The Great War at Sea: 1914-1918

by Richard Hough

  Cradock waited impatiently for his old ironclad and then departed for the west coast to concentrate his puny strength and carry out Admiralty orders ‘to search and protect trade’. There could be no doubt of Churchill’s intention for Cradock urgently to destroy Spee’s ships ‘We must not miss them.’ But this was on Churchill’s assumption that the Canopus would be with him, ‘a citadel around which all our cruisers in those waters could find absolute security’,(1) as he wrote later in justification.

  Cradock, the man on the spot, could calculate the real value of this battleship all that the Admiralty would spare him and understood what a lumbering handicap she would be. Before leaving Port Stanley, as recounted by Captain Luce, Cradock ‘buried all his medals and decorations in the Governor’s garden and gave the Governor a large scaled packet to be sent home to the Admiralty as soon as his death was officially confirmed’. It is very doubtful that Cradock expected to survive. But the escape of the Goeben was fresh in his memory (‘we don’t want any more disappointments’) as was the fate of Troubridge who had refused battle with what he had regarded as a superior squadron and was now vilified throughout the service.

  So the Canopus was ordered to complete her refit and, with a convoy of colliers, to follow him through the Magellan Straits and up the west coast of Chile.

  The Admiralty remained as confident of the final outcome in the Pacific as they had in the Mediterranean, certain that their dispositions could not be improved upon. Churchill called for an appreciation by his War Staff on 28 October, and this reassured him further. It told how a Japanese battleship and two cruisers were hastening across the northern Pacific and would soon be on the west coast of South America, where they would ‘force’ Spee onto Cradock’s squadron with its ‘citadel’. In fact one of the Japanese ships was still at Honolulu. The appreciation failed to explain how this force in the vast reaches of the Pacific would be blessed with the millionth chance of the Japanese even catching sight of Spec, let alone forcing him south; and if it were to do so how it would succeed in directing the enemy into the jaws of Cradock. ‘The situation on the West Coast’, summed up Churchill’s secretary, ‘seems safe.’

  The Good Hope steamed through the narrow channels of Tierra del Fuego, Mount Sarmiento and the countless smaller peaks snow-dad in the summer sun, glaciers glinting, the lowest slopes vivid-bright with summer flowers. Nothing had changed since the early sixteenth century – Magellan’s days – neither the naked natives in their dug-outs, nor the spectacular aspect of Cape Desire marking the entrance to the Mar del Pacifico. Cradock made one last search among the islands behind Cape Horn, then steered north along the fearsome, tortured shores of southern Chile to rendezvous with his squadron.

  At this time – 27 October – it is possible only to speculate on Cradock’s thinking and conclusions. He knew that he was in the proximity of a vastly superior homogeneous enemy force; the ether was thick with signals in German code and en clair, an ominous chorus in morse; he had been denied reinforcements and had no reason to believe any of the numerous Allied warships in the Pacific were within a thousand miles. We can be reasonably certain that Cradock did not flinch from the prospect of meeting his protagonist with his present pitiably inadequate force. We also know that he was not fool enough to believe he could destroy Spee. He therefore signalled the Defence in the Atlantic to join him, and on 26 October gave the news to the Admiralty in a message, mutilated in transmission through Valparaiso, but reading close to this: ‘With reference to orders… to search for enemy, and our great desire for early success, consider it impracticable, on account of Canopus’s slow speed, to find and destroy enemy’s squadron. Consequently have ordered Defence to join me. Canopus will be employed on necessary convoying of colliers… ‘

  Churchill was thrown into a state of dismay and perplexity by this message, and was no doubt angered by it. Cradock, it seemed, far from concentrating his squadron, was relegating his ‘citadel’ to collier convoy work. On the evening of 28 October he signalled, ‘Defence is to remain on East Coast… This will leave sufficient force on each side in case the hostile cruisers appear there on the trade routes…’ He added what might be thought a fillip concerning the Japanese ‘expected on North American coast’ but made no reference to, let alone criticism of, Cradock’s detaching the Canopus, which implied concurrence.

