HURRAH!
HOW did things look at Kiao-Chow in the meantime? The bombardment from
the sea had become a daily occurrence, and soon the land batteries
added their boom to the hellish discord. There was no longer any
safety apart from the bomb-proof redoubts and localities. The firing
became heavier and heavier, and on some days from the sea alone
several hundred 30-centimetre, half-naval shells were shot into little
Kiao-Chow.
On the 14th of October our naval fortifications of Hu-Chuin-Huk were
directly under fire. The enemy ships were far out at sea, and after
the second volley the little outpost was submerged beneath a deluge
of heavy shells. Now volley followed volley. The whole fortifications
disappeared from sight behind the columns of water, flames and smoke,
and the rumbling and crashing of the bursting shells set the earth
a-tremble.
As usual, I stood that morning on the Coast-commander’s look out, about
1000 metres from the fort, and so witnessed this terrifying spectacle
at first hand.
Sometimes the yard-long shell splinters flew whirring and hissing
weirdly over our heads, without our paying any attention to them, as we
were so engrossed by what we saw, which was so stupendous that no words
could fittingly describe it.
We thought with deep sorrow of the brave garrison and of their sure
destruction; but suddenly, in the midst of the heaviest fire, our
old 24-centimetre gun fired one shot, and our field-glasses were
immediately fixed on the enemy ships.
Suddenly a joyful and triumphant “Hurrah!” burst from our lips, for one
of our explosive shells had hit the English warship _Triumph_ plumb in
the middle of her deck. _Triumph_ veered at once and ran away for all
she was worth, and when our second shell sped after her a little later
it was only able to hit the water about 50 metres from her stern.
_Triumph_ steamed away after a few signals, which she exchanged with
the Japanese flagship, and went off to Yokohama for repairs.
The three Japanese ships continued their bombardment—now at a more
respectful distance—so that it was useless to fire any longer with our
old guns, which could not travel half as far.
At midday the bombardment ceased at last, the enemy being justified by
that time in assuming that the fort was destroyed and all its inmates
killed.
The staff of the Coast-commander at once hurried to Fort Hu-Chuin-Huk;
and I also followed in my motor-car.
Still under the impression of the terrible spectacle of the
bombardment, we were most surprised on our arrival to see the whole
garrison merrily tearing round, collecting splinters and admiring the
huge craters which the enemy shells had dug in the ground.
What luck! Not a man wounded, not a gun injured, not a hit on the
bomb-proof rooms!
The whole result of the heavy bombardment amounted to a broken
biscuit-tin and a soldier’s shirt, which was hanging out to dry, and
was torn to shreds! It was strange to think that 51-and 30½-centimetre
guns were used to such purpose!
A heavy shell had passed clean through the thin steel turrets, and lay
peacefully near the gun on the iron plates!
Now we learned the secret of our lucky hit—our guns had in reality
only a carrying range of 160-100. But the gunners had with infinite
pains succeeded in raising the gun several sixteenths of a degree
higher, and so it carried 200 to 300 metres farther.
Having loaded the breech at its highest angle, the brave gunners and
their gallant Battery-commander, Oberleutnant Hasshagen, had quietly
stuck to their guns under the heaviest shell-fire, until at last one
of the ships came within hitting distance. And the best of it was that
it hit the right target! It is a pity that the _Triumph_ ran away so
quickly, otherwise she would not have escaped her fate on that day.
But, for all that, it overtook her a little later.
What we could not achieve was accomplished in the spring of 1915 by our
friend Hersing, when he, with his U-boat, sent this same _Triumph_ to
the bottom of the sea in the Dardanelles, thus avenging the garrison of
Kiao-Chow. We owe him a debt of gratitude for this service.
Ties of sincere friendship bound me to the officers and the garrison of
Fort Hu-Chuin-Huk.
I did not really belong to them, for in the first place my aerodrome
lay close to the fort, and, in the second, they regularly watched my
start, and, above all, my endeavours to get clear of their guns. And
more than once the men stood ready to jump into the sea and to save me,
for they thought I was falling into the water with my machine.
But as often as I was a guest of the remarkable Commander of the Fort,
Kapitänleutnant Kopp, we painted our triumphant return to Germany after
the war in the most glowing colours, and had of course decided that I
should march in with the garrison of Fort Hu-Chuin-Huk.
On the 17th of October, late in the evening, a group of officers
assembled on the Coast-commander’s stand and waited in breathless
suspense for her commander, Kapitänleutnant Brunner, to run the
blockade with his torpedo-boat destroyer S.90.
Two evenings before he had been out in a gallant endeavour to lay mines
on the track of the Japanese ships. To-day he was going to fulfil his
last and most difficult task—to break through the line of the enemy
torpedo-boat destroyers and attack one of the enemy ships. It was a
clear night, and there would be no moon after ten. The time came. Ten
struck, then 10.30—the tension became unbearable. Nothing could be
seen of S.90. Suddenly—it was eleven—we perceived a narrow, grey
shadow which carefully moved on the water under the Pearl Mountains.
And soon our sharp sailors’ eyes recognized the shape of the torpedo
boat. “Good luck to your brave men!” Our hearts accompanied them with
our warmest wishes. The boat disappeared from our sight, and soon the
dangerous moment was at hand, when they would have to break through
the enemy lines. Our eyes were glued in fascination on the open sea,
expecting the flashing of the searchlights and the thunder of the guns
at any moment.
But all was silence.
It was midnight. Another half-hour sped by—we breathed more easily,
for the enemy was still in ignorance of the coming attack. By this time
our boat must have reached the bulk of the fleet. The minutes turned
into hours. No one spoke.
Suddenly at 1 a.m., far away towards the south on the open sea, a huge
fire-column, and then from all sides the lurid, groping fingers of the
searchlights and a distant muttering and vibrating.
Hurrah! That was the work of S.90. And already at 1.30 we received the
following wireless:
“Have attacked enemy cruisers with three torpedoes, registered three
hits. Cruiser blew up at once. Am hunted by torpedo-boat destroyers,
return Kiao-Chow cut off, trying escape south, and, if necessary,
shall explode boat.
BRUNNER.”
This wire is sufficient praise for Commander, officers and crew.
A few weeks later, without premonition, I met the S.90 at Nanking—but
that is another story.