Just when everything looked so prosperous, an incident occurred that nearly turned our goodwill tour into a major disaster.
In the United States, in time of peace, we had never worn our uniforms ashore, and in Kiel no one had thought of changing this custom. In Germany it was understood that civilians got off the sidewalk and walked in the gutter when they saw a German officer in uniform approaching. One of the midshipmen on the Kearsarge who was, incidentally, a welterweight boxing champion, had gone ashore and was walking innocently along one of the main streets when he suddenly found himself shouldered into the gutter. At first he thought it was an accident but when he was jostled a second time, he realized it was intentional. This time he swung on the German officer and got home on his jaw. The Germans were not used to using their fists and besides the man never expected a humble civilian to strike an officer of the Kaiser. He went down for the count. By great good chance, there were some other American midshipmen present and they hustled their friend away to avoid trouble. However, in some way the Germans discovered that they were American officers from the Kearsarge.
I was just congratulating myself on my happy inspiration of putting cocktails in the punch bowl and thinking how well everything had gone, when the senior member of the Midshipmen’s Mess came up to me and asked me to come down to their mess room. His face was as long as the proverbial maintop-bowline and I knew at once that something was seriously wrong. He explained that he had come to me for two reasons: I was on the admiral’s staff and I had, until recently, been a member of their mess myself.
When I got down to the steerage I found the entire mess assembled, all except the midshipman who had had the run-in with the German officer; they had wisely shut him up in his cabin. There were three young Prussian Army officers there, perfectly calm and perfectly courteous, in full dress uniform including the traditional spiked helmets. After having been formally presented to them, I was informed that they were the bearers of a challenge to fight a duel.
The European custom of dueling had long been considered a joke by most Americans. Mark Twain gives a humorous description of such a duel in which no one gets hurt and everybody kisses everybody else at the end. I would like to know what these wits would have done if actually challenged to fight one of these ridiculous duels. Would they have chosen swords or pistols? I am sure of one thing: the situation would have lost its humor.
In our case, the matter was even more serious. We were there on official business; on a goodwill tour. No matter how such a duel came out, it would have serious repercussions. Nor could our man have insisted on fighting with his fists. To the Germans, such an idea would have been grotesque — like two small boys kicking each other. Nor could our man refuse to fight without giving the impression that we were a nation of cowards, something that, with our strained relationship with Germany, we particularly wanted to avoid.
Suddenly I had what seemed to me a brilliant idea. Knowing the respect Germans had for military regulations, I said, “It is against our Articles of War for a naval officer to fight a duel. If our man does fight a duel, he will be courtmartialed.” I thought that would settle the matter.
Instead, the Prussians looked at me in astonishment and replied:
“If our man DOESN’T fight a duel he will be courtmartialed.”
This was a facer. I had no idea how to proceed.
Then I had a happy inspiration: one of the few that has ever come at the right moment. I explained that it was an American custom before fighting a duel to drink to one’s adversary. The Germans looked rather surprised at this but concurred politely. I had our mess attendant make up a lot of especially potent cocktails called Earthquakes, which were passed around. To my relief, our guests found them delightful. After we all had drunk to Germany, it was then obligatory on their part to drink to the United States. We then drank a toast to each of the Prussian officers individually. To return the compliment, they insisted on drinking individual toasts to the entire mess.
I am a little foggy about the rest of the afternoon. I seem to recall a chorus of “Ach, du lieber Augustine” being sung to the tune of “Oh Susannah” and a spirited polka danced by all hands, although looking back it might also have been a Tennessee hoe-down. At some point, the mess attendant brought in a bowl of fruit, including a number of apples, and it was unanimously decided that this called for another round of drinks.
Finally, when the proper moment seemed to have arrived, I asked the officer of the deck for the steam cutter to take our distinguished visitors ashore. When the boat was ready we escorted them to the gangway and saw them safely embarked. As the cutter cleared the ship’s side, the three arose, gave a snappy salute and a resounding “HOCH!” I was just congratulating myself on the happy termination of the affair and admiring the Germans’ martial bearing when to my horror I noticed that impaled on each helmet spike was a large, red apple.
We never heard anything more about the duel but the next day our admiral received a formal request from the German authorities suggesting that in the future all American officers wear their uniforms when on shore.
The last day we were in Kiel, it was announced that instead of sailing directly for home, we were to go to Portsmouth, England, by special invitation of King Edward VII. President Loubet of France would be in London, and we were invited to take part in the functions that were to be given in his honor, including a state ball at Buckingham Palace.
Our admiral took luncheon with Admiral von Koester and later went to the Hohenzollern to say good-bye to the emperor and to thank him for all the courtesies we had received. I took advantage of his absence to slip away for a last rendezvous with my countess. We had supper in an inn on the waterfront and later retired to a room overlooking the harbor. We were late getting to sleep and I lost all track of time.
