Ersatz-Fanning does not as yet appear on the list of ships building. That fact may have no bearing on the security of the nation, and possibly is of little interest to officers and men who did not serve at Queenstown during 1917 and 1918. But to those who put in arduous months operating out of Ireland, and in particular to the old Fanning sailors, it is nothing short of a tragedy.
The U.S.S. Fanning, 740 tons, added her bit to history and tradition in the war zone, and there should always be a Fanning on the Navy list as a shining example of alertness, good luck, and bringing home the bacon. For on her forward stack that trim little destroyer displayed the white star that told the world that an enemy vessel had been accounted for. No foolin'!
To be sure Lady Luck was in a benevolent mood, and the ship's company of the Fanning was no more eager, nor better prepared for eventualities than were the other officers and men of "Willie Sims's Flotilla."
Send out the Fanning and the Drayton,
Send out the Conyngham,
When there's work to be done,
Or to go on patrol,
For Germans they don't give a damn—.
Names of fine ships and fine officers were the meat of that robust song; they all crashed through on jobs assigned, but the Fanning got the breaks.
Furthermore, Coxswain Loomis had a most extraordinary pair of eyes. At night he frequently reported lights not visible to any other man or officer on the bridge; the faintest loom of a hull-down light was discernible to his strangely acute vision, and again the blind goddess favored us when she provided herself with a remarkable set of substitute eyes for the first dog watch on that memorable day. But I am getting ahead of my story.
Early in November a formidable U-boat was receiving the finishing touches of a periodic overhaul at Helgoland. The second in command had given up his leave period to polish and preen his beloved sub, and to have her the acme of efficiency and smartness for the new skipper just reporting. U-58 had formerly led the life of Reilly in the vicinity of the Azores and now was to join the Squadron of Destruction that was harassing commerce inside of “17 West.” Sailing orders had been received, and Kapitan Leutnant Amberger, the new commanding officer, was instructed to lie in wait for the OQ (outward- bound from Queenstown) convoy scheduled to sail on November 16; specifically he was to sink the SS. Welshman, a fine big merchantman and the plum of the convoy.
At dawn of November 16, after a hazardous circumnavigation of Scotland, Amberger was patrolling off Daunt Light-vessel in ambush, awaiting his chance to further lower the failing morale of a war-weary Europe. Came the dawn, but no convoy. Admiralty in London had changed its plan, and a slip in German Intelligence had failed to discover the change; the original plan called for the departure of the convoy on the sixteenth, but the date was changed to the seventeenth before orders were actually issued. That was all news to the Queenstown sailors; apparently the submarine skippers had more news about some aspects of our business than ourselves.
The seventeenth was bleak and cheerless as are most winter days on the south coast of Ireland. Like other destroyers designated for this particular OQ convoy, “Old 37” was topped off and ready. Just to keep up interest in what might otherwise be a routine trip, the crew that morning was put through a new drill for the first time; prize crew and prisoner guards were stationed and instructed, and a picture-taking fan was told to bring his candid camera on deck at all battle stations drills to shoot things as he saw ‘em.
Late in the forenoon half a dozen grim, camouflaged “thousand tonners” and “seven-forties” sallied forth through the anti-submarine nets and spread out fanwise to scout the approaches to Queenstown. When the coast was clear, literally as far as could be told, the heterogeneous assortment of ships comprising the OQ convoy plodded out of harbor in a ragged and attenuated line. Once clear of possible enemy mine fields, these merchant captains, brought up to cruise singly in vast expanses of empty ocean, began to take their allotted places in the scheme of the convoy formation, with destroyers rushing about like collies keeping the flock together.
About half past three a slender oil slick was sighted from the Fanning; as no other destroyer or other ship had been in that immediate vicinity, it was certainly worth investigating, and the Fanning spent the next fifteen minutes or so trying to determine whence it came and whither it led; there was always the hope of stirring up a little excitement. But like most hopes for action, it petered out, and once more the Fanning resumed her station on the left flank of the welter of merchantmen that was gradually taking semblance of orderly convoy arrangement.
The humdrum business of shepherding untrained merchantmen into a military formation was suddenly quickened into adventure. Coxswain Loomis electrified the bridge with the report of “Periscope on the port bow distant 400 yards.”
The thin, silvery finger periscope, moving at a snail’s pace, was invisible to all on the bridge but the lynx-eyed lookout. The officer of the deck could not see it—never did see it—but he had good information intelligently given, and he pushed down the telegraphs, ordered left rudder, and when he figured he was over the right spot, he pulled up the handle of the hydraulic depth-charge release.
There was a hushed interval of expectancy—then a strange atmospheric shimmer over the surface of the leaden sea, a shimmer sensed rather than seen, like the heat mirage of the desert—a crushing) muffled detonation followed by a geyser of discolored water that rose with the unreal defiance of gravity of a slow-motion movie. Merchant ships seemed to speed up instantly; smoke poured from the funnels of escorting destroyers circling to the scene of the attack. Minute after minute passed without result—just another bit of excitement—perhaps it was a porpoise or a floating spar—or an overtaxed imagination. Perhaps just a good chance to break the monotony.
