When you are approaching three score and ten, your thoughts— according to the octogenarians— should be directed toward the future, the grandchildren, the growing of prize roses, or improving your bridge. Although my thoughts are grooved accordingly, they sometimes skid, and I think of my years of active service in the Navy—my sins of commission, my errors of omission, and the might-have-beens. When thus digging into the past, instead of my garden, I have no regrettable might-have-beens when the ex-German submarine, U-111, and her last cruise is being turned over in my mind.
There were very peculiar circumstances concerning the Navy’s acquisition of the U-111 and my cruise aboard her. At the time, 1919, there were many who said I was shot full of luck and made other remarks not at all complimentary and perhaps they were correct. Now, retired after World War II, I am happy that “I did as I did.”
This factual story begins just after World War I and is about submarines. Those who still remember that war will recall that Germany challenged the Allied control of the Atlantic, by waging an unrestricted submarine warfare against Allied and neutral shipping, endeavoring thereby to starve England. The Allies knew well in advance of Germany’s preparation for this unrestricted submarine warfare, but they were skeptical of the success of such a challenge. Their navies were surface-minded and quite incapable of realizing the destructive potential of properly designed, well built, seagoing submarines—“Too much Nelson.”
Popular history records that Germany lost the war. It rarely records that the Allies lost over fifteen million tons of shipping, mostly British, due to German submarines, nor does history speculate what might have been the result, had the Kaiser played the deadly game with finesse, ordering his fleet of submarines to avoid sinking ships flying neutral flags.
The ink on the Armistice Agreement, November, 1918, was barely dry, when the British realized the price of victory—fifteen million tons of shipping sunk! Britannia’s rule of the waves had taken a terrible blow. Immediately, proposals were made that henceforth submarines be outlawed or so restricted by international agreement as to render them impotent. If you can’t lick them, pass a law against them. The Allies had dropped 100,000 depth charges for each German submarine destroyed.
During this war, I served on the staff of the Commander Submarine Force, Atlantic. The Navy Department, reshuffling commands after the war, ordered the Admiral in command of submarines to haul down his flag. The Department’s evaluation of submarines as an arm of the fleet did not justify an admiral afloat. A submarine section in the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, Washington, was established with a submarine captain as Chief of Section, and I was ordered to shore duty as an assistant to this captain. I much preferred sea duty.
Now, although submarines, early in 1919 did not rate highly with the policy-making General Board, the newspapers were treating, as always, Germany’s submarine warfare as a crime against all standards of warfare, not mentioning, of course, that whereas enemy submarines had produced great economic destruction, their warfare had been cheap in lives lost compared to the Allied losses on the Western front. The policy makers of the Navy Department did not agree entirely with the much publicized suggestion to outlaw submarines. “Let’s not be stampeded,” they said.
All the coffee hour and lunch conversations in the Navy Department concerned battleships, battle cruisers, and destroyers. The Battle of Heligoland was the favorite topic. Some argued for battle cruisers: we’ve got to have a fast, hard-hitting wing for the battleline; others said battle cruisers couldn’t stand up against battleships with larger caliber guns; a few were convinced a great number of fast cruisers was the answer to give our Navy control of the seas. Submarines were not in the picture of the future. Such was the chit-chat in the Navy Department in 1919.
“Captain,” I said one day, “What can be done to make our Navy realize the value of submarines?”
“Well, if they are not outlawed by international agreement,” he replied, “they will be but a berth for adventuresome officers wanting an early command, unless submarines become sea-going and reliable enough to accompany the fleet. For as long as they cruise part of the time on the afterend of a tow line, the fleet will not consider their destructive power in war.”
In 1919, Diesel engine designing and production in our country was in swaddling clothes, barely creeping. Trucks, power plants, and railroads equipped with Diesels were not even a dream, and our Diesel-powered submarines were not sufficiently trustworthy to go to sea without the services of a nearby tender.
“Well, sir,” I said, “the Germans had good engines in their submarines. They cruised all over the Atlantic. Let’s get some of those surrendered subs at Harwich, England, take them apart and learn the secrets of the magnificent job they did for the Kaiser.”
“I wish we could,” he replied, “the Secretary of the Navy has requested President Wilson on two separate occasions that we be given a few of those German subs at Harwich. The President, over at the Paris Conference, is sticking to his ‘No Reparations’ slogan, so each time the reply to the secretary’s request has been, ‘Not Granted.’” One day, returning to my desk after lunch, I sat there thinking what, if anything, could be done to bolster our submarine service. On my desk was the morning newspaper headlining the coming Victory Loan Drive. Suddenly there came an idea, and I hurried over to the office of a commander in one of the technical bureaus. “Joe, you known the President has refused our request for German subs. I’ve got an idea for a new angle of approach. Maybe the President will change his mind.”
“Yeh,” said Joe, “What is it?”
“Let’s write a letter to the Secretary recommending another dispatch to the President requesting German subs; this time it will be for the purpose of exhibiting them at various seaports to make publicity for the Victory Loan next April.”
“Mr. Daniels wouldn’t bite on that, not after he’s been turned down twice. But wait, maybe you’ve got something.” Joe thought a moment, then continued: “Let’s go see the Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. McAdoo. He had charge of the Victory Loan and is the President’s son-in-law. Maybe a dispatch from him will get to first base.”
