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WW1 Incidents in Homw Waters


World Naval Ships Naval Battles WW1 Incidents in Home Waters (I)

[UP] - Operation Pedestal - Battle of Jutland - Battle of Coronel - Battle of Tsushima - WW1 Incidents in Home Waters (I) - WW1 Incidents in Home Waters (II) - Royal Navy Destroyers at Heligoland - Siege of Tsingtau - 19th Century Battles
 

Sea fights of the Great War . Page 14, By W.L. Wyllie R.A. & M.F. Wren

Incidents In Home Waters

            It was in the middle of July 1914, and all the Fleets were ordered round to Spit head for the Great Review-a review to be forever famous in history.

           How grand it was to see the different squadrons in line ahead, each ship exactly in station, as they steamed to the appointed anchorage.  Two little flags fluttered to the Admiral’s masthead-“Anchor instantly”-and all hands watching intently.  The men forward were ready, each in his appointed place.  “Stream the buoys,” and over they went with a splash; a few moments passed, and then as the signal dropped tremendous cataracts of foam burst under the bow of each warship when the ponderous anchors clove their way downwards.  Church pennants broke out halfway up to the weather yardarms.  The chains thundered through the hawse-pipes with a roar, which could be heard miles away.  A man in each ship, standing forward, held up a little numeral flag.  One shackle gone!  Clunk!  Clunk!  Clunk!  He held up another little flag, two shackles gone!  Clunk!  Clunk!  Clunk!  With clouds of brown dust, three shackles gone!  Clunk!  Clunk!  Clunk!  Clunk!  More chain ran out, and in succession more little numeral flags were held up.  Then white foam flew out over the propellers, turning hercely astern.  Gradually the great super-Dreadnoughts lost their “way,” and at last the cables were bar taut.  At this moment each ship dropped a second anchor, breaking out another church pennant at the same time on the lee yardarm, and the capstans began to shorten-in the chains, which but now were so swiftly rushing out.  Lastly, when each monster was in its right position, mid-way between the two anchors, the mooring swivels were put on, the lower booms were swung out, and the cutters were dropped.  They raced away to the flagship for orders, the evolution completed.         

            Squadron after squadron appeared from over the horizon, and each in turn made running moor.  Spithead, which that morning seemed so empty and so vast, was now all bustle and ordered confusion.  Five long lines of battleships, cruisers, submarines and torpedo craft stretched way almost out of sight.  The picket-boats were rushing in all directions and excursion steamers crowded with sightseers began to make their way between the warships, heeling far over as the “hurrah parties” pressed to the sides.

            The liberty steamers next appeared on the scene.  If there was not enough room in the tenders, Jack had to be towed in cutters and launches by the picket-boats, and the rush of all the mortley craft churned up the water with short, choppy waves which rushed in all directions.  Paddle steamers which had come round specially from Devonport and Chatham, Dockyard tugs, and even old flat-iron gunboats, each picked up a freight from the warships, and soon the closely-packed liberty men were ferried to the gun wharf in an endless stream.  The white cap-covers of thousands of blue jackets reminded one somehow in their multitude of white daisies in spring.

            Evening fell.  A brown haze hung over the great fleet, every funnel sending up its thin wisp of smoke.  Lights began to glimmer between decks, then a rifle shot rang out from the flagship, and all the colours came down together whilst the bugles rang out the sunset call right along the lines. 

            Up against the twilight the masthead lights as last were clattering in Morse.  What a lot there was to say and how fast they talked!  The picket boats still hurried in and out, their steaming lights reflected in the churned up water, and the beat of their engines resounding far and near until late into the night.

            On the 18th, the day of the review, a new feature appeared.  A double line of mooring buoys ran from Blockhouse over Hamilton Bank and right out to Spithead.  During the forenoon great white seaplanes swooping from the sky dipped gracefully down, each picking up it little wooden tub just as though it were the easiest thing in the world.  Soon, every craft was riding head to wind and bobbing to the choppy waves.

