“Denn wir fahren,
denn wir fahren,
denn wir fahren gegen Engel-land."
NOBODY KNOWS why the annual stay for repairs at the Imperial Shipyard, Kiel, is being cut short so abruptly. Officers and men of the 2d Destroyer Flotilla on leave of absence are recalled. The work is being rushed and is hardly completed. Almost before we realize it we are once again at sea. It seems but a moment since the thunder of hammers and the shrill screaming of rivet guns were battering our eardrums. Even so stern a reality as a shipyard may be swept aside, as it were, in a flick of time. C’est la guerre! We soon fall back into the ship’s routine as we find ourselves headed for the North Sea.
The North Sea! There is in these days something portentous in the ring of that word alone, especially when we are bound for it from the Baltic, for it is the gateway to the ambient battlefields of the sea. The color of its waters is severe, grayish green, unpleasant, seldom clear; so harshly contrasting with the blue and limpid tones of the Baltic which suggest tranquillity and ease.
We arrive at Schillig Reede, replenish fuel from oil tankers, and anchor on the grounds assigned to the advance guard. During the afternoon more and more squadrons of warships come out and anchor in their respective places. It is obvious that the whole fleet is gathering.
It is evening. The wind dies with the sinking of the red, flattened sun. Standing on deck, for a moment I let myself fall under the spell that nature has put upon the place. But for the familiar sounds that come from the anchored ships, there is a leaden quiet. The sea lies smooth and looks towards the sky with an opaque and lifeless stare. Here and there metal and crystal sparkle from the ships of war, like spurious and gaudy jewels. Above, not touching the horizon, hangs the island of Wangeroog; its towers and houses and trees clearly etched, visibly stretching and striving upward as if in escape from the appalling lifelessness of the sea. Then, like a touch of witchcraft, a tentacle of light reaches over the sky and spreads out into a myriad of moving fingers; and hectically rising from the spot where the ball sank, burns a mass of color, deepening in intensity, a glamor of brilliance over the sullen waters, over the darkening world— the spectacle of oncoming night. In perfect unison with the sky I see the sea resurrected out of the darkness.
Two orbicular shafts of light shape themselves from the source beyond and hold the vault trisected, two commanding semicircles in spherical precision. All the world seems embellished. Even upon the ever trist mud flats lies a sheen becoming their grayness. I see the earth of Wangeroog settling down again deep upon the sea, with its towers and trees rightly proportioned, as if attracted anew. With the coming of night, I waken again from my brief respite under the persuasive wing of twilight to the world of war and battleships. At the moment the latter strike me like vengeful monsters. Their stark silhouettes with protruding guns, compact turrets, and grotesque fighting masts stand out against the skyline despoiling the peace.
I lean upon the slender barrel of No. 4 gun. Utter silence, utter calmness, utmost means of destruction all around. Conflicting emotions shake me with a slight tremor.
It is obvious that the whole fleet has gathered.
A bell rings. Pomerinke calls. I go to supper.
Our commander, returning from a conference of all officers in charge, is cheerful as always. Yet to us, sensitive and expectant as we are, it is evident that he knows more than he will tell. There is little we learn: “Utmost readiness. Steam up in all boilers.”
Signals flash back and forward. Even those who are free to turn in and rest remain on deck awaiting morsels of information. We are going out! Perhaps this at last is to be that great fleet to fleet encounter of which so much has been spoken. We are going out; and with activity comes the lust for adventure, the desire for conquest. These prick us on. None of us wants to admit even the possibility that tomorrow, or the day after, we might be back in port after a futile run as so often before.
A lieutenant and four men come aboard and report as prize crew. I make the entry in the log. They are from S.M.S. Pommern. I order Pomerinke, the mess steward, to make quarters for the newcomers.
Soon after midnight we heave anchor and leave for sea.
I come on deck to relieve on the bridge. I have had barely an hour of sleep. It is daylight though the sun has not yet risen. The light is a harsh and shadowless glare. Through half drowsy eyes I see sailors paint the after funnel red and looking around find that all the other boats are doing the same; also the battle cruisers off which we zigzag in U-boat defense. The cold light of early dawn lies dull on the unevenly applied cinnabar and shows up the red patches in between. Life comes with the rising sun and the light plays on the wet patches. These daubs of red on which the sunlight lies now look like fresh warm blood.
It is the last of May, 1916. Very calm lies the sea. The last strings of clouds vanish into low morning mist before the rising sun. The water under it is smooth and warmed with the reflection of a deep blue sky in its greenness. This will be a glorious day, a harbinger of long-awaited summer, one of the rarer days in the North Sea region.
The high cliffs of Helgoland fuse with the mist. Mechanically I give orders to the helmsman: “Port! Amidships! Steady!”
Mine-searcher and mine-sweeper flotillas search the way ahead and, once clear of the infested area, our boats push northward some 30 miles in advance of the battle cruisers. With us are the scouts Elbing and Pillau; they act as destroyer leaders. The other flotillas are to the east and south. Together we form the first reconnaissance squadron. The main body of the fleet, with an armada of lighter forces, follows slowly in our path.
