None of this occurred to me at the time. All I knew was that I was ruined and all my hopes for advancement in the service were crushed.
Then the miracle happened. In April 1917, President Wilson asked Congress to declare war on Germany. People were cheering, bands playing, and every experienced man was desperately needed. Moses’ vicious report could not hurt me now; like all regular naval officers I had suddenly become invaluable. I am not a religious man, but when I heard we were at war, I fell to my knees and thanked God for His mercies. I was quickly promoted to full commander and my future was assured.
Chapter 11
World War I 1918
At fall of dusk we softly steal
From out each firth; and forth
Seeking the aid of night’s dark tide
To strike hard from the North.
Nightly the North Sea knows our screws
By their muffled, careful beat,
While we strew the sudden death unseen
For our foes’ unwary feet.
— Mine Force Poet
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The North Sea Mine Barrage was kept such a closely guarded secret that even after the war little was known of it. There are few mentions of it in histories of the First World War. Yet Capt. Reginald Belknap reported that the British Admiralty Staff told him that the surrender of the German Fleet and the collapse of the submarine warfare was due to the barrage as the German ships were unable to leave port. As long as the deadly U-boats controlled the seas, it was impossible for the United States to send troops and supplies across the Atlantic. This is the only eyewitness account of how the barrage was laid, written by one of the men who took part in the actual laying.
There were several German ships interned at the Yard, the largest of which were the Eitel Friederich and the Kron Prinz Wilhelm. There were at least two thousand men in their crews, and while the breech plugs of their guns had been removed, their rifles and small arm ammunition had, for some curious reason, been left on board. As their crews, composed of veteran seamen, could have seized the Yard and held it long enough to destroy the dry docks, machine shops and everything else of any value to our war effort, they presented a serious menace.
There were constant fires in the Yard, especially, so it seemed to me, when I was officer of the day and obliged to turn out and attend them. These fires, and most of our other troubles, were the fault of the civilian dockyard workers who were both lazy and incompetent. As they were all unionized, none of them could be discharged without a general strike so we were helpless to deal with them. I had noticed that the German seamen had been observing the slipshod methods of these men with increasing irritation. Perfectly disciplined themselves and highly efficient, it obviously infuriated them to see valuable equipment ruined by these men’s gross carelessness.
Shortly after our declaration of war, I had the duty and at two o’clock in the morning, the phone rang. I answered and it was our regular nightly fire. I was greatly apprehensive that the Germans would take advantage of the chaos resulting from these constant alarms to stage a “coup de main” so I immediately alerted the guard and then called the Power House to make sure everything was in order. For some time there was no answer and I supposed everyone was asleep, which would have been typical. Finally someone at the other end took the receiver off the hook and with a pronounced German accent, inquired: “Vell, vat iss it?”
I was so stunned I didn’t know what to do. Breaking the connection, I called the guard again and then hurried down to the Power House, the heart of the whole industrial network. There I found the German sailors busy putting out the fire under the capable direction of their officers. It seemed they had become so disgusted with our incompetence they had taken over the situation and were putting matters to rights.
I was in a quandary. All my instincts were to have them confined on board their ships but, on the other hand, they were the only people available who knew what they were doing and to remove them would have resulted in the loss of much of the installations. I finally allowed them to go ahead and when the fire was out, thanked them in my best German and escorted them back to their ships. Something about my speech amused them very much and when I asked what it was, one young officer explained that I had been addressing them all in the feminine gender. “I wonder under what conditions you learned your German,” he remarked. I thought it better not to tell him.
Meanwhile the situation in Europe was growing more critical. By far the greatest danger came from the U-boats, “the stiletto of the Seas” as they were called. Conventional naval tactics against them were useless, and they were sinking 800,000 tons of shipping a month. The subs presented a special danger to the United States for slow-moving transports, loaded with men, would have been the ideal target for the torpedoes of the deadly underwater ships and plans were already underway to send thousands of American troops to reinforce the reeling allies in France. As long as the submarines controlled the Atlantic, any efforts we made to aid England and France were doomed.
At this time I learned of highly secret plans to lay a mine field across the North Sea from Scotland to Norway, a distance approximately as far as from Washington to New York, the greatest undertaking of its kind in history. The English Channel had already been successfully mined by the British, thus blocking it to the U-boats but they could still issue from their docks along the German coast and swinging north of the British Isles, attack the shipping lanes.
The location of the North Sea mine barrage. (National Geographic Magazine)
To block this wide passage would require a mine field 250 miles long and 900 feet deep. This meant a total of 400,000 mines. There were not enough mines in the world for such a field and no chance of manufacturing such a vast number in the time available, yet already an announcement had been made in the House of Commons that Great Britain had only enough food for another month. A new type of mine was needed that could be used in deep water and did not actually have to be struck by a ship in order to explode. Such a mine had indeed been devised. It was attached to an anchor by a long copper cable and if a submarine touched the cable the mine exploded. A hundred thousand such mines would be sufficient to form an effective barrage.
