saw many half-burnt dead bodies--men, women, and children. Frightened
to death and half-starved, we were locked up in the church, and there
later joined by another troop of prisoners from the surrounding
villages.
At ten o’clock the church was lighted up by burning houses. Again shots
whistled through the air, followed by cries and groans.
At five o’clock next morning, all the priests were taken out by the
soldiers and shot, together with eight Belgian soldiers, six cyclists,
and two gamekeepers. Then the officer told us that we could go back to
Louvain. This we did, but only to be recaptured by other soldiers, who
brought us back to Camperhout. From there we were marched to Malines,
not by the high road, but along the river. Some of the party fell into
the water, but all were rescued. After thirty-six hours of ceaseless
excitement and danger we arrived at Malines, where we were able to buy
some food, and from there I escaped to Holland. I still do not know
where my wife and children are.--_Reuter’s Special Service._
So far as available evidence goes, it seems clear enough that by
some misunderstanding the German soldiers fired upon each other in
the town, and then made the unhappy townsfolk pay the price of their
tragic blundering. There are hopes that the beautiful old Hotel de
Ville escaped the general holocaust; otherwise Louvain and its ancient
glories of art and architecture are things of the past.
“Louvain is no longer anything but a heap of cinders.... In the name
of Europe, of which you have till now been one of the most illustrious
champions,” writes the well-known French novelist, Romain Roland, in
an open letter addressed to the German dramatist, Gerhart Hauptmann,
“in the name of civilisation, for which the greatest of men have been
fighting for centuries--in the name of the very honor of the Germanic
race, I adjure you, Gerhart Hauptmann, and the German intellectual
élite, among whom I count so many friends, to protest against this
crime. If you do not, it can only mean one of two things, either that
you approve, or that you are impotent to raise your voice against the
Huns who rule you. In the latter case, how can you still pretend that
you are fighting for the cause of human liberty and progress?... Are
you the descendants of Goethe, or of Attila?”
IV
THE FIGHT IN THE NORTH SEA
“_Strong Mother of a Lion line,_
_Be proud of these strong sons of thine._”
TENNYSON.
In the three weeks that followed on the declaration of war, tidings
came to us from time to time of how our ships were chasing and sinking
the enemy’s cruisers, capturing his merchantmen and keeping the
ocean-highways clear for our own and neutral commerce; but no word
reached us from the great British fleet that was keeping watch and ward
in the North Sea, waiting sleeplessly for the German Navy that was
sheltered behind the impregnable fort of Heligoland to dash out and
make its loudly threatened raid upon our coasts. We heard no word of
those guardian sailormen, but we slept peacefully in our beds at night,
confident in their strength, their courage, their alertness. Then
suddenly, on the 28th August, whilst the British and French armies were
in the heat of their strategic retreat from Mons, news of our seamen’s
dashing fight and victory in the North Sea flashed through the land.
They had grown weary of waiting, and as the German was too discreet to
venture forth to the attack they had slipped into his fastness under
cover of the dark and hunted him out. Until it is possible to compile a
connected, orderly narrative, the tale of that brilliant engagement is
best told in the letters of the men who had part in it:
_Letter 22.--From Albert Roper, first-class petty officer of H.M.
cruiser “Talbot,” to his brother at Leeds:_
I cannot give you any news about our movements. It is against the rules
to do so, and it’s a jolly good job, too, for if it was not so, things
would leak out, and that is just what we do not want. We are waiting
patiently for Willie’s fleet to come out to enable our chaps to have
a little practice. We try to make ourselves as happy as we can in the
shape of a sing-song occasionally. These evenings are well appreciated.
* * * * *
_Letter 23.--From Seaman Wilson, of the “Bacchante,” to his wife at
Hunslet:_
You will have read of our victory in the North Sea. It was fine. Our
ship brought the dead and wounded and the prisoners back. A grim job it
was, too. I only wish the whole German fleet would come out. We may get
a chance of coming home soon. Their firing is rotten, whilst our men
behind the guns are perfect. They get a hit every time.
The bounders won’t come out. That was the reason our ships had to try
and drive them out. You see the place is all mined, and if a ship runs
into one of these mines it means destruction.