“How are we going to see Mr. McAdoo? It’s against the Navy Regulations, unless we get permission from our Secretary.” “Well,” Joe replied, “They can’t bilge us for trying. And if we manage to see McAdoo and sell him the idea, all our Secretary can do is raise hell, and maybe send us to sea. Let’s chance it.”
He picked up his telephone, called the Treasury Department, and in a few minutes, to my great surprise, we had an appointment with Mr. McAdoo.
He received us and listened thoughtfully as we explained our idea of using German submarines for publicity to arouse interest
in the Victory Loan. We suggested six submarines, to be destroyed afterwards. (There would be time to study their design and machinery.)
“It’s a good idea,” Mr. McAdoo agreed, “I’ll send a dispatch to the President.” Nowadays, with all the protocol and complexities of Washington official life, it is doubtful if such an unorthodox appointment with a Cabinet official would be granted. Washington in 1919, however, was just an overgrown town with few traffic lights and no red tape stops for straight-from-the-shoulder Government business.
The remainder of the day and far into the night, I worried. I had taken my finger off my number. Surely our visit to Mr. McAdoo would become known. What would Mr. Daniels do to me? Little did I then realize, but a chain of events was beginning to be forged, which afterwards had a great influence in the development of our future submarines.
The next afternoon, as I sat at my desk shuffling papers trying to appear busy, the Captain’s phone rang. After answering, he stood up, straightened his tie, flicked possible cigarette ashes off his uniform, and hurriedly left. This is it, I thought. He’s going on the carpet and I’m going to catch hell.
Returning sometime afterwards, he stopped at my desk and looked at me with cold eyes. “Did you and your friend Joe go to see the Secretary of the Treasury, yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By whose authority?”
“No one’s,” I said, “Just took a chance to get some German submarines.”
“Well, Mr. Daniels is very angry. He says shore duty in Washington is no place for an officer like you. He has directed me to tell Navigation to send you to sea.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he smiled. “Oh, don’t look so sunk. The President has granted Mr. McAdoo’s request for six German submarines. Since you and your friend, Joe, got them—I’ve talked it over with the Chief of Naval Operations—you’re to take a draft of officers and men to England, and you’re to command one on the cruise back.”
“Why, thank you, Captain,” I managed to reply.
“Now, look here,” he went on, “I’ll see that nothing goes on your record for breaking the Regulations, and don’t you disappoint me. You come back to the United States with a seagoing submarine not on the after end of a towline.”
A few days later I left New York with a draft of twelve officers and one hundred and twenty men on a commercial transport for Brest, France, guarding a million and a quarter dollars in gold coins, required in France to pay our forces there and for other bills. From Brest, we crossed the channel to Plymouth, thence to Harwich, England, by rail. Arriving at Harwich, I reported to a senior officer aboard the USS Bushnell, a submarine tender, and delivered the draft of officers and men to provide crews for the six German submarines we were to select from those surrendered by Germany on November 20, 1918.
The Bushnell was anchored in the midst of the surrendered submarines. What a graveyard of marine junk! Once the pride and boast of the Kaiser’s sea effort against the Allied control of the Atlantic, these submarines were now dirty, green, corroded hulks, some partially sunk, others entirely sunk with only the tops of their periscopes showing. Outwardly, a few appeared in good condition.
When the Germans surrendered their Grand Fleet at Scapa Flow, they scuttled many of their ships. This same hatred of the conquerors had been followed to some extent by their submarine crews. Acid had been poured into the bilges, and put into pumps and motors, and other acts of sabotage committed to render the submarines worthless to the Allies. With a great deal of anticipation, however, we began inspecting those submarines whose external appearance gave promise. As we climbed on board and went below, what a sight met our eyes! Any admirer of excellently designed ships dislikes to see their engines, pumps, motors, generators, and meticulously adjusted gauges wrecked. We were appalled. The British had selected the submarines they desired, the French look their pick, and then the Japs came.' After making their selections they had gone aboard the best of the remaining submarines and with sledge hammers and hack saws had wrecked the machinery. Apparently we had arrived at Harwich too late to gain any knowledge of the design and installations of the submarines that had made the Atlantic dangerous for the Allies.
We finally selected five which seemed capable of repairs by the tender Bushnell to enable them to make the voyage to the United States under escort. I was assigned the U-164 at the dockyard in Devonshire. This submarine, I learned had originally been a British selection but subsequently had been partially dismantled.
Despite vigorous protests that I wanted a submarine in operating condition, the senior officer, to whom I had reported, replied, “We’ve been in England several months and want to get home. It’s true that U-164 at Devonshire is not in operating condition but perhaps you can get the dockyard to make repairs. If not, you can bring the sub back on a towline.”
The draft of twelve officers and one hundred twenty men were assigned to the submarines selected. Two officers, one warrant gunner, and fifteen men were assigned to the U-164. I had nothing to do with the selection of this crew, but whoever made the individual selection must have been influenced by my guardian angel. Later when I became acquainted with these officers and men and learned their technical abilities, their stamina, and loyalty, I marvelled at my good luck.
