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On the morning of 21 July 1918, just off the coast of the Cape Cod town of Orleans, Massachusetts, the German submarine U-156 was hard at work (as she had been the day before), trying to carry out the secret Mission which had brought her so close to the shores of the United States. The U-156 was under the command of Captain-Lieutenant Von Oldenburg, a very dedicated, highly respected officer. His single weakness was not one which would have concerned the German high command: Von Oldenburg hated to fail.
The success of his recent efforts, the torpedoing of a British ship and the laying of mines which resulted in the inking of the USS San Diego (CA-6), had made Von Oldenburg the logical choice for a most important secret tt'ssion. He was to cut the trans-Atlantic cable which ran from Orleans to Brest, France. Over this direct wire went an impressive share of the coded dispatches between the U- S. War Department in Washington and the Chaunot headquarters of General “Black Jack” Pershing. Cutting this cable would greatly overload the other U. S. cables as 'Vell as the still-new overseas wireless and, thereby, dramatically retard all U. S. communication with Europe and the war.
Again and again this morning, Von Oldenburg had dieted his men and machine against the cable, but again and again they had missed, for the cable was buried so t^eeP in the sand that the flukes of the submarine could not reach it.
With each attempt, Von Oldenburg’s irritation grew umil, finally, realizing that his mission must end in failUre, Von Oldenburg was furious. Angrily, he made a rapid decision. He would not come all this way and accomplish nothing; he would not allow the time and fuel spent to reach this coast to be a total waste. If the cutting of the cable was impossible, then a new target must be found, s°me other object upon which Captain-Lieutenant Von Oldenburg could vent his anger.
“Up periscope,” shouted Von Oldenburg.
The time was exactly 1030.
Three hundred yards off the Cape Cod coast, the Perth Amboy, a tug owned by the Lehigh Valley Transportation Company, was towing four barges from Gloucester, Massachusetts, to New York. The first of the barges was loaded with granite; the other three were empty.
The captain of the Perth Amboy and her crew of 16 was fames A. Tapley. At 1030, he was sitting in a wooden oeach chair on the upper deck of his tug. There was a might sun this July morning, and Tapley, nude from the "mist up, was getting some sunshine while he read the newspaper he had bought before leaving Gloucester.
The war news was good, heralding the progress of the allied assault on the Hindenberg line. Under the commands of Generals Pershing, Haig, and Petain, the allies were smashing the Germans from Chateau Thierry to Reims, all along the Aisne-Mame front.
But here on the Perth Amboy, the war seemed so far away as to be almost unreal. The warmth of the sun made Tapley drowsy. He let the paper fall to his lap, closed his eyes, and thought sleepily of the days he would have in New York and the opportunity this would provide for him to visit with his family in New Jersey. Away from home for more than two weeks now, he looked forward to getting back.
Suddenly, Tapley was drawn out of his reverie by one of his deckhands, an Austrian named Bogavitch.
“Feels to be getting shallow, Captain.”
Tapley stood. “Let’s take a look.” They walked together to the pilothouse, and Tapley began going over some charts.
One of the three empty barges the Perth Amboy towed was the Lansford, captained by Charles Ainsleigh of Norfolk, Virginia. His entire crew consisted of his wife and their two sons, one 11, the other nine.
At 1030, Ainsleigh’s wife was below, cooking a late breakfast of ham and eggs and coffee. On the port side of the barge, Ainsleigh’s sons were holding mock target practice with the new .22-caliber rifle which James, the older, had been given for his birthday. Ainsleigh, himself, sat on his “back porch,” smoking his pipe and gazing at the bright, white beaches of Nauset and Orleans.
Ainsleigh was a happy man. The Lansford offered him and his family the sort of life he considered ideal: traveling from place to place, soaking up the sun, only working to load and unload, plenty of time to swim and fish together.
The Lansford was solid and safe, a three-masted schooner 35 feet wide and 180 feet long and just ten years old. Practically new.
Ainsleigh sighed and puffed on his pipe.
