Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 44 DESTROYER v. SUBMARINE
A few days later another Destroyer gave proof enough, and here is an example of the luck of the game. One chap may be on his toes all the time and never get his chance, whilst another comes along and simply falls over a submarine. (The War, as far as we were concerned had long since resolved itself into the state of Submarine versus Destroyer.)
The Captain of the lucky ship and I were very good friends and former shipmates and we used to knock around together a lot. The Garry happened to be lying alongside, when my pal Grant came ashore on his way to hand in his written report of how, where and when, he came to sink this submarine and capture her entire crew. Seeing the Garry alongside, he just dropped on board for a minute's yarn. Of course, I heartily congratulated him as soon as he showed his nose in my cabin and asked him just how he had managed to ram and sink this submarine, which was quite a modern one and carried two four inch guns against Grant's measly 12- and 6-pounders. He shoved his report into my hand and told me to read it, when I would then know all about it.
I read all the usual preamble and trimmings, till I came to where he "sighted this submarine whilst in his position astern of the Convoy." "Astern of the Convoy?" I said. "Why you are the one, above all others, who condemns that method of following up astern. How the devil did you come to be there?"
He laughed and after swearing me to secrecy told me his tale.
It appeared some slight trouble had developed in his engine-room. The engineer came on the bridge and asked permission to stop the engines for half an hour or so. Instead of following the correct routine and making a wireless signal to the S.O. of the Division and having, perhaps, to state whys and wherefores, he said to the engineer, "Well if it's only going to take half an hour, I'll slip round astern of the Convoy and stop her. Get through as soon as you can and we will put her to it and pick 'em up again and no one will be any the wiser." The repairs took a bit longer than the time stipulated and Grant got a bit anxious. It was pitch dark and there was just the horrible chance that he might lose the Convoy altogether and then he would get a sound scrubbing, if he was found wandering around looking for a Convoy when daylight broke. The result was that when the word did at last come from the engine-room that they were "ready to proceed," Grant at once put her to twenty knots, intending to slow her down when he had run his distance to within a couple of miles of where the Convoy should be and then pick them up at an easy speed, for it was far too dark to see more than a hundred yards ahead. As it turned out, Grant's underwater friend had heard the convoy lumbering along and as it was far too dark for him to even take a "Browning" shot, he had submerged until the ships had all passed overhead. When they were past and even the Destroyer that, as he knew, in some cases trailed out astern, would, he judged, be well out of the way, he rose to the surface intending to lie there and get a breath of fresh air till daylight.
The first thing they knew was Grant came blinding along at an absolutely unheard of speed, for a Destroyer following up a Convoy, hitting them half way between the conning tower and tail. As Grant said, he "never saw a blame thing till he was right on top of him and couldn't have missed him if he had tried." Grant actually went right over, doing little or no damage to the submarine. The skipper of the submarine got a horrible shock, on seeing a Destroyer shoot out of the darkness and, literally, leap over him. He fully thought that Grant's ramming had been intentional, also that his sub. would be damaged and being unable to submerge, would be sunk by gunfire. To avoid this, he ordered the Kingston flooding valves to be opened and took to the one and only boat and sang "Deutschland über Alles" whilst his ship went down. Meantime, Grant, who had ripped the bottom out of his ship had just time to signal the S.O. of his Division, take to the boats and his ship went down. All he could do now was to await the coming of a Destroyer to pick them up--unaware, of course, that the submarine had opened her Kingston valves and abandoned ship. It was a perfectly calm night and as they could hear the Germans in the distance singing their song of success, Grant's crowd retaliated by joining the marine musical comedy with "Rule, Britannia." When the S.O. arrived on the scene and heard the row, as he said, he thought everyone had gone completely crazy. But the utter disgust of the sub. skipper can be best imagined, when a bit later on he learnt the facts of the case.
In the first place, he had surrendered to a ship, which he could have blown out of the water and in the second place he had sunk his own ship where there was no need, as Grant having ripped the bottom out of his ship had already gone down.
The very next day, "Capt. D" came along to me bubbling over with satisfaction, "There you are, my lad, Destroyer astern of the Convoy rams and sinks a submarine. Where is your 'Theory' now?" This went on for a good half an hour and I could see the re-adoption of the rotten old method and with it the losses in ships going up and up instead of coming down and down. There is nothing for it, I thought, so here goes.
"Now look here, sir, if I tell you something will you promise faithfully to keep it under your own cap and not let it influence your appreciation of Grant's little effort?"
H promised and I'll say his face was a study when I told him the inside history.