The time comes to open the sealed orders. They bear the inscription, “Letters of marque,” and tell of a sortie of the High Seas Fleet to the north as far as a certain point off the coast of Norway. The purpose of the enterprise is war on commerce. Every vessel, enemy or neutral, is to be brought into a German port as prize. That is all. Although the order sounds prosaic enough, it fires our imaginations and charges again our hopes for a victorious sea battle. From experience we have learned that the laconic orders by the Admiralty are kept rather terse for strategic reasons. We have also learned to conclude that whenever the entire fleet is on the march, invariably information has been received from agents about the movements of the enemy fleet, a knowledge which is communicated to the commander in chief alone, and it is left to his discretion to advise his sub-leaders whenever he chooses.
The color of the funnels is a settled red now. In spite of the quietude, they appear like an enigmatical warning that never leaves us. I can read it on the faces of all. It is the mystery, the uncertainty, the great thing that might happen which takes hold of you and leads you. For the freedom of the seas, that we desire and need, we have to fight. Albion, we are on our way!
I am on watch again. All day we have lain on a northern course. It is two o’clock in the afternoon and we are still running in the near meridian with a slight western edge, making good latitude. Everything is trist and routine and drab; and we respond wholly, drenched with an identical dullness. It is always so. Events set the tempo and we abandon ourselves with the fervor of religious mystics. It is all the same thing; the individual is lost in the rush of the pure idea and it is the relinquishment and eclipse by each of his own will which gives life to a new and stronger will of the united whole. Intensive action is the high point to the patriot; but as the believer has his low in the moments of doubt, so has the patriot during periods of inactivity.
Twelve hours have elapsed since we were ordered out, and nothing has happened. The sun shines hot. There is little fun for destroyer men when they cannot clip along at high speed. The battle cruisers still steam their 20 miles behind us and the fleet is even farther back. It looks like just another outing of all the naval forces, at a tremendous expense, an innocuous picnic supposed, among other things, to keep the men in the big ships from boredom and subsequent restlessness.
Light cruisers and destroyers are so stationed as to form a screen to north and west of the entire fleet. We are scouting in the NW. sector, one light cruiser and five boats. Our other half-flotilla stands east of us, barely in view. We run at IS miles per hour. It is monotonous. Wearily I sing out from time to time my “both engines ten more!” or “ten less!” in adjustment of the speed to keep the proper distance. Ever so often I take a look around through my glasses. The sailor at the telegraph, who suffers from varicose veins, takes an opportune moment to complain about it. I am his division officer and so I tell him to state his case at request mast when back in port and that he will be attended to. I hear him mumbling to himself, “Da steht man sich hier die Beine in den Leib . . . .”
The quartermaster, who has a mania for shaving, is mirroring himself in the compass glass and admiring his clean-shaven face, while he supports himself on the wheel. Should I bawl him out? Why bother! I remind myself that we pay less attention to form here than in the big ships, and besides the old fisherman from the Kurische Nehrung steers an excellent course; in fact the boat seems to run itself.
Eight bells! At last. Brinkmann, the second watch officer, appears to relieve, swinging his battery whistle on the end of a silver chain, the strap of his binoculars slung over his shoulders. He first goes and takes a look at the chart, then comes and says:
“Hello, Yankee sailor, let’s have her.” “Yours for the asking, sub, but remember the enemy is indisposed. Both engines two times half speed ahead. Course north. Starboard echelon B109. Nothing in sight.”
“Is the old man up?”
“No, leave him alone, he is taking a wink.”
“Good, then Hals-und-Beinbruch.”
“Ditto.”
The minute I move aside the curtain of my door, careful not to disturb the captain, he sticks his head out of his cabin. There is nothing left for me but to salute and say my piece.
“Most devotedly relieved from duty, Herr Kapitanleutnant.”
“Thank you. Terribly boresome, isn’t it?”
“Very, Sir, most disappointing indeed.” With a hand salute and a bow I escape for a nap.
I have not been in my bunk for longer than a minute when the engines spring on full speed. That brings me to my feet. At the same time an orderly rushes down the ladder and reports breathlessly in a thick eastern dialect:
“Order from Herm Kap’t’leu’nt. Herr Kap’t’leu’nt to see you on the bridge, Sir.” I dash off. The stem lies deep in seething water. I clamber up to the bridge and stand before the captain.
“Most devotedly at your service, Sir.”
“Rheydt,” he begins, “we are dispatched by Pillau to board and bring in a steamer to westward. She is flying the Danish flag and you are familiar with Scandinavian, are you not?”
“Zu Befehl!”
“Well, you are to seize the vessel and run to Cuxhaven with her; you will have a prize crew of four men. You may go now to get ready, and hurry. Verify your position in the mine chart and good luck. Thank you.”