           There was no Royal salute, and the ships carried only masthead flags, for the king was detained in London by affairs of State, and this rather damped what must otherwise have proved a most interesting day.  Each ship sent in her boats, many of them protected by canvas screens, and soon the guests, squeezed into cutters and launches, were towed out over the dancing waves.  Everyone in charge was wonderfully careful, but, after all, one must expect a little spray now and then.  Sisters, cousins, and aunts invaded gunroom, wardroom, and the captains and admirals cabins, and all the death-dealing weapons were explained and admired.  Few knew how soon they were to be used in earnest.  The seaplanes, new and untried engines of war, slipped their moorings and, rushing in a cloud of spray, gradually rose into the air with whirr and buzz, circling high above the masts of the battleships.  Great silver airships steadied themselves serenely in the blue.  Meanwhile a long procession of liners, yachts, tugs, and excursion boats steamed up and down the lines.  The cup-challenger, Shamrock, jury-rigged for crossing the Atlantic, was towed through, cheering every ship widely as she passed.  Then more tugs, more excursion boats, more yachts-some spick and span, others untidy and dirty.  There is nothing in the world quite so forlorn as the low-class yacht with its un-whipped ropes and crew of dirty pirates.  Always quite a number of these present themselves at every review.

            The day wore away, and it became time to say farewell to our kind hosts and go once more into the cutters and launches past the lines of battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and submarines to the solid shore, which seemed dull indeed after even the sheltered sea.

            On Sunday, the 20th, the King tore himself away from the troubles of State to pay a visit to the magnificent fleet brought together in his honour, beneath his ever unconquered flag.  Without any ceremony His majesty paid a friendly visit to a certain number of ships.  Cruising about among the lines with a crew of sea scouts in a steel lifeboat, nothing could appear to be more simple or unostentatious than the whole of the proceedings.  The only salute was fired from a big schooner, which had crossed the Atlantic in record time, manned by a crew of cod fisherman from Newfoundland, a compliment from the far-spread Empire.

            Next morning the Royal yacht again put to sea and steaming out beyond the Warner Light, anchored.  Then the battleships unmoored and steamed in what seemed an everlasting line past the King, all heading to the East.

           First the super-Dreadnoughts, “Dreadnoughts,” and the “Agamemnons”; then the great battle cruisers which were destined to play such an important part in the coming war.  The “King Edwards” and older squadrons followed next, and then the cruisers; they seemed without number as they passed, ready and armed, into the distance.    

            By this time the leading ships had sunk below the horizon, leaving only a great cloud of smoke, which slowly spread, into a haze, seeming to stretch into infinity.  High in the air seaplanes still buzzed above the murky smoke.  All of them, like the ships, flew past the Royal yacht, bound to the Eastward.  Ships, and yet more ships unmoored and steamed away.  Light cruisers, destroyers, and “ mothers” of submarines, floating workshops minelayers, every kind of craft, which flies the White Ensign, ever and ever, to be eastward.

            The hours passed and at last only a pall of brown vapour spread itself into space in long filmy strata, while the mastheads of the last of the great fleet melted into pale grey and dropped slowly below the sea line.  Some of them, alas, we shall never see again; some have crowned their names with imperishable glory.

            The political situation was now threatening (Austria had sent her ultimatum to Serbia on the 23rd).  Prince Louis of Battenberg, the first Sea Lord, issued orders late on the 26th for the fleet to stand fast until further orders.  The Dual Empire declared war on the 28th.  During the night of the 29th the First Fleet, with its attendant cruisers and flotillas, steamed away to its war stations in the North Sea.  Balance crews were filled up in the Second Fleet, patrol flotillas were brought up to their full strength, and all steps were taken to forestall the much-talked-of “bolt from the blue” on the part of Germany.  Prince Louis action must have been the determining factor in the situation, comparable only to the prompt steps taken by Lord Barham on receipt of Nelson’s news of the return of Villeneuve’s fleet from the West Indies in 1805.

            The Serajevo tragedy occurred on June 28th 1914.  The Austro-Hungarian ultimatum to Serbia was presented on July 23rd, and war was declared on the 28th.  After this events moved rapidly, and Germany, without waiting for Austria, declared war on Russia on August 1st.  War between Germany and France commenced on August 3rd, and England declared war the following day.  Every tie of honour bound England to this action.

            From the declaration of war onwards, there was great activity at sea.  The first duty the Fleet had to perform was to clear the adjacent seas in order to permit the sailing of the British Expeditionary Force to France.  The transporting of troops commenced on August 8th, only four days after the outbreak of hostilities, and continued until the 16th.  The whole task was completed so smoothly that the difficulties and dangers of the operation never became, and never will come, apparent.  No enemy warships ever came with striking distance of the transports, and not a single accident occurred from first to last.  But this was by no means all that the Fleet had to do.  Cruiser squadrons were out patrolling constantly, submarines watched the mouths of German rivers, and the torpedo flotillas were similarly engaged.  The Germans strewed mines broadcast all over the sea, so that trade routes had to be kept safe for merchantmen, which were directed to keep within swept areas.  So well was this work done that the average Briton hardly realised the Germans were doing their best, by means of submarines and mines, to make sea communication precarious, and that our fleet was meeting and overcoming every fresh menace as soon as it was discovered.

