The purely naval campaign to force a passage through the Dardanelles, heavily guarded as they were by powerful modern forts, mine fields, and shore torpedo tubes, culminated in a final attack by the entire allied fleet operating in those waters on March 18, 1915. This attack should have succeeded, but through the inability of the mine sweepers to clear a passage through the mine fields guarding the narrows, four of the allied capital ships struck mines, of which three actually sank in the straits, thus influencing the allied naval commander to withdraw his forces. The following diary of the day’s action was written by me in a small notebook whilst serving as a midshipman on board a British battle cruiser. My duties as spotting officer, in a secondary control position, gave me sufficient time not only to obtain a very good view of the whole operations, but also to note them down briefly in my notebook. The diary commences one early morning on March 18, 1915, as the allied fleet consisting of fifteen battleships, one battle cruiser, four light cruisers, one aircraft carrier, one flotilla of destroyers, mine sweepers, and submarines, lay at anchor off the small Grecian island of Tenedos, situated about eight miles from the entrance of the Dardanelles.
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A typical Mediterranean dawn was breaking as the allied fleet lay peacefully at their anchorage off the island of Tenedos with little indication of an eventful epoch-making day ahead.
With the echo of bugle calls, and much activity of the fussy little picket boats, the fleet began to stir. Presently the sounds of a hymn drifted across the water, a French battleship at early mass, a little incident which always impressed me as this particular ship was lost with nearly all hands a few hours later. Eight bells chimed out from ship to ship and the fleet got under way, leaving the anchorage bare except for a few supply ships and a division of supporting battleships which were to move later.
We are about to commence the greatest naval attack on the Dardanelles that these historic waters have ever witnessed. Owing to the secrecy surrounding the operation no one seems to know what the plans are, or to hazard a guess as to the ultimate outcome. We do know that the Admiralty and our fleet commander mean business, and a serious attempt to subdue the powerful forts guarding the narrows and to steam through into the Sea of Marmora. If my history is not inaccurate British ships under Duckworth did accomplish this feat in sailing-ship days, but were badly battered on the way out after accomplishing their mission. I personally feel that the task before us is insuperable, and that sufficient preparation has not been made, and question what the effect on the Turkish government will be if we do succeed in getting through. However, we are going to see some action with plenty of excitement, and many hard blows will be exchanged by both sides.
Steaming slowly we arrive off the entrance to the Dardanelles, pass the battered outer batteries at Sedd-El-Bahr and Kum-Kale, long since blown out of recognition by previous operations, and proceed up the straits to our preliminary stations arriving in position at nine o’clock. A few small field-gun shells greet us as we pass the historic plains of Troy on the Asiatic side, and I notice and report a heliograph in active operation on the peninsula shore.
Clouds of smoke denote much activity at Chanak, the center of the numerous Turkish batteries guarding the narrows, probably due to the rapid retreat of the Turkish navy and small craft anchored off the town. Soon the bombardment begins. Our ships are stretched from shore to shore in three lines and are a motley collection of French and British battleships of all sizes and ages from the most modern 15-inch gun Queen Elizabeth to the poor old relic, the French Henri IV, which was in its prime some twenty-five years ago and has been revived from the bone yard to take part in this campaign.
The fleet policy seems to be, the older the ship the nearer the danger zone, and it was remarkable that any of the older ships survived the subsequent battering they received. The battle was now on in earnest, the allied fleet keeping up a sustained and accurate fire, whilst the forts opened up a terrific cannonade, fortunately with a lack of aim which was comforting. Our steamboats had followed us in and took station astern of each ship to assist in sinking any floating mines which might be encountered, and to pick up survivors should there be any casualties amongst the fleet. They, however, seemed to attract enemy shells like a magnet and our own boat was sunk in very short order by a direct hit from an 11-inch shell. The crew miraculously escaped injury and climbed aboard, none the worse for their experience.
Heavy shell were now falling around us and seemed to be coming from every direction, their loud wailing and whining terminated by sharp explosions as they struck the water. It soon became easy to identify the caliber and nature of the projectiles by their distinctive noise. The large 16-inch shells made a noise like an express train approaching and gave several seconds warning of their approach. The lighter field gun and quick firing battery shells, which were fired at us from either shore at short range, made a high-pitched, noisy note, rather terrifying, which ended with an anticlimax in a feeble explosion, a distinct relief after the devastating roar of the heavy ones. The howitzer shells were, I think, the most unpleasant, as they made practically no noise and could be plainly seen dropping out of the sky like large footballs.
We had not long to wait before the Turkish aim improved and they began to register hits. A terrific thud, accompanied by much vibration and the noise of flying fragments, announced their first score, a medium-caliber shell striking one of our port 12-inch guns. No damage done apparently, except to paintwork and surrounding superstructure, but I would feel anxious about the accuracy of that particular gun after such treatment.