We stop close to the steamer which is hove to and blowing off steam. She lowers a boat and her mate draws up alongside and hands me the ship’s papers. She is the Danish freighter N. J. Fjord, plying between England and Denmark and laden with contraband. As I examine the papers I notice several bright flashes far on the horizon and want to shout to the bridge that someone is calling by searchlight, but my shouts are swallowed by a number of detonations in quick succession and there are as many hits in the water close to us. The alarm goes instantly.
“Battle stations! Clear ship for action!”
The commander motions me to let the steamer go. My last question to the Danish mate as to whether he had seen English men-of-war was met with a blank and frightened expression. Before I reach the bridge our boat is racing again and listing over in a hard starboard turn and the first salvo goes out. I glance at my wrist watch; it is 4:21 P.M.
This is the beginning of a battle and we, the B110, have fired the first shot on our side.
On the artillery stand in my capacity as observer, I soon find my bearings. Hard on the bow to starboard lies the Danish steamer, hoisting her boat. She is rolling in the swell created by us and still blowing off steam. Our foe, two scout cruisers, is right over her stern when the second salvo leaves the barrels of our guns. It must have been effect of the concussion that makes the Danish sailors at the forward fall let go, throwing the head of the boat back into the water again, almost swamping it; and a stewardess, who is standing about watching, I see fall down on deck with the suddenness of one whose legs have been shot from under. I feel a quick spurt of contempt for the vessel; never have I felt more poignantly the helplessness and ugliness of a tramp.
Cutting the water with clean precision we pass the N. J. Fjord and advance. The distinction of sending out the first message of contact with the enemy falls to us. Before we know it we are joined by B109 and two German light cruisers are already nearing. These latter are a surprise turning up most welcomingly out of nowhere.
The Englishmen turn and retreat. The firing assumes lively proportions. After a short run of perhaps ten minutes we see first faintly, then distinctly, many smoke clouds rising straight and tall into the air like trees and then we discern in a long line the hulls of ships. This must undoubtedly be the head of the English fleet. At last, after two years of indecision and ambiguous endeavors we are for the first time face to face with the Grand Fleet. The impact of this realization is overwhelming. We all know the chain of successful wars that England’s Navy has fought throughout the centuries and which established her prestige of supremacy of the seas. Although we may not be conscious of names right now, the weight and meaning that attaches to words such as Aboukir and Trafalgar affect us upon the first glance of the armada ahead. These are not only vessels of steel and iron, representing the greatest achievements of our age in science and engineering, they are more; they are surrounded with the luster of deep-rooted sea power, proud carriers all, overbearing almost, sailing upon a path of undefiled, unfaded glory, awe inspiring, beautified and poised by the undying courage of true leaders and great men. Such ships we see, blessed with the spirit of such men, as we audaciously advance, now bearing down upon us, immutable of purpose. Who are we, with no naval history worthy of note, to show ourselves before their bows? Yet for them alone our fleet is built in a first attempt at sea power, and we are put aboard to dare the lion.
Again goes out a report, telling of the advance of the English squadrons, after which we are recalled to draw back to the battle cruisers. The intent of the British commander is clear, to swoop down and swallow us.
With our turning, the light English forces sheer off accordingly and give us a running fight, while the big ships, disregarding our presence, bear full speed right down to a position where they expect to find their equals. Their intent is evidenced by the prodigious belching of their chimneys.
And here we come upon a most amazing sight. A square-rigger, with a deck cargo of lumber, lies motionless between the lines. I see her, pathetic in her proud serenity, a child of the wind and tides, responsive to the breath of the air, the surge of the sea, as she lies serenely becalmed to the will of her sleeping divinity. So austere she seems, standing artlessly in view, listening only for the breath of the sea, unaware of our world of steel and fire that scorn tide and wind alike, driven under the inexorable will of man. And my heart goes out at once to the lonely and doomed little windjammer that lies so still in the midst of chaos, listening only for secret songs I too have learned and loved.
Suddenly it is as if the world were lifted like a wine glass, by some huge unseen hand, and hurled with demoniac force, to fall shattering against our jangled senses. The smooth steel furies are unleashed. In their dreadful magnificence they are equal to nature in her most fierce and vengeful moods. Through the haze of recovering sight I perceive men around me stunned and crouching from the blow.
“The battle cruisers!” I hear, and a similar experience shakes us.
Boom—crack! again and again, and already the shock is lessening; so quickly can one adjust himself.
Boom—crack!—Boom—crack!
The battle cruisers on both sides have entered into the fight. The secondary batteries cease altogether and the lighter forces speed to the lee of the fire. Our flotilla takes its battle station near the heavy cruisers.
This is one time when reality is not indebted to the imagination. The exhibition is superb. From my grandstand seat I have an excellent view of the all-powerful artillery duel of the mightiest fighting ships. There is nothing to do but to watch it. I am simply lost in the spectacle.
