The Great War at Sea: 1914-1918

by Richard Hough

  The lull lasted for a full forty minutes of fast pursuit. At 2.50 Sturdee was within range again from dead astern, the Invincible and Inflexible turning before firing in order to allow a greater number of guns to bear. This time Spee turned sharply across the bows of his enemy in an attempt to ‘cross the T’.

  For a time the range closed so that the Germans were at last able to open fire with their secondary guns. Hits on the British ships were frequent but did little damage as they descended in their steep trajectory and broke up on the armoured decks. And now at last the British firing was more effective, and the heavy lyddite shells tore through the 2-inch-thick German decks and created havoc deep in the heart of the ships. Soon the Scharnhorst’s firing began to fall away as a great fire spread and she assumed a list. Captain Maerker, observing that Spee’s flag was no longer flying, managed to get a message of enquiry through to the Scharnhorst.

  ‘I am all right so far’, Spee replied. By now his ship had been struck by at least forty heavy shells, the upper works were a shambles, most of the casemate guns were out of action and surrounded by the corpses of their crews. Spee’s last message was characteristically generous. ‘You were right after all’, he flashed to his old friend who had opposed this Falklands operation.

  Just when the destruction was at its worst, with the British 12-inch guns at a low elevation and putting shell after shell into the German ships, a great sailing ship appeared innocently from the east and ran between the lines of the fighting cruisers ‘with all sail set, including stunsails’, according to one British officer. ‘A truly lovely sight she was with every stitch of canvas drawing as she ran free in the light breeze, for all the world like a herald of peace bidding the two lines of grim warships cease the senseless destruction.’(25)

  From the Invincible’s spotting top, Lieutenant H. E. Dannreuther (appropriately a godson of Wagner) watched with wonder and awe the dying moments of the German flagship, on fire from end to end and almost stationary. ‘She was being torn apart and was blazing and it seemed impossible that anyone could still be alive’,(26) he said.

  ‘She heeled gradually over to port,’ Commander Pochhammer wrote later, ‘and her bows became more and more submerged… Then, with her screws still turning, she slid swiftly into the abyss a few thousand yards astern of us.’(27) Like the Good Hope and Monmouth, she took down everyone with her.

  The Gneisenau resisted for longer and with equal tenacity, but provided no more than easy target practice for the Invincible and Inflexible, as well as the smaller Carnarvon which had proved too slow to catch any of the escaping light cruisers. Though the Gneisenau made a horrible spectacle, the armoured cruiser contrived to continue spasmodic fire with a single intact gun, even after Sturdee hand ordered the cease-fire. And before she would finally go down, she had to be assisted by opening sea cocks and exploding charges against her hull.

  Hastily lowered boats managed to drag some 200 of the Gneisenau’s men from the sea. Bold and ruthless skuas which had to be beaten off by the living were almost as great a menace as the freezing sea. Thick low cloud and mist had crept up, reducing visibility. It was two hours too late for the Gneisenau and Scharnhorst, and now the deteriorating weather only obstructed the rescue work and reduced still further the numbers of survivors.

  Among those picked up by the Inflexible was Commander Pochhammer of the Gneisenau, who became the senior survivor and lived to write a book about his experiences. There was a vacant admiral’s cabin in the battle-cruiser, and the Commander was treated as a guest of honour, with a hot water bottle and a bottle of wine, later dining with the ship’s officers. One of the survivors picked up by the Carnarvon was a torpedo lieutenant, who gave his name as the familiar one in this flagship, Stoddart. After further questioning he turned out to be a German relation of the Admiral. The post-battle family reunion concluded with this officer, too, enjoying the best accommodation in the armoured cruiser.(28)

  The three German light cruisers were still afloat when the Gneisenau went down just after 6 p.m. The Nürnberg was all set to complete her escape from the Kent, which could only keep her quarry in sight by pressing for such revolutions from her reciprocating engines that the vibration made the use of her range-finders impractical. Then the Nürnberg, under equal pressure, blew two of her boilers, the Kent closed in as visibility rapidly worsened, and with her 6-inch guns soon sent the little cruiser to the bottom.