The commander of the _Liberty_, a torpedo boat destroyer, asked his
ship’s company if they would volunteer to go up Kiel Harbour with him,
and every man said “Yes,” although it looked certain death. Up they
went, and got under the forts of Heligoland and let rip at the German
cruisers in the harbour. One of the wounded sailors of the _Liberty_
told me that the shells fired at them were enough to sink a fleet. Our
ship had only one torpedo and one round of ammunition left. So they
turned round to come out, when a shrapnel shell struck the _Liberty’s_
mast, killing the gallant commander and three others. The coxswain,
although wounded, brought the ship safely to our fleet that was waiting
outside. We pray to God that we may come off victorious, and I am
confident we shall, as every man jack in the fleet has the heart of a
lion.
* * * * *
_Letter 24.--From a Welsh gunner on the “Arethusa”:_
Just a few lines to let you know how the war is going on. I cannot say
much, as correspondence is strictly secret and letters are likely to be
opened. The Commodore turned over to this ship last Wednesday, and we
were in action on Friday at 7.45 a.m. and finished a stiff eight-hours’
engagement, our loss being eleven killed and fifteen injured in this
ship alone.
We were done after the fight, engines disabled, and had to be towed to
Chatham. One man was all that was left at my gun. But still, after all,
we saw them off. We blew them to ----. Three fights we had. As soon as
we are patched up we shall be off again.
* * * * *
_Letter 25.--From Gunner John Meekly, of Leeds:_
Been in battle, and, wonder of wonders, haven’t scored a scratch. My
ship, as you know, is the _Arethusa_--“Saucy Arethusa” as history knows
her. She was the first there, and the first that shot home. It was her
that made them come out, and her that took the most prominent part, as
all the ship’s company know only too well. Now we are in dry dock.
We had to sacrifice ourselves almost to do what we did do--to get them
out of their shells. Not only were submarines and mines a menace, but
also the fire from the forts. We got within their range, and our ship
suffered the most. We have got a fearless admiral, and at the same time
a decent fellow.
I saw an account in the papers when we got in dock, and I was very
pleased with it, because another ship had been mistaken for us. The
name of our commodore is Tyrwhitt.
* * * * *
_Letter 26.--From Midshipman Hartley, of H.M. battle-cruiser “Lion,”
to his parents at Burton-on-Trent:_
At last we have had a taste of gunfire, but it was only a taste. We
ran into three light German cruisers. Two of them were sunk, and one
managed to make off in a sinking condition and badly on fire forward
and aft. Of course, their guns had about the same effect on us as a
daisy air-rifle. The funny thing, which you should have seen, was all
the stokers grubbing about after the action looking for bits of shell.
The Germans fought awfully well and bravely, but the poor beggars
hadn’t a dog’s chance of living through it. The _Mainz_ was the name
of one of those sunk. Two of their destroyers were also sunk.
* * * * *
_Letter 27.--From a Scottish seaman (Published in “The Scotsman”):_
It was a sight worth seeing. We chased two German destroyers of the
“S” class, one of which went on fire, and the other was sunk by eight
British destroyers, including the _Defender_. We chased them for about
four hours, and one showed great pluck as the crew refused to haul down
the flag, and she sank with the German flag flying. When she sank, and
even before it, the sailors were swimming towards the British ships,
shouting in broken English that they had surrendered, and appealing for
help. It was a terrible sight to see the wounded in the water, and we
assisted in throwing out lifebelts and ropes to them, while the whaler
and a skiff were also lowered, together with small boats from the other
British vessels. While engaged in picking up the wounded and other
survivors, we were fired on by a big four-funnelled German cruiser, so
that we had to leave our two boats. We watched the cruiser firing seven
or eight 11-inch guns, which made us keep going well ahead to keep out
of the way.
A piece of shell struck one of the gun’s crew on the head, and dropped
at my feet, and we had to keep dodging the shells round the bridge.
A light cruiser at last came to the rescue, for the destroyer’s guns
were no use against those of the Germans’. Our cruiser sank the German
cruiser, and a good many of the enemy’s boats escaped. About 12 o’clock
on Saturday one of the latest submarines signalled that she had saved
the boat’s crew (9 men and 1 officer) while following the big cruiser
to torpedo her. It was believed these fellows had been lost, and their
mates on board never dreamt of seeing them again. Some German survivors
were put aboard a destroyer, and they were cheered by the British tars
who were anxious to hear the news from them. A German stoker said they
did not want to fight England, and it was too much Germany fighting so
many countries. It was terrible to hear the cries of the wounded in
the water, and we did not get a chance to pick them up. The men on the
sinking destroyer stuck to their guns to the last, and they were firing
at their own men who dived for our ships. Some had lifebelts on, and
the officers tried to frighten them by saying the British would put
them in front of their guns. We had only two hurt.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Philip Dadd, from a sketch
by G. H. Davis._
_Copyright of The Sphere._
RESCUED BY SUBMARINE. A STRANGE INCIDENT DURING THE NAVAL ACTION OFF
HELIGOLAND.]
