a good many things to think about; and while he was
keeping his ceaseless watch in the North Sea he had the grief of hearing
that his old father, a seaman like himself, had died in the Isle of
Wight. He could not be at his father’s death-bed; he could not follow
his father’s coffin to the burial. His place was at the post of duty and
of danger.
I have said that in the first months of the war the German Fleet would
not come out from under the shelter of the German fortress guns. But you
must not think that its commander, Admiral von Ingemohl, a very gallant
seaman, was content to do nothing. He counted on taking some of our
ships by surprise, and so making matters more equal before having a
regular big battle. But as we shall see, he found that Admiral Jellicoe
could play at that game too.
II
The Germans may be said to have drawn first blood at sea.
Very early in the war, in fact on the very day that most people knew our
country was at war, on August 5, 1914, H.M.S. Amphion, while searching
for the mine-layer Königin Luise, was blown up, whether by a mine or a
torpedo will probably never be known.
Here I must explain that a mine at sea is a large rounded metal box full
of stuff that blows up when a ship bumps against it. These mines are
laid a little under the surface of the water. As for a torpedo, it is a
long thing shaped like a fish, with a motor in its tail. It is also
loaded with stuff to blow up, and it can be fired at an enemy’s ship
from a submarine or from a torpedo boat. The motor in its tail makes it
travel very fast under water, and if it hits a ship it is almost certain
to destroy her.
When the Amphion bumped on a mine, or was hit by a torpedo, a sheet of
flame enveloped the bridge and rendered her commander, Captain Fox,
insensible. Soon he recovered consciousness and he ran instantly to the
engine-room to stop the engines. But the good ship’s back was broken,
and she was already settling down by the bows. At once efforts were made
to place the wounded in safety, but by the time some destroyers came up
the Amphion had to be abandoned.
The crew lined up in perfect discipline, everything was done without any
confusion, and twenty minutes after the blow was first struck, all the
men and most of the officers had left the ship. It was well they did so,
for three minutes afterwards came another explosion, blowing up the
whole forepart.
Discipline is one of the finest words in our language, and it is one we
share with our French Allies, for although the word is pronounced a
little differently in French, it is written exactly the same.
What is discipline? Discipline is composed of two human qualities which,
if they appear to have very little to do with one another, are yet often
allied. These qualities are obedience and courage.
The finest example of discipline in the history of the British Navy is
the story of the sinking of the Birkenhead. She was a troopship and she
struck on a rock. Instantly, the boats were lowered and filled with the
women and children. Then, the soldiers and marines were formed up on
deck, and they faced their death in perfect order as if on parade while
the ship slowly sank.
The then King of Prussia, Frederick IV, was so impressed by the
behaviour of the doomed crew on the Birkenhead that he caused this story
of “iron discipline and perfect duty” to be read aloud at the head of
every regiment in his kingdom.
Mr. Rudyard Kipling has referred to the cool courage of the marines, or
“Jollies” as they are called, in a famous poem:
“To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with the firing all about,
Is none so bad when you’ve cover to ’and, and leave and liking to shout,
But to stand stock still to the Birken’ead drill is a dam tough bullet
to chew;
An’ they done it, the Jollies, ’er Majesty’s Jollies, soldier and
sailor, too!”
But to return to the Amphion. The story I like best is one that was told
in a bluejacket’s letter to his parents:
“We were all stunned on the upper deck, surrounded with flame and smoke.
Then we saw our captain come. His arms were burnt, and his hair; he
spoke very nice. ‘Cheer up, men, and be brave; we shall all get saved.’
Of course that cheered up everyone. No excitement at all. The biggest
part of us stripped off to swim for it, but no one left that ship until
the captain gave the order to go, and, thank God, we were all saved that
was alive.”
You notice that gallant Captain Fox struck first a noble note, “Be
brave!” he cried; and then, as an afterthought, “We shall all get
saved.”
