The Project Gutenberg eBook, Q-Ships and Their Story, by E. Keble (Edward Keble) Chatterton

Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY

BOOKS ON THE SEA BY
E. KEBLE CHATTERTON

HISTORICAL

SAILING SHIPS AND THEIR STORY

SHIPS AND WAYS OF OTHER DAYS

FORE AND AFT: THE STORY OF THE FORE AND AFT RIG

STEAMSHIPS AND THEIR STORY

THE ROMANCE OF THE SHIP

THE STORY OF THE BRITISH NAVY

KING’s CUTTERS AND SMUGGLERS

THE ROMANCE OF PIRACY

THE OLD EAST INDIAMEN

CRUISES

DOWN CHANNEL IN THE “VIVETTE”

THROUGH HOLLAND IN THE “VIVETTE”

Q-sailing ship “Mitchell”
This was one of the most famous of all the Q-ships and rendered splendid service. The dummy deck-house on the poop concealed the after gun (see [p. 67]).

Frontispiece.

Q-SHIPS AND THEIR
STORY

BY
E. KEBLE CHATTERTON
AUTHOR OF “SAILING SHIPS AND THEIR STORY,”
LATE LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER R.N.V.R.

LONDON
SIDGWICK AND JACKSON, LTD.
3, ADAM STREET, ADELPHI, W.C.
1922

TO
ADMIRAL SIR LEWIS BAYLY,
C.V.O., K.C.B., K.C.M.G.,

COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE IRISH COAST DURING THE STRENUOUS YEARS OF THE SUBMARINE CAMPAIGN, WHO BY HIS ENCOURAGEMENT AND DEVELOPMENT OF THE Q-SHIP SERVICE DID SO MUCH TO THWART THE OPERATIONS OF THE ENEMY AND TO PROTECT OUR MERCANTILE MARINE

PREFACE

The wonderful and brave story of ships and men here presented needs but the briefest introduction. The deeds will forever remain one of the most glorious chapters in the chronicles of the sea. No excuse is offered for adding another volume to the literature of the war, for the subject is deserving of greater attention than has hitherto been possible. Lord Jellicoe once remarked that he did not think English people realized the wonderful work which these mystery ships had done in the war, and that in these vessels there had been displayed a spirit of endurance, discipline, and courage the like of which the world had never before seen.

To few naval historians, I believe, has it ever been permitted to enjoy such complete opportunities for acquiring authentic information as is here presented. Unquestionably the greatest sphere of Q-ship operations was off the south-west coast of Ireland, owing to the fact that the enemy submarines from the summer of 1915 to 1918 concentrated their attacks, with certain intervals, on the shipping in the western approaches to the British Isles. It was my good fortune during most of this period to be at sea patrolling off that part of Ireland. These Q-ships were therefore familiar in their various disguises at sea or in harbour at Berehaven and Queenstown during their well-earned rest. Throughout this time I kept a diary, and noted down much that would otherwise have been forgotten. Many of the Q-ship officers were my personal friends, and I have enjoyed the hospitality of their ships. Valuable data, too, were obtained from officers of merchant ships who witnessed Q-ships engaging submarines.

A considerable number of authentic manuscripts has been examined. By the courtesy of commanding officers I have been lent documents of priceless historical value, such as copies of official reports and private diaries, plans, sketches, photographs, and so on. All this information has been further augmented by personal conversation, correspondence, and valuable criticism. I submit, therefore, that with all these sources of information available, and with knowledge of much that has been published from the German side, it is possible to offer a monograph that is at once accurate in detail and correct in perspective.

‘With respect to single-ship actions,’ wrote James in his monumental Naval History a hundred years ago, ‘the official documents of them are also very imperfect. The letters are generally written an hour or so after the termination of the contest, and, of course, before the captain has well recovered from the fatigue and flurry it occasioned. Many captains are far more expert at the sword than at the pen, and would sooner fight an action than write the particulars of one.’ That statement is true to-day of the Q-ships, and it would have been negligent not to have availed oneself now of the calm and considered version of the chief actors in the great mystery-ship drama while they are still alive. Although the time for secrecy has long since passed, nothing has here been included of a confidential nature that can be of assistance to enemies past or potential. In one instance, for political reasons and in the interests of the service, I have made a certain omission. Those concerned will recognize this and understand: the rest will not notice it.

Among those who have rendered me the greatest assistance in regard to information, advice, criticism, the loan of manuscripts, illustrations, and in other ways, I desire especially to return thanks to Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, C.V.O., K.C.B., K.C.M.G., and Miss Voysey, C.B.E.; to Captain F. H. Grenfell, D.S.O., R.N., Captain Gordon Campbell, V.C., D.S.O., R.N., Captain W. C. O’G. Cochrane, R.N., Commander Godfrey Herbert, D.S.O., R.N., Commander Stopford C. Douglas, R.N., and to Lieutenant G. H. P. Muhlhauser, R.N.R.

E. KEBLE CHATTERTON.

March, 1922.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

DIAGRAMS, ETC., IN THE TEXT.

‘The necessitie of a Historie is, as of a Sworne Witnesse, to say the truth (in just discretion) and nothing but the truth.’

Samuel Purchas in ‘Purchas His Pilgrimes,’ 1625.

Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY

CHAPTER I
THE HOUR AND THE NEED

All warfare is merely a contest. In any struggle you see the clashing of will and will, of force against force, of brain against brain. For the impersonal reader it is this contest which has a never-ending interest. A neutral is just as keenly entertained as the playgoer who sits watching the swaying fortunes of the hero in the struggle of the drama. No human being endowed with sympathetic interest, who himself has had to contend with difficulties, fails to be moved by the success or disaster of the contestants in a struggle of which the spectator has no part or lot. If this were not so, neutral newspapers would cease to chronicle the wars of other nations, novels would cease to be published, and plays to be produced.

Human nature, then, being what it is, man loves to watch his fellow-man fighting, struggling against men or fate or circumstances. The harder the fight and the nearer he is to losing, so much the more is the spectator thrilled. This instinct is developed most clearly in youth: hence juvenile fiction is one mass of struggles, adventures, and narrow escapes. But the instinct never dies, and how few of us can resist the temptation to read the exciting experiences of some entirely fictional character who rushes from one perilous situation to another? Is there a human being who, going along the street, would not stop to watch a burglar being chased over roofs and chimney-pots by police? If you have once become interested in a certain trial at the law courts, are you not eager to know whether the prisoner has been acquitted or convicted? You despise him for his character, yet you are fascinated by his adventures, his struggles, his share in the particular drama, his fight against heavy odds; and, contrary to your own inherent sense of justice, you almost hope he will be acquitted. In a word, then, we delight in having before us the adventures of our fellow humanity, partly for the exciting pleasure which these arouse in us, but partly also because they make us wonder what we should have done in a similar set of circumstances. In such vital, critical moments should we have played the hero, or should we have fallen somehow a little short?

The following pages are an attempt to place before the reader a series of sea struggles which are unique, in that they had no precedent in naval history. If you consider all the major and minor sea fights from the earliest times to the present day; if you think of fleet actions, and single-ship contests, you cannot surpass the golden story of the Q-ships. As long as people take any interest in the untamed sea, so will these exploits live, not rivalling but surpassing the greatest deeds of even the Elizabethan seamen. During the late war their exploits were, for very necessary reasons, withheld from the knowledge of the public. The need for secrecy has long since passed, and it is high time that a complete account of these so-called ‘mystery ships’ should be published, not merely for the perpetuation of their wonderful achievements, but for the inspiration of the new race of seamen whose duty it will be to hand on the great tradition of the sea. For, be it remembered, the Q-ship service was representative of every species of seamen. There were officers and men of the Royal Navy both active and retired, of the Royal Naval Reserve, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and men from the Royal Fleet Reserve. From warship, barracks, office, colony, pleasure yacht, fishing vessel, liner, sailing ship, tramp steamer, and elsewhere these seafarers went forth in unarmoured, slow-moving, lightly-armed vessels to perform the desperate adventure of acting as live-bait for a merciless enemy. It was an exploit calling for supreme bravery, combined with great fighting skill, sound seamanship, and a highly developed imagination. The successes which were attained were brought about by just this combination, so that the officers, especially the commanding officers, and the men had to be hand-picked. The slow-reasoning, hesitating type of being was useless in a Q-ship; equally out of place would have been the wild, hare-brained, dashing individual whose excess of gallantry would simply mean the loss of ship and lives. In the ideal Q-ship captain was found something of the virtues of the cleverest angler, the most patient stalker, the most enterprising big-game hunter, together with the attributes of a cool, unperturbed seaman, the imagination of a sensational novelist, and the plain horse-sense of a hard business man. In two words, the necessary endowment was brains and bravery. It was easy enough to find at least one of these in hundreds of officers, but it was difficult to find among the many volunteers a plucky fighter with a brilliant intellect. It is, of course, one of the happy results of sea training that officer or man learns to think and act quickly without doing foolish things. The handling of a ship in bad weather, or in crowded channels, or a strong tideway, or in going alongside a quay or other ship—all this practice makes a sailor of the man, makes him do the one and only right thing at the right second. But it needed ‘something plus’ in the Q-ship service. For six months, for a year, she might have wandered up and down the Atlantic, all over the submarine zone, with never a sight of the enemy, and then, all of a sudden, a torpedo is seen rushing straight for the ship. The look-out man has reported it, and the officer of the watch has caused the man at the wheel to port his helm just in time to allow the torpedo to pass harmlessly under the ship’s counter. It was the never-ceasing vigilance and the cool appreciation of the situation which had saved the ship.

But the incident is only beginning. The next stage is to lure the enemy on, to entice him, using your own ship as the bait. It may be one hour or one day later, perhaps at dusk, or when the moon gets up, or at dawn, but it is very probable that the submarine will invisibly follow you and attack at the most awkward time. The hours of suspense are trying; watch has succeeded watch, yet nothing happens. The weather changes from good to bad; it comes on thick, it clears up again, and the clouds cease to obliterate the sun. Then, apparently from nowhere, shells come whizzing by, and begin to hit. At last in the distance you see the low-lying enemy engaging you with both his guns, firing rapidly, and keeping discreetly out of your own guns’ range. Already some of your men have been knocked out; the ship has a couple of bad holes below the water-line, and the sea is pouring through. To add to the anxiety a fire is reported in the forecastle, and the next shell has made rather a mess of the funnel. What are you going to do? Are you going to keep on the bluff of pretending you are an innocent merchantman, or are you going to run up the White Ensign, let down the bulwarks, and fire your guns the moment the enemy comes within range and bearing? How much longer is it possible to play with him in the hope that he will be fooled into doing just what you would like him to do? If your ship is sinking, will she keep afloat just long enough to enable you to give the knock-out blow as the inquiring enemy comes alongside? These are the crucial questions which have to be answered by that one man in command of the ship, who all the time finds his bridge being steadily smashed to pieces by the enemy’s fire.

‘If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting …’

then, one may definitely assert, you have in you much that goes to the making of an ideal Q-ship captain and a brave warrior. As such you might make a first-class commanding officer of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship; but something more is required. The enemy is artful; you must be super-artful. You must be able to look across the tumbling sea into his mind behind the conning tower. What are his intentions? What will be his next move? Take in by a quick mental calculation the conditions of wind, wave, and sun. Pretend to run away from him, so that you get these just right. Put your ship head on to sea, so that the enemy with his sparse freeboard is being badly washed down and his guns’ crews are thinking more of their wet feet and legs than of accurate shooting. Then, when you see him submerging, alter course quickly, reckon his probable position by the time you have steadied your ship on her course, and drop a series of depth-charges over his track. ‘If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance, run’; if you have acted with true seamanship and sound imagination, you will presently see bits of broken wreckage, the boil of water, quantities of oil, perhaps a couple of corpses; and yours is the U-boat below, my son, and a D.S.O.; and a thousand pounds in cash to be divided amongst the crew; and you’re a man, my son!

That, in a few phrases, is the kind of work, and shows the circumstances of the Q-ship in her busiest period. As we set forth her wonderful story, so gallant, so sad, so victorious, and yet so nerve-trying, we shall see all manner of types engaged in this great adventure; but we cannot appreciate either the successes or losses until we have seen the birth and growth of the Q-ship idea. As this volume is the first effort to present the subject historically, we shall begin at the beginning by showing the causes which created the Q-ship. We shall see the consecutive stages of development and improvement, the evolution of new methods, and, indeed we may at once say it, of a new type of super-seamen. How did it all begin?

An Early Q-ship
Q-ship “Antwerp” entering Harwich harbour.

Q-ship “Antwerp”
Commander Herbert is on the port side of the bridge, the Mercantile Chief Officer and Quartermaster being in the foreground.

To face p. 6

Turn your attention back to the autumn of 1914. It was the sinking of the three Cressys on September 22 by U 9 that taught Germany what a wonderful weapon of offence she had in the submarine. Five days later the first German submarine penetrated the Dover Straits. This was U 18, who actually attacked the light cruiser Attentive. But it was not until October 20 that the first merchant ship, the British S.S. Glitra in the North Sea, was sunk by a submarine. Six days later the French S.S. Amiral Ganteaume, with Belgian refugees, was attacked by a German submarine. A month passed, and on November 23 the S.S. Malachite was attacked by U 21, and after being on fire sank. Three days later the S.S. Primo was sunk also by U 21. It was thus perfectly clear that we had before us a most difficult submarine campaign to contend with, and that merchant ships would not be immune. On the last day of October H.M.S. Hermes was torpedoed off Calais, and on November 11 H.M.S. Niger had a similar fate near Deal.

Commander S. C. Douglas, R. N.
When serving in the Q-ship “Antwerp,” wearing a false moustache and disguised as an English commercial traveller.

Commander G. Herbert, D.S.O., R.N.
Taken on the bridge of the Q-ship “Antwerp,” disguised as a Dutch pilot with a wig.

To face p. 8

What was to be done? The creation of what eventually became known as the Auxiliary Patrol, with its ever increasing force of armed yachts, trawlers, drifters, and motor craft; the use of destroyers and our own submarines formed part of the scheme. But even at this early stage the Q-ship idea came into being, though not actually under that name. Officially she was a special-service ship, whose goings and comings were so mysterious that even among service men such craft were spoken of in great secrecy as mystery ships. This first mystery ship was the S.S. Vittoria, who was commissioned on November 29, 1914. She had all the appearance of an ordinary merchant ship, but she was armed, and went on patrol in the area where submarines had been reported. It was an entirely novel idea, and very few people knew anything about her. She never had any luck, and was paid off early in January, 1915, without ever having so much as sighted a submarine. The idea of decoy ships suggested itself to various naval officers during December, 1914, and their suggestions reached the Admiralty. The basic plan was for the Admiralty to take up a number of merchantmen and fishing craft, arm them with a few light quick-firing guns, and then send them forth to cruise in likely submarine areas, flying neutral colours. This was perfectly legitimate under International Law, provided that before opening fire on the enemy the neutral colours were lowered and the White Ensign was hoisted. Seeing that the enemy was determined to sink merchantmen, the obvious reply was to send against them armed merchantmen, properly commissioned and armed, but outwardly resembling anything but a warship. Thus it came about that on January 27, 1915, the second decoy ship was commissioned. This was the Great Eastern Railway S.S. Antwerp (originally called Vienna), which operated in the English Channel. She was placed under the command of Lieut.-Commander Godfrey Herbert, R.N., one of the most experienced and able officers of our submarine service. The choice was a happy one, for a submarine officer would naturally in his stalking be able to realize at once the limitations and possibilities of his opponent. It was a most difficult task, for the U-boats at this time were still very shy, and only took on certainties. Neither in boats nor in personnel had Germany yet any to spare, and there were periods when the submarine campaign fluctuated. Thus, day after day, week after week, went by, and Antwerp never had any chance. The enemy was now beginning to operate further afield, and at the end of January, 1915, for the first time, a U-boat made its way up the Irish Sea as far as off Liverpool, and then, on February 18, was inaugurated the German Submarine Blockade. Shipping began to be sunk in various places, but the western end of the English Channel was now a favourite zone, especially in the neighbourhood of the Scillies; and it was with the hope of being taken for a merchant ship that Antwerp had come out from Falmouth and made her way westward. Thus, on March 12, we see her, about three o’clock in the afternoon, twelve miles north of the Bishop Rock Lighthouse. A submarine[1] was sighted steering in a northerly direction for a steamer on the horizon. Here, at length, was a chance. Twenty minutes later, Antwerp came up to a sailing ship, and found she had on board the officers and crew of the Ellerman liner Andalusian, which had been captured and scuttled 25 miles W.N.W. of the Bishop Rock. Antwerp continued her chase, and got within four miles of the Andalusian, still afloat, but then the submarine dived and was never sighted again. So Antwerp was never able to sink a submarine, and she was paid off on April 5, 1915.

During the summer of 1915 there was a small steamer called the Lyons, which one used to see in various naval ports, and under various disguises. Her primary object was to carry naval stores from one port to another, but it was always her hope to fall in with a submarine. I remember seeing her one day alongside Pembroke Naval Dockyard, painted a certain colour and with one funnel. A little later I saw her elsewhere with a different coat of paint and a dummy funnel added to her, so that she resembled an ocean-going tug. Lyons also was unable to entrap the enemy, and terminated her decoy-ship period at the beginning of November of the same year.

Thus the war had gone on for several months, and an apparently sound idea had failed to produce a single good result. All kinds of shipping were being sunk, and yet the German submarines somehow could not be persuaded to attack these disguised ships. How was it? Was there something in the disguise which gave the steamers away? Was it purely hard luck? We cannot say definitely, but the fact remained, and it was rather disappointing. Of course the idea of disguise had been employed almost from the very first days of the war; for, in August, 1914, Admiral Jellicoe had requested that the armed trawlers, though commissioned, should not be painted grey like other warships, but retain their fishing numbers and funnel markings just as in peace time. In the early summer of 1915, a number of disguised armed trawlers were also sent out to the Dogger Bank in the hope of catching an unsuspecting submarine, who might think they were fishing. The idea had been further developed by a clever scheme involving the co-operation of a disguised armed trawler towing a submerged British submarine. This began in May; on June 23 it was the means of sinking U 40, and on July 20 it brought about the loss of U 23; but a few months later this idea was thought to be played out, and came to an end in October, 1915, though it was eventually revived in the following summer.

Another variation of the decoy-ship principle at this time was that employed by Admiral Startin, who was in charge of the naval base at Granton. In view of enemy submarines having recently held up neutral merchant steamers in the North Sea, he disguised two big trawlers so as to resemble small neutral merchant ships. This was in July, 1915. So successfully was this done that one of them actually deceived British destroyers, who took her for a Danish cargo steamer. The next development was further to disguise them by adding a false deck cargo of timber, boats, and other details, so as to resemble closely a Norwegian cargo ship, with Norwegian colours hoisted at the mizzen, two derricks placed on the trawler’s foremast, and Norwegian colours painted on prepared slips of canvas placed on each side of the hull amidships. Those who were at sea in those days will recollect that it was customary for neutral ships to have their national colours painted on each side of the hull in the hope that the enemy would not mistake the ships for Allies’. Thus cleverly disguised, the two Granton trawlers Quickly and Gunner went into the North Sea, armed with nothing more powerful than a 12-pounder, Admiral Startin being himself aboard one of the ships. A large submarine was actually sighted on July 20, and at 1,000 yards the enemy began the action. Quickly thereupon lowered her Norwegian flag, ran up the White Ensign, removed the painted canvas, replied with her 12-pounder, and then with her 6-pounder. A fine, lucky shot was seen to strike the submarine, and much smoke was seen to issue. Although the enemy made off and was not sunk, yet it showed that it was possible to fool German submarines by this disguise. The decoy-ship idea was not merely sound in principle, but it was practicable and was capable of being used as a valuable offensive weapon. Most of a year had passed since the beginning of war, and there were no decoy ship results to show except those which had been obtained by British submarines working in conjunction with disguised trawlers. However, just as the seaman often finds the dawn preceded by a calm and followed by a breeze, so it was to be with the decoy ships. The dawn of a new period was about to take place, and this was followed by such a wind of events that if anyone had dared to doubt the value of this specialized naval warfare it was not long before such hesitation vanished. Disguised trawlers had in the meantime been further successful, but there were obviously greater possibilities for the disguised merchant ship, the collier and tramp types especially. But this all depended on three things: First, the right type of ship had to be selected very carefully and with regard to the trade route on which she would normally in the present conditions be likely to be found. For instance, it would have been utterly foolish to have sent a P. and O. liner to cruise up and down the waters of the Irish Channel or an Atlantic liner up and down the North Sea. Secondly, having once selected the right ship, much depended on the dock-yard authorities responsible for seeing that she was fitted out adequately as to her fighting capabilities, yet externally never losing any of her essential mercantile appearance. This meant much clever designing, much engineering and constructive skill, and absolute secrecy. Thirdly, the right type of keen, subtle, patient, tough officer had to be found, full of initiative, full of resource, with a live, eager crew. Slackers, ‘grousers,’ and ‘King’s-hard-bargains’ were useless.