I was awakened by the door being smashed open and in burst Lieutenant Baron von Kottwitz. But what a different individual from the affable, quiet young officer I had known! The baron’s spiked mustache was bristling, his formerly impassive features were transformed into a mask of fierce emotion and he rushed toward the bed in a frenzy. I flung back the covers and sprang to my feet despite the countess’ shrieks, determined to put up the best defense I could against this man who had obviously been driven into a berserk rage at the desecration of his countrywoman. So greatly moved was the baron that his English deserted him and he could only stand there gibbering German at me. Then realizing that I could not understand him, he rushed to the window and tearing away the curtains, pointed to the harbor shouting “Schau!”
There I beheld a sight far more terrifying than all the lieutenant barons in Germany. The Kearsarge was underway! Her anchor was clear of the water and there was a stream from the deck hose playing over the bow to clear the chain from the harbor mud. Even as I looked she began to gather headway and I had a vision of being left in a foreign country in dress uniform and without a penny in my pockets.
Von Kottwitz recovered his English. “Come with me at once!” he shouted. I tried to say good-bye to the countess but she could only sob while holding the sheets around her, “Nein, liebster, you must go with your ship!” I hustled on my clothes while the impatient von Kottwitz dragged me downstairs. On the wharf, he bundled me into a shore boat with a hearty slap on the back while informing the coxswain in choice German polysyllables what would happen to him if he didn’t catch the Kearsarge before she reached the harbor entrance. We ran alongside the port sea ladder (the gangway ladders had both been unshipped and stowed for sea) and, with a flying leap, I made it and clambered on deck, getting wet to the waist in the process.
Flag Lieutenant Hussey was about to report me for dereliction of duty but Captain Hemphill stopped him. “The admiral’s orders were that we were to consort with the locals,” he explained. “Lieutenant Mannix was only complying with his instructions.”
I have always believed in obeying orders to
the letter.
It seems so strange that a few years later we were fighting Germany. We had done everything we could in our goodwill tour and, I am sure, had created a feeling of friendship for ourselves and our country but beyond that we could not go. Perhaps in the North Sea fighting of 1918, I may even have killed von Kottwitz, and von Müller if they had submarine duty. If so, it was the fortunes of war. They were brave men and I admire them far more than some of the loud-mouthed American patriots who screamed about the “Huns” and wanted to hang the Kaiser but took care not to fight themselves.
Looking through an old scrapbook, I have come across a yellowed letter from my countess which reached me long after leaving Germany. In part it reads: “It is strange you should be reading this so far away in America which I will never see. Nor will I ever see you again I know. Farewell. I hope you will find happiness. I have a picture of your ship on my table while I write and no matter what happens, it will always remain there. I wish I had a picture of you also but that was not to be.”
I have often wondered what happened to her; if she married, had children, and is happy. Oh well, it was all a long, long time ago.
Chapter 6
Edwardian England 1903
Oh, I love Society
High Society, Strict Propriety
I would be called an attractive girl
If my Papa had been born an Earl.
— From a musical show of the period
The English girls possess a special charm which no other women have. I have always been interested in studying the characteristics of other nations so I especially enjoyed our visit to England.
We cast anchor in Portsmouth, England, on the morning of July 7th, 1903, occupying the place of honor reserved for us alongside the railroad jetty, a berth generally kept sacred for the use of the Royal Yacht and the reception of royal visitors. We fired a salute of twenty-one guns to the British flag which was returned by a shore battery gun for gun. Then we fired a salute of seventeen guns to the flag of Admiral Sir Charles Hotham, commandant of the Dock Yard, which was returned — of all things — by Nelson’s old flagship the Victory that fired thirteen guns to Rear Admiral Cotton. Imagine receiving a salute from the Victory! It made me feel as though I were among the immortals.
It was in truth a historic occasion. For the first time a foreign squadron was lying in Portsmouth Harbor. Many captured vessels had lain there since the time of the Spanish Armada but never before had the flag of any foreign power been borne past Southsea Castle by peaceful warships. We were the first.
Our salute was also answered by the British Channel Fleet, looking very grim and efficient in their battle color: six battleships and four cruisers. It is this fleet that has guarded the narrow passage between England and the Continent for four hundred years. I remember one of the cruisers was the Hogue. Eleven years later she, together with two other cruisers, the Cressy and the Aboukir would be torpedoed and sunk in the space of a few minutes by one German submarine, the U-9, commanded by the submarine ace, Weddigen. The loss of life was appalling. Who could then have foreseen the damage one small submarine could do? Well, at least the British got their revenge — such as it was. Later the U-9 was rammed by a British battleship, and Weddigen and all his men went down with her.
We received two communications which, as flag secretary, I opened. One was from King Edward VII and read: “Admiral Cotton, USS Kearsarge. The King welcomes you and your squadron to England and is looking forward to greeting you and your officers in London.” The other warned us to be careful not to have our heads turned by the perfidious English, to remember our heritage of freedom and democracy, etc. It was signed E. H. Harriman. The name meant nothing to me, but I later learned that he was an American financier who had managed to acquire both the Union Pacific and the Southern Pacific by methods which caused him to be denounced by President Roosevelt. I turned the letter over to Admiral Cotton who after glancing at it, threw it away. I mention the matter only to show how strong the feeling against Great Britain was among a certain type of American.