When we arrived at the Devonshire dockyard we found that there were no lights in the U-164, and as we went below with flashlights, we were assailed with a rotten, dank smell of oil, acid, and decayed filth. Her periscopes were gone, her engine gauge boards had been removed, and the motor generators aft of the engines, used for charging batteries and submerged propulsion, had been ripped out by cutting the heavy armored cable off next to the generators. No wonder the British were willing to give her to us. What should be done? Take the crew back to the Bushnell and say the U-164 was just another wreck? I decided first to visit the engineer officer of the dockyard.
The engineer officer said he knew the condition of the U-164 and that a French crew had had authority to remove the periscopes. As for the condition of her machinery, well, he was sorry he couldn’t account for it. In answer to my question about repairs being made by the dockyard, he agreed, but said that it would take three to four months, would cost about £50,000, and since British submarine machinery would have to be used, the U-164 would be more British than German.
I knew the Navy Department would not approve an expenditure of £50,000, and that we might as well go back to the Bushnell and get an easy ride home. On leaving the engineer’s office, I asked, “Sir, is there any German submarine here in the dockyard that hasn’t been wrecked? I’d like to look over one that is in a seagoing condition.”
“Oh yes, alongside the tender out there is the U-111. She’s one of the best and is a sister ship of the U-164.”
Within half an hour I was aboard the British tender and there by a chance remark another link in the chain of events was forged. After introducing myself to the officer at the gangway, I requested authority to look over the U-111. He answered my request, by asking, “Are you going to take the U-111?”
Astonished, I looked at him a moment. The U-111, although an ex-German, was, so far as I was concerned, a British submarine. Here, though, was a British naval officer offering me a British submarine! I couldn’t figure it out. Stalling for time, I said, “Yes, why?”
He explained that although he was in command of the U-111, he would be happy to get rid of the beast, for she was not in regular commission, and therefore he was not drawing the extra pay allowed for command.
I didn’t tell him I had had no intention of taking the U-111, but during the entire inspection of the submarine, I was trying to evolve some plan to relieve him of “the beast.” His crew were doing nothing more than living aboard, taking light and power from the tender alongside, instead of from the batteries of the submarine. Evidently they had no pride in this war prize. She was dirty and appeared to be exactly in her surrendered condition. To me, she looked grand!
Inspection finished, I visited the Commodore of the British submarines in the dockyard. He was quite sympathetic concerning my assignment of the U-164; as for approving the transfer of the U-111, he was sorry, but that couldn’t be done. After a lengthy visit, and a couple of Scotches, during which I asked concerning his exploits in the Mediterranean—he was quite decorated—he finally said that if the Admiralty approved the transfer of the U-111, he would offer no objection.
It seemed hopeless, but the night train found me on board bound for London to make an appeal to Vice Admiral Sims, then in Command of our Naval Forces in Europe. Admiral Sims was renowned in our Navy for having revolutionized gunnery, and in World War I he had done much to institute the convoy plan. He readily understood the value the U-111 would be to our submarine designers, but said he was being relieved within a few days. Consequently he was too busy to undertake the job of getting the British to give us the U-111. Seeing my keen disappointment, after a moment he added, “Why don’t you go to the British Admiralty and make the request. Suppose I arrange an appointment with the Second Lord.”
Promptly at three o’clock that afternoon, I was waiting in the corridor outside the office of the Second Lord. For three quarters of an hour, I waited. He was having afternoon tea. Finally I was received.
The Second Sea Lord, offering me a chair, inquired concerning Admiral Sims, saying how sorry they were he was relieved. “And now,” he said, “I’m quite busy, what is the purpose of your visit?”
This was the moment. Everything depended upon this appointment. How to make the request for the U-111 reasonable and convincing? For hours I had planned what to say, but now—. Somehow I got my request into words, telling him how necessary it was to take the U-111 to the United States as a seagoing German submarine, one that had sunk Allied shipping, to exhibit during the Victory Loan; that the U-164 was incapable of repairs, in time, even if—.”
His lordship interrupted, “Young man, your request is most unusual. I am surprised that Admiral Sims made an appointment for you. Go back to your headquarters, inform them if they wish the U-111, submit a request through channels. That’s all.”
I just sat there, too sunk to be polite and leave. It would take months for a request from our headquarters to be approved by the British Admiralty, even though our Navy Department in Washington forwarded it, “Approved.” His lordship was indeed quite busy. Numerous Admirals, Captains, and serious-looking clerks brought in dispatches, and papers for his information, or for his signature. Time passed. Finally, he looked at me, and asked, “Why are you waiting, I told you-”.
“Yes, sir,” I replied dismally, “but that will take too long. I’ve got to get a German submarine to the United States before the 23rd of April, the start of the Victory Loan. The submarine Commodore at Devonshire said-” His telephone buzzed.
After a lengthy conversation which seemed to please his lordship, he looked at me, inquiring, “You were saying what?”
Eagerly, I started to tell him again all my reasons. “Yes, you’ve told me all that be-before,” he said. “Hmm.” He took out his watch which was a large, gold case affair. I thought perhaps George III had given it to one of his lordship’s ancestors. “See here, young man, it’s late. Perhaps—well, perhaps I shall consider giving you that submarine. Now go back to your headquarters, and tell—.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir, but I’ve got to have your authority right now, tonight.” His lordship sighed, and then capitulated. “Just what is it you desire me to do?”
“A dispatch authorizing the Commodore at Devonshire to deliver the U-111 and give me a copy, please.”