At the new three-million-dollar naval air base in the nearby town of Chatham, Lieutenant Eaton stared out the window of his office and inwardly bemoaned his fate. He was officer-of-the-day and, as such, stuck with Sunday command of the base. Meanwhile, nearly everyone else was out at Provincetown enjoying the baseball game with the minesweeper crewmen stationed there.
At the desk across from Eaton sat Ensign Ingard, reading yesterday’s Boston Globe. Abruptly, Ingard put down the newspaper and said, “With a real shoot-’em-up war going on, why do they let talent like ours stay stateside? Here we are, two fledgling eagles with no place to do our fledging.”
VOL XCIV-NO. 22
BOSTON. MONDAY MORNING. JULY 22. 1918-TWELVE PAGES
PRICE TWO CENTS,
ALLIES HAVE HUMS OH THE RUN ATTACK BY U-BOAT OFF CAPE
GERMAN SUBMARINE SINKS THREE BARGES
Page 2
BARGE FAMILY WHO SURVIVED GERMAN SHELLS
Tug and Fourth Barge Damaged—Shell Land on Orleans Beach —U. S. Airplanes Bomb Raider—Two Men Hurt
Contlnacd Pro
Began Flrng at Once Had the spectacle been arranged by a master hand. It could not have been given a better setting.
With the tug Perth Amboy of the Lehigh Coal & Navigation Company j in (he lead, the four barges were ' making their way laxlly along toward Vineyard Sound, held by the stout hawser from the tug.
Everything was peaceful aboard. when suddenly the captain of the tug, Capt I. H. Tupley, saw (he great i :;ray object loom out of the water j less than half ^ mile distant. w
< Almost instantly the shelling be-,
I gan and the tranquility that had j reigned but a few minutes before was I turned Into a tumult with the deaf- j enlng reports of (he guns aboard tho ! submarine. But few shots had been ; fired from the U-boat before the ;
; pilot house of the tug was In splln- J
Four Women, Two Boys, Among 32 Who Fled in Boats Amid Hail of Shell
11-Year-Old Boy WavesU.S.Flag Defiantly as Shot Strike His Father’s Barge
ORLEANS, July 21—Out of the haze of a peaceful 1 mid-Summer Sunday morning, a big German submarine, probably 400 feet long, came to the surface at 10:30 th»» morning, and after an hour and a half of shell fire' )n which several hundreds of shells were fired, succeeded in sending to the bottom off Nauset Harbor two empty coal barges and a barge loaded with stone, damaged • fourth and set fire to a tug. Late in the day, as the sun was sinking, the last two were still riding the waves, with smoke coming from the tug’s burninng woodwor ■ On the barges were 12 men, four women and two boys, all of whom were rescued. The crew of the ocean* going tug comprised 16 men, all of whom got off ®a e ’ n the boats. .
Though there was a rain of shells, but two of t ^ ’ number were injured, the captain of one of the barg and a member of the crew of the tug.
Interest Begins lulu 25
CAMBRIDGE
SAVIWSBANK
Urn-* m*'
6 BOSTON O
“Today,” said Eaton, “I’m more interested in fielding than fledging.”
Ingard snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. How about we take up a couple of the flying boats and see what the score is out in Provincetown?”
Eaton laughed. Since they were both pilots, the proposal was not at all far-fetched, but the humorous part was the expression Eaton could envision on the face of the “old man” if he suddenly spotted two of his planes buzzing the Provincetown ballfield.
“Great,” said Eaton. “The old man would put us away for a year.” He waved his finger dramatically. “It is our solemn duty to stay here and remain ever on the alert.”
“Alert for what?”
“The enemy, my boy,” said Eaton with mock seri«u ^ ness. “It is our job to protect this strategic coast!* against the mighty enemy.”
“Well, I wish the mighty enemy would get started-* bored. . . . Sure you won’t fly over Provincetown?
“No thanks.”
“Then I have only one other exciting suggestion.
“What?”
“A game of darts.” ,<
“You’re on,” said Eaton. “Low man goes for cofiee-
Tillt
Dr. J. Danforth Taylor’s home was in East Boston, ^ all of his summer weekends were spent in his large c tage, which sat high on Nauset Bluffs with a command* - view of the open sea.
