THE GOOD SHIP ‘PRIZE’
In the summer of 1914 I happened to be on a yachting cruise in the
English Channel. In July we had seen the Grand Fleet, led by _Iron
Duke_, clear out from Weymouth Bay for Spithead. In single line ahead
the battle squadrons weighed and proceeded, then came the light
cruisers, and before the last of these had washed the last ounce
of dirt off her cable and steamed into position, the _Iron Duke_
and _Marlborough_ were hull down over the horizon: it was the most
wonderful sight I had ever witnessed at sea. A week or two later I had
arrived in Falmouth, the war had begun, and yachting came to a sudden
stop. One morning we found a new neighbour had arrived, a typical,
foreign-built, three-masted schooner, who had just been brought in and
anchored. She was destined to be an historic ship in more ways than
one. Actually, she was the first prize to be captured from Germany, and
it was a unique sight then to see the White Ensign flying over German
colours. Within four or five hours of declaration of war this craft had
been captured at the western entrance of the English Channel, and she
never became German again.
But she was to be historic in quite another way. Of all the splendid
little Q-ships during the war, not excepting even the _Mitchell_
mentioned in another chapter, no sailing craft attained such
distinction, and her captain will be remembered as long as British
naval history has any fascination. This German schooner was named the
_Else_, and had been built of steel and iron in 1901 at Westerbrock,
by the firm of Smit and Zoon, but registered at Leer, Germany. She was
112 feet 6 inches long, her net tonnage being 199. I can still see her
disconsolate German skipper standing aft, and it must have grieved
him that his ship was about to be taken from him for ever. For she
was afterwards put up for auction and sold to the Marine Navigation
Company, who, because of her experience already mentioned, changed her
name from _Else_ to _First Prize_. In November, 1916, she was lying in
Swansea, and as the Admiralty was looking out for a suitable vessel to
carry out decoy work after the manner of _Mitchell_ and _Helgoland_,
she was surveyed, found suitable, and requisitioned. A few weeks later
the Managing Director of the Company patriotically decided to waive all
payment for hire, and lent her to the Admiralty without remuneration.
By February, 1917, this auxiliary topsail schooner was ready for sea
as a disguised man-of-war, with a couple of 12-pounders cleverly
concealed on her deck. She had changed her name from _First Prize_
to _Prize_, alias Q 21, and in command of her went Lieutenant W. E.
Sanders, R.N.R., whom we saw behaving with distinction when serving in
the Q-sailing-ship _Helgoland_. No better man could have been found
than this plucky New Zealander, and he had already shown that he had
a genius for this extra special type of Q-ship work. _Prize_ had
been sent to work in the western waters, and on April 26, 1917, she
left Milford Haven for a cruise off the west coast of Ireland, this
being the month when, of all months in the war, German submarines
were the most successful. At 8.35 on the evening of April 30, _Prize_
was in Lat. 49.44 N., Long. 11.42 W. It was fine, clear, spring-like
weather, with a light N.N.E. wind, calm sea, and good visibility.
_Prize_ was under all sail, steering on a north-west course, and
making about 2 knots. Two miles away on her port beam, and steering a
parallel course, was sighted a big submarine. This was U 93, a most
modern craft, commanded by one of Germany’s ablest submarine officers,
Lieut.-Commander Freiherr von Spiegel. She was a powerful vessel,
who had relieved U 43 on this station, and was over 200 feet long,
armed with two 10·5-centimetre guns, 500 rounds of ammunition, and
18 torpedoes, her complement consisting of 37 officers and men. This
latest submarine was on her maiden trip in the Atlantic, having left
Emden on Friday, April 13. For those who are superstitious the day and
the date will be interesting. She had had a most successful cruise,
having sunk eleven merchantmen, and was now on her way back to Germany.
Von Spiegel was anxious to be back home as soon as possible, for, be it
said, he was certainly a sportsman, and he happened to have a couple of
horses running in the Berlin races in the second week of May.
