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SOME NAVAL
YARNS
BY
MORDAUNT HALL
WITH A PREFACE BY
LADY BEATTY
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS IN AMERICA FOR HODDER & STOUGHTON
MCMXVII
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PREFACE
A book containing accounts of the work continually and unceasingly being
carried on by the gallant officers and men of the Royal Navy should
prove of considerable interest to all, and, at the present time,
especially to the American reader. I am glad that a New York journalist
has had the opportunity of witnessing a part of the titanic task of our
courageous sea-fighters, and of personally gaining an idea of the
hardships endured by the plucky men who are watching our coast. This
little book may help considerably to enlighten the general public on the
work of the branches of the Navy, and prove that the men engaged in this
tedious, hazardous, and nerve-racking vigil are going about it with the
same old valour befitting the traditions of the Royal Navy. They have
fought the savage beasts like true sportsmen. They have rescued enemy
sailors, clothed and fed them, without a sign of animus, knowing that
victory will crown their efforts to throttle the enemy of humanity and
of civilisation. And that enemy is now the common foe of the United
States as well as of England. He has been the sly enemy of the United
States even before the declaration of hostilities by the American
Congress, while he was the avowed enemy of other countries engaged in
this terrible war.
These stories, light though they be, give a conception of what it is to
search the seas in a submarine, and the bravery of the youngest branch
of the Navy--the Royal Naval Air Service--is palpable even from the
modest accounts given by these seaplane pilots. They have confidence in
their supremacy over the enemy, and are all smiles even in the face of
imminent danger. It shows that often British coolness and pluck have
saved a machine as well as the lives of men.
Of special interest is the talk with the captain of a mine-sweeper while
he is on the bridge of his vessel. He tells of the many neutral lives
that have been saved by English seamen at the risk of their own vessels
and the lives of their crews. Noteworthy is it that Great Britain in the
course of this war has not been the cause of the loss of a single
neutral life. Mines have been placed at random by Germany's pirate
craft.
The grit of the English seaman comes to light in the author's journey
in a naval ambulance train, as does also the fact that the service takes
the utmost care of its wounded and sick. In the account of the Royal
Naval Division it is touching to note that the men who are fighting in
France and who distinguished themselves so valiantly in the Ancre and
other battles, still cling to sea terms or talk.
The accounts in this volume may cause the people of my native country to
appreciate the necessity for silence on the part of the British
Admiralty, as now that their ships are linked with ours in the effort to
defeat a common enemy the same idea of giving no information to the
enemy even at the cost of criticism undoubtedly will be included in
orders. Nevertheless, while playing the trump of silence, it is
encouraging to read stories of the Navy so that the readers have certain
knowledge that silence and brief reports do not mean that nothing is
being accomplished. We have recently had an instance of the efficiency
and courage of the officers and men in the fight between two British
destroyers and half a dozen of the enemy craft, in which the Germans
lost two vessels and the British none. Commanders and others greatly
distinguished themselves in this conflict, which occurred in the dead
of a moonless night. And the deeds of the Royal Navy are certain to be
emulated by the officers and men of the United States Navy, for blood
will tell.
ETHEL BEATTY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
I. THE LOG OF A NAVAL AIRMAN 1
II. OVER THE NORTH SEA IN A SEAPLANE 10
III. ADVENTURES IN A SEAPLANE 17
IV. SWEEPING THE SEAS FOR MINES 23
V. THE ROYAL NAVAL DIVISION 32
VI. A NAVAL SCHOOL 41
VII. "GENTLEMEN, 'THE KING'" 47
VIII. THE ROYAL NAVAL AMBULANCE TRAIN 53
IX. A RUN IN A ROYAL NAVAL AMBULANCE TRAIN 60
X. A TRIP IN A SUBMARINE 67
XI. LIFE IN A LIGHTHOUSE 82
XII. WATCHERS OF THE COAST 89
XIII. CROSSING THE CHANNEL IN WAR TIME 97
SOME NAVAL YARNS
SOME NAVAL YARNS
I. THE LOG OF A NAVAL AIRMAN
Men of the British services are exasperatingly modest. You are forced to
wring stories of experiences from them, and when you are thrilled to the
core over their yarns they coolly inform you that their names must not
appear. Fortunately, there is something about a story which "rings
true." From one of the soundest pilots of the Royal Naval Air Service I
heard his experience of the previous day. We will call him "Q," as he
happens to be known in the station. It is his middle initial. He is a
tall, well-built man of thirty, who knows a seaplane backwards, and it
has been woe to the enemy when he met him.
"We started at dawn," he began. "There's not much flying in the dark,
only occasionally. First, we ran the machine out of the hangar, and, as
usual, tried the engines. In the fading darkness or growing light it is
a great sight to see the flames flashing from the exhaust. In the
beginning you run your engines slowly. Yesterday one of them kicked a
bit. The cause for the hitch was discovered, and they were once more
started. Remember that it is expedient that the engines be thoroughly
tested before a flight, as you may spend anxious hours if something goes
wrong. The spluttering ended, and we ran them up to full speed. This
done, we waited for more light before hauling the machine down to the
water. Once the seaplane was water-born, we taxied ourselves across the
port at moderate speed. As we rose in the air we had to be careful of
the masts of the ships in the harbour, especially as it was foggy. We
then opened up the engines, and the seaplane rose. It was very thick, so
we kept 300 feet above the water, flying on a course. There were two
pilots and an observer in the machine. Our next work was to estimate the
velocity of the wind. This is always rather difficult, and, at the same
time, it is most important to have an accurate estimate of the wind. We
steered ahead, hoping to see a mark which would guide the observer in
his course; but because of the fog, we were not able to pick up our
mark. Hence we had to go on and hope for the best.