            Fighting commenced at sea before it began on land.  Konigin Luise, of the Hamburg-Amerika line, a passenger steamer of 2,163 tons, specially fitted, as a minelayer, and carrying a cargo of these deadly inventions, must have left her home waters before the expiry of the ultimatum.  On the evening of August 5th the destroyers Lance and Landrail sighted her on her return from laying mines off the English coast.  A chase at once began, and the German was brought to long-range action.  Half an hour later two more destroyers, Lark and Linnet, joined up, and subsequently the whole flotilla appeared and opened fire.

            By this time the flying minelayer had been badly damaged and her speed much reduced; her crew began jumping overboard, while their ship turned almost a complete circle to port, slowly listing over as she did so.  Finally going right on to her beam-ends she sank ignominiously.

            Out of a crew of one hundred about forty-five were picked up, some badly wounded.  Twenty of them were in Amphion when she struck one of the German mines on the following morning and sank.  Of these only two were saved.

            On the 9th one of the cruiser submarines at sea attacked squadrons attached to the main fleet, but they were driven off without loss.  One of the German submarines, U 15, a boat built about 1911, was rammed by Birmingham and sunk with all hands, a forerunner of many others.

            The following incident, written as far as possible in the words of the narrator, gives a good idea of the work done by minesweepers.

            On August 27th word was brought that a herring boat, drifting with her nets, had been set by the tide on to a German mine, and had been blown up.  Four torpedo boats steamed out, and, following the directions given them by the fishermen, at last came to the line of floats, which marked the nets of the wrecked herring drifter.

            The commander steered his boat, No. 13, along the net, and at the end where the tragedy had taken place, picked up the hawser and made it fast to his bow, for he thought the tide would be sure to carry him back over the spot where the Huns had laid their minefield.

            The net appeared to be full of herrings, and the crew, to pass the time, began to haul it up, shaking the bright fish out as they came over the side, just as though they wee in a drifter instead of a fighting ship.  Whilst the amateur fisherman were immersed in their sport, a sailing vessel was seen steering directly towards the spot where the minefield was supposed to be orders were at once given to cut away the net and slip the hawser, and No. 13 steamed at full speed towards the unsuspecting stranger to warn her of the danger.

             The torpedo boat spurted forward, raising her forefoot out of the sea and leaving a seething line of white foam behind her, rushing headlong on her errand of mercy, but she proved too late.  Before the word could be passed to the unfortunate ship she had driven on to a mine.  Then suddenly a tremendous column of spray entirely his the forepart of the vessel, rising up savagely in the sky.  Bits of spars, gear, and sail-indeed, an odd miscellany of articles-went flying into the air, and when No. 13 arrived on the scene of the explosion only the captain and two men were alive.  Goee, for that was the name of the ill-fated vessel-a Danish ship, had only left Newcastle that morning.  The rescued men were made as comfortable as possible, and the torpedo boats remained on the spot to warn unwary seafarers of the hidden danger close at hand.

            Whilst No. 13 was moving slowly through the glassy, transparent water one of her hands, who had been sitting on the after torpedo-tube, went to the side to spit-a sailor’s habit, handed down for generations.  He saw a round, black object some way below the surface-a thing like a very large, dark coloured jellyfish.  He rushed forward and reported it at once, with a certain amount of trepidation.  But soon the boat reached an area where there seemed quite a number of these deadly, black objects.  Looking down through the green water it was possible to make out their shape quite clearly, and even to see the projecting horns, ominous of their powers of death.  Indeed, at low water, the torpedo boat, driving sideways with the current, fouled one of them, and the sound, as the monstrous weapon of modern naval war went scraping and grinding under the ship’s bottom, gave a feeling to those on board as though oysters were creeping up their spines, cold and deadly in their clammy hold, with menace in their slow speed and audacious tenacity of evil purpose.