All Capt. D. said was a very heartfelt, "Well I'm damned."
But we heard nothing more of reverting to the old method. Grant's stock went up with a bound and he was put alongside the wharf to act as flagship whilst in port.
The grades of favour were very marked and quite distinct. That ship, highest in favour, got the wharf job and one could go ashore any time. The rest of the flotilla laid at the buoys. The next in favour nearest the wharf and so on up the line of buoys and down the scale of grace. Those farthest away, being the bad boys of the family, were not likely to forget their misdeeds or misfortunes either and the last two or three buoys came right abreast of a Fish Manure Factory.
In summer time with an off shore wind, which it usually seemed to be, you could cut the air with a knife. Not a port or a skylight could be opened. The Garry knew every grade and stage in the manufacture of fish manure. Not content with the perishing stink, those farthest up the line also got most of the odd jobs, chasing submarines. Sometimes real but more often fictitious.
Someone outside sees a porpoise and, on the off chance that it is a Tin Fish, makes a signal that they have sighted a submarine. Next thing the ship alongside the Wharf hoists "Garry and Stour. Raise full steam for full speed with all dispatch. Proceed to position so and so and search for submarine reported in that vicintity." Off you go and so spend the best part of the day that you might with luck and good conduct have spent ashore. After being roped in for this little joy ride a couple of times, instead of spending the best part of the day searching for a submarine (if not actually fictitious, at least certain to be miles away by the time we had got down the Humber and out to sea) I evolved the plan of "sighting" the sub., dropping a packet of Depth Charges, making the necessary report and returning to our smelly buoy with everyone perfectly satisfied.
If there happened to be any sort of a breeze from the N.E., then every member of the crew was more than satisfied to get back to the quiet of the buoy, fish manure notwithstanding.
What a coast it is in a N.E. Gale. To zigzag along with a Convoy, day after day, doing a bare 8 knots is enough the try the stomach of a lion and the heart of a Saint, and what a sight to see those forty-odd ships constituting the Convoy picking up their anchors and, one by one, steaming out round the Spurn as daylight broke and into the driving gale. One minute in a mill pond, the next diving and thrashing about with clouds of spray flying across the decks.
As S.O., we had to wait (and how willingly we waited) under the lee of the Spurn, till the last ship had picked up and got out. Convoy orders from the Convoy officer delivered on board and then we were for it. A cold winter's morning and sea like nothing on earth. Out we would have to go, with nothing for the next couple of days and nights but roll, roll, roll. The one saving grace of the bad weather was that it made it impossible for the submarines to attack with any degree of accuracy. Furthermore, if an attack were made anywhere near the surface, there was a ten to one chance that her conning tower would show between the seas and that would soon put paid to her little efforts.
It was bad enough on the surface, but it must have been hell for those chaps under water. No wonder one heard of all sorts of wheezes to get rid of their Mouldies and return to the Fatherland. Still, by far the majority of their ships were manned by men of pluck and resource, the only pity being, that it was expended on such an unworthy cause.
The man that could sink a merchantman, from below the surface, without giving him the ghost of a chance, must have had a mentality lower than the worst aborigine and heaven knows, they glory in some pretty flthy practices.
Anyhow, that was my feeling about them and their work, so I suppose there was little wonder that when one did surrender to us, I refused to accept the hands-up business. In fact it was simply amazing that they should have had the infernal audacity to offer to surrender, in view of their ferocious and pitiless attacks on our merchant ships.
Destroyer versus Destroyer, as in the Dover Patrol, was fair game and no favour. One could meet them and take the on as a decent antagonist. But towards the submarine men, one felt an utter disgust and loathing; they were nothing but an abomination, polluting the clean sea.
We had made the usual rendezvous "somewhere in the North Sea." Picked up our Convoy and had got nearly down to the Tyne. Forty odd ships four Destroyers, six M.L.'s, six armed trawlers, one Convoy Leader and two Seaplanes. (The latter needed nearly as much looking after as the ships, for they were forever coming to grief.) Up until then we had not lost one ship, although there had been some pretty sharp attacks. We were cruising steadily along when suddenly up shot a periscope between the Garry and the Destroyer, zigzagging off the leading ships, just where he would come up to take his shot. Instantly the order was given "Full speed, Action." The Garry leapt ahead of where we had sighted him and down went the first Depth Charge, almost immediately followed with a second, a third, and a fourth.