"We flew higher, about 1,500 feet, and the clouds were about 800 feet,
so we were far above them. For two and a half hours we steered straight
ahead on the lonely fog-covered sea. We were to meet some warships which
expected us. But even after covering all that distance, we saw nothing
at all, and therefore resolved to descend and see what prospects there
were of 'landing' and saving our engines. The sea always appears calm to
the man flying above it; and even when we were 30 feet only above the
water we could not tell whether or no it would be dangerous to the
machine to 'land.'
"By that time we were naturally anxious, as we thought that in steering
straight ahead, as we had done, we ought to have reached the ships with
which we had the rendezvous. So far as we could, with the roar of the
wind and the propeller, we held a consultation--nothing verbose--in
mid-air to determine what would be the best move. We decided to alter
our course so as to be sure of getting in sight of land. Half an hour
later we saw the first sign of life since we had been out--an old tramp
steamship. Ten minutes after we sighted land. When you are flying at sea
the land, especially when it is low-lying, takes you by surprise; it
suddenly looms up when you least expect it.
"We then picked up a mark and set off on our course for the rendezvous.
So dense was the mist that we could not see more than one and a half
miles ahead. However, we raced along at 70 knots on our new course, and
in twenty minutes came in sight of the flotilla of warships spread out
below in fan-like form, but all moving fast. These ships, you see, keep
on the move; but they stay for the time being near the point selected
for the meeting. Instructions were signalled to us, and we came up, and
flew nearer and nearer the water.
"'Can we land?' was our first question. 'Land' is always used by a
seaplane pilot even if there is no land within a hundred miles of him.
Our aerial had been thrown out. It was too rough to go on the water--or,
at least, not worth risking damage to the seaplane. We carried on our
conversation partly by shouting and partly by signals, which were
quickly understood. From the ships we received further instructions, and
sped on to carry them out. We had no further difficulties, and reached
home just before sunset."
As an illustration of modern warfare, and the fact that single British
flyers are feared even by two of the enemy's planes, here is a story
told by a young Englishman, who knows no nerves when he is in the air,
no matter how near he comes to being snuffed out by the shrapnel and
bullets. He is a man of 5 feet 10 inches, with clear blue eyes and blond
hair--one of those truth-loving Britishers who prefers to err against
himself in his reports rather than tell of an uncertainty as a
certainty.
"'Saw and attacked a German submarine, which dived before we could close
in on her,'" read this man from a log-book. He turned the pages, and a
little afterwards came on this:--
"'Sighted German patrol, and exchanged fire. Got over Zeebrugge----'
"That reminds me," he said, looking up from the little book which held
the notes of so many exciting events. "They sent me out then when I
ought to have been off duty."
He smiled, as did his hearers.
"Well, I got over the Mohl," he added. "That's the German pier at
Zeebrugge. The Mohl showed up black, and the water looked lighter in the
darkness. I was up about 2,500 feet, and dropped bombs on the seaplane
base. I mean, of course, the German air base. Only a few moments, and
they showed that they were ready for me, as the heavens around were
lighted up with searchlights. I dropped a few more of my 'eggs,' and
could not be certain of what damage I accomplished, although I saw
flames spurt up from several places. Then the enemy sent up two long
rows of rockets, making an avenue of light so that I could have read by
it. These infernal things parachute when they get to a certain height
and, with the fire hanging from them, stay stationary, leaving but one
exit. If I had run the machine into the rockets it would have been
ablaze in no time. These fireworks stay in the air for about two
minutes, which is a devil of a long time when you are up there. Thanks
to this lighted avenue, I showed up more distinctly than I would have
done in the daytime. The end of the avenue, I knew, was the target of
their anti-aircraft gunnery. I flew out, and shrapnel tore all around
me. My machine was struck several times, and, as bad luck would have it,
the patent point of my magneto fell out just when I got to the spot
where shrapnel was thickest.
"My chances of getting home then seemed pretty slim--engines out of
order, lit up by fireworks, up 2,500 feet, and a target clear as a
pikestaff for the gunnery. However, I managed to slide in the direction
of the ship on the French coast. It seems easy to keep out of the way of
the guns; but, of course, they have a demoralising effect on a man in
the air. Not so much at dark as in the day, though. Well, I got home all
right.
"Only a day or so afterwards I dropped a bomb on or near a German
U-boat, and I can't say to this day whether I struck or damaged her.
"'Very lonely,'" murmured the pilot, reading from his log. "'Just saw a
torpedo boat.' On the next day, let's see.... Oh, yes.... 'Saw two
German destroyers, and raced back to our ship, and British ships sped
after the Germans.'