  Both the Glasgow and Cornwall had been pursuing the Leipzig. The faster Glasgow had no difficulty in holding the German cruiser’s speed, firing her forward 6-inch gun, forcing the Leipzig repeatedly to turn to reply with full broadsides and thus allowing the old Cornwall to catch up. But there was squabbling between Captain Ellerton and John Luce before, uneasily sharing the honours, they sent the Leipzig to the bottom.(29) Everyone involved in the pursuit of the German light cruisers had suffered from the strain of uncertainty, especially after the Dresden showed a clean pair of heels to the Carnarvon and disappeared to the south-west. Tempers were not at their best until success was at last assured.

  One of the accompanying German colliers escaped, too. But if the action had not been the total annihilation for which they had all hoped, it had been a stunning victory, and, as Beatty later described it, ‘the most decisive naval battle of the war’.(30) Letters written home at the time testify to the sense of elation and relief experienced by the crews of Sturdee’s squadron, and also praise for the Germans’ performance.

  ‘As we started our somewhat one-sided battle [wrote one of the Inflexible’s company] we were not a little surprised to see what a glorious and plucky fight the two Germans put up. They were 3 or 4 knots slower and were less heavily armoured, indeed they might as well have been made of china when they were concerned with a 12-inch shell. If, therefore, good use was made of our superior speed and range, what hope had they of hitting us? Yes, we all admire those Germans who fought so bravely versus such vastly superior odds.’(31)

  The loss to Germany of four men o’war and their crews, with some 2,200 dead and the rest made prisoner, was of small account numerically and reduced her naval strength by only a nominal extent. The defeat was, however, a serious moral blow to Germany’s pride and reputation, which had been raised high – especially in the Americas – by the earlier victory at Coronel. For Britain, the strategic consequences were profound and gratifying. The threat of dislocation to Atlantic and Pacific trade had been lifted by these few hours of destruction, together with the loss elsewhere of the Emden and Karlsruhe in early November. The Dresden was caught later by the Glasgow it need hardly be added. The numerous ships involved in the hunt (thirty or so in the Pacific alone, excluding the Japanese contribution) could be withdrawn. Troop movements from Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and India – ‘The Imperial Call’ – could be made without fear. The effects on morale in Britain were profound. Everyone felt the better for hearing the news, and the stock of the Navy soared. Churchill was cock-a-hoop. Fisher, in a letter to a friend written nearly three years later, recalled the Nelsonian victory: ‘the destruction of Admiral von Spee’s Armada off the Falkland Islands… And the above accomplished under the sole direction of a Septuagenerian First Sea Lord, who was thought mad for denuding the Grand Fleet of our fastest Battle Cruisers to send them 14,000 miles on a supposed wild goose chase… And how I was execrated for inventing the Battle Cruisers! “Monstrous Cruisers", they called them.’(32)

  Within the higher echelons of the Navy, the Falkland Islands battle left a bitter taste. Fisher could not forgive Sturdee for failing to bag the Dresden too. The escape spoilt the symmetry of the outcome in his mind, and why was the C.-in-C. so long about sinking the German Squadron, and why, he asked, did Sturdee use up almost all his ammunition, firing no fewer than 1,174 shells to sink two inferior and slower ships?

  Fisher opened his offensive against the Admiral soon after the despatch of the official Admiralty telegram of congratulation on 10 December. Repeated demands for an explanation o
f the escape of the last German cruiser were sent to Sturdee, until he felt impelled to retort sharply: ‘Their Lordships selected me as Commander-in-Chief to destroy the two hostile Armoured Cruisers and I endeavoured to the best of my ability to carry out their orders. I submit that my being called upon in three separate telegrams to give reasons for my subsequent action was unexpected.’(33)

  Fisher snapped back that the nature of this signal was ‘improper and such observations must not be repeated…’(34) When Sturdee returned to London to receive public adulation, and later a baronetcy, Churchill – one suspects under pressure – and Fisher gave him a cool five-minute interview during which, according to Sturdee ‘neither evinced the slightest interest in the engagement’.(35) Earlier, Fisher had proposed that Sturdee should not be allowed home until he had destroyed the Dresden but Churchill would not allow this insult.

