Yet the Admiralty under Lord Churchill had blamed him for U-boats slipping through to the south of England, and for the sinking of merchant vessels in these very shipping lanes off Ireland.
He’d tried to tell them—and soon enough they’d see the truth of it—that to get this far, or to Liverpool, German subs had no need of creeping through the Channel. The U-boats now had sufficient range and seaworthiness to navigate around the northwest tip of Scotland, and around about Ireland too if they wished. They didn’t even need extra fuel for the return trip. No amount of protection east of Dover would keep them away.
But the Admiralty chiefs, landlubbers like young Winston and old fire-breathers like Jackie Fisher, were slow to admit the danger, He was made scapegoat for their ignorance. It was a temporary station, he hoped, far from the main fleet at Scapa Flow, and from any likely big-ship actions. But the irony of it was, to counter the threat to western shipping that they still saw as slight, they’d placed him here at the front line with nothing, as part of a laughable force of patrol boats led by one aging cruiser. And now, in this emergency, this outdated ship, without underwater armor and with side coal bunkers ready to fill up with sea, was just as vulnerable to torpedo attack as the giant Lusitania. His mission of mercy, to go out and possibly face one tiny U-boat, could amount to a death sentence for his ship and crew.
Still, he could hardly shirk any order. To rebuild his reputation at the Admiralty, just such a show of courage as this might be needed, with many more to follow.
So be it. As the offspring of a long line of revered admirals, Hood felt confident that this unending war would give him many opportunities to distinguish himself in service to the Crown.
* * *
On the Juno’s foredeck, Seaman Albright’s station was in the bows, there to stand ready with a firehose. He wielded it as the anchor was raised, spraying down the heavy chain links with fresh seawater. That would remove any weed and harbor debris that might foul the mechanical windlass or cause rust.
As they got underway, swerving wide in the sunlit anchorage to turn and making the smaller vessels rock in their wake, Albright kept busy cleaning and tidying the foredeck. They would be picking up passengers from the sinking liner, so he was told. This deck space might be needed to sort out the living from the dead.
“A ter’ble pass, this torpedoin’, ain’ it?” he remarked to Hollis, the forward watch. “How could the blighty Huns do it? But good ol’ Lusi won’t sink, will she, bein’ so big an’ all.”
“Well, that depends on how many fish the sub put into her,” Hollis replied. “An’ if they’re saving any for us.”
“Well, I ’ope they are,” Albright said with feeling. “If they’re waitin’ out there, we can run ’er down, cut that U-boat right in two and send ’er to the bottom. We’re fast enough an’ we has the ram.”
“Yes, well, we were fast enough running away from submarines this mornin’ into Queenstown,” Hollis said. “Now we’ll be runnin’ back toward ’em just as fast. I only hope we zigzag.”
“We’ll ’ave a tough time zigzaggin’ while we lower boats pick up survivors,” Albright said. “An’ the more so after we put old Lusi in tow, too, if it comes to that.”
“We’ll know soon enough,” Hollis replied. “There she is.”
As the cruiser passed between the forts on the headlands and left the mineswept channel behind, the view out to sea was vivid but not encouraging. Even seen from twenty miles off, the huge ship was obviously in trouble, with her bow-end sloping down into the sea. The hull was angled up astern and also tilted well away from shore. Her dark red under-paint showed above water on the landward port side, with her four leaning stacks trailing out smoke and steam.
“Most of the port lifeboats are still in place,” Hollis observed. “Tough job launching ’em with that steep of a list.”
“Can we even tow her like that, down so far by the bows?” Albright wondered aloud. “We might ’ave to pull from astern. Not much chance of savin’ ’er, if you ask me.”
Albright was soon back to work clearing the foredeck, shifting heavy gear up and down the companionway stairs. As he toiled, from time to time he would hear stray shouts coming down from the foretop.
“Survivors and boats are in the water.”
“Still underway and trailing out wreckage!”
“She’s goin’ down fast.”