_Letter 28.--From a gun-room officer on H.M. battle-cruiser
“Invincible,” to his parents at Hove:_
The particular ship we were engaged with was in a pitiful plight when
we had finished with her. Her funnels shot away, masts tottering,
great gaps of daylight in her sides, smoke and flame belching from
her everywhere. She speedily heeled over and sank like a stone, stern
first. So far as is known none of her crew was saved. She was game
to the last, let it be said, her flag flying till she sank, her guns
barking till they could bark no more. Although we suffered no loss
we had some very narrow escapes. Three torpedoes were observed to
pass us, one, it is said, within a few feet. Four-inch shells, too,
fell short, or were ahead of us. The sea was alive with the enemy’s
submarines, which, however, luckily did no damage. They should not be
under-rated, these Germans. They’ve got “guts.” That cruiser did not
think apparently of surrender.
* * * * *
_Letter 29.--From a Bluejacket in the North Sea, to his friends at
Jarrow:_
On August 24th we made a dash for the German coast and were lucky
enough to come across two German cruisers. Then the fun started. We
pursued one, and when I tell you we can do thirty knots, you can
imagine what chance she had of getting away. She was a heavier boat
than us, and the engagement lasted four hours. At the end of that time
she was a terrible sight. She was on fire from stem to stern; the
Germans were jumping overboard, and at the finish only seventeen out
of 400 were saved. It is a fact that the Germans only stayed at their
guns under the orders of their officers, who stood over them with
revolvers. Three dozen of their bodies, which were picked up, bore
marks of revolver shots. Five days every week for the last four weeks
we have swept the North Sea, and all we discovered were the aforesaid
two cruisers and about a dozen trawlers, which we sank. There is no
sign of the big German Navy. They are in Kiel Harbour, and if they come
out--well, there will be no German Navy left. The only things they are
using are mines and submarines. In fact, the so-called German Navy is a
“wash-out.” We have been within ten miles of their base and they will
not come out.
* * * * *
_Letter 30.--From Seaman-Gunner Brown, to his parents at Newport,
Isle of Wight:_
We and another ship in our squadron came across two German cruisers. We
outed one and started on the second, but battle-cruisers soon finished
her off. Another then appeared, and after we had plunked two broadsides
into her she slid off in flames. Every man did his bit, and there was a
continuous stream of jokes. We pencilled on the projectiles. “Love from
England,” “One for the Kaiser,” and other such messages.
The sight of sinking German ships was gloriously terrible; funnels and
masts lying about in all directions, and amidships a huge furnace, the
burning steel looking like a big ball of sulphur. There was not the
slightest sign of fear, from the youngest to the oldest man aboard.
* * * * *
_Letter 31.--From a man in a warship’s engine-room:_
We stayed down there keeping the engines going at their top speed in
order to cut off the Germans from their fleet. We could hear the awful
din and the scampering of the tars on the deck as they rushed about
from point to point. We could hear the shells crashing against the side
of the ship or shrieking overhead as they passed harmlessly into the
water, and we knew that at any moment one might strike us in a vital
part, and send us below never to come up again. It is ten times harder
on the men whose duty is in the engine-room than for those on deck
taking part in the fighting, for they at least have the excitement of
the fight, and if the ship is struck they have more than a sporting
chance of escape. We have none, and the medals and pats on the back
when the fight is won are not for us, who are only common mechanics.