But the unbelievable happened. Rising from the sea like some monster came the bow of a submarine inclined at a steep angle. Destroyers charged in to the kill. Whether it was German, British, or American, it was a submarine and no chances could be taken. Guns’ crews danced with joy and impatience and opened up without delay—and perhaps without regard to other ships near the line of fire. In those days destroyer gunnery was just trigger pulling and directors were for the more erudite and less venturesome gunners of the battle wagons. The Nicholson dashed in close, firing as she came, dropped an ash can close aboard the stricken sub, and continued on, still firing furiously if with indifferent effect. The Fanning rushed in to lift the scalp that she felt was justly hers. Peewee three-inchers barked and did great damage to eardrums.
Whatever the feelings of those German officers and men, regret or fear must have been tinged with relief, for the Fanning’s first depth charge had wrecked oil leads, put out lights, damaged diving gear, and struck terror to the hearts of the men imprisoned below the surface. In a desperate effort to escape, Captain Amberger crash-dived seeking the friendly silent safety of bottom. Down and farther down the crippled submarine dove; leaks developed; even capture would be better than suffocating without hope. The long downward slide was finally checked over 300 feet below the surface; at last the needle stopped its ominous swing and began to move back to show the ship was rising. What would the British do to prisoners? Disquieting talk had leaked into Germany—tales of barbarism and merciless treatment of German captives.
At last the bow emerged; quickly she was leveled off, trimming a little down by the head. Hatches were thrown open, and one man was observed to plunge over the side, never to be found.
Plowing toward the submarine on a parallel and opposite course, came the Fanning with Whiteheads set for high- speed shallow runs and trained on the enemy; on the tube mount an itchy torpedoman was ready to release retribution. Then figures were discerned on the bridge of the U-boat; figures with arms upraised in surrender.
Surrender!
The Fanning rounded under the stern of the German, now stopped and wallowing in the trough of the sea. As the undersea fighter's stern rose with the swell, the sinister twin barrels of her after tubes were plainly visible from the deck of the destroyer.
A few more minutes and the lucky Fanning was alongside the trim, light-gray U-58. On the decks of both ships were men staring at each other with the curiosity of the victor or the stunned apprehension of the loser. Outwardly there was little evidence of damage with the possible exception of some falsework partly crushed in. Lines were quickly made fast; a German sailor was stopped in the act of opening a hatch near the stern. The snapshot fan snapped everything in sight. A moment of strange suspension, of inactivity on both ships, men just staring and waiting. Slowly U-58 began to list; faster and faster she inclined until, parting the lines that held her to her captor, she capsized and plunged from sight, leaving her crew struggling to free themselves from the aerials. One German, floundering helplessly, unable to reach the survivors’ ladders on the destroyer’s side, was hauled aboard from the water by two courageous destroyer men who could hate impersonally but were unable to callously watch the death struggles of even an enemy. Their heroism was unavailing, however; from the cheap cat- skin-lined coat that covered his lifeless body searchers took a piece of paper that contained the only roster of the men who put out from Helgoland a few days before in the ill-fated ship. That piece of paper may have held the key to another story of discipline and devotion to duty; one man was unaccounted for. Was he some luckless devil who stayed behind to scuttle his ship that it might not fall into enemy hands? To that question the answer still remains obscure.
The Fanning suffered one casualty; a fireman, unaccustomed to the fixed bayonets that were prescribed for the prisoner guard, impaled his hand on his own weapon in the excitement of the moment.
The German sailors were herded together on deck amidships and the officers were taken to the wardroom. Captain Amberger was crushed and mumbled something in guttural English about being a prisoner of war. The second in command, a personable, blond young fellow, spoke English, and recognized in his opposite number on the Fanning a former friend of midshipman days when the American squadron had visited Germany and sent a delegation to Flensburg. A strange meeting such as the war occasionally produced.
The Fanning returned to Queenstown to deliver the prisoners; some odd reaction of relief prompted the Germans to cheer as they drew away from the Fanning’s side bound for the Melville. They had been well treated and were frankly glad to find themselves in American hands.
That night the final chapter of the episode was written. In the dark of a moonless night, the Fanning’s skipper stumbled through the unfamiliar ritual of the burial service, read by the uncertain pencil of light from a screened flashlight, and the mortal remains of a German sailor were committed to the deep.
There is little else to tell. The return to Queenstown was made in a mood of mixed triumph and thoughtfulness. The signal tower on the west bluff outside the harbor entrance winked in answer to the Fanning's call and relayed a message to the captain of the dockyard at Haulbowline: "Burial completed, request berth." Again the signal light flashed from the darker darkness of the hills with a message in reply: "The captain of the dockyard will give berth at daylight."
A great day; a day glorious enough to outweigh the ill-fortune that years later reduced that splendid little flivver with her cherished white star to the necessity of chasing rum runners. A day that surely justifies the presence in the fleet of another Fanning, God rest her frames and stringers.