All of a sudden in the bright daylight, he felt the deck sway beneath him as Juno heeled in a sharp turn to port. Seaman Albright looked around in surprise. There had been no zigzagging so far, so it seemed strange now.
“What is it, Sir?” he asked a passing deck officer. “Did we sight a U-boat?”
“Not yet, Seaman,” the officer answered with a bitter look, as if the words tasted bad. “But no need to worry, you can stand down from your duty. We’ve received Admiralty orders sending us back to Queenstown at once. The danger is too great.”
“Aye, sir!” He saluted, with a glance over his shoulder at the tilting passenger liner poised to sink. Aye-aye sir, though it ain’t right, he wanted to add. But he didn’t dare speak such a thing aloud.
Moments later they were on a straight course back to harbor, speeding through the gaggle of slow, ill-assorted work and pleasure boats that had set forth from Queenstown to aid the Lusitania.
Chapter 47
Mutiny
Through his attack periscope, Herr Kapitan Schwieger watched the relentless progress of disaster.
The giant ship plowed onward in a great curve, its prow steadily sinking into the sea and skewing to the right. Behind it spread a long wake—of human bodies, wreckage, and desperate survivors in and out of lifeboats, some of which were also sinking. Control of the steam turbines must have been lost, or the captain would have halted his vessel to lower his boats safely. Instead, many of them now dangled useless from the starboard side. Or worse, they dropped into the waves to crush one another and be swamped by the bow current. And that was along the rail of the ship tilting nearest the water. One could only guess what was happening on the higher port side.
Feeling the press of crew behind him and hearing the murmur of eager voices, Schwieger thrust himself away from the attack periscope, which was now lowered beneath the conning tower into the central crew quarters.
“Here, Pilot Lanz, have a look. Run out the patrol periscope as well. Anyone who wants to may look.”
Strangely, he no longer desired to witness the result of his triumphant torpedo strike.
“What chaos, it’s a shambles.” Lanz narrated what he saw to the others. “The ship is still running away from us, and listing worse than ever. She’s sinking fast, but will likely capsize first. Lifeboats full of people are still tied to the ship, being dragged down and crushed as she heels over and sinks. The passengers crowd up to the last high places and drop off over the rails like lemmings.”
As Lanz spoke, he had to swivel the periscope to follow the target’s motion.
“But yes, it’s definitely Lusitania. With that list, I can plainly see her deck funnels.”
Oddly to Schwieger’s ears, the news brought a buzz from the crewmen but no spontaneous cheer of victory. Others had taken turns at the second periscope by now, some with audible gasps of dismay, so likely they found the scene too terrible to applaud. And this unsavory business with Voegele, who now sat under watch in the corner of the room, may have infected their minds with doubt.
Schwieger himself felt sobered, but he knew he’d done his duty. Hopefully it would be recognized by his superiors and duly rewarded on their return home.
Meanwhile Lanz swung the attack periscope in a full circle, edging his way around the crowded command space. “No sign of any rescue ships yet,” he reported. ”I’ve seen enough.” He turned away and made room for Weisbach, who had been summoned back amidships from his torpedo tubes.
“Well, torpedoman,
what do you think of your handiwork?” Schwieger asked after letting him survey the scene a few moments.
“It is amazing that one torpedo could cause such devastation to so huge a target.” Weisbach stepped away from the spectacle, relinquishing his place at the scope. “Even one of our new G-type fish.”
“It was more than our torpedo.” Schwieger let a note of righteous passion creep into his voice for the crew to hear. “There was a secondary explosion. We all heard it and felt it, much more than the first. That ship was stuffed to the gills with ammunition.”
“We hit her in the cargo, then?” Weisbach asked. “It wasn’t the boilers going up, or the coal bunker?”
“I plotted the strike for the boilers at the center of the ship, to be sure of a hit.” With the mood of the crew so uncertain, Schwieger felt obliged to explain things. “But the target was going slower than expected, far less than full speed, and our eel struck ahead of the bridge, just under the foredeck cargo hatch. That tells us what was in the Lusitania’s hold.”