  Churchill later claimed that Cradock never received this signal and was therefore not influenced by it in reaching his next bold but suicidal decision within just half an-hour of its receipt by the Glasgow. If the Glasgow received it, whv not the flagship? One of the Glasgow’s officers testified that he was practically certain Cradock read it, and then, ‘Tired of protesting his inferiority, the receipt of this telegram would be sufficient spur to Cradock to hoist, as he did half an-hour later, his signal “Spread twenty miles apart and look for the enemy.’’’(2)

  Cradock sent the Glasgow speedily into Coronel to send his last message by land-line, describing his intentions and dispositions, then steamed north, the Otranto in close company, the Canopus with her colliers some 300 miles to the south. Events now accelerated in pace and assumed the character of dark drama in these Chilean seas.

  The Glasgow rejoined the squadron at mid-day on 1 November. Captain Luce had important news for his admiral which, for security reasons, he transmitted by lamp rather than wireless. He had picked up ciphered German wireless messages. They were loud and originated from the Leipzig. By what seemed like happy chance this cruiser was Spee’s slowest; even the Monmouth could outpace her, and it occurred to Cradock that he now had a chance of picking her off alone. That afternoon he continued to steam north through the rough, icy seas, his hopes perhaps somewhat raised by this prospect and the consideration that the main German force might be heading north for the recently opened Panama Canal.

  It can reasonably be conjectured that Spee’s expectations were high, too, and for the same reason. For he had received news from one of the German ships at Coronel that the Glasgow had called at Coronel that morning. He therefore headed south in the hope that he might cut off this relatively weak man o’war and destroy her before continuing his search for the two British armoured cruisers.

  The moment of truth for both admirals was 4.30 p.m. in high seas, clear weather broken by squalls from the south, fifty miles off the Chilean coast at Coronel. Reports of smoke to the north-cast were transmitted by the Glasgow; Spee himself on the bridge of the Gneisenau could make out the smoke from Cradock’s ships to the south-west. The German squadron was widely scattered. Spee closed up and increased speed, as surprised as Cradock but quite confident from the start that he could despatch Cradock’s entire force as swiftly as the Glasgow alone. He knew at once exactly what to do and his superior speed allowed him to choose his time and range the privilege Fisher had so loudly claimed for his battle-cruisers.

  Until sunset at 7.00 p.m. Spee would be at a disadvantage on the cast or shoreline side of Cradock. He manoeuvred accordingly, veering off when the British squadron attempted to close. The moment the sun went down in a stormy western sky, the Good Hope, Monmouth, Glasgow and Otranto steaming in neat line ahead, were sharp-etched in silhouette and, later, further illuminated by a near-full moon.

  At 12,000 yards with his big ships making heavy weather, Spee ordered his flagship to open fire. It might have been the finale of the German Navy’s gunnery championship again. After an ‘over’ and ‘short’ salvo, the Good Hope was struck forward, losing one of her two big guns before it could fire, and causing a sheet of flame to shoot up into the darkness. The Gneisenau was allotted the Monmouth as target, and within three minutes this British ship was on fire too.

  On the British side, none of the 6-inch main-deck guns could be worked, and the spray from German near misses obscured telescopes. Even the spotters high up could scarcely make out the position of the enemy. Within minutes the German light cruisers were concentrating on the Glasgow. The Otranto, never intended for action with men o’war, correctly pulled
out of line and disappeared, pursued by shell spouts.

  Soon the range was down to three miles, and the execution became terrible. Only the Glasgow was firing effectively but was herself being hit. Both the Good Hope and Monmouth had become wallowing funeral pyres by 7.40 p.m., the flames making the German gunnery even more effective. One of Spee’s sons commented that ‘it was dreadful to have to fire on the poor devil no longer able to defend herself, but her flag was still flying’.(3)

