The story of our submarine campaign in the Baltic is the first of two romances of the sea—one Northern and one Southern—the like of which is not to be found in the annals of the last 300 years. War must often make us familiar with obscure or long-forgotten places, the scenes of old voyages, and battles long ago; but to adventure with our submarines into the Baltic, or the Sea of Marmora, is to slip through unimagined dangers into a legendary world beyond all history—sailing the seas of the past, with the captains of the future. The exploration under water of those intricate and perilous channels was alone a discovery of supreme skill and daring; and the brilliant acts of war achieved by the adventurers form only a minor part of the glory of being there at all.

The first of our submarine voyagers in the Baltic was Lieut.-Commander Max Horton, in E.9. Before the War was a year old his fame had spread far and wide; but the details of his success are not even yet generally known, and cannot be given here. By October 6, 1914, he had sunk a German light cruiser and a destroyer, both in the ‘North Sea,’ and it may perhaps be guessed that he had, at any rate, thought of penetrating into the Baltic. By January, 1915, he was a full Commander, and had received the D.S.O. On the 29th of that month, he was not only in the Baltic, but was sinking a destroyer there; on May 11, he bagged a transport; and on June 5, he put to the credit of E.9 another transport and another destroyer. Finally, on July 2, he torpedoed the Pommern, a 13,000-ton battle-ship of an older type, but armed with 11-inch guns.

On July 29, he slipped again, in company with E.1 (Commander N.F. Laurence), and after some independent hunting, the two boats both arrived at Reval. E.9 had attacked a cruiser and a submarine; and, on August 18, had had a covetous look at a squadron of battle-cruisers, detailed for the German attack on the Gulf of Riga. But as they were moving constantly in regular formation, and at high speed over a large area, it was not possible to deal satisfactorily with them. E.1, however, had had better luck. On August 19, Commander Laurence came to observation depth at 8.0 A.M., and under cover of a fog succeeded in stalking the same squadron. They were manoeuvring in line abreast, and within ten minutes came across E.1’s bows, with destroyers on both flanks. Commander Laurence had, of course, only a single ship to aim at—the battle-cruiser on the wing nearest to him, which was ascertained to have been the Moltke, a 22,600-ton ship. At 8.20, he fired his starboard torpedo, and at the same moment dived to avoid a destroyer which was coming straight for him. His luck was good, both ways. The torpedo got home on the battle-cruiser, and the destroyer missed E.1 by a few feet. The next day he reported to the Russian Admiral at Reval.

These two boats were followed, on August 15, by E.8 and E.13. The fate of E.13 will not be forgotten while there is any rightful indignation left in Europe. On August 19, she got ashore on a neutral coast—the Danish island of Saltholm—and there, with her crew upon her, was deliberately shot to pieces by a German war-ship, in defiance of all humanity and international law. Her officers and men behaved with perfect courage, but many of them were killed before they could get away from the wreck of their boat.

Lieut.-Commander Goodhart’s account of the voyage of E.8 is a plain and business-like document, but to read it, with a map beside it, is to look far away into a world of historic names and ever-present dangers. It is easy enough to imagine the passage up the Skager-Rak, always remembering that we must keep well out of the central line of traffic, and that in the afternoon we have to dive and pass under a whole fleet of steam trawlers. At 7 P.M. it is possible to come to the surface again. The Commander orders full speed, rounds the Skaw, and enters the Kattegat. In the fading twilight, several merchant-steamers are seen going north. The shore and island lights twinkle out one by one—Hamnskar, Vinga, Skaw, Trindelen, and Anholt. The night is short. By 3.0 A.M. we must dive again, and lie quietly on shoal ground, while the traffic goes over us. At 5.25 A.M. we venture to the surface, but are put down quickly by a steamer. At 7.0 we venture again, and do a scurry of 1½ hours in a friendly mist. Then down again, and crawl at 3 knots, till at 1.0 P.M. we are off the entrance to the Sound.

