During the afternoon, the weather in the central Mediterranean turned hazy, and the deep blue of the sea changed to gray. At 3:00 p.m., the two British battle cruisers were joined in the chase by the light cruiser Dublin, which Kennedy posted out of gun range on Goeben’s starboard beam. Kennedy then attempted to increase speed in order to keep Goeben within range; for a few minutes, he appeared to be overtaking her. This effort notwithstanding, however, certain British institutions were not be trifled with: “Sent hands to tea at 3:30 with Indefatigable to go to tea after us,” Kennedy recorded in his action report. By 3:45 p.m., Goeben and Breslau were pulling away into a misty haze; at 4:00, Goeben was only just in sight against the horizon. Dublin held on, but at 7:37 p.m. the light cruiser signaled, “Goeben out of sight now, can only see smoke; still daylight.” By nine o’clock, the smoke had disappeared, daylight was gone, and Goeben and Breslau had vanished. At 9:52 p.m., on Milne’s instructions, Dublin gave up the chase. At 1:15 a.m., a signal from Malta informed the Mediterranean Fleet that war had begun.
Souchon, having outrun the British battle cruisers, returned to Messina at dawn on August 5 with his crew exhausted. Even in port, however, there could be no question of rest. His enemies, the German admiral assumed, would be coming up and waiting for him just outside Italian territorial waters. Nor could Goeben stay for long without risking internment. Indeed, before the end of the day, a group of the same Italian naval officers whom Souchon had counted on to be his allies came aboard to grant him permission to coal “for the last time” and to tell him that he was allowed to remain in their neutral port no longer than the twenty-four hours permitted under international law. Souchon replied that he would reckon the twenty-four hours from the time they had given him their message.
The morning went by with the two German warships lying motionless in the heat. Souchon had ordered coal from Italian suppliers, but by midday no coal had appeared. Early in the afternoon, he began collecting coal from German merchant ships in the harbor. Then, toward evening, the first collier sent by the Italian government arrived; others followed, and soon the long gray hull of Goeben was surrounded: colliers on one side, the liner General on the other. Not only the navy crews shoveled coal: Souchon enlisted four hundred German civilian volunteers from the merchant ships. Through the night, sacks of coal were swung across to the warships and clattered down on the steel deck, where shovels began to ply. In the heat, the men began to falter. Souchon tried beer, coffee, lemonade, band music, exhortation, and the example of officers who stripped off their shirts and worked beside the crew. Nothing could keep the men on their feet. In groups they were sent off to sleep in passenger bunks on board General, where, black with grime and sweat, they passed out on snow-white sheets.
By noon of her second day at Messina, Goeben had loaded 1,500 tons of coal and her crew was exhausted; men lay collapsed on deck, shovels still gripped in their blistered hands. “With a heavy heart, for there was still much coal to be transferred,” Souchon halted the coaling—“It was essential,” he said, “to have at least some rest before preparing for battle”—and gave the order to raise steam for departure at five o’clock. Meanwhile, everyone in Messina knew that the German battle cruiser was preparing to meet its doom. “Numerous Sicilians, avid for sensation, besieged us night and day,” Souchon recorded.
People in rags offered to sell fruit, tidbits, postcards, and keepsakes of every kind; singers with mandolins, mouth organs and castanettes; policemen, girls, monks, soldiers, . . . [nuns] and even some well-dressed people, tried untiringly to grapple with our half-naked, coal-blackened men, to steal everything that was not riveted or nailed down, from their jumper buttons to shovel handles, in memory of “those about to die.” The noise of coaling, the whistle of steam, the din of windlasses, the grinding of shovels mingled with the dust, the smell of oil and sweat, and finally the cries of paper sellers with special posters: “Into the Jaws of Death” . . . “The Last Departure” . . . “Disgrace or Death” . . . “The Perilous Leap to the Peak of Glory” . . . “All Day to Die” . . . “Shame or Defeat” . . . “Voyage to Death or Glory.”