He wrote the dispatch. Another link in the chain of events was forged.
Years later at a Navy banquet in Seattle, Admiral Schofield, Commander-in-Chief, Pacific, referred to this incident as “The only time the British ever gave up a ship without a fight.”
The U-111 was delivered to us at Devonshire the next day, March 23. She had been commissioned at Kiel, Germany, in January, 1918, with Kapitänleutnant Beyersdorf in command. He made three cruises, operating against Allied shipping in the Irish sea, the English Channel, and in the Atlantic, and had sunk—so far as was known—six merchant ships. In September, 1918, he had taken the U-111 to Kiel for refitting. On November 20, 1918, he had surrendered at Harwich, England.
The crew were as joyous as children at Christmas to have given to them what was then the most modern of all submarines. They began cleaning and inspecting. Her design exemplified in reliability and offensive quantities all that the Germans had learned in their submarine warfare—the first time in history such warfare had been used on a grand scale. She was built along the lines of a yacht, with a surface speed of sixteen knots, and submerged speed of ten knots. She was powered with two six-cylinder, 1,200 horsepower diesel engines; her armament consisted of eight torpedo tubes, six forward, two aft; and two four-inch quick firing wet guns on deck.
The first favorable impressions of her superiority were the three periscopes, with their superb lenses (the world’s best lenses were made at that time in Austria); the low silhouette of the hull; the deck of heavy, teak wood, non-skid; the bridge so shaped as to divert wind and seas from the bridge personnel; and the wet guns. Our submarines had housing guns which were ineffectual nuisances.
In the lockers were found the personal effects of the German crew, phonograph records, “The Hindenburg March,” “The Kaiser’s Birthday,” complete portfolios of Atlantic Charts, all linen-backed to prevent shrinkage and distortion; and charts of the British Isles with Allied minefields drawn in red ink.
As stated, there had been assigned to me fifteen men, all qualified submariners. This number was insufficient to operate the U-111 at sea. Seventeen additional all naval casuals from the London and Plymouth areas were assigned “for transportation to the United States.” Not one of these seventeen had ever been aboard a submarine.
To the novice, the inside of a submarine looks as the inside of a watch might look to a tiny bug—wheels, everywhere. It was our job, as we mastered the engines, motor generators, batteries, air compressors, pumps, blowers, valve manifolds, gyro compass, switchboards, and other numerous auxiliaries, to give the new men an elementary submarine education. Mastering the operation of this foreign-built machinery would have been simpler had all the numerous name plates been lettered in English. None of the crew knew German. It was quite useless to puzzle over the name plates such as: “BEIM LADEN UND SCHIESSEN VON MINEN ÖFFNUNGSBOLZEN ANHEBEN” or “VOR DEM LADEN WINKELEINSTELLVORRICHTUNG AM TORPEDO UND AUSSTROSSROHR AUF NULL STELLEN.’’
There was no radio. The British had removed the German set prior to delivery of the U-111, but we installed a ½ KW set obtained from a submarine chaser. Not much of a radio, no power, but it would do. What worried us, though, was that there was no magnetic compass, only a gyro compass. Every ship in our Navy at that time depended for accuracy upon magnetic compasses, as our gyro compasses were not sufficiently reliable for navigational purposes.
The British crew had never operated the engines or charged batteries. The third day, after taking over the U-111, the starboard engine was started. The crankshaft bearings ran hot! Here was trouble! Examination showed that the Germans, in surrendering, had shut off the lubricating oil causing the babbit metal in the crankshaft bearings to melt. To remove the large crankshaft and take out the bearings was a most difficult undertaking. We had no special tools or wrenches, but somehow the engineer ratings working in shifts day and night, managed. It was a twelve-day job, well done.
Trouble, they say, never comes singly. After finding the burnt bearings on the starboard engine, the port engine was checked thoroughly before starting. It ran perfectly. Since the gravity of the storage battery was low, the motor generator clutch was thrown, and a battery charge started. In the storage battery there were one hundred twenty cells, each cell weighed about a ton, located beneath removable decks, covered with canvas, in the living compartments. The engine and motor generators were charging satisfactorily at a 500 ampere rate—we were all smiles. Suddenly someone yelled, “Stop the engine.” A chief electrician came running aft, explaining excitedly that the battery ventilating ducts had been disconnected. A lead acid storage battery evolves hydrogen gas on charge. Unless this gas is sucked out by a blower, a violently explosive mixture is formed. The electrician inspecting the battery blower had noted the absence of an acid smell. Hastily, taking up some of the deck boards over the battery, he had found the rubber ventilating ducts disconnected. His prompt action in all probability had saved the interior of the U-111 from being wrecked. Two acts of sabotage! Were there more? All possible precautions were taken, and rigid daily inspections of all compartments was made.
