During the opening months of 1918, despite U.S. participation, there was still no end in sight to World War I, and Britain was becoming deeply despondent. On the European continent, many hundreds of thousands of its soldiers had died to no avail. At sea, no significant clash of forces had occurred since the Battle of Jutland on 31 May 1916. Then, the British Admiralty’s first public statement on the battle had been so crass and hesitant that readers were convinced that Navy leadership was keeping secret an actual disaster. Naval men had been appalled, though not very surprised, at the Admiralty’s ineptitude. One young lieutenant—Penrose “Mick” Barcroft who had been at Jutland in the battlecruiser HMS New Zealand—accurately called it “a most doleful report. . . giving all our losses and not saying anything about the Huns.” Next day “a more cheerful report” showed that in fact “we’ve done rather well,” but even that could not fully repair the blow of the first news.1 As the London Times reported at the end of 1916 in its regular summary of the war’s progress:
For twenty-two months the British public had looked forward almost daily to such an encounter—a pitched battle at sea, as it was called. There was no anxiety as to the result, for although the dire consequences of a naval defeat were well recognized, the nation had entire trust in its seamen, and confidently expected that if a suitable opportunity offered they would win a decisive victory. . . yet the public experienced a great shock when the first news of the battle was announced on the evening of Friday, June 2. The nation was disappointed, and the world deceived.2
“Anyway,” wrote Lieutenant Barcroft in his private end-of-year summary, “I bet the battle fleet won’t lose the Hun again next time they meet them, if they ever do. Personally I don’t think they will after last time unless they the German High Seas Fleet are absolutely driven out by public opinion.3
The two fleets never did meet in battle again. Proud as he was that “the English Navy no longer possesses her boasted irresistibility,” the German commander-in-chief, Admiral Reinhard Scheer, was sufficiently realistic to recognize the limitations of his fleet’s ability and told the Imperial Chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg: “. . . If, however, we are not finally to be bled to death, full use must be made of the U-boat as a means of war, so as to grip England’s vital nerve.4
He repeated the lesson in his report to the Kaiser: “There can be no doubt that even the most successful outcome of a fleet action in this war will not force England to make peace. . . A victorious end to the war within a reasonable time can only be achieved through the defeat of British economic life—that is, by using the U-boats against British trade.”5
Behind these words, Scheer meant that U-boats should be allowed to attack non-naval targets without observing prize laws—without warning, and from the most favorable position, whether on the surface or below. In short, he meant that Germany should resume unrestricted U-boat warfare.
The potential international political implications of such a strategy were enormous and well known. During an earlier unrestricted period, 1,198 civilians (including 124 U.S. citizens) had died in the sinking of the passenger liner Lusitania on 7 May 1915. This had brought powerful protests in the United States, and they were repeated when the Germans sank the liner Arabic on 19 August. The campaign was subsequently reduced—though apparently not because of the protests, as the British believed at the time; rather, it was simply because of a U-boat shortage.6 Then on 24 March 1916 came the sinking of the channel packet Sussex, again with the loss of American lives, prompting President Woodrow Wilson to threaten the immediate severance of diplomatic links with Germany if unrestricted U-boat warfare continued. To the dismay of German naval leaders, the threat worked. Their civilian masters at once downgraded the U-boats’ attack policy.
After Jutland, Bethmann Hollweg saw clearly that to abandon restriction again would mean incalculable risk for Germany, not least the probable active enmity of the United States. As he put it to Scheer, it would be “impossible to avoid incidents which might lead to complications, and the result would be that the fate of the entire German nation might lie in the hands of one U-boat commander.”7 Scheer conceded that it must be a political decision. But during the autumn the army’s leaders, Paul von Hindenburg and Erich Ludendorff, decided that Germany could not win the war on the land alone and came down in favor of unrestricted U-boat warfare. On 1 February 1917, with many more boats available than ever before, the Germans resumed their unrestricted U-boat campaign.8
At once the gross tonnage of British merchant shipping lost through enemy action soared. As predicted, the campaign brought the United States into the war on 6 April, and the first U.S. troops reached France on 27 June. Nevertheless, the deadly stalemate on land continued throughout the year. At sea, tragedy piled upon tragedy.