            Shortly afterwards a wireless message ran through to say that a fleet of minesweepers was under way.  Soon the whole of them arrived and began busily working in pairs and exploding the mines as they swept them up.  The torpedo boats stood away outside the minefield, still warning unsuspecting strangers of its position, and paid little attention to the noise of the detonations.  The crews heard afterwards that two of the minesweepers had been blown to atoms.  It was odd next morning to see the commander-in-chief of the sweepers (who had been flung right through the top of his little charthouse) quite gravely discussing how he would carry out his next sweep.  He seemed not a bit worse for the ducking and shock.  That is the sort of stuff the Navy is made of.  He was a “dug-out,” too, and had left the service some time, coming back to do his bit when the war broke out; a brave man always, now urged by a supreme crisis into showing his true mettle.

            On August 4th, three hours after the declaration of war, Lieut-Commander Cecil P. Talbort, in submarine E 6, and Lieut-Commander Francis H. H. Goodhard, in E 8, started off together to Heligoland Bight, where they collected much useful information at considerable risk to themselves.

            The British Expeditionary Force had to be transported across the Channel.  On August 8th the first troops were landed, and for eight days there was an unceasing flow of men, horses, guns, and stores, until the whole of our “contemptible” had been safely ferried to the aid of our Allies on the historic fields of Flanders and of France.  Commodore Keyes, who flew his broad pennant in Lurcher (a fast destroyer), was in command of the Eighth Submarine Flotilla, and during these eventful days he and his crews kept watch day and night, without relief, on the entrances to the German Rivers.  They were the sleepless guardians of our safety.  The little force was so placed that it could attack the High Sea Fleet the moment it issued forth to interfere with our transports in the channel, and though the German torpedo craft hunted them with gunfire, torpedoes, and every anti-submarine weapon, our seamen ceaselessly patrolled the enemy’s waters, bringing information of his every movement.  Day after day the watch went on, and at last a scheme was matured for luring the German fleets away from their bases and falling on them with Admiral Beatty’s battle cruisers.

             At midnight on August 27th Commodore Keyes started in Lurcher, with Firedrake, another destroyer, and submarines D 2, D8, E 5, E 6, E 7, E 8, and E 9, to take his part in the operations arranged for August 28th.

            Lurcher and Firedrake scouted all next day, and at nightfall the submarines took up independent positions, from which they could help the flotillas of destroyers, which were to join in the scheme under Commodore Tyrwhitt, who flew his broad pennant in the light cruiser Arethusa.  At day break on the 28th Lurcher and Firedrake searched for German submarines in the area through which Admiral Beatty’s battle cruisers were to advance, pushing towards Heligoland in the wake of submarines E 6, E 7, E 8, which were exposing themselves with the object of inducing the enemy to chase them to the westward.  The weather, which had been clear up to now, began to grow hazy, “and this added considerably to the anxieties and responsibilities of the commanding officers of submarines, which handled their vessels with coolness and judgement in an area which was necessarily occupied by friends as well as foes.”

            Let us now follow Commodore Tyrwhitt.

            “At 6.53 an enemy destroyer was sighted and chased until ‘Arethusa and the Third Flotilla became engaged with numerous German destroyers and torpedo boats which were making for Heligoland.  Course was altered to port to cut them off.”

            At 7.57 two German cruisers were sighted on the port bow, with several destroyers, and a hot action commenced.  Arethusa was in the thick of it until 8.15, when one of the enemies, a four-funnel cruiser, transferred her fire to Fearless.  In the meantime another enemy, with two funnels, worked her way closer until a 6-inch shell from Arethusa wrecked her fore bridge and she turned away towards Heligoland, which was just beginning to loon up through the haze.  All ships were now ordered to turn to the westward, and speed was reduced to twenty knots.

            My first picture represents the Fourth Division of the Third Flotilla, which, steaming in the mist suddenly became aware that the German cruiser Mainz was lying right across their path.  The enemy opened a very hot fire, and as the range was only a little over 3,000 yards the little craft soon found themselves in the midst of flying shells.  They altered course ten points to port, returning the German fire with interest, but receiving many wounds themselves, for the Mainz gunners got the range at once and took full advantage of it.

            Laurel steamed away, a mass of smoke, her foremost funnel shattered, and the amidships gun platform knocked to pieces.  The gun itself remained mounted, but was a poor and solitary-looking object.  Liberty’s commander was killed, her bridge damaged, and her mast shot away.  Laertes, which stopped and fired a torpedo, was put out of action, her port boat being shattered and a hole knocked in her second funnel.  The torpedo, however, hit Mainz, which soon began to show signs of the mauling she was receiving. 