"A day or so later I had run in with two German machines. It chanced
that there was a wind blowing about 30 knots, and I was merely out
scouting, and did not carry a gun. The two enemy ships were joined by a
third, and then they gained sufficient courage to come a bit close. They
shot away my aileron control, and we were in a very bad way. For twenty
minutes we were continually under fire, and below there was a heavy
swell. It really was only through knowing how scared is the enemy flyer
when you go for him that I am here to-night. I let the enemy planes get
nearer and nearer to me, and by the time they were ready for firing I
dived at one of them. This so upset the poise of the three machines that
they turned tail and swung around to come at me. They made huge circles
to get on my flanks again. All this took time, and during it I was
getting nearer and nearer my base. Now and again the enemy machines were
like too many cooks and the broth; they nearly crashed into each other.
This also upset their nerves. Incidentally, when you are in the air,
only the other machine appears to be moving, and you seem perfectly
still. My escape is due in part to the arrival of one of our fighting
seaplanes. A German is desperately afraid of them, unless there are four
Germans to one Britisher. When they saw this fighting Britisher coming
they did not take long to get away. They knew who the flyer was, too,
for a man's style in the air is always characteristic. They had heard of
this flyer before. So they turned tail, and I got back with a machine
out of order. 'The Prussian code of politeness,' we call it when they
retire with two or three machines against one of ours. It is the respect
that they show for our fighting seaplanes. Of course, this does not
detract from the confidence we have in our superiority."
I heard also that seaplanes have been called upon to serve at all sorts
of tasks on the dismal briny. On one occasion a senior naval officer of
an English port received word that neutrals were out in boats, and that
they had no water or food. Their steamship had been torpedoed, and their
last message by wireless had been caught by the British. The naval
officer despatched a seaplane with bread and water, and the pilot
delivered it, with other trifling necessities.
One of the most beautiful sights that meets the eye of a seaplane pilot
is when he comes on the scouting parties of British warships. They are
never at a standstill, and to keep moving and in the same place they all
make a wonderful circle at full speed, with one vessel in the centre.
That ship is to receive the message or whatever is brought by the
seaplane, which in the event of calm weather lands on the water and
sometimes sends off one of her officers to talk to those aboard the
vessel protected by the ring of speeding grey warcraft.
II. OVER THE NORTH SEA IN A SEAPLANE
To have an accurate conception of some of the experiences of a seaplane
pilot of the Royal Naval Air Service, I took advantage of an opportunity
to go aloft over the North Sea.
"Come with me, and we'll get you togged out for the ride," said the
gunnery lieutenant. He was a Canadian, who had lived many years in
Rochester, N. Y., and it was he who remembered that I would need
something warmer than the clothes I wore.
In the room to which he conducted me were many different styles of air
garb. He picked down a hat and coat of black leather, observing that
they would serve the purpose.
The morning sun shed a yellowish glow on the dancing sea, and the wind
was blowing at the rate of 32 knots. It was agreed by all that there
would be an excellent view from the aircraft as the day was clear. By
the time the gunnery lieutenant and I reached the ways on which the
great seaplane rested, men in overalls, begrimed with oil and dirt,
were testing the engine. As the great propeller spun round, coats
ballooned out with the rush of air, and the noise was such that one
could hardly hear one's own efforts to shout. It was a sound which
filled you with awe. The propeller was stopped after a few minutes, and
the mechanicians shot up the sides of the craft, and punched oil and
gasolene into the places where it was needed. Young officers in naval
uniforms stood around the machine--all are usually interested in a
departing seaplane. Not far from us were many immense sheds in which
were some of the newest types of England's youngest branch of the Navy.
There were aircraft there which bespoke the inventive genius of the
Briton, and the confidence of the young pilots inspired you with
pleasure--it was a confidence that they could beat the enemy at one to
two.
Presently the chief mechanician announced to the pilot that all was
well, and the man who was to take me above the North Sea, attired in his
uniform and a thick white woollen scarf, climbed up the seaplane's port
side. He signalled to me to follow, showing the places for me to put my
feet. The climb was more difficult than I had imagined, and a literal
_faux pas_ might not have aided the flying ability of the machine.
There was no lashing the passenger to a seat in the plane. The place in
which I sat would not have cramped three men, the pilot being in front.
There was a loose leather seat cover atop a wooden box as the only sign
of comfort.
"Make the best of it," said the pilot. With that, he turned on a switch,
and the propeller whirred a warning of departure to the clouds. It was a
parting shot to ascertain that the engines were in trim, and after the
engine had been stopped the craft was wheeled out into the waters of the
bay, and then again the propeller rent the air with a burring noise
which is surprising even if you are more or less prepared for it.
For the first few seconds we apparently swung along on the water's
surface, then skimmed along, the floats at the sides of the plane
bobbing on the slightly crested sea. It was only a matter of less than a
minute before I realised that we were rising in the air between sky and
water, and with amazing speed we soared, and soon were 300 feet in the
air. Still our aircraft climbed and climbed. The ocean, which had been
beating on the sands now outside, seemed peaceful and green. The town
which I thought had such winding streets when I walked through them now
looked as if it had been laid out by a landscape architect. Up, up we
travelled, and the higher we were the more deceptive was the North Sea.