During the 29 months of war to the end of 1916, a total of 1,237,634 gross tons of British merchant shipping had been lost to enemy action—an average of 42,677 gross tons a month, which was almost tolerable. The figure for January 1917 was 153,666 tons. For February it was 313,486. For the rest of the year it dipped below 200,000 tons a month only twice, in September and November. Otherwise it stayed resolutely above the 300,000-ton mark. Once, in June, it nearly reached 420,000 tons; at the peak, in April, it exceeded 545,000 tons; and the loss for the year as a whole was more than 3.7 million tons.9
Small wonder, then, that when 1918 began, the British nation was downcast. Defeating the U-boats had become, self-evidently, the Royal Navy’s paramount task. It belatedly reinstated the ancient principle of convoy and gradually devised new anti-U-boat technologies, doctrines, and evolutions. Yet the major portion of the Grand Fleet had become useless. Any ship larger than a fast light cruiser was simply too vulnerable to the undersea weapon; so, with the High Seas Fleet holed up in Kiel and Wilhelmshaven, there was nothing for the Grand Fleet to fight. The battleships remained at Scapa Flow, the battlecruisers at Rosyth; and there, on 31 December 1917, Lieutenant Bar- croft wrote his sole diary entry for the entire year.
This year has been awfully dull. We still carry out the same routine. Lie at Rosyth and go ashore during the day. We have not been to sea very much. There is nothing to go for. Just lately we have been doing more sea time as now we always have four big ships close to the Norwegian Convoy as it goes across. Each coalburning squadron takes this in turn. There have been various rumours that the Huns have been out [for] this convoy but we have never seen anything of them. The only show there has been was November 17th when we went down south to the edge of the Heligoland minefields. Destroyers, light cruisers and battlecruisers. ... At dawn the destroyers sighted several minesweepers, submarines and destroyers and light cruisers. A running fight took place as the Huns bolted back into their minefields. . . . Several of our light cruisers got hit and it is reported that some of their ships were on fire but there was no definite result. . . .10
This was a fair comment. Although invigorating for those who took part, the action was inconsequential in the context of the war. By then, Barcroft did not expect anything more exciting to come his way. But late in March 1918 he was transferred from his battlecruiser to HMS Velox, a V- class destroyer just approaching completion at Doxford’s works in Sunderland. On 2 April the new ship made her maiden voyage 320 miles south to Dover. Barcroft observed “a very large number of wrecks all the way down,” while in Dover itself he found an “extraordinary collection of ships.” He also began to hear “all sorts of rumours about a big stunt coming off.”11
Its heart was triangular—the ports, in German-occupied Belgium, of Ostend, Zeebrugge, and Bruges. The first two are on the Channel coast; the last, eight miles inland, is joined by water to both. Together the three formed one of the strongest operational bases of U-boats and torpedo craft; Bruges in particular housed massive bomb-proof submarine pens. But in order to operate, the “Flanders Flotilla” had to debouch via one channel or the other. The plan was simple: The Royal Navy would block both channels. What more direct way could there be to confound the new threat? Keep the wolf in its lair, and it would be rendered powerless.
