Castles of Steel

by Robert K. Massie

  The two largest warships moored in Tsingtao harbor, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, made up the core of the German squadron. These armored cruisers were sisters: seven years old, 11,400 tons, capable of 22 knots, and carrying eight 8.2-inch guns and six 5.9-inch guns. In firing exercises, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau had twice won the Kaiser’s Cup as the best gunnery ships in the German navy. There were good reasons for this: the ships of the East Asia Squadron were manned by special, long-service crews and Admiral von Spee, the squadron commander, was a gunnery expert. According to the admiral, these two ships could fire three salvos in one minute. Three modern light cruisers, Emden, Leipzig, and Nürnberg, were also under Spee’s command. Roughly similar, all completed between 1906 and 1908, they were around 3,500 tons, reached speeds approaching 25 knots, and carried ten 4.1-inch guns. At the beginning of June 1914, Emden and Leipzig were at Tsingtao, while Nürnberg was off the west coast of Mexico. On June 7, Leipzig sailed from Tsingtao on a transpacific voyage to relieve Nürnberg.

  The admiral commanding the East Asia Squadron was, in many ways, unusual in the Imperial Navy. An aristocrat in a fleet primarily officered by men from the middle class, a devout Catholic whose peers were largely Protestant, Vice Admiral Count Maximilian von Spee was sufficiently learned in the natural sciences to have made of them almost a second career. His appearance was conspicuous. He was tall—the tallest man in the squadron—and broad-shouldered and had a back as straight “as if he had swallowed a broom handle.” He had blue eyes, a straight nose, bushy gray eyebrows, and a white clipped beard. Energetic, resolute, patient, and calm, he had a single vice: an addiction to bridge.

  Spee was born in Copenhagen on June 22, 1861, the fifth son of a Danish mother and a Prussian father, Count Rudolf, whose roots went back to 1166. The family’s Catholic religion was unusual, Prussia and Denmark both being strongholds of Protestantism; nevertheless, this faith was long-standing. One sixteenth-century von Spee had been a Jesuit poet. Maximilian had been privately tutored in a family castle and then in Switzerland before he entered the navy at sixteen. As a junior officer serving off the coast of the German colony of Cameroon in Africa, he contracted rheumatic fever, which left him with permanent rheumatism. He married and had two sons, Otto and Heinrich, and a daughter, Huberta. His service in predreadnought battleships and cruisers brought him his reputation as a gunnery specialist, and he became captain of the battleship Wittelsbach, Chief of Staff to the Admiral, North Sea Station, and second in command of the Scouting Groups of the High Seas Fleet. In November 1913, he was promoted to vice admiral and sent to command the East Asia Squadron. Otto and Heinrich, both naval officers, came to the Far East to serve with him, Otto as a lieutenant on Nürnberg, Heinrich on board Gneisenau.

  During the months before war broke out, Spee led his squadron from port to port, steeling himself against an endless sequence of receptions, lawn parties, banquets, and balls. European life in the colonies did not suit him. “The women seemed a simple, unsophisticated lot,” he wrote to his wife after a reception in Batavia. “Only one seemed to have any pretensions to sophistication, a Mrs. M., an American, I believe.” At Singapore, “the English officers and their wives were quite wild, doing the newest American dances . . . they are almost indecent.” At Manila, the tango, performed by Americans, was performed “almost indecently. It needs supervision.” Worst of all were German diplomatic receptions where, as one of the hosts, he was required to stand and receive guests. “To my shame,” he confessed to his wife, “I lied at least eight hundred times last night. You say, ‘It is my greatest pleasure to meet you,’ while you are thinking how much better it would have been if they had stayed at home.” Aboard ship, Spee’s rank condemned him to a certain isolation, but he would sometimes smoke a cigar in the wardroom and was always happy to join in a game of bridge. As a commander, he inspired loyalty as well as respect. He was willing to ask for advice, but having made a decision, he expected obedience. If his decision was wrong, he would admit it—later.