            In another part of the battle the destroyers of the Third and Fifth Divisions were engaged with German torpedo boats, sinking the commodore, V 187.  Defender, one of our destroyers, hoisted out two of her boats, which were rowing to rescue the survivors; but whilst they were engaged in their work of mercy a German cruiser steamed out of the mist, firing on our flotilla.  They hastily retreated, leaving the boats to shift for themselves.

            Now a wonderful thing happened which, if we had read of it in some boy’s book of adventure, we might have dismissed as too highly coloured and improbable.

            Lieut-Commander Ernest W. Leir, in submarine E 4, had seen the sinking of the German commodore through his periscope and had also spotted the rescue party left behind when the German cruiser drove off the destroyers.  He tried to get near enough to use his torpedoes, but the enemy, unfortunately, moved out of range, so he worked his way to the abandoned boats crews and, rising to the surface, took on board a lieutenant and nine Englishmen, and of the Germans one officer, a petty officer and one man untouched by the action.  The commander had not enough accommodation for eighteen wounded men who were still left in the boats, so one of the captured officers and six of the efficient Germans were given water, biscuits, and a compass, and told to navigate their way to Helogoland.

            Neither of the boats crews reached that island, though it was only a few miles away, and the weather remained fine.  Possibly one of the German warships sighted them, and on finding the craft of English build, reckoned that the wounded were survivors from one of our ships, and rammed them or sunk them by gunfire in the gentle, German, chivalrous fashion.

           During the early part of the action Arethusa had been hit many times and considerably damaged.  Only one 6-inch gun remained fit for action, all the other guns, and also the torpedo tubes, having been temporarily disabled.  A shell exploding some ammunition caused a fire, and there was a terrific blaze for a short time, leaving the deck burning.  Chief Petty Officer Frederick W. Wrench extinguished this.

            It was now noticed that Arethusa’a speed had been much reduced.  She and her destroyers had been in action with Koln and another cruiser with four funnels perhaps Strassburg.  There can be no doubt that the situation of the British might have become critical at any moment.  

            At 10 a.m. Commodore Tyrwhitt heard by signal that light cruisers were chasing Lurcher and Firedrake, so he, with Fearless and the First Flotilla, went to their assistance.  He failed to find them.  A little later he sighted a German four-funnelled cruiser, which opened a very heavy fire.  He says: “All guns, except two 4-inch, were again in working order, and the upper deck supply of ammunition was replenished.

            “Our position being somewhat critical I ordered Fearless to attack, and the First Flotilla to attack with torpedoes, which they proceeded to do with Great Spirit.  The cruiser at once turned away, disappeared in the haze, and evaded the attack.

            “About ten minutes later the same cruiser appeared on our starboard quarter.  Opened fire on her with both 6-inch guns; Fearless also engaged her, and one division of destroyers attacked her with torpedoes without success.  The state of affairs and our position were then reported to the Admiral commanding Battle-cruiser Squadron.”

            The German cruiser fired very rapidly at ‘Arethusa, salvo after salvo falling between ten and thirty yards short, so that not a single shell struck, and two well-directed torpedoes also failed to reach the ship.  The 6-inch guns of Arethusa, and the splendidly directed fire from Fearless, soon began to take effect on the four-funnelled cruiser, and she once more turned away towards Heligoland.

            Four minutes later Mains appeared, and Arethusa and Fearless, with their destroyers, were for twenty-five minutes in action with this new enemy, which had already suffered heavy losses in her fight with the Fourth Division.  She began to sink by the head, and as the Light Cruiser Squadron now came up and fired into her also, the commodore recalled Fearless and the destroyers.  Just after he had ordered, “cease fire” yet another ship was seen on the starboard quarter-a large, four-funnelled cruiser.  Broadsides were exchanged with the new corner, but the range was long and the firing was without visible effect.  At this moment Admiral Beatty, with his big battle cruisers, came rushing up, and the 13.5 guns soon sent the large German to the Bottom.

            Let us now return to Mainz, which had been pounded by the light cruisers into a total wreck; volumes of black smoke and flame were belching from below, and a red-hot glow radiated from her torn plating.  She was down by the head, and it was evident that she would only float a very short time when Keyes ordered the commander of Lurcher to lay his vessel alongside her.  The dead and wounded were lying in ghastly heaps, but as he neared the wreck he saw a sailor climbing the foremast to reeve fresh halyards for the ensign, which had been shot away.  Some German officers trained a gun at Lurcher’s bridge.  “Don’t fire, I am coming to save life,” exclaimed the commodore, and as the craft came together the crews passed the maimed and torn victims over the side as rapidly as possible.