We, the first reconnaissance force, are close by the Little Fisher Bank in the North Sea, off the shores of Jutland, on a southern course and are nearing the main body of our fleet at double ship’s speed, bringing the Grand Fleet at our heels.
A light cruiser comes from somewhere at us, charging like a mad bull, sheers in front of us, and hoists the flag signal, “Enemy aircraft! Open fire upon sight!” she tells us by semaphore. We all look up excitedly. Fire from the middle artillery cracks before we spy a speck flying low. We scan the sky anxiously for a squadron of planes which we expect to zoom over us and shower “pills”; but our ominous sounding aircraft attack turns out to be just that lone little plane we sighted, which seems to us now more like a stray and frightened bird than an enemy. It soon disappears, shot or forced down presumably.
There is a commotion on deck. I look in the direction of outstretched arms. From within a line of ships, a tremendous blaze of forked fire shoots skywards and at once the adjoining area above the horizon is shrouded in darkness. Pointed spears of fire fall in showers on a reddened sea. Evidently a ship is blown to pieces. I hear no comments. Presently the commander’s voice breaks the spell, “Make an entry in the log, 4:05 P.M.” A sharp report clips his last words. From the vicinity of the spot where that ship has gone down, we receive new fire. A second fleet of ships has joined the enemy. The artillery of at least ten units is now concentrating on our five. This time there is no escape! That must be the conviction of us all.
Again I am startled by a gruesome sight, by cheering and outcries, “There she goes! Hurrah! hurrah!” By now I know it is a ship blown up; another of the remaining five British battle cruisers opposite. I observe through strong glasses; a gigantic darting flame shoots skyward and startles me like a piercing cry. Smoke rises slowly from the source that was a mighty ship a second ago—smoke unfurling, expanding lazily. Tumultuous rumbling of explosions; the lick of light red flame through the dark brownness; the crying protest of steel; the silence of a thousand men; whirling masses high through the air, falling into a burning sea. A thousand men, many thousand tons of steel, gone, gone. Only the smoke remains, slowly shaping itself into the semblance of an enormous dragon, crouching low upon the sea.
“Boom—crack—boom—boom!” the battle roars. But the eyes of all stay fixed where a little while ago there sailed a ship, a thousand men, and where now a dragon shaped of smoke lies crouching on the sea.
For the space of a heartbeat we are plunged into emptiness and lie muffled in a great and grave silence; but it proves a deception. It is just a sudden rush of blood from our heads, shutting out momentarily the noises around us, and now I become aware of the words that caused it. Those words take on shape and significance, belatedly, “Destroyers attack!”
Pounding against my brain the voice sounds unnatural, as if it had sprung from the ether. The order is taken up and repeated and passed from man to man; it rises from a murmur to a swell until the air is filled with it, and it is the swelling of this sound that stimulates us to the highest point of human endeavor.
“Destroyers attack!”
Already the huge red pennants are unfolding from the mastheads. Telegraphs ring, the vibration increases. It is the Pillau, I believe, that swerves in front of us and takes the lead. There is a “wirr- warr” of turning boats and red serpentine ribbons. Battle flags are hoisted above the rail and go half-mast; this is the gathering signal. Any second now we expect to run on. We are burning to do so; any delay is hard to bear.
We race like mad over the hundred points of the rose, away from the line and back to the line. Everywhere swing groups like ours, in the same predicament, until before long we lose the sense of time and direction. You see each man working efficiently at his post, yet the vista of the battle is that of a stampede, wild, disordered, a headlong plunge into destruction. Nobody makes a sound, only the guns roar and the shells burst and hiss and we can but listen to their merciless imprecations.
A rising wall of sooty water and crashing thunder leaves me unmoved. The boat stands for awhile, shakes itself, and picks up again. Mechanically I open my mouth to save my eardrums from bursting; a coarse stream of water slaps me in the face, a fine mist of spray goes through and through. An order is given to put on lifebelts. In a sharp turn the boat lists, shivers, and boils in the froth.
“Destroyers attack!” Have we done it? Is it over? Are we in the middle of it? If we only knew; but we know nothing. Here is the completest confusion I have ever known—shooting, smoke, water fountains, a wild churning in the sea as we turn to attack, retreat, attack again.
I don’t in the least expect to get out of this, yet it does not seem to matter. The present is so vivid as to be completely absorbing. How long we have been in the attack I don’t know, but eventually there is a lull and I find myself glancing at the sun. I am more than a little astonished that it is still high. Once more we plunge into pandemonium, and again and again, endlessly it seems; but now and then comes a second of pause when I look upward at what appears to be a perversely stationary sun, in an otherwise swiftly moving universe. With my will I would push him onward, farther toward the brink of day, but each time I look he glares back with crude and brazen persistency. A certain weary impatience has taken hold of me; I think like Wellington, “I wish it were night!” and I remember abruptly that night action is supposed to be our “forte.” In our training and equipment, night attacks have been stressed, so that for us night action it should be, if anything. Yet the childish but comforting delusion, or perhaps race memory, that under the darkness lies safety, persists.