Q-ship “Antwerp”
Showing the collapsible dummy life-raft which concealed the two 12-pounders.

Gun’s Crew of Q-ship “Antwerp”
Gun’s crew of “Antwerp” ready to fire on a submarine. The sides of the dummy life-raft have been collapsed to allow gun to come into action.

To face p. 12

CHAPTER II
THE BEGINNING OF SUCCESS

We turn now to the northern mists of the Orkneys, where the comings and goings of the Grand Fleet were wrapped in mystery from the eyes of the world. In order to keep the fleet in stores—coal, oil, gear, and hundreds of other requisite items—small colliers and tramp steamers brought their cargoes northward to Scapa Flow. In order to avoid the North Sea submarines, these coal and store ships used the west-coast passage as much as possible. Now, for that reason, and also because German submarines were already proceeding in earnest, via the north-west of Scotland, to the south-west Irish coast, ever since the successful sinking of the Lusitania, it was sound strategy on our part to send a collier to operate off the north-western Scottish coast. That is to say, these looked the kinds of ships a suspecting U-boat officer would expect to meet in that particular locality.

Under the direction of Admiral Sir Stanley Colville, a handful of these little ships was, during the summer of 1915, being fitted out for decoy work. One of these was the collier S.S. Prince Charles, a little vessel of only 373 tons. In peace-time she was commanded by her master, Mr. F. N. Maxwell, and manned by five deckhands, two engineers, and two firemen. These men all volunteered for what was known to be a hazardous job, and were accepted. In command was placed Lieutenant Mark Wardlaw, R.N., and with him went Lieutenant J. G. Spencer, R.N.R., and nine active-service ratings to man the guns and use the rifles. She carried the weakest of armament—only a 3-pounder and a 6-pounder, with rifles forward and aft. Having completed her fitting out with great secrecy, the Prince Charles left Longhope in the evening of July 21 with orders to cruise on routes where submarines had recently been seen. Proceeding to the westward at her slow gait, she saw very few vessels until July 24. It was just 6.20 p.m. when, about ten miles W.N.W. of North Rona Island, she sighted a three-masted vessel with one funnel, apparently stopped. A quarter of an hour later she observed a submarine lying close to the steamer. Here was the steel fish Prince Charles was hoping to bait.

Pretending not to see the submarine, and keeping on her course like a real collier, Lieutenant Wardlaw’s ship jogged quietly along, but he was closing up his gun’s crews behind their screens and the mercantile crew were standing by ready to hoist out the ship’s boats when required. The German now started up his oil-engines and came on at full speed towards the Prince Charles. It had just gone seven o’clock and the submarine was 3 miles off. The collier had hoisted her colours and the enemy was about five points on the bow when a German shell came whizzing across. This fell 1,000 yards over. Lieutenant Wardlaw now stopped his engines, put his ship head on to the Atlantic swell, blew three blasts, and then ordered the crew to get the boats out, in order to simulate the movements of an ordinary merchant ship in the presence of an attacking submarine.

In the meantime the enemy was approaching rapidly and fired a second shot, which fell between the funnel and the foremast, but landed 50 yards over. When the range was down to 600 yards the enemy turned her broadside on to the collier and continued firing; and this was now the time for the Q-ship’s captain to make the big decision. Should he maintain his pretence and continue to receive punishment, with the possibility of losing ship and lives in the hope that the submarine would come nearer? Or should he reveal his identity and risk everything on the chance of winning all? This was always the critical moment when the Q-ship captain held in his judgment the whole fate of the fight, of the ship, and his men.

Lieutenant Wardlaw, seeing that the enemy could not be enticed to come any nearer, took the second alternative, and opened fire with his port guns. The effect of this on the German was remarkable and instantaneous; for her gun’s crew at once deserted the gun and darted down into the conning-tower. But whilst they were so doing, one of Prince Charles’s shells struck the submarine 20 feet abaft the conning-tower. The enemy then came round and showed her opposite broadside, having attempted to dive. She now began to rise again as the collier closed to 300 yards, and frequent hits were being scored by the British guns. By this time the surprised Germans had had more than enough, and were observed to be coming out of the conning-tower, whilst the submarine was settling down by the stern. Still the British fire continued, and when the submarine’s bows were a long way out of the water, she took a sudden plunge and disappeared. A large number of men were then seen swimming about, and the Prince Charles at once made every effort to pick them up, fifteen officers and men being thus saved out of thirty-three.

So ended the career of U 36. She had left Heligoland on July 19 for a cruise of several weeks via the North Sea, and, up till the day of meeting with Prince Charles, had had a most successful time; for she had sunk eight trawlers and one steamer, and had stopped the Danish S.S. Louise when the Prince Charles came up. It was not until the submarine closed the latter that U 36 saw the Englishmen clearing away some tarpaulins on deck, and the next moment the Germans were under fire, and the captain gave orders to dive. By this time the submarine had been hit several times, and as she could not be saved, she was brought to the surface by blowing out her tanks. The crew then took to the sea, and the engineer officer opened the valves to sink her, and was the last to leave. Inside, the submarine was wrecked by Prince Charles’s shells and three men were killed, the accurate and rapid fire having immensely impressed the Germans. Thus the first Q-ship engagement had been everything that could be desired, and in spite of the submarine being armed with a 14-pounder and carrying seven torpedoes, the U-boat had been beaten in a fair fight. Lieutenant Mark Wardlaw received a D.S.O., two of the crew the D.S.M., and the sum of £1,000 was awarded to be divided among the mercantile crew.

Another of the ships fitted out under similar auspices was the Vala, who commissioned on August 7, 1915. She was of 609 tons, and could steam at nothing better than 8 knots. In March of the following year she was transferred from Scapa to Pembroke, and her career was long and eventful. In April of 1917 she was in action with a submarine, and she believed that one shell hit the enemy, but the latter then submerged. One day in the middle of August Vala left Milford Haven to cruise between the Fastnet and the Scillies, and was last heard of in the early hours of the following day. She was due to arrive at Queenstown, but, as she did not return, the Q-ship Heather was ordered to search for her in the Bay of Biscay. For a whole week there had been a series of gales, and it was thought that the little steamer had foundered in the bad weather, but on September 7 the German Government wireless announced that ‘the U-boat trap, the former English steamer Vala,’ had been sunk by a U-boat.

Besides the Vala and Prince Charles, three other Q-ships were fitted out in the north. These were the Glen Isla, of 786 tons; the Duncombe, 830 tons; and the Penshurst, 740 tons, and they all performed excellent work. But before we go any further we have to consider still another novelty in naval warfare, or rather a strange revival. Who would have thought that the sailing-ship would, in these days of steam, steel, and motor, come back in the service as a man-of-war? At first it seems almost ludicrous to send sail-driven craft to fight against steel, mechanically propelled vessels. But, as we have seen, this submarine warfare was not so much a matter of force as of cleverness. It was the enemy’s unimaginative policy which brought about this reintroduction of sail into our Navy, and this is how it all happened.

During the summer of 1915 German submarines in the North Sea had either attacked or destroyed a number of neutral schooners which used to come across with cargoes of pit-props. One used to see these fine little ships by the dozen arriving in the Forth, for the neutral was getting an excellent return for his trading. It annoyed the enemy that this timber should be able to enter a British port, and so the submarines endeavoured to terrorize the neutral by burning or sinking the ships on voyage. It was therefore decided to take up the 179-ton schooner Thirza, which was lying in the Tyne. Her purchase had to be carried out with great secrecy, lest the enemy should be able to recognize her at sea. She was an old vessel, having been built as far back as 1865 at Prince Edward Island, but registered at Whitstable. She changed her name to Ready, and began her Q-ship service at the end of August, 1915, when soon after midnight she sailed down the Forth. Armed with a couple of 12-pounders, having also a motor, carrying a small deck cargo of pit-props, and suitably disguised to resemble a neutral, this schooner, manned by a hardy volunteer crew, used to pretend she was coming across the North Sea, though at first she never went many miles away from the land. Under the various aliases of Thirza, Ready, Probus, Elixir, and Q 30, this old ship did splendid work, which did not end until Armistice. We shall have occasion to refer to her again.

Who can avoid a feeling of intense admiration for the men who, year after year, were willing and eager to roll about the sea in a small sailing ship looking for the enemy, well knowing that the enemy had all the advantage of speed, handiness, and armament? Even the motor was not powerful, and would give her not much more than steerage way in a calm. The submarine could always creep up submerged, using his periscope but now and then: the schooner, however, was a conspicuous target all the time, and her masts and sails advertised her presence from the horizon. These Q-ship sailing men deserve much for what they voluntarily endured. Quite apart from the bad weather, the uncomfortable quarters on board, the constant trimming of sheets and alteration of course off an unlit coast, there was always the possibility that some U-boat’s crew would, after sinking the schooner, cut the throats of these British seamen. The Q-ship crews knew this, and on certain occasions when U-boat prisoners were taken by our ships the Germans did not conceal this fact. Life in these sailing craft was something quite different from that in a battleship with its wardroom, its cheery society, and a comfortable cabin to turn into. In the latter, with powerful turbines and all the latest navigational instruments, bad weather meant little inconvenience. After all it is the human element which is the deciding factor, and the Q-ship service certainly wore out officers and men at a great pace. It is indeed difficult to imagine any kind of seafaring more exacting both physically and nervously.

But the Navy pressed into its use also sailing smacks, and sent them out to sea. This began at Lowestoft in August, 1915. In that neighbourhood submarines had been doing a great deal of damage to the local fishing ketches, so it was decided to commission four of these smacks, arm them, strengthen their fishing crew with a few active service ratings for working the gun, and let the craft resume their fishing among the other smacks. With any luck at all a German submarine should come along, and then would follow the surprise. The original fishermen crews were only too delighted to have an opportunity of getting their own back, and these excellent fellows certainly were afforded some good sport. So well did the idea work that within a very few days the smack G. and E. engaged one submarine, and the Inverlyon sank UB 4. During the same month the smack Pet fought a submarine, and on September 7 Inverlyon had a fight with another.

And still the Admiralty were not over optimistic as to the capabilities of the decoy ship, and had to be convinced of the real worth of this novel idea. However, an incident happened on August 19 which was so successful and so significant that it entirely changed the official mind, and all kinds of craft were suggested as suitable decoys. Some thought that oil-tankers would have made ideal bait: so they would, but such ships were few in number and too valuable. Others suggested yachts, and actually these were used for intelligence work in the Bay of Biscay. Many other schemes, too, were brought forward, but they were not always practicable, or had to be discarded for particular reasons.

Fig. 1.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Baralong’ when she sank U 27 on August 19, 1915. The Numerals indicate Simultaneous Positions of Decoy and Submarine.

Q-ship “Baralong”
Heroine of two famous victories over submarines. Photograph taken in Malta harbour after the ship had been transferred to the Mediterranean.

Q-ship “Redbreast”
This vessel was commissioned as a Q-ship at the end of March, 1916, but six months later had concluded her service in this capacity.

To face p. 22

In March, 1915, the Admiralty had taken up the S.S. Baralong, a typical ‘three-island’ tramp, as a decoy. For nearly six months she had been cruising about and had already steamed 12,000 miles, but during the afternoon of August 19 she was at last to have her chance. This was an historic day in the submarine campaign, for in that area between the south-west coast of Ireland and the western end of the English Channel eight British steamers were sunk, including the 15,801-ton White Star liner Arabic. It is quite certain that there was more than one submarine operating, and they had reaped a good harvest on the 17th. In the hope of falling in with one of these U-boats, the Baralong found herself in Lat. 50.22 N., Long. 8.7 W. (that is, about a hundred miles south of Queenstown), steering on an easterly course. She was disguised as a United States cargo ship with American colours painted on boards on her sides. These boards were made so that they could be hauled in, and the ensign staff would fall away as soon as the ship should go into action with the White Ensign hoisted. At three in the afternoon Baralong sighted a steamer manœuvring rather strangely, and almost immediately picked up a wireless ‘S.O.S.’ signal from her. Baralong therefore now altered course towards her, and the two ships were soon steering so that they would presently meet. Then a submarine was sighted about seven miles off heading towards the steamer, whom she was shelling. By this time the crew of the steamer, which was the Leyland liner Nicosian, were rowing about in the ship’s boats, and towards these the Baralong was seen to be approaching, but the submarine U 27, which had a 22-pounder forward of the high conning-tower, and a similar gun aft, steered so as to come along Nicosian’s port side and towards the latter’s boats, apparently to prevent Baralong rescuing the men. One who was present told me the full story, and I made notes and a sketch at the time. This is what happened:

As soon as the submarine was blanketed by Nicosian, the Baralong, who was now roughly parallel with the other two craft, struck her American colours, hoisted the White Ensign, and trained her guns ready for the moment when the submarine should show herself ahead of Nicosian’s bows. In a few seconds U 27 came along, and had the greatest of all surprises. The range was only 600 yards, and 12-pounder shells, accompanied by rifle fire, came hurtling along, penetrating the craft on the waterline below the conning-tower before the enemy could reply. The conning-tower went up in the air, panic-stricken Germans jumped into the sea, the submarine heeled over, and in about another minute sank for good and all. The whole incident had happened so quickly that Nicosian’s people were as surprised as they were amused. The whole of Baralong’s tactics had been so simple yet so clever and effective; deliverance from the enemy had followed the sudden attack so dramatically, that it was not easy to realize quite all that had happened. Nicosian had been holed by the German shells, but Baralong took her in tow and headed for Avonmouth. She was down by the head and the tow-rope parted during the night, but she managed to get to port all right.

The sinking of this U 27 was a most useful piece of work, for her captain, Lieut.-Commander Wegener, was one of Germany’s best submarine commanders; she had left Germany a fortnight before. This incident, with many of its details, reached Germany via the U.S.A.; for Nicosian was carrying a cargo of mules from across the Atlantic to be used by our army, and some of the muleteers were American citizens. On their arrival back home the news came out, and was published in the newspapers, causing considerable sensation. The German nation was furious and made some bitter accusations, forgetting all the time that on this very day they had fired on and killed fourteen of the crew of the British submarine E 13, which had grounded on the Danish island of Saltholm. All the officers, with one exception, and most of the crew of Baralong were of the Royal Naval Reserve. A number of decorations was made and the sum of £1,000 was awarded.

This great success in the midst of a terrible tale of shipping losses finally convinced the authorities of the value of the Q-ship. There was a great shortage of tonnage at this time, for ships were being required for carrying mules and munitions from America, munitions to Russia, and every kind of stores across to our armies. However, it was decided to take up some more steamers as decoys and fit them out in a similar manner. Thus the two tramp steamers Zylpha (2,917 tons) and the Lodorer (3,207 tons) were assigned to Queenstown. The former, after doing excellent work, was sunk on June 15, 1917; the latter, commanded by the officer who eventually became Captain Gordon Campbell, V.C., D.S.O., made history. Under the aliases of Farnborough and Q 5 she became the most famous of all the decoy ships. Tramp steamer though she may be, she has a career which, for adventurous fights, honourable wounds, and imperishable glory cannot be approached by any ship in the world, with the solitary exception, perhaps, of the Vindictive, for, in spite of everything, Lodorer was able at the end of the war to resume her work in the Merchant Service. In another place we shall soon see her exploits as a warship.

In addition to these two a few small coasting steamers were taken up and a couple of transports, and the work of selecting officers of dash and enterprise had to be undertaken with great secrecy and discretion. Unquestionably the most suitable type of Q-ship was the tramp, and the worst was the cross-Channel railway steamer. The first was slow, but could keep at sea a long time without coaling; the latter was fast, but wasteful of coal and had limited bunker space. Of these railway steamers we have already mentioned the G.E.R. Co.’s S.S. Vienna (alias Antwerp). Another decoy ship was the L.& S.W.R. Co.’s S.S. Princess Ena, which was built to run between the Channel Islands and Southampton. She had been commissioned in May, 1915, armed with three 12-pounders, and could steam at 15 knots, but she ceased her decoy work in the following August. The Lyons, already referred to, was really a salvage steamer, but much resembled a tug, especially when she hoisted her dummy funnel. She was of 537 tons, could steam at 11 knots, and was armed with four 12-pounders. But it was the ‘three-island’ tramp type of the Baralong breed, which was so ordinary and seen at any time in any sea, that made the ideal Q-ship. She was of 4,192 tons, built in 1901, speed 10 knots, armed with three 12-pounders, and fitted with a single wireless aerial which could excite no suspicion. So skilfully was the armament of these ships concealed that they frequently lay in harbour close to foreign ships without revealing their true nature. I have myself been all over such a ship, commanded by one of the greatest Q-ship officers, and entirely failed to find where he mounted his guns, and yet they were on board ready for immediate use. How much more likely would the German submarine, lying lower down to the water, be deceived! As time went on and these much-feared ‘trap-ships’ were scrutinized more closely, several minor but fatal characteristics had to be remembered; for instance, the crew sometimes would be too smart or the signal-man was too good with his semaphore. But these and similar points were rectified as soon as they were realized.

CHAPTER III
Q-SHIP ENTERPRISE

Within five weeks of her victorious fight Baralong had done it again. After the war it was definitely announced in the public Press that U 27 had been sunk by H.M.S. Wyandra on August 19. Under this name the ship’s crew were awarded the sum of £185 as prize bounty, and in the same court Wyandra, her commanding officer this time being Lieut.-Commander A. Wilmot-Smith, R.N., was awarded £170 prize bounty for sinking U 41 on September 24, 1915. It was an open secret that Baralong and Wyandra were one and the same ship, so we may as well get this matter quite clear. Already we have seen the manner in which this decoy sank U 27, and we shall now be able to note very similar tactics in almost the same locality attaining a like result under her new captain.

Fig. 2.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Baralong’ when she sank U 41 on September 24, 1915. The Letters indicate Simultaneous Positions of Decoy and Submarine.

U 41 had left Wilhelmshaven on September 12, this being her fourth trip. She was under the command of Lieut.-Commander Hansen, and on the 23rd had sunk three British steamers, each of about 4,000 tons, in a position roughly eighty miles south-east of the Fastnet. The first of these ships was the Anglo-Columbian, which was sunk at 9.45 a.m., followed by the Chancellor at 3 p.m., and the Hesione about four hours later. The news of the first sinking reached Baralong (henceforth officially known as Wyandra) in Falmouth, so this decoy put to sea, and after rounding the Lizard steered a course that would, with luck, intercept the submarine if she were operating towards Ushant, as seemed probable. So the night passed. About 9 o’clock next morning the British S.S. Urbino (6,651 tons), of the Wilson Line, was attacked by this U 41 in a position roughly sixty-seven miles S.W. by W. of the Bishop rock. At 9.45 a.m. up came the Baralong, and sighted the Urbino about eight miles ahead, on fire, stopped, with a heavy list, and blowing off steam. It was a fine, clear morning; a steady course was maintained, and the Q-ship made ready for action. Already the Urbino’s crew had been compelled to take to their boats, and the submarine, at a range of 200 yards, had put five shells into her.