In his cabin, amid the noise of the coal scuttles, Souchon considered what to do. A defensive alliance had been concluded between Germany and Turkey, and he had been ordered to proceed to Constantinople. But in the three days since that order arrived, a diplomatic hitch had developed, making the earlier message from Berlin premature. Passage of the German battle cruiser through the Dardanelles would violate the neutrality that Turkey was still attempting to maintain. A majority of the Turkish Cabinet was insisting that permission for Goeben to enter the Dardanelles must be withdrawn, and the grand vizier had not yet made up his mind. This resulted in a new wireless from the German Naval Staff, which Souchon received at Messina at 11:00 on the morning of August 6: “At present time your call Constantinople not yet possible for various reasons.”
The same message from Berlin bore the additional bad news that Austria had refused to give Souchon active naval assistance. There were several reasons. First, Austria, although Germany’s ally against Russia, was not yet at war with France. Second, Admiral Anton Haus, the Austro-Hungarian naval commander, considered his new, untried fleet inferior to France’s and did not wish to do battle without help from the Italians. Once Italy had declared its neutrality, Haus decided that it would be foolhardy to rush out of the Adriatic to Souchon’s rescue, exposing his ships to the French fleet. In addition, the Austrian government was anxious to avoid conflict with Great Britain and had told Haus that it did not want his ships engaging British warships. As a result, Souchon was informed that the Austrian fleet would not be coming south to support him.
Under these circumstances, Berlin authorized Souchon himself to decide where he should go. The admiral chose Constantinople, despite previous orders. “It was impossible for me to remain in the Mediterranean in face of the crushing superiority of the enemy and total lack of means of subsistence,” he said. “I did not want to enter the Adriatic and be dependent on the Austrians. Thus, I firmly decided to enter the Dardanelles, if necessary against the will of the Turks, to carry the war into the Black Sea. I hope to carry the Turks with me in a war against their traditional enemy, the Muscovites.”
His decision made, Souchon gave orders: Goeben would weigh anchor at five o’clock that afternoon. Breslau would follow 10,000 yards behind. If there was no battle outside the harbor, he would steer north toward the Adriatic. After dark, he would make a wide, surreptitious turn to the southeast, hoping to elude pursuers, and then make for the Aegean Sea, where a chartered Greek collier had been ordered to meet him. Success, Souchon reckoned, depended on the enemy’s uncertainty as to his destination, on their ignorance of his damaged boilers and reduced capacity for speed, and on his own ability to shake off pursuit and meet the collier. But success was far from certain: before departing, Souchon wrote his will and sent it ashore. Then, at five o’clock on the afternoon of August 6, Goeben and Breslau steamed out the southern exit of the Messina Strait. The ship was cleared for action, the men were at the guns, and on deck the band was playing.
Admiral Milne was not waiting outside the harbor. Once Goeben had outrun Indomitable and Indefatigable and gone into Messina, Milne had fallen back on what he understood to be his primary mission: protecting the French transports. To achieve this, he positioned his force to block any attempt by Goeben to break westward toward the north-south sea-lanes between France and North Africa. Now aware that Goeben was capable of bursts of speed superior to his own fastest ships, Milne considered that the only sure way to accomplish his mission was to concentrate his battle cruisers west of Sicily. There, given sufficient warning of the enemy’s approach, he could intercept and confront Goeben with his more numerous heavy guns. Accordingly, Milne waited with Inflexible and Indefatigable (Indomitable, which had burned most of her coal in the chase, had gone into Bizerte to refill her bunkers) for Goeben to come out the northern exit to the Messina Strait and head to the west. The
light cruiser Gloucester was assigned to patrol the southern exit, which was the path to the east. The Admiralty, informed of these arrangements, approved.
Milne had learned on the morning of August 6 that Goeben and Breslau were at Messina. At that point, a different admiral—a Nelson at Copenhagen, or a Cunningham at Mers el-Kébir—might simply have ignored Italian neutrality and gone in after the German ships. But this would have meant flouting specific Admiralty orders. At 6:00 p.m. on August 4, even as Goeben was outdistancing her two pursuers and before Great Britain officially went to war, Milne had been told that the “Italian government have declared neutrality. You are to respect this neutrality rigidly and not allow any of His Majesty’s ships to come within six miles of Italian coast.” The policy had originated in the Foreign Office; at this delicate moment, with Italy backing away from the Triple Alliance, Sir Edward Grey did not wish to affront Italian sensibilities. The sinking of a single enemy ship, even the most powerful ship in the Mediterranean, could not take precedence. After the war, Churchill regretted the refusal to authorize British warships to follow Goeben into the Messina Strait. He did not mention Grey; rather, he said that neither Prince Louis nor Vice Admiral Frederick Sturdee, the Chief of the Admiralty War Staff, had mentioned the matter to him. “Had it been put to me, I should at once have consented. The prize was well worth the risk of vexing the Italians.”