  Fisher’s hates were black hates indeed. He never forgave anyone who had backed Beresford at the height of his vendetta against him in the summer of 1909, and now his tortuous and ageing mind sought every means of denigrating the Admiral who had won a famous victory with Fisher’s own beloved ‘greyhounds’, even to the extent of omitting many names from Sturdee’s list of recommendations for honours. It was a thoroughly distasteful business.

  Sturdee had certainly been lucky, the arithmetic of his timing working out as favourably for himself as it worked out unfavourably for Spee. If Captain Luce had not prevailed upon him to leave Abrolhos Rocks a day earlier he would have arrived at a smouldering, ruined base, and his prediction of a long search would probably have come true. If Spee had not, most uncharacteristically, panicked on that early morning of 8 December, Sturdee might well have never returned, or at best returned with a ruined reputation and a record of failure which would have deserved all Fisher’s coals of fire.

  But what did it matter that he fired so many shells? And he could afford to take his time. It was correct judgement to ensure to the best of his ability that his ships were not seriously damaged. The poor shooting of the battle-cruisers was another matter, and one for which he was only partly to blame considering his brief tenure of command. By virtue of being C.-in-C., he also took final credit for the conduct of his captains, which was magnificent, if again tinged with good fortune. To pursue successfully three light cruisers with slow and obsolete armoured cruisers and sink two of them (with the Glasgow’s help) was a worthy performance deserving of all the praise heaped upon Captains Walter Etherton and john Allen. As for Captain Luce, the skill and courage he had demonstrated at the Coronel defeat were matched at the Falklands victory. At this time, light-cruiser captains seemed to stand alone in their style and quality and far above the general level of captains of bigger ships. The records of Captain Howard Kelly and Captain John Luce in 1914 shine out brilliantly from the generally indifferent performances of the early days of the war at sea.

  FIRST CLASH OF THE DREADNOUGHTS

  The paramountcy of the battle-cruiser – Defensive German strategy – British intelligence superiority and the creation of Room 40, which predicts a battle-cruiser raid – Poor signalling and sudden poor visibility preclude an interception by Admiral Beatty – Fisher calls the operation ‘a hash’ – The Dogger Bank pursuit and engagement of Admiral Hipper – The battle a conditional British victory – Beatty’s anger and frustration – The controversial aftermath

  Fisher’s pride in the battle-cruiser was justified. In 1914 it had become the most active, spectacular, and successful class of warship. As a direct result of the Falkland Islands victory, Fisher ordered two more battle-cruisers, the Repulse and the Renown, which advanced the principles of speed, a hefty punch, and nominal protection to the next logical stage: six 15-inch guns, 6-inch armour belt, and 32 knots: an unprecedented speed to surpass the reported 28 knots of the latest German battle-cruisers. No sooner had he gained authorization for these than he asked for three more, euphemistically calling them ‘large light cruisers’ (they were 18,000-19,000 tons) as he had been told that no more dreadnoughts were to be laid down as the war would be over before they could be completed. They were the Courageous, Glorious, and Furious, all 35-knotters, in the last case with 18-inch guns. Battle-cruisers with 20-inch guns were in the design stage while Fisher was at the Admiralty.

  The German battle-cruisers were equally active, in the North Sea and the Black Sea, where the Goeben bombarded Sevastopol and engaged in minelaying, even before Turkey had formally entered the war. In the North Sea, the German high command was tempted into taking advantage of the absence of the several British battle-cruisers out hunting Admiral von Spee to make raids on the English east coast. The Emperor himself was the most influential policy-maker for the High Seas Fleet, which he regarded as his personal property and responsibility. Admiral von Tirpitz’s post as Secretary of the Navy confined him to administration. The conduct of the war at sea was controlled by the Admiralstab – the Naval Staff – who translated the Kaiser’s wishes and offered him recommendations. German strategy from the outset had been one of restraint and risk avoidance, which was the reason for the Kaiser’s fury over the Heligoland Bight debacle. The High Seas Fleet was seen by the Army General Staff as a shield against Allied landings on the German North Sea coast, and by Russia in the Baltic. In their view any risk to its overall strength was unacceptable. Even attacks on the passage of the British Expeditionary Force to France were ruled out because of the risk of losses, and because the BEF would almost at once be wiped out anyway by the great German Army. This reason was in addition to the strongly-held view of the German Chancellor, Theodore von Bethmann Hollweg, that an intact fleet must be a bargaining asset when the Allies sued for peace (and that could not be long coming).

