Going Deep

by Lawrence Goldstone

  On March 18, 1904, the first of the vessels, which had been designated HMS A-1, was attacking a surface ship during naval maneuvers, when it was struck by a commercial ship transporting mail. The collision ripped off the conning tower and A-1 flooded and sank in a matter of moments. None of the crew could fight through the water pouring in the breach and all drowned. The other four boats, and all subsequent British submarines, were then fitted with a watertight hatch at the base of the conning tower. Others of the A-class were either lost in test voyages or decommissioned by the beginning of World War I. The few that remained were used only for harbor defense and never sent into the open ocean.

  But Vickers was getting the hang of it. They soon moved to an improved model, the B-class, of which eleven were built, and then to the C-class, the last of the British Holland-style boats, which commissioned thirty-eight boats into the Royal Navy. Both B- and C-classes were used extensively in World War I, but almost always for either harbor defense or harbor blockade. Two more classes of submarines would be produced by Vickers during the war, each capable of patrolling in the open sea, although the Admiralty only very rarely employed the boats in attacking enemy surface vessels. Still, after the first five Holland boats were built, neither Lake nor Electric Boat would have again access to the British market.

  Nor could either company look to France. For almost two decades, the French had been engaged in a robust submarine development program, the only viable one outside the United States. It had, in fact, been the progress of the French effort that had most spurred the British to build submarines of their own.

  The first French boat, launched in 1886, commissioned by the marine ministry, was a primitive two-man craft designed by a prominent engineer, Claude Goubet. Like John Holland’s early boats, the Goubet I was filled with clever innovations—it was powered exclusively by an electric motor driven by batteries, and, instead of rudders or dive planes, employed a “Goubet joint,” a patented swivel mechanism that allowed the operator to change the orientation of the propeller to whatever horizontal or vertical axis he wished. The two men sat back to back in the tiny craft, peering through glass ports in a miniscule conning tower. Unlike Holland’s early boats, however, Goubet’s first effort did not work at all.

  Despite an engineer’s training, Goubet had never grasped the concept of longitudinal stability. He had fitted his boat with a weighted pendulum, to which he connected a pump, also battery-powered. The pendulum was supposed to regulate the flow of water ballast between ballast tanks fore and aft to keep the craft level. In practice, it was impossible to maintain either constant depth or a straight course. In addition, the motor could not produce sufficient power to propel the boat at more than two or three knots. Goubet had heavily promoted his idea to senior French government and military officials, but when he tried out his invention on the Seine and then at the harbor at Cherbourg, it was a total failure.

  Goubet I

  Three years later, still under commission from the marine ministry, he was back with an improved Goubet II. He had enlarged the craft, installed a more powerful motor and added tail fins to improve stability. He had not, however, overcome the fatal stability flaws of his first effort and the Goubet II did not fare substantially better in trials. The boat was rejected, the commission withdrawn, and Goubet ruined, his health “affected considerably.”4 He died five years later.

  But the French had not given up on submarines. Prompted by Admiral Hyacinthe Laurent Théophile Aube, minister of the marine, a commission was granted to a marine engineer, Gustave Zédé, and Arthur Krebs, an automotive engineer who had pioneered the steering wheel, to complete an experimental submarine called the Gymnote. The vessel had originally been designed by Stanislas Dupuy de Lôme, but he had died in 1885, with work on the boat barely begun. Zédé and Krebs both proved expert in creating a practical prototype.