Watching the crew working in shifts to get the U-111 ready for sea gave me an excellent opportunity to size them up. It was plain that they were putting forth their best—no soldiering. They were proud of this submarine and anxious to take her to the United States. Ensign Grubham, the Chief Engineer, had won his commission the hard way and was not at all bluffed by the responsibility, taking it quite casually. Diesels, even of German manufacture, were no mystery to him. He was quiet and very studious. Imagine my surprise one night when I made an inspection about 2 a.m. to find him sitting on a box in the engine room working problems in integral and differential calculus. Chief Machinist Mate Wilson was an able assistant to Ensign Grubham, so were Russell, Miller, and others whose names I have forgotten. Gunner Henry, an old submariner, was quite a philosopher with a keen sense of humor and faith due probably to the vicissitudes of the Kansas farm life of his younger days. Chief Gunner’ Mate Blaus, fat and happy, was known to the crew as “Dutch.” He had made chief because he did half the job himself, expecting the other men to follow his example. Lieutenant Commander Hulings, the exec and navigator, was conscientious and thorough.
The crew, being Americans, attracted attention in the dockyard, particularly that of the British apprentice boys. One day one of our electricians was on the pier taking a picture of the U-111. He had an expensive camera which at the moment was sitting on the pier. An apprentice grabbed the camera and ran. The electrician chased him, but returned soon afterwards and reported his loss to me. Despite all efforts, the camera could not be located. When I told the electrician this, he vowed to even the score. Just how, I didn’t know until afterwards.
The submarine tender, USS Bushnell, sailed April 3 from Harwich, escorting the other German submarines that had been selected as most fit. She was proceeding to the Azores—at which port, she planned to refuel the submarines from her tanks—thence to New York. I received orders to join the convoy, April 5, as they passed Devonshire. The engine repairs were not completed, and I reported to Headquarters London, the U-111 would not be ready to sail on April 5. On April 7 I reported, “Ready for Sea” and was told to “Proceed according to orders.” Bushnell was hundreds of miles ahead. Right then, I should have pointed out the impracticably of such orders, but in the Navy one does not like to protest.
At 4 p.m. April 7 we sailed. Following the channel from the dockyard, we passed close aboard a British cruiser. All our crew off watch were in ranks on deck. A sailor on the cruiser, swabbing the decks, looked at the U-111 and shouted, “Where youse Yankees goin’?”
“To God’s country,” one of our crew replied.
“Oh you —— will be back.”
“Like hell we will, you Limey ———.”
Ensign Grubham, the Chief Engineer, who was on the bridge, turned and without a word went below, and that was the last time I saw him on the bridge.
We laid our course to sight Ushant Light off Brest. This run of about seven hours would give an estimate of engine performance, speed, and fuel consumption. The engines operated perfectly—quiet and without vibration. A spirit of confidence prevailed. We were glad to leave the “fish and chips and ale” of Devonshire and be on our way home. About 11 p.m. Ushant Light was sighted. After getting a bow and beam fix, a check showed fourteen knots; and we began figuring knots and distances divided into gallons of diesel fuel on board.
Our radio had insufficient range to establish communication with the Bushnell. We couldn’t overtake her. She presumed we had an escort and wouldn’t wait three or four days at the Azores for the U-111 after she had refueled her submarines. We hadn’t sufficient fuel to make the cruise to New York, via the Azores, and there was no diesel fuel in storage at the Azores.
Our alternative was the Northern Route, the great circle course, the shortest distance to New York. There was a margin of fuel oil for this route, provided the weather didn’t reduce our speed too much. But the sailing directions for the North Atlantic warned mariners against the Northern Route, until after April, on account of fog and ice—the Titanic disaster in April, 1912, was the example. Having to get the U-111 across the Atlantic, we decided to chance the Northern Route. Via the nearby radio station at Ushant, the following dispatch was sent: “To Force Commander Brest, Position U-111 11 p.m. Lat. 49-05 N, Long. 05012 W, speed 14. Am proceeding via great circle course to Lat. 41-30 N, Long 47 W, thence to New York. Unable to make contact with Bushnell. Please inform Force Commander, London, Bushnell, and Naval Operations.”
Another link in the chain of events was forged.
For three days we bucked heavy seas from the northwest. The U-111 was taking a beating, and speed had to be reduced. Finally the gale blew itself out, but on the heels of the gale, a heavy fog set in. Lieutenant Commander Hulings, the navigator, and I were beginning to worry, as of course in such weather there were no stars or sun sights to fix our position. Another anxiety was the gyro compass. Were we steering an accurate course, or had an error crept in? Despite all the pounding and pitching of the submarine, as she bucked the heavy seas, the horizontal plane of the gyro appeared steady. Apparently there was no “creeping,” a habit the gyros at that time seemed to have.
The officers and crew were organized into a watch in three—six hours on, twelve hours off. Only the quartermaster and lookouts were allowed topside. Although Dutch Blaus had started an extensive cleaning and chipping program to keep the men busy, it seemed to me that when the men below weren’t on watch or sleeping, they were eating. It is a custom, and quite correct, in our submarines to have an open galley. Our cook was seasick, and so the men just helped themselves. Nothing to worry about, the executive officer had taken aboard at Devonshire sufficient supplies—so I thought.
About 2 a.m. the fourth night from Devonshire, one of the machinists awakened me. “Sir, the water in the bilges is up to the deck plates and it’s rising.”
Hurrying aft to the engine compartment, I saw the deck plates had been lifted, and several feet of oil-covered water was slushing back and forth with the pitch and roll of the submarine. Ensign Grubham looked at me and shook his head, meaning water was coming in faster than the bilge pump could handle it. Well, I thought, this is the end. Off the usual ship route, position uncertain, a toy radio set, and no lifeboats! Fritz wins! And then pushing his way through the men at the forward end of the engine compartment, with nothing on but his skivvies, just as he had jumped from his bunk, came Dutch Blaus.