I wish it were night!
Intently we look at the panorama of the battle. For a full hour we haven’t fired a shot. We are standing by, all hands on battle stations, and the boat under us turns and churns and rattles like a thing gone mad, not far from the fighting cruisers. Ready for the call. With them we stand or fall. By now we think ourselves immune from the thousands of bursting shells. We are accustomed to the chaos that is upon the sea. From the west, streaks of flame shoot wildly up toward a now lurid sun.
Countless flashes of fire from a new quarter startle us. New squadrons. It is impossible to tell who they are. There are enthusiastic shouts, “The second squadron! No, the first!”
They are all guesses. Everybody seems very optimistic. Everybody wants to be, for uncertainty lies heavy on the mind; therefore nobody thinks they could be English; but the uttered optimism is but the film of the mustered courage that covers a secret fear; one wants to relieve the tension of danger. They must be ours. We get through.
Once again a wave of silence surges and passes over the unhallowed day. Once again my heart misses a beat, my blood leaves the brain, and I feel a pang as I hear, “Destroyers attack!”
The red pennants still fly from the mastheads and seem to lengthen under the order as if wanting to ensnare the foe. The battle signal “Z” shows above the rail of the scout and goes half-mast and is followed up by the rest.
The flotillas fall into formation. With incredible skill and swiftness each finds its place and course. As race horses, nervous, agile, in groups of three, seeming to strain forward. So I see them, off the gaps between the units.
All eyes are turned toward the Pillau, waiting for the signal. The moment arrives. Simultaneously with the upward move to the yardarm, so that not a split second may be lost, come the shouts of the signalmen, “Z zero! Follow the leader!”
This is the bidding of the trumpet sound of former times.
“Thrice full speed ahead!”
The attack has begun. The cavalry of the sea runs on. This is the test. All that was ever implanted in us by teachings, drills, and dreams, all the virtues— honor, courage, faith—come to the fore and the enthusiasm and patriotism of one become the enthusiasm and patriotism of the other, until all are burning with the wild fire of the martial spirit. Never before has there been launched an attack of destroyers on a scale like this. Three flotillas dash toward the enemy. To both sides abreast I see our boats racing, bow high, stern deep, in perfect balance; a sight so impressive that my heart leaps. I am a part in the picture that I see; but I detach myself. I am the artist at work and the inspiring force in me is the will behind all that I perceive. There is a leader and a will, who would not shrink from the heritage and the will of Nelson.
“Destroyers attack!” I swear not death nor devil could now hold them back. Here falls England!
I can laugh confidently now at the thinning nimbus of prestige of the Grand Fleet, in whose shadow we have been held for so long inferior and respectful.
We approach our line. The next spectacular point arrives, to break through. We steady on the after turret of the ship ahead. There is not a man to be seen on the ships; every human being is below decks on his station. We ease a bit on the helm and pass, cutting almost the stern. For an instant we hang in the seething backwash that we traverse. I catch a glimpse of the admiral’s flag high atop before it vanishes in the smoke of a hit. We are drenched to the skin from the spindrift that falls on us from geysers above. Through! Before us lies hell; and in spite of hell and death forty boats advance. Straight ahead they shoot like streaks, 10-meter-long pennants flying behind. The heat of the sun burns down on us. The tar fumes of the boilers scorch our skin. The transformation is completed to perfection. We are beset. We are one band of brothers. Destroyers attack!
Between the fighting lines, we run and attack precisely as we have done a hundred times in maneuvers. Beside me stands my friend Magnus von Roesel, our artillery officer, and Pomerinke as B. U., and other familiar faces clinging to their posts like actors in a play; only it is in earnest today and the knowledge of this constitutes the only difference. I myself have nothing to do until firing commences.
So far we have advanced unmolested but most assuredly not unseen. The enemy line is now plainly in view.
Von Roesel, with calm and correct artillery voice, addresses frequently the battery, thereby proving to his satisfaction that he has his men well in hand. It is the usual procedure for the artillery officer whenever the ship is cleared for action, to play the battery at whatever comes within range, on his own initiative. So I hear von Roesel say with his staccato and stentorian voice, “Battle to starboard! Upon the foe the farthest right! 55 hundred! 52 hundred! Setting plus minus zero!”
The enemy vessels loom up bigger and bigger. For miles abreast on both sides I see gray boats upon the blue sea like thoroughbreds on the track. Trying to crash the insurmountable wall that bars their way. The bows lift and bob, the sprays fly sideways, fleeting rainbows on their luminous wings. Forty boats, forty pennants from mastheads, huge, red, triumphant. Forty destroyers in attack!
The right flank, I think, is engaged with enemy destroyers; we must not deviate from our course straight ahead!
At last comes the signal to hold off for the kill. One, three, four boats already lie in the turn.
“All tubes ready! Stand by! Starboard stop! Ah—!”
Too late.