But if Milne was not to pry them out, why did he not simply bottle them up? He might have abandoned his distant deployment west of Sicily, posted a strong force including a battle cruiser at either end of the strait, and simply waited for Goeben to emerge. This would have been thoroughly in accord with Churchill’s August 3 instructions: “Goeben is your objective. Follow her and shadow her wherever she goes and be ready to act on declaration of war.” Churchill himself later declared that this was what Milne should have done: “Certainly, if . . . [Milne] had in reliance on these dominant and reiterated instructions, managed to put one battle cruiser [on] each side of the Straits of Messina, instead of all on one side, and in consequence had brought Goeben to action as would have been inevitable, and if he had thus protected the French transports in the most effectual manner by fighting Goeben, no one could have found fault with him on the score that he had exceeded his orders.”
The question of Austria’s role added to Milne’s troubles and responsibilities. Britain was at war with Germany, but what about Germany’s ally? “Is Austria neutral power?” the admiral asked the Admiralty on August 5. The reply, like almost every message coming from London, was ambiguous: “Austria has not declared war against France or England. Continue watching Adriatic for double purpose of preventing Austrians from emerging unobserved and preventing Germans entering.” This message created further confusion. Having first advised that Goeben would attack the French transports, then having supposed that she might make a dash for the Atlantic, the Admiralty now speculated that Souchon could, after all, be thinking of returning to the Adriatic to link up with the Austrians. Milne, still focusing on the French transports, kept his fleet divided: the three battle cruisers remained with him off Sicily in the west, while Admiral Troubridge and his four armored cruisers continued to guard the Adriatic. Milne at this point specifically warned Troubridge not to take on the entire Austrian fleet: “First Cruiser Squadron and Gloucester . . . are not to get seriously engaged with superior force.”
Under a rich blue afternoon sky, Goeben and Breslau left Messina on August 6 and steamed south over a gently rolling sea. Increasing speed to 17 knots, the two ships were scarcely out of neutral waters when the smoke and masts of the waiting Gloucester appeared. At a discreet interval, the British light cruiser fell in behind, trailing her quarry along the coast of Calabria through the twilight and into a bright, moonlit night. From his bridge, Souchon watched Gloucester take up her shadowing role, but did not interfere. Had he done so, the contest would have been over quickly: Gloucester possessed two 6-inch guns, which outmatched Breslau, but stood no chance against Goeben, which could destroy her with a single salvo of 11-inch shells. Aware of this, Captain Howard Kelly of Gloucester hung back, keeping the Germans in sight and regularly reporting their position, course, and speed. Brilliant light from an enormous moon hanging over the sleeping Calabrian mountains both aided and threatened Kelly: he could keep watch easily, but the clear visibility would speed his doom if Goeben chose to turn on him. Through the night, despite Goeben’s efforts to jam his transmitter, Kelly’s radioman continued to tap out signals to Milne and Troubridge.
At first, Souchon was content with this arrangement. Then, after five hours of this game of the mouse chasing the cat, and unwilling to take the time to turn and devour his enemy, the admiral decided that he must stop pre-tending that he was headed for the Adriatic. Observed or not, if he was to reach the Aegean on the coal in his bunkers, he must change direction. At 10:46 p.m., Gloucester signaled Milne and Troubridge: “Goeben altering course to southward.” Just before midnight, Goeben and Breslau altered course again, this time to the southeast. Troubridge then signaled Milne, “Goeben is going towards Matapan.” Beyond Cape Matapan lay the Aegean, the Dardanelles, and Constantinople.