This morning, Dr. Taylor was in his front porch roc ' his binoculars, as always, on the small table beside h* The newspaper he was reading was Saturday’s, the > day papers not being due in until the noon train from & ton. At the moment, Dr. Taylor was reading the !**
still
missing.
B
'iitu
acc°unt of the sinking of the U. S. cruiser San Diego. As a result of a sub-laid mine, the ship had gone down off the c°ast of Fire Island, New York, and 62 of her crew were
Suddenly, the sight of a southbound tug caught Taylor’s fye-He put down his paper and picked up his binoculars, poking first at the tug and her four barges and then, inex- P icably, out beyond the tug.
A submarine!” Dr. Taylor said aloud. “I think that’s e Periscope of a submarine.”
But a haze was gathering over the water, and Dr. Taylor c°uld not be certain he was correct. He decided to keep Etching.
^on Oldenburg turned his periscope slowly, looking out °ver the open water at first, then turning toward shore where he saw a barge . . . and another . . . and another . ■ ■ and another . . . and then the tug which towed them. °n Oldenburg smiled. ‘‘Prepare forward torpedoes!” he
shouted.
Quickly, he and his second-in-command made the necessary calculations: position of tug, estimated speed, estimated direction. Then they corrected the course and speed °nhe U-156.
Ready torpedoes!” shouted the Captain. “Fire one! ' ■ ■ Fire two!”
In the pilothouse of the Perth Amboy, Tapley put down ,ehart and turned to his Austrian deckhand. . °ogavitch,” he said, “I think you’re right. We’re head- [n8 into sandbar country. Let’s stop while I get us a new
heading.”
B°gavitch nodded and pushed the tug’s telegraph to stoP- The Perth Amboy shuddered to a halt.
Seconds later, two green and white streaks whizzed acr°ss the tug’s bow, reached the shallows of Nauset Bar, a°d exploded.
Jesus!” said Tapley. “What the hell was'that?”
Missed!” shouted a red-faced Von Oldenburg. “But m's impossible!”
^ k'Shall we prepare the other torpedoes?” his second
No! I will waste no more torpedoes on such a puny arget. Prepare to surface.”
Surface?”
Surface! We will blow them out of the water with our guns.”
Torpedoes, Captain,” said Bogavitch. “I would 'vieiar I saw torpedoes.”
Can’t be,” said Tapley. “Who the hell would fire Orpedoes at a tug? We’re only—” He broke off abruptly J heard a distant explosion followed by a whistling overhead and then a splash of water behind them. Tapley raced out on deck, and there it was: A quarter ae distant sat a gray-black submarine looking for all the °rld like a monster whale.
ang . . . Whiz . . . Splash! Another shell, short this Tapley was certain the next one would be on target.
He rushed back into the pilothouse just as Second Mate Albert Thorsen arrived there.
“Hurry,” Tapley shouted to his mate. “Ready the lifeboat. We’re being attacked by a submarine!”
“A what?” yelled Thorsen as he scrambled toward the lifeboat.
Bang . . . Whiz . . . Crash!
The shell thundered into the pilothouse. Tapley was unhurt, Bogavitch was wounded, and the pilothouse was a burning shambles.
“Come on!” said Tapley. “Let’s get out of here.”
Bogavitch nodded, holding a handkerchief to one of the cuts he had suffered from flying debris. Together, they raced from the ruins of the pilothouse just as another deckhand, John Zitz, arrived. He had been searching for Bogavitch, his Austrian friend. The moment he found him, another German shell exploded, sending fragments of wood and glass into Zitz’s right hand and leg.
Tapley helped both Bogavitch and Zitz to the lifeboat and got them on board with other members of the crew. The two friends hugged each other, both nearly in tears. Both believed their wounds to be much more serious than they actually were; both were certain their deaths were only moments away.
“It is a sub,” exclaimed Dr. Taylor, “and it’s firing on our ships!”