The entire English middle artillery is alive and directed against us. They have given us the privilege of coming as close as we choose and have not missed the moment. Now they make it their aim to let nobody escape. A heavy barrage of shell fire takes the English fine from sight and lies before us as we run off on an opposite course, lifting each time when the hits fall short. Undeterred we go on and through, there is no dodging the danger. We sail under the banners of chance. Water fountains rise and fall before us and rise again, each time accompanied by a sharp terrifying explosion. That is all we see. Our steering is guided solely by the muzzle fire of our own battle cruisers, that flashes encouragingly from time to time. Here I stand with tables and instruments. There is von Roesel. On a platform above our heads stands the man at the searchlight. Down on the bridge, slightly bent as he looks in the compass, is the battle quartermaster, cleanly shaven. I wonder if he is mirroring himself. I have no doubt he does between shots. I love him now for his vanity; even now he can look for stubble on his chin and turn an indifferent eye to bursting shells. Near him, with his head over the dodger, is the commander, a tall slim figure, very confident.
“Shall we come through?”
There is no special opportunity to display one’s courage now. Waiting! I think of the stokers and engineers; they know not a thing of what is going on except that the boat is still afloat and that the battle is young.
During that bit of stillness which follows a terrific thud and much vibration, a sailor cries out and makes a gesture with his hands to no one in particular. I look. A destroyer, apparently hit amidships, disappears before my eyes. Bow and stern leap up in the air for a second, then like a jackknife they fall together and vanish. I squint my eyes and look again. Yes, gone! A broken mast sticks out of the sea and moves with the waves. On it I recognize two torn flags, “Z zero! Follow the leader!” and the top mark denoting the tactical number of ships. The last vestige of S.M.S. destroyer V—, giving testimony of her fate.
“Paulsen!” breathes von Roesel.
“Dietrich!” I corrected.
“No, Paulsen.”
“You’re right!” and I recall that Diet- rich is on home leave and Paulsen was his relief for a trip, second watch officer.
We are out of the mess of 15-cm. caliber drumming. We reach the lee of our lines and feel relieved. The battle rages as before. Heavy guns. We are used to that. Sometimes we can see the missiles in their flight as they slow down in their last descent. Some, after they hit the water, run for a distance along the surface and then go up.
This was a death ride; an attack of destroyers; and I haven’t done a thing. I have done nothing at all but stand and take it all in.
A radio man comes up with a message case. The commander opens it, reads, and gets visibly animated. Aloud he shouts, “From commander in chief to all: Enemy in full flight; give chase.”
There follows a wild outburst of cheering. We hear it from the other boats as well, in spite of the roaring of the guns.
“Hurrah!”
“Relay the message to the engine- room, the battery, and all stations in the ship. All hands one schnapps!” I hear the captain.
A man is struck by a shell splinter in the arm; he is so excited he seems not to mind. I see him reach for his glass; they give him another; then they take him, still reluctant, away for first aid.
Only now I become aware that we have turned to an opposite course and that we steam north again, practically covering the path of the first phase of the battle. Now I see the meaning of the admiral’s message and construe the procedure of the battle as follows:
When the English suddenly received fire from the vanguard of our squadrons and while we were running the attack, the enemy turned about and our battle cruisers followed, keeping abreast of them with the fleet in their wake. It is obvious the German fleet commander has accepted the battle by taking offensive measures. Due to superior speed of the English cruisers, they hold themselves out of range of the fire of the German fleet and are in contact with but five of their former opponents. To this advantage of the Grand Fleet may be added another, namely, that it has knowledge of the position and force of the High Seas Fleet which can only guess as to the whereabouts of the bulk of its foe. Thus we are taking a chance at a blind alley. Only of this we are certain, that it will come to a fleet-to-fleet action. Once I hear the commander call for the time, and the reply, “6:05 P.M.” Instinctively, I glance at the sun. Time as reckoned in hours has lost all significance to us.
We pass near the cloud that still hovers in the shape of a crouching dragon over the sea. All the way the surface is covered with dead fish. There are millions. I am amazed at the sizes of some of them and the many varieties.
The battle cruisers receive deadlier fire than before. It seems to me the English have got re-enforcements. Their artillery now is more accurate. At times our whole line disappears from sight behind the drop curtain of smoke and water from the salvos. To our vast relief they always emerge. We begin to think they are invulnerable.
A voice falls dully, “We’ll never get out of this!”
“We should have Zeppelins with us!” someone responds and the strained anxiety in his tone reflects what we all feel. Shells are falling heavily, apparently from all sides as the voice continues, “The bulk of the English fleet may be surrounding us and come unexpectedly from some other quarter.”
The sound of the voices brings us back to the commonplace. It is Pomerinke, our mess steward, who answers with a flourish. He frequently overhears choice bits of information in the officers’ quarters, which he is not reluctant to impart.