Through, or, at least, far above, the opening to the port the pilot
steered the seaplane, and far down in the sea I saw a strip of dusky
something pushing a white speck before it. The pilot signalled for me to
look down. It was then that I realised that this funny little thing was
a British submarine going out to sea. The pilot bellowed something; but
I could only see that he was shouting, no sound coming to me above the
din of the propeller. We steered straight out to sea, and miles away I
saw a grey speck--a warship prowling over the lonely depths.
After listening to stories of pilots who have been tossed on the bosom
of the waters for twenty and thirty hours, the thought of the hardships
these pilots have to undergo came vividly to me. I thought of how I
might feel if a dozen anti-aircraft guns made us their target. Behind us
the town now had almost disappeared. The officer kept the nose of his
machine towards France, and I thought, as we sped on, of the young
officer who had an appointment for dinner with his fiancee, and who had
descended in the wrong territory only a week before. These daring
pilots, however, think nothing of cutting through the air from England
to France and taking a bomb or so with them for Zeebrugge on the way.
I began to think a great deal of my pilot. He was about twenty-seven
years old, and was cool and certain. He was a dare-devil, and had only
been over in England a short time after spending months on the coast
near the front.
The town had disappeared, and it was evident that we were practically at
the mercy of the compass. I felt no dizziness at the great height. In
fact, I had no conception of the altitude of the seaplane then. Perhaps
I was comforted by the whirring of the propeller, the thundering rumble
of which was increased by the stiff wind. I looked headlong down, and
experienced no sensation of fear. I seemed to be in a solid moving thing
as stable as a machine on earth or water. We must have been up 4,000
feet and possibly 100 miles out at sea. There was a sameness about the
travelling. You heard the roaring blades, and saw the deceitful sea and
clouds on a line with you here and there. The pilot turned the plane,
and soon we were headed for land. We kept at the same altitude, and
after a while beheld the shore line. The marvellous speed of the
aircraft appealed to me then, as it was not long before we were over
the harbour gates. At the same time, the seaplane just then did not seem
to be making any headway. From a height of 4,000 feet the great vessels
looked like fair-sized matches. How impossible it seemed to aim straight
enough ever to hit one of those narrow things. As we turned around above
the town in the direction of the hangars the trembling wings appeared to
waver a bit more than usual. I looked down at the town, and we appeared
at a standstill. You can tell sometimes when persons are looking at the
planes by a speck of white, which is a face. The earth and sea rose
nearer, for, as one does not appreciate, the plane was descending.
Our seaplane swung around and around like a bird about to settle, and,
as the seagulls do, alighted on the waters against the wind. With
remarkable skill and patience the pilot carefully steered the machine
until she faced the ways on which waited a throng of air-station
officers and waders. Soon we were properly placed, and a dozen men clad
in waterproof clothes splashed forward into the water, and caught the
floats of the seaplane's wings. As the engine had been stopped before we
landed, I got the first chance to speak to my pilot. He told me to get
on the back of one of the waders, and in a few minutes I was again on
dry land. Then the first thing I thought of was how the machine looked
in the air. The officers congratulated my pilot on a remarkably fine
landing.
We had been more than two hours and ten minutes in the air, and we were
both glad of a good stretch as we walked to the hangar, the burring buzz
of the propeller still in my ears.
III. ADVENTURES IN A SEAPLANE
It was an interesting gathering which faced the warm fire in a
smoking-room of an East Coast station of the Royal Naval Air Service.
Many of the seaplane pilots who were attired in the blue and gold of
naval officers had recently returned from successful endeavours in their
hazardous life in the North Sea and on the Belgian Coast. And here they
were in old England chatting about their experiences without brag or
boast--just telling modestly what had happened.
On one side of the spacious room, on a long, deep leather-cushioned
sofa, were an officer of the guards who was known to have an income of
at least ten thousand dollars a year, and who had taken to flying for
the excitement; a stocky youth of twenty from Salt Lake City, Utah, who
was known to have eked out a livelihood on fifty cents a day at Dayton,
O., so that he could pay for his training as a pilot; another youngster,
scion of a wealthy Argentine family with English connections; and an
Englishman, just over thirty, who had been born in California and had
heard the 1914 call of the mother country. They were cramped, but
comfortable.
In other chairs of the deep, comfy English variety were a rancher from
Canada; an Olympic champion, whose name has often figured in big type in
New York's evening newspapers; a lieutenant-commander of the Royal Navy,
who had hunted big game in three continents; a wind-seared first mate of
a British tramp; a tanned tea-planter from Ceylon; a 'Varsity man from
Cambridge, whose aim had been a curacy in the English Church; a
newspaper man from Rochester, N. Y.; a London broker; the head of a
London print and lithographing business, looked upon as one of the best
pilots in the service; and a publisher, who in pre-war days had been
more interested in "best sellers" than in seaplanes.
All were dreadnoughts who looked upon it as a privilege to give their
lives to smash Prussian militarism. If you had asked any one of them for
an interview he would have scoffed at the idea. But ordinary
newspapermen cannot be blamed for being enthralled at the share of these
pilots in the World War. What's printed about them? Just a paragraph to
the effect that "Several seaplanes last night bombed Zeebrugge or
Cuxhaven." They dashed out into the frigid North Sea with an errand,
but their share in the fights and the valuable assistance they have been
to Great Britain as scouts are seldom mentioned. Still, they "carry on,"
asking for no encouragement. And right here it must be explained that
"carry on" means to do or die in this war. It is the byword of the
British of the day.