  Although also powered solely by batteries, 564 cells to be exact, the Gymnote at sixty feet was four times larger than Goubet’s machine, and carried a crew of five. Its motor, directly connected to the battery array, was capable of generating fifty horsepower, only sufficient to cruise at five or six knots submerged. In addition, the batteries themselves were not as powerful as Exides, and therefore a much larger number were required to generate equal energy. The boat was originally fitted with a primitive periscope (actually a “telescopic conning tower of tarred canvas fixed on steel”) but it could not be made watertight, so it was removed and a standard conning tower installed instead.5 Three sets of hydroplanes were also added, and the vessel, like Holland’s always retained a small store of positive buoyancy. Although the boat was in theory to submerge and surface on an even keel, newspapers reported after a “downward plunge” the boat disappeared with a “shark-like wiggle of its stern.”6

  The Gymnote was, in fact, “uncontrollable” and could not maintain longitudinal stability, but it gave rise to a remarkable successor. Zédé began work on a 160-foot boat that he called Sirène. But, as had Dupuy de Lôme before him, Zédé died in 1891, before the boat was complete. Construction was turned over to Zédé’s assistant, Gaston Romazzotti (who had married Zédé’s niece), and the boat’s name was changed to Gustave Zédé in honor of its designer.

  The Gymnote had been unable to navigate a straight course because the metal hull played havoc with the compass. The Gustave Zédé was built with a nonmagnetic and noncorrosive alloy that Romazzotti called “Roma bronze.” By 1893, Romazzotti was convinced that he had created the finest undersea vessel in history.

  Testing for the boat, however, got off to a bumpy start, pointing out how new and uncertain a technology battery power was. “On account of defects in the accumulators, 18 months was lost. For in the battery of 720 elements with 29 plates each, an electrical power was collected such as had never before been experimented with, and it naturally required most expert operators to attend it. After a few days satisfactory work, however, short circuits were produced through the formation of pellicules of lead peroxide which fell into the tanks. It was then decided to isolate the plates (which were reduced to 27) with magnets, the positive plates being covered with a magnetised lining. When the new battery had been installed on board the charging current was put on with the result that the stern of the submarine was almost blown to pieces and destroyed, a violent fire breaking out showing the impossibility of using such batteries. The only remedy was to reduce the cells by one half, and at last after nearly two years of scientific muddling the Gustave Zédé was able to go on her first trials; but her fine designed speed of 15 knots was now only 8 knots. Another difficulty now cropped up. After being on the vessel a short time, her crew were all taken violently ill owing to the free discharge of large quantities of acid vapor throughout the hull. This matter was, however, speedily set right and with her wings clipped and reputation at zero the largest submarine boat the world had yet seen started to vindicate her character.”7

  The Gustave Zédé’s handling was not much better. “The moment she lost her buoyancy, the submarine became unmanageable and her course had so much in common with the switchback that her poor crew were unable to keep their feet and were hurled hither and thither. This improved a little when they became accustomed to the eccentricities of their craft, but even then the ‘yaw’ was between 14 and 18 metres, or 46 to 60 feet. These variations she accomplished in long swift swoops and all the endeavours in the world would not keep her on a straight course for more than a few minutes at a time. The uneven torpedo-like course of the Gymnote had been the cause of much comment and the much greater length of her big sister only accentuated the faults she had herself displayed. This ‘yawing’ although not dangerous where a sufficient depth of water existed would be absolutely fatal in a harbour or when wishing to pass under a ship which would of course be a frequent occurrence.”8

  The French marine ministry, however, displayed a greater commitment than its American counterpart, and the Gustave Zédé was tested and improved for six years. The original batteries we
re replaced with ones of higher capacity, although the original load was never restored; the wiring was simplified; the canvas conning tower was removed and replaced with metal; the operation of the pumps that regulated the water ballast was refined; a and a new system of six diving planes was installed, two forward, two in the center, and two in the stern. A single torpedo tube was placed in the bow, already loaded, with two extras, which could be loaded with a compressed air system that blew out the tube. Given the nature of the improvements, there seems little doubt that Romazzotti had studied Holland’s designs.

  Some of the Gustave Zédé’s features anticipated Lake’s design. Although its field of vision was only twenty-seven degrees, not nearly as efficient as Lake’s full-range omniscope, and the image obtained was distorted and indistinct, the Gustave Zédé was the first submarine to be fitted with a working periscope. A gyroscope was added to the compass to enable the vessel to better steer a straight course at constant depth.