“A squadron of airships returned to the base from scouting duty and reported nothing seen, so there is little chance, however if—”
A heavy detonation unkindly cuts off Pomerinke’s speech as a salvo hits the water near by. One of our battle cruisers disappears behind the ensuing chaos of water fountains and dense smoke. Tons of water rise high in the air under the impact of the huge shells and a distending shroud of smoke, its colors ranging from jet black to the smudgy shades of gray and brown, envelops its victim in a widening caress. Shrapnel flies widely in every direction. The events of the next few seconds strike with the swift and gathering intensity of vengeance. As we watch and not more than 30 seconds later, another salvo bursts close to the first into the ship. We hear a terrific and abrupt roar and the singing vibration of all the air around. It is unthinkable that the cruiser is still there, surrounded by all that pandemonium which narrows into utter chaos with each second. It seems to us that the tall water fountains will never fall, as if they were frozen forever in the suspense of a timeless moment. The water fountains stand, the smoke widens, the echoing detonations die in the web of a sinister silence. The men stand rigid; every faculty of sense and mind leashed in their eyes. Watching. I am numb with apprehension for the cruiser in her plight and perfectly certain that we shall never see that ship again.
What happens next is sheer melodrama, one of those sensational, hairbreadth escapes that sometimes occur under the heaviest firing. Out of the cloud before us there shoot as one ten flashes from the “lost ship”—a full broadside with not a gun amiss, and ten roars as one aim westward in answer. I hear exclamations and hurrahs. One fellow has his hand on his throat as if to hold himself. Then a mast shows atop that cloud and another; elevated guns appear through and the stem of a ship pushes ahead, sweeping the sea in its stately beauty, unscathed, compact, proud, the Von der Tann, showing her gleaming emblem.
The pillars of water stand sentinel for her triumphant passing for awhile and fall back into the sea. The smoke also lingers and, loosening finally, drifts down wind, further darkening the lower atmosphere already turbid from countless shots.
We have come upon the main body of the Grand Fleet. One squadron after another falls in firing, amongst them no doubt England’s latest superdreadnoughts. Our advance is blocked and our deployment is curtailed, placing many of the capital ships in such a position that they are cramped and unable to fire.
Close to the English lines on our left is a light cruiser. She is in a desperate position and under concentration of English ships. The engines must be disabled for she is lying still, almost completely wrecked. Still she fights gamely back; from time to time a single shot comes out from the only gun left to her. She is beyond hope.
Here is an area where the sea is strewn with new white lumber. My thoughts go back to the sailing vessel we saw hours ago; but there is no trace of her.
Once when the cruisers describe a complete round turn, we lie with engines stopped and I see a group of our sailors eagerly employed in, yes, fishing! Even here, catching big codfish with a torpedo catcher.
From the looks of it our position must be desperate. We are in a bag and one can easily see that the English are going to pull the string. They are closing all around us, already they are easing us off from the Danish coast and soon we will be cut off from our base.
I see the German Fleet reverse over the whole line. All destroyers and light cruisers cover the extremely difficult maneuver by fierce attacks in various directions and again the “line of five,” the battle cruisers, stands the brunt of the enemy fire. It is horrible to see. They are poised and proud as if there were no hurry about them. I hear a plaintive voice, “O God, O God, them battle cruisers! They surely can stand a licking.”
The captain reads a telegram from the fleet commander, “Bear down upon the enemy without regard to consequences,” and almost instantly the battle pennants are run up to the yardarms. There is a mass attack of destroyers.
Now the fleet has turned and runs on. One feels it must go to the climax. During one assault we race through an area where a ship must have sunk. All we can see are men in the water, a hundred or more, mostly drowned or killed. It is the life belts that keep their bodies afloat.
From the coast of Jutland, out of a haze, emerges a flotilla of destroyers, some 15 boats, bow on, full speed, cutting the sea. I am puzzled by the sight, not knowing who they are; but fire from the Pillau near us tells me they are British and we hesitate no longer. There is a thunderous fire, yet the boats advance. Our first salvo goes out with 1,100 meters, and still it falls far. I see the bow guns and the crews handling them. They come very, very close. Now they all turn and show their broadside. I see torpedo after torpedo launched; many torpedoes like silver fish are dumped overboard and come our way, aimed of course at our capital ships. Two British destroyers go down by shell fire. We score some hits also, but the 15-cm. calibers from the scouts do the sinking. I notice the time, 6:10 P.M. The fight did not last more than five minutes. A splendid destroyer encounter.
We are in the middle of the assault. The whole German Fleet is advancing and pressing upon the Grand Fleet to drive a wedge through its midst. It is daylight yet but it is almost impossible to see the English ships; on the contrary, our units make fine targets against the western sky.
Again everything around me appears chaotic—racing boats, attacking boats, crippled boats. The long, red, battle pennants, never hauled down this day, are torn to shreds. The red of the after funnels is burned and blistered by the action of heat. Salt crusts are on everything and everyone; my eyes smart from it, my nostrils have hard rings on them; I lick salt from my lips with a dry tongue.
