THE S.O.S.
A GREAT work of rescue was carried on throughout the war on all the
seven seas by vessels of both the old and the new navy. This service was
rendered to ally, neutral and enemy alike, but no complete record of the
gallant deeds performed nor even of the numbers and nationalities of
those saved will, in all probability, ever be available, and none is
needed, for it was a duty which brought its own reward.
Typical of the way succour was brought by the naval patrols to those
unhappy victims of both sexes left adrift in open boats in calm and
rough, sunshine and snow, all over the northern seas by the cowardly
_Unterseeboten_ of the kultured race was the rescue of the passengers
and crew of a liner off the wild west coast of Ireland in the winter of
1916.
* * * * *
It was mid-December, and flurries of snow were being driven before a
stinging north-westerly wind. The sea was moderate, but the heavy
Atlantic swell caused the lonely patrol ship to sink sluggishly into the
watery hollows, with only her aerials showing above the surrounding
slopes of grey-green sea, and a minute or so later to be poised giddily
on the bosoms of acre-wide rollers with nothing but the white mists
obscuring the broad horizon.
It was a wild wintry scene, pregnant with cold and hardship. The officer
who had just come up from the warmth of the wardroom to relieve his
"opposite number" on the bridge pulled the thick wool muffler closer
round his neck and dug mittened hands deep into the pockets of his
duffel coat.
In the Marconi cabin, situated on the deck of the _sloop_, a young
operator was sitting with the receiving instrument fixed to his head and
the clean and bright apparatus all around. He was city born and bred,
and felt keenly the monotony of life at sea, although to him came the
many interesting wireless signals from the vast network of patrols which
covered the Western Ocean--linking the sea-divided units into a more or
less homogeneous fleet.
Presently a message began to spell itself in Morse. Taking a pencil, the
operator scribbled various hieroglyphics on the naval signal paper lying
on the desk in front of him; then after a pause of a few seconds he
pulled forward a tiny lever and began a rhythmic tap on an ebonite key.
It was the "S.O.S." call and the reply that had flashed through the
ether. A minute or so later the written signal, giving the appeal for
help and the position and name of the torpedoed liner, was handed to the
commander. A glance at the chart told that young but experienced
officer that he could not hope to bring his ship to the scene of the
disaster before dusk closed down, and a message was sparked across the
eighty miles of intervening sea asking how long the crippled ship could
be kept afloat.
To this, however, there came no reply, and the engines of the sloop were
put to full speed ahead. A heavy spray now commenced to sweep across the
deck in drenching showers, and the snow haze thickened. The pitching of
the ship increased as she raced over the ocean swell, driving her sharp
bows deep into the masses of sea. The limbs of the watch grew stiff and
numb, and a fine coating of wet salt stung their faces. Eyes ached from
gazing into the bitter wind, and for over four hours the race against
approaching night continued. If darkness closed down before that eighty
miles of sea was covered all on board realised that the chances of
finding any survivors would be greatly diminished. Even the strongest
vitality could not long resist exposure to the intense cold, and there
might be women and children in the sea ahead.
Many of the officers and crew of the sloop had experienced the agonies
of cold, wounds and salt water when cast adrift on wintry seas, and the
memory acted like a whip. As the hours went by the greenish tint of the
sea slowly turned to leaden-grey, and the pure white of the driving snow
contrasted sharply with the quickening dusk of the December night.
It was in the last half-hour of the dog watch that the sloop reached
the scene of the disaster and the speed was reduced. Scattered over the
sea around, and floating southwards in grim procession, was a mass of
wreckage--a broken raft, a number of deck-chairs, spars and cordage, a
life-belt and some oars--but of boats with living freights there was not
a sign.