* * * * *
_Letter 32.--From Seaman Jack Diggett, of West Bromwich, to his
brother:_
You will have heard of our little job in the North Sea. We sank five
ships and ran a few off. Of course it was only a trial spin. We kicked
off last Friday about six in the morning, and we won 5--nil. Not bad,
considering we are playing “away.” Their goalkeepers could not hold
us, we were so hot. Our forwards shot beautifully, and our defence was
sound. We agreed to play extra time if we had not finished, but we had
done in time. It must not be thought that we had it all our own way,
for they were very brave, and fought until one of our boys fired a shot
at the last gun in the _Mainz_ and blew the whole gun and crew as well
into the sea. One of our officers had both his legs blown off, and
still shouted out to give the Germans another. We are all getting ready
for the big match of the season now when their battle fleet chooses to
come out. One German officer we got out of the water asked, “Are you
British?” When our officer replied, “Yes,” he said, “God help us!” They
thought we were the French fleet.
* * * * *
_Letter 33.--From a seaman on H.M.S. “Hearty”:_
The destroyer _Laurel_ seems to have suffered the most. She had one
funnel carried right away and the others riddled like a pepper-box.
One shell struck her right forward, went through her bulkhead, through
one galley door, and out through the other. The cookie was in there at
the time, but it missed him and cut through the other side of the ship.
That cook was born under a lucky star. It’s on the bridge and around
the guns where they suffered most. On the _Liberty’s_ bridge, everybody
except one was killed; in fact they say they were never seen since.
Poor devils, they must have been carried right overboard. The skipper
of the _Laurel_ had both his legs shot away.
The scout _Arethusa_ came in last. She brought 100 Germans picked up
off the cruiser _Mainz_. We didn’t see them; they were landed down at
Sheerness. They’ve got one keepsake off her. They picked up a German
officer, but he died, and they buried him at sea. They’ve got his
uniform hanging up. The cooks on the _Arethusa_ were not so lucky. Two
cooks were in the galley, just having their rum, when a shell killed
one and blew the other’s arm off. A funny thing, they’ve got a clock
hanging up; it smashed the glass and one hand, but the blooming thing’s
still going.
* * * * *
_Letter 34.--From a seaman on H.M. destroyer “Lurcher,” to a friend
at Bradford:_
We had orders to pick up prisoners. As we steamed up dead bodies were
floating past the ship. We went up alongside the German cruiser _Mainz_
just before she sank, and it was an awful sight. We got 224 prisoners
in a most terrible state, and most of them died. It is impossible to
describe it all on paper. Our decks were red with blood, and you see we
are only a destroyer, so you may tell what a mess we were in.
All the Germans seemed quite happy when we got them on board. The worst
job of all was getting them out of the sea. Some of them had legs and
arms shot away, battered to pieces. I was in our boat just below when
their vessel sank, and there seemed to be many who were helpless on
board her. The captain remained behind, having had both legs shot away.
* * * * *
_Letter 35.--From a Naval Lieutenant to a friend:_
That was all. Remains only little details, only one of which I will
tell you. The most romantic, dramatic, and piquant episode that modern
war can ever show. The _Defender_, having sunk an enemy, lowered a
whaler to pick up her swimming survivors; before the whaler got back
an enemy’s cruiser came up and chased the _Defender_, and thus she
abandoned her whaler. Imagine their feelings--alone in an open boat
without food, 25 miles from the nearest land, and that land the enemy’s
fortress, with nothing but fog and foes around them. Suddenly a swirl
alongside and up, if you please, pops his Britannic Majesty’s submarine
E 4, opens his conning tower, takes them all on board, shuts up again,
dives, and brings them home 250 miles! Is not that magnificent? No
novel would dare face the critics with an episode like that in it,
except, perhaps, Jules Verne; and all true!
* * * * *
_Letter 36.--From a seaman on one of the British destroyers:_
We have at last had an innings at the Germans. It was a go. Fully
seven hours we fought shot for shot. I had the pleasure of seeing four
German ships go down. We never knew but it might be our turn next, as
great shells were falling all around us. Several shells went just over
our heads, whistling just like a needle on a broken record. Would you
believe it, one of our boats had actually stopped to pick up German
wounded when the Germans fired on her?
I think all our men took it just as though we were having our annual
battle practice--cool, laughing, and cracking jokes, with shell all
around them. All the thought was just of shooting it into them--and
they got it! I was told they lost 1,500 men. I shall never understand
how it was our ship was not hit, for we were within range of their
cruisers and the Heligoland forts. We are ready for another smack at
them.