It chanced that "Tidy," as we will call him, was the first speaker who
had something to say. He had a reason for talking, for some evil genius
had followed him for two days. The yarn is best told in his own words,
so far as they can be remembered.
"It was my patrol and I started from France at half-past five o'clock in
the morning," began the seaplane pilot. "I shot out to sea for about
thirty miles, and then continued to run along the coast for about 63
miles. I caught sight of a Dutch ship, and a little while afterwards
observed a submarine. Almost as soon as I saw the vessel there was a
cloud of smoke. I raced to the scene, knowing then that the Dutch tramp
had been torpedoed by a German U-boat. Four miles further on I espied a
second submarine. I opened fire on the first submarine, which then I saw
had taken in tow a boat evidently containing the survivors of the Dutch
vessel. I observed one of the Dutch sailors crawl to the bows of the
boat attached to the submarine and cut the rope. At that instant I
dropped a bomb, which fell about 25 or 30 feet from the submarine. The
under-sea craft went down very quickly, and I descended further and
dropped my aerial, and the mechanician-operator sent out a message. I
threw other bombs when I thought I detected about where the submarine
was in the sea. It was like a hawk after a fish. The other submarine
fled without giving me a chance.
"I continued scouting, having warned the British warships that two
submarines were in the vicinity. It came over very misty, and in the
deep haze I saw three or four German vessels coming out. As I turned,
deciding to race home and give the word, my engines failed me. I went
down and down, holding off from the white caps of the sea for two and
one-quarter hours. My next adventure was the sight of some German
aeroplanes. After fiddling around, I got my engine started, and flew up
to 1,000 feet above the sea. It was lucky that I started the engine when
I did, for the sea was becoming unpleasant. But then my magneto failed
me, and I realised what was in store on those wind-torn waters. I was
forced to dodge about like a bird with a broken wing. The wind freshened
to 40 knots. Although we did our utmost to keep the seaplane off the
water, it, of course, had to rest there, and I became horribly seasick.
The mechanician and I tried to keep the craft afloat. We fired off our
rockets, hoping to attract the attention of a friendly or neutral
vessel, but at the same time realising that we might fall victims to the
enemy.
"All night the mechanician and I were tossed on the sea without a chance
of attracting anyone, as our rockets had given out. The cold was
unbearable, and both of us were very seasick.
"Dawn came, and there did not even then seem much more chance of our
being rescued than at night time. You could not imagine anything
lonelier than a seaplane on the bosom of the North Sea when you are
without food or drink. The rocking of the light craft would have made a
good sailor keel over with seasickness. The happy moment, however, did
come. We were spotted by a mine-sweeper, and she raced to the rescue.
Our mangled machine was hoisted on the kite crane of the little vessel.
We had been thirty-six hours without food and water, and most of the
time bumped about on the sea.
"That would seem to be about enough for the evil genius to perform, eh?
But we were doomed to have another surprise in store. I went to bed in a
room in a little hotel, and had hardly closed my eyes when there was a
great explosion; the whole place seemed about to fall down. I put on an
overcoat, and tore outside to discover that those blamed destroyers
which I had seen earlier were bombarding the place where I went to
sleep. A lucky shot demolished the building next to the one in which I
was in bed; then I went back to bed, too tired to care what else
happened."
IV. SWEEPING THE SEAS FOR MINES
There are days when a mine-sweeper captain, who is continually running
the gauntlet of death, reckons that he has been fortunate. Usually this
is when he just escapes being blown to bits with his vessel or sees what
can happen to a steamship when it strikes one of the enemy mines planted
at random in the North Sea. There are days when he goes out and sees
nothing worth while. However, despite the great danger, unseen and
unheard until all is over, these mine-sweeper men guide their vessels
out daybreak after daybreak, with the same old carefree air, to perform
their allotted task in this war.
Many of these men were fishermen, who looked as if they had slipped out
of funny stories in their thick jerseys and sou'-westers; now they are
part and parcel of the British Navy, proud of the blue uniform and brass
buttons and--when they have them--of the wavy gold bands on their
sleeves. There are others who were officers and so forth in the
mercantile marine in pre-war days. They have sailed the seas from John
o' Groats to Tokio: and to them New York is merely a jaunt.
One of the latter, who was a passenger-vessel officer, attracted a deal
of attention at an East English port by his indefatigable labour and
fearlessness in his risky job, until he was rewarded for more than two
years of grinning at death by the Distinguished Service Cross.
He knows Broadway well, can tell you where he likes best to get his hair
cut, and where he considers they put up the best cocktail. One day I was
permitted to take a trip with this captain-lieutenant--and get back.
Mine-sweeping has been written about by persons from Kipling down, so I
will just tell you the story as I then saw it.