            Von Tirpitz, an officer on board, took no part, but stood on the bridge with a scornful smile.  Another young German officer was, on the contrary, very active in aiding the helpless cases.  At last all the survivors on board Mainz, with the exception of Tirpitz, the young officer and the man aloft, were safe on board Lurcher.

            “Come along,” said the commodore to the young officer, “you’ve done your share.”

           “No, thank you,” was the answer. Meanwhile Firedrake had picked up 27 of the crew of Mainz, who had apparently jumped overboard to avoid our cruisers fire.

            By this time Mains was very low in the water, and steam as well as smoke and fire came pouring out through the shell holes.  The captain of Liverpool had signalled that the ship might blow up at any moment, and the cutter and whaler, lowered by that ship, stood off waiting.  Prior to the arrival of Lurcher, they had each taken a boatload of wounded from Mainz to Liverpool and were responsible for saving more than 70 Germans.

            The commodore gave the order to cast off, the engines were turned astern not a moment too soon.  Just as Lurcher backed away the German heeled over to port and sank, leaving a cloud of dirty brown smoke and steam.  As she went all the unwounded Huns, who had been ordered to sit down on the forecastle of the destroyer, sprang to their feet and gave three cheers; “Hoch!”  “Hoch!”  “Hoch!”

            Readers will be glad to know that the young German officer, whose devotion to duty made him stick to his ship as long as she floated, was afterwards picked up, together with Tirpitz, by Liverpool’s boats.

            As a record of the above narrative the picture facing this page shows the situation of the Fourth Division of the Third Flotilla.  Lapwing has now come to the assistance of the seriously damaged Laertes; she has passed a wire hawser on board and is trying to tow her consort out of danger.  As ill-luck will have it the hawser parts, but just at this moment Admiral Beatty, in Lion, with the rest of his battle cruisers, comes rushing up out of the mist, firing salvos from 13.5-inch guns at the distant enemy.

            The crew of Lapwing are cheering, for they know that the whole position is now changed, the weight of metal is at last on our side, and victory safe.  Mainz is in flames fore and aft, only a funnel and a mast are still standing; very much down the head, she will soon turn on her side and sink.  Lysander is lying in the line of fire, and beyond her the splashes show that the gunners are slowly getting the range.  Fearless is coming up at full speed from the south and will tow the lane into safety.

            Admiral Beatty, in his dispatches, tells how he passed through the prearranged rendezvous, receiving signals from both commodores at intervals indicating that they were in need of assistance.

            In the meantime three submarines attacked the Battle cruiser squadron.  Destroyers were ordered to drive them off, and the big ships rapidly manoeuvring frustrated the attempts of the U boats.

            The light cruisers were sent to support the torpedo flotillas, and later, as Commodore Tyrwhitt appeared to be hard pressed, and the reports indicated the presence of many enemy ships-one a large cruiser-the situation appeared to Sir David to be critical.  He turned his battle cruisers to E.S.E. and worked up to full speed.

      

            “It was evident that to be of any value the support must be overwhelming and carried out at the highest speed possible.

            “I had not lost sight of the risk of submarines and possible sortie in force from the enemy’s base, especially in view of the mist to the south-east.

            “Our high speed, however, made submarine attack difficult, and the smoothness of the sea made their detection comparatively easy.  I considered that we were powerful enough to deal with any sortie except by a battle squadron, which was unlikely to come out in time, provided our stroke was sufficiently rapid.

            “At 12.15 p.m. Fearless and First Flotilla were sighted retiring west.  At the same time the Light Cruiser Squadron was observed to be engaging an enemy ship ahead.  They appeared to have her beat.

            “I then steered N.E. to sounds of firing ahead, and at 12.30 sighted Arethusa and Third Flotilla retiring to the westward, engaging a cruiser of the ‘Kolberg’ class on our port below.  I steered to cut her off from Heligoland, and at 12.37 p.m. opened fire.

            “At 12.42 the enemy turned to N. E., and we chased at 27 knots.

            “ At 12.56 p.m. sighted and engaged a two-funnelled cruiser ahead.  Lion fired two salvoes at her, which took effect, and she disappeared in the mist, burning furiously and in a sinking condition.  In view of the mist and that she was steering at high speed at right angles to Lion, who was herself steaming at 28 knots, Lion’s firing was very creditable. 

            “Our destroyers had reported the presence of floating mines to the eastward, and in considered it inadvisable to pursue her.  It was also essential that the squadron should remain concentrated, and I accordingly ordered a withdrawal.