A day or two later it was shown that the British Navy knows how to
honour a brave foe. Four members of the crew of the Amphion and four of
the German mine-layer’s crew died in hospital at Harwich. Each son of
the sea, Briton and German, was provided with the same kind of coffin,
and the same service was performed for each of the eight separately. The
funerals were most reverently conducted, each coffin being hoisted on
the shoulders of seamen. The dead Britons had a Union Jack for pall, the
Germans the ensign of their Fatherland. They were all lowered into one
grave. Volleys were fired, and the Last Post sounded.
To show you the kind of risk our sailors run without a thought of self,
hearken to the amazing adventures of Stationmaster Stapleton, of
Hykeham, who is a Naval Reserve man. He received his call, joined his
ship, the Amphion, found himself in action, was sunk, and was
rescued—all within forty-eight hours of leaving his little wayside
station!
III
It was on August 28 that Sir John Jellicoe first tried his hand at the
surprise game of the Germans. It was a brilliant success.
Out of the morning mist our ships crept and caught a German cruiser
squadron lying in supposed safety under the guns of Heligoland. We sank
the German protected cruiser Mainz and another cruiser of the same
class, while a third cruiser “disappeared” in the mist, heavily on fire,
and in a sinking condition. We also badly damaged some smaller craft,
while our own ships got off very lightly. But we had to mourn the loss
of sixty-nine men killed and wounded, including Lieut.-Commander Nigel
Barttelot and Lieut. Eric Westmacott among the killed.
All the ships which took part in this action had the words “Heligoland,
August 28, 1914,” painted in gold letters in a conspicuous place aboard
them. But special honour was paid to the light cruiser Arethusa.
This gallant little ship showed herself worthy of her name, which is one
of the most glorious in the Navy.
In recognition of the notable part she played in the fight, the
Admiralty ordered the famous old song of “The Saucy Arethusa” to be
engraved upon a brass plate and set up in a prominent place on board the
ship. The first verse runs:
“Come all ye sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzza for the Arethusa!
Her men are staunch
To their favourite launch,
And when the foe shall meet our fire,
Sooner than strike we’ll all expire
On board of the Arethusa.”
The Arethusa, which flew the broad pennant of Commodore Tyrwhitt (this
is the special flag always flown by commodores), was chosen for the
honour of leading the attack.
At the head of a line of destroyers, which are small but very fast
vessels, she sallied forth, intending to cut off the German ships and
drive them into the open sea, there to fight them at leisure. But two
German cruisers attacked her first at a distance of nearly two miles.
This seems a long way, but naval guns can shoot much further than that.
The Germans did her some damage, but she drove them off, and one of them
she seriously injured.
Later on in the morning she fought two other German ships, and helped to
sink the Mainz. In these actions she suffered so much that many of her
guns were made useless and her speed was lessened to ten knots, which of
course is very slow.
About one o’clock the gallant Arethusa was discovered in her crippled
condition by two German cruisers, and they would certainly have sunk her
if British ships had not come to the rescue. These ships turned the
tables with a vengeance, for they chased and sank the Germans in their
turn.
The Arethusa had done splendidly, all the more splendidly you will agree
when you hear that she had only been commissioned a few days before.
“Commissioned” means got ready for service, with crew, guns, stores, and
everything necessary for going to sea. Thus, her officers and crew were
new to one another and the ship was new to them, and yet they could not
have fought better.
The whole Empire felt a thrill of pride in the exploit of the Arethusa.
In far-off Johannesburg 2081 miners clubbed together, paying a penny
each to send a telegram congratulating Commodore Tyrwhitt and his whole
ship’s company on their victory.
Fighting at sea is, I think, in some ways more dreadful than fighting on
land. There is the same terrible distance from the enemy, and the shells
make the same fearful screaming noise in the air. But if your ship is
struck a mortal blow, you seem to have less chance than you would have
in land fighting, especially if your ship blows up before sinking.