The skipper stood on the bridge of his dusky-coloured vessel as she
soused through the waters of the grim North Sea, his keen eyes ever on
the alert fore and aft, and occasionally on the sister ship to his,
coupled along with the "broom." They were "carrying on," as usual. This
skipper was a man just in his thirties. His face was cheery and round,
and body was muscular and thick-set. In spite of the watch he and his
first mate kept on this particular occasion, he found time to give me
his opinion on certain things interesting to the men who go down to the
sea in ships, and also an idea of what it means to be in command of a
mine-sweeper.
"You should have been with us on Sunday," he said, as he lighted his
cigarette between his cupped hands. "It was more interesting than
usual--had something of this damn thrill you talk about ashore and don't
know what it is until you've been at the firing front or in one of these
blessed ocean brooms. That chap across the way found a mine in his kite,
and we had to cut the hawser in double-quick time, and get far enough
away from it before we pegged a bullet in one of the horns."
The skipper explained that none of the mines are exploded less than 200
yards from the vessels. He said that the experience he had just related
would have sufficed for a day, but that an hour later, when he was still
brushing up a part of the North Sea, not far from the coast, he received
a warning from a trawler that a mine exposed at low water was just ahead
of him. Not in his time had he seen a steamer go astern quicker.
Afterwards, they deftly fished around for the mine, snapped its mooring
rope, and brought it to the surface. When the mine was at a safe
distance from all vessels, a couple of men then aimed their rifles at it
until there was a loud explosion which sent sand-coloured water 35 feet
and more into the air.
But the affairs of that Sunday were not yet complete. Twenty minutes
after the mine had been exploded a great rumble was heard way out at
sea, and soon it was ascertained by the captain of the mine-sweeper that
a Scandinavian tramp had met her doom by striking a German mine.
"We went off to see if we could pick up some of the poor chaps,"
observed the skipper. "Among the twenty-one men and boys we rescued were
four who'd been passengers aboard a passenger vessel which had been
torpedoed by a German U-boat without warning near Malta. They told us,
when they got down into our engine-room, that they were just having one
hell of a time getting home. I don't blame them for thinking that.
Through good fortune, and taking chances of being sent to the bottom
ourselves, we have saved the lives of many of these neutrals who might
have perished. Yes, here we are mine-sweeping as a job, flying the white
ensign of the British Navy; and yet we have found time to save life
imperilled by the enemy. Sometimes I wonder what sly Fritz would have
to say if he'd even saved a single neutral. He'd be blowing yet. Did you
ever stop to think that our Government never has jeopardised a single
neutral life? On the other hand, the lives of neutrals that have been
rescued at this port run into the thousands. They talk about the freedom
of the seas. What else has there been until Germany showed that what she
wants is the 'tyranny of the seas.' Leastways, that's how it strikes me.
Ever stop to----"
His attention was caught by a signal from the other vessel, and a
keen-eyed sailor wig-wagged back an answer. It was all right, although
at first I still remembered the timely warning regarding the slightly
submerged mine. As a matter of fact, it was merely a desire of the
sister ship's captain to turn around and "sweep back," as the
land-lubber might term it.
"Let's see," said the commander, "where was I.... Oh, yes.... Realise
that we go out and save lives that the enemy imperils far out at sea?
They are lives that don't concern us, but we don't feel like letting a
poor chap drown if we can help it. On the other hand, our enemy stops at
nothing, and, moreover, takes advantage of our humanity. I think that it
should be known that we dash out to the rescue never knowing when the
ship may go up against one of Fritz's eggs, which may be anywhere in the
sea. Why do we go? Just to pick up a benighted lot from an ill-fated
tramp, and there's nothing in it. Yet we do it all the time, and the
C.O. commends us for it, too."
We came to a new spot in the green sea to sweep. It was fairly rough,
and the little vessel bumped and jumped. And this is the work that goes
on from daybreak to dusk seven days a week. If a trawler strikes a mine
she usually counts on saying good-bye to herself and 80 per cent. of her
crew, and the other type of mine-sweeper is lucky if she gets off with a
loss of less than 40 per cent.
Back and forth in a monotonous sea we steamed, and you had an idea how
dull this work can be sometimes; also that when it comes to sweeping you
saw that the North Sea is a big place.
"It's become a science," observed the skipper. "Fritz has a hard time
many a night 'laying his eggs,' and the many ways we have of bringing
them to the surface has baffled him a good deal."
A torpedo-boat destroyer hove within signalling distance. The commander
was handed a message by a sailor. The alert skipper read it, and said:--
"Tell 'em 'yes.'... Just want to know if we had swept around there."
Still the smoke-coloured little vessels kept up the job of plying back
and forth in the waters. Men were busy at the stern of the ships
watching the wooden kites that are made so as to catch the mines by the
hawser that is slung between the two steamers. The slightest sign of a
ball-like piece of steel in the sea and the dullness of sweeping is
relieved, for then the skipper knows that he has unhooked one of the
mines. Along came a submarine, flying the white ensign of the Royal
Navy. The mine-sweepers realise that these men have no arm-chair job,
and admire the commander and crew of the under-water boats accordingly.
A sailor semaphored with his arms, and the commander of the mine-sweeper
sent a message back, and the submarine passed slowly on her way.