            “ The battle cruisers turned north and circled to port to complete the description of the vessel first engaged.  She was sighted again at 1.25 p.m. steaming S.E. with colours still flying.  Lion opened fire with turrets, and at 1.35 p.m., after receiving two salvoes, she sank.

           “The four attached destroyers were sent to pick up survivors, but I deeply regret that they subsequently reported that they searched the area but found none. 

           “At 1.40 p.m. the battle cruisers turned to the northward, and Queen Mary was again attacked by a submarine.  The attack was avoided by the use of the helm.  Lowestoft was also unsuccessfully attacked

            “By 6 p.m. the retirement having been well executed and all the destroyers accounted for, I altered course, spread the light cruisers, and swept northwards in accordance with the Commander-in-Chief’s orders.

           “At 7.45 p.m. I detached Liverpool to rosyth with German prisoners, 7 officers and 79 men, survivors from Mainz.  No further incident occurred.

           “I have the honour to be, Sir,

           “Your obedient Servant,

                                                                              “David Beatty, Vice-Admiral”

 

            Evening has come and the battle is at an end.  The surviving German ships have steamed back to the shelter of their batteries and minefields.  Two new cruisers, Mainz and Koln, and one rather older, Ariadne, are gone.  A four-funnelled cruiser, Strassburg or Yorck, is badly damaged, and one sent to the bottom.  The Germans are believed to have lost about 700 men killed, 300 more being taken prisoners.  In the place facing this page we may see some of them being transferred in boats to Fearless.  Our own killed and wounded are also being transhipped from the different destroyers in cutters and whalers.  Our casualties numbered thirty-two killed and fifty-two wounded.  Not one of our ships was lost.

            The operation has been thus described by Rear-Admiral Christian (in command of Light Cruisers):

 

            “The cruiser force under Rear-Admiral Campbell, with Euryalus (my flagship) and Amethyst, was stationed to intercept any enemy vessels chased to the westward.  At 4.30 p.m. on the 28th August these cruisers, having proceeded to the eastward, fell in with Lurcher and three other destroyers, and the wounded and prisoners in these vessels were transferred in boats to Bacchante and Cressy, which left for the Nore.”

 

            Both before and after the battle of the bight the North Sea and all home waters were constantly under the guard of our fleets.  Ships were continually at sea, and a stay of more than twenty-four hours in port was nearly always remarked on as an unusual occurrence; their duty was patrolling ceaselessly, tirelessly-they were the watchdogs of the deep.

            The doings of a cruiser can be cited as a sample of the strain imposed upon our Navy.  It is so easy to overlook the continuous work and irksome monotony of routine month after month if only exciting incidents and fights can be recorded.  Work without an action is, therefore, purposely selected to illustrate how the command of the sea is kept for the 300 or more days in the year on which there is no fighting.  On August 31st some of our cruisers returned to their port at 10 p.m. from a patrol cruise to the Norwegian coast.  It is of interest to note that it was believed at the time that this was carried out to cover the transport of Russian troops to England from the White Sea.  Hundreds of mischievous or credulous people testified to having seen these troops in transit.  This of course, was subsequently contradicted. 

            Coaling commenced at 11.30 a.m. and was finished at 5 a.m. the next day.  A ship with ammunition and stores came alongside at 8 a.m., and these were transhipped by noon.  The hands had only had four hours sleep in the preceding thirty-six hours.  Leave was given to chief petty officers and petty officers from 1 to 7 p.m.

             And so the work went on, constant patrolling relieved by a few strenuous days in port spent, for the most part, rendering the ship once more ready for the sea.  When in port the men were taken route marching.  At sea they were exercised daily doubling round the decks.  Naval incidents occurred from time to time; but, for the most part, ships went for months without being able to meet or sight an enemy at all.

            In home waters on September 5th Pathfinder (“Scout” class) was torpedoed.  On the 13th British submarine E 9 sank Hela, a small German cruiser off the German coast.

            On the 22nd Cressy, Aboukir, and Hogue were torpedoed and sunk.  This last incident merits some description.