But that is a landsman’s feeling. You may be sure that our gallant tars
do not trouble their heads whether the danger is more or less. Indeed,
this Heligoland action showed most vividly that the modern Navy is
worthy of all her glorious traditions.
I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Barttelot and his gallant little
destroyer, the Liberty. She and the other destroyers did not hesitate to
engage much bigger and stronger German ships, and naturally they got
knocked about a bit.
After the funnel of the Liberty had been shot away, this brave officer
stood on the bridge and gave his orders as quietly as if he were at a
sham fight. A shell shot off one of his legs, but he seized the rails of
the bridge, steadied himself, and continued giving his commands. Shortly
after another shell struck the Liberty and killed him.
Not less thrilling is the story of Lieut.-Commander Frank Rose, of the
destroyer Laurel, who was seriously wounded in the left leg. His men
urged him to go below, but he simply shifted the weight on to the other
leg and continued to issue his orders. Soon his one sound leg was struck
by a shell, and down he came on the bridge, but he still declined to go
below. His signalman tore off his trousers to prevent the wound from
being poisoned, and to this act of thoughtful devotion Lieut.-Commander
Rose probably owed his life. As at last he lay swooning on the bridge,
one of his petty officers fastened a lifebelt round him.
By this time there only remained three rounds of ammunition, and it
appeared as if the little Laurel could not live much longer in the fire
to which she was then exposed. But she did.
The gallantry of all our seamen was indeed something to be proud of, and
it was shown by fighters and non-fighters alike.
For example, the surgeon of the Arethusa, who was, as I have explained,
new to the ship like the others, was a marvel of coolness. Before she
was struck he busied himself in handing out ammunition to the gunners,
and when the casualties began he stuck to his work of healing under
fire. He hadn’t time to dress properly, so there he was, wearing red
leather slippers, uniform trousers, and the coat of his pyjamas!
One officer of the Arethusa had his leg grazed by a shell which fell
five or six feet behind him. He was hurled along the deck, and appeared
to be much relieved when he discovered that both his legs had not been
shot away. But they were badly bruised. There were no crutches on board,
so one of the crew gave him a pair of broomsticks, by the aid of which
he stuck to his post and hobbled round giving his orders.
This action, the Battle of the Bight as it was called, inspired many
poets. To my mind by far the finest it called forth was by Mr. William
Watson. In it he addresses the mighty dead of the sea service, and his
last verse runs:
“Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well!
Thou hast thy heart’s desire.
Grenville, whom nought could quell,
Thou dost hand on thy fire.
And thou that had’st no peer,
Nelson! thou need’st not fear:
Thy sons and heirs are here,
Nor shall they shame their sire.”
The sea has always bred heroes. At the Battle of Trafalgar one of the
French captains had both his legs shot off. He had himself placed in a
barrel of bran, and went on directing his men in the hour of defeat to
the end.
At the Battle of the Nile a little midshipman, only fourteen years old,
named John Hindmarsh, gave the order which saved the Bellerophon. Seeing
that the fire in L’Orient would spread to the Bellerophon, he got some
men down and cut her cable and then had the sprit-sail set. The captain
was below, having a wound dressed, and the first lieutenant was also
below on duty. Hindmarsh was publicly thanked by Nelson himself.
Then it was wooden ships and sails; now it is ships of steel and
complicated machinery. But the spirit of Navy men remains every whit as
cool and gallant.
This first naval action off Heligoland also showed the splendid chivalry
of our seamen.
When the German ships were seen to be sinking, the British commanders
ordered the destroyers to cease fire. All boats were lowered to pick up
survivors; but while this was being done, German destroyers and cruisers
actually opened a heavy fire on the boats. Our destroyers were thus
forced to retire, and one of them, the Defender, generously left her
boat to the German prisoners, nearly all of whom were wounded.