  By 1899, the boat was achieving twelve knots on the surface, although still only seven submerged, and it was longitudinally stable under the surface. Eventually, the boat would make more than two thousand dives, and travel underwater from Toulon to Marseilles. The Gustave Zédé was also the first submarine to make a successful attack on a surface warship, when it struck the cruiser Magenta with a mock torpedo during naval maneuvers in Toulon Harbor.

  As large as it was, however, handling remained sluggish. In addition, as there was no means to recharge the batteries, its range was limited to the round trip distance Gustave Zédé could travel on a single charge.

  Unlike the United States, which had to be shoved into technological innovation, France encouraged it. The French, who also had the most advanced automobile industry and would eventually also take the lead in aviation, had initiated an official competition in 1896 to find the most efficient submarine. In addition to the Gustave Zédé, French designers produced vessels like the Narval, a double-hulled, dual propulsion submarine that could run at high speeds both on the surface and submerged. Unfortunately, its surface motor ran on steam and so diving and surfacing involved extended delays, a fatal flaw for an attack boat. But whatever the merits or shortcomings of any particular design, France intended to restrict development to domestic designers and not open their competition to foreign builders.

  Germany was also not a potential sales target. Led by Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, the German high command largely disdained the submarine and refused to allocate funds even to study its feasibility as a weapon. As late as 1905, Tirpitz, the man who a decade later would oversee unrestricted submarine warfare in the Atlantic, thought the submarine little more than a toy.

  The principal problem for both Lake and Electric Boat in trying to sell submarines in Europe was a lack of urgency among the buyers. In what was a rarity on the Continent, in those first years of the twentieth century, no one was fighting, and therefore no one felt an immediate need to invest in a new technology that might hold great potential but would also come at great cost. In the east, however, circumstances were different.

  After years of growing animosity, in February 1904, Japan, an aspiring world power, had launched a naval attack on Russia’s Port Arthur. Two Russian battleships were badly damaged and Japanese warships settled in just outside the harbor, instituting a blockade that bottled up the Russian Pacific fleet. Mines were laid extensively by both sides. Both to enforce a blockade and to break one were considered ideal uses for a submarine, which was an ideal sales situation for Lake and Electric Boat.

  The Japanese in particular had been observing both companies’ products for years and, at almost the same time Lake was due to compete against the Fulton, word leaked that it had made an offer for the Protector. But Russia seemed in the hunt as well. Reporters camped out at Bridgeport to await developments. In early June, as the Fulton was impressing the inspection board at Newport, their patience was rewarded—sort of—when one morning they noticed that the Protector was no longer at its usual mooring. The boat was gone, but no one knew where. One place it had not gone, reporters quickly determined, was Narragansett Bay.

  That Lake had sold the Protector to one of the combatants seemed certain, and speculation ran rampant as to which one. On June 13, 1904, the New York Tribune gave the answer. “Japan Gets Protector,” the front-page headline read. “The Mystery Cleared.” The paper was justly proud of its sleuthing and described Lake’s attempted subterfuge in vivid detail.

  The mystery which has surrounded the sudden disappearance of the Lake submarine torpedo boat Protector is at last cleared. The Protector is now the property of the Japanese government, and is on her way to her new owners. As soon as she arrives, she will be put in fighting trim and in charge of two of her original crew, C. M. Willson, chief engineer, and George H. Evans, diver. To avoid international entanglements, the Lake Company has been exceedingly careful about disclosing any of the plans of the Protector. Although the deal by which Japan became the owner of the submarine was consummated between two and three months ago, everything was done to throw off suspicion.

  On June 3rd, Protector left this harbor [Bridgeport] under her own power, but because of the fact that her storage batteries had been taken out and she was as a consequence able to run only on the surface, no one gave a serious thought to her contemplated long trip to Japan. The boat ran to New York, where on Sunday, she was taken aboard the Fortuna, a Norwegian steamship.