The sighting of this little topsail schooner made him avaricious. He
had sunk eleven: why not make the number a round dozen? So, at 8.45
p.m., he altered course towards the _Prize_, and ordering on deck to
see the fun all his men who could be spared, he opened fire with both
guns. Lieutenant Sanders therefore brought _Prize_ into the wind, and
sent his panic party to row about. This party consisted of six men
in charge of Skipper Brewer, of the Trawler Reserve, who had been
intentionally visible on deck, and now launched their small boat. In
the meantime, at the sounding of the alarm, Lieutenant Sanders and
Skipper Meade (also of the Trawler Reserve) had concealed themselves
inside the steel companion-cover amidships, and the rest of the crew
were hiding under the protection of the bulwarks or crawling to their
respective stations. _Prize’s_ two guns were placed one forward,
concealed by a collapsible deckhouse, and one aft, on an ingenious
disappearing mounting under the hatchway covers of the after hold,
and she carried also a couple of Lewis guns. Lieutenant W. D. Beaton,
R.N.R., who was second in command of the ship, was in charge of the
gunnery forward, and lay at the foot of the foremast with his ear to a
voice-pipe which led back to where Lieutenant Sanders was conning the
ship.
The contest could not fail to be interesting, for it resolved itself
into a duel between one ‘star-turn’ artist and another. Neither was a
novice, both were resourceful, plucky men, and the incident is one of
the most picturesque engagements of all the Q-ship warfare. Taking it
for granted that this little trader out in the Atlantic was what she
appeared to be, von Spiegel closed. _Prize’s_ head had now fallen off
to the eastward, so the submarine followed her round, still punishing
her with his shells, to make sure the abandon-ship evolution had been
genuine. Two of these shells hit _Prize_ on her waterline—you will
remember she was built of iron and steel—penetrating and bursting
inside the hull. One of them put the auxiliary motor out of action and
wounded the motor mechanic: the other destroyed the wireless room and
wounded the operator. That was serious enough, but cabins and mess-room
were wrecked, the mainmast shot through in a couple of places, and the
ship now leaking. Such was the training, such was the discipline of
these men under their gallant New Zealand captain, that, in spite of
this nerve-wracking experience, they still continued to remain on deck,
immobile, unseen, until Lieutenant Sanders should give the longed-for
word. They could see nothing, they could not ease the mental strain by
watching the enemy’s manœuvres or inferring from what direction the
next shot—perhaps the last—would come. This knowledge was shared only
by Lieutenant Sanders and Skipper Meade as they peeped through the
slits of their lair. Several times Sanders crept from this place on
hands and knees along the deck, encouraging his men and impressing on
them the necessity of concealment.
Meanwhile, closer and closer drew the submarine, but the latter
elected to remain dead astern, and this was unfortunate, for not one
of _Prize’s_ guns would thus bear. Then there was a strange sound aft.
Everyone knows that the inboard end of a patent log fits into a small
slide, which is screwed down on to the taffrail of a ship. Suddenly
this slide was wrenched and splintered, for the enemy had got so
close astern that she had fouled and carried away the log-line in her
endeavour to make quite sure of her scrutiny. U 93 then, apparently
convinced that all was correct, sheered out a little and came up on the
schooner’s port quarter only 70 yards away, being about to send her
quickly to the bottom.
Thus had passed twenty long, terrible minutes of suspense on board
the Q-ship, and it was five minutes past nine. But patience, that
great virtue of the really brave, had at length been rewarded. Through
his steel slit Sanders could see that his guns would bear, so ‘Down
screens!’ ‘Open fire!’ and up went the White Ensign. Covers and false
deckhouses were suddenly collapsed, and the _Prize’s_ guns now returned
the fire, as the pent-up feelings of the crew were able to find their
outlet in fierce activity. But even as the White Ensign was being
hoisted, the submarine fired a couple more shots, and the schooner was
twice hit, wounding one of the crew who had rushed below to fetch from
the bottom of the ladder a Lewis gun. Von Spiegel was now evidently
very angered, for putting his helm hard aport he went full speed ahead
to ram the schooner, and with that fine bow he might have made a nasty
hole at the waterline, through which the sea would have poured like
a waterfall. But he realized that he was outside his turning circle,
so put his helm the other way and tried to make off. It was then that
a shell from the _Prize’s_ after gun struck the forward gun of the
submarine, blowing it to pieces, as well as the gun’s crew. The second
shot from the same British gun destroyed the conning-tower, and a
Lewis gun raked the rest of the men on the deck. The third shot from
_Prize’s_ after gun also hit so that she stopped, and as she sank shell
after shell hit, and the glare was seen as of a fire inside the hull.
At 9.9 p.m., after the _Prize_ had fired thirty-six rounds, the enemy
disappeared stern first. Lieutenant Sanders could not use his engines
as they were already out of action, and there was practically no wind,
so he could not go to the spot where she had last been seen.
