The light cruisers and destroyers—Harwich in war time—The Harwich Force goes out—The first shots of the naval war—Sinking of the Königin Luise—Loss of the Amphion.
He who undertakes to write the history of the Naval Forces which had Harwich as their base during the Great War will have a wonderful story indeed to tell—from the sinking, within a few days of the declaration of war, of the German mine-layer Königin Luise by a section of the force, down to the day when there steamed into Harwich harbour, under the escort of the Harwich Force, the surrendered submarines of the beaten enemy. To those who manned our ships during those four terrible years it must all seem now like some strange dream—the weary, watchful patrolling through storm or fog, with no lights showing on sea or shore; the feeling of the way by dead reckoning and lead in dark wintry weather along the enemy's coasts, with an ever-vigilant foe above, below, and on the surface of the sea; the amazing adventures; the risks boldly taken; and ever and anon an action fought with a fierce determination on both sides.
For the Germans fought bravely and skilfully on occasion during the first years of the war. One gathers that it was not until the end that their moral began to weaken. They thought that they could shake the moral of the British Navy by methods of frightfulness, by the cold-blooded murder of the survivors of sinking ships, and so forth. But it was their own moral that failed at last. For this parvenu German Navy, good though its ships and good its personnel, was lacking in one essential—the tradition that inspires our own Navy, the significance of which tradition the German, who knows not chivalry, is incapable of understanding. A Navy with an old and glorious tradition could not have surrendered itself, as did the German Navy, without having come out and made a fight—if hopeless fight—of it, as did the Spanish ships off Cuba and the Russians at Chemulpo, so saving the honour of their flag.
It is part of the tradition, too, of the British Navy at all cost to stand by a friend in distress. It will be remembered that at the beginning of the war two important ships were torpedoed while rescuing the crews of sinking consorts, and that this led to the issue of an Admiralty order to the effect that no heavy ships must risk valuable material by undertaking this dangerous work, which should be left to the light craft. The zeal that comes of an old tradition may need checking at times, but it leads to victory in the end. Had the Blücher belonged to a Navy with a tradition, it is improbable that she would have been deserted, as she was, by the Germans after her disablement.
To any Englishman who, in these days of the armistice, looks across Harwich harbour and the broad estuary of the Stour, that scene, composed of grey wintry sky, grey sea, and grey warships at anchor, will remain to him as a stirring memory. For those are the light cruisers and destroyers of the Harwich Force, and there, too, is the Submarine Flotilla—all these have fought in the Great War; some throughout the war; while others have joined the force later to replace ships that have been lost in action. On board these ships are still the crews that fought them. No doubt shortly ships and men will be dispersed. But at present they remain here in readiness, for it is not Peace yet. Higher up the Stour, a token of victory, lie the surrendered German submarines, on account of their dirty condition more plainly visible through the haze than are our own ships; for the Huns, naturally, before giving them up, wasted no paint on the outside of these craft, and certainly no soap within.
What is known as the Harwich Force, towards the end of 1914, was composed of the light cruisers Arethusa, Fearless, Undaunted, and Aurora, and forty destroyers forming two flotillas. The force gradually increased its strength of light cruisers, being joined at various times by the Penelope, Conquest, Cleopatra, Canterbury, Carysfoot, and others. Commodore Tyrwhitt—now Rear-Admiral Sir Reginald Tyrwhitt—commanded the force from the beginning, his first flagship being the Arethusa. He is still in command of the force, with the Curaçoa as his flagship.
Various were the duties performed by this light force—the patrolling of the enemy's coasts, keeping the Grand Fleet informed of the enemy's movements, the perpetual harassing of the enemy, the hunting down of his submarines and mine-layers, the enticing out of his heavy ships to fall into our traps, the convoying of merchantmen, and so forth. The work was extremely important and highly dangerous. Throughout the war there was always some portion of the Harwich Force upon the seas, and always a portion of it in harbour under steam, ready to rush out at a moment's notice should the wireless waves give notice of something doing on the North Sea. On one occasion practically the entire Harwich Force got out of harbour within twenty minutes of a call for its assistance. Even when there was no urgency, no longer than three hours' notice was ever given.
A force so actively engaged as was this one could not fail to suffer many casualties—in all probability heavier casualties in proportion to its numbers than any other naval force. Admiral Lord Jellicoe, on one occasion, in a message of greeting to the force, said: "Your casualties alone in this war show what your work has been," or words to that effect. What the total casualties of the force were I do not know; but the narratives that have been communicated to me account for the total loss of over twelve of the destroyers, while the number of others seriously damaged by shell, mines, and torpedoes is still larger.
Harwich, possibly, was nearer to the war and its tragedies than any other port in England. For often, by day or in the quiet night, would be heard the weird signal of the sirens that summoned officers and men on leave on shore to hurry back to their ships, as something was happening on the North Sea that called for the Harwich Force, or a portion of it, to put to sea at once. This recall signal, say those who heard it in Harwich, had a most impressive effect. Taking the time from the flagship, each cruiser in the harbour sounded both her sirens three times, each blast being of three minutes' duration.