  When this fact became known, the question of what had become of the Protector’s storage batteries arose. Then it became apparent why the storage batteries had been taken out. They are heavy, weighing nearly 80,000 pounds. In order to make the load of the Fortuna lighter, these batteries were shipped on ahead to Japan about a month and a half ago. When the submarine arrives at her destination these batteries will be replaced and she will be ready for war.

  There was much to commend this story—all the facts were correct. Except one.

  The Protector had been sold to Russia, not Japan, and the Fortuna was headed to Kronstadt, not Tokyo. But the Tribune’s reporter was not alone in misidentifying the Protector’s buyer. Japan thought it was getting the boat as well.

  The machinations began in May 1904, when Lake was in Washington, trying to revive his fading hopes for favorable terms in the upcoming sea trials. He was being escorted through Congress by Ebenezer Hill when they happened on Senator Albert Beveridge, a highly respected progressive from Indiana and a future biographer of Chief Justice John Marshall and Abraham Lincoln. Hill asked Beveridge where his sympathies lay in the conflict between Japan and Russia. Beveridge said he favored Russia as it was “a white nation against a yellow one, a Christian nation against pagans, and an honest people against a lot of damned crooks.”9 Hill agreed.

  Lake, however, claimed “no feeling of partisanship. When I had been asked by a man representing the Japanese Government if I would consider a sale to Japan, since my chances of selling to my own people seemed to have gone glimmering, I said that I would.” The Japanese attaché said the order would be for two boats, and Lake asked $250,000 each, which was acceptable. Lake left with a provisional agreement, but nothing could be signed until the deal had been approved by the attaché’s superiors.

  “It was the next day after I had put a price on two boats to Japan that I got a telegram from Charles R. Flint of New York. Flint had been called the Father of Trusts by the newspapers, but he had been a diplomat, a banker, a promoter, and above all a dealer in munitions.”*10 Flint asked Lake to join him at his New York town house for breakfast the following morning and, when Lake arrived, the Russian military attaché was waiting.

  When Lake learned the identity of Flint’s other guest, it “began to sound like money.” Lake said later that his initial neutrality had been based in commerce, because he “had something to sell,” but the talk between Hill and Beveridge had subconsciously influenced him. On the “inside,” he decided, he was “pro-Russian, beyond a doubt.” The three men talked about Lake’s subma
rine through breakfast. “I told them what I could do with the Protector and why it was possible to do it and how I found out how to do it and about my series of trials-and-errors. I was not trying to sell anything, but I was having a bully good time, talking about the thing that was my life.”

  When the breakfast was done, Japan was out and Russia was in. The Tribune did get the price right, however. Lake had agreed to sell the boat for $250,000, and received a down payment, although the amount was never disclosed.

  Getting the Protector to Russia, however, would require cloak-and-dagger furtiveness. The United States was officially neutral and any shipment of contraband might be blocked if word got out in advance. And word was certainly getting out. “Everyone knew that [I had failed to sell to the United States Government] yet suddenly I had money.”

  But Lake did not wait around for his government to cause him problems. He arranged to meet the Fortuna at midnight on a Saturday, because government offices were closed. When the freighter was late, Lake was convinced that his plan was blown. Eight hours later, however, Fortuna appeared out of the fog and the Protector was hoisted aboard and placed in a cradle designed to see it across thousands of miles of open ocean.†

  Once his boat had been shipped, Lake shipped himself. After loitering in Bridgeport for two or three days “to avert suspicion,” he sailed for Cherbourg and from there, made his way on to Russia where he was feted with the celebrity he felt he had been denied in his own country. He arrived in Kronstadt, a seaport near St. Petersburg, in time to greet his submarine when it arrived days later. Unfortunately, the batteries, which had been shipped separately, did not arrive until three months afterward. Once they did, the Protector made its sea tests and the results were sufficient that the Russians ordered an additional five boats.