Things are altogether too hot! Two more hits, one a big one which lands deep down under my observation post and creates a mild panic in the lower control position, as their lights are all out and they are badly shaken and report water rushing into the next compartment. Reports come through, however, from the shipwrights, that the port provision room was flooded, but no other serious damage.
Our neighbors are also being hit, and I see Lord Nelson’s after funnel is a nasty looking mess. We increase our rate of fire, and move our position slightly, which has a good effect as we experience no more hits for the moment. Queen Elizabeth is now firing 15-inch salvos, a magnificent sight, and is evidently doing good work, as clouds of colored smoke can be seen rising around Chanak.
Fore control reports much difficulty with mobile shore batteries, and are being annoyed by shells aimed directly at bridge and foretop. Received instructions to use after turret to locate and silence them. After a careful search of the opposite shore, only one-half mile distant, I think I see a battery position, with traces of suspicious smoke rising above a dense wood. Instructions are given to the after turret to train on the spot and fire three rounds at 1,400 yards. The guns fire and anxiously watch for the fall of shot. No results whatever. After much telephone conversation with the officer in charge, a reservist in fact, I discover that they set their range at about 14,000 yards so the shells probably landed on some Turkish peasant innocently plowing his fields some six miles inland! Try again with better results, but it is impossible to silence these infernal field guns. Too well concealed and always moving about.
The bombardment is now furious, we are being hit again, nothing vital at present, and a tremendous explosion in Chanak, flames and smoke rising hundreds of feet is cheering. Probably a magazine touched off. The French squadron is now moving up to close range, spitting fire from every gun they possess, and I admire their courage. Re-enforcements are coming up through the entrance and will shortly relieve our allies.
Get reports of several casualties, but no serious material damage as yet. It is fortunate that these forts, although equipped with Krupp guns, are not entirely manned by Germans or we should all be swimming hours ago. Bombardment has now been in progress for some three hours, and I must confess my nerves are a little on edge as we continue to be the center of a storm of shot.
The French ships are coming out, and I notice they have been considerably knocked about. Gaulois is badly down by the bows. As I watch them go past an awful sight greets my eyes. Bouvais disappears completely in a few seconds in a large cloud of black smoke and steam. Something must have got her in her magazine—shell or mine. A few survivors, mostly stokers, as they are all black-faced, struggle in the water and are picked up by the steam boats. Loss number one. Gaulois goes on limping badly and presently beaches herself on a small island outside the straits where she will effect temporary repairs. These old ships have fought well but cannot stand continued punishment from modern guns. Their places are taken by the re-enforcing squadron, and the battle goes on, fast and furious.
We move up a little and I notice the Turkish fire is beginning to slacken. A seaplane passes over, flying low, too low to stay long over hostile territory, and disappears. These machines cannot get up high enough to be of much use. I received a report from the bridge that the foretop has been struck and is out of action! Poor devils! Fire control is taken up by conning tower which cannot spot so effectively as the primary control.
At the same time, looking forward, I notice that the bridge has also been hit and is beginning to burn. Stretcher bearers are going up the mast, and I hear that twelve men and three officers have been killed or seriously wounded by a small shell striking directly on the roof of the foretop. The forward fire party is hard at work rigging hoses and trying to get the fire under control, but it burns furiously, and the stretcher bearers have to come down owing to the intense heat. This is likely to be serious, and the wounded cannot be removed until the fire is put out. A flag signal is run up and we ask permission to quit the line for a few minutes in order to put the fire out and remove the wounded. Permission is granted from the flagship and we withdraw from the heat of the action for a few minutes. The fire is now out and a few survivors, badly wounded are lowered carefully by ropes to the deck. Blood is dripping out of the control top. Things up there must be very ghastly. We resume our position in the line, with renewed vigor and determination to avenge our losses. It is now well on to three o’clock, and the mine-sweeping flotillas are coming up the straits. The critical moment has arrived, for we shall exert all our power to subdue the forts and enable a passage to be swept through the mine fields.