"If some of those people at home and abroad at their firesides realised
what the men at sea have to suffer to keep this coast free they might
have a different way of talking," declared the commander, now taking to
his much-burned old pipe. "Those chaps that have just come in have had
a week without any sleep--or next to none--and their food has all been
canned stuff. There are many persons who think the North Sea's a
pond--same as they do over in America."
On we steamed in our section of the waters with never a sign of a German
mine. Finally, the day came to a close, and the captain ordered the
hawser to be slipped and the kite hoisted in the stern crane of his
vessel, the like being done by the other sweeper.
As if glad that the day's work was over, the small craft pressed forward
to the harbour, and were disappointed to find that a big tramp was
taking up the room of their berths. They anchored outside, waiting for
the big steamer to get away.
"Do they tell you when you can come alongside the dock?" I asked.
"No need to," said the captain with a smile. "You'll see."
We had been in the open harbour for about twenty minutes when the bows
of the ugly vessel came slowly on. An instant later all the small craft
were ready to speed to their respective berths in their turns, and it
was not so very long before the mine-sweeper was tied to her part of the
dock. The commander of the sister vessel to the one I had been aboard
came over to us.
"Good ship that of yours?" I said.
"Yes," muttered the man with two rings of the Royal Naval Reserve on his
sleeve. "She's all right; but I love this ship. I had her a year ago,
and she's a little wonder. It would take me a long while to love another
vessel."
My skipper laughed.
"Just one of those days," he said. "Come, let's go and have a spot."
V. THE ROYAL NAVAL DIVISION
Buffeted about from Antwerp to Gallipoli, Egypt, the Greek Islands,
Salonika, and then to France, first under an admiral, then part of an
army corps, again under an admiral, and finally back to military
regime--the life of the Royal Naval Division, which startled an Empire
by their valour on the Ancre, has been one full of thrills, sorrows,
threats of extinction, brave deeds, and perilous journeys. They are
proud of their naval origin, and are also tenacious of their naval
customs, despite the fact that all their fighting has been done ashore
and few sailors survive among them.
In August, 1914, Mr. Winston Churchill, then First Lord of the
Admiralty, mobilised and organised, as a division for land fighting,
reservist seamen, stokers and marines, and naval volunteers whose
services were not required afloat, also recruits drawn mainly from among
the miners of the North of England and Scotland. Guards' officers, naval
and marine instructors--each in his own ritual--help to train them. To
the Navy, who raided them when it needed seamen or stokers for its
ships, they were "dry-land sailors." To the Army, they were just a bunch
of "so-called salts" or "Winston's Own." But their instructors soon
recognised that in these grousing, middle-aged stokers, and in these
silent stolid illiterate miners and ironworkers from the North Country,
they had the raw material of soldiers as fine as Great Britain can
breed.
In many respects, the Division has had the worst of both worlds. They
have beaten their way steadily to the fore without much recognition in
print; but since Beaucourt fell, both military and naval men have been
eager to grasp their hands.
Now and again a brief mention fell to their lot while they were in
Gallipoli, where the military were attracted to them a bit by the idea
of calling their battalions after famous admirals such as Nelson, Drake,
Hood, Collingwood, Anson, Howe, Benbow, and Hawke. Sir Ian Hamilton made
mention of the fearlessness of the division in his despatches, and
Major-General D'Amade eulogised them for their bravery after the frays
of the 6th, 7th, and 8th of May, 1915. In June, 1915, the Collingwood
battalion was wiped out; of the officers of this battalion and of the
Hood, who went to the attack, not one returned unwounded. The other
battalions also suffered terribly, having been equally contemptful of
danger.
Prior to that they had, of course, been to Antwerp. Even if they did not
have a chance to do much, the Division, at any rate, caused the Belgians
to hold out for five days longer than they might otherwise have done.
Among the many brave men on the officers' roll are well-known Britishers
who have given their lives for their country. There was Rupert Brooke,
the poet; Denis Browne, formerly musical critic of _The Times_; F. S.
Kelly, holder of the Diamond Sculls record, who also was an
exceptionally clever composer and pianist; and Arthur Waldene St. Clair
Tisdall, a great scholar and poet of Cambridge. He was awarded the
Victoria Cross for his valour on the 25th of April, at Gallipoli, for
going to the rescue of wounded men on the beach. To accomplish this, he
pushed a boat in front of him. On his second trip he was obliged to ask
for help. In all, he made five trips in the face of great danger. He met
death in action barely three weeks afterwards.
Lieutenant-Commander Arthur M. Asquith, son of the former British
Premier, is one of the gallant men attached to the Hood battalion. He
has been through the thick of many fights, and has been wounded more
than once, escaping death through sheer good fortune.
And one of the men whom all England was wild about is a New
Zealander from Wellington, twenty-seven years old, now an acting
lieutenant-colonel, who was described by an eye-witness of the Ancre
fighting as "a flying figure in bandages plunging over Germans to
Beaucourt." He is B. C. Freyberg, a born soldier and great athlete.
Before the Great War, this marvel of courage was fighting for Pancho
Villa in Mexico; and the instant the European conflict started, Freyberg
realised that he might do better in Europe. He therefore deserted Villa,
and set out afoot for San Francisco. His splendid constitution stood him
in good stead, and he arrived there as fit as a fiddle, soon afterwards
winning enough money in a swimming race to take him to London. In the
English capital he received a commission as a sub-lieutenant in the
Royal Naval Division, and his promotion has been rapid.