The darkness was fast falling, and the panic party in the boat rowed
over the scene to search for any survivors, and picked up three. These
were Von Spiegel, the submarine’s captain, the navigating warrant
officer, and a stoker petty officer. Covered by Skipper Brewer’s
pistol, these were now taken on board the schooner. But _Prize_ herself
was in a bad way. Water was pouring through the shell-holes, and, in
spite of efforts to stop it, the sea was gaining all the time. Had it
not been calm, the vessel would certainly have gone to the bottom.
Von Spiegel, on coming aboard, offered his word of honour to make no
attempt to escape, and undertook that he and his men would render all
assistance. His parole being accepted, captors and captives set to work
to save the ship. There was a possibility that another submarine known
to be in the area would come along and finish off the sinking _Prize_,
so all had more than an interest in the proceedings.
As the ship was leaking so badly, the only thing to do was to list her.
This was done by swinging out the small boat on the davits filled with
water; by passing up from below both cables on deck and ranging them
on the starboard side; by shifting coal from port to starboard and by
emptying the port fresh-water tanks. By this means the shot-holes were
almost clear of the water, though the crew had to continue baling night
and day. Troubles never come singly. Here was this gallant little ship
lying out in the Atlantic night, crippled and becalmed. An attempt was
made to start the engines, but owing to sparks from the motor igniting
the oil which had escaped from a damaged tank, a fire broke out in the
engine-room. This was prevented from reaching the living quarters and
magazine, and was eventually put out. Meanwhile, the German navigating
warrant officer had dressed the wounds of _Prize’s_ wounded crew, and
now, at 11.45 p.m., _Prize’s_ wounded stoker petty officer, assisted by
the second motor-man and the German stoker petty officer, succeeded in
starting one engine, and course was shaped for the Irish coast, all
sail being set; but the nearest land was 120 miles to the north-east.
That night passed, and the next day, and the forenoon of the day
following; but on the afternoon of May 2 the Irish coast was sighted,
and _Prize_ was picked up 5 miles west of the Old Head of Kinsale by
H.M.M.L. 161 (Lieutenant Hannah, R.N.V.R.), who towed her into Kinsale,
where the wounded were disembarked. On May 4—that notable sunny
day when the first United States destroyers reached Queenstown from
America—_Prize_, still with her three German prisoners on board, left
Kinsale Harbour, towed by H.M. Drifter _Rival II._, who took her to
Milford. But on the way _Prize_ sighted a German mine-laying submarine
on the surface 2 miles away to the southward. The crew therefore went
to action stations, and for an hour the enemy steered on a parallel
course, but finally the latter drew ahead and disappeared. Arrived in
Milford the prisoners were taken ashore, and the _Prize_ at length came
to rest.
It has been told me by one who ought to know, that when Von Spiegel
came aboard _Prize_, after being picked up out of the water, he
remarked to Sanders: ‘The discipline in the German Navy is wonderful,
but that your men could have quietly endured our shelling without
reply is beyond all belief.’ Before leaving the _Prize_ he said
good-bye to Sanders and extended an invitation to stay with him on
his Schleswig-Holstein estate after the war. No one will deny the
extraordinary gallantry of _Prize’s_ crew and the heroic patience in
withholding their fire until the psychological moment, though the
temptation was very trying. To Lieutenant W. E. Sanders was awarded
the Victoria Cross, and he was promoted to the rank of Temporary
Lieut.-Commander, R.N.R. To Lieutenant W. D. Beaton, R.N.R., was
awarded a D.S.O.; the two skippers each received a D.S.C., and the rest
of the brave ship’s company the D.S.M.
But the ending of this story is yet to be told. U 93 was not sunk,
but got safely back to Germany! Von Spiegel had thought she was sunk,
and the crew of _Prize_ were not less certain. She had been holed
in her starboard ballast tank, in her starboard fuel tank, and her
conning-tower, and she was assuredly in a very bad way. If it had been
daylight she would most certainly have been finally destroyed; as it
was she was unable to dive, and escaped in the darkness deprived of
her wireless. Sub-Lieutenant Ziegler took over the command, with one
of his crew killed, three wounded, and three already taken prisoners.
With the utmost difficulty, and compelled to navigate all the time
on the surface, he managed to get his craft home. It was certainly a
fine achievement; the Kaiser was much impressed, and promoted him to
lieutenant. But, at the time, we in this country had never supposed
that any submarine could stand so much battering. It is interesting to
bear this incident in mind when reading other accounts in this book,
where it seemed so sure that the submarine must have been sunk: yet
the greatest care has been taken to verify every enemy submarine sunk,
and in each case the number has been given. But U 93 was doomed, and
had not much longer to live after her refit. Early in the following
January, one fine clear morning at a quarter past four, the time when
human nature is at its weakest and most collisions occur at sea, this
submarine was rammed by a steamer and sunk for the last time.