Pondered off and on since 1916, the responsibility for planning and carrying out the operation lay with Vice Admiral Roger Keyes, an outspoken officer of great energy and daring. In 1900, as a lieutenant during the Boxer Rebellion, he had boarded and captured four Chinese destroyers, then got himself appointed aide de camp to the general commanding the British relief forces for the Peking Legation. He played a dashing part in the expedition, but it involved abandoning his own command. Brought to book by his commander-in-chief, the two men had a stand-up row—after which Keyes was promoted commander. In 1904, at age 32, he was the youngest captain in the Royal Navy; as a commodore at the outbreak of war in August 1914, it was he who proposed and planned a successful action that month in the Heligoland Bight, during which three German cruisers and a destroyer were sunk and three more cruisers damaged. In November 1914, ships under his command were the last to leave Zeebrugge, and on 10 February 1918 he wrote to Admiral Sir David Beatty, commander-in-chief of the Grand Fleet: “I always felt I would see it again.”12
By then plans were advanced. Keyes and Beatty targeted Operation Z-O for mid-March; the two had exchanged many letters about it, and both recognized that if successful, it would not only bottle up their prime enemy but also provide an enormous boost to national and naval morale. Wishing somehow to give the Grand Fleet a share of the action, Keyes asked for and received from Beatty half the officers and men required for the operation. He was delighted with them: “Your people are simply magnificent—so is the Marine Battalion,” he wrote, adding, “I am happy and confident.”11 Indeed, he was so much cheered by the prospect of taking an aggressive initiative at last that his letters on the subject positively bubbled with enthusiasm; and as they learned of it, the plan had the same tonic effect on all involved.
Mick Barcroft and Velox were not originally meant to take part. In a stroke of sheer luck, a shortage of smoke-making material caused the operation to be postponed until they reached Dover. Altogether, including the attack force, close guards and distant guards, the fantastic total of 175 vessels was now involved, ranging in size from light cruisers down to a picket boat.14 On 9 April, Barcroft was told the plan. In his accurate summary, he wrote:
After a bombardment by monitors and aircraft, CMBs [Coastal Motor Boats] and MLs [Motor Launches] approach Zeebrugge Mole, lay smoke floats and make smokescreens themselves about half a mile from mole. Through the smokescreen Vindictive [protected cruiser], Iris and Daffodil [minesweepers] approach and go alongside mole, Vindictive being helped in. . . . Storming party [of 200 seamen and 700 marines] land and at about this time the two explosive submarines run into the girders at the inboard end of the mole, blow themselves and the viaduct up, thus cutting off the mole from the shore. In the meanwhile the three blockships [old cruisers Iphigenia, Intrepid and Thetis] come in and try and get right in the mouth of the canal and sink themselves. Then the party, or what is left of it, retires.15
The same would happen at Ostend, except there would be only two blockships and no storming party. That was the theory, at least; but no sooner had the plans been distributed than the weather turned foul and the sailing— already three weeks late—was postponed again. The 10th showed no improvement, but on the 11th, “which was the last day the tides were suitable, the conditions appeared to be all right.” Led by Keyes in the destroyer Warwick, the armada formed up at a buoy northeast of the Goodwin Sands, set off about 1940 and shorlty after 0100 the next morning was about 15 miles northwest of Zeebrugge. By then, however, the wind had changed to the southeast (“quite the wrong direction,” since it would blow their own smoke over them) and “the stunt was negatived.”
The next hour was pretty lively. There were the five blockers, about 15 destroyers and crowds of CMBs and MLs all altering course at odd times as many ships did not get the executive for the turn. We did not and the first we knew that anybody had turned was when we saw the Vindictive coming straight at us and not very far away. No lights were being shown and we could hear MLs and CMBs torf-torfing away on either bow so it was not very pleasant. One CMB scraped the whole way down our port side and narrowly missed several others. . .