Dr. Taylor leaped from his rocker and dashed to his living room phone. A man of discipline and quick decisions, he knew precisely whom he must call first. He wanted air support, and that could only mean the naval air station in Chatham. He asked the operator to get them quickly.
“Naval air station,” yawned Lieutenant Eaton.
“A submarine!” shouted Dr. Taylor into the phone. “There’s a German submarine shelling our ships off the coast of Orleans!”
Lieutenant Eaton laughed. “All right now, cut it out, whoever you are. We’ve already had this crank call once. Last time, it was supposed to be the Coast Guard Life Saving Station. Who do you claim to be?”
“I,” said Dr. Taylor fiercely, “am Dr. J. Danforth Taylor of East Boston and Orleans. And I can assure you that this is no crank call. Get those planes off the ground!”
He slammed down the receiver. The air station’s poor response made him reconsider his next move. Perhaps he should call Major Harris or Captain Smith. Before he could decide, his phone rang.
“Dr. Taylor,” said the voice, “this is Lieutenant Eaton of the Chatham Naval Air Station. I want to verify a call. Did you just phone me about a submarine?”
“You’re damn right I did, young man. And you’d better do something about it!” Again, Dr. Taylor slammed down the receiver. This time, he picked it up again almost immediately. “Operator,” he said, “get me Major Clifford Harris.”
Major Harris was a veteran of the 1898 Spanish-American War and present commander of the Orleans Militia.
“Cliff,” said Dr. Taylor hurriedly, “get that militia of yours up here on the bluffs. We’re being attacked.”
came
boat from the Coast Guard Life Saving Station
alongside. In seconds, Surfman Will Moore was out of the
“Damn it, Howard, I’m serious,” said Lieutenant Eaton. “Get out there and arm two of those depth bombs. Ensign Ingard and I are going to take up two of the flying boats. We’ve got a war going on here.”
“But, Sir, I’ve never armed the bombs.” Howard was a chief mechanic. Each of the flying boats was required to carry a mechanic as well as a pilot, a mechanic who, aside from his ability with the complete tool kit he carried, also acted as bombardier.
Eaton said, “I’m sure you’ll manage, Howard. And you’ll ride with Ingard. There’s no other regular mechanic handy, so I’ll take Ensign Shields.”
“Highly irregular, Sir.”
“Howard, this whole damn thing is irregular. Whoever heard of a submarine trying to sink a tugboat? Now just get those bombs armed.”
“But that’s not my job, Sir.”
Lieutenant Eaton closed his eyes and said very deliberately, “Do ... it .. . Howard.’’
Eleven-year-old James Ainsleigh still carried his .22 rifle as he climbed into the Lansford’s lifeboat. Captain Ainsleigh was sitting aft with his wife. His younger son was amidships where James now sat also.
Ainsleigh said, “I can’t help you, boys. Do you think you’ve got enough steam to row us ashore?” Splinters of glass had cut both of Ainsleigh’s hands.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” said James. “We’ll make out.” He put down his rifle in the bow of the boat beside a small American flag. Then he picked up an oar, and he and his brother began rowing.
Ainsleigh’s wife was crying softly.
“Now, now,” Ainsleigh said, “it will all be over soon, and it won’t mean a thing. They won’t sink our Lansford, but we can’t stay out here and keep being shot at.”
Already, two of the barges had gone down, the loaded one first and then the empty number two. And number four seemed to be in trouble.
“Not the Lansford,” Ainsleigh said again. “They won’t sink her.”
The boys had turned the lifeboat toward shore now, and they began rowing furiously as one of the submarine shells fell nearby. They were halfway to shore when the two shells hit the Lansford, directly amidships. The shells thundered into her belly, and the big barge, the Ainsleighs’ home, began to go down.
Tears came to the eyes of young James Ainsleigh. Putting down his oar, he lifted the small flag from the bow of the lifeboat and handed it to his brother. “Wave it, Bubba,” he said. “Wave it high.” And while his brother did as he was asked, James pulled .22-caliber ammunition from his pocket and loaded his rifle. “Dirty huns!” he yelled. “You dirty huns!”
He opened fire on the submarine.