Had he fired? Would we see that a terrific column of water leap up alongside one of our ships, to be followed by that metallic, clanging crash, signaling the doom of yet another victim to one of these unsporting beasts. Suddenly the lookout on the searchlight platform bellowed at the top of his voice: "Submarine breaking surface on the port quarter, sir." Sure enough, our last Depth Charge had brought him up. "Hard aport. Submarine red one--two-o. Five hundred yards. Independent, Open Fire." Having set that ball rolling, I then turned my attention to the good old Garry. By now she was dancing up to her 20 knots and swinging her head round in the direction of the enemy. Would he come to the surface and retaliate with his heavier metal, or would he submerge before we could get at him. The forward 12-pdr. settled the question as to whether he would or could submerge, by a direct hit at the base of his conning tower. Now the other guns were getting the range, but so far, what with the ship swinging so rapidly and increasing speed, accurate shooting was impossible. Now the submarine was coming still more to the surface.
"We shall get him. Steady the helm. Steer straight at him Coxswain."
"Aye, aye, sir," comes the quiet reply and the Garry tears through the water with ever-increasing speed.
Four, three, two hundred yards. At one hundred the order was,
"Prepare to ram."
And, with a crash, we are on him. Now there is no question about losing him. All the same it was a glancing blow, though it has ripped our own bows wide open. Has it ripped him up sufficiently to put him out of action?
"Hard-aport, Coxswain." And round we go again.
Shall I risk another run at him, as he is still showing up on the surface? I knew the Garry's bows must have been seriously damaged and mainly under water. Still, at all costs, he must not escape, so, once again we race through the water and settle the matter by hitting again and this time ripping her up completely and ourselves as well. Down went "U ll0" where she belonged, (last--according to Von Lucknow--to be sunk in the war) and down we went by the bows.
I left the rescue work to the others, who picked up fifteen out of the water and then took stock of the damage we had sustained. No doubt it was serious and the vital question now was, should we beach her, make for the nearest port, or should we chance it and try and get back to our base in the Humber?
After holding a council of war we decided that we might just about be able to float long enough if we proceeded slowly stern first throughout the night, for the hundred odd miles that lay between us and the Spurn. Having made the decision we started off, but that night stands out as one of the most anxious nights I have ever put in and I have had a few.
If I got her back and rounded off the job, so much to the good and all the more credit. If she couldn't float and I had to beach her, she would probably be pounded to pieces and I should be blamed for not making for the nearest port. If she sank out of hand I should get soundly scrubbed for the same reason--and heaven alone help me if I lost any lives sin the process.
Well, we tommed down the forward mess decks above where the bottom had been ripped out, shored up bulkheads, and hoped for the best. We could make just 8 knots, and signaled our base to that effect, "Returning under own power stern first eight knots." The signal that we had rammed twice and sunk a submarine had already gone through and, as I was told afterwards, the Engineer-Admiral brought all his influence to bear for us to be ordered into the Tyne. His contention being that having rammed the submarine twice, we couldn't possibly float all through the night let alone navigate her back to the Humber. Naturally the Admiral and Captain "D" wanted her back and, as thy told me later, "they knew I would get her back if I could and anyway I had been long enough at sea to decide for myself just what was best to do."
It was a very doubtful best, but we did it and daylight in the morning saw us rounding the Spurn, where two tugs were waiting to help us limp back to dock.
By the time we got her into dock her bow was deep down in the water and her stern cocked up in the air. Water was well over the mess decks and the last bulkhead was bulging ominously. If that went, we went. A carriage and pair might have driven through the gap in her bows where the armour plated conning tower of the submarine had caught her.
Of course, everybody was very nice. Congratulations and decorations all round. Mine was promotion and a bar to the D.S.C. All hands were given a welcome bit of leave, whilst the Garry was placed in dry dock, where the dockyard maties simply ran round the crumpled bow with oxo-acetelyne flames and cut it right off.
Within a very few weeks the new bow was on, the last coat of paint was dry, stores on board and once again she was ready for sea--not a trace of the war scar left.
I didn't go to sea with her, but transferred command to a bigger ship in Portsmouth then fitting out for Special Service.
As it turned out, I didn't take this ship to sea either, for the War ended abruptly. Guns were secured and warheads came off torpedoes.
The excitement of the fight was over and ships proceeded "On their lawful occasions" unmolested.
No more convoying needed. No more attacks to stave off. Salt had gone out of the Service, the crazy War was ended and conditions changed in a night. Then why hang it out? Common sense said, go while the going's good. Leave whilst the flavour of excitement still remains--don't wait till the taste grows stale.
Despite remarks of, "Why this unseemly haste?" Within a week I had paid off my ship, demobbed and reported "Back for Duty" with the Greyhounds of the Atlantic, back to the White Star Line.
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