Here Commander Goodhart has to make the choice between going forward submerged, or waiting for darkness and then attempting the channel on the surface. He is confident of being able to get to his position under water, and decides accordingly to continue diving into the Sound and wait for night inside. He proceeds at fifty feet, and, by 3.6 P.M., has verified his position, coming up to twenty-one feet to do so. He goes down again to fifty feet, and alters course to pass through the northern narrows. At 4.10 P.M. he is east of HelsingÖr Light—‘By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!’ At 5.20, after another observation, he goes to bottom in eleven fathoms, feeling comfortably certain that he has not been detected—so far—on his passage.

At 8.15 P.M. he rises to the surface. The Danish shore is bright with many lights, the Swedish shore is dark—all is exactly as it may have been a century and more ago, when Nelson was there on his way to his great battle. E.8 goes south-westward on the surface, altering course to avoid being seen by two destroyers, who are going north, along the Danish shore, at a great pace. One of them suddenly turns south, but then stops, as if in doubt. E.8 runs on into still more dangerous waters; the lights of Copenhagen are blazing brightly, and in Middle Ground Fort a searchlight is working. Now and again it strikes the submarine. Then come several fishing-boats, then two red lights in a small craft going south, close over to the Danish shore. She is on our starboard beam for some time, but luckily not near enough to see us, and we head boldly for Flint Channel.

Off Malmo, the shore lights are dazzling, and it is extremely hard to fix a position. There are many fishing-boats about, each carrying two bright lights. The Commander orders the boat to be trimmed down, with upper deck awash, and proceeds with one engine only, at seven knots. He steadies his course through Flint Channel, passing at least twenty vessels towards the western end of it, some carrying two and some three white lights, and one making searchlight signals in the air. The majority of the fishing-boats are no sooner avoided by a change of course, than we run past a small tramp showing a green light, and then three white ones. She seems to have anchored; but two other vessels have to be dodged, and then the ship which has been signalling with searchlight. Immediately afterwards, when just N.E. of the Lightship, with her three vertical red lights, a small torpedo-boat or trawler sights us as we creep by within 200 yards of her. Probably it is the searchlight in Copenhagen which has shown us up. Anyhow it is tally-ho at last!

She lights red and green flares, and alters course in our direction. We dive, and strike bottom—‘very strong bottom’—at nineteen feet on gauge, which immediately decreases to fourteen feet. At fourteen feet, then, we try to proceed on our course; but the ground is fearfully uneven, and a succession of bumps brings us to a dead stop. It is 11.40 P.M. After an anxious quarter of an hour, the Commander rises to the surface. The Drogden Lightship is on our starboard quarter. A large destroyer or small cruiser is ahead of us, showing lights—she is the one who had made searchlight signals. She is only two hundred yards away, but the Commander trims E.8 deep, and steals past on motors. Four minutes this takes, and we then find a destroyer right ahead, and only one hundred yards from us. There is nothing for it but to dive. Down we go to twenty-three feet on gauge; but at sixteen feet the boat strikes bottom heavily on the starboard side, carrying away all blades of the starboard propeller. We lie on the bottom and listen to our pursuers overhead.

Life is now a matter of minutes and feet. At 12.15, the boat goes down to eighteen feet, but is still bumping badly. At 12.19, Commander Goodhart stops her and comes silently to the surface. The destroyer is there, close on our starboard beam. At 12.20, we dive again, as slowly as we dare, and at seventeen feet we glide away on our course, the depth of water mercifully increasing as we go. For a long time we seem to be escaping. Then, at 2.10 A.M., we strike bottom again at eighteen feet. An hour more, and we rise to the surface, only to see the destroyer on our port beam. Happily she is now a mile off, and does not see us. When we come up again, at 7.15, there is nothing in sight. At 8.53 we dive for a steamer, and at 10.40 for a destroyer. E.8 is nearly out of breath now—her battery is running very low.