Yet more. The commanding officer of Submarine E4, after covering the
retreat of one of the destroyers, returned to the boats and removed the
British officers and men. He might also have taken a German officer and
six unwounded men prisoners, but as there were eighteen Germans very
badly wounded, he humanely left the officer and unwounded men to care
for them and navigate the boats which contained them. He did something
else. He provided the boats with water, biscuits, and a compass, and he
generously gave the officer the position and course to Heligoland. As
for the officer and men of the Defender, they stripped themselves of
everything but their trousers and tore up their clothes to serve as
bandages for the wounded Germans.
Some days afterwards a high German official actually asserted that
British seamen had fired on the Germans swimming in the water. It is
from the reply which our Admiralty made to this cowardly charge that the
above facts are taken. As a matter of fact, I am sorry to tell you that
some of the German officers fired at their own men in the water with
revolvers.
A letter written by a sailor who took part in the Heligoland action told
a pretty story of his ship’s pet:
“Our dear little black lucky kitten sat under our foremost gun during
the whole of the battle, and wasn’t frightened at all, only when we
first started firing. But afterwards she sat and licked herself. We all
kissed her afterwards!”
Sailors are known to be extremely fond of animals. The Naval Volunteers
at the Crystal Palace soon acquired two pets—a kitten and a whippet. The
latter always had a red, white, and blue ribbon tied to each of his legs
and to his tail.
Soldiers, too, are very fond of pets. The story goes that on one
occasion a sergeant appeared on his troopship with a little woolly dog.
The quartermaster on duty refused to allow the animal on board. The
sergeant thought awhile, and then went on shore. An hour later he came
back with a cage. In it was a very queer-looking creature, which, though
it had four feet, was covered with hen’s feathers. “Can’t pass that
there dog on board,” said the quartermaster. “Dog?” said the sergeant.
“This ain’t no dog. It’s a Maltese four-footed Bird of Paradise, and
there’s no rules against taking birds on board!”
The laugh was with him, and his pet was allowed on board ship.
IV
On September 22 the Germans scored a success against us with a submarine
attack. This resulted in the loss of three cruisers, the Aboukir, Hogue,
and Cressy. These were all old ships, and as a matter of fact were
afloat for the last time, as the Admiralty had decided to sell them for
breaking up. What could not be replaced was the loss of some twelve
hundred officers and men. Only about eight hundred and fifty were saved
out of over two thousand.
I expect that most of you have seen a picture of a submarine, but I do
not suppose that any of you know very much about this extraordinary
deep-sea fighting ship, which has been well said to wear the cloak of
darkness. The submarine can attack unseen with the deadly weapon of the
torpedo, and she can retreat undiscovered. But she is rather slow and
she is what is called blind in attack; she has to come up to the surface
before she can see exactly where her enemy is. It is said that if she
could get along more quickly than she does she could do a great deal
more mischief. Still, when commanded and manned by cool, brave men, and
when she has luck on her side, she can do quite mischief enough.
The disaster would probably not have happened if the three cruisers had
had with them their usual escort of destroyers—those speedy little craft
which are the terror of submarines. Unfortunately, the weather was very
bad, and the destroyers were delayed. This was the opportunity for which
the German submarine, commanded by Lieut.-Commander Weddingen, had long
been waiting.
The cruisers were on patrol duty somewhere off the Hook of Holland. They
did not see the tiny periscope of the submarine, as it emerged amid the
ruffled waters. The German had nine torpedoes to fire, and she had
plenty of time to choose her first victim. This was the Aboukir.
Lieut.-Commander Weddingen himself thought his torpedo hit the cruiser
under one of her magazines, which by exploding helped to destroy the
ship. However that may be, the Aboukir soon broke up and sank, and of
course her sister ships stopped and lowered boats to rescue as many as
possible of the crew.
Alas! the moment the Hogue stopped she became an easy mark. The German
submarine gave her two torpedoes in quick succession, and in about five
minutes the Hogue had gone to the bottom and the sea was covered with
men, some swimming for dear life, others clinging to tables, stools,
chairs, planks, etc., which had been thrown off the ship. Not
immediately, but soon afterwards, the Cressy was torpedoed and sank.