At this point, Admiral Troubridge, patrolling south of Corfu at the entrance to the Adriatic, commanded the only British force that might interrupt Goeben’s voyage. Individually, the armored cruisers Defence, Warrior, Duke of Edinburgh, and Black Prince were smaller, slower, and weaker than the German battle cruiser, but there were four of them, they averaged 14,000 tons, and, in combination, their twenty-two 9.2-inch guns fired a heavy broadside. Troubridge also had eight destroyers armed with torpedoes. Thanks to Gloucester’s reporting, Troubridge knew Souchon’s course and speed. Informed at first that Goeben was headed north for the Adriatic, Troubridge had placed himself in a position to fight her in darkness and relatively confined waters, where his weaker ships would have a chance to get in close and neutralize the German advantage in range and gun caliber. After midnight, when it became clear that Souchon was heading away from the Adriatic, Troubridge realized that if he steamed south at once, he still might be able to intercept Goeben. Unable to contact Milne, he decided on his own to attempt to do this. For four hours in the bright moonlight, the quartet of big British armored cruisers steamed south at 19 knots, their maximum speed, with the prospect of action at daybreak. No one in the Royal Navy who knew Troubridge, the man and the admiral, could doubt that this decision would lead to a rewarding display of professional skill and courage.
Ernest C. T. Troubridge was a genial, rugged, fifty-two-year-old seaman whose thick mane of white hair had earned him the sailors’ nickname the Silver King. His navy pedigree, like Milne’s, was impeccable: his great-grandfather, a comrade of Nelson’s, had been at the Battle of the Nile. Troubridge himself had become a close friend of Prince George, later King George V, when the two were young lieutenants and when Troubridge was known as “the handsomest officer in the navy.” As an observer with the Japanese fleet during the Russo-Japanese War, he had seen from Admiral Togo’s bridge the devastating effectiveness of long-range, heavy-caliber naval guns. Fisher liked Troubridge and, writing to the younger officer, said that he had “met Mrs. Troubridge in the Abbey and lost my heart.” In 1911, he became Winston Churchill’s private naval secretary; in 1912, the First Lord appointed him chief of staff of the newly created Naval War Staff. When Troubridge came to the Mediterranean to take over the armored cruisers and serve as deputy to Admiral Milne, his relationship with the Commander-in-Chief was correct but not warm. By August 1914, Troubridge already had been designated to command the British Mediterranean Fleet once Admiral de Lapeyrère had assumed the supreme Allied naval command and Milne, his tour of duty concluded, had returned to England.
Despite his reputation, Troubridge worried as his ships steamed south. Before he left Malta, Milne had shown him Churchill’s July 30 message declaring “you must husband your force at the outset” to avoid “being brought to action against superior forces.” Thes
e instructions, Troubridge knew, had been addressed to Milne and referred to any possible engagement between the three British battle cruisers and the twelve slower but more heavily armored Austrian battleships. But the fact that Milne had shown Churchill’s message to Troubridge gave it application to him, too. After this meeting and before sailing on August 2, Troubridge had called his captains together and warned them that “they must not be surprised if they saw me with the squadron run away.” In addition, Milne had specifically warned him not to seriously engage a superior force. Here, again, Milne was referring to the Austrian fleet—but, again, Troubridge applied the admonition more generally. He had no doubt that in daylight Goeben, with her speed and the size and range of her guns, was a force superior to his own and that therefore his instructions not to engage applied. He also had to consider that his destroyers were seriously short of coal and had been falling behind the squadron; by daylight, only three of the original eight would still be in company. Nevertheless, he still believed that he might succeed if he could meet and attack Goeben at dawn, when poor light might partially nullify the advantage of the greater range of the German vessel’s guns.
These thoughts were turning in Troubridge’s mind when, at 2:45 a.m., he found himself confronted in the flagship chart room by Defence’s captain, Fawcett Wray.
“Are you going to fight, sir?” asked Wray, who, as Flag Captain, was also Troubridge’s second in command. “Because, if so, the squadron ought to know.”
“Yes,” Troubridge replied. “I know it is wrong, but I cannot have the name of the whole Mediterranean Squadron stink.” Troubridge then signaled his ships: “I am endeavoring to cross the bows of Goeben by 6 a.m. and intend to engage her if possible. . . . If we have not cut him off . . . [I intend] to avoid a long-range action.”
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