Commander Goodhart decides to find a good depth, go to the bottom, and lie there till darkness gives him a chance of recharging. From 10.40 A.M. till 6.40 P.M. we lie like a stone in twenty-three fathoms.

At 6.40 a Swedish steamer is still patrolling ahead. At 8.25 P.M. a patrol of three vessels is close astern, and very slowly moving east. The moon is too bright for us and we dive again. At 9.30 we try once more, but are put down by a shadowy destroyer to the southward. At last, ten minutes before midnight, we find a bit of sea where we and the boat can breathe in peace.

But only for two hours; daylight comes early in northern waters. It is now August 20. At 2.0 A.M. we dive again, and lie in seventeen fathoms, spending time and imagination upon the chart. We are well out of the Sound now, and clear of the Swedish coast. On our starboard beam lies the island of RÜgen, where we shall never make holiday again; further back, on our quarter, is the channel that leads to LÜbeck and to Kiel, which we hope to visit yet. Right ahead is the island of Bornholm, which we must pass unperceived, and beyond it the whole expanse of the Baltic lies open.

Commander Goodhart rises to the surface at 9.0 A.M., but dives again at noon. We are now not far west of RÖnne; and as he wishes to make sure of passing Bornholm unobserved, he decides to remain on the bottom till dark, then slip by and recharge his batteries, for a long run north by daylight. By 7.0 P.M. we are on our way, and eight hours later we are passing the east coast of the great island of Gotland. At 9.2 P.M. we dive for a light cruiser, which passes overhead forward; at 10.0 we return to the surface and proceed north-east, running past the entrance to the Gulf of Riga and the island of Oesel. By 1.0 A.M. on August 22, we have to dive for daylight; but by 3.0 we are up again, and going on our course full speed. At 8.30 A.M. we sight DagerÖrt ahead and join E.9 (Commander Max Horton). In company with her and with a Russian destroyer, we pass into the entrance of the Gulf of Finland; and by 9.0 P.M., E.8 is secured in Reval harbour. Within twenty-four hours, Commander Goodhart has docked and overhauled her, replaced her broken propeller, and reported her ready for sea.

The career of E.8 in the Baltic was long and successful. It began, so far as sinkings are concerned, with the destruction of the steamer Margarette of KÖnigsberg by gunfire, on October 5, 1915, and the most exciting day in the record was October 23, when the Prinz Adalbert, a cruiser of nearly 9,000 tons, fell to her first shot. E.8 was cruising off Libau when, at 8.50 A.M., Commander Goodhart observed smoke on the horizon, and altered course to intercept the ship which was soon seen to be an enemy. She had three funnels and two very high masts, and was going west with two destroyers, zigzagging—one on each bow.

Commander Goodhart ran on, at seven and a half knots, till he got within 3,000 yards, when he eased to five knots in order to lessen his wake. The wind was slight, from S.S.E., and there was bright sunlight. The conditions were ideal for an attack from the southward. All tubes were made ready; the enemy came on at an estimated speed of fifteen knots. At 9.28 the port destroyer passed ahead; four minutes later, Commander Goodhart fired his bow tube at the war-ship’s fore-bridge and began to look out for results.

They came. After one minute he observed a very vivid flash on the water-line at the point of aim. This was immediately followed by a very heavy concussion, and the entire ship was hidden instantly in a huge column of thick grey smoke. Evidently the torpedo had exploded the fore magazine. The sky was filled with debris, and the smaller bits began falling in the water near the submarine. There was no use in spending time on the surface, and in one minute more, E.8 was sliding down to fifty feet, where she stayed for eight minutes, to give the rest of the ship ample time to come down. At 9.42 Commander Goodhart rose to twenty feet, and took a survey through his periscope. There was no sign of the Prinz Adalbert. The two destroyers had closed on to the scene of the explosion, but it was not likely that they had been able to find any survivors, for the destruction of the ship had been instantaneous and complete. Commander Goodhart decided not to attack them, because, for all he knew, they were ignorant of his presence; if so, they might very probably imagine the damage to have been done by a mine, and give him future opportunities. The shot had been a long one, about 1,300 yards, and this was in the circumstances particularly fortunate; for at a shorter distance, such as 500 or 600 yards, the submarine herself would have felt a tremendous shock from the double explosion.