Q-ship “Baralong”
Showing gun on port side of the poop and disguised crew.

Q-ship “Baralong”
Showing disguised marines and method of concealing the gun.

To face p. 28

Baralong now sighted the submarine’s conning-tower, and when about five miles away the submarine dived, so Baralong altered course to the southward, so as to compel the enemy, if she meant to attack, to rise to the surface and use her oil-engines. This ruse succeeded, for presently U 41 came to the surface and proceeded at full speed to head the Englishman off. Baralong now hoisted United States colours, whereupon the German hoisted ‘Stop instantly!’ The former obeyed, but by using the engines now and again cleverly manœuvred so as to close the range. The next order from the enemy was for the Englishman to send his papers aboard the submarine, the two craft being now about two and a half miles apart. Baralong answered the signal, steamed slowly ahead, altering very gradually towards the enemy, and pretended to be hoisting out a boat on the side visible to the submarine. On board the latter the forward gun was already manned, Ober-Leutnant Crompton being on deck in charge of the firing. But Hansen had already been outmanœuvred by Wilmot-Smith, just as in the olden days the sailing man-of-war sought to win the weather-gage. For, having got the submarine 2 points on the starboard bow, Baralong so steered as to keep her in that position, and the two approached until the range was down to 700 yards.

All this time, though every man in Baralong was at his station, there was not a movement that in any way caused the enemy to suspect. The latter was concerned rather with the details of making quite sure she was a neutral. It was then that Baralong starboarded her helm so that it might appear as if she were just swinging in order to give the ship’s boat a lee while being lowered, a perfectly natural and sea-manlike piece of tactics. But when she had swung sufficiently for the starboard and stern guns to bear, down came the disguise, up went the fluttering White Ensign, and a heavy fire at only 500 yards came pouring forth, accompanied by rifle fire from the marines in the well-deck aft. The enemy was taken so completely by surprise that he got off only one round, and this was a long way out. So smartly had Baralong’s men begun the attack that the second round scored a direct hit at the base of the conning-tower, and several other shells got home with deadly precision. The Germans on deck became panic-stricken, left their guns, and made for the conning-tower hatch, but whilst they were doing this another direct hit struck the conning-tower, blowing Hansen and six men to pieces. After several more hits, U 41 listed to port with a heavy inclination and dived. This submersion was useless, as she was leaking very badly, and the main bilge-pump ceased to function. Down she dropped to a terrible depth, the diving tanks were blown by the compressed air, and with a great sense of relief the Germans who were still alive found their craft coming to the surface. First came the bows, and then the top of the conning-tower showed above water, a large volume of smoke and steam escaping, and then she disappeared for the last time very rapidly, stern first, Ober-Leutnant Crompton and the helmsman escaping through an open hatchway.

After she had sunk finally a large burst of air and oil-fuel rose to the surface, the submarine’s bulkheads having apparently burst owing to the pressure due to the deep water, which here was 75 fathoms. Only Crompton and the helmsman were saved, the former having been badly wounded whilst entering the conning-tower. All the others, consisting of five officers and twenty-five men, were lost. In the meantime Urbino had sunk, too, from her shell-holes, and Baralong picked the whole crew up from their boats to the number of forty-two officers and men, her master, Captain Allanson Hick, stating that his ship was on her way from New York to Hull. Baralong, conscious of having obtained another brilliant and brave victory, now proceeded with her survivors to Falmouth, where she arrived in the early hours of the following morning. Lieut.-Commander Wilmot-Smith was awarded the D.S.O., and Temporary Engineer J. M. Dowie, R.N.R., received a D.S.C., a well-deserved decoration; for much depended on the engineers in these ships, and they had much to suffer. Two of the crew received a D.S.M. each, and the sum of £1,000 was also awarded, this being additional to the bounty subsequently awarded in the Prize Court.

At this stage in the world’s history there is no intention of exulting in the discomfiture and pain of the enemy. Day after day during this period the writer used to see the sad sight of our survivors without ship or belongings other than the clothes on their backs. It is difficult altogether to forget these incidents or the unchivalrous behaviour of the enemy. Without wishing to be vindictive, it is well to place on record that the nineteen German sailors on the deck of U 41 all jeered at Captain Hick in his distress, and yet although a callous enemy had been sunk in a fair fight, this second Baralong incident aroused in Germany a wave of horrified indignation akin to the decoy’s former exploit. The German Press referred to the sinking of U 41 as a murderous act, but if this were so there were to be plenty more to follow. Happily, at last, we had found a real, effective means of grappling with the submarine problem. Against us were contending the finest brains of the German Navy, and these determined officers were not over anxious to save life, as we knew from their behaviour at the sinking of Falaba and Lusitania. Such craft as U 41, over 200 feet long, with a maximum surface speed of 14 knots, but an endurance of 5,500 miles at 10 knots, armed with a couple of guns and eight torpedoes, were formidable foes, and any clever stratagem that could be used against them, without infringing International Law, was surely entirely justified. Thus, very wisely, four colliers were fitted out that same autumn as Q-ships, these being the Thornhill (alias Werribee, Wellholme, and Wonganella); the Remembrance (alias Lammeroo); Bradford City (alias Saros); and the Penhallow (alias Century). These, together with Baralong, were sent to operate in the Mediterranean, for here the submarine campaign became very serious just at the time when it temporarily died down in North European waters. Diplomatic relations between Germany and the United States, consequent on the sinking of the Lusitania and then Arabic, were becoming strained, so that Germany had to accept the American demands for the limitation of submarine activity. The result was that from September 24, 1915, up to December 20, 1915, no ships were sunk by German submarines in North European waters, though the Mediterranean had a different story to tell. At the end of December a short, sharp submarine campaign was carried out off Ireland by U-boats, and then there was quiet again until Germany began her extended submarine campaign on March 1, 1916. This in turn lasted only to May 8, and was not resumed until July 5, 1916.

It is as well to bear these periods in mind, for otherwise we cannot appreciate the dull, monotonous weeks and months of cruising spent by the Q-ships when they saw no submarine, received nothing but vague, inaccurate reports, and had to keep their crews from getting disappointed or eventually wondering whether they were really doing any good in this particular service. But as the winter passed and the U-boats displayed their usual spring activity, the Q-ships had their opportunities again. Before we come to see these, let us take a glance at the work which they were performing during the winter in the Mediterranean, where the enemy sought to cut our lines of communication to the Dardanelles.

In December, 1915, the steamship Margit had been fitted out as a decoy, and on January 17, 1916, in Lat. 35.34 N., Long. 17.38 E., she was steering west for Malta, when she received S.O.S. signals on her wireless. The time was 9.30 a.m., and presently shots were seen falling close to the S.S. Baron Napier, who was about five miles to the southward. The captain of the Margit was Lieut.-Commander G. L. Hodson, R.N., who then hoisted the Dutch ensign and altered course towards the Baron Napier. The latter kept making signals that she was being shelled and that the submarine was approaching; but when Margit got within a couple of miles the submarine transferred the shelling to her. Margit’s captain conned his ship, lying prone on the bridge and peering through the chinks in the bridge screen. In order to lure the enemy on he pretended to abandon ship, hoisted the international signal ‘I am stopped,’ and sent away the ship’s lifeboat with Sub-Lieutenant McClure, R.N.R., in charge. The ship now had every appearance of having been abandoned, but in addition to the captain lying unseen on the bridge, the guns’ crews, under Lieutenant Tweedie, R.N.R., and a sub-lieutenant, were remaining hidden at their stations. Riflemen were similarly placed on the foredeck and aft.

Fig. 3.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Margit’ in her Engagement with Submarine on January 17, 1916.

After the ‘panic party’ had been sent away in the boat the enemy seemed fairly satisfied, ceased shelling, dived, and then reappeared a quarter of an hour later 800 yards away, with a couple of feet of his periscope showing. He was now going to make quite sure this was no trap, so, still submerged, he came within 50 yards of Margit’s port side and then right round the ship, scrutinizing her carefully. At length, being apparently quite convinced that all was well, he steered for Margit’s boat about a thousand yards away and came to the surface. Three men then appeared on the submarine’s deck, the German ensign was hoisted, and one of them waved Margit’s boat to come alongside. This was as far as Lieut.-Commander Hodson deemed it advisable to let matters go. Giving the orders to down screens, open fire, and hoist the White Ensign, the enemy now came under attack. One shot seemed to hit abaft the conning-tower, and the submarine submerged. so fire was ceased and Margit proceeded to pick up her boat. The davit-falls had only just been hooked on when the submarine showed her conning-tower 70 yards off, apparently in difficulties. The Q-ship therefore opened fire once more, but the enemy again submerged. Unfortunately the submarine had not been sunk, although no effort had been neglected. From 9.30 a.m. to about midday officers and crew had been compelled to keep in cramped, tiring attitudes, with very little knowledge of what was going on; and after he had finally disappeared Margit had remained for about three hours in the hope that he might return. By a curious coincidence, at the time when Baron Napier was being attacked, another steamer, the Baron Ardrossan, belonging to the same owners, happened to be passing and saw the shells dropping around, but as she could steam nothing better than 3 knots slower than Baron Napier she could not go to her assistance. However, if the submarine had not been destroyed, Margit had saved the Baron Napier and caused the enemy to break off the engagement.

Mention was made just now of the Werribee (alias Wonganella, etc.). On February 3, 1916, this ship, which had been fitted out at Gibraltar, under the command of Lieut.-Commander B. J. D. Guy, R.N., left Port Said to cruise on the Malta to Egypt trade route. She was a steamer of 3,848 tons, and had taken in 2,600 tons of sand as ballast. About 9 o’clock on the morning of February 9, Werribee was steaming along when she picked up a signal on her wireless to the effect that the S.S. Springwell, of 5,593 tons, was torpedoed and sinking by the head. The vessel was soon sighted, and the last boats could be seen already leaving the ship, the position being about sixty miles from Crete. The weather was perfect, with a flat, calm sea and extreme visibility—an ideal day, in fact, for good gunnery.

But it was to be a most difficult experience, and the incident well illustrates the problems which had to be dealt with. About 10.15 a.m., as no submarine could be seen, Werribee turned towards the four boats already in the water, and hailed them for information, then examined the condition of Springwell, and presently turned again. All of a sudden, a great submarine, painted like the Mediterranean pirate-ships of ancient times, a brownish green, emerged from the sea about 5,000 yards away on Werribee’s starboard bow, and came close up to Springwell, possibly to prevent Werribee from salving her. Alarm stations were sounded in the Q-ship, but the submarine’s men were already running to their two guns, and opened fire. Werribee then decided to haul round and pretend to run away. The third shot from the enemy hit, and it was at first feared that the explosion had disabled one gun’s crew, but fortunately the hit was a little further aft. It was immediately evident to Werribee’s captain that to-day the enemy was not going to allow him to play the abandon-ship game, but was intending to sink him straight away. The submarine’s accurate and rapid fire was clearly aimed at Werribee’s boats, and two of them were soon riddled. It was for Lieut.-Commander Guy to make up his mind quickly what tactics now to pursue, and he decided to reveal the ship’s true character and open fire. This was done, and within ten seconds his 4-inch quick-firer was in action, range 4,000 yards. After six rounds from the Q-ship the enemy ceased firing, and the eighth seemed to hit abaft the conning-tower. Then she submerged in a cloud of smoke, about 11.10 a.m., this smoke screen being a favourite ruse for escaping, and she was never seen again that day. Werribee now turned her attention to the torpedoed ship, but the latter was too far gone, and foundered at 5.45 that afternoon. The men in Springwell’s boats were then picked up, and about 6 o’clock the ship made for Malta. It was again sheer bad luck; a combination of difficult circumstances, and the tactics of an astute German captain, had now prevented success coming to the decoy. There was no question about her disguise, and the captain of a merchantman who witnessed the fight accurately spoke of Werribee as ‘an old tramp with a few patches of paint, firing at the submarine.’ Before the war we should have thought no ship in His Majesty’s Service could possibly merit such a description as this, but strange things were happening on the seas at this time, and it was the highest compliment so to be described.

Fig. 4.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Werribee’ in Action with Submarine on February 9, 1916.

With the experience which had been gained from all these engagements in various areas it was possible to form some idea of the requisite standardized equipment with which Q-ships should be supplied. First of all, inasmuch as the enemy was being better armed, at least one modern 4-inch gun was necessary, in addition to any 12-pounder. Long-range action, especially in the Mediterranean, was probable at times, for the enemy would not always consent to engage close to. Secondly, it was highly important that the ship should remain afloat, even though seriously holed. It might happen—and later on it actually did occur—that the enemy might suppose the ship was just about to founder, thus making it quite safe to close her in order to read her name. Then would come the one great chance for the Q-ship to destroy the enemy. Therefore, to this end, it became certain that these ships should be given cargoes of barrels, or timber, carefully stowed, so that it would be no easy task to sink her, and she might perhaps even be salved.

CHAPTER IV
THE STORY OF THE ‘FARNBOROUGH’

Two days before the end of February, 1916, I happened to be returning from leave in England to my ship, which was in Queenstown for boiler-cleaning. In the Holyhead-Kingstown steamer I found myself in conversation with a junior lieutenant-commander, R.N., who also was returning to his ship at Queenstown. We talked of many things all the way down across Ireland, but this quiet, taciturn officer impressed me less by what he said than by what he left unsaid, and it took me a long time to guess the name of his ship. I thought I knew most of the commanding officers of sloops and trawlers and drifters, and so on, at work off the south and south-west coasts of Ireland, but I had neither seen this officer nor heard his name before. At the beginning of the war he was unknown to the public; in fact, not until three weeks after the end of this February did he win distinction, but to-day his name is known and respected in every navy of the world, and his career as a naval officer is different from anything ever recorded in the pages of history.

This was Lieut.-Commander Gordon Campbell, who just before the war was a lieutenant in command of an old-fashioned destroyer based on Devonport. On October 21, 1915—the date is particularly fortunate as having been the 110th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar—Lieutenant Campbell commissioned the tramp steamer Lodorer at Devonport as a Q-ship, but on passage thence to Queenstown changed her name to Farnborough, as it had become gossip that she had been armed for special service. Through that trying winter the little Farnborough endured gale after gale, and her young captain, attired in the rig of a typical tramp skipper, with his smart crew trained now to look slovenly yet be mentally alert all the time, never for a moment wavered in the belief that one day would come his opportunity. He had organized his ship to a pitch of perfection, and nothing was lacking except the appearance of a U-boat.

On March 1, 1916, the enemy renewed its submarine campaign after lying dormant since the day when Baralong had sunk her U 41, except for the Christmas-time temporary outburst. During the first three weeks of March one, or more, submarine had sunk shipping off the Irish coast to the extent of three steamers and one sailing craft. On the morning of March 22, Farnborough, who had come from Queenstown, was now cruising up the west coast of Ireland, the exact position being Lat. 51.54 N., Long. 10.53 W., and the time 6.40 a.m. Steaming along at 8 knots, a submarine awash was suddenly sighted by one of the crew named Kaye, an A.B. of the Royal Naval Reserve, about five miles away on the port bow. After a few minutes it dived, and Farnborough coolly took no notice but kept jogging along the same course. The submarine had evidently determined to sink the old tramp, for twenty minutes later she fired a torpedo which passed so close ahead of Farnborough that bubbles were seen under the forecastle. Still she pretended to take no notice, and a few minutes later the submarine broke surface about 1,000 yards astern, passing from starboard to port, then, having got on the Q-ship’s port quarter, fired a shell across the latter’s bows and partly submerged.

Farnborough now stopped her engines, blew off steam, and the panic party, consisting of stokers and spare men, were ordered to abandon ship; so away they rowed under Temporary Engineer Sub-Lieutenant J. S. Smith, R.N.R. The enemy then came closer until he was but 800 yards off. Not a human being was visible aboard the ‘abandoned’ ship, but everyone was lying concealed in expectant readiness, yet Lieut.-Commander Campbell was quietly watching every move of the enemy. A few minutes later the latter, intending to sink the deserted ship, fired a shell, but this fell 50 yards short. Here was Farnborough’s big opportunity that had been awaited and longed for ever since last Trafalgar Day; now was the time—or never. Thus the collier tramp declared herself a man-of-war, armed as she was with five 12-pounders, two 6-pounders, and one Maxim gun. One of the two ships must certainly go to her doom, and her fate would be settled in a few terrible moments: there would be no drawn-out engagement, but just a violent blow, and then finish. Lieut.-Commander Campbell, in his place of concealment, knew that his men could be trusted to do the right thing, knew that they were waiting only for the word from him. True, the guns’ crews were not the kind of expert men you find in battleship or cruiser. They had joined the Service after the declaration of war, but had been trained up splendidly by one of the ship’s officers, Lieutenant W. Beswick, R.N.R. On them much depended. If they fired too soon, became excited, made a movement, or bungled their work, they would give the whole show away, and the sinking ship would not be the submarine.

‘Open fire!’ came the order as the White Ensign was hoisted, and then from the three 12-pounders which could bear came a hail of shells, whilst Maxim and rifle fire also rained down. The light this morning was bad, but the shooting from these newly trained men was so good that the submarine was badly holed by the rapid fire; thus, slowly the enemy began to sink. Observing this, Campbell then endeavoured to give her the knock-out blow, so steamed full speed over the spot and dropped a depth charge. This fairly shook the submarine, who next appeared about ten yards away in an almost perpendicular position, that portion of the craft from the bows to the conning-tower being out of the water. A large rent was discerned in her bow; she was certainly doomed, and one periscope had been hit. Wasting none of the golden opportunity, Farnborough reopened fire with her after gun, which put five rounds into the base of the conning-tower at point-blank range, so that the German sank for the last time. Again Farnborough steamed over the spot, and let go two more depth charges, and presently up came a large quantity of oil and bits of wood which covered the sea for some distance around. So quickly perished U 68, one of the latest submarines—a 17-knot boat, armed with one 4·1-inch, one 22-pounder, a machine gun, eleven torpedoes, and with a cruising radius of 11,000 miles.

Officers of Q-ship “Farnborough”
Captain Campbell with his officers, disguised as a mercantile captain.

Q-ship Heroes
Captain Gordon Campbell, V.C., D.S.O., R.N., and Lieutenant C. G. Bonner, V.C., D.S.C., of Q-ship “Dunraven,” each wearing the Victoria Cross, at the King’s Garden Party for V.C.’s. (see Chapter [XIV].)

To face p. 42

This brilliant success had a most cheering effect on all the patrol vessels working off the Irish coast. With careful reserve the story was breathed in wardrooms, and it percolated through to other stations, inspiring even the most bored officer to go forth and do likewise. This victory had a most important bearing on the future of the Q-ship service, and officers and men were eager to take on a job which afforded them so much sport. It meant something more, too. For, junior though he was, Lieutenant-Commander became Commander Gordon Campbell, D.S.O.; Lieutenant W. Beswick, R.N.R., who had trained the guns’ crew so well, and the Engineer-Lieutenant Loveless received each a D.S.C., and three of the crew the coveted D.S.M. There followed also the usual £1,000 in addition to prize bounty. Of the ship’s complement seven of the officers belonged to the Royal Naval Reserve, and many of the ratings were either of that service or the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.

Adventures are to the adventurous. In less than a month from this event Farnborough was again engaged with a submarine, under circumstances more difficult than the last. One who was present at the engagement described it to me, and though the submarine managed afterwards to reach Germany, she was wounded, and only just escaped total destruction. However, this in no way detracts from the merits of the story, which is as follows: The scene was similar to that of the previous incident, the exact position being Lat. 51.57 N., Long. 11.2 W.—that is to say, off the west coast of Ireland. The time was 6.30 in the afternoon of April 15, 1916, and Farnborough was proceeding northward, doing 5 knots, for Commander Campbell was hoping to intercept a German submarine which had been reported off the Orkneys on the 13th, and was probably coming down the west Irish coast.