There is an hotel overlooking the water at Dovercourt—one of the few that had not been requisitioned by the authorities—that was a well-known rendezvous of officers during the war. Situated about half way between Harwich pier and Parkeston quay—whither men had to go to join their ships—and about a quarter of an hour's walk from either place, it was recognised as being a convenient place of call for naval officers who were on shore for a few hours in those days of sudden summons. It had been arranged, too, that the hotel telephone should always supplement the message of the siren. At this hotel—and, by the way, what a scene was here when the armistice was announced!—there were always staying numbers of the relatives and friends of the naval officers. There was often a gay assemblage here. It was the gaiety of brave men at the prospect of danger, and of women who concealed their anxiety for the sake of their men. On one occasion, when the loud siren's call, dreaded of women, came, a concert for the benefit of some naval or military fund was just opening in the great hall belonging to the hotel, and the wives and other ladies related to the naval officers were selling the programmes. There was no time for farewells; the officers left the hall and hurried down the unlit, narrow streets of the old town to the quays as fast as they were able. But the concert was not interrupted, and, assuming a brave face, the ladies continued to sell the programmes. As on other occasions, of the men who left the hall that night there were some who did not come back.
There are many who were in Harwich during the war who can now read Byron's stanzas describing the scene at Brussels on the eve of Waterloo with an understanding mind. This war has shown that the spirit of the Elizabethan and Nelson days is still with us. One wonders how the people of ages hence, when, from a long way off, they look back at these "old, unhappy, far-off things and battles long ago," will think and write of the men and women of this day.
The Harwich Force lost no time in going out to search for the enemy after the declaration of war. War was declared by Great Britain on August 4, 1914, and at an early hour of the morning following that fateful event the people of Harwich thronged the quays and the seashore to witness the steaming out of the harbour at high speed of the entire Harwich Force. It was a scene of wild enthusiasm on shore, and the population loudly cheered the ships that were hurrying off to fight the enemies of England.
It was at six in the morning of that glorious summer day that the force left the harbour, and then the ships spread out in accordance with orders. At 9 a.m. a section of the force, consisting of the light cruiser Amphion and some destroyers, were near the Galloper, when Captain Fox, commanding the Amphion, hoisted the cheery signal, "Good hunting!" It was a signal that typified the sporting spirit in which our Navy went to work from the beginning to the end of the war. Soon the chance came to this flotilla of firing the first shots that were fired in the naval war.
At 10.30 the Königin Luise, a German mail steamer that had been fitted out as a mine-layer, was sighted. Chased by the destroyers Lance and Landrail, she was brought to action half an hour later. Then the destroyers Lark and Linnet joined in the chase, and by midday the other ships had come up. The enemy had evidently been badly damaged by our fire, for she was steaming away at a considerably reduced speed. At 12.15 she was in a sinking condition; so her crew abandoned her and jumped overboard. But her engines had not been stopped, and she still went on slowly until at last she turned round on her side and began to settle down. Out of the Königin Luise's complement of one hundred men, forty-three, some of whom were badly wounded, were picked up by our boats. Of these, twenty were taken into the Amphion.
The mine-layer had evidently been at work on the English coast, possibly even before the declaration of war; for at 6.35 on the following morning, August 6, the Amphion struck a mine. There was a violent explosion under the fore bridge. Every man on the fore mess-decks was killed, as were eighteen out of the twenty German prisoners in the ship. Captain Fox and the four officers on the bridge were stunned and badly burnt on hands and face. The Amphion now began to settle down by the head, and her sides forward were turning black as the result of the internal fires. For three or four minutes she continued to move slowly in a circle before the word could be given to stop the engines. The men all collected on the quarter-deck. There was absolutely no sign of panic. The boats were lowered quietly. The discipline was magnificent. Within a quarter of an hour after the explosion the boats from the destroyers were alongside the Amphion, and all the survivors were taken off.
After this had been safely effected, the fire that was raging under the fore mess-decks having reached the magazines, another terrific explosion occurred in the Amphion. This blew away a large portion of the fore part of the ship, and quantities of wreckage began to fall over the surrounding sea, causing several casualties in the destroyers. One shell fell on board the Lark, killing two men of the Amphion's crew and a German prisoner who had just been rescued from the Amphion. Thus this man, who had survived two disasters in the space of a few hours, now fell a victim to the accident of falling debris.
It is worthy of mention that one of the destroyers' boats, while passing through the floating wreckage, came upon an uninjured football that had come from the Amphion. The men were keen on salving it; so it was picked up and brought on board the destroyer, and it was used throughout the following football season whenever the ship was in port. The Hun prisoners, belonging to a race that professes to despise the British for their love of sport, were given food for thought by this incident.
The plan—The sweep by the Harwich Force—The destroyers in action—Arethusa's duel with the Frauenlob—Off Heligoland again—Action with German light cruisers—The Mainz sunk—End of the Arethusa.
The first naval action of the war was that in the Bight of Heligoland. In this the Harwich Forces played a notable part. The Harwich submarine flotilla under Commodore Roger Keyes (now Vice-Admiral Sir Roger Keyes) had a good deal to do with the preparation for the battle. At the beginning of the war these submarines were sent to guard the approaches to the English Channel, their object being to prevent any portion of the German fleet from passing through the straits and attacking the ships that were conveying our first Expeditionary Force to France. While thus employed they did valuable work in observing the movements of the enemy light forces in the North Sea. Acting on the information supplied by the submarines, the Commander-in-Chief decided to send the fast ships of the Harwich Force to make a sweep of the North Sea up to Heligoland and cut off enemy light craft known to be operating within that area.