Steaming slowly round in widening circles, the sloop searched while the
light lasted, but the whirling haze of fine snow blotted out the
distance, and soon the early darkness of a winter night settled over the
sea. The cold became intense. The white beam of a searchlight now
flashed out over the black waters. There was a grave risk in this
betraying light, one not sanctioned by the theory of war. It made the
warship a target for any hostile submarine lurking around, but it seemed
impossible to believe that a 6000-ton liner, with probably several
hundred human beings on board, could have been so completely
obliterated, and to the commander of the sloop the risk seemed
justified.
Other ships might have intercepted the S.O.S. call and reached the scene
of the disaster earlier, but the sloop's wireless, although put into
action, could not confirm this, and so the search was continued.
On and off during the bitter night the white beam of light flashed out
through the snow. For a few seconds it swept the sea close around and
was then shut off. In the pall-like blackness which followed ears
listened intently, but could distinguish nothing except the lash of the
sea.
The sound-deadening qualities of falling snow would have cut short the
range of any cry, for the human voice at its strongest, and with the
atmospheric conditions favourable, can seldom be heard more than 1000
yards distant. So hour after hour of numbing cold went by with nothing
to show except the occasional pathway of light on the grey slopes of sea
and the low moaning wind.
The snowing ceased, and in the cold stillness which so often precedes
daybreak in the north a faint cry came from the sea, at first so
indistinct and mingled with water noises that it would never have been
heard at all if the engines of the sloop had not been shut off, as they
had been at frequent intervals during the night, to enable those on
board to listen. The cry was quickly followed by the "snore" of a boat's
fog-horn. A few turns of the sloop's propellers and in the grey light of
the December dawn a large ship's life-boat could be dimly seen, away to
starboard, when it rose on the bosom of the swell.
Careful manoeuvring placed the warship alongside the boat-load of
half-frozen castaways and the work of rescue commenced. It was a sad
task. Amongst the thirty-two survivors there were twelve women and
children, seven of whom had died of cold and exposure during that bitter
night. One, a young Canadian wife coming home to her wounded soldier
husband, had been crushed by the explosion of the first torpedo and
suffered agonies in the open boat before sinking into the peace of
death.
To dwell here on the suffering caused by intense cold, exposure, hunger,
thirst, untended wounds, and the mental agony of suspense, often to
delicate women and children, when cast adrift on the open sea, would be
merely to repeat what has so often been written, and which will live for
ever in the memory of sailormen.
When the survivors had all been lifted on board--and many had suffered
badly from frost-bite--the search for two other life-boats which it was
learned had succeeded in getting away from the wrecked liner was
commenced.
Shortly before midday the snowing began again and the wind moaned
dismally through the rigging. Spurts of icy spray shot upwards from the
bows and were blown back across the fore-deck of the ship, searing the
skin of the tired men on watch. For several hours the sea around was
searched in vain. Flurries of snow obscured everything more than a few
hundred yards distant. Then towards four bells the storm passed and the
air cleared of its white fog, but nothing was visible except the wide
sweep of colourless heaving sea and leaden sky.
It came suddenly--an indescribable explosion with a violent uprush of
water, followed by the hoarse shouting of orders, the low groans of
wounded men and the sharp crack of cordite. The bows of the sloop had
been blown off by a torpedo, and the vessel commenced to rapidly settle
down.
The two undamaged boats were lowered and the survivors from the liner
once again cast adrift to face the horrors of the previous night. Rafts
floated free with all that were left of the crew of the sloop--two
officers and thirty men. Their condition was pitiable. There had been no
time to get either food or extra clothing, and so heavily laden were the
light structures of _capuc_ and wood that the occupants were continually
awash.
Barely had the boats and rafts got clear of the ship before she took the
final plunge, going down in a cloud of steam. A few minutes later the
U-boat rose to the surface about 300 yards distant, and after remaining
there for some time, without making any effort to render assistance, she
steamed slowly away.
The boats took the rafts in tow, and the wounded, who suffered terribly
from the cold and the salt water, were all transferred to the former.