At the time mentioned the sea was calm and it was misty, but about two miles off on the starboard quarter could be seen a steamer. Suddenly, without warning, between the two ships a submarine broke surface, but Commander Campbell pretended to ignore her until she hoisted the international signal TAF (‘Bring your papers on board’). Owing to the mist it was impossible to distinguish the flags clearly enough to read them. However, Commander Campbell stopped his ship like a terrified tramp, blew off steam, but quietly kept her jogging ahead so as to edge towards the enemy and avoid falling into the trough of the heavy Atlantic swell. There was the submarine lying full length on the surface, about 300 feet long, with a very large conning-tower amidships, one gun forward, one aft, and most of the hull painted a light grey. In reply to the German’s signal Farnborough now kept her answering pennant at the dip and hoisted ‘Cannot understand your signal.’ All this delay was valuable to the Q-ship, for it allowed her to close the range stealthily; and now the submarine also came closer, with her foremost gun already manned. In the meantime, the ‘tramp’ did what she was expected to do—hoisted the signal ‘I am sending boat with ship’s papers,’ and at the same time the bridge boat was turned out (again in command of Sub-Lieutenant J. S. Smith, R.N.R.), and Commander Campbell was seen to hand his papers to this officer to take over to the submarine. It was now 6.40 p.m., and the German fired a shot which passed over the ship, doing no direct harm, but incidentally spoiling the whole affair. The best laid schemes of Q-ship captains, and the most efficient crews, occasionally go astray. One of Farnborough’s people, hearing this gun, thought that Farnborough had opened fire, so accordingly fired also. It was unfortunate, but there it was. This mistake forced Commander Campbell’s hand; he at once hoisted the White Ensign and gave the general order to fire. The range was now about 1,000 yards, and he proceeded at full speed so as to bring his after gun to bear, the ships becoming about in this position:

Fig. 5.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Positions of ‘Farnborough’ and Submarine in the Action of April 15, 1916.

The enemy had been about a point before the Farnborough’s starboard beam, but when the action commenced the former had been brought successfully on the beam. The Q-ship’s 12-pounders quickly got off a score of rounds, accompanied by the 6-pounder and the Maxim and rifles. Quite early the enemy became damaged, and eventually she submerged under the screen of smoke, a remarkably near escape which must have made a great impression on her crew. After dropping depth charges, Farnborough closed the strange steamer which had been stopped about 500 yards off, and found her to be the Dutch S.S. Soerakarta. With true seamanlike chivalry the Dutch captain, pitying the shabby-looking tramp steamship, actually offered Commander Campbell assistance. This neutral was bound from the Dutch East Indies to Rotterdam, via Falmouth and Kirkwall, and on sighting him the submarine had hoisted the usual ‘Bring your papers on board.’ The Dutchman had just lowered his boat, and was about to row off to the German, when up came the unkempt collier Farnborough with a white band on her funnel, and then, to the amazement of all beholders, from her blazed shell after shell. It was a splendid free show, and one shell was distinctly seen to hit the conning-tower. Two miles away from the scene was the armed trawler Ina Williams on patrol, and as soon as she heard the firing she went to action stations and came along at full speed. Ten minutes later she felt a couple of shocks, so that her captain thought she had struck something. These were, in fact, the concussions of the two depth charges which Farnborough had dropped.

If the submarine had escaped, at least he would be able to warn his superiors at home that they could never tell the difference between a ‘trap-ship’ and a genuine merchantman, and it would be safer not to attack steamers unless they were perfectly sure. During the rest of that year Commander Campbell continued to cruise in Farnborough, but the summer and autumn passed and no further luck offered itself.

Winter followed and was almost merging into spring, and then again this ship made history. In another chapter this thrilling episode will be told. In the meantime much else had happened.

One of the greatest enthusiasts of the Q-ship idea was Vice-Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, who was in command of the Irish coast. No Q-ship officer serving under this admiral could ever complain that anything was left undone by assistance that could have been performed by the sagacity or advice of this Commander-in-Chief. It was he who made repeated visits to the Q-ships as they lay in Haulbowline Dockyard, in order to see that not the smallest important detail for efficiency was lacking. The positions of the guns, the collapsing of the screens, the erection of the dummy deckhouses concealing the guns, the comfort of the personnel—nothing was too trivial for his attention provided it aimed at the one end of sinking the enemy. As with ships, so with officers. With his vast knowledge of human nature, and his glance which penetrated into a man’s very soul, he could size up the right type of volunteer for decoy work; then, having once selected him and sent him to sea, he assisted him all the time whenever wireless was advisable, and on their return to port encouraged, advised, and rested the captains, while the Haulbowline Dockyard paid every attention to improving the Q-ship’s fighting power. No keen, capable officer on this station who did his job ever failed to get his reward; and the result of all this, and the certain knowledge that if in extremis a Queenstown naval ship would at once be sent to his rescue, created such a fine spirit that an officer would almost sooner die than return to port after making a blunder of an engagement. By reason of this, the Queenstown Q-ships became famous for their high standard and achievements. In the spring of 1916 the four experienced decoys Farnborough, Zylpha, Vala, and Penshurst, were operating from that port. They cruised off the south and south-west Irish coasts; between Milford Haven and the Scillies; off the western approach to the English Channel; up the Irish Sea as far as the north of Ireland. In a few weeks four more decoys were added to that station, so that there were eight of them by July. They cruised along the merchant ship courses as far out into the Atlantic as 17° W., as far south as the middle of the Bay of Biscay, as far east as the Isle of Wight, and as far north as the Hebrides—in other words, just where U-boats were likely to attack. One of these eight was the S.S. Carrigan Head, which was commanded by Lieut.-Commander Godfrey Herbert, D.S.O., R.N., late in command of the Antwerp. Carrigan Head was a fine ship of 4,201 tons, and, in order to make her practically unsinkable, she was sent to Portsmouth, where she was filled with empty casks and timber. As may be expected from her commander, this was a very efficient ship. Below, the timber had been stowed in the holds with great cleverness so that it would have been a considerable time before she could ever founder. I well remember on one occasion wandering all over the decks of this ship, but it was quite impossible to see where her big 4-inch and two 12-pounders were located.

That being so, it was not surprising that a submarine never suspected on September 9, 1916, that this was another ‘trap-ship.’ It was just before 6.30 in the evening that this steamer was sixty miles south-west of the Lizard, when a submarine was sighted about 2,000 yards off on the starboard bow. The enemy had hoisted some flag signals, but they were too small to be read. It was presumed that it was the usual order to stop, so the steamer hove-to and the captain called up the stokers who were off watch to stand by the lifeboats, for all this time the submarine, who had two guns, was firing at the ship. Having lowered the starboard lifeboat halfway down to the water, the Q-ship pretended to try and escape, so went full speed ahead, turned to port, and brought the enemy right astern. The German maintained a rapid fire, many shots coming unpleasantly across the bridge, one entering the forecastle and wounding two men, of whom one afterwards died. Another shell entered the engineers’ messroom and slightly injured Temporary Engineer Sub-Lieutenant James Purdy, R.N.R. This same shell also cut the leads to the wireless room just above.

As several shells fell within a few feet of the ship, Commander Herbert decided to feign surrender, hoisted the International Code pennant close up, turned eight points to port, but with the real intention of firing on the submarine, which had now risen to the surface with complete buoyancy and presented a good target. But in turning to port, Carrigan Head was thus brought broadside on to the swell, so that the ship began to roll heavily and helm had to be altered to get her head on to the sea. At 6.50 p.m. the enemy was about 1,500 yards away, and while both lifeboats were being lowered the submarine kept up an intermittent fire. Three minutes later Commander Herbert decided to reveal the character of his ship and attack; therefore, going full speed ahead, he fired seven rounds, one of which seemed to hit. The submarine was considerably surprised and at once dived, so having arrived near the spot Carrigan Head dropped depth charges. The enemy was not sunk, but she did not reappear, such was her fright, until an hour and a half later when she sank the Norwegian S. S. Lodsen off the Scillies. The enemy’s behaviour was typical: as soon as he was attacked he broke off the engagement and took to flight by submerging, and it was only on the rarest occasions that he was willing to fight, as were the Q-ships, to a finish.

By reason of their service, Q-ship officers became a race apart. Their arrival and departure were kept a profound secret, night-time or early morning being usually selected. The ships were worked as separate units, not as squadrons, and their cruising ground was always being changed. They went to sea in strange garments, and when they came ashore they usually wore ‘plain clothes,’ the naval equivalent for the soldiers’ expression ‘mufti.’ At a time when all the nation was in arms and for a healthy man to be seen out of uniform was to excite derisive anger, some of the Q-ship officers had amusing and awkward experiences. Arrived in port at the end of a trying cruise, and rather looking forward to a pleasant respite for a few days, they would run against some old friend in a public place, and be greeted by some such remark as, ‘Why aren’t you in uniform?’ or ‘What ship are you serving in? I didn’t know you were on this station; come and have a drink.’ It was difficult to preserve secrecy when such questions were asked direct by old shipmates. Who knew but that the man two paces away was a spy, who would endanger the lives of the Q-ship and crew the next time they put to sea? Surely, if there be occasions when it is legitimate to tell a lie, this was a justifiable one. Thus the life in this special service was one that called for all the ability which is usually latent in any one man. I do not ever remember a Q-ship officer who was not something more than able. Some were killed, some were taken prisoners by submarines, some broke down in health; but in no case did you ever find one who failed to realize the intense seriousness of his job or neglected any means of keeping himself in perfect physical health and the highest possible condition of mental alertness. Not once could he be caught off his guard; the habit was ingrained in him.

CHAPTER V
THE ‘MYSTERY’ SAILING SHIPS

Most people would have thought that the sail-driven decoys would have had a very short life, and that they would speedily have succumbed. On the contrary, though their work was more trying and demanded a different kind of seamanship, these ‘mystery’ ships went on bravely tackling the enemy.

The Lowestoft armed smacks, for instance, during 1916 had some pretty stiff tussles, and we know now that they thoroughly infuriated the Germans, who threatened to have their revenge. Looked at from the enemy’s aspect, it certainly was annoying to see a number of sailing smacks spread off the coast, each obviously trawling, but not to know which of them would in a moment cut her gear and sink the submarine with her gun. It was just that element of suspense which made a cautious German officer very chary of going near these craft, whereas he might have sunk the whole fishing fleet if he dared. It was not merely annoying; it was humiliating that a small sailing craft should have the impertinence to contend with the super-modern ship of a German naval officer. That, of course, was not the way to look at the matter; for it was a contest, as we have seen, in which brains and bravery were factors more decisive than anything else. The average British fisherman is ignorant of many things which are learnt only in nautical academies, but the last you could accuse him of being is a fool or a funk. His navigation in these sailing smacks is quaint and primitive, but he relies in thick weather chiefly on the nature of the sea-bed. He can almost smell his way, and a cast of the lead confirms his surmise; he finds he is just where he expected to be. So with his character. Hardened by years of fishing in all weathers, and angered to extreme indignation during the war by the loss of good ships and lives of his relatives and friends, this type of man, so long as his decoy smack had any sort of gun, was the keenest of the keen.

One of these smacks was the Telesia, armed only with a 3-pounder, and commanded by Skipper W. S. Wharton, who did extraordinarily well in this dangerous service. On March 23, 1916, he was trawling roughly thirty-five miles S.E. of Lowestoft, when about midday he sighted a submarine three miles off, steering to the north-east. At 1.30 p.m. the German, who was evidently one of the cautious type, and having a careful scrutiny before attacking, approached within 50 yards of the Telesia’s starboard bow, and submerged with her periscope just showing. She came back an hour later to have another look, and again disappeared until 4.30 p.m., when she approached from the north-east. Having got about 300 yards away she attacked, but she had not the courage to fight on the surface a little sailing craft built of wood. Instead, she remained submerged and fired a torpedo. Had that hit, Telesia and her men would have been blown to pieces; but it just missed the smack’s bows by four feet. Skipper Wharton at once brought his gun into action, and fired fifteen rounds at the periscope, which was the only part of her that could be seen, and an almost impossible target. The enemy disappeared, but arrived back in half an hour, and this time the periscope showed on the starboard quarter, coming straight for the smack, and rising out of the water at the same time. Again she fired a torpedo, and it seemed certain to hit, but happily it passed 40 feet astern. At a range of only 75 yards the smack now fired a couple of shots as the enemy showed her deck. The first shot seemed to hit the conning-tower, and then the fore part of the hull was observed coming out of the water. The second shot struck between the conning-tower and the hatch, whereupon the enemy went down by the bows, showing her propeller. She was a big craft, judging by the size of her conning-tower, and certainly larger than those which had recently been sinking Lowestoft smacks. Skipper Wharton, whilst fishing, had himself been chased, so he was fairly familiar with their appearance. Whether the enemy was actually sunk is a matter of doubt. Perhaps she was not destroyed, although UB 13 was lost this month; how and where are unknown. One thing is certain, however, that the little Telesia caused her to break off the engagement and disappear. The smack could do no more, for the wind had now died right away, and this fact demonstrated the importance of these decoy smacks being fitted with motors, so that the craft would be able to manœuvre in the absence of wind; and this improved equipment was now in certain cases adopted. Skipper Wharton well deserved his D.S.C. for this incident, and two of the ship’s company also received the D.S.M. The whole crew numbered eight, consisting of Skipper Wharton, a naval chief petty officer, a leading seaman, a marine, an A.B., and three fishermen.

On the following April 23 Telesia—this time under the name of Hobbyhawk and under the command of Lieutenant H. W. Harvey, R.N.V.R.—together with a similar smack named the Cheero, commanded by Lieutenant W. F. Scott, R.N.R., put to sea from Lowestoft. They had recently been fitted with specially designed nets, to which were attached mines. It had been found that with 600 yards of these nets towing astern the smack could still sail ahead at a speed of 3 knots. A bridle made out of a trawler’s warp was stopped down the towing wire and from forward of the smack, so that she would look exactly like a genuine smack when fishing with the ordinary trawl. All that was required was that the submarine should foul these nets astern, when, if everything worked as it should, destruction to the enemy would follow.

At 5.45 that afternoon, when 10 miles N.E. of the Smith’s Knoll Pillar Buoy, the nets were shot and the batteries connected up to the net-mines. The wind was light, so Cheero, towing away to the south-east, was going ahead very slowly. Each of these two smacks was fitted with a hydrophone by means of which the beat of a vessel’s engines could be heard, the noise of a submarine’s being very different from that of reciprocating engines in a steamer. About 7 p.m. Cheero distinctly heard on her instrument the steady, quick, buzzing, unmistakable noise of a submarine, and the noise gradually increased. About three-quarters of an hour later the wire leading to the nets suddenly became tight and stretched along the smack’s rail. The strain eased up a little, became tight again, then an explosion followed in the nets, and the sounds of the submarine’s engines were never heard again. The sea was blown by the explosion 20 feet high, and as the water was settling down another upheaval took place, followed by oil. The crew remained at their stations for a few minutes awaiting further developments, and then were ordered to haul the nets, but a great strain was now felt, so that instead of two men it required six. As the second net was coming in, the whole fleet of nets took a sharp angle down, and a small piece of steel was brought on board. Other pieces of steel came adrift and fell into the sea. As the third net was being hauled in, the whole of the nets suddenly became free and were got in quite easily, whilst the crew remarked on the strong smell of oil. It was found that one mine had exploded, and when the nets were eventually further examined ashore in Lowestoft there could be no doubt but that a submarine had been blown up, and more pieces of steel, some of considerable size, dropped out. Thus UC 3, with all hands, was destroyed. She was one of the small mine-layers which used to come across from Zeebrugge fouling the shipping tracks along the East Anglian coast with her deadly cargoes, and causing the destruction of merchant shipping, Allied and neutral alike. On May 18 of the same year Hobbyhawk (Telesia) and a similar smack, the Revenge (alias Fame), had a stiff encounter with a submarine in about the same place, but there is reason to suppose that in this case the enemy was not sunk.

This idea of commissioning sailing smacks as Q-ships now began to be adopted in other areas. Obviously only that kind of fishing craft could be employed which ordinarily were wont to fish those particular waters; otherwise the submarine would at once have become suspicious. Thus, at the end of May, a couple of Brixham smacks, which usually fished out of Milford, were fitted out at Falmouth, armed each with a 12-pounder, and then sent round to operate in the Milford district. These were the Kermes and Strumbles respectively. They were manned by a specially selected crew, and the two commanding officers were Lieutenant E. L. Hughes, R.N.R., and Sub-Lieutenant J. Hayes, R.N.R. But although they were given a good trial, these craft were not suitable as soon as the autumn bad weather came on. Their freeboard was too low, they heeled over too much in the strong prevailing winds, so that it was difficult to get the gun to bear either to windward or leeward; and, except when on the top of a sea, their range of vision was limited, so before November was out these ships ceased to be men-of-war and were returned to their owners.

Along the Yorkshire coast is found a type of open boat which is never seen farther north than Northumberland and never farther south than Lincolnshire. This is the cobble, a peculiar and rather tricky kind of craft used by the fishermen of Whitby, Scarborough, Bridlington, Filey, and elsewhere. They carry one lug-sail and can be rowed, a single thole-pin taking the place of a rowlock. The smaller type of cobble measures 28 feet long by 2¼ feet deep, but the larger type, capable of carrying nine tons, is just under 34 feet long by 4¾ feet deep. Here, then, was a boat which, with her shallow draught, could with safety sail about in the numerous minefields off the Yorkshire coast. No submarine would ever suspect these as being anything but fishermen trying to snatch a living. In the early summer of 1916 two of these boats, the Thalia and Blessing, were commissioned. They were sailing cobbles fitted with auxiliary motors, and were sent to work south-east of the Humber in the Silver Pit area. Here they pretended to fish, towing 300 yards of mine-nets, 30 feet deep, in the hope that, as had happened off Lowestoft, the submarine would come along and be blown up. However, they had no luck, and after a few months’ service these boats also were returned to their owners. But in spite of this, Q-sailing-ships were still being taken up, the difficulty being to select the right type. Even in the Mediterranean the idea was employed. Enemy submarines had been destroying a number of sailing vessels, so the Admiralty purchased one local craft, gave her a small auxiliary motor, and towed her to Mudros, where she could be armed and equipped in secrecy. One day she set forth from Malta in company with a British submarine, and two days later was off the coast of Sicily. Here the sailing craft attracted a large enemy submarine, the British submarine of course watching, but submerged. Unfortunately, just when the enemy might have been torpedoed, the heavy swell caused the British submarine to break surface. The enemy was quick to observe this, dived for his life, and disappeared. The rest of the story is rather ludicrous. The British submarine remained submerged in the hope that the enemy would presently come to the surface, while the sailing craft lost touch with her consort and turned towards Malta, using her motor. The next incident was that she sighted 6 miles astern an unmistakable submarine, which was at once taken for the enemy. Being without his own submarine, the somewhat inexperienced R.N.V.R. officer in command made an error of judgment, and, abandoning the ship, destroyed her, being subsequently picked up by a Japanese destroyer. It was afterwards discovered that this was our own submarine who had been working with the sailing craft, and was now on her way back to Malta!

The other day, laid up hidden away at the top of a sheltered creek in Cornwall, I came upon an interesting brigantine. Somehow I felt we had met before, but she was looking a little forlorn; there was no life in the ship, yet she seemed in that curious way, which ships have in common with human beings, to possess a powerful personality. Freights were bad, the miners were on strike, and here was this good little vessel lying idle, and not so much as noticed by those who passed. Then I found out who she was. Here was an historic ship, the famous Helgoland, which served right through to the end of the war from the summer of 1916. Now she was back in the Merchant Service, and no one seemed to care; yet hundreds of years hence people will write and talk of her, as they still do of Grenville’s Revenge or the old clipper-ships Cutty Sark and Thermopylæ.