On the bluffs, Dr. Taylor was making his third phone call. “Boston Globe,” he said, “this is Dr. J. Danforth Taylor of East Boston and Orleans. I’d like to report that we are under attack by Germans here at Orleans.”
“You’re what?” said the astonished voice on the
phone- , her “A German submarine is shelling a tug boat and a
barges. And some of the shells are falling on our beaches- I repeat, we are under attack.” ..
“Hang on,” said the voice. “Don’t move a muscle. I get you to rewrite, and you just keep reporting exact y what you see.” .
“Precisely,” said Dr. Taylor. “Precisely what I had in mind.”
The lifeboat from the Perth Amboy, with all 17 ere* members on board, was less than halfway to shore when
Coast Guard boat and into the one carrying wounde • Having brought a very complete first aid kit, he imme ately went to work on Bogavitch and Zitz. Both were sti moaning, both still certain death was only a whisper away- Quickly and efficiently, Moore cleaned and bandage^ their wounds. He applied a tourniquet to one Bogavitch’s arms. .
When Moore was finished, Captain Tapley asked hi softly, “How bad? How bad are they?” .,
Moore smiled and, sensing the tension in the boat, sa aloud, “In a couple of weeks, these two will be as good a new.” ,
Bogavitch’s eyes went wide. “You mean it?” he aske ■ “I mean it,” said Moore. “We’ll get you to Mass Gen eral for stitches, and you’ll be 100%.” ,
Bogavitch turned to Zitz and, with his good han ^ slapped him on the back. “You hear that, Zitz, you tou£ old bum? You hear that? We’re going to be all right!
And they both began laughing, laughing with such eIj thusiasm that it soon spread to everyone in the lifebo j Wild, contagious laughter. And, much to the amazeme of those on shore, they were still laughing as they lan at Pochet Beach.
.,i_
Ensign Ingard’s plane, Flying Boat Number 1695 ^ Chief Mechanic Howard on board, was in the lead. Th > were flying at 800 feet. Ingard could see the submarm some 1,000 feet ahead: gray and black and red with rus^ 250 feet long, a single conning tower, two 22-pound de guns (one fore, one aft), and more than 20 sailors on de along with the captain and his second. ,
Ingard jabbed his finger ahead at the sub. Howard n° ded and bent over the bombsight.
“Get ready!” yelled Ingard.
Howard’s right eye was glued to the sight. ^
Down below, the submarine guns were now tilted ba ’ and the gunners began firing at Ingard’s plane. All ot ^ shells missed, sailing by to land near the cottages shore. . . t
Now, the submarine came into view in the bombsig and Howard quickly pulled the wire. But nothing haF pened. The bomb was stuck in the wing. , {0
“Damn!” muttered Howard. He motioned for v
make a wide swing and come back over the target. 1 would try again.
_________________________________ 19»5
Retu:
ming to the telephone, Dr. Taylor reported, “Resi-
dents
Behind them, Lieutenant Eaton in Flying Boat Number L with Ensign Shields on board, was skimming along e water with less than 500 feet of altitude. Right on cue, nsign Shields pulled the wire, and the depth bomb was aWay, whistling down toward the target. There was a large t?, ^Ut nothin8 more.
^e bomb had failed to explode.
That’s right,” said Dr. Taylor into the phone, “the rst Plane didn’t drop anything. The second one did, but °thing happened. Nothing at all.”
Suddenly, the front door of the Taylor cottage burst Pen and men and women and children began crashing r°ugh the living room.
... hlold on,” Dr. Taylor shouted into the phone. “Some- lng crazy is happening.” He grabbed one of the men nning through his house. “What’s going on here?” he e^landed. “What are you doing in my home?” Basement,” said the frightened summer resident.
Ij hey said you had a full basement, and we should come re- The Germans are starting to shell the houses. Fred n°w saw shells drop in the marsh, and Annie Linnell saw ne whistle right over her house and drop in Higgins ver!” The man raced on to the basement.
l - say the sub is now shelling our homes. It appears to e a full-scale attack.”