The mines were to be loaded with a new and terrible explosive, far more deadly than dynamite, called TNT. Little was known about TNT and its effects. Both the British and the French had found the substance too dangerous to use, so there were few volunteers for a mine-laying squadron especially as professional sailors disliked mine laying on principle; it was often referred to as “rat-catching” and lacked the glamor of shooting it out with broadsides from the big guns. There was also the consideration that if you were beaten in ship-to-ship conflicts you could always surrender. If while mine laying one of your mines exploded, that was it. “You made a hole in the water that it took three months to fill up” was the popular phrase.
I saw a great opportunity here for advancement so I volunteered for the Mine Laying Squadron. I was accepted and given orders to proceed to New York where I was to take command of the Jefferson. I had no idea what the Jefferson was but when I arrived in New York, I quickly found out.
She was an old ex-merchantman with canvas-covered decks like a ferryboat and all her internal fittings were of wood. For twenty years she had carried passengers and freight between New York and Norfolk, Virginia. As her engines were completely shot, she had been retired from service. I could not believe that this frail ship was supposed to cross the Atlantic, weather North Sea gales, be rocked by terrific explosions, and actually survive the ordeal.
When I took command of her she was lying in the Erie Basin, South Brooklyn. Her ancient insides had been torn out, lounge rooms and dining salons transformed into long reaches of bare decks on which were laid complete systems of railway tracks with switches and turntables. In her stern had been cut two great “barn doors” through which the tracks passe
d, ending in a downward curve over the water. A 5-inch gun was mounted aft and two 3-inch anti-aircraft guns were on her forecastle; this was the extent of her armament. Her white paint was being changed to a mad futuristic orgy of color called “camouflage” which was supposed to confuse the eyes of submarine commanders and she had been rechristened Quinnebaug, a name dating back in Naval Annals to the Civil War. She was one of ten ships called “Raiders of the Night”, which were supposed to stop the overwhelming force of Germany’s famed U-boats.
USS Quinnebaug, Commander Mannix’s ship.
I protested that this old, discarded vessel could never get across the Atlantic; that even when she was new she had been designed for nothing but coastal work. My answer was that no other ships were available and that unless Germany’s unlimited submarine campaign could be stopped, the war would be over in a few weeks. As I had asked for this assignment, I could not now very well refuse it. I could only bless the dear American public who in time of peace economized on naval expenditures and then in time of war expected ferryboats to cross the ocean and fight the Imperial German Navy.
Officers and men began to assemble. Our complement of the former was eighteen; only three of these, including myself, were “Annapolis men”. The others consisted of an ex-merchant skipper over fifty years old, two young college men who had never been to sea before, a “millionaire” looking for excitement, and a tall Dane from the Geodetic Survey who was an authority on tropical flora. The rest were Navy warrant officers and merchant service officers.
I insisted that all hands, officers and men, be allowed to inspect the ship and know exactly what lay before them. Immediately quite a number of them developed ill mothers or aged fathers and were promptly sent back to the Receiving Station. I was glad to see them go. There could be no room for faint hearts in such a project as lay ahead.
Squadron commanders of the mine-laying flotilla. Commander Mannix is standing on right end, arms folded. (National Geographic Magazine)
The whole affair was cloaked in such secrecy that we were not permitted to tell even our families where we were going or what we were to do. As a result, the Mine Barrage, which was to play such a crucial part in the war, remained unknown to the American public and is ignored in history books.
We left the Erie Basin on April 15th and proceeded to the “Explosive Anchorage” in lower New York Bay, which all other vessels were careful to give a wide berth. There we remained for twenty-four hours loading mines and ammunition. The mines were great globes of steel three feet in diameter, containing three hundred pounds of TNT. Any one of them was quite capable of totally destroying our frail ship if a mishap occurred. Each mine was mounted on an iron box which acted as an anchor for the mine after it had been dropped into the sea. This box had four small wheels and ran along the tracks laid over the decks. A copper cable connected the mine to the box and could be set for different depths so a mine could be held just below the surface or close to the sea floor. A submarine, therefore, never knew when it might encounter the fatal cable.
As we were getting the last mine on board, we had our first thrill. This particular mine had become detached from its anchor-box, and we were hoisting the metal sphere with its explosive charge over the side. Just as it arrived at the top of the hoist and was being swung inboard the hook broke and the mine fell from a height of forty feet, struck the deck of the empty lighter, bounced along like a rubber ball and went overboard. I’m sure everybody was relieved to hear that splash; I know I was. Had it detonated we would have been as one of my officers remarked, “reduced to our constituent elements — a pinch of salt and three buckets of water”. Also, New York would have learned what Halifax had experienced a few months before. A Norwegian ship had struck a French munition vessel loaded with TNT and the explosion wiped out two square miles of the town, killing 1,654 people and injuring 1,028. It also created a tidal wave which washed the ruins into the sea. Yes, I was very glad that that mine had hit the water without exploding.