Among the crew’s murmurs in reply to his speech, there were enough Ja’s to reassure him of their loyalty.
“Now,” he continued, “Lanz, take the patrol periscope and keep up a vigil for warships and any others, especially that Juno cruiser that ran into Queenstown earlier. Crew to battle stations! Ready to surface if needed, and have ammunition in place for the deck gun.”
“Nein!” This time the mutinous word came from Seaman Ulbricht who, as Schwieger turned to face him, held a pistol, a good German Luger, pointed straight at the captain’s forehead. “We must not surface or be seen by anyone! We have done a terrible thing here, attacking innocent women and children, and no one must know who’s to blame! We should slip away silently and tell nobody. Let them think the Lusitania struck a mine!”
“Don’t do that.”
Rikowski the radio officer reached out and pulled down Ulbricht’s arm, taking the pistol out of his hand.
Schwieger blinked, otherwise keeping a straight face. There was no other sign of dissent from the crew, though all of them looked frightened, or at least solemn.
He decided simply to ignore the incident. Young Ulbricht was temperamental; everyone knew that and had accepted it. Keeping too many mutineers under guard might kindle a flame of dissent. Instead, just limit the damage to the foreigner. Already Rikowski had an arm around Ulbricht’s shoulder, with the Luger nowhere in sight.
“Very well,” he told his crew as they began to disperse. “You heard my orders.”
“What about Voegele, the Alsatian mutineer?” his second officer asked. “Should he be in irons?”
“No. I remove him from command, but he may attend to his duties so long as he keeps quiet. Let us get on to business.”
Turning back to his periscope, Schwieger added, “Our fight here may not be over.”
Chapter 48
Boats Away
Captain Turner stood on the port wing of his bridge, looking aft. The scene along the Boat Deck, to his disciplined eye, was a mad melee—disgraceful, but hardly to be helped given the circumstances. Perhaps if so many of his crew had not been trapped in the baggage room by the explosions forward, or very likely drowned below decks in the sudden flooding, it might have gone better—and if the crew hadn’t been shorthanded to begin with, and a green lot at that!
Now a mere handful of officers tried to control the deck, with only one or two crewmen at each lifeboat station. The passengers were running wild, everything was askew, the engines out of control, the electricity dead, the rudder jammed. But at least along the starboard rail, now that the ship had slowed a little, they were getting a few boats away. The starboard side was well down near the water, so the lifeboats could be lowered a short way or merely dropped. If they didn’t swamp or land atop one another, or slip down endwise from a single rope, the passengers in them had a decent chance.
It was not a sure thing, not by any means…on that side he’d seen whole boatloads of humanity dragged under by their neglected chains and tackle, or crushed down into the water by the tilting boat davits as the great ship rode under the waves. But with his crew so short, there was little to be done about it.
And here along the port side it was worse. With the Lusitania heeled back twenty or more degrees from port and tilting forward, it seemed unlikely that any boat could slide down the canted side of the hull without rolling over or being gouged to pieces by the protruding rivet-heads. Perhaps, as the water eventually rose up along the deck, they could float them off one-by-one—that is, if the bow waves of the still-turning ship didn’t drive the boats inboard, trapping them under wires and davits, and if they weren’t swamped in the water by an overload of swarming passengers.
For the time being, he decided, loading the portside lifeboats was nothing but a risk. When Turner saw passengers climbing into the forward ones within earshot, he would call down through his speaking trumpet.
“Empty the boats, do not lower them! The ship will not sink, we are all right. Please clear the upper deck.”
Even so, the clambering, jabbering monkeys kept milling around and scrambling in, more and more of them as the lower decks submerged and the list increased. For any to go back inside the tilting cabins and wait was too much to ask, he supposed. And now here came that junior mate Bisset, shouldering his way down for’ard through the mob, to shout some gibberish up at him from the boat deck. “Yes, what is it, Bisset? Sing it out, man!”
“Sir, Staff Captain Anderson wants me to request that you flood the port ballast tanks. That might level out the list and make it easier to launch boats.”