  This summer, there was a sense of anticipation in the harbor and colony of Tsingtao. It was the custom before the war for German and British warships on foreign stations to work together and assist one another. The Royal Navy allowed the German East Asia Squadron to dry-dock ships at its Hong Kong base, and an annual exchange of ceremonial and social visits had become routine. In 1913, when the German squadron had been at Hong Kong, German officers were entertained aboard the British armored cruiser Monmouth. Now, in June 1914, the hosts were to become the guests and the armored cruiser Minotaur, flagship of the British Far Eastern Squadron, carrying the squadron’s commander, Vice Admiral Sir Thomas Martyn Jerram, were coming to visit Tsingtao. The German squadron looked forward to seeing this British warship. Minotaur and her two sisters, Defence and Shannon, each 3,000 tons heavier than Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, had been built in specific response to the construction of the two German ships. As it was, they were the last armored cruisers ever built. Within a year of their completion, Fisher’s faster and more powerful dreadnought battle cruisers were going to sea.

  On June 12, Minotaur, dark gray and bristling with twelve gun turrets, was welcomed in Tsingtao harbor. Her officers dined on Scharnhorst and danced with German women on the deck of Gneisenau. The deck was trimmed with bunting, plants, and electric lights; the dance floor, set beneath the elevated muzzles of the after turret guns, was shielded from the night air by heavy canvas curtains; platters of meats, cakes, bread, and butter, and glasses of wine and beer, were spread on the wardroom tables. Ashore, British sailors competed with Germans in relay races, boxing matches, soccer (the British won, 5–2), and a tug-of-war (won by the Germans). British officers were escorted on automobile excursions into the countryside to visit Buddhist temples and hilltop summer houses. The “brotherhood of the sea” was invoked in speeches and toasts. Even so, Gneisenau’s second in command noted, “I do not think we were far wrong in the belief that they desired a little glimpse at our readiness for war.” And after Minotaur sailed, it was widely reported that one English officer had admired the town and harbor and then, smiling at his host, declared, “Very nice place, indeed! Two years more and we have it.”

  In Tsingtao, the British visit was a preliminary to the month’s most significant event: the German East Asia Squadron’s departure on a three-month cruise through the central and southwestern Pacific. The voyage was to proceed along a chain of volcanic islands and coral atolls in the Marianas, the Carolines, and the Marshalls to the easternmost point of the cruise, German Samoa. From there, the ships would turn southwest to Fiji, Bougainville, the Bismarck Archipelago, and New Guinea. The return to Tsingtao was scheduled for September 20, whereupon many officers would return home across Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway and, after two years of China service, be home in Germany in time for Christmas. Admiral von Spee particularly looked forward to the Pacific voyage; he was an amateur naturalist and an ingrained collector, and the cruise would be his first opportunity to observe many varieties of plants and species of birds and fish. He was also especially happy that the cruise would reunite him with his friend Captain Julius Maerker, the new captain of Gneisenau. Not only was Maerker a naturalist, he also was devoted to bridge.

  Gneisenau left Tsingtao first, sailing in bright sunshine on the morning of June 20; Scharnhorst would follow three days later. Gneisenau paused in Nagasaki to coal; the officers bought silk to carry home for Christmas. From Japan, the ship steamed south, crossing the Tropic of Cancer and entering the tropics on June 26. Daily, the sun was higher at noon and the temperature rose. Awnings were spread over sections of the deck and the crew was issued straw hats and warned about sunburn. The tropical nights came quickly and, under a multitude of stars, officers and men sat on deck, enjoying the cooler air and talking quietly. On the twenty-ninth, still in wireless touch with Tsingtao, the crew of Gneisenau learned of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

  From Pagan Island at the northern end of the Marianas chain, Gneisenau m
oved on to Saipan, the capital of the German Marianas, and then to Rota, where some officers went ashore to shoot goats beneath the coconut trees. Leaving Rota, Gneisenau steamed past Guam, which “alone of the Marianas has a good natural harbor and belongs to the Americans,” noted a German officer. On July 6, the ship entered the vast Truk atoll in the mid-Carolines. Here, behind a wall of white spray created by ocean waves thundering against the encircling reef of coral, lay an immense turquoise lagoon sprinkled with volcanic islands with peaks rising to a thousand feet. Scharnhorst was already there and together the two ships began to coal. The work, impossible in the noonday heat, was done at night, creating surreal effects as the white steam rising from the hoisting cranes mixed with clouds of black coal dust, swirled in the searchlights of the warships and slowly drifted across the calm water. Every day, decorated native canoes surrounded the anchored ships offering fruits, native fabrics, and handmade artifacts. Sometimes dancers, gleaming with palm oil and covered with flowers, came on board to pound their feet, clap their hands, and slap their thighs in rhythm, while from the turret tops, upper works, and masts, German sailors looked down and grinned.