After her very necessary refit, Lieut.-Commander Sanders still remained
in the _Prize_. Admiral Jellicoe, First Sea Lord, had sent for him and
offered him command of another ship: he could have had a destroyer, a
P-boat, or any ship within reason, but his undaunted spirit, to which
Lord Jellicoe on arriving in New Zealand after the war paid such high
tribute, refused a safer appointment, and preferred to carry on. I have
been told by an officer who enjoyed Sanders’ friendship and confidence
at this time, that he went out to sea again with the consciousness that
before long he would have played the live-bait game too far, and that
the fish would get away with the bait. If that is true, then we must
admire Sanders still more for his heroism in his devotion to duty. It
is surely of this stuff that the great martyrs of Christendom have been
made.
On June 12, 1917—that is, six weeks after the previous incident, just
time enough to give leave to all the crew, get the ship refitted and
sailed to her new area—_Prize_ left Killybegs (Ireland) to cruise
to the westward of the Irish coast. At 11 a.m. on this day she was
under all sail on a N.N. W. course, doing not more than a knot through
the water, when she sighted a submarine 1-1/2 miles to the E.S.E.
proceeding slowly on the same course as _Prize_. The movements of
this submarine thereafter are worth noting. It is only reasonable to
suppose that on his return to Germany in U 93 Ziegler would give a
full description of the trap-ship which had so nearly destroyed him.
This information would, of course, be passed on to the other submarine
captains who frequented this Irish area, and we may be quite certain
that they would be on the look-out for her, anxious to revenge their
service. Now, in these modern times, and in any twenty-four hours, you
will see far more steamers of all sorts than 200-ton sailing craft: it
certainly was so during the war off the west and south-west coast of
Ireland. During the years I was on patrol there, with the exception
of quite small local fishing craft and an occasional full-rigged ship
making the land after her voyage across the Atlantic, one scarcely
ever sighted a sailing vessel of any kind. Ziegler would have reported
in effect: ‘Look out for a three-masted topsail schooner of about
200 tons. She has a bow like this..., her stern is like this..., and
her sheer is so.... You will probably find she has a dummy deckhouse
placed here...;’ and a rough sketch would afford his comrades a pretty
accurate idea. You cannot ever disguise the appearance of such a
sailing ship altogether, no matter what name you give her, nor what
colour you paint her hull. A three-masted topsail schooner is that
and nothing else, and would henceforth be regarded with the utmost
suspicion. Then, on comparing her with the sketch and examining her
with the eye of seamanlike experience, no astute submarine officer
could have had much doubt in his mind. A British officer who knew this
ship well has told me that in his opinion there was one small detail,
in respect of the wireless, which, to a careful observer, would always
give her character away. This may be so: at any rate, the following
incidents seem to indicate that the enemy were on the look-out for her
during the rest of her career, and persistently attacked her.
On the occasion of June 12, as soon as the submarine came to the
surface and opened fire, _Prize_ as usual, after the necessary
intentional bungling, sent away her boat, which took up a position half
a mile away on the starboard bow. The enemy kept on firing, and at
11.30 the schooner was hit twice, so three minutes later, as the enemy
was turning away to increase the range, Sanders ordered the screens to
be lowered, and opened fire from both starboard guns at 1,800 yards.
One shell seemed to hit, and the enemy immediately dived. But two hours
later a submarine was seen on the surface 4 miles away on the starboard
quarter, and remained in sight for a quarter of an hour. Then next
morning at 6.30 a submarine was sighted stopped, 1-1/2 miles ahead
on the surface. Five minutes later he dived, but came up after four
minutes 1,500 yards off on the starboard bow. At 6.43 he again dived,
and was not seen again. Probably each of these three appearances was
the same submarine. On the first he was repulsed, on the second he
would have a perfect opportunity of making a detailed sketch, on the
third he may have been intending to attack by torpedo, but the westerly
swell from the Atlantic possibly interfered with accurate firing. But,
apart from all surmise, it is absolutely evident that the enemy was
able to obtain a picture of the schooner, which beyond all doubt would
establish her identity on a future occasion. The importance of this
will presently be seen.