After this hair-raising experience, “the general idea on our return was that [the operation] would be off for good, as the Huns would be bound to get wind of it.” They did, and in detail. The CMB33 grounded, was captured, and was found to be carrying (against explicit instructions) a complete set of the operational orders.16
Two nights later, unaware of this potentially fatal compromise, the Dover armada tried again—and had to turn back again, this time because a gale made the sea too rough for the coastal boats. For nine more nights everyone carried on with normal duties, with the Velox being assigned to anti- submarine patrol in the Channel: Then, on 22 April there was one last determined effort. It was the eve of St. George’s Day, honoring the patron saint of England, and from the Warwick Keyes signaled: “St. George for England.” Alfred Carpenter, captain of the Vindictive, replied cheerfully, “May we give the dragon’s tail a damned good twist.”17
The tides were not ideal, wrote Barcroft, “but apparently the Admiralty are in a hurry to get it done.”18 After assisting in the escort, his ship’s part was to patrol four miles north of Zeebrugge, guarding during the two hours or so that the naval attack should last (roughly 2300 to 0100) and waiting to escort the boarding vessels back. Until 2100 “everything was going swimmingly;” yet by 2230 “we had not seen anything of the aerial attacks which ought to have commenced by now. This was the first indication that the plan was not working perfectly. Around 2345, firing broke in the direction of Zeebrugge. The next thing we saw was the enemy star shells. They were awfully good and gave a most beautiful light, almost as light as day. About midnight their star shells were falling all around us and also a certain amount of other stuff. There was a battery firing salvoes of 4 guns, I should say about 4” or 6” which was landing moderately near. . . .” Heavy firing continued, and at 0058 a CMB passed them heading away from Zeebrugge. The Vindictive was scheduled to leave the mole just after 0100, and they expected to see her around 0130; but nothing appeared, so they just buzzed about where we expected her to pass. Firing was still going on. “At 2.00 am we stopped and a CMB or ML passed us who told us that the blockers had got in. We thought that this was the first of the party coming out so waited till 2.50. ... we resumed patrolling and about three, just as we were going to shove off, there was another. . . terrific outburst of firing. . . .”
They decided that either the Vindictive had not escaped, or else had passed them in the dark; so they did what seemed best, and left. Navigation throughout the night had been by dead reckoning, and at 0550 when daylight showed them a friendly vessel, they exchanged positions and found they differed by 15 miles. Over the next half-hour they gradually located others, formed up and headed for Dover, arriving about 1030. The Vindictive was already there.
Though he must have been very tired, Barcroft was eager to find out what had happened; and later the same day, he wrote what he had learned. It was a low-key, professional appraisal—weary but satisfied, with perhaps just a hint of regret that he had not been able to have a more active part in the fighting.
The news which one collected about Zeebrugge was good. Vindictive got to the mole all right but owing to the swell it was difficult for the storming party to land. However they managed it and did a certain amount of damage. . . .not quite as much as was anticipated I think owing to more resistance being encountered than they expected. Their casualties were very heavy, as several shells burst among the landing parties. . .The blockers arrived all right but the first one, the Thetis went aground before she got between the piers. The other two, Intrepid and Iphigenia, passed her and finally sunk themselves right in the mouth of the canal. Their crews were taken off by MLs who followed them in. This I think was the finest part of the whole show. . . The blockships were filled with concrete and will be immoveable. As regards Ostend the blockers could not find the entrance and finally went ashore, but they think that the harbour will be partially blocked. . . As regards Zeebrugge the whole show was a complete success and everything seems to have worked without a hitch. The canal is properly bottled, one or two destroyers sunk and more damaged while the Huns must properly have got the wind up.
He left out only two important facts: first, that in a near-suicidal attack, one of the explosive submarines had succeeded in destroying the viaduct to the mole; and second, that British casualties were heavy—214 dead and 383 wounded.19 His concern for saving his colleagues’ lives did him honor, but would not have sold newspapers; nor would his down-beat tone have raised national morale. Those were the jobs of others, who tackled them eagerly: DARING FEAT AT SEA, said headlines in the Times. BELGIAN PORTS ATTACKED—STORMING PARTY ASHORE—CONCRETE-LADEN CRUISERS.20 In Parliament, Sir Eric Geddes, First Lord of the Admiralty (the Navy’s civilian head), described in vivid phrases “the extremely hazardous and gallant raid carried out last night,” stressing to the landlubbers around him that it had been “a particularly intricate operation, which had to be worked strictly to a timetable and involved very delicate navigation on a hostile coast without lights and largely unknown navigational conditions, which have developed since the war, with the added danger of unknown minefields.” Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig gave out the news in a special Order of the Day to the armies under his command; King George himself wrote publicly how the “splendid gallantry displayed by all, under exceptionally hazardous circumstances, fills me with pride and admiration.” The British nation’s heart swelled likewise.