  No one saw Cradock’s flagship go down. The Nürenbergn paused alongside the blazing hulk of the Monmouth, observed no signs of surrender, and was forced to give her the coup de grace. There was no survivor from either ship. Everyone perished, dying swiftly of their wounds or almost instantly in the freezing, raging seas. Cradock died with them, his wish fulfilled, but surely disappointed that he had not even gained his least objective, to damage the German ships in order to make the task of later pursuers easier. The only one of Cradock’s ships to enjoy any luck was the Glasgow. Not only was she the single target of two of Spee’s light cruisers, but for more than ten minutes she was fired on at point-blank range by the Gneisenau, one of whose big shells could have blown her apart. In all the Glasgow was hit five times, and three of the shells were duds and a fourth did little damage. Her speed was unimpaired, even her wireless worked as she fled from the scene, first west from the coast and then south, transmitting the dire news and warning to the Canopus. Lieutenant Harold Hickling, after witnessing a sudden succession of flashes on the horizon, which could only signal the end of the Monmouth, wrote that, ‘Utterly dispirited and sick at heart after such a crushing blow I went down to my cabin to snatch a few hours’ sleep before going on watch… I threw myself onto my bunk, wet clothes and all.’(4)

  Leaving two of his cruisers to search for the survivors of Cradock’s squadron, Spee proceeded to Valparaiso, where he could be sure of congratulations and a warm welcome from the substantial German colony and the crews of many stranded German merchantmen. ‘I am well and almost beside myself with happiness’, Able Seaman Hans Stutterheim wrote home. ‘I hope we shall soon confront more of these English and then we’ll repeat our success.’(5)

  Admiral von Spee was more realistic about his situation. ‘I am quite homeless,’ he confided to an old friend, a retired naval doctor, who lived in the city. ‘I cannot reach Germany; we possess no other secure harbour; I must plough the seas of the world doing – as much mischief as I can, till my ammunition is exhausted, or till a foe far superior in power succeeds in catching me.’(6)

  In England the news of Cradock’s defeat was received with predictable chagrin and popular anger. The Admiralty at first refused to believe the German reports from Valparaiso. Churchill had staked the success of his dispositions and his own reputation on the Canopus, and had repeatedly instructed Cradock to act in concert with the battleship. He judged it inconceivable that Cradock would disobey his orders, but conveniently forgot that he had raised no protest when informed by the Admiral that he was leaving the battleship behind. Only when confirmation from the Glasgow reached Whitehall was Churchill disposed to believe that the worst had happened.

  There is a curious postscript to the tragedy of Coronel, a single dark shadow cast on the bright courage of all who participated and survived or died.

  The engineer commander who had for two years been employed as the officer responsible for the Canopus’s engines while she was ‘C and M’ was William Denbow. It may have been a somewhat futile occupation in view of the fact that the ship was due for the scrapyard, but Denbow applied himself to his lonely task sufficiently for the old ship to perform without mechanical trouble when she rejoined the fleet for the July test mobilization. The Canopus did 17 knots on the three-hour trial run, not bad for a ship that had done only 18 knots when new. Later, with a new reservist crew but still with Denbow as engineer commander, the Canopus was despatched south to the Falklands.

  Her senior engineer was Lieutenant Sydney Start, who remained satisfied with the state of the engines for the passage to the Falklands. He was at the same time concerned that he never once saw his senior officer for the entire voyage. ‘From now on the Engineer Commander might never have been in the ship’, Start wrote later. ‘He lived in his cabin… The day before we arrived at Port Stanley I sent to the Captain through the Paymaster Commander a written report about the Engineer Commander’s strange behaviour.’(7)

  This report, it seemed, reached the Captain, Heathcoat Grant, just after he had signalled to Cradock at Port Stanley that, according to his engineer commander, his ship’s engines were suffering from faulty condensers and the Canopus was capable of only 12 knots. Denbow was fabricating these faults. He had never communicated with his subordinate nor left his cabin for the entire voyage.

  By the time Captain Grant discovered that his ship might well be able to exceed the speed he had reported to Cradock, the Good Hope had left Port Stanley, and Grant ‘did not believe that the Admiral would delay his northward progress so that the battleship could catch up with his faster cruiser’(8) He therefore said nothing. But it is possible, even likely, that Cradock fix all his impetuosity and the provocation he had suffered from his masters in Whitehall, would have waited for the Canopus if he had known that she was some 5 knots faster than he had been told earlier.