The enemy realize also what is afoot and redouble their efforts. Shells continue to fall around us and the mine sweepers are now receiving their baptism of fire. They cannot possibly get to work with this interference and will all be sunk sooner or later. It is now four o’clock, and we again shorten the range and the whole squadron steams in closer to the narrows which are now but 8,000 or 9,000 yards away compared to our opening range in the morning of 14,000 yards. Looking at the fore bridge, which is still smoldering and an awful mess with the charthouse completely wrecked, I see that the center strut of the foremast has a large hole completely through it, the tripod alone holding up the structure. I hear that a stoker has been killed on the main deck, amidships, being caught by a large piece of flying plate which traveled right across the deck as a projectile burst on the ship’s side. We still continue to close in and are now very close to the Asiatic shore, still firing as fast as we can. The mine sweepers have had to retreat temporarily without accomplishing their mission and are reforming astern to await the subjugation of the enemy forts again. A tremendous shock! I am thrown completely off my feet as the ship lifts bodily in the air, and seesaws up and down gradually coming to rest. For a second an ominous silence reigns, followed by the piercing notes of a bugle call, “collision stations.” In times of emergency this call takes precedence over “action stations,” and means for the moment we must abandon our offensive action to save the ship. Thoughts fly through my head. What has happened? A fearful explosion has occurred, what can it be, shell, mine, or torpedo? I leave my position and rapidly go forward to my collision station which is on the forecastle, and travel along the main deck. Perfect discipline prevails and there is no confusion. On reaching the midshipmen’s quarters, which are almost directly above the fore magazine, I pause to abstract a few treasures from my chest in case the ship is going to sink, and pass forward to the foremost submerged torpedo room hatch. Everything is dark, much smoke and fumes are around and there is a nasty smell. I meet the senior engineer and together we close down the escape hatch to this compartment which is rapidly filling with water; the fumes are still rising. Evidently the explosion was external and is somewhere in this vicinity. There are many men in this compartment but not a sound is heard and, as it is nearly filled with water and pitch dark, we can see no sign of life. In order to save further flooding the engineer ordered the hatch closed, which was done, and, as shipwrights and other men arrived, I continued on my way forward. The ship is well down by the head and has quite a large angle of inclination.
Order is passed by boatswain “pipe” to pass up all woodwork and any articles that will float. I direct men around me to hand up cabin doors, chests of drawers, and any wooden furniture which will support a man. Matters are critical because, should the ship sink, our boats are all shot to pieces. I go on the upper deck and hear the captain is going to run the ship ashore close under the forts, and that we are going to fight with our 4-inch guns. This is a desperate move, and I don’t see the point of such a dramatic gesture, as we cannot accomplish much. I find my men have fallen in and are waiting instructions. Perfect order prevails, and I am proud to see how good the discipline is. The bombardment continues and I notice that one or two of our battleships are badly down in the water.
The mine sweepers cannot work and have suffered much in trying to sweep under such impossible circumstances. A cruiser is detailed to escort us, and we reluctantly turn around and steam slowly away from the scene of action. It looks as if the great attack has failed. The general opinion is that we struck a mine, though there are stories around of torpedoes being seen. Whatever it was, it dealt us a nasty blow, and has nearly crippled the ship. Engineers report that they are able to steam at 10 knots, but No. 1 boiler-room bulkhead is showing signs of distress, due to the pressure of water on the other side. I swap experiences with my fellow midshipmen and hear that nearly all the foretop crew, including our gunnery commander and two other officers, are killed. Also that seventy men and one officer are in the flooded compartment and missing. Poor devils! I hope they died swiftly as there is no hope for them now.
We pass slowly down the straits and are fired at all the way by those infernal field guns whose shells scream over head, too close to be pleasant. We are out of the straits and still afloat, thank goodness. I don’t mind swimming now as we can make land without being captured. We head for our base, Tenedos, passing French Gaulois still aground on a near-by island and almost awash. She was hit by a few 14-inch shells under the water and almost sank.
We go close in to shore and anchor with about five feet of water under us as a precaution in case the ship should sink further. As the ship anchors, men are dismissed and sent to supper, excepting those required to carry on the salvage work.
A hospital boat comes alongside and removes the wounded, many of whom are hopelessly shot to pieces. The doctor tells me how one man had a silver match box driven down through his body into his leg by a shell fragment, which showed what ghastly wounds modern shell fire can produce. I leave the melancholy sight of the wounded and the dying being gently removed, and go below to see how the salvage operations are proceeding. They are having difficulty in stopping the water from coming in and it is still penetrating into various compartments; bulkheads and decks in the vicinity are bulging ominously. Divers, who have gone down to examine the extent of the damage, report a tremendous hole, sixty feet long and twenty feet deep in the outer hull.
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Salvage operations were continued all night, and by next morning it was reported that all bulkheads were holding and that no further leakage was developing. Preliminary estimates showed that about 5,000 tons of water had been shipped, and our draught forward was increased by four or five feet. In the meantime the remainder of the fleet had returned to anchorage and were busy taking stock of damage received, making repairs, and tending the wounded. We learned that two more battleships had been mined and sunk in the straits, happily without much loss of life. Thus ended the purely “naval” campaign to force the Dardanelles, and the subsequent amphibious campaign is a matter of history.