We received formal visits from the ranking officers of the British Fleet in Portsmouth. Later, I got the chance to meet and chat with them. One was Lord Charles Beresford who had been with the Nile expedition at Abu Klea where the Fuzzy-Wuzzies armed only with swords and spears, broke the British square which had held out against the best of Napoleon’s crack regiments. Lord Charles remarked that not only was he in the square but was in the corner that cracked and through which the Fuzzies poured.
“I had a rough go of it because the enemy used me as a ‘point d’appui’ from which to make flying leaps into the middle of the square,” he explained. “Actually, I didn’t mind that so much but when they were repulsed, they galloped back over me followed by the British Infantry and those swine, unlike the Fuzzies, wore boots.”
Another of our guests, Commodore Sir Archibald Berkeley Milne, didn’t appear to be too keen about Americans but after being on board for awhile, he thawed and explained his prejudice. “I was ADC to the King at the time of the William Waldorf Astor affair,” he remarked. Astor, the father-in-law of Lady Nancy Astor, was an enormously rich American who moved to England explaining that “no gentleman could possible live in the United States”. He was determined to break into English society and purchased Cliveden, one of the show places, where he gave elaborate parties. As he knew nothing about the English, anyone who could afford to rent evening clothes used to attend his dinners, calling themselves, “Lord This” or “The Honorable That”, devour his food and wine, and then depart taking as much of the silver with them as their pockets could hold. Astor finally caught on to this practice and determined to stop it.
In an effort to lure the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) to his house, he gave large sums to any charity the prince happened to fancy. At last, His Highness felt forced to acknowledge the gifts and although he himself refused to attend this “Yankee blighter’s galas” as he put it, he sent Sir Berkeley as his representative. Sir Berkeley explained:
“When I was announced, Astor shouted, ‘Who is Sir Berkeley Milne? I never invited him!’ and rushing up to me, ordered me out of the house. You may rest assured that I left immediately. While I was getting in my carriage, someone told Astor that I was the Prince of Wales’ personal representative and insulting me was equivalent to insulting the prince himself. Astor chased my carriage down the drive, pleading with me to come back and crying out that it was all a terrible mistake. It was a wet night and he was splashed from head to foot with mud. Naturally, I did not return and the prince never asked me to go again.”
No wonder Sir Berkeley didn’t think much of Americans.
After the official visits were over, the ships were open to visitors and a number came on board, mostly young girls. There are an amazing number of women in England. I think they outnumber the men six to one; in the United States it is the other way around. This is probably the reason why American women are so much more independent. They are a scarce commodity and know it. I was especially struck by the English women’s lovely “peaches and cream” complexions. I remember especially one extremely attractive girl who was shown around the ship by a group of enthusiastic young midshipmen. When she returned, I overheard a conversation between her and some of her friends.
A friend (eagerly): Tell me, dear, what is the principal difference between Englishmen and Americans, in your opinion?
Girl (disgustedly): There isn’t any. Men are all alike.
No, the lady wasn’t referring to me. As the admiral’s aide I was on my good behavior. Besides, I have never forced myself on any woman. I never have had to.
All afternoon the harbor presented a brilliant picture; I never tired of watching it. Launches flying the Stars and Stripes were running back and forth, as well as gigs and whaleboats manned by sturdy young British sailors. Big gray picket boats, like miniature destroye
rs, plied between the dockyards and the fleet at Spithead, and a line of small steamers kept bringing excursionists to view the American ships. It was like a regatta.
We were granted leave and together with twenty-five other officers, I went up to London. We took a Negro mess attendant who was supposed to act as our valet, but he vanished shortly after we reached the city. His black face created a veritable sensation and he was constantly surrounded by crowds who had obviously never seen a Negro before. I remember one little boy gravely asking his mother, “Mummy, is that a proper blackamoor?” I don’t know why it seems so amusing that English children talk with an English accent — oh, pardon me, I forgot. It is we who have the accent; they speak correct English. At all events, our valet was so overwhelmed with attention he disappeared to be lionized while we, supposedly his betters, were ignored.
We were given quarters at the Metropole, a splendid hotel that no longer exists. As we were guests of the nation, we had no expenses except tips. A Lieutenant Forbes of the Royal Navy was given the duty of acting as our “chaperone”. If anything, he was too conscientious. He could not believe that anyone could enjoy wandering around London on foot, but that was one of the things I enjoyed the most. Before we left I knew the West End of London almost as well as I did New York, although I was reduced to taking off my shoes and tiptoeing past Lieutenant Forbes’ room when I returned late at night to avoid upsetting him.
The London streets were full of “ladies of the evening” as was New York. This did not surprise me; but I was taken aback to see a number of women smoking. In the smoking room of the Metropole there were smartly gowned women, obviously ladies, puffing away with their escorts. I must admit I was shocked. There was an opera in New York when we left called The Secret of Suzanne. Her shameful secret was that she smoked. I even saw some women smoking pipes. If they had been corncob pipes such as farm women smoked in the American South, I would not have been so surprised but these were smart little briars, not unlike Chinese opium pipes. I noticed that some of the other young American officers after one horrified glance, turned their heads away when passing the smoking room.
The Old Navy Page 14