            The ships formed three out of a class of six cruisers laid down in 1898.  The carried two 9.2-inch and twelve guns.  They were designed for twenty-one knots, but being rather old none of them could then attain that speed.  Shortly after 6 a.m. while patrolling in the North Sea, a torpedo from a submarine on the starboard beam struck Aboukir.  All ships of course, ran the risk of such an accident whenever they entered the war area in the North.  Han her consorts left her, and avoided attack by use of speed and helm, probably nothing further would have happened.  But naval traditions are not lightly thrown aside, and no tradition is stronger in the British Navy than that of saving life at sea whenever possible, be it the life of friend or enemy.  Her two sisters ships, therefore, turned and went to Aboukir’s assistance.  Two boats were lowered by Hogue, but before the launch could be hoisted out Hogue herself was struck amidships by two torpedoes at from ten to twenty seconds interval, and mortally wounded, she at once began to heel to starboard.  Apparently, at about this time, the three cruisers and their submarine enemy were at the corners of a four-sided figure.  The submarine could, therefore, aim at each of them by merely swinging in a rough semicircle, without any further manoeuvring.  Fire was opened on her, but without result.

            The boats of Cressy had got away even before those Hogue, and they were returning full of Aboukir’s men when Hogue was struck.  Cressy was, therefore, manoeuvred to go nearer to the sinking ship, and was herself torpedoed on the starboard side, just in front of the after bridge, from a range of five or six hundred yards.  A second torpedo was fired at her and missed, but a third hit her again on the starboard beam.  All three ships turned turtle before they sank.  Aboukir and Hogue floated bottom up for about five minutes; Cressy turned over slowly, and it was about three quarters of an hour before she finally sank-the last victim to bravery and tradition.  

            Needless to say that all hands behaved in an exemplary manner, quickly carrying out orders given.  Anything that could float was thrown overboard and, consequently, the submarine’s periscope was all the harder to observe.  It was believed at the time that two submarines had been acting together for the occasion, but the German Admiralty, who announced that one U boat only, commanded by Lieut, denied this. Otto Weddigen, was engaged.  Weddigen, the best German submarine commander in the early part of the war, was awarded the order of Merit for his feat, and he had certainly occasioned heavy loss of life and won a strategic victory.

            Later in the war, when Weddigen was sunk with his vessel, the German newspapers invented a tale that he had been sunk by a merchant ship which he approached on the surface to summon to surrender, instead of sinking her at sight in accordance with the usual German sense of duty.  This was only their method of using all their venom to blacken the English.  As a matter of fact, Weddington-fine sailor that he was-took his ship into the midst of a battle squadron and was sunk, luckily before he could do any damage.

             On October 8, E 9 again scored by sinking the German destroyer S 126, which was built in 1904.  On the 15th Hawke was sunk in the North Sea by a German submarine; and later Undaunted, a light cruiser, with four destroyers of the “L” class-Lennox, Lance, Legion, and Loyal-steaming north about twenty miles off the Texel, sighted on their port bow four German torpedo boats.

             The enemy were spread out wide apart, and were also on a northerly course.  I will call them A, B, C, and D.

             Lennox and Lance, which were leading, gave chase to the most easterly D and Loyal, passing under Undaunted’s stern, steamed to the nor’-west to cut off A, whilst Legion held a middle course so as to engage B and C.

             After they had been steaming away at full speed for some time it became plain to the Germans that they had no chance of escape, and as their guns were much inferior to those of the British they determined to come to close quarters and use their torpedoes.  A, the most westerly of the torpedo boats, boldly turned and came at Loyal, but the fight was too unequal and she was silenced in a very short time.  B and C also turned and engaged Legion, but Loyal having wiped out her first adversary came up to assist and was soon in hot action.  The Germans fired torpedoes and machine guns, but were no match for the British destroyers helped by Undaunted, which kept up a long-range fire at all the enemy in turn.  Lance, having left D for Lennox to finish, came back at full speed and assisted Loyal to sink C.

            The enemy fought in a most plucky and gallant manner against tremendous odds.  The plate facing this page shows the survivors being picked up after all the torpedo boats had been sunk.

             The German destroyers S 115, S 117, S 118, and S 119 were completed in 1904.  They had a speed of twenty-eight knots.  Undaunted is one of the new light cruisers; our destroyers were all recent boats.  Our loss was one officer and four men wounded; thirty-one German prisoners were taken

            On October 18, for the first time, British warships co-operated in the bombardment of the Belgian coast.  On the 25th Badger sank a German submarine.  On the 31st a German submarine in the Straits of Dover sank Hermes.

            Prince Louis of Battenberg resigned his position as First Sea Lord at the end of the month, and was succeeded by Lord Fisher.  This catalogue completes the list of naval incidents in home waters down to the end of October 1916.
 

Everything we obtain for this site is shown on the site, we do not have any more photos, crew lists or further information on any of the ships.

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