We were due for another bit of excitement. We had left our anchorage and were heading south for Hampton Roads. I was on the bridge looking aft when suddenly the entire rear part of the ship burst into a sheet of flames which flared up as high as the mainmast truck. This would have been bad enough under any conditions, but loaded as we were with high power explosives, I thought it was the end. I stopped the engines, headed her away from the wind and sounded the general alarm. To my great gratification there wasn’t the slightest panic. Officers and men manned the extinguishers, led out the hose, and put out the fire without any damage being done. Investigation showed that there had been a large accumulation of gas in our faulty forced draught system which, in some manner, had become ignited. What was particularly disturbing was the discovery that the asbestos that the shipyard had just put in burned merrily.
At Hampton Roads we anchored and a party of workmen carried on board a number of articles we vitally needed. One of the workmen casually spit on the deck as he went by. Perhaps a civilian cannot realize the enormity of this act. To seamen, their ship is their home and the decks are scrubbed scrupulously clean; long hours of holystoning keeps them spotless. To spit on a ship’s deck is like spitting on the floor of a house. The boatswain promptly knocked him down. This natural act produced an outburst of fury from the dockyard workers who were, of course, all unionized and immune from the draft, their labors being regarded as essential. They proceeded to go on strike and refused to load the ship. To satisfy their indignation that one of them should have been struck, they were perfectly prepared to allow us to cross the ocean and enter a combat zone without adequate supplies. My answer was to distribute arms to a landing party and under cover of their weapons, I went ashore and directed the loading of the material by a detail of our crew. The furious workmen shouted, “Scab!” at us but they did not attempt to interfere; wisely for them.
As this would be our last home port for many months, leave was granted and a number of our men went ashore. To their annoyance, they were not welcome even by fellow seamen from the Battleship Squadron. Whenever one of them lighted a cigarette, the men ran away shouting that they could see the TNT under his fingernails. Already we had become pariahs even in our own country.
By now the ships that were to make up the Mine Force had assembled and were ready to put to sea. We proceeded up the coast to Provincetown, during which voyage we lost our radio aerial, a crack opened in the main condenser, we lost two thousand gallons of fresh water and as there were no baffles in the boilers, every time the ship rolled heavily the water went from the boilers to the engines and squirted out of every orifice. I could not imagine how we could cross the Atlantic, let alone brave North Sea storms and German submarines.
At Provincetown, we were sent to the Boston Navy Yard for repairs. I called on Commodore Reginald Belknap, and he told me regretfully that due to a press of shipping the commandant of the Yard had told him that the repairs would be long delayed. This was very bad news indeed as the Quinnebaug was due to make the transatlantic crossing with the rest of the squadron in a few days. I happened to mention that we had ninety tons of TNT on board. When I got back to the ship I found that a cordon of marines had been posted around her and the repairs were being completed with the most amazing speed. There was also a note from the commandant of the Yard in which he intimated that the sooner we got away from his Navy Yard the better. I have never seen such wonderful cooperation.
We rejoined the squadron at Newport and at a final conference the captains were told to get underway singly at midnight without signal and with their ships darkened in case there were submarines about. Outside the harbor the ships were to assemble and start for Scotland.
We reached the rendezvous at two o’clock in the morning, formed a double column and headed east. For the next few days all went well until we reached mid-ocean when we had our final and most serious breakdown. The main air pump flew to pieces necessitating the man
ufacture of a new pump rod and nuts in our little machine shop that had originally been a coal bunker. One of the other ships towed us for a day, using one of our anchor chains as a tow. We were able to finish the job, part of which required the cutting of a large hole in a steel deck in order to lift out the damaged pump rod. Just as we were completing it, a flank ship fired a gun — the agreed-on signal of a submarine attack.
We instantly cast off the tow, put on full speed, and our whole flotilla scattered. We saw a big collier astern open up with a regular fusillade, and everyone was seeing periscopes all over the place. Looking back, I think the whole business was a false alarm. No submarine captain could have failed to sink a twenty-year-old crippled ferryboat incapable of making more than a few knots.
Our course took us far to the north, nearly within sight of Iceland. It began to get colder and we saw the most wonderful color effects in sea and sky, the most brilliant and contrasted Northern Lights. The sun set later and rose earlier until soon it was never really dark, only a little hazy from midnight until one o’clock in the morning. Great schools of whales and blackfish appeared, some of them coming up between the columns of ships. I saw two whales, very close aboard, with a baby between them; the baby was about as long as our largest motor sailing launch.
Now we curved southward into the danger zone, and nobody was allowed to sleep or take off his clothes. Soon we would meet the British destroyers who were to escort us through Cromarty Firth to Invergordon. Our collier had been missing for three days and repeated radio calls had produced no response.
At daylight on a crystal-clear morning the little gray destroyers came skimming toward us over a glassy sea prompt to the minute, and at the same time our missing collier hove into view serene and safe. Greetings were cut short by the destroyer commander who urged us to put on all steam and make our utmost speed as submarines had been reported nearby. Our relief changed to intense excitement and the ships surged forward in a mass straining every nerve to reach the green landlocked harbor that lay ahead. The Englishmen handled their ships beautifully, swinging in circles ahead and on the flanks. Astern the collier was nearly having apoplexy rolling thirty degrees on a side; she looked like a fat man in a hurry. The commodore had the brutality to signal “Close up”; this to an ample party already going belly to the ground.
The Old Navy Page 26