  Admiral von Spee found Truk a naturalist’s wonderland. Exploring the islands and the shallow waters of the lagoon, he studied the structure of the coral and admired the rare mammals and fishes, the brightly colored birds, the butterflies, the flowers and other tropical plants. It was a delicious distraction, but the temporary naturalist remained an admiral. At Truk, Spee received a stream of messages from Berlin. On July 7, the Naval Staff warned him that “the political situation is not entirely satisfactory.” Understanding that his Pacific cruise would have to be modified, the admiral decided to await developments at Ponape, 400 miles east of Truk. He also ordered Emden, still at Tsingtao, to postpone her scheduled cruise up the Yangtze. The two armored cruisers left Truk on July 15 and, at noon on July 17, approaching Ponape from the southwest, the Gneisenau’s second in command saw “a glorious sight . . . the massive mountains of Ponape bathed in brightest sunshine and all around us as far as the eye could reach, the sea was covered with chains of mountainous waves, keeping pace with our course. . . . The green and brown masses of the mountain gradually dissolved into forest and rock, encircled by a single white wreath. This was the outer reef against which break[s] ceaselessly the foaming spray of the huge waves of the Pacific Ocean. . . . Through the roar of the swell, we came into calmer waters.” The two ships spent two weeks at Ponape, anchored off villages where the German flag floated above the palm trees. On shore, the sailors discovered pools of fresh water for bathing and washing clothes. Officers climbing Nankjob peak looked down on the cobalt-shaded ocean stretching to the horizon, the foam-flecked reef of coral enclosing the blue-green water of the lagoon, the brown huts with red roofs dotted between mangroves and palms, the natives fishing from canoes. White clouds sailing across a limitless blue sky suddenly gave way to fierce tropical squalls. Strong winds howled, the clouds turned black, and water fell in dense, thick columns.

  On July 27, while Spee was at Ponape, the Naval Staff informed him of Austria’s ultimatum to Serbia. “Strained relations between Dual Alliance and Triple Entente. . . . Samoan cruise will probably have to be abandoned. Nürnberg has been ordered to Tsingtao. Everything else is left to you.” The admiral, realizing that it was wrong to send Nürnberg, then at Honolulu, to Tsingtao, which the British and possibly the Japanese were likely to attack, countermanded Berlin’s order and told Nürnberg to meet him at Ponape. Meanwhile, at Tsingtao, his supply ships were being loaded. Emden, assigned to escort them, sailed on July 31 with the large, elegantly furnished North German Lloyd liner Yorck, the armed merchant cruiser Prinz Eitel Friedrich, and eight colliers.

  On the night of August 1, the message “threatened state of war” reached Spee at Ponape. The navy’s procedure on receipt of this signal was the same whether a ship was at Kiel or in the mid-Pacific; the vessel was stripped for battle and all peacetime and nonessential belongings were sent ashore. On Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, wood paneling and tapestries were torn from the wardroom walls, and sofas, stuffed armchairs, carpets, and sideboards were taken ashore. Two items were allowed to remain in Gneisenau’s wardroom: a piano and a picture of the kaiser hanging on the wall. The admiral’s dining room was denuded of silverware, pictures, chairs, and carpets. Each officer was permitted to keep only a writing table and a chair. Trunks were packed with formal dress coats, brocaded jackets, and gold-striped breeches for ceremonial occasions, and all sports clothing and equipment. From each small cabin came the collected gifts and souvenirs: bronze and porcelain vases, Japanese temple lanterns, ivory carvings, silks, bows, arrows, spears. “The whole beautiful world through which we had passed . . . flashed be-fore us as we packed away all these treasures,” said an officer. On Sunday, August 2, a message came that Germany was at war with Russia and on the night of the fifth, the squadron heard that “the British had elected to side with our enemies. Against France and Russia it would have been a merry war for which we were perfectly ready,” said Gneisenau’s second in command, but Britain’s action was a “piece of treachery . . . a perfidy . . . unleashed against us.”

