THE SINKING OF THE SHIP
CRASH!—Bang!—Cr-r-r-ash! I woke with a start, and sitting up in my
hammock gazed around to see what had so suddenly roused me. Some of the
midshipmen were already standing on the deck in their pyjamas—others,
like me, were sitting up half dazed with sleep. A party of ship’s
boys crowded up the ladder from the gun-room flat, followed by three
officers; one of these, a sub-lieutenant R.N.R., called out: “Keep
calm, and you’ll all be saved.”
Up to that moment it had never dawned upon me that the ship was
sinking, and even then I thought it improbable until I noticed that
we were already listing to starboard. Then I got up and walked up the
hatch to the quarter-deck. The ship was now heeling about five degrees
to starboard, and I climbed up to the port side. It was nearly pitch
dark. A seaman rushing to help lower the boats charged into me, and I
turned and swore at him.
Gradually a crowd gathered along the port side. “Boat ahoy! Boat ahoy!”
they yelled; but, as the ship listed more and more, and there was no
sign or sound of any approaching vessel, the men’s voices seemed to
get a bit hopeless. The Commander was urging on a gang who were trying
to get some heavy timber overboard; but, as we listed further and
further over, they found it impossible to get it up on the port side
and couldn’t get round to starboard, as the capstan and the Captain’s
hatch and skylight were in the way. At last they gave it up, and going
to the side joined their voices to those of the crew, who were trying
to attract the attention of any vessel that might be in the vicinity.
Inside the ship everything which was not secured was sliding about and
bringing up against the bulkheads with a series of crashes. Crockery
was smashing—boats falling out of their crutches—broken funnel-guys
swinging against the funnel casings. She had heeled over to about
twenty degrees, then she stopped and remained steady for a few seconds.
In the momentary lull the voice of one of our officers rang out steady
and clear as at “divisions”: “Keep calm, men. Be British!”
Then the ship started to heel rapidly again, and I felt sure there was
no chance of saving her. I turned to jump overboard. The Commander, who
was standing a few paces away on my right, went over a second before
me. Raising my arms above my head I sprang well out board and dived.
Just before I struck the water my face hit the side of the ship. It was
a horrid feeling sliding on my face down the slimy side, and a second
later I splashed in with tremendous force, having dived about thirty
feet.
Just as I was rising to the surface again a heavy body came down on
top of me. I fought clear and rose rather breathless and bruised. I
swam about fifty yards away, to get clear of the suction when the ship
went down; then, turning round and treading water, I watched her last
moments. The noise of crashing furniture and smashing crockery was
continuous. Slowly her stern lifted until it was dimly outlined against
the deep midnight sky. Slowly her bows slid further and further under
until, with a final lurch, she turned completely over and disappeared
bottom upwards in a mass of bubbles.
She had been our home for nearly ten months—she was gone—vanished—in
less than four minutes.
Turning over and swimming a slow side-stroke I made for _H.M.S.
Cornwallis_, which I could discern faintly silhouetted against the
sky about two-and-a-half miles distant. Suddenly something touched my
leg, and the thought of the sharks we had watched from the bridge the
previous afternoon flashed shudderingly across my mind—but it was
only a floating potato! Soon the shrieks of the drowning grew faint
in the distance and I swam on with three others near me. When I had
been in the water for about twenty minutes I looked up and saw what I
thought to be a boat. I shouted out, “Boat ahoy!”—and turning on my
side swam for some time a fast side-stroke. When at last I rested and
looked for the imagined boat, which ought to have been quite near by
now, I discovered that I had somehow misfocussed the _Cornwallis_, and
so come to imagine she was a small steamboat quite close instead of a
battle-ship a mile and a half away. However, I felt quite confident
of reaching her if only I persevered, so I continued to swim a slow
side-stroke. Soon after this my pyjama jacket came undone, and I took
it off as it hindered me. A few minutes later I sighted a huge spar
about twenty feet long, probably the topgallant mast or lower boom
from our ship. It must have been thrown a tremendous way by the force
of the explosion to be so far down the channel. The current was very
strong, and of course that was a great help to those who were swimming.
I hung on to the spar for a minute or two to get my breath back a bit,
and rubbed myself all over in order to restore the circulation, as by
that time I was getting very cold. After a short rest I started off
again to try and reach _H.M.S. Cornwallis_. Presently it seemed to me
that I was not approaching her as rapidly as before, and almost at the
same moment she switched on her searchlights, when I saw by their light
that she was out of the main stream of the current, and that to reach
her I should have to swim half a mile absolutely unaided by the flow of
the tide. I tried to get in the beam of her searchlight, thinking she
would be sure to have some boats out and that they would see me; but I
found I was unable to manage this, and after about five minutes I gave
up trying. Then I turned round and looked about for some other ship to
essay and make for. About a quarter of a mile behind me, and slightly
up stream, I saw another ship with all her searchlights going and I
determined to try and reach her. I swam towards her, and presently saw
two steamboats push off from her bow and make off up stream for the
scene of the disaster, but they were too far off to hail. Five minutes
later I heard the welcome plash of oars, and looking to my left saw
a cutter approaching with a man in the bows sweeping the surrounding
water with a hand lantern. I yelled out, “Boat ahoy!” and back came the
cheering answer: “All right, we’re coming. Hang on!”