Helgoland had been built in 1895 of steel and iron at Martenshoek in Holland, where they specialize in this kind of construction, but she was now British owned and registered at Plymouth. She measured 122 feet 9 inches long, 23 feet 3 inches beam, drew 8 feet aft, and her tonnage was 310 burthen and 182 net. In July, 1916, this ship was lying in Liverpool undergoing an extensive overhaul, and here she was taken over from her owners and sent to Falmouth, where she was fitted out forthwith as a Q-ship. Armed with four 12-pounders and one Maxim, she was known officially in future under the various names of Helgoland, Horley, Brig 10, and Q 17. Her crew were carefully chosen from the personnel serving in Auxiliary Patrol vessels at Falmouth, with the exception of the guns’ crews; the ship’s complement consisting of two R.N.R. officers, one skipper, one second hand, two petty officers, six Royal Navy gunnery ratings, eight deckhands of the Trawler Reserve, one carpenter, one steward, and one cook, the last three being mercantile ratings. Of her two officers one was Temporary Sub-Lieutenant W. E. L. Sanders, R.N.R., who, by reason of his sailing-ship experience, was appointed as mate. This was that gallant New Zealander who had come across the ocean to help the Motherland, performed amazing service in Q-ships, fought like a gentleman, won the Victoria Cross, and eventually, with his ship and all his crew, went to the bottom like the true hero that he was. The story must be told in a subsequent chapter.

When we consider the actions fought by these topsail schooners and brigantines in the Great War we appear almost to be dreaming, to be sent right back to the sixteenth century, and modernity seems to have been swept clean away. While the Grand Fleet was unable, these sailing ships were carrying on the warfare for which they had never been built. In the whole of the Royal Navy there were hardly any suitable officers nowadays who possessed practical experience in handling schooners. This was where the officer from the Mercantile Marine, the amateur yachtsman, the coasting skipper, and the fisherman became so invaluable. In these days of decaying seamanship, when steam and motors are dominant, it is well to set these facts down lest we forget. The last of the naval training brigs has long since gone, and few officers or men, even in the Merchant Service, serve an apprenticeship under sail.

Helgoland left Falmouth after dark, September 6, 1916, on her first cruise as a man-of-war, and she had but a few hours to wait before her first engagement took place. Commanded by Lieutenant A. D. Blair, R.N.R., she was on her way to Milford, and at 1.30 p.m. on the following day was only 10 miles south of the Lizard when she sighted a submarine on the surface 3 points on the starboard quarter. There was an alarm bell fitted up in Helgoland which was rung only for action stations, and, as it now sounded, each man crept stealthily to his appointed place. Under the command of Lieutenant W. E. L. Sanders, R.N.R., and following his example of perfect calmness, the guns’ crews carried out their work without flurry or excitement.

Within five minutes the enemy, from a distance of 2,000 yards, had begun shelling the brigantine. The first shot fell 10 yards short, but the second and third struck the foretopsail yard—how strange it seems to use the time-honoured phrases of naval warfare for a twentieth-century fight—one shell going right through the yard. It happened that on this fine summer’s day there was no wind; so here was the unlucky Helgoland becalmed and unable to manœuvre so as to bring her guns to bear as required. It seemed as if the enemy intended to lie off and shell this perfect target with impunity, directing the fire from ahead and astern, which was just the way the brigantine’s guns would not bear. However, after the second shot from the submarine, the Helgoland’s guns would just bear, so Lieutenant Blair dropped his screens and opened fire whilst still there was a chance. The fourth round from the after gun seemed to hit the enemy, and she immediately lurched and dived. Lieutenant Blair then sent two of his hands aloft to look for periscopes, and in a few minutes one was sighted on the starboard quarter 200 yards away and closing. Two rounds from each of the starboard guns were therefore fired, one striking the water very close to the periscope, which again disappeared.

Nothing further happened until half an hour later, when a larger submarine with sail set, about the size of a drifter’s mizzen, was sighted right aft. As soon as this U-boat bore 3 points on the port quarter, she also was attacked, and dived under cover of her smoke screen. The afternoon passed, and at dusk (7 p.m.), when there was still no wind, the sound of a submarine’s motors was heard as if circling around the brigantine. An hour later Helgoland bent her new foretopsail, and just before 9.30 a submarine was seen right ahead, so in the calm the Q-ship could not get her guns to bear. Half an hour later, as there was still no wind, Helgoland spoke an armed trawler, who towed her back to Falmouth. Just as the two ships were communicating, the enemy fired a couple of torpedoes which, thanks to Helgoland’s shallow draught, passed under her amidships. So ended the brigantine’s first cruise. It was unfortunate that at long range she had been compelled to open fire and disclose her identity, but that was owing to the calm, and subsequently she was fitted with an auxiliary motor.

Fig. 6.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Helgoland’ and Submarine on October 24, 1916.

Her next fight was in much the same position, about 20 miles S.W. of the Lizard. At 6.20 a.m. on October 24, 1916, Helgoland, now commanded by Lieutenant G. G. Westmore, R.N.R., was on an E.S.E. course, the wind being S.W., force 4, and there was a moderate sea. About a mile off on the starboard bow was a large tramp steamer steering a westerly course, and presently was seen a submarine following astern of the tramp. Lieutenant Westmore at once sent his crew to quarters, keeping all of them out of sight, with the exception of the ratings who represented the watch that ordinarily would be seen on the deck of such a coaster. In order to pass close to the German, the brigantine hauled to the wind, and at 6.42 the submarine opened fire on the steamer. As the enemy was now abeam, and only 1,000 yards to windward of the Helgoland, Lieutenant Westmore determined that this was the opportune moment. To wait longer would only have meant an increase in the range; so down went the screens and fire was opened with the starboard guns. The second and third shots seemed to strike the enemy amidships, and she then dived, after firing only one round, which passed well astern. Everything had worked well except that the screen had jammed at the critical moment, but Lieutenant Sanders, who was seeing that guns and crew were ready, soon cleared it. While he was looking after his men, and Lieutenant Westmore was generally looking after the ship, Skipper William Smith, R.N.R., was at the wheel steering with marked coolness, and Skipper R. W. Hannaford, R.N.R., was in charge of the sails, handling them and trimming the yards as required.

The first submarine was painted a dark colour, with a brown sail set aft, so that at first she resembled one of our drifters. And now a second U-boat, painted a light colour with no sail, was seen two miles away heading for the tramp steamer. The latter happened to be the Admiralty transport Bagdale, whose crew had by now abandoned her, the ship’s boats being close to the submarine. Helgoland went about on the other tack and stood towards the enemy, so as to save the Bagdale, and at 4,000 yards fired at the submarine. The latter was not hit, dived, came to the surface and made off to the south-west, not being seen after this. The brigantine stood by the abandoned Bagdale, tacking ship at frequent intervals, so as to prevent the submarine resuming her onslaught. Soon after nine two trawlers were observed, and summoned by gunfire and rockets. They were sent to pick up the crew and to tow the transport into Falmouth. Thus, if no submarine had been sunk, this sailing ship had saved the steamer by frightening away the enemy, and there were more engagements still to follow.

By this—October, 1916—the Q-ship service had increased to such an extent that there were actually forty-seven decoy craft operating. These comprised almost every kind of vessel, from motor drifters to medium-sized steamers. Their success or failure depended partly on captain and crew, but partly on luck. Some Q-ships, as we have seen, never sighted a U-boat; others were in action as soon as they got out of port. The advantage of these Q-sailing-ships was that they could keep the sea independent of the shore for periods much longer than the trawlers or tramps. Owing to their roomy decks, these coasters were well suited for the erection of dummy deckhouses to conceal the armament, and another advantage was that, not utilizing engines or a propeller—except when used occasionally—there was no noise to prevent constant listening on the hydrophones. There was always the chance that during the dark hours, when the enemy on his hydrophones could not hear the sailing ship approaching, the schooner or brigantine might suddenly surprise and sink a submarine lying on the surface charging its batteries. The result was that in the first week of November another sailing craft was requisitioned. This was the three-masted barquentine Gaelic, which was then lying at Swansea loaded with 300 tons of coal. Gaelic, who was known officially afterwards also under the names of Gobo, Brig 11, and Q 22, was 126 feet 8 inches long and 21 feet in the beam. She had been built of iron in 1898, was registered at Beaumaris, and remained in service throughout the rest of the war. In August, 1918, she was operating in the Bay of Biscay, and then returned to Gibraltar. At the end of November she left ‘the Rock,’ reached Falmouth by the middle of December, and then was towed to Milford to be paid off, reconditioned, and returned to commercial work. But before then, as we shall presently see, she was to carry out some first-class work.

There is no person more conservative than the seafaring man; the whole history of the sailing ship shows this clearly enough, and it is curious how one generation is much the same as another. It was Lord Melville who, in the early years of the nineteenth century, stated that it was the duty of the Admiralty to discourage, to the utmost of their ability, the employment of steam vessels, as they considered the introduction of steam was calculated to strike a fatal blow to the naval supremacy of Great Britain. A hundred years later, although the Q-sailing-ship had justified herself, yet there was a sort of conservative prejudice against her development. ‘The small sailing vessel,’ complained a distinguished admiral, ‘will develop into a sailing line-of-battle ship with an electric-light party reefing topsails and a seaplane hidden in the foretopmen’s washdeck locker, and everybody seasick.’

Yes: there was much in common between this flag-officer and the noble lord, in spite of the intervening century.

CHAPTER VI
THE ‘MARY B. MITCHELL’

It was the activities and successes of the submarines in the western end of the English Channel that had made these small Q-sailing-ships so desirable. The first of these to be used in that area was the Mary B. Mitchell. She was a three-masted topsail steel schooner owned by Lord Penrhyn. Built at Carrickfergus in 1892 and registered at Beaumaris, she was 129 feet in length, and of 210 tons gross. In the middle of April, 1916, she happened to be lying in Falmouth with a cargo of china clay, and it was decided to requisition her. The difficulty always was to preserve secrecy during her fitting out, but in this case, luckily, she had recently suffered some damage, and this afforded an excellent excuse for paying off the mercantile crew. A new crew was selected for her and was trained specially for the work while she was being got ready for her special service. She was commissioned on May 5, and left Falmouth for her first cruise on June 26, and then operated for a month on end in the western approaches between Ushant, the Irish coast, and Milford.

Her captain was Lieutenant M. Armstrong, R.N.R., and she was known officially as the Mitchell and Q 9. During her cruising she sailed also under three different neutral flags, as convenient. Armed with three guns, her 12-pounder was hidden in a dummy collapsible house on the poop, and under each of the two hatches was a 6-pounder mounted on a swinging pedestal. There were also a couple of Lewis guns, some small arms and Mills hand-grenades. In spite of the thoroughness with which the guns were concealed, the collapsible arrangements had been made so ingeniously that all guns could be brought into action under three seconds. Before leaving Falmouth she was painted black with a yellow streak and bore the name

MARY Y. JOSE
VIGO

on her hull, so as to look like a neutral. But until she had got clear of Falmouth this inscription was covered over with a plate bearing her real name. In order to be able to pick up signals at sea she was fitted with a small wireless receiving set, the wire being easily disguised in the rigging. Rolling about in the swell of the Atlantic or the chops of the English Channel for four weeks at a time is apt to get on the nerves of a crew unable to have a stretch ashore: so in order to keep everyone on board fit and cheery, boxing-gloves and gymnastic apparatus were provided.

[Photo, Opie

Q sailing-ship “Mitchell”
Notice the after gun disclosed on the poop.

To face p. 68

No one could deny that she was an efficient ship. During her first cruise she used to carry out gun-trials at night; hatches sliding smoothly off, guns swinging splendidly into position, and a broadside fired as soon as the bell for action sounded. Until that bell was pressed, none of the crew was allowed to be visible on deck other than the normal watch. One of the difficulties in these ships was that the decks might be damaged with the shock of firing, but in the Mitchell they had been so strengthened that not a seam was sprung nor so much as a glass cracked. You may guess how perfect was her disguise from the following incident. Pretending she was a Spaniard, she was one day boarded at sea and examined by some of the Falmouth patrol trawlers. These were completely deceived, for even though their crews had watched her fitting out, yet she had painted herself a different colour the night before leaving that port. Even in the Bay of Biscay several British transports on sighting the ‘Spaniard’ altered course and steamed away, evidently suspecting she was co-operating with a submarine.

She was back from her first cruise on July 25 just before midnight and left again at midnight on August 3-4. This time she impersonated the French three-masted schooner Jeannette, a vessel of 226 tons, registered at La Houle, for Mitchell now made a cruise in the neighbourhood of the Channel Islands and the western channel. During the next few months she continued to sail about the last-mentioned area, in the Bristol Channel near Lundy Island, and in the Bay of Biscay, sometimes as Jeannette, sometimes as the Brine, of St. Malo, and sometimes as the Russian Neptun, of Riga.

It was in January, 1917, that she had an experience which showed the fine seamanship and sound judgment which were essential in the captain of such a secret ship. His name was Lieutenant John Lawrie, R.N.R., a man of strong personality, a real sailor, and possessed of valuable initiative. On the evening of January 7, Mitchell was off Berry Head, just east of Dartmouth, when bad weather came on, and this developed into a strong winter’s gale. There was every reason why a Q-ship should not run into the nearest port for shelter, as her presence would lead to awkward questions, whereas secrecy was the essence of her existence. The gale blew its fiercest, and by the following night Mitchell was having an alarming time. Just after 9.30 p.m the foremast and spars crashed over the side, carrying away her mainmast too. She then lay-to under close-reefed mizzen. A jurymast was rigged on the stump of the foremast, and the wind, having veered from W. through N.W. to N.E., she was able to set a reefed stay-sail. It was still blowing a strong gale, with what Lieutenant Lawrie described as a ‘mountainous sea’ running, and she drifted before the gale in a south-west direction towards Ushant.

In this predicament it was time to get assistance if possible, and about 9.15 on the morning of the 9th she signalled a large cargo steamer, who endeavoured to take Mitchell in tow, but eventually had to signal that this was impossible, and continued steaming on her way up Channel. The schooner was now about ten miles north of Ushant, an anxious position for any navigator going to leeward, but Lieutenant Lawrie considered she would drift clear. The north-east gale showed no sign of easing up during that evening. Signals of distress were made, a gun being fired every few minutes as well as rocket distress signals, and flares were kept burning; but no answering signal came from the shore. By this time the schooner was getting dangerously near to Ushant, and it could not be long before she and her crew would inevitably perish. However, she never struck, and at 9.30 p.m. the Norwegian S.S. Sardinia spoke her and stood by throughout the terrible night until 7 a.m. of the 10th. Then ensued a nice piece of seamanship when the steamer lowered into the sea a buoy with a small line attached. This Mitchell managed to pick up, and the tow-line was made fast. Sardinia then went ahead and towed her from a position 10 miles west (True) of Creach Point until 11.15 a.m. when near Les Pierres Light. Here a French torpedo-boat came towards them, so Lieutenant Lawrie hoisted the Red Ensign; but having done that he was clever enough also to show the White Ensign over the stern and in such a manner that the Norwegian was unable to see it. The captain of the French torpedo-boat at once understood, signalled to the Norwegian to cast off and that the torpedo-boat would take the schooner in tow. This was done at noon, and the Sardinia was informed that the name of the ship was the Mary B. Mitchell of Beaumaris, Falmouth to Bristol Channel with general cargo. It was a clever, ready answer on the part of the British captain. The torpedo-boat took the schooner into Brest, and at length, after being remasted and refitted she went back to carry on her work as a Q-ship. I submit that throughout the whole of that gale it was a fine achievement, not merely to have brought her through in safety, but without revealing her identity as a warship.

A different kind of adventure was now awaiting her. During June, 1917, she cruised about first as the French Marie Thérèse, of Cette, then as the French Eider, of St. Malo, her sphere of operation being, as before, in the western end of the English Channel, the Bay of Biscay, and near the Channel Islands. Mitchell was now fitted with a motor, but this was never used during daylight except when absolutely necessary. It was on the twentieth of that month, at 11.30 a.m., that she was in a position Lat. 47.13 N., Long. 7.23 W., when she sighted the conning-tower of a submarine 3 miles away on the port bow. The German began firing, so Mitchell was run up into the wind, hove-to, and ‘abandoned.’ By this time the enemy was on the starboard bow and continued firing for some time after the schooner’s boat had left the ship. Unsuspectingly the submarine came closer and closer, and more and more on the beam. Then after a short delay he proceeded parallel with the ship, and, altering course, made as if to go towards the Mitchell’s boat lying away on the port quarter. Suddenly he began to fire again, and being now not more than 800 yards off and in a suitable position, the schooner also opened fire, the first round from the 12-pounder appearing to hit. Altogether seventeen rounds were fired, seven seeming to be direct hits. The enemy did not reply, and within three minutes of being hit disappeared. Fortunately none of his score of rounds had struck the schooner, though they burst overhead in unpleasant proximity.

A further engagement with what was probably the same enemy occurred later on the same day. It was a favourite tactic for a submarine to follow a ship after disappearing for a while, and then, having got her hours later in a suitable position, to attack her again. I used to hear commanding officers say that they had certainly noticed this in regard to their own ships, and there are not lacking actual records of these methods, especially in the case of the slow-moving sailing Q-ships who could be seen across the sea for a long time; and it was part of these tactics to carry out this second attack just before night came on. Thus at 6.10 p.m., being now in Lat. 47.37 N., Long. 6.38 W., Mitchell again sighted a submarine, this time 4 miles away on the port quarter. The schooner kept her course, the submarine overtook her, and at 6.35 again shelled the ship. After the U-boat had fired half a dozen rapid rounds, Mitchell was hove-to and ‘abandoned,’ the enemy taking up a position well out on the port beam and firing until the boat was quite clear of the ship. Then the German stopped, exactly on the beam, 800 yards away, and waited for a long time before making any move. Suddenly he turned end on, came full speed towards the ship, dived, and when 400 yards away showed his periscope on the port side. Having got to within 50 yards he went full speed ahead, starboarded his helm, and began to rise quickly. As soon as the top of the conning-tower appeared and a couple of feet of hull were showing Mitchell cleared away and shelled him with the after 6-pounder. This seemed to pierce the conning-tower, a large blue flash and a volume of yellow vapour coming from the hole. Almost simultaneously the 12-pounder hit the enemy in the bows, but after this the enemy was too far forward for the schooner’s guns to bear. In a cloud of black smoke, yellow smoke, steam, and spray, she dived and was not seen again until 8.7 p.m. on the surface 5 miles to the westward, just as the ‘panic party’ were coming back on board the schooner. All speed was made, and the boat towed astern on an easterly course for the French coast. For a time the submarine followed, but then went off to the north-eastward and remained in sight until dark. The reader may wonder how a submarine, having once been holed, could remain afloat: but there are cases of undoubted authenticity where, in spite of being seriously injured, the submarine did get back to Germany. A remarkable instance of one thus damaged by a Q-sailing-ship will be given in a later chapter. But in the present case of the Mitchell, even if she had not sunk her submarine, she had fought two plucky engagements, in the opinion of the Admiralty, and the captain, Lieutenant John Lawrie, R.N.R., already the possessor of a D.S.C., was now awarded the D.S.O.—his two officers, Lieutenant John Kerr, R.N.R., and Lieutenant T. Hughes, R.N.R., being given each a D.S.C.