He hesitated but a moment, then shouted “Come on sailors, let’s find the leak.” With that he jumped into that greasy cold water up to his waist and began feeling around with his hands among the pipes and valves in the bilges to locate the source of the flow. Several men followed his example. After ten minutes or so—hours to me—an open valve on the one-inch overboard discharge line of the engine circulating water was found. We had been pumping sea water through the cylinder jackets for cooling, then discharging it inboard (instead of overboard) through this open valve located about three feet below the deck plates.
The inflow of water stopped, bilges were pumped, and all hands being up, we had coffee and sandwiches. Ensign Grubham showed me the engine room log, bilges had been inspected and pumped each watch. How did this valve in an inaccessible location get opened? The valve was carefully examined and the answer was plain. A hard, gummy substance was found. Fritz had opened this valve and then sealed the discharge into the bilges with a soluble plug! Ingenious sabotage! Dutch Blaus had forged another link in the chain of events.
A feeling of relief prevailed. German deviltry had been prevented for the third time. Now all would be smooth sailing; but the navigator and I didn’t feel so optimistic —we had no sights to fix our position.
The great circle course was taking us quite far north for this time of year. The temperature of the injection water was dropping. Aboard the U-111 it was cold and clammy. There was no heating installation. We wore all the clothing we had, but it was impossible to be warm except in a bunk between blankets. Dutch Blaus, ever cheerful, kept the men off watch busy, by his scrape, clean, and shine program, and though the men were physically miserable, there were no complaints even when the food gave out. Before sailing, orders had been given for three weeks’ provisions. These had been delivered just before sailing, but no inventory had been made because there wasn’t time. The delivery had been short, and now after seven days at sea, and still far from New York, there was nothing to eat except potatoes, pickles, and jelly—not even hard tack. For breakfast we ate fried potatoes, for dinner boiled potatoes and pickles, and for supper, mashed potatoes and jelly.
One morning about five, I was in the motor room trying to warm my hands on the motor generator before going topside with the navigator for star sights if any should be visible. I felt a terrible bump. We had rammed something! Hurrying forward, and up to the bridge, I found a thick fog, but the fog didn’t hide the shattered chunks of ice on deck, and huge chunks of ice in the sea around us. Inspection of the forward torpedo compartment showed all seams tight, the U-111 was sturdily built—she had rammed a small berg. For the next three days we steered through fields of rotten ice, and as a precaution we doubled the lookouts on the bridge.
A sense of humor often helps a precarious situation. The men knew we had no star or sun sights, and that our navigating was based entirely upon dead reckoning. In the Navy, it is customary to post the noon position, with the distance made good, and the distance to destination. One noon, the dead reckoning position showed distance to New York exactly 1,000 miles. The position and distance to go were posted on the bulletin board in the central operating compartment. Afterwards, I noticed that someone had added a zero, making distance to New York 10,000 miles! It got a good laugh, even though the situation was a bit grim. It was grim, too. Ensign Grubham asked how positive we were of our position. “Our best estimate,” I told him, “might be out fifty or sixty miles. No sights, you know.”
“Well sir,” he replied, “I’ve just taken the noon fuel oil readings. If it’s a thousand miles to New York, we won’t have enough fuel oil.”
There was but one way to conserve oil— shut down one engine. We could make more time on two, but we could go further on one. The men knew, of course, the reason for running on one engine. Although they were cold and hungry, they accepted the situation with calm philosophy, but I felt that by my rashness, I had gotten them in this predicament. I should have headed for the warm, sunny Azores. That night, before climbing on the bridge to relieve Henry, I happened to glance again at the bulletin board in the central operating compartment. Another had been posted. It read: “We’ll run on the engines as long as they last; then run on the batteries, as long as they last; then we’ll make sail with the canvas covers of the battery deck.” Such an incident had actually happened in our early submarines. I suspected that Henry had posted the notice. It was quite typical of his indomitable character. I asked him. “Sure,” he answered, “just to tilt the chins of some of the crew. And we won’t sail her in, either. Not this submarine. Look at the way she bucked the seas and kept her bridge dry. Look at the way her engines have been putting out. She’ll get us in, all right. She’s got spirit.”
I wished that I felt as confident as Henry.
Anyway, his attitude gave my chin a tilt.
The weather was improving. No more ice fields, and the fog was thinning, particularly in the late afternoon. On April 16, far to the southward, we sighted a merchant ship headed eastward. This ship undoubtedly had taken departure from Nantucket Shoals Light Vessel—our point to change course for New York. We signalled the ship. She didn’t answer, but she must have seen us, for with a belch of smoke she turned south at full speed and began zig-zagging, taking no chances on a German submarine.
Evening twilight was overcast. No star sights. Next morning, we were disappointed again. If our reckoning was correct, we should sight Nantucket late the next evening. About five the next morning, Friday, the overcast showed signs of breaking. Soon two stars were spotted. Lieutenant Commander Hulings took several sights, then I did. As every navigator knows two stars will not give a reliable fix. And besides, the horizon was very mushy.
