(Sd.) G. P. TALBOT,
Lieutenant-Commander.
The Commodore (S),
H.M.S. _Maidstone_.
That is the sort of way the submarine officers describe their
experiences. The method is curt and unsatisfying somehow. I will try
and give an idea of a submarine captain describing a trip during, say,
the winter of 1915-1916, to an army brother:--
Yes, we got in yesterday. No--we had no luck. It's getting dull inside
there now; it's not so much fun if there are no big ships about and
only small craft chasing you. Well, you see, we left about 4 P.M. on
Monday and had a poor sort of trip across--blowing from the
north-east, so that we were head to sea, and even at eight knots we
took nearly every wave over the bridge. They're a fine sight though,
the E boats, when they're butting into it like that; they get out of
step so, and you can feel just about when they are going to take a
good one; you see more and more of her bow going dry as she goes
wrong, and then she puts a great length of herself over a hollow, and
that's the time to duck your head and hold tight to a rail, because
she comes down wallop just in time for the next one to roll right over
you. It was fairly clear, but devilish cold, and there were
snow-squalls about one to the half-hour. We gave Terschelling (the
corner, you know, round Holland into the Bight) a seventeen-mile
berth, as the tide sets in pretty strong there, and turned in for our
billet. My orders were to work between Heligoland and the mouth of the
Elbe. There are two ways of getting in, you see--close along the shore
in seven-ten fathom water, and over and under the minefields farther
out. We took the deep channel, as we don't do the other at night if we
can help it--over and under? Oh! you see, there's a minefield set for
submarines in one place--fairly deep laid, and farther on another set
for surface ships, so we go over one and dive under the other--anyhow,
they're both only reported fields, and their position isn't accurately
known, and also one doesn't quite know one's position if one doesn't
get sights or see Terschelling Light, so it's a matter of luck,
really. Well, we didn't get any excitements going in, except that my
R.N.R. officer pressed the button with his shoulder when he was coming
up to relieve me, and he and I only got down just in time to shut the
lid. You see, we run with mighty little buoyancy on patrol when we are
on the surface, and if you press the button you go down in a few
seconds at twelve knots or so. The button? why, that's what dives the
boat; if you press that (it's just under the conning-tower lid) it
rings the Klaxon horns fore and aft the boat, and then it's up to you
to come down quick because the crew know it means business, and they
don't waste any time. They open all vents and put her nose down, and
in a few seconds there's just a 'plop' on the surface and you're
looking at a gauge-needle going round down below. But if you come on
watch with too many lammies and clothes on, you may give the alarm by
mistake like my feller did.
"Well, we got better weather after we rounded Terschelling, and after
Borkum Riff it was nearly calm. We got to the billet and dived at 4
A.M.--thirty-six hours out from Harwich. The soundings were right
when we touched bottom--about 95 feet--so that checked our latitude a
bit. Then we all went to bed. It was pretty cold and jolly wet too,
as she leaks a bit overhead besides the usual sweating. What's
sweating? Why, when the hull's cold it sweats, you know--water runs
down the inside--condensation really, I suppose. Well, then we all
turned in, as I say, and I put a lot of blankets over me to dry my
wet clothes.... I was too tired to change, and as a result I was all
aches in the morning (that is, at daylight about three hours later).
I reckoned it would be getting grey about seven, so we rose then, and
after a few minutes at fifty feet, just to listen for propellers, we
broke surface. It was all clear and still fairly dark, so we charged
batteries for twenty minutes and ventilated.
"Then we went under and started diving patrol. I took first periscope
watch, as I wanted to fix position by steering north-west for
Heligoland. At eight o'clock the patrol trawlers came by. You see, they
have eighteen trawlers out between Schillig Road and the Island. They
work in pairs, each pair doing a sort of sword-dance, and making Saint
Andrew's Crosses along the line. They come out in the morning, and we
just sheer out of their way to let them by. Then at sunset they all
begin edging towards home (that's Wilhelmshaven), until the senior one
hoists a signal, and they speed up and hustle into bed. No, we don't
worry them--we haven't enough torpedoes to chuck them away on trawlers;
and anyhow, you may miss a chance at something big if you get seen on
your patrol. Those small craft don't see you unless you worry them. One
dives around all day with several of them in sight, but so long as one
doesn't show the periscope much, and doesn't get too close, they don't
see. If we once started strafing them, they'd keep a better look-out,
but nobody keeps a good look-out unless he's scared--so we don't scare
them.