On the following August 3, when 20 miles south of the Start, Mitchell had yet another engagement. She had left Falmouth two days before as the Arius, of Riga, then as the French Cancalais, of La Houle, and cruised between the Lizard and the Owers, to Guernsey, and in the neighbourhood of Ushant. At 1.45 p.m. she was sailing close-hauled on the starboard tack, steering west; there was a fresh breeze, rather a rough sea, and a slight haze. Three miles away on the starboard beam appeared a submarine, who five minutes later began shelling the schooner. Lawrie let his ship fall off the wind, and the shells came bursting around, passing through sails and rigging, so after ten minutes of this the schooner hove-to and ‘abandoned’ ship. Slowly and cautiously the submarine approached, and when about 3,000 yards off stopped his engines, but continued to fire. Then he came up on the decoy’s starboard beam, about 1,000 yards away; but after fifteen minutes of shelling from this position, Lawrie decided that he could tempt the enemy no nearer. It was now 4 p.m., so Mitchell started her motor, cleared away all disguises, put the helm hard aport, and so brought the enemy well on the beam, allowing all four guns to bear. Over twenty shells were fired, of which three or four hit the base of the conning-tower; but the submarine, having replied with four shots, dived, and made off. For two hours and a quarter had this engagement been prolonged, and the enemy must have been considerably annoyed to have wasted seventy of his shells in this manner. There was every reason to suppose that he had received injuries, and though there were no fatalities aboard the schooner, yet the latter’s windlass, sails, rigging, and deck fittings had been damaged, and two of her men had been wounded. Lieutenant Lawrie received for this gallant fight a bar to his D.S.C., and a similar award was made to Lieutenant T. Hughes.

Such, briefly, was the kind of life that was spent month after month in these mystery sailing ships. It was an extraordinary mixture of monotony and the keenest excitement. From one hour to another no man knew whether he would be alive or dead, and the one essential thing consisted in absolute preparedness and mental alertness. To be surprised by the enemy was almost criminal; to escape narrowly from shipwreck, to remain unmoved under shell-fire, to see the spars crashing down and your shipmates laid out in great pain, to be hit and yet refusing to hit back until the right moment, to keep a clear head and a watchful eye, and all the time handle your ship so that the most was got out of the wind—all this was a part of your duty as a Q-ship man. Officers and men believed that if their Q-ship were torpedoed and any of them were captured, they would be shot as francs-tireurs. German prisoners had not hesitated to make this statement, although I do not remember an instance where this was carried out.

There can be no doubt but that these sailing ships had the most strenuous and arduous task of all. They suffered by being so useful, for the Q-steamships, as a rule, did not spend more than eight days at sea out of twelve, and then they had to come in for coal. The schooners, as we have seen, could keep the sea for a month, so long as they had sufficient water and provisions. Several more were added to the list during 1917 and 1918, and there was never any lack of volunteers for them. The only difficulty was, in these days of steam, in choosing those who had had experience in sailing craft. The revival of the sailing man-of-war was certainly one of the many remarkable features in the naval campaign.

CHAPTER VII
MORE SAILING SHIPS

During the ensuing months many demands were made on the sailing-ship man-of-war. There were pressed into the service such vessels as the schooner Result, the 220-ton lugger Bayard, the three-masted schooner Prize, the motor drifter Betsy Jameson, the ketch Sarah Colebrooke, the auxiliary schooner Glen (alias Sidney), the brigantine Dargle, the Brown Mouse yacht, built on the lines of a Brixham trawler, and so on. The barquentine Merops, otherwise known as Maracaio and Q 28, began decoy work in February, 1917. She was fitted out in the Firth of Forth with a couple of 12-pounders and a 4-inch gun. At the end of May she had a severe engagement with a submarine, and was considerably damaged aloft. In March the 158-ton Rye motor ketch Sarah Colebrooke was requisitioned, and sent to Portsmouth to be fitted out, appearing in May as the Bolham. A month later, 20 miles south of Beachy Head, she fought a submarine, and had quite an unpleasant time. One of the enemy’s shells exploded under the port quarter, lifting the ketch’s stern high out of the water, another exploded under the port leeboard, sending a column of water on board, and swamping the boat; whilst a third burst on board, doing considerable damage. She fought the submarine until the latter disappeared, but the Bolham’s motor was by this time so choked with splinters and glass that she could not proceed to the spot where the submarine had last been seen, and of course it so happened that there was no wind.

On June 8 four fishing smacks were captured and sunk off the Start in full view of the Q-smack Prevalent, a Brixham trawler armed with a 12-pounder. Again it happened to be a calm, so Prevalent, being too far away, was unable to render assistance. After this incident it was decided to fit an auxiliary motor in the trawler-yacht Brown Mouse, which was doing similar service and was specially suitable for an engine. On the following day our friend Helgoland had another encounter, this time off the north coast of Ireland, the exact spot being 8 miles N. by W. of Tory Island. The fight began at 7.25 a.m., and half an hour later the submarine obtained a direct hit on the after-gun house of the brigantine, killing one man, wounding four ratings, and stunning the whole of the after-guns’ crews. But Helgoland, with her charmed life, was not sunk, and she shelled the submarine so fiercely that the U-boat had to dive and disappear.

Even a private yacht was taken up for this work in June. This was the 116-ton topsail schooner Lisette, which had formerly belonged to the Duke of Sutherland. She had been built as far back as 1873 with a standing bowsprit and jibboom. She was taken from Cowes to Falmouth, where she was commissioned in August, and armed with three 6-pounders. But this old yacht was found to leak so much through her seams, and her construction was so light, that she was never a success, and was paid off in the following spring. In April, 1917, the auxiliary schooner Sidney (alias Glen) began service as a decoy, having been requisitioned from her owners and fitted out at Portsmouth. A crew was selected from the Trawler Reserve, but the guns’ crews were naval. Armed with a 12-pounder and a 3-pounder, she was fitted with wireless, and cruised about in the English Channel, her complement consisting of Lieutenant R. J. Turnbull (R.N.R.), in command, one sub-lieutenant (R.N.R.), one skipper (R.N.R.), two R.N.R. seamen, one R.N.R. stoker to run the motor, a signal rating, a wireless operator, four R.N. ratings for the big gun, and three for the smaller one. During the afternoon of July 10, 1917, Glen was in combat with a submarine of the UC type, and had lowered her boat in the customary manner. A German officer from the conning-tower hailed the boat, and in good English ordered her to come alongside. This was being obeyed, when something seemed to startle the officer, who suddenly disappeared into the conning-tower, and the submarine began to dive. Glen therefore opened fire, and distinctly saw two holes abaft the conning-tower as the UC-boat rolled in the swell. She was not seen again, and the Admiralty rewarded Glen’s captain and Sub-Lieutenant K. Morris, R.N.R., with a D.S.C. each.

During the month of January, 1917, the naval base at Lowestoft called for volunteers for work described as ‘dangerous, at times rather monotonous, and not free from discomfort.’ Everyone, of course, knew that this meant life in a Q-ship. The vessel selected was the 122-ton three-masted topsail schooner Result, which was owned at Barnstaple, and had in December come round to Lowestoft from the Bristol Channel. Here she was fitted out and commissioned at the beginning of February, being armed with a couple of 12-pounders, but also with torpedo-tubes. As a sailing craft she was slow, unhandy, and practically unmanageable in light winds. At the best she would lie no nearer to the wind than 5½ points, and in bad weather she was like a half-tide rock. True, she had a Bolinders motor, but the best speed they could thus get out of her was 2½ knots. The result was that her officers had great difficulty in keeping her out of the East Coast minefields, and did not always succeed. She took in 100 tons of sand as ballast, and a rough cabin was fashioned out of the hold for the two officers. In command was appointed Lieutenant P. J. Mack, R.N. (retired), a young officer who had seen service at the Dardanelles in the battleship Lord Nelson and in the historic River Clyde, whence he had been invalided home. As he was not an expert in the art of sailing, there was selected to accompany him as second in command Lieutenant G. H. P. Muhlhauser, R.N.R., who was not a professional seaman, but a keen amateur yachtsman of considerable experience, who had made some excellent cruises in his small yacht across the North Sea and had passed the Board of Trade examination as master of his own yacht. The sailing master who volunteered was an ex-schooner sailor, and her mate also was an old blue-water seaman. The motor man was a motor mechanic out of one of the Lowestoft M.L.’s, and there was a trimmer from the Trawler Reserve. She carried also a wireless operator, a cook, a chief petty officer, deckhands, and some Royal Naval ratings for the armament. All the crew, consisting of twenty-two, had seen considerable service during the war in various craft, and one of the deckhands was in the drifter Linsdell, which was blown up on an East Coast minefield at the commencement of the war. He had been then picked up by H.M.S. Speedy, who in turn was immediately blown up. This man survived again, and was now a volunteer in a Q-ship. Result’s crew were trained to go to their ‘panic stations’ at the given signal, when the bulwarks were let down and the tarpaulins removed from the guns, the engineer on those occasions standing at the hatchway amusingly disguised as a woman passenger, arrayed in a pink blouse and a tasselled cap which had been kindly provided by a lady ashore.

On February 9 Result was all ready as a warship, and motored out of Lowestoft. She then disguised herself as a neutral, affixed Dutch colours to her topsides, and proceeded via Yarmouth Roads to the neighbourhood of the North Hinder, the other side of the North Sea, where the enemy was very fond of operating. On the fifteenth of the following month Result was cruising off the south-west end of the Dogger Bank when she encountered UC 45 in the morning. Lieutenant Muhlhauser, who was kind enough to give me his account of the incident, has described it with such vividness that I cannot do better than present the version in his own words. It should be added that at the time Result was steering E.S.E., and was now in the position Lat. 54.19 N., Long. 1.45 E. The submarine was sighted 2½ miles astern, the wind was northerly, force 5 to 6, the sea being 4 to 5 and rapidly rising. In other words, it was a nasty, cold North Sea day, and one in which it would have been most unpleasant to have been torpedoed. The engagement was a difficult one, as the ship had to be manœuvred so that her guns would bear, and careful seamanship had to be used to prevent her lying in the trough of the sea. As it was, with bulwarks down, the decks and gun-wells were awash and frequently full of water, while the submarine, being only occasionally visible when Result was on the top of the sea, made a target that was anything but easy.

‘By 7 a.m.,’ says Lieutenant Muhlhauser, ‘we had got all the topsails off her, and at this moment the C.O. appeared on deck and, looking aft, said, “Why, there is a submarine!” and at the same moment it was reported from aloft. Word was passed to the watches below to stand by. In a few minutes came the report of a gun. I do not know where the shell went. The men ran to their stations, or crawled there according to what their job was, and the ship was brought on the wind. The submarine continued firing at the rate of a shell every minute or thereabouts. The C.O. then ordered the jibs to be run down, and while this was being done a shell stranded the foretopmast forestay, but luckily did not burst. It went off whistling. Some of the shells were fairly well aimed, but the bulk were either 50 or 60 yards short or over, and at times more than that. As the submarine kept about 2,000 yards off, the C.O. ordered the boat away, with the skipper in charge. Four hands went with him. He was reluctant to go, I think, though, as a matter of fact, he ran quite as much risk as did those remaining on board, if not more, as he would have been in an awkward position if by any chance the ship worked away from him and the submarine got him. It would have been a hard job to persuade the submariners that he was anything but British. However, off he went in a nasty sea. In lowering the boat we made efforts to capsize her, but she was difficult to upset, and as the sub. was some way off and unlikely to see the “accident,” we did not waste much time on it, but let her go down right side up. Away went the skipper and his crew, and he admits feeling lonely with a hostile submarine near by and the ship and her guns working away from him. He says he was struck with the beauty of her lines, and she never appeared more attractive to him. As a matter of fact, his was a rotten position, which was not improved by the sub. firing at him two or three shells, which went over and short. Evidently the submarine, which by the way had closed to 1,000 yards as soon as the boat left the ship, wanted him to pull towards it, instead of which he was digging out after us manfully. Meanwhile the ship appeared quite deserted. Everyone was concealed. The C.O. prowled around the deck on his hands and knees, peering through cracks and rivet holes in the bulwarks to see how the submarine was getting on. All I could see of him was the stern position of his body and the soles of an enormous pair of clogs. I sat on deck at the wheel, trying to get and keep the ship in the wind, so as not to get too far from the boat. All this time the submarine was firing steadily, and one shell went through the mizzen, while others, as the C.O. reported from time to time, burst short, some of them close. Splinters from the latter went through the stay- and fore-sails. At 1,000 yards the ship is a fairly big target, and the shooting of the Huns must be put down as bad.

‘It is all very well serving as a target at 1,000 yards, but it is an experience which must not be too long continued in case a lucky shot disables one. In the present case, moreover, the wind and sea were rapidly increasing, and we were leaving the boat in spite of all our efforts to stop. The submarine seemed quite determined not to come any nearer, and the C.O. decided that the moment had come for our side to begin. Just before this one of the bulwarks, luckily on the side away from the sub., had fallen down, and let a deluge of water on to the decks, but this did not affect things as far as we know.

‘At the word, down fell the bulwarks, round came the guns, and up went the White Ensign. Only the after 12-pounder gun would bear. The first shell struck the submarine at the junction of the conning-tower and deck forward. The 6-pounder also fired one shell, and hit the conning-tower. The second shell from the big gun burst short. By the time the smoke had cleared away the submarine had disappeared. Had we sunk her or had she dipped? This is the point which is exercising our minds. The C.O. thinks the evidence of sinking her is not conclusive, but most of us think she has gone down for ever.

‘We then made for the boat, which was still labouring after us, and got it hooked on and hoisted. There was quite a decent-sized sea, and the hoisting process was not very pleasant for those left in to hook on, not to mention that they got wet from the exhaust.

‘At the time the sub. was firing, one of the officers or crew was standing on the conning-tower rails, probably spotting for the gunners. He was there when the first shell struck, but was not noticed afterwards. Very likely he had fallen into the tower, but he may have fallen into the water.

‘We certainly gave them a lesson in gunnery, two hits out of three shots. Compare that with their performance. Moreover, our guns had to be swung into position, while theirs was already pointed.

‘Having picked up the boat, we made for the spot where the sub. had disappeared, but could not be sure that we had reached it. Anyway, we saw no traces of it. We did not spend much time in searching, but put the ship back on her course. The wind and sea were by this time strong and heavy, and after running out for half an hour we turned and headed west, with the idea of being near shelter if a north-east gale, which I had predicted, came along. As a matter of fact it did not, and my reputation as a weather-prophet is tarnished. Our alteration of course was made solely from weather conditions, but it must have seemed very suspicious to a second submarine which now arrived on the scene, and which had probably been chasing us without our knowing it. Instead of it chasing us, it suddenly found us coming to meet it, and must have been puzzled. By way of clearing the air it fired a torpedo from a distance of about 2,000 yards, and missed us by about 200 yards—a bad effort. It then fired three shells at us, which also went wide. There is no doubt that this was another, and smaller, submarine from the first, but we did not grasp this at first, and so without more ado we let drive at it, but unluckily the gun missed fire twice. Fleet then opened the breech, at some risk to himself, and drew out the cartridge and threw it away. But this wasted time, and when he did fire the shell went short. The submarine had taken advantage of the pause to get ready to dive, and did not wait for another shot, but went under as soon as we fired.

‘It was no use waiting about, as we should very likely have been torpedoed, so we went on towards the land.

‘And so ended what the skipper calls the “Battle of the Silver Pit,” from the name of the fishing ground where it took place. As far as it went it was satisfactory, but we should like to be sure that we sank the first. The two engagements took about two hours. Possibly by waiting we might have done better, but, on the other hand, we might have done worse.’

It was eventually known that the first submarine was UC 45, who paid the Result the compliment of describing this ship’s gunfire as well-controlled. She got back safely to Germany. For the manner in which the fighting had been conducted, Lieutenant Mack and the skipper were both mentioned in despatches.

After the return to Lowestoft, Result was altered in appearance and was sent off to the area where this encounter had taken place. This time she used Swedish colours, and called herself the Dag. On this voyage, whilst in the vicinity north of the North Hinder Bank, on April 4, about 4 a.m., a submarine was seen on the port bow, but disappeared. It was so big that at first it resembled a steamer or destroyer. Presently a periscope was seen about 4 points on the bow, resembling a topmast, as it had a rake. The lower portion was about 6 inches in diameter, and a narrower stem protruded from this, terminating in a ball, and whilst officers and crew watched it, wondering whether it was the mast of a wreck or not, it slowly dipped and vanished. This was the submarine in the act of taking a photograph. She then retired to a distance convenient for shelling. There was a light westerly breeze, and the enemy now bobbed up at intervals all round the Dag, examining her very carefully. Lieutenant Muhlhauser writes of this incident:

‘Then followed a pause of nearly half an hour without our seeing anything of him. The cook was sent to the galley to get on with breakfast and we started the engine. It is hardly necessary to say that as it was particularly wanted it ran very badly, and, indeed, could hardly be kept going at all. Suddenly a shell burst near us, followed by another and another. We could not at first tell the direction from which they came, and thought it was from astern, but found that the submarine had cunningly moved away towards the sun, and had emerged in the mist behind the path of the sun, where he was practically invisible from our ship, while we were lit up and must have offered a splendid target with our white hull and sails. His shooting was very good, and none of the shells missed us by much. He fired rapidly, and was probably using a 4·1-inch semi-automatic gun. The shells all burst on striking the water, and the explosions had a vicious sound. They seemed to come at a terrific speed, suggesting a high-velocity gun. The C.O. calmly walked the deck, the skipper took the wheel, and I sat at the top of the cabin hatchway and noted the times and numbers of shells fired and anything else of interest. The rest of the crew were at their stations, but keeping below the bulwarks, except those who launched the boat and let it tow astern. The eleventh shell struck us just above the water-line, and soused us all with spray which flew up above the peak of the mainsail. It tore a hole in the side and burst in the sand ballast, reducing the skipper’s cabin to matchwood, and destroying the wireless instrument. It also knocked down the sides of the magazine and set fire to the wood, starting some of the rockets smouldering. It also smashed up the patent fire extinguishers, and possibly the fumes from these prevented the fire from spreading. Anyway, it was out when we had time to see what was happening.

‘In the meantime we could not afford to be hit again, and the C.O. gave the word to open fire. Down went the bulwarks and round swung the guns, but where was the target? Hidden in the mist behind the sun’s path it was invisible to the gun-layers looking through telescopes, and they were obliged to fire into the gloom at a venture. The poor little 6-pounder was quite outranged, and it is doubtful if the shells went more than two-thirds of the way. The other guns had sufficient range, but it was impossible to judge the distance or observe the fall of the shots. However, they made a glorious and cheering noise, and Fritz dived as soon as he could. There is not the least reason for thinking that we hit him. The skipper, deceived by the low freeboard revealed when the bulwarks were down, at this stage quickly announced the conviction that she was sinking. Smoke was also pouring out of the hatches, and we had two wounded men to see to: Ryder, who was in the magazine and who was hit in the arm, sustaining a compound fracture, and Morris, also in the magazine, bruised in the back and suffering from shock. We were not, therefore, in a position to continue the battle, and things looked a bit blue. Fritz might be expected to be along in a few minutes submerged, and he would have little difficulty in torpedoing us, as we were very nearly a stationary target. We had no means of warding him off except by a depth charge. That might inconvenience him, but it would hardly delay him long, and he could then either torpedo us or retire out of range of our guns and pound us to pieces, as his gun had a range of about 5,000 yards more than ours. Sure enough he was soon after us, as we crawled along at our 4-knot gait, and raised his periscope right astern about 200 yards off.

‘We then slung over a depth charge, and had just got our 10-feet clearance when it went off, and made quite a creditable stir for a little ‘un. Fritz promptly disappeared to think things over, and we were relieved of the sight of the sinister-looking periscope. But we had only delayed things a little. He would soon recover and adopt fresh tactics. Still, for ten minutes we should have peace to attend to our wounded and the damage. The C.O. supervised the bandaging of Ryder, who had been lying on deck since he had been drawn out of the magazine. I had passed him—passed over him, in fact—once or twice in going forward, and thought he was dead, as he lay so still. Then the hole in the side wanted attention, and also the fire below. Just then the look-outs reported the Halcyon[2] and two P-boats ahead coming our way. We were extremely glad to hear them shout out, as it meant all the difference between being sunk and not being sunk. When the skipper had called out “She is sinking, sir,” I thought of the number our little boat would hold, and the number of the crew, and had reflected that my number was up. The arrival of the Halcyon and her attendants put a different complexion on things, and while efforts were being made by guns to attract their attention, I set about plugging our hole and trying to find the fire.