  At dawn on August 6, Spee’s last day at Ponape, Nürnberg appeared at the entrance to the lagoon. During the morning, men from other ships helped the light cruiser to coal, and a herd of pigs was slaughtered onshore and meat and fresh water were ferried out. At noon, the admiral and his two sons went ashore to offer confession to the Catholic Apostolic Vicar of the Marianas and Carolines. At 5:00 p.m., Scharnhorst and Gneisenau passed out through the reef into the long ocean swell and headed northwest. In order to rendezvous with the supply ships coming down from Tsingtao, Spee had decided to retrace his steps to Pagan Island, a thousand miles to the north.

  The German ships now observed wartime routine. The crews were divided into two watches, with the off-duty watch always sleeping fully dressed. Lookouts posted in the crow’s nests scanned the horizon; some of the guns were constantly manned. The heat was intense; at midday, the sun beat down so fiercely that it was impossible to place a hand on any exposed iron part of the ship. Two hours every afternoon were devoted to weapons drill, followed by a break for coffee, then a meal; then half the crew went to sleep. “The monotonous noise of the screws churning the water went on interminably, the ship rose and fell on the billows . . . in this way, day after day passed during our long traverse of the Pacific Ocean and time and space seemed to us illimitable,” wrote an officer on Gneisenau. At dawn on Au-gust 11, the two volcanoes of Pagan Island rose out of the sea, and that morning they anchored. Later that day, the armored cruisers were joined by Emden, Prinz Eitel Friedrich, the colliers from Tsingtao, and a flock of chartered coastal steamers bringing fresh water, live cattle and pigs, mountains of potatoes, fresh vegetables, flour, beer, wine, and tobacco.

  While his ships coaled and provisioned at Pagan, Admiral von Spee pondered how and where they should be used. There were many possibilities. The vastness of the Pacific offered the shelter of space; once he had vanished no one could say where he was or where he might reappear. There were, of course, constraints on his actions. He was cut off from Tsingtao, his only base; he had no place to dry-dock his ships or to make more than temporary repairs; he could depend only on his own resources. In Winston Churchill’s simile, “Von Spee was a cut flower in a vase; fair to see, yet bound to die.” His most pressing and permanent problem was coal. German agents in ports around the rim of the Pacific were already working to buy coal and charter colliers to rendezvous with him, but the worldwide network of the British Admiralty kept watch on every port, every ton of coal, and every likely collier.

  Admiral von Spee, in choosing his theater of operations, had to consider where he could hurt the enemy most and where he could survive the longest. He had two tactical alternatives. He could break up the squadron and scatter his ships so that each could wage individual trade warfare and commerce destruction. Or he could keep his ships together and em
bark on squadron warfare against the enemy navy. It would be difficult to do both; an attempt to combine squadron war with trade war would inhibit, and might well doom, both. It was the inclusion in the squadron of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau that made trade warfare almost impossible. The essential element of a lone raider was speed, not size. Spee’s three fast light cruisers were superbly equipped for trade warfare: they could catch and sink any merchantman in the world and they could outrun almost any enemy warship. But the big, powerful armored cruisers, each more than three times as heavy and with a crew over twice as large as that of a light cruiser, burned too much coal. Had the Naval Staff intended the East Asia Squadron for trade warfare, six additional light cruisers would have been far more useful than two armored cruisers. A further consideration was that if the admiral scattered his ships, they might do considerable damage, but ultimately each raider would be hunted down by a superior enemy. The advantage in keeping his squadron together was that, in combination, his ships had a better chance of survival. The weakness was that, operating together, they might achieve nothing at all.

  But the German Naval Staff had not structured the East Asia Squadron to make war on commercial trade. Its mission had been to represent Imperial Germany in the Far East. Display, visual impact, respect, and prestige were qualities associated with big ships and heavy guns, not with light cruisers, however fast. Further, Maximilian von Spee, a proud man, a vice admiral in the Imperial Navy, the commander of the only remaining overseas squadron of the German fleet, had no thought of wasting Scharnhorst and Gneisenau as lone commerce raiders. Already, Spee had indicated his poor opinion of the value of trade warfare by summoning Leipzig, Nürnberg, and Emden to join him in the central Pacific, thereby concentrating rather than scattering the combat power of his squadron.