From the beginning of the fleet’s onslaught we receive the most deadly fire. There are many hits within our lines and little damage we can do, as we are almost blinded. The English are covered in the smoke of the battle. I see S.M.S. Lützow, the flagship of Hipper, leaving the line. She lies deep in the sea with her fore part; she moves slowly; destroyers lay smoke screens to protect her. At one time she seems to be backing. She has a hard time.
It is disheartening to see hit after hit doing damage to our ships. They are palpable hits; fires break out; things fly and yet they return the firing fiercely. The whole scene is wrapped in smoky atmosphere. I see terrific explosions and several ships going down but it is no longer possible to distinguish whether they are our own or the enemy’s. The firing seems very promiscuous.
The British Fleet continues its steady firing. We fail in our assault and have to retreat to save ourselves from annihilation. The odds are against us in that we are unable to see. We turn very slowly away, and the firing ceases for the first time around sunset. Nor do the English follow up their advantage by pressing after us; that is remarkable; they prove themselves very careful.
It is a benediction to run silent for a time. I think of the sunset of yesterday. We pass the line of the remaining four battle cruisers; they are very much battered. Turrets are out of order; armor plates missing. The barrel of a gun is shot off; the torpedo nets are dragging in the water. The men are busy cutting adrift what is left of the nets, for they are a nuisance now as they reduce the speed and impair maneuvering of the ships by fouling the propellers. Some men seem to be picking shell splinters for souvenirs. A destroyer is patching a leak with a tarpaulin; she lies stopped and rolls as we pass. We speak to her by semaphore and learn that she got a blind shell in her bunkers while under heavy fire and engaged in picking up survivors from the English destroyer Nestor.
The squadrons of the line ships are, as during the entire action, some distance away from us and by now completely out of sight, sunken in that dismal layer of atmosphere over an uncertain horizon.
With nightfall we begin scouting. Flotillas and light forces swarm in all directions to keep in touch with the enemy and to inform the fleet. There is no moon; it is very dark, ideal weather for destroyers. This alone strengthens us in our belief that there will be night action. We expect a battle more chaotic than the activities during the day. Every now and then a cannonade tears the night, lasting from a few minutes to a half hour. At times the roar dies and the silence is novel and portentous. As we scout, we somehow lose contact with our fleet. Thus we are terrifyingly lost in a dark, fire-spitting wilderness. Finally we are unable to distinguish from which side the gunfire comes. In our dreadful prowling, we come upon the tragic sights of night sea warfare. We pass close by burning ships, some single and once upon a cluster. These latter are all aglow with fire, their masts and funnels like torches, a wild brilliance of flame, rolling slightly on the inky sea.
By some trick of chance and cunning we are able to get hold of the English night signals of recognition and make use of them when challenged by British craft. It appears that we must be far away from our own forces, for after a code exchange of positions we are ordered detached, to make port around Skagen. We also have evidences of the British having knowledge of our whereabouts and having despatched superior forces to snatch us off; but the darkness is in our favor. The occasional roar of battle fades into distance. Once more we see a burning ship and after that we are left with the peace of a calm sea and the resplendent sky above. Only the swishing of the water along the sides is heard and the low whisper of men about. Each boat follows in the wake of the one ahead, eager not to lose the formation. Ever so often a flash of light loosens itself from somewhere and pierces the firmament to make us startle in nervous memory; but they are only shooting stars and we fall back into our absent dreaming. Nobody thinks of sleeping; everyone remains at his station in drowsy heaviness; only the men on watch are on the alert.
It is still dark when I resume my turn at navigating in the pilot house. There we sit on the narrow settee—the skipper, the doctor and I—dozing in a way and nodding our heads with the motions of the boat. Every change of course or speed is relayed from the bridge through the speaking tube. Each such message cuts short our secret thoughts and rouses us. I put the position on the chart and show it to the others. Then the doctor tells an anecdote and the skipper invites us to a drink of port, whereupon the doctor laughs heartily over his own wit, I put my compass back in the pigeon hole, the skipper tucks his bottle in the corner of the settee and we fall silent as before.
Dawn colors creep up from the east and we scan the immensity around us. An ineffectual sun rises out of a shimmering haze and mist and we stare into the maze of inscrutable silence with the excited hope of gamblers playing for high stakes and the ready preparedness of fighters. Racing at full speed we seem to emit no sound, intent only on pushing through the veil ahead so that we may see; and that veil flees insidiously and keeps its distance, when after hours it unfolds from the middle as if torn by a burst of sunlight, showing in the abyss the rocky island coast of Sweden. With the knowledge of our position and the faculty of sight, we at once lose our tension with a sigh of relief. The battle is over and we are homeward bound. Men not on duty leave their voluntary posts for a watch below.
A warning is received of English submarines lying in wait in the Skagerrak and of cruisers despatched to intercept us, standing off Skagen. We have outwitted them by the foresight and wiliness of our command. The battle is over.