‘Stringer warned me that he had tried to get below, but had found the fumes too much. By the time I got there they must have cleared, as I did not find them too bad. The place was full of smoke, but though I pulled things about blindly, as it was impossible to see anything, I could not see any glow to indicate a fire. Ultimately I did see a light, but on making for it I found it was Dawes and an electric light. He had entered from the mess-deck. There appearing to be no immediate danger from fire, I crawled round to the shot-hole and found water coming in through rivet holes. The main hole had been plugged from the outside by two coal-bags and a shot-hole plug. I got tools and cut up some wood, while Wreford cut up a coal-bag into 6-inch squares. These Dawes and I hammered home, and made her fairly tight.

‘Meanwhile great efforts were being made to communicate with the Halcyon, to let them know that a submarine was about, and to ask for a doctor. We could not get the Halcyon, but one of the P-boats came rushing by at full speed, and asked where we were from! They had not recognized us! We could get nothing out of these ships. They rushed about the horizon at full speed and disappeared into the mist and came out of it again somewhere else, but generally kept away from us, though occasionally a P-boat tore past going “all out.”

‘While this circus was going on, a number of T.B.D.’s were reported on our starboard quarter, and three light cruisers and then T.B.D.’s swept into sight and seemed to fill the whole horizon. They went on, ignoring our request for a doctor, and disappeared in the mist, but their place was taken by other T.B.D.’s. The place seemed full of them. Where they all came from I do not know, or what they were doing, but everywhere one looked one could see some of these beautiful vessels rushing along. It was a fine, stirring sight. Finally we got one of them to stop and lower a whaler with a doctor. While she was stopped her companion ships steamed round to ward off attack. The doctor came on board, and decided that Ryder ought to go in at once, and the T.B.D. Torrent agreed to take him in when asked by signal. So away went poor Ryder in great pain, I fear, in spite of two morphia pills which we gave him. The C.O. was afraid that we had given him too much, but one did not seem to do him much good, so we gave him another one.

‘While we were transshipping him, the Halcyon came tearing past, and shouted that there was a hostile submarine 3 miles to the southward. This, however, did not worry us with all these T.B.D.’s around. We were in a scene of tremendous, even feverish, activity. There were sweepers, T.B.D.’s, P-boats, and our own submarines all about. At 6 a.m. the world held us and a very nasty, large, hostile submarine, which could both outrange and outmanœuvre us, and the game seemed up. At 6.30 a.m. we were as safe as one could wish to be, with a considerable portion of England’s light forces around us. “Some change!”’

CHAPTER VIII
SUBMARINES AND Q-SHIP TACTICS

In order properly to appreciate the difficulties of the Q-ships, it is necessary to understand something of the possibilities and limitations of the U-boats. No one could hope to be successful with his Q-ship unless he realized what the submarine could not do, and how he could attack the U-boat in her weakest feature. If the submarine’s greatest capability lay in the power of rendering herself invisible, her greatest weakness consisted in remaining thus submerged for a comparatively short time. On the surface she could do about 16 knots; submerged, her best speed was about 10 knots. As the heart is the vital portion of the human anatomy, so the battery was the vital part of the submarine’s invisibility. At the end of a couple of hours, at the most, it was as essential for her to rise to the surface, open her hatches, and charge her batteries as it is for a whale or a porpoise to come up and breathe. It was the aim, then, of all anti-submarine craft to use every endeavour to keep the U-boat submerged as long as possible. Those Q-ships who could steam at 10 knots and over had a good chance then of following the submarine’s submerged wake and despatching her with depth charges. If she elected not to dive, there was nothing for it but to tempt her within range and bearing of your guns and then shell her. To ram was an almost impossible task, though more than one submarine was in this way destroyed.

The difficulty of anti-submarine warfare was increased when the enemy became so wary that he preferred to remain shelling the ship at long range, and this led to our Q-ships having to be armed with at least one 4-inch against his 4·1-inch gun. The famous Arnauld de la Périère, who, in spite of his semi-French ancestry, was the ablest German submarine captain in the Mediterranean, was especially devoted to this form of tactics. Most of the German submarines were double-hulled, the space between the outer and inner hulls being occupied by water ballast and oil fuel. The conning-tower was literally a superstructure imposed over the hull, and not an essential part of the ship. That is why, as we have already seen, the Q-ship could shell holes into the tower and yet the U-boat was not destroyed. Similarly, a shell would often pierce the outer hull and do no very serious damage other than causing a certain amount of oil to escape. Only those who have been in British and German submarines, and have seen a submarine under construction, realize what a strong craft she actually is.

The ideal submarine would weigh about the same amount as the water surrounding her. That being a practical impossibility, before she submerges she is trimmed down by means of water ballast, but then starts her engines and uses her planes for descent in the same way as an aeroplane. The flooding tanks, as we have seen, are between the two hulls, and the hydroplanes are in pairs both forward and aft. The U-boat has been running on the surface propelled by her internal-combustion motors. Obviously these cannot be used when she is submerged, or the air in the ship would speedily be used up. When about to submerge, the German captain trimmed his ship until just afloat; actually he frequently cruised in this trim when in the presence of shipping, ready to dive if attacked. The alarm was then pressed, the engineer pulled out the clutch, the coxswain controlling the forward hydroplane put his helm down, the captain entered the conning-tower, the hatch was closed, and away the steel fish cruised about beneath the surface.

The U-boat was now running on her electric batteries. By means of two periscopes a view was obtained not merely of the sea above, but also of the sky, so that surface craft and aircraft might be visible. The order would be given to submerge to say 10 metres. Alongside each of the two coxswains was a huge dial marked in metres, and it was the sole duty of these two men to watch the dials, and by operating a big wheel controlling each hydroplane maintain the submarine at such a depth. Horizontal steering was done also by a wheel, and course kept by means of a gyroscope compass, a magnetic compass in this steel ship with so much electricity about being out of the question. The batteries were charged while the submarine was on the surface by turning the oil engines into a dynamo by means of the clutch, the hour before dawn and the hour after sunset being favourable times for so charging.

The reader will have noted the preliminary methods of attack on the part of the submarine and his manner of varying his position. He divided his attack into two. The first was the approach, the second was the attack proper. The former was made at a distance of 12,000 yards, and during this time he was using his high-power, long-range periscope, manœuvring into position, and ascertaining the course and speed of the on-coming Q-ship. The attack proper was made at 800 or 400 yards, and for this purpose the short-range periscope was used. Now watch the U-boat in his attempt to kill. He is to rely this time not on long-range shelling, but on the knock-out blow by means of his torpedo: he has endeavoured, therefore, to get about four points on the Q-ship’s bow, for this is the very best position, and he has dived to about 60 feet. During the approach his torpedo-tubes have been got ready, the safety-pins have been removed, and the bow caps of the tubes opened. The captain has already ascertained the enemy’s speed and the deflection or angle at which the torpedo-tube must point ahead of the Q-ship at the moment of firing. When the enemy bears the correct number of degrees of deflection the tube is fired, the periscope lowered, speed increased, and, if the torpedo has hit the Q-ship, the concussion will be felt in the submarine. This depends entirely on whether the Q-ship’s speed and course have been accurately ascertained. The torpedo has travelled at a speed of 36 knots, so, knowing the distance to be run, the captain has only to look at his stop-watch and reckon the time when his torpedo should have hit. If the German was successful he usually hoisted his periscope and cruised under the stern of the ship to obtain her name. If he were an experienced officer he never came near her, after torpedoing, unless he was quite certain she was abandoned and that she was not a trap. During 1917 and onwards, having sunk the Q-ship, the submarine would endeavour to take the captain prisoner, and one Q-ship captain, whose ship sank underneath him, found himself swimming about and heard the U-boat’s officer shouting to the survivors, ‘Vere is der kapitan?’ but the men had the good sense to lie and pretend their skipper was dead. After this the submarine shoved off, and my friend took refuge with others in a small raft. But frequently a submarine would wait a considerable time cruising round the sinking ship, scrutinizing her, examining the fittings, and expecting to find badly hinged bulwarks, a carelessly fitted wireless aerial, a suspicious move of a ‘deckhouse’ or piece of tarpaulin hiding the gun. This was the suspense which tried the nerves of most Q-ship crews, especially when it was followed by shelling.

We have seen that the U-boat sought to disguise herself by putting up a sail when in the vicinity of fishing craft or patrol vessels. The submarine which torpedoed one ship disguised her periscope by a soap box, so that it was not realized till too late that this innocent-looking box was floating against the tide. At the best the submarine was an unhandy craft, and it took her from three to six minutes to make a big alteration of course, inasmuch as she had to dive deeper lest she should break surface or disturb the surface of the water. Again, when running submerged, if she wished to turn 16 points—e.g., from north to south—the pressure on her hull made it very difficult.

It may definitely be stated that those who went to their doom in U-boats had no pleasant death. When the Q-ship caused the enemy to be holed so that he could not rise and the water poured in, this water, as it moved forward in the submarine, was all the time compressing the air, and those of the crew who had not already committed suicide suffered agonies. Moreover, even if a little of the sea got into the bilges where the batteries were placed there was trouble also. Sea-water in contact with the sulphuric acid generated chlorine, a very deadly gas, which asphyxiated the crew. There is at least one case on record of a U-boat surrendering to a patrol boat in consequence of his crew having become incapacitated by this gas; and on pulling up the floorboards of a British submarine, one has noticed the chlorine smell very distinctly. The dropping by the decoy ship of depth charges sometimes totally destroyed the submarine, but even if this was not accomplished straight away, it had frequently a most salutary effect: for, at the least, it would start some of the U-boat’s rivets, smash all the electric bulbs in the ship, and put her in total darkness. The nasty jar which this and the explosion gave to the submarine’s crew had a great moral effect. A month’s cruise in a submarine in wintry Atlantic weather, hunted and chased most of the way from Heligoland to the Fastnet and back, is calculated to try any human nerves: but to be depth-charged periodically, or surprised and shelled by an innocent-looking tramp or schooner, does not improve the enthusiasm of the men. Frequently it happened that the decoy ship’s depth charges merely put the hydroplanes out of gear so that they jammed badly. The U-boat would then make a crash-dive towards the bottom. At 100 feet matters became serious, at 200 feet they became desperate; and presently, owing to pressure, the hull would start buckling and leaking. Then, by sheer physical strength, the hydroplanes had to be coaxed hard over, and then up would come the U-boat to the surface, revealing herself, and an easy prey for the Q-ship’s guns, who would finish her off in a few fierce minutes. Life in a U-boat was no picnic, but death was the worst form of torture, and such as could be conveyed to the imagination only by means of a Théâtre Guignol play.

It was the obvious duty of the Q-ships to make the life of a U-boat as nearly as possible unbearable, and thus save the lives of our ships and men of the Mercantile Marine. It was no easy task, and even with perfect organization, well-thought-out tactics, and well-trained crews, it would happen that something would rob the decoy of her victory. On October 20, 1916, for instance, the Q-ship Salvia, one of the sloop-class partially reconstructed with a false counter-stern to resemble a 1,000-ton tramp, was off the west coast of Ireland when a submarine appeared astern, immediately opened fire, and began to chase. Salvia stopped her engines to allow the enemy to close more rapidly, but the U-boat, observing this, hauled out on to the Salvia’s starboard quarter, and kept up her firing without shortening the range of 2,000 yards. Salvia next endeavoured to close the range by going slow ahead and altering slightly towards the enemy, but the latter’s fire was now becoming so accurate that Salvia was soon hit on the starboard side by a 4·1-inch high-explosive shell. This burst through in nine places in the engine-room bulkhead, smashing an auxiliary steam-pipe and causing a large escape of steam. The engines were now put full ahead, and course was made for the enemy, who sheered away and shortly afterwards dived.

Fig. 7.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Salvia’ in her Action with Submarine on October 20, 1916.

That being so, Salvia deemed it prudent to pretend to run away, but in the middle of the evolution her steering gear unfortunately broke down, and before control was established again with hand-steering gear, the ship had swung 90 degrees past her course, and the submarine reappeared on the port beam about 1,500 yards away, but presently disappeared. The breakdown had been most unfortunate, for otherwise a short, sharp action at about 700 yards would have been possible, followed by an excellent chance of dropping a depth charge very close to the enemy. In that misty weather, with a rough sea and a fairly strong breeze, it had been difficult to see any part of the U-boat’s hull, for she had trimmed herself so as to have little buoyancy, and only her conning-tower could be discerned. Below, in the Q-ship, the engine-room staff found themselves up against difficulties; for it was an awkward job repairing the leaking steam-pipe, as the cylinder tops and the engine-room were full of live steam and lyddite fumes. The chief artificer and a leading stoker were overcome by the fumes, but the job was tackled so that steam could be kept up in the boilers.

A few months later Salvia (alias Q 15) ended her career. Just before seven o’clock on the morning of June 20, 1917, when in Lat. 52.15 N., Long. 16.18 W.—that is to say, well out in the Atlantic—she was struck on the starboard side abreast the break of the poop by a submarine’s torpedo. Troubles did not come singly, for this caused the depth charge aft to explode by concussion, completely wrecking the poop, blowing the 4-inch gun overboard, and putting the engines totally out of action. Here was a nice predicament miles from the Irish coast. At 7.15 a.m., as the after part of the ship was breaking up, her captain sent away in the boats all the ship’s company except the crews of the remaining guns and others required in case the ship should be saved. The submarine now began to shell Salvia heavily from long range, taking care to keep directly astern. The shells fell close to the boats, so these were rowed farther to the eastward. A shell then struck the wheelhouse and started a fire, which spread rapidly to the upper bridge. It was now time for the remainder of the crew to leave in Carley rafts, and temporarily the submarine ceased fire; but when one boat started to go back to the ship the enemy at once reopened his attack. He then closed the rafts and took prisoner Salvia’s captain, who arrived safely in Germany, and was released at the end of the war. At 9.15 a.m. the ship sank, and ten minutes later the submarine disappeared. Thus Salvia’s people were suddenly bereft of ship and skipper, with the broad Atlantic to row about in, boisterous weather, and a heavy sea. The boat which had endeavoured to return to the ship then proceeded to search for the men in the Carley rafts, but could see nothing of them. After about an hour this boat sighted what looked like a tramp steamer, so hoisted sail and ran down to meet her. At 11.20 a.m. this steamer picked them up: she happened to be another disguised sloop, the Q-ship Aubrietia, commanded by Admiral Marx, a gallant admiral who had come back to sea from his retirement, and as Captain, R.N.R., was now taking a hand in the great adventure. Search was then made, and within two hours the men in the rafts were picked up, and a little later the other three boat-loads were located: but five men had been killed, three by the first explosion in Salvia and two by shell-fire. It had been a sad, difficult day.

In the Mediterranean the enemy was showing an increased caution against likely decoys, and by the beginning of December, 1916, had already sunk a couple of Q-ships. The Q-ship Saros (Lieut.-Commander R. C. C. Smart) was operating in this sea, and had an engagement on October 30, thirteen miles from Cape San Sebastian. The engine-room was ordered to make smoke, as though the stokers were endeavouring to get the utmost speed out of the ship: at the same time the engines were rung down to ‘slow.’ But the enemy realized the ruse and slowed down, too. Lieut.-Commander Smart endeavoured to make the enemy think a panic had seized the ship. So the firemen off watch were sent below to put on lifebelts and then to man the boats. Stewards ran about, placing stores and blankets in the boats, but the enemy insisted on shelling, so Saros had to do the same, whereupon the submarine’s guns’ crews made a bolt for the inside of the U-boat, and then made off. As soon as she had got out of sight, Saros changed her disguise, taking the two white bands off the funnel, hoisting Spanish colours, and altering course for the Spanish coast.

Fig. 8.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Saros’ in her Action with Submarine on November 3, 1916.

Three days later Saros was returning to the Gibraltar-Malta shipping track, heading for the Cani Rocks, after carrying out firing exercises. At half-past four in the afternoon, the officer of the watch heard a shot, and saw a submarine 7,000 yards off on the starboard beam. She was not trimmed for diving, and was apparently trimmed to cruise like this during the night on the surface. She seemed quite careless and slow about her movements, evidently never suspecting Saros’ true character. Saros altered course towards the enemy, who was firing all the time, one round exploding and falling on board and several coming close over the bridge. The U-boat, after going on an opposite course, very slowly turned to starboard to get on a parallel course, and men were seen hoisting up ammunition on deck. The light was bad, and it was becoming late, but Saros had manœuvred to get the German in a suitable position as regards the sun, so at 5,500 yards range opened fire with her 4-inch and 12-pounder at 4.44 p.m. This shocked the Teuton, so that the crew which had been sitting around smoking, and apparently criticizing the old ‘merchantman,’ suddenly became active, lowered the wireless masts and disappeared below. By the tenth round, the enemy, who appeared to have been hit, dived, and at 4.50 p.m. Saros ceased fire. Course was then altered to where she had last been seen, and just before turning, the enemy for a moment showed himself, but as the gun-layer was ready the German disappeared, and then artfully cruised about submerged, so as to get in a good position. She was never seen again, but at 5.15 p.m. a torpedo passed just ahead of the Saros, and thereafter the latter zigzagged at her utmost speed. During the night there was a moon until midnight, and an anxious time was spent. Owing to the amount of sea, Saros was not doing more than 8½ knots, but no further attack took place. It had been one able captain against another, and no actual result had been made. So the warfare went on in the Mediterranean. Baralong, now called Wyandra, who had been sent to the Mediterranean, had an engagement earlier in the year with a submarine, on the evening of April 13, 1916, and probably hit the enemy.

In the spring of 1917 three more Q-ships, Nos. 24, 25, and 26, had been taken up to be fitted out and serve under Vice-Admiral Sir Lewis Bayly, at Queenstown. These were respectively the Laggan (alias Pladda), Paxton (alias Lady Patricia), and the Mavis (alias Nyroca), being small steamers of 1,200 or 1,300 tons, each armed with one 4-inch and two 12-pounders. Q 18 (alias Lady Olive) had begun her work in January. Now, of these four ships two had very short lives. On May 20 Q 25 was sunk in the Atlantic, her commanding officer and engineer officer being taken prisoners by the submarine. Twenty-two survivors were picked up by a trawler, and four were picked up by an American steamer and taken to Manchester. Three officers and eight men were found by the United States destroyer Wadsworth, who had arrived only a few days before from America.

The fate of Q 18 was as follows: At 6.35, on the morning of February 19, 1917, she was at the western end of the English Channel, when she was attacked by a submarine who was coming up from 3 miles astern shelling her. After the usual panic party had been sent away and the others had concealed themselves, the submarine came close under the stern, evidently so as to read the ship’s name. At 7.10 Lady Olive opened fire, the first two shots hitting the base of the conning-tower, the other shot putting the enemy’s gun out of action and killing the man at the gun, the range being only 100 yards. Six more effectual shots were fired, the man in the conning-tower being also killed. The submarine then submerged. Lieutenant F. A. Frank, R.N.R., the captain of the Q-ship, now rang down for full speed ahead, with the intention of dropping depth charges. No answer was made to his telegraph, so he waited and rang again. Still no answer. He then left the bridge, went below to the engine-room, and found it full of steam, with the sea rising rapidly. Engine-room, stokehold, and the after ’tween deck were filling up, the dynamo was out of action, it was impossible to use the wireless, and the steam-pipe had burst owing to the enemy having landed two shots into the engine-room.