An hour later he saw four destroyers hovering about the place of the wreck. He turned away, and they made no attempt to follow. At dawn next day he reported by wireless, and then proceeded to his base.

In the meantime E.19, Lieut.-Commander F.N. Cromie, had arrived. She set to work in earnest upon the German shipping engaged in the service of the naval and military departments of the enemy, towards the western end of the Baltic. Monday, October 11, was her best day, and the beginning of a downright panic in the Hamburg trade. ‘8.0 A.M.,’ says Lieut.-Commander Cromie, ‘started to chase merchant shipping.’ He had good hunting. At 9.40 A.M. he stopped the Walter Leonhardt, from Lulea to Hamburg, with iron ore. The crew abandoned ship, and were picked up by a Swedish steamer, considerately stopped for the purpose. A gun-cotton charge then sent the empty vessel to the bottom. By noon, E.19 was chasing the Germania of Hamburg, signalling her to stop immediately. In spite of the signals and a warning gun-shot, she continued to bolt, and soon ran ashore. Lieut.-Commander Cromie went alongside cautiously to save her crew, but found that they had already abandoned ship. He tried to tow her off, but failed to move her—small wonder, for her cargo consisted of nearly three million kgs. of the finest concentrated iron ore, from Stockholm to Stettin. He left her filling with water, and at 2.0 gave chase to the Gutrune. By 3.0 he had towed her crew to the Swedish steamer, and started her for the bottom with her 4,500,000 kgs. of iron ore, from Lulea to Hamburg.

The game went forward merrily. At 4.25 he began to chase two more large steamers going south. In twenty minutes he had stopped one—the Swedish boat Nyland, with ore for Rotterdam and papers all correct—told her to proceed, and ten minutes later caught the Direktor Rippenhagen, with magnetic ore from Stockholm to Nadenheim. While she was sinking he stopped another Swede bound for Newcastle, and gave her the Direktor’s crew to take care of. An hour later, he proceeded to chase a large steamer, the Nicomedia, who tried to make off towards the Swedish coast. A shot across her bows brought her to a more resigned frame of mind. She proved to be a large and extremely well-fitted vessel, carrying six to seven million kgs. of magnetic ore from Lulea to Hamburg. The crew were sent ashore in boats, and E.19 proceeded up the west of Gotland. Her cruise was marked by one more incident—a significant one. During the morning of October 12, Lieut.-Commander Cromie stopped the Nike, and went alongside to examine her. He found her to be in iron ore from Stockholm to Stettin, under command of Captain Anderson, whose passport, from the Liverpool Police, proved him to be a Swede. To a Hun, this would have made no difference; but Lieut.-Commander Cromie had British ideas on international law. He sent Lieutenant Mee on board with a prize crew of two men, in the good old style of our ancestors, and ordered them to take the prize into Reval for further investigation. After what we have already said about submarines and war policy, the point needs no pressing. War against trading vessels and non-combatants is possible within the rules, but only in certain circumstances. Even where those circumstances exist, there is no excuse for breaking the rules; and where they do not exist, only a barbarian would hack his way through the net of international law and common humanity. Our Navy has in all circumstances kept both these laws: the German submarines have deliberately and cruelly broken both.