Colonel Freyberg was caught in a live electric wire in Antwerp; but it
was of so high a voltage that he was not killed, sustaining only an
injury to his hand and arm. He was even fired at by his own men, who
believed that he was a German crawling through the wire. Just before the
landing in Gallipoli, on the 25th of April, 1915, it was proposed to
throw dust in the eyes of the Turks by landing a platoon at a point on
the coast of the Gulf of Saros, where no serious landing was
contemplated. To save the sacrifice of a platoon, Freyberg, who was at
that time a company-commander in the Hood battalion, pressed to be
allowed to achieve the same object single-handed. His wish was granted;
and on the night of the 24th-25th of April, oiled and naked, he swam
ashore, towing a canvas canoe containing flares and a revolver. He
reconnoitred the enemy's trenches, and, under the covering fire of a
destroyer, lit his flares at intervals along the beach. He had some
difficulty in finding his boat again. A mysterious fin accompanied him
during part of the swim. He at first took it to be that of a shark, but
found later it belonged to a harmless porpoise. After some two hours in
the water, he was picked up, and for this gallant and successful feat he
was made a Companion of the Distinguished Service Order. In Gallipoli
he was wounded in May, again in July, 1915, and he was mentioned in Sir
Charles Monro's despatches in connection with the successful evacuation
of the 9th of January, 1916.
Hence, this sailor-soldier in a comparatively short time attracted a
good deal of attention among the naval and military authorities; so it
was not surprising that when he applied for a permanent commission in
the British Army he was given a captaincy in the Queen's Royal West
Surrey Regiment. The same day, however, he received this news he was
seconded to the Royal Naval Division with the temporary rank of
lieutenant-colonel. So he retained command of his old battalion--the
Hood.
Inasmuch as the first despatches concerning the storming of Beaucourt
referred to Lieutenant-Colonel Freyberg as "a naval colonel," all
Britain was wondering who this hero could be. Some of his friends were
not long in guessing; but it was not until the next day that Freyberg in
name received credit for the remarkable exploit on the north bank of the
Ancre. In the first messages of the British success it was set forth
that in a battle where every man fought nobly for the honour of his
regiment and his country, one individual act of leadership stood out
with peculiar distinctness.
A witness of the battle told of the troops on Freyberg's left being held
up, and that between him and them ran, roughly parallel with the line of
advance, a spur which cut off the effect of the enemy's machine guns.
After fourteen hours of fighting, bit by bit, the sea-dog soldiers had
plunged through a mile of trenches and ground sorely marked by shells.
Three machine guns then were pushed forward well beyond that line, and
the still unsatisfied sailor-colonel, his shoulder and right arm swathed
in bandages, asked leave to go ahead and attack the village. His men
were about 1,000 yards in front of the companies on his left,
endeavouring to advance across the northwesterly slope. It was more like
a matter of defence than attack. The men were few in numbers, and had
fought like tigers for long hours without a rest. However, about 500 men
were collected, and the dark of night was spent in organisation. Then,
in the misty dawn, some soldier battalions came up to reinforce the
left, and onward plunged Freyberg.
Out on the Ancre they say that he got so far ahead of his men that he
rubbed his hand over his head and murmured: "Huh--I believe I forgot to
tell them to follow me." Whether or not this is true, only Freyberg
knows. But we do not remain in doubt as to what he and his men did right
afterwards. They ploughed their way through mud and Germans, with the
fire of five machine guns peppering them. They stuck right on the heels
of the barrage fire, and in less than twenty minutes from that time the
Germans had been driven from their stronghold of Beaucourt. Here and
there a German post held, and men in the trenches faced the British
bombs and cold steel. Still the Teutons soon learned that it was
impossible to stop that alarming Briton and his men.
Freyberg formed a semicircular trench around the far side of the new
possession, and then they took time to see what had happened to the
gallant little band. Freyberg had received his fourth wound, and his
brave 500 had dwindled to a number a good deal smaller. The Britishers,
somehow, had been unkind in their speed to the Germans, and the enemy
was left gaping with wonder at the result of what they at first took to
be nothing more than a bit of bluff.
For this remarkable display of valour Freyberg received the Victoria
Cross.
Reverting to the division itself, it should be said that every officer
of these jolly-jack-tar soldiers has panegyrics galore to cast in the
direction of General Sir Archibald Paris, K.C.B., who was in command of
the division at Antwerp and the Dardanelles. He lost a leg before the
Ancre fighting, and thus was disappointed of being with them for their
great success in France. He was succeeded by Major-General Cameron
Shute, C.B. What the division has recently accomplished and the way it
has terrorised the enemy, like Kipling's "Tyneside Tail Twisters," is a
happy thought to General Shute. In one battalion it is estimated that 90
per cent. of the casualties in the Ancre fighting were caused by the
closeness with which the sailors clung to the barrage fire. Their grit
caused the enemy to pale.
They are pleased and proud of their sea terms, and would not give them
up for anything--not even if the soldiers of the King do not fathom
their meaning.