As the ship was sinking, the only thing to do was to leave her. Boats and rafts were provisioned, the steel chest, containing confidential documents, was thrown overboard, the ship was this time really abandoned in earnest, and all took to the three boats and two rafts at 9.30 a.m. Thus they proceeded in single line. Fortunately the weather was fine, and Lieutenant Frank decided to make for the French coast, which was to the southward, and an hour later he despatched an officer and half a dozen hands in the small boat to seek for assistance. So the day went on, but only the slowest progress was made. At 5 p.m. Lieutenant Frank decided to leave the rafts and take the men into the boats, as some were beginning to faint through immersion in the cold February sea, and it was impossible to make headway towing those ungainly floats with the strong tide setting them at this time towards the Atlantic. The accommodation in each boat was for seventeen, but twenty-three had been crowded into each.

With Lieutenant Frank’s boat leading, the two little craft pulled towards the southward, and about 9 p.m. a light was sighted, but soon lost through the mist and rain. An hour later another light showed up, and about this time Lieutenant Frank lost sight of his other boat, but at eleven o’clock a bright light was seen, evidently on the mainland, and this was steered for. Mist and rain again obscured everything, but by rowing through the night it was hoped to sight it by daylight. Night, however, was followed by a hopeless dawn, for no land was visible. It was heart-breaking after all these long hours. The men had now become very tired and sleepy, and were feeling downhearted, as well they might, with the cold, wet, and fatigue, and, to make matters no better, the wind freshened from the south-west, and a nasty, curling sea had got up. Lieutenant Frank put the boat’s head on to the sea, did all he could to cheer his men up, and insisted that he could see the land. Everyone did a turn at pulling, and the sub-lieutenant, the sergeant-major of marines, the coxswain, and Lieutenant Frank each steered by turns. Happily by noon of the twentieth the wind eased up, the sea moderated, and Lieutenant Frank had a straight talk to his men, telling them their only chance was to make the land, and to put their hearts into getting there, for land in sight there was. Exhorting these worn-out mariners to put their weight on to the oars, he reminded them that everyone would do ‘spell about,’ for the land must be made that night.

Every man of this forlorn boat-load buckled to and did his best, but, owing to the crowded condition, and the weakness of them all, progress was pathetically slow. Thus passed another morning and another afternoon. But at 5.15 p.m. a steamer was sighted. Alas! she ignored them and turned away to the westward, and apparently was not coming near them. Then presently she was seen to alter course to the east, and began to circle towards them. This was the French destroyer, Dunois, who had seen a submarine actually following this English rowing boat. The destroyer, which had to be handled smartly, came alongside the boat, and shouted to the men to come aboard quickly, as she feared she might lose the submarine. Here was rest at last; but, just as the boat had got alongside, Dunois again caught sight of the Hun, had to leave the boat and begin circling round and firing on the pest. At six o’clock the destroyer once more closed the boat, and got sixteen of the men out, when she suddenly saw the U-boat, fired on her, and went full speed ahead, the port propeller guard crashing against the boat, so that it ripped out the latter’s starboard side.

There were still seven men in the boat, and it seemed as if they were destined never to be rescued after their long vigil, and moreover the boat was now nearly full of water. Dunois came down again; some of the Q-ship’s seven jumped into the water, the destroyer lowering her cutter and picking up the rest. The submarine was not seen again; the destroyer arrived safely in Cherbourg, where the Englishmen were landed, and next morning they met a trawler with the crew of the second cutter on board.

Such, then, were action and counter-action of Q-ship and submarine; such were the hardships and suffering which our men were called upon to endure when by bad luck, error of judgment, or superior cleverness of the enemy, the combat ended unfavourably for the mystery ship. Not all our contests were indecisive or victorious, and some of these subsequent passages in open boats are most harrowing tales of the sea. Men became hysterical, went mad, died, and had to be consigned to the depths, after suffering the terrors of thirst, hunger, fatigue, and prolonged suspense. It was a favourite ruse for the U-boat, having seen the survivors row off, to remain in the vicinity until the rescuing ship should come along, so that, whilst the latter was stopped and getting the wretched victims on board, Fritz could, from the other side, send her to the bottom with an easily-aimed torpedo. There can be no doubt that, but for the smartness of Dunois’ captain, she, too, would have suffered the fate of the Q-ship, and then neither British nor French would have survived. It is such incidents as these which make it impossible to forget our late enemies, even if some day we forgive.

CHAPTER IX
THE SPLENDID ‘PENSHURST’

On November 9, 1915, the Admiralty, who had taken up the steamer Penshurst (1,191 gross tons), commissioned her at Longhope as a Q-ship, her aliases being Q 7 and Manford. This inconspicuous-looking vessel thus began a life far more adventurous than ever her designers or builders had contemplated. Indeed, if we were to select the three Q-ships which had the longest and most exciting career, we should bracket Penshurst with Farnborough and Baralong.

The following incidents illustrate that no particular rule could be laid down as to when a Q-ship could get in touch with the enemy. We have seen that Baralong set forth for a particular locality to look for a definite submarine and found her. Other decoys searched for submarines but never so much as sighted one; others, again, when everything seemed quiet, suddenly found themselves torpedoed and sinking. Others, too, had an engagement to-day, but their next fight did not come until a year later. The case of Penshurst is interesting in that on two consecutive days she fought a submarine, but she is further interesting as having been commanded by an officer who, with Captain Gordon Campbell, will always remain the greatest of all Q-ship captains.

Fig. 9.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Penshurst’ in her Engagement with Submarine on November 29, 1916.

Commander F. H. Grenfell, R.N., was a retired officer who, like so many others, had come back to the service after the outbreak of war. After serving for a year in the 10th Cruiser Squadron as second-in-command of Cedric, he was appointed to command Penshurst, cruised up and down first off the north of Scotland, then off Ireland, and in the English Channel for nearly a year without any luck. On November 29, 1916, a year after her advent into this special service, Penshurst, who, with her three masts, low freeboard, and funnel aft, resembled an oil-tanker, was steaming down the English Channel at 8 knots. The time was 7.45 a.m., and her course was S. 81 W. (Mag.), her position at this time being Lat. 49.45 N., Long. 4.40 W. She was definitely on the look-out for a certain submarine which had been reported at 4.30 the previous afternoon in Lat. 50.03 N., Long. 3.38 W. As Penshurst went jogging along, picture a smooth sea, a light south-west wind, and the sun just rising. Fine on the port bow 7 miles away was the British merchant steamer Wileyside, armed, as many ships were at this time, defensively with one gun aft; while hull down on Penshurst’s starboard bow was a sailing ship of sorts. Then, of a sudden, a small object was sighted on the port beam against the glare of the horizon, so that it was difficult to make out either its nature or its distance. However, at 7.52 a.m. this was settled by the object firing a shot and disclosing herself as a submarine. The shot fell 60 yards short, but a few minutes later came another which passed over the mainmast without hitting. The range was about five miles, but owing to the bad light Captain Grenfell could not see whether the enemy was closing. In order to induce her so to do, at 8 a.m. he altered course to N. 45 W.

This brought the enemy nearly astern, and at the same time Penshurst slowed down to half speed. By this time the sun was above the horizon, and the light was worse than before, but the submarine was apparently altering course to cut off the Wileyside, and ignoring Penshurst. Therefore, at 8.6 a.m. the latter altered course so as again to bring the submarine abeam. This had the desired effect, for at 8.10 a.m. the submarine fired a third shot, which fell about 200 yards short of Penshurst, and this proved that Q-ship and submarine were closing. Two minutes later Penshurst stopped her engines and the usual ‘panic’ evolution was carried out, by which time the submarine had closed to within 3,000 yards, and turned on a course parallel with the Q-ship, reducing to slow speed and being just abaft the Penshurst’s port beam and silhouetted against the glare of the sun, three Germans being seen standing in the conning-tower. In order to spin out the time, the Q-ship’s boats were being turned out and lowered as clumsily as possible, and now the U-boat sent along a couple more shots, one of which fell over and the other short.

Thus far it had been a contest of brain, and Captain Grenfell had succeeded in making the enemy conform to the British will. At 8.20 a.m., as there seemed no possibility of inducing the submarine to come any closer, Penshurst opened fire, but there was time to fire only a couple of rounds from the 12-pounder and 6-pounder and three rounds from the 3-pounder before the German hurriedly dived, for all three guns had dropped their shots pretty close to the target. The shooting had been done under difficult circumstances, for it was at a black spot against a strong glare. When once the enemy submerged, Penshurst went full speed to the spot and dropped a depth charge, but the German had escaped, and she would live to warn her sister submarines about the Q-ship which had surprised her.

For this U-boat had had a careful look at Penshurst, and Captain Grenfell could hardly hope to surprise the submarine again and bring her to action, so he altered course to the eastward with the object of intercepting another U-boat, whose presence had been reported at 11.15 that forenoon 5 miles north of Alderney. Very likely the submarine with whom he had just been engaged would send out by her telefunken wireless a full description of the Q-ship, so, as she steamed along, Penshurst now altered her appearance by painting herself a different colour and by lowering the mizzen-mast during the night. Thus, when the sun rose on November 30, on what was to be Penshurst’s lucky day, she seemed to be a totally different ship.

Fig. 10.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Penshurst’ in her Action with Submarine on November 30, 1916.

During the forenoon of November 30 we should have seen this transformed Penshurst going down Channel again well south of the Dorset chalk cliffs. At noon she was in the position Lat. 50.11 N., Long. 2.31 W. (see track chart), steering N. 89 W., when she intercepted a wireless signal from the Weymouth-Guernsey S.S. Ibex that a submarine had been seen at 11.44 a.m. 20 miles N.W. of the Casquets; so the Q-ship altered course towards this position, and at 1.50 p.m. the conning-tower of a submarine was observed 5 miles to the southward, apparently chasing a steamer to the westward. A few minutes later the German turned eastward and then submerged. It was then that Penshurst saw a seaplane, which had come across the Channel from the Portland base, fly over the submarine’s position and drop a bomb without effect. This caused Captain Grenfell to reconstruct his plans, for it was hopeless now to expect that the submarine would engage on the surface. On the other hand, the Q-ship with her speed would be superior to this type of submarine, which, when submerged, could not do better than 6 knots at her maximum, but would probably be doing less than this. The weapon should, therefore, be the depth charge, and not the gun. He decided to co-operate with the seaplane, and ran down towards her.

Q ship “Penshurst”
Showing bridge-screen dropped on port side and bridge gun ready for action.

To face p. 114

It was necessary first to get in touch with the airman and explain who the ship was, so at 2.22 p.m., being now in Lat. 50 N., Long. 2.48 W., Captain Grenfell stopped his engines, and after some attempts at communication by signal, the seaplane alighted on the water alongside. Captain Grenfell was thus able to arrange with the pilot to direct the Q-ship and fire a signal-light when the ship should be over the submarine; a depth charge could then be let go. But the best-laid schemes of seamen and airmen sometimes went wrong: for, just after the seaplane had risen into the air, she crashed on to the water, broke a wing, knocked off her floats and began to sink. This was annoying at a time when the Q-ship wanted to be thinking of nothing except the enemy; but Penshurst lowered her gig and rescued the airmen, then went alongside the injured seaplane, grappled it, and was preparing to hoist it on board when at 3.14 p.m. a shell dropped into the sea 200 yards ahead of the ship. Other shots quickly followed, and then the submarine was sighted about 6,000 yards on the port quarter. How the enemy must have laughed as, through his periscope, he saw the aircraft which so recently had been the aggressor, now a wreck! How certain a victim the innocent-looking steamer seemed to him!

Captain Grenfell, by change of circumstances, had once more to modify his plans, stop all salvage work, cast off the seaplane and swing in his derrick, which was to have hoisted the latter in. The men in the gig could not be left, and he was faced with two alternatives. Either he could hoist the gig on the port quarter in full view of the enemy, or he could tow her alongside to starboard, and risk her being seen. He chose the latter, and at 3.24 p.m. proceeded on a south-westerly course at slow speed. The submarine now came up right astern, so course had to be altered gradually to keep the German on the port quarter and out of sight of the gig.

Slowly the submarine overhauled the Q-ship, firing at intervals, and at 4.12 p.m., when she was within 1,000 yards, Penshurst stopped her engines, the panic party ‘abandoned’ ship, and the two boat-loads pulled away to starboard. The German now sheered out to port, swept round on Penshurst’s port beam, and passed close under the stern of her with the object of securing the ship’s papers from the captain, whom the enemy supposed to be in the boats. A party of Germans would then have boarded the ship and sunk her with bombs. But these intentions were suddenly frustrated at 4.26 p.m., when, the submarine being on Penshurst’s starboard quarter and all the latter’s guns bearing, the British ship opened fire at the delightfully convenient range of only 250 yards. This was the last thing the enemy was expecting. No one was standing by her 8·8-centimetre gun forward of the conning-tower, the attention of all the Germans on deck being directed towards the Q-ship’s boats rowing about. Thus completely and utterly surprised, the Germans never made any attempt to return the fire. The second shot, fired from Penshurst’s starboard 3-pounder, penetrated right through into the engine-room and prevented the submarine from submerging. At this ridiculous range the British guns were able to be worked at their maximum rapidity, so that over eighty rounds were fired and almost every shot took effect. Very soon the submarine’s hull was fairly riddled with holes, and large parts of the conning-tower and hull plating were blown away by the shells from the 12-pounder.

Q-ship “Penshurst”

This shows a dress rehearsal. The “panic party” are seen rowing away in one of the ship’s boats, the White Ensign is being hoisted on the foremast and the guns are about to open fire. In this picture she has her mizzen mast up.

Q-ship “Penshurst” at sea

Seen with only two masts, the mizzen having been lowered. The crew’s washing is displayed as in a tramp steamer. The funnel has been painted a different colour. But behind the white wind screen on the lower bridge is a 6-pounder gun—one each side—which can fire from ahead to astern. Inside the boat on the main hatch just forward of the funnel is the dummy boat in which a 12-pounder is concealed. Two 3-pounders are in the after deck-house. Depth charges were released through ports in the counter.

To face p. 116

After only ten minutes’ engagement the submarine foundered, bows first, but not before Penshurst’s boats had taken off the survivors and also those who had leapt into the sea. These survivors included Ober-Leutnant Erich Noodt, Leutnant Karl Bartel, Ingenieur-Aspirant Eigler, and thirteen of the crew; but seven had been killed. Thus perished UB 19, who had left Zeebrugge on November 22, having come via the Straits of Dover. She was about 118 feet long, painted grey, had the one gun, two periscopes, and had been built the year previous. She was of the smaller class of submarines belonging to the Flanders flotilla which operated for three weeks on end in the waters of the English Channel, carrying only three torpedoes, one of which had already been used to sink a Norwegian ship. It was learned from her crew that her submerged speed was about 4 knots; so Captain Grenfell, but for the accident to the sea-plane, would have been able to get right over her and destroy her by depth charge.

Thus, at length, after a year of hard work, disappointment, and all kinds of weather, Commander Grenfell, by his doggedness and downright skill, had scored his first success. The King rewarded him with a D.S.O., another officer received the D.S.C., and one of the crew the D.S.M. The ship’s complement consisted of Commander Grenfell, three temporary (acting) R.N.R. lieutenants, and one assistant paymaster, who was engaged during the action in taking notes. The crew numbered fifty-six, which included R.N.R. and R.N.V.R. ratings. The sum of £1,000 was awarded to the ship, and, after the war, Lord Sterndale in the Prize Court awarded a further sum as prize bounty.

The gallant Penshurst had not long to wait for her next adventure. December passed, and on January 14, 1917, there was another and newer UB boat ready for her. It was ten minutes to four in the afternoon, and the Q-ship was in Lat. 50.9 N., Long. 1.46 W.—that is to say, between the Isle of Wight and Alderney, when she saw a submarine heading towards her. Five minutes later, the German, when 3,000 yards off, fired, but the shot fell short. The Q-ship then stopped her engines, went to ‘panic’ stations, and sent away her boats with the ‘abandon ship’ party. Penshurst then gradually fell off to port, and lay with her head about W.N.W., bringing the submarine on the starboard bow. Closing rapidly on this bearing, the UB boat kept firing at intervals, and when about 700 yards off turned as though to cross Captain Grenfell’s bows. The latter withheld his fire, thinking the enemy was going round to the boats on the port quarter, and he would be able to get her at close range. But the German stopped in this position, exposing her broadside, and quickened her rate of fire, hitting the steamer twice in succession. It was this kind of experience which always tested the discipline and training of the Q-ship, as a well-trained boxer can receive punishment without losing his temper, knowing his chance will come presently.

Fig. 11.—Diagram to Illustrate Approximate Movements of ‘Penshurst’ in her Action with Submarine on January 14, 1917.

The first hit broke an awning ridge-pole on Penshurst’s bridge, the second shell struck the angle of the lower bridge, severing the engine-room telegraph connections and the pipe connecting the hydraulic release gear, by means of which the depth charge aft could be let go from the bridge. This shell also killed the gun-layer and loading-number of the 6-pounder, wounding its breech-worker and the signalman who was standing by to hoist the White Ensign. So at 4.24 p.m. Penshurst opened fire, her first shot from the 12-pounder hitting the base of the enemy’s conning-tower and causing a large explosion, as though the ammunition had been exploded. Large parts of the conning-tower were seen to be blown away, and a big volume of black smoke arose. The second British shot from this gun hit the enemy a little abaft the conning-tower and also visibly damaged the hull. The starboard 3-pounder hit the lower part of the conning-tower at least four times, and then the enemy sank by the stern. Penshurst wanted to make sure, so steamed ahead and dropped depth charges over her, then picked up her boats and made for Portland, where she arrived at ten o’clock that evening and sent her wounded to the Naval Hospital. It had been another excellent day’s work, for UB 37, one of those modern craft fitted with net-cutters forward for the purpose of cutting a way through the Dover Straits barrage, had been definitely destroyed without a single survivor. More rewards followed, and, later on, more prize bounty.

Penshurst resumed her cruising, and just about a month later she was in the western approach to the English Channel, the exact date being February 20, and the position Lat. 49.21 N., Long. 6.16 W. At 12.36 p.m. a German submarine rose to the surface, and a quarter of an hour later began firing at a range of 3,000 yards. Penshurst then ‘abandoned’ ship, and at 1.4 p.m. opened fire and scored a hit with her 6-pounder. At 100 yards range the other guns came into action, and the enemy was hit above the waterline in the centre of the conning-tower and abaft this superstructure. She then submerged and was depth-charged; yet this submarine, in spite of all this, was not sunk. This again illustrated the statement already made that a submarine could be severely holed and yet be able to get back home. A still more illuminating example is to be found in the following incident.

Only two days had elapsed and Penshurst was again busily engaged. It was at 11.34 a.m., February 22, and the ship was off the south coast of Ireland, the exact position being Lat. 51.56 N., Long. 6.46 W. Penshurst was steering S. 89 W. when she saw a submarine steering west. The steam-ship therefore steamed at her utmost speed, but could not get up to her, for we may as well mention that this was U 84, a very up-to-date submarine which had a surface speed of 16 knots and could do her 9 knots submerged for a whole hour. It is not to be wondered, therefore, that she could run away from this slow steamer and at 11.55 a.m. disappear. At this time there was in sight 8 miles away H.M.S. Alyssum, one of Admiral Bayly’s sloops based on Queenstown, who was escorting the large four-masted S.S. Canadian. As Penshurst proceeded, she sighted at 12.18 p.m. a boat with men in it, these being from the torpedoed sailing ship Invercauld, which had been sunk 22 miles S.E. of Mine Head, Ireland, that same day. A few minutes later and Penshurst observed the keel of this ship floating bottom up. At 12.35 the periscopes of U 84 were seen to emerge 400 yards on the port beam, and the track of a torpedo making straight for the midships of Penshurst. By at once starboarding the helm, disaster was avoided, but the torpedo passed as close as 15 feet.