* * * * *
_Letter 37.--From a seaman on H.M.S. “New Zealand” to his uncle in
Halifax:_
The torpedo craft had rather a hot time with the enemy in the early
morning, but suddenly we appeared out of the mist. To say that they
were surprised is to put it mildly, because before they knew where they
were we were playing our light cruisers, and the destroyers worried
them like terriers. Then for us to come along and give them the _coup
de grace_ was absolutely _It_.
Two of their ships, I am convinced, would have been floating to-day,
but as our small ships gathered round them to take off their
survivors--all their flags were struck--they opened fire, only to be
sent to Davy Jones’s locker a little quicker than they could shoot.
Well, we succeeded in sending some good ships and some unfortunate men
to the bottom in something like fourteen minutes. Not a bad score for
the cricket season, is it?
* * * * *
_Letter 38.--From a seaman on board the flagship of the first
destroyer squadron, to his friends at Wimbledon:_
We had a very decent splash last week off Heligoland, as doubtless you
have read. Our ship was not hit at all, though some shots were pretty
near. It was a fine sight to see the _Lion_ demolish one cruiser.
We could see her (the cruiser’s) shots falling short, but still the
_Lion_ did not fire. For fully ten minutes the cruiser belted away
without getting a hit. Then the _Lion_, who was leading the line,
hoisted “open fire,” turned slowly and majestically round and fired
her broadside--once. It was quite sufficient. Up went a cloud of smoke
and steam from the target, and when it cleared her aft funnel was at a
rakish angle, and a huge rent appeared the length of her side.
After a few more “salvoes” she was rapidly sinking by the stern.
Shortly afterwards she half-hauled down her ensign, and as we were
steaming up to stand by and rescue her survivors, she hoisted it again
and opened fire. It was a dirty trick, but they got their deserts.
Once again the _Lion_ turned, and this time fired but five shots from
her huge turrets. Amidst a shower of splinters, smoke, and fire she
disappeared. We steamed over the spot, but although there was plenty of
wreckage, not a single living thing was to be seen. This incident only
lasted about forty-five minutes, although the whole battle was raging
for eight hours.
* * * * *
_Letter 39.--Front leading telegraphist H. Francis, of Croydon:_
We had the first taste of blood on Friday, and I can tell you it was
O.T. The battle lasted from 6.30 a.m. till one p.m., going at it hammer
and tongs all the time.
We came back with sixty prisoners, one of them being Admiral von
Tirpitz’s son, who was second-lieutenant in the _Mainz_. We were within
twenty yards of her when she went down, and I can tell you it was a
grand sight.
Their officers were shooting the men as they jumped overboard, and one
chap on the bridge was beckoned to by our commander to come off. But
there was “nothing doing.” He simply folded his arms, shook his head,
and as the ship rolled over he never moved. The captain also went down
in her. He had both his legs blown off.
For a quarter of an hour the sea was simply alive with Germans, all
singing out most piteously, and, as we pulled them on board, we
marvelled how they managed to swim with the wounds they had, some with
feet off, some with one or two legs off, some with their arms gone.
The Kaiser has been stuffing his men up that the English cannot shoot.
They know differently now. They were greatly surprised when we picked
them up and looked after them.
Pleased to say I am enjoying myself, and longing for more.
* * * * *
_Letter 40.--From Gunner T. White:_
We didn’t waste more shots than was necessary on the Germans off
Heligoland. One of their destroyers was knocked over first shot. It was
one of the cleanest shots you ever saw, and the man who fired it is the
proudest man in our ship to-day.
Next time I fancy the Germans will want to make it a rule of the fight
that a German ship must be allowed at least ten shots to one of ours
before the knock-out is fired. Of course, it’s very hard on the rest of
us, because it simply means that the gunner who gets first shot does
the trick, and we may be in a dozen fights and never get a shot at the
enemy once, because there’s nothing left to hit.
Since that first engagement, the British Fleet has been waiting alert
for the enemy to come out of hiding and give them a second chance;
and has incidentally been busy sweeping the sea of floating mines and
prowling after mine-layers that, disguised as Grimsby trawlers, have
succeeded in putting in some deadly work.
An interesting account of the efficiency of this policing of the North
Sea was related by two trawler skippers, a week after the fight, to a
_Daily Telegraph_ Correspondent who remarks that the _modus operandi_
necessitates a continuous vigilance, mostly under cover of the
darkness, and entails a strain upon the naval officers and men that can
only be appreciated by those who witness it.
The first skipper stated that he had just come from Iceland: