DECOYING SUBMARINES TO DESTRUCTION
I
My chief purpose in writing this book is to describe the activities
during the World War of the United States naval forces operating in
Europe. Yet it is my intention also to make clear the several ways in
which the war against the submarine was won; and in order to do this it
will be necessary occasionally to depart from the main subject and to
describe certain naval operations of our allies. The most important
agency in frustrating the submarine was the convoy system. An
examination of the tonnage losses in 1917 and in 1918, however,
discloses that this did not entirely prevent the loss of merchant ships.
From April, 1917, to November, 1918, the monthly losses dropped from
875,000 to 101,168 tons. This decrease in sinkings enabled the Allies to
preserve their communications and so win the war; however, it is evident
that these losses, while not necessarily fatal to the Allied cause,
still offered a serious impediment to success. It was therefore
necessary to supplement the convoy system in all possible ways. Every
submarine that could be destroyed, whatever the method of destruction,
represented just that much gain to the Allied cause. Every submarine
that was sent to the bottom amounted in 1917 to a saving of many
thousands of tons per year of the merchant shipping that would have been
sunk by the U-boat if left unhindered to pursue its course. Besides
escorting merchant ships, therefore, the Allied navies developed several
methods of hunting individual submarines; and these methods not only
sank a considerable number of U-boats, but played an important part in
breaking down the German submarine _moral_. For the greater part of the
war the utmost secrecy was observed regarding these expedients; it was
not until the early part of 1918, indeed, that the public heard
anything of the special service vessels that came to be known as the
"mystery" or "Q-ships"--although these had been operating for nearly
three years. It is true that the public knew that there was something in
the wind, for there were announcements that certain naval officers had
received the Victoria Cross, but as there was no citation explaining why
these coveted rewards were given, they were known as "mystery V.C.'s."
On one of my visits to Queenstown Admiral Bayly showed me a wireless
message which he had recently received from the commanding officer of a
certain mystery ship operating from Queenstown, one of the most
successful of these vessels. It was brief but sufficiently eloquent.
"Am slowly sinking," it read. "Good-bye, I did my best."
Though the man who had sent that message was apparently facing death at
the time when it was written, Admiral Bayly told me that he had survived
the ordeal, and that, in fact, he would dine at Admiralty House that
very night. Another fact about this man lifted him above the
commonplace: he was the first Q-boat commander to receive the Victoria
Cross, and one of the very few who wore both the Victoria Cross and the
Distinguished Service Order; and he subsequently won bars for each, not
to mention the Croix de Guerre and the Legion of Honour. When Captain
Gordon Campbell arrived, I found that he was a Britisher of quite the
accepted type. His appearance suggested nothing extraordinary. He was a
short, rather thick-set, phlegmatic Englishman, somewhat non-committal
in his bearing; until he knew a man well, his conversation consisted of
a few monosyllables, and even on closer acquaintance his stolidity and
reticence, especially in the matter of his own exploits, did not
entirely disappear. Yet there was something about the Captain which
suggested the traits that had already made it possible for him to sink
three submarines, and which afterward added other trophies to his
record. It needed no elaborate story of his performances to inform me
that Captain Campbell was about as cool and determined a man as was to
be found in the British navy. His associates declared that his physical
system absolutely lacked nerves; that, when it came to pursuing a German
submarine, his patience and his persistence knew no bounds; and that the
extent to which his mind concentrated upon the task in hand amounted to
little less than genius. When the war began, Captain Campbell, then
about thirty years old, was merely one of several thousand junior
officers in the British navy. He had not distinguished himself in any
way above his associates; and probably none of his superiors had ever
regarded him as in any sense an unusual man. Had the naval war taken the
course of most naval wars, Campbell would probably have served well, but
perhaps not brilliantly. This conflict, however, demanded a new type of
warfare and at the same time it demanded a new type of naval fighter. To
go hunting for the submarine required not only courage of a high order,
but analytical intelligence, patience, and a talent for preparation and
detail. Captain Campbell seemed to have been created for this particular
task. That evening at Queenstown he finally gave way to much urging, and
entertained us for hours with his adventures; he told the stories of his
battles with submarines so quietly, so simply and, indeed, so
impersonally, that at first they impressed his hearers as not
particularly unusual. Yet, after the recital was finished, we realized
that the mystery ship performances represented some of the most
admirable achievements in the whole history of naval warfare. We have
laid great emphasis upon the brutalizing aspects of the European War; it
is well, therefore, that we do not forget that it had its more exalted
phases. Human nature may at times have manifested itself in its most
cowardly traits, but it also reached a level of courage which, I am
confident, it has seldom attained in any other conflict. It was reserved
for this devastating struggle to teach us how brave modern men could
really be. And when the record is complete it seems unlikely that it
will furnish any finer illustration of the heroic than that presented by
Captain Campbell and his compatriots of the mystery ships.
This type of vessel was a regular ship of His Majesty's navy, yet there
was little about it that suggested warfare. To the outward eye it was
merely one of those several thousand freighters or tramps which, in
normal times, sailed sluggishly from port to port, carrying the larger
part of the world's commerce. It looked like a particularly dirty and
uninviting specimen of the breed. Just who invented this grimy enemy of
the submarine is unknown, as are the inventors of many other devices
developed by the war. It was, however, the natural outcome of a close
study of German naval methods. The man who first had the idea well
understood the peculiar mentality of the U-boat commanders. The Germans
had a fairly easy time in the early days of submarine warfare on
merchant shipping. They sank as many ships as possible with gunfire and
bombs. The prevailing method then was to break surface, and begin
shelling the defenceless enemy. In case the merchant ship was faster
than the submarine she would take to her heels; if, as was usually the
case, she was slower, the passengers and crews lowered the boats and
left the vessel to her fate. In such instances the procedure of the
submarine was invariably the same. It ceased shelling, approached the
lifeboats filled with survivors, and ordered them to take a party of
Germans to the ship. This party then searched the vessel for all kinds
of valuables, and, after depositing time bombs in the hold, rowed back
to the submarine. This procedure was popular with the Germans, because
it was the least expensive form of destroying merchant ships. It was not
necessary to use torpedoes or even a large number of shells; an
inexpensive bomb, properly placed, did the whole job. Even when the
arming of merchant ships interfered with this simple programme, and
compelled the Germans to use long-range gunfire or torpedoes, the
submarine commanders still persisted in rising to the surface near the
sinking ship. Torpedoes were so expensive that the German Admiralty
insisted on having every one accounted for. The word of the commander
that he had destroyed a merchant ship was not accepted at its face
value; in order to have the exploit officially placed to his credit, and
so qualify the commander and crew for the rewards that came to the
successful, it was necessary to prove that the ship had actually gone to
the bottom. A prisoner or two furnished unimpeachable evidence, and, in
default of such trophies, the ship's papers would be accepted. In order
to obtain such proofs of success the submarine had to rise to the
surface and approach its victim. The search for food, especially for
alcoholic liquor, was another motive that led to such a manoeuvre; and
sometimes mere curiosity, the desire to come to close quarters and
inspect the consequences of his handiwork, also impelled the Hun
commander to take what was, as events soon demonstrated, a particularly
hazardous risk.
This simple fact that the submarine, even when the danger had been
realized, insisted on rising to the surface and approaching the vessel
which it had torpedoed, offered the Allies an opportunity which they
were not slow in seizing. There is hardly anything in warfare which is
more vulnerable than a submarine on the surface within a few hundred
yards of a four-inch gun. A single, well-aimed shot will frequently send
it to the bottom. Indeed, a U-boat caught in such a predicament has only
one chance of escaping: that is represented by the number of seconds
which it takes to get under the water. But before that time has expired
rapidly firing guns can put a dozen shots into its hull; with modern,
well-trained gun crews, therefore, a submarine which exposes itself in
this way stands practically no chance of getting away. Clearly, the
obvious thing for the Allies to do was to send merchant ships, armed
with hidden guns, along the great highways of commerce. The crews of
these ships should be naval officers and men disguised as merchant
masters and sailors. They should duplicate in all details the manners
and the "technique" of a freighter's crew, and, when shelled or
torpedoed by a submarine, they should behave precisely like the
passengers and crews of merchantmen in such a crisis; a part--the only
part visible to the submarine--should leave the vessel in boats, while
the remainder should lie concealed until the submarine rose to the
surface and approached the vessel. When the enemy had come within two or
three hundred yards, the bulwarks should fall down, disclosing the
armament, the white battle ensign go up, and the guns open fire on the
practically helpless enemy.
II
Such was the mystery ship idea in its simplest form. In the early days
it worked according to this programme. The trustful submarine commander
who approached a mystery ship in the manner which I have described
promptly found his resting-place on the bottom of the sea. I have
frequently wondered what must have been the emotions of this first
submarine crew, when, standing on the deck of their boat, steaming
confidently toward their victim, they saw its bulwarks suddenly drop,
and beheld the ship, which to all outward appearances was a helpless,
foundering hulk, become a mass of belching fire and smoke and shot. The
picture of that first submarine, standing upright in the water, reeling
like a drunken man, while the apparently innocent merchant ship kept
pouring volley after volley into its sides, is one that will not quickly
fade from the memory of British naval men. Yet it is evident that the
Allies could not play a game like this indefinitely. They could do so
just as long as the Germans insisted on delivering themselves into their
hands. The complete success of the idea depended at first upon the fact
that the very existence of mystery ships was unknown to the German navy.
All that the Germans knew, in these early days, was that certain U-boats
had sailed from Germany and had not returned. But it was inevitable that
the time should come when a mystery ship attack would fail; the German
submarine would return and report that this new terror of the seas was
at large. And that is precisely what happened. A certain submarine
received a battering which it seemed hardly likely that any U-boat could
survive; yet, almost by a miracle, it crept back to its German base and
reported the manner of its undoing. Clearly the mystery ships in future
were not to have as plain sailing as in the past; the game, if it were
to continue, would become more a battle of wits; henceforth every liner
and merchantman, in German eyes, was a possible enemy in disguise, and
it was to be expected that the U-boat commanders would resort to every
means of protecting their craft against them. That the Germans knew all
about these vessels became apparent when one of their naval publications
fell into our hands, giving complete descriptions and containing
directions to U-boat commanders how to meet this new menace. The German
newspapers and illustrated magazines also began to devote much space to
this kind of anti-submarine fighting, denouncing it in true Germanic
fashion as "barbarous" and contrary to the rules of civilized warfare.
The great significance of this knowledge is at once apparent. The mere
fact that a number of Q-ships were at sea, even if they did not succeed
in sinking many submarines, forced the Germans to make a radical change
in their submarine tactics. As they could no longer bring to, board, and
loot merchant ships, and sink them inexpensively and without danger by
the use of bombs, they were obliged not only to use their precious
torpedoes, but also to torpedo without warning. This was the only
alternative except to abandon the submarine campaign altogether.
Berlin accordingly instructed the submarine commanders not to approach
on the surface any merchant or passenger vessel closely enough to get
within range of its guns, but to keep at a distance and shell it. Had
the commanders always observed these instructions the success of the
mystery ship in sinking submarines would have ended then and there,
though the influence of their presence upon tactics would have remained
in force. The Allied navies now made elaborate preparations, all for the
purpose of persuading Fritz to approach in the face of a tremendous risk
concerning which he had been accurately informed. Every submarine
commander, after torpedoing his victim, now clearly understood that it
might be a decoy despatched for the particular purpose of entrapping
him; and he knew that an attempt to approach within a short distance of
the foundering vessel might spell his own immediate destruction. The
expert in German mentality must explain why, under these circumstances,
he should have persisted in walking into the jaws of death. The skill
with which the mystery ships and their crews were disguised perhaps
explains this in part. Anyone who might have happened in the open sea
upon Captain Campbell and his slow-moving freighter could not have
believed that they were part and parcel of the Royal Navy. Our own
destroyers were sometimes deceived by them. The _Cushing_ one day hailed
Captain Campbell in the _Pargust_, having mistaken him for a defenceless
tramp. The conversation between the two ships was brief but to the
point:
_Cushing_: What ship?
_Pargust_: Gordon Campbell! Please keep out of sight.
The next morning another enemy submarine met her fate at the hands of
Captain Campbell, and although the _Cushing_ had kept far enough away
not to interfere with the action, she had the honour of escorting the
injured mystery ship into port and of receiving as a reward three
rousing cheers from the crew of the _Pargust_ led by Campbell. A more
villainous-looking gang of seamen than the crews of these ships never
sailed the waves. All men on board were naval officers or enlisted men;
they were all volunteers and comprised men of all ranks--admirals,
captains, commanders, and midshipmen. All had temporarily abandoned His
Majesty's uniform for garments picked up in second-hand clothing stores.
They had made the somewhat disconcerting discovery that carefully
trained gentlemen of the naval forces, when dressed in cast-off clothing
and when neglectful of their beards, differ little in appearance from
the somewhat rough-and-tumble characters of the tramp service. To assume
this external disguise successfully meant that the volunteers had also
to change almost their personal characteristics as well as their
clothes. Whereas the conspicuous traits of a naval man are neatness and
order, these counterfeit merchant sailors had to train themselves in the
casual ways of tramp seamen. They had also to accustom themselves to the
conviction that a periscope was every moment searching their vessel from
stem to stern in an attempt to discover whether there was anything
suspicious about it; they therefore had not only to dress the part of
merchantmen, but to act it, even in its minor details. The genius of
Captain Campbell consisted in the fact that he had made a minute study
of merchantmen, their officers and their crews, and was able to
reproduce them so literally on this vessel that even the expert eye was
deceived. Necessarily such a ship carried a larger crew than the
merchant freighter; nearly all, however, were kept constantly concealed,
the number appearing on deck always representing just about the same
number as would normally have sailed upon a tramp steamer. These men had
to train themselves in slouchiness of behaviour; they would hang over
the rails, and even use merchant terms in conversation with one another;
the officers were "masters," "mates," "pursers," and the like, and their
principal gathering-place was not a wardroom, but a saloon. That
scrupulous deference with which a subordinate officer in the navy treats
his superior was laid aside in this service. It was no longer the custom
to salute before addressing the commander; more frequently the sailor
would slouch up to his superior, his hands in his pockets and his pipe
in his mouth. This attempt to deceive the Hun observer at the periscope
sometimes assumed an even more ludicrous form. When the sailor of a
warship dumps ashes overboard he does it with particular care, so as not
to soil the sides of his immaculate vessel; but a merchant seaman is
much less considerate; he usually hurls overboard anything he does not
want and lets the ship's side take its chances. To have followed the
manner of the navy would at once have given the game away; so the
sailors, in carrying out this domestic duty, performed the act with all
the nonchalance of merchant seamen. To have messed in naval style would
also have been betraying themselves. The ship's cook, therefore, in a
white coat, would come on deck, and have a look around, precisely as he
would do on a freighter. Even when in port officers and men maintained
their disguise. They never visited hotels or clubs or private houses;
they spent practically all their time on board; if they occasionally
went ashore, their merchant outfit so disguised them that even their
best friends would not have recognized them in the street.
The warlike character of their ships was even more cleverly hidden. In
the early days the guns were placed behind the bulwarks, which, when a
lever was pulled, would fall down, thus giving them an unobstructed
range at the submarine. In order to make the sides of the ships
collapsible, certain seams were unavoidably left in the plates, where
the detachable part joined the main structure. The U-boat commanders
soon learned to look for these betraying seams before coming to the
surface. They would sail submerged around the ship, the periscope
minutely examining the sides, much as a scientist examines his specimens
with a microscope. This practice made it necessary to conceal the guns
more carefully. The places which were most serviceable for this purpose
were the hatchways--those huge wells, extending from the deck to the
bottom, which are used for loading and unloading cargo. Platforms were
erected in these openings, and on these guns were emplaced; a covering
of tarpaulin completely hid them; yet a lever, pulled by the gun crews,
would cause the sides of the hatchway covers to fall instantaneously.
Other guns were placed under lifeboats, which, by a similar mechanism,
would fall apart, or rise in the air, exposing the gun. Perhaps the most
deceptive device of all was a gun placed upon the stern, and, with its
crew, constantly exposed to public gaze. Since most merchantmen carried
such a gun, its absence on a mystery ship would in itself have caused
suspicion; this armament not only helped the disguise, but served a
useful purpose in luring the submarine. At the first glimpse of a U-boat
on the surface, usually several miles away, the gun crew would begin
shooting; but they always took care that the shots fell short, thus
convincing the submarine that it had the advantage of range and so
inducing it to close.
Captain Campbell and his associates paid as much attention to details in
their ships as in their personal appearance. The ship's wash did not
expose the flannels that are affected by naval men but the dungarees
that are popular with merchant sailors. Sometimes a side of beef would
be hung out in plain view; this not only kept up the fiction that the
ship was an innocent tramp, but it served as a tempting bait to the not
too well-fed crew of the submarine. Particularly tempting cargoes were
occasionally put on deck. One of the ships carried several papier-mache
freight cars of the small European type covered with legends which
indicated that they were loaded with ammunition and bound for
Mesopotamia. It is easy to imagine how eagerly the Hun would wish to
sink that cargo!
These ships were so effectively disguised that even the most experienced
eyes could not discover their real character. For weeks they could lie
in dock, the dockmen never suspecting that they were armed to the teeth.
Even the pilots who went aboard to take them into harbour never
discovered that they were not the merchant ships which they pretended to
be. Captain Hanrahan, who commanded the U.S. mystery ship _Santee_,
based on Queenstown, once entertained on board an Irishman from Cork.
The conversation which took place between this American naval
officer--who, in his disguise, was indistinguishable from a tramp
skipper of many years' experience--disclosed the complete ignorance of
the guest concerning the true character of the boat.
"How do you like these Americans?" Captain Hanrahan innocently asked.
"They are eating us out of house and home!" the indignant Irishman
remarked. The information was a little inaccurate, since all our food
supplies were brought from the United States; but the remark was
reassuring as proving that the ship's disguise had not been penetrated.
Such precautions were the more necessary in a port like Queenstown where
our forces were surrounded by spies who were in constant communication
with the enemy.
I can personally testify to the difficulty of identifying a mystery
ship. One day Admiral Bayly suggested that we should go out in the
harbour and visit one of these vessels lying there preparatory to
sailing on a cruise. Several merchantmen were at anchor in port. We
steamed close around one in the Admiral's barge and examined her very
carefully through our glasses from a short distance. Concluding that
this was not the vessel we were seeking, we went to another merchantman.
This did not show any signs of being a mystery ship; we therefore hailed
the skipper, who told us the one which we had first visited was the
mystery ship. We went back, boarded her, and began examining her
appliances. The crew was dressed in the ordinary sloppy clothes of a
merchantman's deck-hands; the officers wore the usual merchant ship
uniform, and everything was as unmilitary as a merchant ship usually is.
The vessel had quite a long deckhouse built of light steel. The captain
told us that two guns were concealed in this structure; he suggested
that we should walk all around it and see if we could point out from a
close inspection the location of the guns. We searched carefully, but
were utterly unable to discover where the guns were. The captain then
sent the crew to quarters and told us to stand clear. At the word of
command one of the plates of the perpendicular side of the deckhouse
slid out of the way as quickly as a flash. The rail at the ship's side
in front of the gun fell down and a boat davit swung out of the way. At
the same time the gun crew swung the gun out and fired a primer to
indicate how quickly they could have fired a real shot. The captain also
showed us a boat upside down on the deckhouse--merchantmen frequently
carry one boat in this position. At a word a lever was pulled down below
and the boat reared up in the air and revealed underneath a gun and its
crew. On the poop was a large crate about 6 x 6 x 8 or 10 feet. At a
touch of the lever the sides of this crate fell down and revealed
another gun.
III
For the greater part of 1917 from twenty to thirty of these ships sailed
back and forth in the Atlantic, always choosing those parts of the seas
where they were most likely to meet submarines. They were "merchantmen"
of all kinds--tramp steamers, coasting vessels, trawlers, and schooners.
Perhaps the most distressing part of existence on one of these ships was
its monotony: day would follow day; week would follow week; and
sometimes months would pass without encountering a single submarine.
Captain Campbell himself spent nine months on his first mystery ship
before even sighting an enemy, and many of his successors had a similar
experience. The mystery boat was a patient fisherman, constantly
expecting a bite and frequently going for long periods without the
slightest nibble. This kind of an existence was not only disappointing
but also exceedingly nerve racking; all during this waiting period the
officers and men had to keep themselves constantly at attention; the
vaudeville show which they were maintaining for the benefit of a
possible periscope had to go on continuously; a moment's forgetfulness
or relaxation might betray their secret, and make their experiment a
failure. The fearful tediousness of this kind of life had a more
nerve-racking effect upon the officers and men than the most exciting
battles, and practically all the mystery ship men who broke down fell
victims not to the dangers of their enterprise, but to this dreadful
tension of sailing for weeks and months without coming to close quarters
with their enemy.
About the most welcome sight to a mystery ship, after a period of
inactivity, was the wake of a torpedo speeding in its direction. Nothing
could possibly disappoint it more than to see this torpedo pass astern
or forward without hitting the vessel. In such a contingency the genuine
merchant ship would make every possible effort to turn out of the
torpedo's way: the helmsman of the mystery ship, however, would take all
possible precautions to see that his vessel was hit. This, however, he
had to do with the utmost cleverness, else the fact that he was
attempting to collide with several hundred pounds of gun-cotton would in
itself betray him to the submarine. Not improbably several members of
the crew might be killed when the torpedo struck, but that was all part
of the game which they were playing. More important than the lives of
the men was the fate of the ship; if this could remain afloat long
enough to give the gunners a good chance at the submarine, everybody on
board would be satisfied. There was, however, little danger that the
mystery ship would go down immediately; for all available cargo space
had been filled with wood, which gave the vessel sufficient buoyancy
sometimes to survive many torpedoes.
Of course this, as well as all the other details of the vessel, was
unknown to the skipper of the submerged submarine. Having struck his
victim in a vital spot, he had every reason to believe that it would
disappear beneath the waves within a reasonable period. The business of
the disguised merchantman was to encourage this delusion in every
possible way. From the time that the torpedo struck, the mystery ship
behaved precisely as the every-day cargo carrier, caught in a similar
predicament, would have done. A carefully drilled contingent of the
crew, known as the "panic party," enacted the role of the men on a
torpedoed vessel. They ran to and fro on the deck, apparently in a state
of high consternation, now rushing below and emerging with some personal
treasure, perhaps an old suit of clothes tucked under the arm, perhaps
the ship's cat or parrot, or a small handbag hastily stuffed with odds
and ends. Under the control of the navigating officer these men would
make for a lifeboat, which they would lower in realistic
fashion--sometimes going so far, in their stage play, as to upset it,
leaving the men puffing and scrambling in the water. One member of the
crew, usually the navigator, dressed up as the "captain," did his best
to supervise these operations. Finally, after everybody had left, and
the vessel was settling at bow or stern, the "captain" would come to the
side, cast one final glance at his sinking ship, drop a roll of papers
into a lifeboat--ostensibly the precious documents which were so coveted
by the submarine as an evidence of success--lower himself with one or
two companions, and row in the direction of the other lifeboats.
Properly placing these lifeboats, after "abandoning ship," was itself
one of the finest points in the plot. If the submarine rose to the
surface it would invariably steer first for those little boats, looking
for prisoners or the ship's papers; the boats' crews, therefore, had
instructions to take up a station on a bearing from which the ship's
guns could most successfully rake the submarine. That this manoeuvre
involved great danger to the men in the lifeboats was a matter of no
consideration in the desperate enterprise in which they were engaged.
Thus to all outward appearance this performance was merely the
torpedoing of a helpless merchant vessel. Yet the average German
commander became altogether too wary to accept the situation in that
light. He had no intention of approaching either lifeboats or the ship
until entirely satisfied that he was not dealing with one of the decoy
vessels which he so greatly feared. There was only one way of satisfying
himself: that was to shell the ship so mercilessly that, in his opinion,
if any human beings had remained aboard, they would have been killed or
forced to surrender. The submarine therefore arose at a distance of two
or three miles. Possibly the mystery ship, with one well-aimed shot,
might hit the submarine at this distance, but the chances were
altogether against her. To fire such a shot, of course, would
immediately betray the fact that a gun crew still remained on board, and
that the vessel was a mystery ship; and on this discovery the submarine
would submerge, approach the vessel under water, and give her one or two
more torpedoes. No, whatever the temptation, the crew must "play
'possum," and not by so much as a wink let the submarine know that there
was any living thing on board. But this experience demanded heroism that
almost approaches the sublime. The gun crews lay prone beside their
guns, waiting the word of command to fire; the captain lay on the
screened bridge, watching the whole proceeding through a peephole, with
voice tubes near at hand with which he could constantly talk to his men.
They maintained these positions sometimes for hours, never lifting a
finger in defence, while the submarine, at a safe distance, showered
hundreds of shells upon the ship. These horrible missiles would shriek
above their heads; they would land on the decks, constantly wounding the
men, sometimes killing whole gun crews--yet, although the ship might
become a mass of blood and broken fragments of human bodies, the
survivors would lie low, waiting, with infinite patience, until the
critical moment arrived. This was the way they took to persuade the
submarine that their ship was what it pretended to be, a tramp, that
there was nothing alive on board, and that it could safely come near.
The still cautious German, after an hour or so of this kind of
execution, would submerge and approach within a few hundred yards. All
that the watchful eye at the peephole could see, however, was the
periscope; this would sail all around the vessel, sometimes at a
distance of fifty or a hundred feet. Clearly the German was taking no
chances; he was examining his victim inch by inch, looking for the
slightest sign that the vessel was a decoy. All this time the captain
and crew were lying taut, holding their breath, not moving a muscle,
hardly winking an eyelid, the captain with his mouth at the voice pipe
ready to give the order to let the false works drop the moment the
submarine emerged, the gun crews ready to fire at a second's warning.
But the cautious periscope, having completed the inspection of the ship,
would start in the direction of the drifting lifeboats. This ugly eye
would stick itself up almost in the faces of the anxious crew, evidently
making a microscopical examination of the clothes, faces, and general
personnel, to see if it could detect under their tramp steamer clothes
any traces of naval officers and men.
Still the anxious question was, would the submarine emerge? Until it
should do so the ship's crew was absolutely helpless. There was no use
in shooting at the submerged boat, as shots do not penetrate the water
but bounce off the surface as they do off solid ice. Everybody knew that
the German under the water was debating that same question. To come up
to the surface so near a mystery ship he knew meant instant death and
the loss of his submarine; yet to go away under water meant that the
sinking ship, if a merchantman, might float long enough to be salvaged,
and it meant also that he would never be able to prove that he had
accomplished anything with his valuable torpedo. Had he not shelled the
derelict so completely that nothing could possibly survive? Had he not
examined the thing minutely and discovered nothing amiss? It must be
remembered that in 1917 a submarine went through this same procedure
with every ship that did not sink very soon after being torpedoed, and
that, in nearly every case, it discovered, after emerging, that it had
been dealing with a real merchantman. Already this same submarine had
wasted hours and immense stores of ammunition on vessels that were not
mystery ships, but harmless tramps, and all these false alarms had made
it impatient and careless. In most cases, therefore, the crew had only
to bide its time. The captain knew that his hidden enemy would finally
rise.
"Stand by!"
This command would come softly through the speaking tubes to the men at
the guns. The captain on the bridge had noticed the preliminary
disturbance on the water that preceded the emergence of the submarine.
In a few seconds the whole boat would be floating on top, and the
officers and crews would climb out on the deck, eager for booty. And
this within a hundred yards of four or five guns!
"Let go!"
This command came at the top of the voice, for concealment was now no
longer necessary. In a twinkling up went the battle flag, bulwarks fell
down, lifeboats on decks collapsed, revealing guns, sides dropped from
deckhouses, hen-coops, and other innocent-looking structures. The
apparently sinking merchantman became a volcano of smoke and fire;
scores of shells dropped upon the submarine, punching holes in her frail
hull, hurling German sailors high into the air, sometimes decapitating
them or blowing off their arms or legs. The whole horrible scene lasted
only a few seconds before the helpless vessel would take its final
plunge to the depths, leaving perhaps two or three survivors, a mass of
oil and wood, and still more ghastly wreckage, to mark the spot where
another German submarine had paid the penalty of its crimes.
IV
It was entirely characteristic of this strange war that the greatest
exploit of any of the mystery ships was in one sense a failure--that is,
it did not succeed in destroying the submarine which attacked it.
On an August day in 1917 the British "merchant steamer" _Dunraven_ was
zigzagging across the Bay of Biscay. Even to the expert eye she was a
heavily laden cargo vessel bound for Gibraltar and the Mediterranean,
probably carrying supplies to the severely pressed Allies in Italy and
the East. On her stern a 2-1/2 pounder gun, clearly visible to all
observers, helped to emphasize this impression. Yet the apparently
innocent _Dunraven_ was a far more serious enemy to the submarine than
appeared on the surface. The mere fact that the commander was not an
experienced merchant salt, but Captain Gordon Campbell, of the Royal
Navy, in itself would have made the _Dunraven_ an object of terror to
any lurking submarine, for Captain Campbell's name was a familiar one to
the Germans by this time. Yet it would have taken a careful
investigation to detect in the rough and unkempt figure of Captain
Campbell any resemblance to an officer of the British navy, or to
identify the untidy seamen as regularly enrolled British sailors. The
armament of the _Dunraven_, could one have detected it, would have
provided the greatest surprises. This vessel represented the final
perfection of the mystery ship. Though seemingly a harmless tramp she
carried a number of guns, also two torpedo tubes, and several depth
charges; but even from her deck nothing was visible except the usual
merchant gun aft. The stern of the _Dunraven_ was a veritable arsenal.
Besides the guns and depth charges, the magazine and shell-rooms were
concealed there; on each side of the ship a masked torpedo tube held its
missile ready for a chance shot at a submarine; and the forward deck
contained other armament. Such was the _Dunraven_, ploughing her way
along, quietly and indifferently, even when, as on this August morning,
a submarine was lying on the horizon, planning to make her its prey.
As soon as the disguised merchantman spotted this enemy she began to
behave in character. When an armed merchant ship got within range of a
submarine on the surface she frequently let fly a shot on the chance of
a hit. That was therefore the proper thing for the _Dunraven_ to do; it
was really all a part of the game of false pretence in which she was
engaged. However, she took pains that the shell should not reach the
submarine; this was her means of persuading the U-boat that it
outranged the _Dunraven's_ gun and could safely give chase. The decoy
merchantman apparently put on extra steam when the submarine started in
her direction at top speed; here, again, however, the proper manoeuvre
was not to run too fast, for her real mission was to get caught. On the
other hand, had she slowed down perceptibly, that in itself would have
aroused suspicion; her game, therefore, was to decrease speed gradually
so that the U-boat would think that it was overtaking its enemy by its
own exertions. All during this queer kind of a chase the submarine and
the cargo ship were peppering each other with shells, one seriously, the
other merely in pretence. The fact that a naval crew, with such a fine
target as an exposed submarine, could shoot with a conscious effort not
to hit, but merely to lure the enemy to a better position, in itself is
an eloquent evidence of the perfect discipline which prevailed in the
mystery ship service. Not to aim a fair shot upon the detested vessel,
when there was a possibility of hitting it, was almost too much to ask
of human nature. But it was essential to success with these vessels
never to fire with the intention of hitting unless there was a practical
certainty of sinking the submarine; all energies were focussed upon the
supreme task of inducing the enemy to expose itself completely within
three or four hundred yards of the disguised freighter.
In an hour or two the submarine landed a shot that seemed to have done
serious damage. At least huge clouds of steam arose from the
engine-room, furnishing external evidence that the engines or boilers
had been disabled. The submarine commander did not know that this was a
trick; that the vessel was fitted with a specially arranged pipe around
the engine-room hatch which could emit these bursts of steam at a
moment's notice, all for the purpose of making him believe that the
vitals of the ship had been irreparably damaged. The stopping of the
ship, the blowing off of the safety valve, and the appearance of the
"panic party" immediately after this ostensible hit made the illusion
complete. This "panic party" was particularly panicky; one of the
lifeboats was let go with a run, one fall at a time, thus dumping its
occupants into the sea. Ultimately, however, the struggling swimmers
were picked up and the boat rowed away, taking up a position where a
number of the _Dunraven's_ guns could get a good shot at the submarine
should the Germans follow their usual plan of inspecting the lifeboats
before visiting the sinking merchantman.
So far everything was taking place according to programme; but presently
the submarine reopened fire and scored a shot which gave the enemy all
the advantages of the situation. I have described in some detail the
stern of the ship--a variegated assortment of depth charges, shell,
guns, and human beings. The danger of such an unavoidable concentration
of armament and men was that a lucky shot might land in the midst of it.
And this is precisely what now happened. Not only one, but three shells
from the submarine one after the other struck this hidden mass of men
and ammunition. The first one exploded a depth charge--300 pounds of
high explosive--which blew one of the officers out of the after-control
station where he lay concealed and landed him on the deck several yards
distant. Here he remained a few moments unconscious; then his associates
saw him, wounded as he was, creeping inch by inch back into his control
position, fortunately out of sight of the Germans. The seaman who was
stationed at the depth charges was also wounded by this shot, but,
despite all efforts to remove him to a more comfortable place, he
insisted on keeping at his post.
"'Ere I was put in charge of these things," he said, "and 'ere I stays."
Two more shells, one immediately after the other, now landed on the
stern. Clouds of black smoke began to rise, and below tongues of flame
presently appeared, licking their way in the direction of a large
quantity of ammunition, cordite, and other high explosives. It was not
decoy smoke and decoy flame this time. Captain Campbell, watching the
whole proceeding from the bridge, perhaps felt something in the nature
of a chill creeping up his spine when he realized that the after-part of
the ship, where men, explosives, and guns lay concealed in close
proximity, was on fire. Just at this moment he observed that the
submarine was rapidly approaching; and in a few minutes it lay within
400 yards of his guns. Captain Campbell was just about to give the
orders to open fire when the wind took up the dense smoke of the fire
and wafted it between his ship and the submarine. This precipitated one
of the crises which tested to the utmost the discipline of the mystery
ship. The captain had two alternatives: he could fire at the submarine
through the smoke, taking his chances of hitting an unseen and moving
target, or he could wait until the enemy passed around the ship and came
up on the other side, where there would be no smoke to interfere with
his view. It was the part of wisdom to choose the latter course; but
under existing conditions such a decision involved not only great nerve,
but absolute confidence in his men. For all this time the fire at the
stern was increasing in fierceness; in a brief period, Captain Campbell
knew, a mass of ammunition and depth charges would explode, probably
killing or frightfully wounding every one of the men who were stationed
there. If he should wait until the U-boat made the tour of the ship and
reached the side that was free of smoke the chances were that this
explosion would take place before a gun could be fired. On the other
hand, if he should fire through the smoke, there was little likelihood
of hitting the submarine.
Those who are acquainted with the practical philosophy which directed
operations in this war will readily foresee the choice which was now
made. The business of mystery ships, as of all anti-submarine craft, was
to sink the enemy. All other considerations amounted to nothing when
this supreme object was involved. The lives of officers and men,
precious as they were under ordinary circumstances, were to be
immediately sacrificed if such a sacrifice would give an opportunity of
destroying the submarine. It was therefore Captain Campbell's duty to
wait for the under-water boat to sail slowly around his ship and appear
in clear view on the starboard side, leaving his brave men at the stern
exposed to the fire, every minute raging more fiercely, and to the
likelihood of a terrific explosion. That he was able to make this
decision, relying confidently upon the spirit of his crew and their
loyal devotion to their leader, again illustrates the iron discipline
which was maintained on the mystery ships. The first explosion had
destroyed the voice tube by means of which Captain Campbell communicated
with this gun crew. He therefore had to make his decision without
keeping his men informed of the progress of events--information very
helpful to men under such a strain; but he well knew that these men
would understand his action and cheerfully accept their role in the
game. Yet the agony of their position tested their self-control to the
utmost. The deck on which they lay every moment became hotter; the
leather of their shoes began to smoke, but they refused to budge--for to
flee to a safer place meant revealing themselves to the submarine and
thereby betraying their secret. They took the boxes of cordite shells in
their arms and held them up as high as possible above the smouldering
deck in the hope of preventing an explosion which seemed inevitable.
Never did Christian martyrs, stretched upon a gridiron, suffer with
greater heroism.
V
It was probably something of a relief when the expected explosion took
place. The submarine had to go only 200 yards more to be under the fire
of three guns at a range of 400 yards, but just as it was rounding the
stern the German officers and men, standing on the deck, were greeted
with a terrific roar. Suddenly a conglomeration of men, guns, and
unexploded shells was hurled into the air. The German crew, of course,
had believed that the vessel was a deserted hulk, and this sudden
manifestation of life on board not only tremendously startled them, but
threw them into a panic. The four-inch gun and its crew were blown high
into the air, the gun landing forward on the well deck, and the crew in
various places. One man fell into the water; he was picked up, not
materially the worse for his experience, by the _Dunraven's_ lifeboat,
which, all this time, had been drifting in the neighbourhood. It is one
of the miracles of this war that not one of the members of that crew was
killed. The gashed and bleeding bodies of several were thrown back upon
the deck; but there were none so seriously wounded that they did not
recover. In the minds of these men, however, their own sufferings were
not the most distressing consequences of the explosion; the really
unfortunate fact was that the sudden appearance of men and guns in the
air informed the Germans that they had to deal with one of the ships
which they so greatly dreaded. The game, so far as the _Dunraven_ was
concerned, was apparently up. The submarine vanished under the water;
and the Englishmen well knew that the next move would be the firing of
the torpedo which could confidently be expected to end the Q-boat's
career. Some of the crew who were not incapacitated got a hose and
attempted to put out the fire, while others removed their wounded
comrades to as comfortable quarters as could be found. Presently the
wake of the torpedo could be seen approaching the ship; the explosion
that followed was a terrible one. The concussion of the previous
explosion had set off the "open-fire" buzzers at the gun
positions--these buzzers being the usual signals for dropping the false
work that concealed the guns and beginning the fight. The result was
that, before the torpedo had apparently given the _Dunraven_ its
quietus, all the remaining guns were exposed with their crews. Captain
Campbell now decided to fight to the death. He sent out a message
notifying all destroyers and other anti-submarine craft, as well as all
merchant ships, not to approach within thirty miles. A destroyer, should
she appear, would force the German to keep under water, and thus prevent
the _Dunraven_ from getting a shot. Another merchant ship on the horizon
might prove such a tempting bait to the submarine that it would abandon
the _Dunraven_, now nearly done for--all on fire at one end as she was
and also sinking from her torpedo wound--and so prevent any further
combat. For the resourceful Captain Campbell had already formulated
another final plan by which he might entice the submarine to rise within
range of his guns. To carry out this plan, he wanted plenty of sea room
and no interference; so he drew a circle in the water, with a radius of
thirty miles, inclosing the space which was to serve as the "prize ring"
for the impending contest.
His idea was to fall in with the German belief that the _Dunraven_ had
reached the end of her tether. A hastily organized second "panic party"
jumped into a remaining lifeboat and a raft and rowed away from the
sinking, burning ship. Here was visible evidence to the Germans that
their enemies had finally abandoned the fight after nearly four hours of
as frightful gruelling as any ship had ever received. But there were
still two guns that were concealed and workable; there were, as already
said, two torpedo tubes, one on each beam; and a handful of men were
kept on board to man these. Meanwhile, Captain Campbell lay prone on the
bridge, looking through a peephole for the appearance of the submarine,
constantly talking to his men through the tubes, even joking them on
their painful vigil.
"If you know a better 'ole," he would say, quoting Bairnsfather, "go to
it!"
"Remember, lads," he would call at another time, "that the King has
given this ship the V.C."
Every situation has its humorous aspects. Thus one gun crew could hardly
restrain its laughter when a blue-jacket called up to Captain Campbell
and asked if he could not take his boots off. He came of a respectable
family, he explained, and did not think it becoming to die with his
boots on. But the roar of the fire, which had now engulfed the larger
part of the ship, and the constantly booming shells, which were
exploding, one after another, like mammoth fire-crackers, interfered
with much conversation. For twenty minutes everybody lay there, hoping
and praying that the U-boat would emerge.
The German ultimately came up, but he arose cautiously at the stern of
the ship, at a point from which the guns of the _Dunraven_ could not
bear. On the slim chance that a few men might be left aboard, the
submarine shelled it for several minutes, fore and aft, then, to the
agony of the watching Englishmen, it again sank beneath the waves.
Presently the periscope shot up, and began moving slowly around the
blazing derelict, its eye apparently taking in every detail; he was so
cautious, that submarine commander, he did not propose to be outwitted
again! Captain Campbell now saw that he had only one chance; the
conflagration was rapidly destroying his vessel, and he could spend no
more time waiting for the submarine to rise. But he had two torpedoes
and he determined to use these against the submerged submarine. As the
periscope appeared abeam, one of the _Dunraven's_ torpedoes started in
its direction; the watching gunners almost wept when it missed by a few
inches. But the submarine did not see it, and the periscope calmly
appeared on the other side of the ship. The second torpedo was fired;
this also passed just about a foot astern, and the submarine saw it. The
game was up. What was left of the _Dunraven_ was rapidly sinking, and
Captain Campbell sent out a wireless for help. In a few minutes the U.S.
armed yacht _Noma_ and the British destroyers _Alcock_ and
_Christopher_, which had been waiting outside the "prize ring," arrived
and took off the crew. The tension of the situation was somewhat
relieved when a "jackie" in one of the "panic" boats caught sight of his
beloved captain, entirely uninjured, jumping on one of the destroyers.
"Gawd!" he shouted, in a delighted tone, "if there ain't the skipper
still alive!"
"We deeply regret the loss of His Majesty's ship," said Captain
Campbell, in his report, "and still more the escape of the enemy. We did
our best, not only to destroy the enemy and save the ship, but also to
show ourselves worthy of the Victoria Cross which the King recently
bestowed on the ship."
They did indeed. My own opinion of this performance I expressed in a
letter which I could not refrain from writing to Captain Campbell:
MY DEAR CAPTAIN:
I have just read your report of the action between the Dunraven and
a submarine on August 8th last.
I have had the benefit of reading the reports of some of your
former exploits, and Admiral Bayly has told me about them all; but
in my opinion this of the _Dunraven_ is the finest of all as a
military action and the most deserving of complete success.
It was purely incidental that the sub escaped. That was due,
moreover, to an unfortunate piece of bad luck. The engagement,
judged as a skilful fight, and not measured by its material
results, seems to me to have been perfectly successful, because I
do not think that even you, with all your experience in such
affairs, could conceive of any feature of the action that you would
alter if you had to do it over again. According to my idea about
such matters, the standard set by you and your crew is worth
infinitely more than the destruction of a submarine. Long after we
both are dust and ashes, the story of this last fight will be a
valuable inspiration to British (and American) naval officers and
men--a demonstration of the extraordinary degree to which the
patriotism, loyalty, personal devotion, and bravery of a crew may
be inspired. I know nothing finer in naval history than the conduct
of the after-gun's crew--in fact, the entire crew of the
_Dunraven_. It goes without saying that the credit of this
behaviour is chiefly yours....
With my best wishes for your future success, believe me, my dear
Captain,
Faithfully yours,
WM. S. SIMS.
The records show that the mystery ships sank twelve submarines, of which
Captain Campbell accounted for four; yet this was perhaps not their most
important achievement. From the German standpoint they were a terribly
disturbing element in the general submarine situation. Externally a
mystery ship, as already described, was indistinguishable from the most
harmless merchantman. The cleverness with which the Allied officers took
advantage of the vicious practices of the submarine commanders
bewildered them still further. Nothing afloat was sacred to the Hun; and
he seemed to take particular pride in destroying small vessels, even
little sailing vessels. The Navy decided to turn this amiable trait to
good account, and fitted out the _Prize_, a topsail schooner of 200
tons, and placed her under the command of Lieut. William Sanders, R.N.R.
This little schooner, as was expected, proved an irresistible bait. A
certain submarine, commanded by one of the most experienced U-boat
captains, attacked her by gun fire from a safe distance and, after her
panic party had left, shelled her until she was in a sinking condition;
many of her crew had been killed and wounded, when, confident that she
could not be a Q-ship, the enemy came within less than 100 yards. It was
promptly fired on and disappeared beneath the surface. The panic party
picked up the German captain and two men, apparently the only survivors,
who expressed their high admiration for the bravery of the crew and
assisted them to get their battered craft into port. The captain said to
Lieutenant Sanders: "I take off my hat to you and your men. I would not
have believed that any men could stand such gun fire." For this exploit
Lieutenant Sanders was awarded the Victoria Cross. Within about four
days from the time of this action the Admiralty received an inquiry via
Sweden through the Red Cross asking the whereabouts of the captain of
this submarine. This showed that the vessel had reached her home port,
and illustrated once more the necessity for caution in claiming the
destruction of U-boats and the wisdom of declining to publish the
figures of sinkings. Unfortunately, the plucky little _Prize_ was
subsequently lost with her gallant captain and crew.
So great was the desire of our people to take some part in the mystery
ship campaign that I took steps to satisfy their legitimate ambition. As
the Navy had fitted out no mystery ships of our own, I requested the
Admiralty to assign one for our use. This was immediately agreed to by
Admiral Jellicoe and, with the approval of the Navy Department, the
vessel was delivered and named the _Santee_, after our old sailing
man-of-war of that name. We called for volunteers, and practically all
the officers and men of the forces based on Queenstown clamoured for
this highly interesting though hazardous service. Commander David C.
Hanrahan was assigned as her commander, and two specially selected men
were taken from each of our vessels, thus forming an exceedingly capable
crew. The ship was disguised with great skill and, with the invaluable
advice of Captain Campbell, the crew was thoroughly trained in all the
fine points of the game.
One December evening the _Santee_ sailed from Queenstown for Bantry Bay
to carry out intensive training. A short time after she left port she
was struck by a torpedo which caused great damage, but so solidly was
her hull packed with wood that she remained afloat. The panic party got
off in most approved style, and for several hours the _Santee_ awaited
developments, hoping for a glimpse of the submarine. But the under-water
boat never disclosed its presence; not even the tip of a periscope
showed itself; and the _Santee_ was towed back to Queenstown.
The _Santee's_ experience was that of many mystery ships of 1918. The
Germans had learned their lesson.
For this reason it is desirable to repeat and emphasize that the most
important accomplishment of the mystery ships was not the actual sinking
of submarines, but their profound influence upon the tactics of the
U-boats. It was manifest in the beginning that the first information
reaching Germany concerning the mystery ships would greatly diminish the
chances of sinking submarines by this means, for it would cause all
submarines to be wary of all mercantile craft. They were therefore
obliged largely to abandon the easy, safe, and cheap methods of sinking
ships by bombs or gun fire, and were consequently forced to incur the
danger of attacking with the scarce and expensive torpedo. Moreover,
barring the very few vessels that could be sunk by long-range gun fire,
they were practically restricted to this method of attack on pain of
abandoning the submarine campaign altogether.