  The German C.-in-C., Admiral Friedrich von Ingenohl, was therefore adjured to sustain a policy of caution, offensive, non-risk attacks being confined to U-boat operations, minelaying, and quick raids which might result in cutting off enemy units or forces so greatly inferior that their destruction would lead to no German losses. This policy was pursued in the teeth of opposition from Tirpitz, without whom the High Seas Fleet would never have come into being, and many seagoing officers who longed to get at the enemy and could not conceal their contempt for their masters.

  In fact Jellicoe and Beatty were right in reckoning their sums and viewing reductions in naval strength with anxiety. With the tactical advantage of surprise, the Germans, with generally superior gunnery, far superior shells, mines, and torpedoes, and lighting from tougher ships, would have been very hard to beat in 1914 when for a time they could call on more battle-cruisers, many more destroyers, and an almost equal number of dreadnought battleships.

  The German Army General Staff, and even the Kaiser himself were their own worst enemies in failing to understand the full meaning of sea power. It was an incalculable blessing for the Allies that the Germans, and the Austrians too, saw sea power as no more than an extension of military land power. Aggressively and skilfully handled, the High Seas Fleet could have beaten the Grand Fleet in 1914 in a level fight, and that would have resulted in an end to the war. If Germany had lost her Fleet in doing so, it would have counted for nothing against her at the subsequent peace conference.

  British fear was not of a fleet action. There was an ardent longing for all-out battle. As one young lieutenant in the Lion expressed it, ‘The real tone was one of high expectation that at any moment the enemy might come out and the long-anticipated fight take place.’(1) British fear was for mines and torpedoes, and for being caught napping in their still-vulnerable bases.

  In spite of the policy of caution on both sides, Germans and British alike came within a hair’s breadth of being irrecoverably crippled during the winter of 1914-15. This uncomfortable truth was brought about by several factors, such as poor British appreciation and signalling, and German failure to recognize the pitfalls of wireless telegraphy and the risks they ran with their tip-and-run raids. In addition, from the outset the British held one trump card which was so c
onfidential that only Jellicoe and Beatty and one or two others knew about it.

  By great good chance, two days before the Heligoland Bight skirmish, the Germans lost another cruiser, the Magdeburg, which went ashore in the Gulf of Finland and was subsequently destroyed by two Russian men o’war. Among the corpses recovered by the Russians was that of a signalman who had died while still in possession of the German Navy’s cipher signal books. It was not until the end of October that these ‘sea-stained priceless documents’ (as Churchill called them) reached Britain from her ally. By this time, and by another stroke of luck, the British Navy had acquired German confidential charts of the North Sea with the German operational grid used to identify the location of friendly and enemy warships. These had been jettisoned from a sinking German destroyer on 17 October and recovered by chance by an English fishing trawler.

  For the purpose of exploiting to the full this double windfall, a secret department was set up in the Admiralty. To the few people who knew of its existence it was called simply ‘Room 40’. Its head was a fifty-nine-year-old Scotsman, scientist, and ex-Director of Naval Education, Sir Alfred Ewing later, and inevitably, to be known as ‘the Whitehall Sherlock Holmes’. Ewing was especially strong on electronics, and was an inspired leader. Among those who joined him were Lieutenant William Clarke, RNVR, Lieutenant Herbert Hope and ‘professors and dons from the universities, members of the teaching staff at Dartmouth, and men of many other professions’, according to Commander James, who later took over Room 40 from Ewing.