For this action of June 12 Lieut.-Commander Sanders was given a D.S.O.
to wear with his V.C. He had had a very trying time. When, at 11.30,
the German shells had hit, the falls of the port davit had been shot
away, and another shot had struck the ship on the starboard side
amidships just on the top of the sheer strake plate. This shell had
exploded and caused the ship to leak. Lieut.-Commander Sanders, who
was lying concealed between the mast and the hatch, put up his arms
to shield his face from the burst fragments and so received a piece
of shell in his right arm above the wrist. In addition, the force
of the explosion knocked him over and hurled him to the other side
of the deck, where he was picked up by Skipper Mead. In spite of the
pain and the shock, Sanders was just sufficiently conscious to give
the order ‘Action’ at 11.33, when screens were downed, White Ensign
run up, and fire was returned. The schooner came back to her base,
her gallant captain recovered from his wound, and two months later we
find her operating in the Atlantic again to the north-west of the N.W.
Irish coast. On this occasion she was cruising with one of our D-class
submarines, the idea being that when the enemy came along _Prize_ would
be attacked and heave-to in the customary manner, while the British
submarine would stealthily make for the enemy and torpedo him whilst,
so to speak, he was not looking.
On the forenoon of August 13, imagine this schooner with her
newly-painted black topsides and red boot-topping, flying the Swedish
flag and heading east. Suddenly UB 48 was sighted to the north, so
Sanders hove-to and signalled the British submarine that there was a
German submarine to port. Shells began to be fired from the enemy, who
closed. The British submarine saw the shots falling but could not see
the enemy until 4.10 p.m., when the German was descried to starboard of
the _Prize_. There was a considerable lop on at the time, and _Prize_
was seen with White Ensign flying at the peak, and her guns manned.
Five hours later the British submarine came to the surface and spoke
_Prize_, who stated that she had opened fire on the enemy at 200 yards,
and had hit him. This we now know from another source was perfectly
true, but the hits were not in a vital part of the German. During the
dark hours UB 48 bided his time, and at midnight fired two torpedoes,
the second of which hit, causing a terrific explosion, so that nothing
more was seen, and the good ship _Prize_, with her gallant captain and
all his brave men, ended her career after one of the most brilliant
periods that can be found in the records of sea achievement. UB 48 was
on her maiden voyage from Germany via the north of Scotland and N.W.
of Ireland to Cattaro in the Adriatic, where she arrived on September
2, sinking merchantmen on the way. This modern type of submarine, with
her 4·1-inch gun and her ten torpedoes, was a difficult craft to sink.
Her second officer had been taken from the German Mercantile Marine,
so we can assume that his critical eye would scrutinize the schooner
and detect something which convinced his captain that this was really
a trap-ship. That the submarine should have been content, whilst on a
long passage, to waste so many hours over a mere sailing craft of quite
small tonnage would have been doubtful; but the _Prize_ having once
shown her White Ensign and used her guns to effect decided the German
that she must be settled with after dark, when she would be a good
target in that August night. It was a fair fight, but the chances were
all in favour of the German, since it is practically impossible to see
a periscope at night, whereas the Q-ship’s sails would loom up and show
in which direction the target was heading; and, further, the submarine
had the advantage of mobility all the time.
The facts which have just been stated are authentic, and it is as well
that they should now be made known. Ignorance always breeds falsehood,
and after the loss of _Prize_ there were all sorts of wild stories
going about both in the Service and in the Mercantile Marine. Some of
them are too ghastly to be related, but a favourite version was that
the brave Sanders had been taken prisoner and lashed to the submarine’s
periscope, which then submerged and so drowned him. Another story,
which was very prevalent, was that he had been cruelly murdered. There
is not a word of truth in these suggestions. Lieut.-Commander Sanders
died as he would have wished, aboard his ship with his men. His body
rests in the Atlantic where the remains of his glorious _Prize_ sank:
but his memorial, unveiled by Lord Jellicoe as Governor of New Zealand,
will inspire generations who come after.
For dogged devotion to dangerous duty, for coolness in peril, for real
leadership of men, for tenacity in ‘sticking it,’ this hero among
those great and gallant gentlemen of the Q-ship service will remain
as a model of what a true British sailor should be. Had he lived, his
influence would have been tremendous, but by his refusing a safe billet
when he was fully entitled to it, and preferring deliberately to court
death because that way duty and honour pointed, his example should be a
great source of strength to every young apprentice beginning his life
in the Merchant Service, every midshipman of His Majesty’s Navy, and
every young man content to learn the lessons which are taught only by
the sea. On land, for their historic exploits at the Dardanelles and
in France we gratefully remember the Australians and New Zealanders.
It is fitting that one of the latter should have bequeathed to us such
distinction on the sea: it is characteristic of the great co-operation
when the children of the Empire flocked to help their mother in her
throes of the World War.