, Ignore the planes!” shouted Von Oldenburg. “Train e, §uns on that tug. Sink her!”
hit her solid at least ten times,” said the second. I just refuses to go down, Captain.”
, 1 Was true. The plucky little Perth Amboy refused to go ^°Wn: 139 feet iong; 28 feet wide, steel hull and house, *X years old out of Fort Richmond, 452 tons of solid Murage.
Bhe would not be sunk.
^ the parking lot high on the bluffs, Major Clifford L. i ®Ir*s had just arrived and was ordering his militiamen tj 0 action. News of the submarine had spread like high e- Hundreds of tourists had arrived to watch the excite- ^ eat. Traffic—automobiles, horse and buggies, and pe- estrians—was congested everywhere, j, Get those civilians back,” shouted the major. “Get f eiT| °ut of firing range. And line up those front vehicles rifle cover.” He turned to the man at his side, Captain ^uier Smith, and said, “They tried to take us twice be- j^re- We stopped them then, and we’ll stop them again.” c rushed off to the forward vehicle.
^What the hell’s he talking about?” someone asked. jQ Rock Harbor,” said Captain Smith. “The British tried |Uake two landings there, but the militia stopped them.” ,,The British? That was 100 years ago!”
^lore,” said Captain Smith quietly. “104.”
sj *pnce again, Howard had the sub directly in his bomb- • Once again, he pulled the wire. Bombs away! sD?'Vn’ down, down the depth bomb whistled. A large asB . . . and nothing more. The bomb did not explode.
“Damn!” muttered Howard again. “Damn, damn, damn.”
In the plane behind, Lieutenant Eaton had seen what happened. He was livid with rage. Out of desperation, anger, and impotence, Eaton grabbed the heaviest “piece” he could find from Shields’s tool kit: a large monkey wrench. As he made his second pass over the submarine, he took careful aim and threw the wrench.
“That’s for you!” he shouted. “That’s for attacking us on Sunday morning when everybody’s playing ball! You dirty, rotten huns!”
The planes headed back to their base.
Von Oldenburg picked up the object that had been thrown from the plane. “A wrench,” he said incredulously. “They threw a wrench at us.”
“Begging the Captain’s pardon,” said the second, “but we are running low on ammunition.”
Ignoring him, Von Oldenburg turned his eyes to the little tug which continued to bob in the water, as fully afloat as ever. Then he looked again at the wrench in his hand. Finally, he turned to his second. “Prepare to submerge,” said Von Oldenburg. “We are heading out to sea.”
It was almost 1130.
The gray-black whale slowly descended, and the German attack came to an end. In the course of one hour, the U-156 had fired a total of 147 shells, the first and last German shells ever to fall on U. S. soil. Said the Prov- incetown Advocate a few days later, “Observers of the U-boat gunfire were unanimous in their criticism thereof: The German marksmanship was downright poor.”
The aftermath? On Monday, the mighty Perth Amboy would be towed proudly into Vineyard Haven harbor to the applause and cheers of onlookers and the whistles and toots of other tugs and ships. She would go to sea again, still under the command of Captain Tapley. Bogavitch and Zitz, at Massachusetts General Hospital, would recover fully from their wounds just as Surfman Moore predicted. Dr. J. Danforth Taylor of East Boston and Orleans would be roundly congratulated for his quick thinking and his blow-by-blow account of the battle. Charles Ainsleigh would get command of a brand new barge for him and his family. Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels would be called before President Woodrow Wilson to explain what had happened to the naval air force. Pilots Eaton and In- gard would be transferred overseas.
And, forever after, Chatham servicemen would be forbidden to play baseball on Sunday.
Mr. Biggers attended North Georgia Military College and Emory University. In New York, he began his advertising career with Dancer- Fitzgerald-Sample, Inc., where he rose to vice president account supervisor for General Mills and Com Products-Best Foods. He was president of Total Television Productions, and in 1977, he joined NBC-TV where he became vice president Advertising and Creative Services. He left the network after Five years to pursue his writing. Mr. Biggers has written articles for national magazines, is a syndicated columnist, and has written three books, including the novel. The Man Inside.