A minute later the lantern flashed in my face, a pair of strong arms
grasped me by the shoulders and hauled me clear of the water.
I must have fainted then, for I remember nothing more until I became
dimly conscious as in a dream that I was in the stern sheets of a
boat lying alongside some other vessel. A man’s voice said, “Here’s a
midshipman, sir,” and next moment I was picked up and set down on the
deck.
Barely conscious as yet of my surroundings, I was taken into a sort of
cabin, where I was given some neat rum. It was very fiery and nearly
choked me, but it bucked me up a bit all the same. Then I was conducted
down to the boiler-room, where some one stripped off my pyjama trousers
(my one remaining garment), and I sat down on a locker before the
furnace and soon got a degree of warmth back into my body.
Presently I heard the voice of one of our lieutenants speaking up
above, and called out to him to know how he’d come off. Then I was
helped up the gangway again and into a small sort of saloon in the
stern. Here I was given some more rum, a very large sweater, and a pair
of blue serge trousers belonging to one of the crew, and when I had put
them on I lay down in a bunk and immediately fell asleep. About an hour
later I woke up and found the saloon full of officers and men.
The Lieutenant to whom I had spoken in the boiler-room was sitting at
the table. He was dressed in a jersey and a seaman’s duck trousers.
Two other survivors, a marine and an armourer, were also at the table,
and across the saloon in the bunk opposite mine lay a gunner’s mate.
I asked the Lieutenant what time our ship was struck. He said his
watch had stopped at 1·29 a.m., when he jumped into the sea, and so he
presumed we were torpedoed at about 1·27, as the ship only took _three
and a half minutes_ to go down. She had been struck on the starboard
side by three torpedoes fired from a Turkish torpedo-boat, which had
drifted down the straits keeping close inshore, and thus eluded our
destroyer patrol. To give the enemy his due it was a jolly smart piece
of work.
It was now somewhere about 3·30 a.m., and, as I did not feel
inclined to sleep any more, they gave me some hot cocoa and some
bread-and-cheese. I drank the former, but the bread-and-cheese was more
than I felt equal to just then. About 6 o’clock the Lieutenant was
transferred to another ship for medical treatment, as his back was
badly bruised by drifting wreckage; and half-an-hour later the rest of
the survivors were reembarked in _H.M.S. Lord Nelson’s_ cutter, the
same that had picked us up; and leaving the trawler she took us to the
_Lord Nelson_.
When we got on board I was at once taken down to the gun-room, where I
found four more of our “snotties” who had also been rescued. One more
was reported as having safely swum ashore; but there was no news of the
other three, and subsequently it transpired that they had been lost.
The survivors were mostly sleeping—the sleep of exhaustion. We had all
had a pretty tough fight for it, and I realised then how uncommonly
lucky we had been in escaping not only alive, but for the most part
uninjured. Cunninghame had a nasty cut on his head, but the rest of
us were only suffering from minor bruises, and of course to a certain
extent from shock.
One of the _Lord Nelson’s_ middies kindly lent me some old uniform, and
after I had dressed I made a parcel of the clothes I had been lent on
the trawler and took them to the ship’s corporal, and asked him to see
that they were returned to their owner.
I remembered, with an odd sense of unreality, that the last time I had
been in the _Lord Nelson_ was at the manœuvres the previous July!
On my way up to the deck I met three more of our lieutenants, and we
exchanged accounts of our experiences. From them I learned that our
Commander had been saved, and was also on board; but there was no news
of the Captain. Some days later I heard that his body had been picked
up, and it was thought that he had been killed by the falling of the
pinnace when the ship turned over just before she sank.
At 7·30 we put to sea and proceeded to Port Mudros. On the way,
and after divisions, the lower deck was cleared, the whole ship’s
company, together with the survivors from our ship, mustered on
the quarter-deck, and then took place a mournful ceremony, which
poignantly brought home to us the fate we had so narrowly escaped.
Through the battery—very softly—came the sound of muffled drums,
growing gradually louder as the band advanced. Then appeared a
procession of seamen from our lost ship, headed by the _Lord Nelson’s_
chaplain, and carrying three stretchers, on each of which lay a body
covered with the Union Jack. The first was that of our Fleet paymaster,
and the other two those of a seaman and marine respectively. The bodies
were lifted from the stretchers and laid reverently on a platform
slanting towards the water, which had been erected on the port side.
Clearly and solemnly the chaplain recited the beautiful Burial Service,
and as he uttered the words “we therefore commit their bodies to the
deep,” the staging was tilted and the weighted corpses slid feet
foremost into the sea.
The service ended with three volleys fired over the side and then the
long sobbing wail of the “Last Post” rang out across the still waters
in final farewell.
When we were dismissed we went below in silence, awed by the solemnity
of this last committal to the deep of those with whom we had lived and
worked side by side for ten long months.