"Well, that's about all we saw that trip. A destroyer passed--out of
range--on the third day, going about twenty-five knots, and we had some
trouble on the fourth. No, not dangerous, just aggravating. You see, we
got seen by some idiot, and they sent out the usual four torpedo-boats
in line abreast against us. They're just small high-bowed old boats,
and aren't worth a torpedo. They came fussing along and saw my
periscope at fairly long range, as it was flat calm. I went down to
ninety feet, and they let off squibs over us--just little depth charges
that didn't even break a light globe. Still, they kept me under till
dark, and when we came up then I knew I was going to have trouble and
worry getting my charge in, as they'd have all sorts of packets barging
round my patrol at night looking for me; so we thought it over, and
decided the best place to sit and charge would be on the shoals off the
Schillig Road boom defences, because they'd never look for us there.
Well, they didn't; we sat there and had an absolutely undisturbed
charge for the first time that trip. We saw a lot of small craft go by,
all heading out to sea to put in a hate against us; and the joke was
that we were only in six fathoms there, and couldn't have got the
whole boat wet if we _had_ been strafed into diving there. And what's
better, I was told to-day that some of their destroyers looking for us
that night had a scrap among themselves--he's such a jumpy feller the
Hun: they seemed to have damaged one packet pretty thoroughly,
according to the Intelligence people.
"Why do we have to sit up at night? But we don't. We only have to stay
up long enough to charge the batteries for next day, and then we pack
up and go to the bottom till morning. That's why winter's the best time
to patrol--for comfort, anyway. In December you can only see decently
through a periscope for about nine hours--then you come up and charge
and get to the bottom for dinner. In July it's more like work: you dive
twenty-one hours, come up and charge, and dive again about 2.30 A.M.
There's no time for a rest on the bottom, but if you're inside the
Bight it's quite exciting getting your charge in. You get put down in
the middle of the performance by black shapes coming right on top of
you. They're usually trawlers on patrol; but sometimes you see a big
bow wave, and that means a destroyer, and you crash-dive in a few
seconds. You see, a boat charging like that is like a crab with its
shell off; you never feel safe in a boat until you are submerged. On a
clear night you can deal with destroyers or any other craft, but these
pitch-black nights, or nights when it is foggy or snowing, are the
deuce. I never feel happy on those nights till we get to the bottom.
It gives me cold feet all the time when I'm on the surface inside
there. This trip we got put down at least once during each charge,
except the night I went into their front garden to hide. One night,
however, I thought we'd never get charged up; we kept getting put
under, so that it was a case of twenty minutes' charge and ten
minutes' dip for half the night. What's 'putting down' like? Well, you
see, when you decide it's dark enough to come up, and you've seen the
trawlers go home, you pass the word to 'Stand by for surface' and to
get the engines ready. All the hands wake up and get busy (they read
and sleep most of the day), and then when they report 'Ready' you blow
about five to ten tons out of the tanks, and you come up. There's a
routine for the business, you see, and they don't want telling much. I
open the lid as soon as it's clear of the surface, and a hand follows
me up on to the roof.
"I have a look round, and if it's all clear I sing out below to start
the charge. They get on with it then, and the engines start bumping the
batteries up full bore, and at the same time we move slow ahead. I only
keep just the conning-tower out, and no more buoyancy, so we have men
on the hydroplane wheels to keep her from doing a dive accidentally,
and as we're moving ahead a little 'up helm' keeps her fairly dry. The
hand on deck does 'look-out' astern and I look out ahead; meanwhile the
people below carry on smoking (that's the chance they've been waiting
for all day). If the look-out sees anything at all he gives a yell and
points at it, and then jumps down inside the conning-tower. If I don't
like it when I turn round and see it, I press the button and follow him
down. If I see something first I hit the look-out, and he jumps down
and I follow. They're all on the top line below, so as soon as I press
the button and the horns sound (they make a din all over the boat) they
open the vents and put her bow down with the planes, and then by the
time I've closed the lid over my head the gauge is showing fifteen
feet, and she's going down at a big slant. If I'm slack on the lid I
get wet. If I'm too slack and the First Lieutenant thinks I'm not going
to get the top lid shut before she's under, he slams the lower doors
and either leaves me isolated in the tower or else swimming around on
the surface till he comes up later to look for me. (No--I've never got
left like that yet, but some people have been pretty near it. It's not
safe for the First Lieutenant to hang on too long for you--he might
fill the boat.) It's quite simple. With a well-trained crew anything's
safe, and you can cut it as fine as you like. When you've heard the
propellers from overhead[1] you just keep along at sixty feet for ten
minutes or so, and then you come up and get on with the work again. Oh!