We worked the sights out and evaluated the position they gave for what it was worth. At noon, Ensign Grubham predicted we would be completely out of fuel oil in about thirty hours! The system of taking fuel soundings was very accurate, so Grubham was certain of his figures. I prayed that we would sight Nantucket. This was long before the days of radio beacons or radio bearings. We had to sight Nantucket’s lights to be certain of our position. The fog began closing in. Six p.m., seven p.m., eight p.m., eight-thirty,—no Nantucket!
The Nantucket Light Vessel is anchored on the outer edge of a series of shoals off New England. Many ships, missing Nantucket, have grounded and been wrecked on these shoals. Something had to be done. Very little fuel left, and shoals ahead—somewhere! We could change course to southwest, slow to steerage way for the night, and at daylight, gently beach the U-111. I thought of the Navy’s “Rocks and Shoals.” “The punishment of death, or such other punishment as a court-martial may adjudge, may be inflicted on any person in the naval service who—intentionally or wilfully suffers any vessel in the Navy to be stranded—whereby the safety of the vessel is hazarded or the lives of the crew exposed to danger.” I, alone was responsible. Better to have been towed from the Azores to New York than a wreck on Nantucket shoals, or a drifting derelict.
Lieutenant Commander Hulings and I were in my small cabin, studying the chart. Several of the crew were in the passageway, watching us. I bowed my head in silent prayer. Perhaps the men did likewise. Selecting a position on the chart, I told Hulings to lay a course for Fire Island Light Vessel.
There was little sleeping that night on the U-111. The men off watch were in small groups talking, and waiting for daylight. I couldn’t keep from overhearing some of their conversation. It was mostly about steaks, two inches thick. Dutch Blaus said he wanted ham and eggs. About four, I climbed to the bridge. Henry was on watch. “Captain,” he said, “I think we’re going to make port today. Mr. Grubham has about finished the problems in his calculus book.”
Morning twilight—no stars, but the day promised to be clear. And then, Henry suddenly shouted, “Sail ho! There she is, see that smoke dead ahead!”
We studied the smoke through glasses. It was a ship headed to the southward, on practically our course! The good news went through the U-111 as fast as an electric current. The men who had been cooped up in the narrow steel hull for nearly twelve days came to the bridge, two or three at a time, and looked at the welcome sight. In a couple of hours the sun shone. It became warmer and the sea being calm, the men were allowed topside on the narrow deck and soon all hands were taking salt water baths. Their troubles were over.
That afternoon we passed Fire Island Light Vessel abeam and changed course for Ambrose Channel. The last and final link in the chain of events, which in my opinion had a great influence in the development of our submarines, had been forged.
Our radio was in range of the radio station at New York. Accordingly, the following dispatch was sent to the Navy Department: “U-111 passing Fire Island Light Vessel abeam. Proceeding Navy Yard, New York.”
Dutch Blaus came on the bridge with the Colors and the Imperial German Ensign. “Permission to hoist?” he said. And with the Stars and Stripes flying over the German flag we proceeded. Just as we passed the channel entrance buoys, the radio electrician handed me a dispatch. It was a reply to my arrival dispatch and read:
“Proceed to Portland, Maine, reporting to Victory Loan Committee.”
A submarine in sight of New York with a hungry crew, and fuel tanks nearly empty, told to go to Portland, Maine! I answered: “Out of provisions, and fuel. Am proceeding Navy Yard, New York.”
As we passed outbound ships in the channel, the crew in ranks on deck, were thrilled as each ship not only dipped their colors, but gave the U-111 a whistle salute.
Just as we reached the Narrows, the radio electrician handed me another dispatch: “Proceed to Boston for provisions and fuel.”
I replied: “Am proceeding Navy Yard, New York.”
Mutinous? No! Naval Operations just didn’t understand the situation.
The U-111 arrived at the Navy Yard at six p.m., April 19, twelve days and two hours after sailing from Devonshire, England. In the fuel tanks there remained fuel for only two more hours. Ensign Grubham had figured speed and fuel consumption within a hair’s breadth. As soon as possible I paid my respects to the Captain of the Yard. “The Navy Department,” he explained. “wished to keep the U-111 out of New York, on account of a grand entrance planned for the Bushnell and her submarines.” They arrived a week later.
The Captain asked if he could do anything for us. I told him the crew were hungry and would like to be paid in order to get something to eat ashore. The regulations and rules in the Navy can be quite flexible, for despite the fact that it was nearly seven p.m., Saturday, within a short time a paymaster came aboard the U-111 and paid the crew on a “memorandum-payroll.”
I hadn’t heard from my family in Washington since leaving in February—service mail, overseas, was slow in 1919 so I phoned my wife. She told me that an officer in Naval Operations had informed her that the U-111 was taking the Northern Route, without an escort; that my safe arrival was doubtful; and then, this officer that very day, Saturday, told her the U-111 was arriving, but he added, “The Admiral, Headquarters London, has recommended a court-martial for your husband for disobedience of orders.”
Well, I thought, he allowed me to sail without an escort on orders impossible to accomplish. Being too tired to worry, I went back to the U-111, turned in, and got the best night’s rest I had had in twelve days. The next morning, although it was Sunday, I phoned the Washington residence of the Captain who had been my Chief in Naval Operations. “Captain,” I began, “I just want to tell you why I did as I did.”