The brotherhood of the sea is very strong, and British seamen are always
generous in their appreciation of an enemy’s bravery. They admired the
daring of the German submarine, but they could not help being sorry for
the fact that it meanly advanced under cover of a German trawler which
had hoisted the Dutch flag. Further, one regrets to have to add that the
trawler made no attempt to save our drowning seamen, in this forming a
very great contrast to the British tars who always do their very best to
rescue their drowning enemies.
But there came up two trawlers, which were really Dutch, the Flora and
the Titan, and their captains and crews worked like heroes to save the
lives of our men. They took many hundreds to Holland, where the British
seamen were most kindly treated, being fed and clothed and sent back to
England after resting. Some of our poor fellows died of the cold and
exposure in the sea, and these the kindly Dutchmen buried with all
honour and reverence.
The mishap was a sad blow to the nation, all the more because it was
seen that the Hogue and the Cressy really met their doom owing to their
efforts to save the crew of the Aboukir. But everybody drew comfort from
the splendid gallantry shown by all our seamen, from the captains
downwards. Yet many as were the stories of brave deeds which came to
light, we may be sure that at least as many more will never be known,
the eye-witnesses having all perished. I will give you a few examples of
deeds which did come to light.
Do you remember the cool, brave surgeon on the Arethusa? There was one
equally brave and resourceful on the Cressy. Together with four men, he
was clinging to some wreckage, and he instructed his comrades to rub
each other’s legs with their naked feet alternately, and so keep their
blood circulating. They hung on for two or three hours, and finally all
were rescued, no doubt owing to the surgeon’s clever idea.
One survivor wrote after his awful ordeal:
“The best thing I saw was the coolness of a little cadet. Not more than
fourteen he looked. He drifted near me, he and a seaman clinging with
their hands and elbows on the same bit of wood. I never saw anything so
calm as that lad! He was talking to the seaman with him. ‘Well,’ he
says, ‘we’ve got to carry on like this, and if we die we shall die
game.’ And with that he begins to talk about everyday things on the
sunken ship. ‘What’s the new chief engineer like?’ he says, and chats
about little incidents in the mess. Only fourteen, a little light-haired
boy. I hope he was saved.”
What a splendid, lion-hearted boy! Was he saved? you will ask. I cannot
be sure, but I think he was.
Midshipman Cazalet of the Cressy, aged sixteen, saved no fewer than
eighty-eight lives, including one of his own officers. When Mr. Cazalet
saw that the Aboukir had been hit, he went out in the Cressy’s whaler
and picked up twenty-five men. He took them to the picket boat of the
Hogue, and went back for more. Altogether he picked up two more
boatloads, and it was not till he could see no more survivors that he
himself took refuge on board the Dutch trawler Titan.
A little drummer-boy of the Marines, Cecil Kneller, who was only
fifteen, had a great adventure, for he kept himself afloat in the water
for about four hours with the aid of an empty rum cask. And when he got
back to his father, who is a railway porter living at Chatham, it was
noticed that he was just as rosy-cheeked as when he went away! So he did
not suffer much from his long bath.
I am sorry to tell you that Captain Johnson, of the Cressy, was not
among the saved. This very gallant gentleman was last seen on the bridge
of his ship, carefully tying leaden weights round a parcel, which he
dropped into the sea.
Can you guess what was in that parcel? It was the secret signal-book of
the ship, and it was most important that it should not fall into the
hands of the enemy. If the enemy had got hold of it, then they would
have been able to read the signals with which our ships talk to one
another, and that might easily have led to a terrible disaster.
Captain Johnson was determined that that should not happen, and when he
had cast the parcel into the sea, he went down with his ship contented,
for he had done his duty.