The capture of the CMB33’s copy of the plan had in the end made little difference. Six years later, the Vindictive's captain wrote a self-important book about the raid.21 Self- importance was understandable, because by then he was Captain Carpenter, Royal Navy Victoria Cross—and his was only one of 11 Victoria Crosses awarded for the operation, in addition to 21 Distinguished Service Orders, 29 Distinguished Service Crosses, 16 Conspicuous Gallantry Medals, and 143 Distinguished Service Medals (not to mention the knighthood, and later the peerage, bestowed upon Admiral Keyes).22 But the number and degree of the awards invites skepticism: If Jutland (“That terrible day,” said Beatty, “when we might have accomplished so much”) did not deserve such praise, how then could one coastal raid even on a key establishment—and especially when it failed? For it did fail. The Ostend outlet remained open, despite yet another attempt, and (although it took 27 postwar months for the wreckage to be cleared) the Zeebrugge channel was “completely open for all submarines and torpedoboats” in only three weeks.23
Nevertheless, as even the Germans’ official historian acknowledged, the raid had been planned meticulously and executed with the utmost bravery, including self-sacrifice.24 And its moral effect on both sides was immeasurable. Messages of thanks and congratulation poured in to Keyes, including one from a Royal Navy captain saying: “We feel vindicated. At last we can put up our heads again.”25 One senior German official (though he “certainly exaggerated”) is alleged to have said that “the hopes of the Fatherland were buried at Zeebrugge.” What is certain is that in 1924, Admiral W.S. Sims, former Commander of U.S. Naval Forces in Europe, declared: “Few incidents of the Great War had a greater influence in inspiring enthusiasm in the fighting forces and increasing their morale.”26 And who will put a price upon morale?
1. Barcroft diary, 3 and 4 June 1916.
2. The Times History of the War, vol ix, (London, 1916), pp. 121, 128.
3. Barcroft diary, 31 December 1917.
4. Scheer, ADM R., Germany’s High Sea Fleet in the World War, (London: Cassel, 1920), p. 177.
5. Costello, J., and Hughes, T. Jutland 1916 (London: Weidenfeld &. Nicolson, 1976), p 227.
6. Terraine, J. Business in Great Waters: The U-Boat War, 1916-1945 (London: Leo Cooper, 1989), p. 10.
7. Scheer, op. cit., p. 178.
8. Terraine, op. cit., pp. 13, 15.
9. Ibid., 2 and 11 April 1918.
10. Barcroft diary, 31 December 1917.
11. Ibid., 2 and 11 April 1918.
12. Halpem, P. G. (ed.,) The Keyes Papers, vol. 1 (1914-18), (London: Navy Records Society, 1972), p 453.
13. Ibid., pp 480-481.
14. Bennett, G. (Naval Battles of the First World War, (London: Batsford, 1968) p. 289.
15. Barcroft diary, op. cit., written 22 April for 4 April 1918.
16. Bennett, op. cit., p. 290.
17. Keyes papers, op. cit., p. 413.
18. Barcroft, op. cit., 22-23 April 1918.
19. Bennett, op. cit., p. 295
20. The London Times, 24 April 1918.
21. Carpenter, CAPT A. F. B., Royal Navy, Victoria Cross The Blocking of Zeebrugge, (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1924).
22. Bennett, op. cit., p. 295.
23. Ibid., p. 297.
24. Ibid., p. 297.
25. Keyes Papers, op. cit., p. 484.
26. Carpenter, op. cit., pp. 274 (hopes), p. xiii (Sims)