“I’m damned glad,” he replied, “that you did as you did. No tow line, no escort! But you’d better come to Washington and explain to the Chief of Naval Operations, lie’s considering the charges preferred against you.” The Chief of Naval Operations heard the story and the reason for sailing direct to New York. “Very well,” he announced, “I’ll refer these court-martial charges to you for a written statement.” After thinking a moment, he continued, “Congratulate your officers and men for being the first American submarine crew to cross the Atlantic without an escort. Perhaps we will build submarines as good as the U-111.” I started to leave. “Wait a minute,” he reproved me, “lately, you’ve broken regulations and disobeyed orders perhaps. Anyway, better watch your step, you might not be so lucky in the future.”
Returning to New York, as I boarded the U-111 I was surprised to find the leading representative of a gyro compass manufacturing company aboard. He was examining our gyro compass and wanted to take it apart, then and there, and he showed me dispatch authority from the Bureau of Navigation giving him permission to remove the compass.
“Nothing doing,” I objected, “I have orders to exhibit the U-111 in various New England ports to aid the Victory Loan. We’ve got to have this compass.” A telephone conversation with Washington confirmed my decision.
The gyro compass manufacturer was extremely disappointed. He asked all kinds of questions concerning the performance and details of the compass. Listening nearby was the electrician who had had his camera snatched by a British apprentice boy. “Sir,” he suggested, “if you want to see the element of a German gyro compass, I have one.
There, in a large locker, was the element of a gyro compass. It was as large as a wash tub. “Where did you get that?” I asked.
“Oh,” the electrician replied, “Just a souvenir from that wreck, the U-164. I took it to get even with the British for snatching my camera.”
Such retaliation with interest plus I would not have permitted had I known the compass was aboard. Everybody else knew, of course. This souvenir, the German manufactured gyro compass, was made available to our compass manufacturers soon afterwards, and became the granddaddy of our future compasses.
The U-111 was exhibited for Victory Loan purposes at Portland, Portsmouth, Boston, Newport, Providence, and New London. While at Providence, pictures were taken through the periscopes. This was the first time, I believe, that camera pictures were taken through a submarine periscope.
Arriving at New London, I received orders to train the crew of the U-111 for extensive trials by the Board of Inspection and Survey. During submerged training for these trials, orders were received from the Navy Department for demobilization. Any man who wished to terminate his enlistment should be discharged.
The U-111 crew rapidly dwindled from thirty-two men to eight. Replacements, mostly “make-you-learns,” were received. These new men, however, unlike the original crew, did not have any admiration for the U-111. It was a hard task to train them. We were at Block Island making submerged runs and had just surfaced, when I felt an intense pain in my stomach. I guessed it was too much potatoes, pickles, and jelly, combined with worry—or maybe my luck had just run out. The hospital found a ruptured small intestine, caused by ulcers.
The bridge, hull, periscopes, guns, torpedo tubes, machinery, and compartment design of the U-111 were far superior to the design and machinery of our submarines at that time. This was to be expected, since Germany had waged such an intensive submarine warfare, and her best ship designers and technicians had contributed. The Washington Disarmament Conference, 1921, refused to outlaw submarines, and later when our Navy began to build submarines, many of the features of the U-111 were incorporated in the new designs.
Months later, on sick leave, I visited the U-111. She was lying alongside a pier, a rusty, abandoned hulk. I went aboard. The wash of a passing motorboat caused the hulk to pitch a bit and bump the pier. It seemed to me that she was welcoming me aboard. I went below. The periscopes engines, motor generators, air compressors, low pressure blowers, gyro—everything had been removed, and taken to shops for dissembling and the drawing boards. Truly, the U-111 had atoned for her war sins by giving us the secrets of her reliable machinery. Nothing but a hulk remained, and it was to be sealed and towed to sea for a bombing target. In that hulk, however, must have remained some of her old spirit, for after being towed to sea, she cheated the bombers by sinking during the night.
Graduated from the U. S. Naval Academy in the Class of 1909, Admiral Daubin is one of the U. S. Navy’s most experienced submariners. During World War II he served as Commander, Submarine Base, Pearl Harbor; Commander, Submarine Squadron Four; Commander, Submarines Atlantic, and Commandant, U. S. Naval Shipyard, New York. Following the war, he served as Commandant, Seventeenth Naval District and was retired in 1948. As ComSubLant in New London for three years (1942-44), Admiral Daubin was directly responsible for the organization and training of the submarine forces that made so great a contribution to the winning of the war in the Pacific.
★
WHAT NAME, PLEASE?
Contributed by ENSIGN CHARLES L. SMITH, U. S. NAVY
A few years ago the USS Altair was converted from an AK to an AKS in Baltimore, Maryland. With a more or less green crew we headed down the Chesapeake Bay toward the Norfolk Naval Base where we were to put our new ship in commission.
During the afternoon watch as OOD, I stepped to the pilot house door from the wing of the bridge to query my helmsman as to the course he was steering. He was standing his first wheel watch at sea and was obviously confused by the question, “Helmsman, what are you steering?”
Wishing to appear salty before his shipmates, however, he snappily replied, “The USS Altair, Sir.”
(The Proceedings will pay $5.00 for each anecdote submitted to, and printed in, the Proceedings.)