  If Cradock had kept the Canopus with him as he had been ordered, would this have affected the outcome of Coronel? Another of the Canopus’s officers at the time gave as his opinion ‘that had the Canopus joined Cradock’s flag it would merely have swelled the casualty list and instead of being in the happy position of writing to you at this moment, I, together with the whole ship’s company would have died that night’.(9) On paper, and no doubt in a test duel, Spee’s two fine big cruisers would have sent the Canopus to the bottom. But it is also worth noting Spee’s justifiable fear of being damaged, however slightly, when he had no docking and repairing facilities, and when a small loss of speed could prove fatal in any future action. This is always the price the lone raider must pay for the enormous advantage of surprise and flexibility he enjoys. When, weeks later, the Canopus had the Gneisenau in her sights, two salvoes from her 12-inch guns were enough to send her off in full retreat.

  Spec himself, writing a day after the battle and on receiving news that an old 12-inch gun battleship was in the vicinity, declared that ‘Against [her] we can hardly do anything. If they had kept their forces together we should, I suppose, have got the worst of it.’(10)

  As for poor Commander Denbow, ‘On leaving Port Stanley, he was watched by our three doctors and they decided that he was in a bad mental state.’(11) He was sent home from the Chilean coast in a supply ship before Coronel was fought, to be invalided out of the service and never heard from again.

  On 3 November 1914 the Board of Admiralty in London, unaware of Cradock’s fate, reversed their decision yet again on the armoured cruiser Defence. She was, after all, to proceed to the west coast to reinforce Cradock ‘with all possible despatch’, and Cradock himself was signalled with this news. But, as Churchill wrote, ‘We were already talking to the void.’(12) He could have added that it was a different Board talking, for curious and tragic events of an entirely different nature had meanwhile been occurring in Whitehall, and new men were at the helm.

  TROUBLE IN THE ADMIRALTY, TRIUMPH IN THE SOUTH ATLANTIC

  The persecution and resignation of Prince Louis of Battenberg – The reinstatement of Fisher as First Sea Lord against the King’s judgement – Countermeasures against Admiral Von Spee – Admiral Sturdee sails with his battle-cruiser squadron – Captain Luce joins him – Spee doubles the Horn – The Canopus becomes a fortress – Sturdee arrives at the Falkland Islands – Spee decides to attack and faces a surprise British squadron – The pursuit and defeat of Spee – The aftermath of mixed spite and adulation

  The inability of the Royal Navy to wage war successfully in 1914 had many causes, from unsuitable matériel to lack of imaginative leadership, from inadequate pr
eparation to a deep-seated and abiding national arrogance. The reasons were far too numerous and complex for the general public to understand, even if they had been told. Besides, in Britain the months of August, September, and October 1914 were emotionally unsteady. The idea that there was anything inherently wrong with the Navy was unthinkable. What the public was looking for was a sacrificial figure and a fire on which to burn the offering. Clearly, the finger must point to the top – to Winston Churchill and Prince Louis of Battenberg – the only two names the man in the street knew, except Jellicoe and Beatty, and they were heroes.

  Jellicoe, as he searched for a safe anchorage for his Grand Fleet, was greatly concerned about Churchill’s performance. Beatty, in making comparisons with the Army’s record, wrote to his wife: ‘If we only had a Kitchener at the Admiralty we could have done so much and the present state of chaos in naval affairs would never have existed.’(1)

  In early October Churchill turned his attention to the critical military situation in Belgium, where the imminent loss of Antwerp to the Germans already threatened the left flank of the Franco-British defence line and the Channel ports through which supplies and reinforcements to the Western Front must pass. The Government ordered the Royal Marine Brigade to reinforce the defences of Antwerp, and, encouraged by Kitchener, Churchill personally threw himself into the campaign, crossing the Channel, assuming command, and ordering as further reinforcements raw naval reservists of the 1st and 2nd Naval Brigades to join and form a Royal Naval Division.

  There were elements of the romantic and the vainglorious in Churchill’s determination to resign his post and lead this modest and mainly untrained division himself, considering it his ‘duty to see the matter through’. When read out to the Cabinet, the offer was met with ‘roars of incredulous laughter’, and he was ordered home without delay.