I'm bored with all this talking. You ought to be able to run a trip
inside by yourself by now. But there's one thing always makes me mad,
that's the Heligoland leave-boat. She leaves the island on Friday
afternoons and she comes back on Monday morning. She's a big
flat-bottomed coal barge--too shallow draught to torpedo--and crammed
with men. You can't use a gun, because she's towed by a small tug with
a big gun forward and a little one aft; and besides, we're not allowed
to give away the fact that we're there by having a joke with small
craft. But it's devilish aggravating, all the same, to see the bloated
Hun going off for the week-end while we dive up and down for a week
waiting for something to turn up. We get our leave all right though. We
get three days to the half crew each trip, so that each of us gets
leave every other trip. The business is too exciting for me to take
leave seriously. I just go to all the revues and amusements I can if I
go up to town, and if it's winter-time like now, I get in three days'
shooting here. The local people are jolly nice to us, and even if they
haven't got a regular shoot going, one can get out to the marshes and
shoot duck. After the leave we come back and do a couple of days'
exercise-diving and torpedo practice, and then we go out again for
another trip. It's awfully interesting, because we work in the Huns'
front-yard in a way, and it seems so cheeky somehow. Makes us want a
drink? Well, I guess not. If you've got cold feet you don't want a
drink, because you daren't have it. That's why we don't carry any in
the boats. You see, the Owner here looks on us as so many race-horses
he's got in training, and if one of us shows symptoms of breathing a
bit short, he gets classed as a roarer, and leaves the job altogether
to repent in a big ship; there's lots more waiting to take our place,
and the Owner's got no what you'd call 'motherliness,' if he thinks
you're not all out for business. Hearing propellers? Oh yes, you can
hear them quite clearly from any quiet part of the boat; the fore
torpedo compartment is a good place for listening, and so is the space
abaft the main motors. You can hear what speed he's going, and when
you're used to them you can make out what kind of craft he is--trawler
or destroyer. The best time, though, is when you've finished a day's
patrol and charging and all, and gone on down to the bottom. I allow
the whole crew one cigarette apiece, and they have a concert. They
gather round the periscope and sing for an hour before turning in, and
the orchestra plays--(that's a concertina and a couple of
mandolines),--we've got quite a lot of talent in the boats. Smoking
like that overnight doesn't matter. If you keep the circulating fans
running the smoke all goes away while you're asleep. I don't know where
it goes to, 'cos it can't get out; but it goes somewhere. I allow the
officers a couple of cigarettes apiece during the day-time, and I smoke
whenever I feel scared--that gives me about nine cigarettes a day. Of
course you can't smoke at the end of a long summer's day; after about
fourteen hours' diving you can't get a cigarette to burn, and a match
goes out as soon as it's struck. But you can smoke a bit in the
forenoon without spoiling the air in the boat--and besides, on
occasions like when somebody is chasing you and dropping those little
depth bombs they use, and you've gone to ninety feet or so to keep
clear of them, it's a sort of guarantee of good faith if the skipper
walks away from the periscope and lights a fag. It looks contemptuous
somehow, and the sailors approve. You see, they never know the facts of
what's going on. Only the skipper knows the situation, and so they
watch you all the time. They spend a trip sitting or lying by their
stations, and obeying orders and trusting to their boss not to kill
them unnecessarily if he can help it. I tell you, the submarine sailor,
once he's past his probation time and been tested on patrol, is a hand
worth writing home about! Now, if you'll stop listening a minute and
struggle out of that chair, I'll take you round the boat. She's pretty
filthy still, but we'll get her clean again by to-morrow."
[1] The date the speaker deals with is before the general use
of the hydrophones in submarines.--KLAXON.