V
Much excitement was caused by the exploits of the German cruiser Emden,
which took and sank over twenty British merchantmen, and disposed of
several warships. Her commander, Captain von Müller, behaved
chivalrously to the crews of his prizes, treating them well while in his
power, and sending them to the nearest port. This contrast with the
behaviour of the Germans on land made everybody realise the brotherhood
of the sea.
For the first time in any big war, the fastest ocean liners on both
sides were armed with naval guns and turned into warships. I am going to
tell you about a most exciting duel between two of these armed liners,
which happened on September 14. Some of you may have crossed the
Atlantic to America in the White Star liner Carmania, and if so you will
read with all the more interest the story of her victory over the German
ship Cap Trafalgar.
You will easily understand that when the Carmania was taken over by the
British Navy and became H.M.S. Carmania, a good many changes were made.
The comfortable quarters for passengers, the splendid state-rooms and
luxurious berths, were ripped out, because fire is a great danger in a
warship and anything that will burn is usually thrown overboard when she
goes into action. Even as it was, a shell from the enemy did set the
Carmania on fire, as we shall see.
Fights between single ships are, I think, in some ways more exciting
than big battles. At any rate, it is easier to understand them. When it
is a case of only two ships, we can imagine ourselves on board one of
them and looking on at the struggle.
Have you ever heard how the gallant Captain Broke, of H.M.S. Shannon,
engaged and defeated the American warship Chesapeake? That was when we
were at war with America, just a hundred years ago. The duel took place
outside New York Harbour, in sight of land, and crowds came out to see
the sight. Their feelings must have been very mixed, for the Chesapeake
struck her flag after a short and very violent fight. But as the
Americans are a brave and generous people, they must have applauded the
clever seamanship of gallant Captain Broke.
You may remember, too, the plucky fight of the little Revenge against
enormous odds, and Tennyson’s noble ballad in which the story is told.
I cannot tell you why the Germans named their ship Cap Trafalgar, after
the scene of Nelson’s last and greatest victory, especially as there is
a splendid ship named Trafalgar in the British Navy. But it does not
much matter, as the Cap Trafalgar now lies at the bottom of the Atlantic
Ocean.
The crew of the Carmania were just sitting down to their mid-day dinner
when the look-out men sounded the alarm. Instantly everyone tumbled up
and went to his place, and all eyes were turned on a big ship lying
about five miles off, as big as the Carmania herself, and looking like a
liner. In fact, the Germans, with their usual cunning, had painted her
two funnels to look like a Union-Castle liner. The Cap Trafalgar was
pretending to be a British ship!
The trick did her no good, however; the captain of the Carmania was not
running any risks. “Give her a shot,” he cried, “but don’t hit her.” The
gun-layer gave her a neat shot just across her bows, and at that instant
the stranger opened fire. The Carmania replied with all her port guns,
and the fight immediately became furious.
The German was beaten for two reasons. First, because he fired too high,
only smashing the Carmania’s masts and rigging, whereas we put in most
of our shots right on the German’s water-line. Secondly, because the
Carmania was much better handled, her captain turning her so that the
enemy could only fire at her endways and not sideways.
The Cap Trafalgar took fire in the forward part, but still she gallantly
went on fighting. When at last she decided to try and escape, she found
it was too late. Already she was sinking, and the men of the Carmania,
which had by this time practically ceased firing, saw a very curious
thing. They saw the enemy turn over on her side, so that they could look
right down her funnels, which were level with the water. Even then the
German ship did not haul down her flag. There was an explosion and her
bows went under; then another explosion and the great vessel sank. All
the honours of war to this brave foe!
The Cap Trafalgar made 304 holes in the Carmania, but only two of them
were serious shots in the side of the ship. This was not very good
shooting when you think that the Carmania is 675 feet long—longer than
many a London street—and stands 60 feet out of the water, as tall as a
tall house.