As if I didn’t know that, Turner thought to himself. What to tell him, then, that the tanks were already flooding themselves quite nicely, thank you? That no one could get to the manual controls, or that the pumps wouldn’t operate in any case? No; that would give a poor impression to the passengers, and would likely cause a worse panic. Instead he called down. “Quite right, Mr. Bisset. An excellent idea, and I shall handle it. Give Captain Anderson my regards.”
But almost before he could finish, something untoward occurred. In spite of all Turner’s admonitions, the forward port lifeboat had filled up with women and children, with the male passengers swarming around trying to lower it. There came a sharp metallic sound as someone took a hammer and knocked out the pin to the snubbing chain, the anti-sway link that secured the boat’s inside rail to the edge of the deck.
As this was done, the heavy, overloaded timber boat was suddenly released to swing free on its ropes—not outboard, but inboard of the rail. Its immense weight crushed into the crew and passengers on the steeply canted deck, including those waiting ready with the lowering-ropes in hand. Once they let go, either pinned in place or trying to struggle clear, the boat was free to start slowly forward and inward, down the sloping planks, grinding and crushing to death all those passengers who were caught in the V-angle of deck and superstructure.
Amid the shrieks of victims and the sick wails of its occupants the boat, greasing its way with human blood, quickly gathered speed on the incline. Carrying trapped bodies along, it came down and lodged with a sickening crunch under the bridge wing where Turner precariously stood. A lucky escape for young Bisset, who had the seamanlike agility to pull himself up the side of the bridge and avoid being crushed.
Then, amid the horrified cries of the survivors, as the Captain and officer stood helpless, the snubbing chain on the second boat astern was knocked loose, and it too swung inboard and slid free. Amid more screams and a fresh human stampede, it came barreling down the deck in the same bloody path, over the few wounded who had survived the first juggernaut. Sweeping all those before it into the obstacle of the previous lifeboat, it then rode well up over the wreckage. The women and children who cowered inside the first boat were crushed amid a new wailing cacophony of pain and terror.
“Bisset…Bestic…go back! Stop them—” Tu
rner was barely able to choke out the words before his Junior Third Officer began climbing aft along the top rail, hurrying to keep any more boats from being released.
The old captain, unable to offer any help, gripped the rail and watched in vain as injured passengers clawed and struggled to save themselves a few feet below him. Alas, Bisset wasn’t in time to keep a third lifeboat, and then a fourth, from breaking free, both careening down the same gory path toward Turner and smashing their pitiful human wreckage into the gruesome tangle of the first two—which now, perhaps mercifully, began to be drowned in rising sea waves as the Lusitania’s bow steadily submerged.
Defeated, Captain Turner descended the steep incline back to his bridge house. He had to get the log books and the codes, to safeguard them or sink them to the sea bottom. Calling to the helmsman to save himself, he waded in to do this final duty. The control room was awash now in bright red—not with seawater, but human blood.
Chapter 49
Chaos
Flash left Winnie beside the stairs, after gaining her promise to stay put. Then he went off on the slanted deck to find their nurse friends. The covered promenade was lined with frightened passengers clinging to the high port rail, or bunched together against the inner wall as the list grew worse. Most venturing out across the planking fell or slid, jostling others or seizing hold of them for balance as they struggled along in the noisy turmoil. The ship still rolled and plunged forward, but Flash thought the motion was less now that she was half-sunken under the waves.
He went just far enough to see that Hildegard, Florence, and Hazel weren’t where he’d left them before the attack. They would have been easy to miss in this madness.
Fighting his way along the deck, he passed women clinging helpless to one another, calling for lost children or trying to comfort sobbing ones. Men flung themselves urgently along on some mission, or else tried to appear calm while casting about for escape. Others, men and women alike, just shoved blindly in panic. Fallen passengers nursed injuries or struggled to regain their feet in the tilting chaos. Everyone seemed to be crying out for help, or for family members, life jackets, lifeboats.
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