One of the women survivors from the torpedoed liner collapsed during the
first hour, and although given extra clothing cheerfully discarded by
the men, she died soon afterwards.
Seas washed over the rafts and sent clouds of stinging spray into the
crowded life-boats. A biting frost stiffened the wet garments, which
rasped the raw and bleeding wrists of the men who tugged at the
oars--partly to increase their circulation and partly to keep the boats
head-on to the sea. The only hope of rescue lay in keeping afloat until
daylight, when the "S.O.S." call sent out before the sloop foundered
might bring them aid. The coast of Ireland lay 300 miles to the
south-east, and so intense was the cold that few expected to live
through the night.
The gloom of a winter afternoon gave place to darkness, and with the
fading of daylight the cold increased. Men became numb and were washed
unnoticed from the rafts. Others were dragged unconscious into the
already overcrowded life-boats, which sank so deep in the water with the
additional weight that green seas now splashed inboard and baling became
necessary. Limbs stiffened in the sharp frost and had to be pounded back
to life by unselfish comrades. Even under cover of the sails the cold
was so intense that only five women and two children were left alive by
midnight.
Through the long dark hours men struggled under the drenching showers of
bitter spray. When dawn broke, throwing a pale mystic light over the
acre-wide Atlantic swell, each one knew that life depended on the coming
of a ship before the light of day again faded in the west.
The snowing had ceased some hours before darkness lifted, and in the
clear morning cold men stood up painfully and searched the watery
horizon for the sign which would bring them life. Just before three
bells, as the boats rose on the bosom of the swell, a thin blur of smoke
could be seen low down on the eastern horizon. Had there been strength
left in the worn-out bodies there would have been a cheer, but now only
a slight stir of suppressed excitement and many a silent prayer.
The limit of human suffering and endurance had, however, not yet been
reached. Some twenty minutes later it became evident that the ship had
not received the wireless call and was passing too far off to be reached
by any sound signal short of a big gun. Slowly the trail of smoke
disappeared in the haze of great distance without even a glimpse of the
ship itself.
The spirits of all began to sink as hour after hour went by without
sight of the hoped-for sail. Then, about eight bells, one of the men
standing up in the centre of the first officer's boat gave a little
inarticulate cry and some few minutes later the dim outline of a big
ship hove in sight. The suspense was unbearable. Women to whom any sign
of religious emotion was alien knelt openly and prayed, while men who
had suffered similarly before gazed fixedly at the distant object,
knowing how fickle is Fortune to sailormen in distress. But the hull
grew larger and hope shone on the faces of all. Men pulled frantically
at the oars, while others waved pieces of sail or clothing to attract
attention.
Now came a surprise. From the pocket of his duffel coat the first
officer produced what he had hitherto kept hidden for just such an
emergency--a Very's pistol, with its small-sized single red rocket. A
hoarse cry of joy went up from all in spite of their exhaustion when
they saw the rocket soar into the air and burst into a blood-red glow.
A short time later keen eyes made out the string of flags which
fluttered from the halyards of the oncoming warship, and although
minutes seemed like hours, none could quite remember what happened
after. Some say that the cruiser came alongside them and others that she
lowered her boats and steamed round in a circle. But forty-eight
survivors were landed in Liverpool three days later, leaving in the
wastes of the Western Ocean a murdered two hundred.
* * * * *
It is interesting to note that survivors from torpedoed ships frequently
showed great reluctance to leave their life-boats and go aboard the
rescuing vessel, especially when they were within easy sailing distance
of a harbour. After being torpedoed, rescued and torpedoed again they
often preferred the comparative safety but hardship of the small open
boat to the risk and luxury of the big ship. This applied more
especially to Scandinavian sailors, whose powers in small boats are well
known.
It should, however, be stated that, so far as British and American
seamen were concerned, men sailed again and again, after being torpedoed
or mined six, seven and even eight times. It was this remarkable
fortitude of the Mercantile Marine which saved Europe from starvation.