The most serious damage done to the Carmania was by a shell, which set
her on fire under her fore-bridge, and made steering difficult. The fire
spread so much that it prevented the Carmania’s men from going to the
rescue of the Germans in the water. But before she sank five boats put
off from the Cap Trafalgar, and I am glad to say they were all rescued
by a coal-ship—two hundred and seventy-nine officers and men.
So much for this exciting little fight. The two ships were almost
exactly equal in size and strength, and the British vessel won on her
merits by better seamanship and better gunnery. No wonder the Navy was
pleased.
VI
Now I must tell you about Lieut.-Commander Max K. Horton, of Submarine
E9, and how he earned the nickname of “The Double-toothed Pirate.”
You know how terribly dangerous the submarine service is. These ships
are long and narrow, shaped rather like a cigar, and they can travel a
long way under the water. But they are very fragile, and their gallant
crews are always ready for instant death.
The day before the Carmania sank the Cap Trafalgar, September 13,
Lieut.-Commander Horton took a little trip out to the Frisian Islands in
E9. He found the German light cruiser Hela and sank her with a torpedo,
and got away without being seen.
The loss of the Hela herself did not matter much to the Germans, as she
was nearly ten years old and not of much fighting value. But what did
matter was the upset to the nerves of the Germans. This is a most
valuable thing in war—to make your enemy feel “jumpy.”
It is said that E9 came back to Harwich flying a little yellow flag
bearing a skull and crossbones, which, as you probably know, is the
badge of the Kaiser’s favourite regiment of Brandenburg Hussars.
The next exploit of E9 was even more daring, even more certain to make
the Germans “jumpy.”
Again the little ship went off to the Frisian Islands, and there she
torpedoed and sank a German destroyer. If you look at the map, you will
see how close these islands are to the German naval stations of
Wilhelmshaven and Emden. What should we have felt if a German submarine
had come up and sunk a British ship quite close to Portsmouth and
Plymouth? However, the War may bring us worse surprises than that, and
if it does we must bear them bravely.
E9 had an exciting time. While she was watching for her prey, she saw a
big German cruiser and she had to dive. When she came up again, the
cruiser had gone, but there was a destroyer instead, and this she marked
down. At one time she was actually too near the destroyer to fire a
torpedo because it would have been dangerous to herself. At last she got
about six hundred yards off and then she fired two torpedoes, one after
the other. The first missed, but the second hit the destroyer fairly in
the middle and blew her to pieces. Another German destroyer which was
near hastily ran away.
Lieut.-Commander Horton and his gallant men returned to Harwich flying
the little yellow flag, and underneath it a little white flag, also
bearing the grim device of a skull and crossbones. It was then that he
was given the jesting nickname of “The Double-toothed Pirate,” for as
you know the skull and crossbones has always been the emblem of pirates.
I do not myself like this nickname, for Lieut.-Commander Horton is by no
means a pirate. On the contrary, he always fights fair. He is as clever
as he is brave, and he has always been a great believer in submarines,
which he has been studying for years. When he was serving in H.M.S. Duke
of Edinburgh he won a gold medal for saving life. That was when the
Delhi went ashore with the Princess Royal and the late Duke of Fife and
their children on board.
An amusing story is told which shows the coolness of submarine officers.
One of these gallant fellows, finding that the enemy could see him on
the surface by daylight, sank his boat to the bottom and waited for
night. Someone asked him what he did all that time. “I did very well,”
he said, “we played auction bridge, and I won 4s. 11½d.” But games like
this at the bottom of the sea are the great exception.
Never forget our seamen and what they are doing for us in storm, in
cold, and in fog. If you have the good fortune to be related to a boy or
man in the Navy, write to him regularly and tell him all the home news.
He will love to hear it, and, busy as he may be, will probably find time
to answer you. But if you don’t hear for a long time, remember that the
delightful verses—with only one word altered—which were written by the
Earl of Dorset at sea in 1665 are as true now as they were two hundred
and fifty years ago:
“To all you children now at land
We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.
For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.”