Lieut.-Commander Cromie continued to have the good fortune he deserved. He ended the 1915 campaign with another war-ship in his bag. Cruising in the Western Baltic on the morning of November 7, he sighted a light cruiser and two destroyers, but was disappointed in his attempt to attack. Three hours later, at 1.20, in a favourable mist, he had a second chance. A light cruiser—perhaps the same—with one destroyer in attendance, came on at fifteen knots, steaming south and east. He dived at once, and at 1.45 fired his starboard torpedo. The range was about 1,100 yards, and the shot went home on the cruiser’s starboard side forward. She immediately swung round in a large circle and then stopped dead. She appeared to be on fire and sinking. But Lieut.-Commander Cromie was unwilling to leave her in uncertainty. He avoided the destroyer, passed under her stern, and manoeuvred for a second shot. This was fired at 1,200 yards, and was aimed at the cruiser’s main-mast, just abaft of which it actually struck. A double explosion followed. Evidently the after magazine had blown up, and several large smoking masses were shot out some 200 yards in the direction of the submarine. The destroyer then opened a heavy fire on the periscope with H.E. shell. Down went E.19 for her life; but three minutes later, she was up again to see what was happening. The cruiser—she was the Undine of 2,650 tons—was gone. The destroyer was picking up a few survivors, and after a restless half-hour made off to the southward, leaving on the scene only a ferry-boat flying the German mercantile flag. Lieut.-Commander Cromie left also, and arrived next day at Reval, where he reported the attack and added that, under existing weather conditions, it was only rendered possible by the sound judgment and prompt action of Lieutenant G. Sharp, who was officer of the watch at the time.

E.19 was not alone in her successful campaign against the German iron-ore trade. A week after her fine break recorded above, E.9 arrived on the scene; and Commander Max Horton, in two successive days, sank the Soderham, Pernambuco, Johannes-Russ, and Dall-Asfen—four serious losses to the German gun factories, and even more serious blows to the courage of their carrying trade. The captain of the Nike told Lieutenant Mee on his voyage to Reval, that after E.19’s first raid no less than fifteen ships were held up at Lulea, awaiting convoys; and after E.9’s success, the command of the Baltic seemed to have passed for the time out of German hands. Such a state of things could not, of course, be continuously maintained—the Baltic weather alone made that impossible. E.1, E.8, and E.18 followed their leaders, and all did good service during the autumn; but their reports show how severe were the conditions when the winter really set in. E.9 had already noted very bad weather in November, and on the 25th ‘boat became covered with a large quantity of ice.’ On January 10, 1916, E.18, commanded by Lieut.-Commander R.C. Halahan, reports ‘temperature very low: sea very rough; great difficulty in keeping conning-tower hatch clear of ice, as sea came over constantly and froze at once.’ Two days later she proceeded to Reval in company with a Russian ice-breaker. ‘The ice was very thick in places, but no difficulty was experienced in getting through.’ These hindrances continued for months. As late as April 28, we find E.18 accompanied through Moon Sound by an ice-breaker ‘as there were occasional thick ice-fields.’ The next day some of these ice-fields came drifting down upon the anchorage, and E.18 had to slip and anchor off until night. Even so, she could not be sure of escaping all danger; for the ice brought down large masses of stone, and deposited them in the channels.

In spite of all difficulties and hardships, our submarines continued their campaign indomitably, and would no doubt at this hour still hold the mastery of the Baltic trade, if the collapse of our Russian friends had not deprived them of their bases and rendered their operations useless. Early in April, 1917, it became evident that Finland must fall into German hands, and steps were taken to withdraw our naval force from the Baltic. But, for the boats themselves, there could be no return from the scene of their voyages and victories. They lay ice-bound in the harbour of Helsingfors, and there they must end their unparalleled story, for surrender to an enemy so unworthy was not to be thought of.

As soon, then, as official news came of the landing of German troops at Hango, these famous adventurers were led to their last rendezvous. The Russian ice-breakers freed them from the harbour ice. All the Russian officers who had been attached to the British flotilla, and who were then in Helsingfors, offered their assistance for the funeral rites, and soon after midday Lieut. Basil Downie, the officer in command of the submarine depot, put to sea in E.1, followed by E.9, E.8, and E.19. Each boat carried her death potion in the form of torpedo warheads with a 20-lb. dry cotton charge as primers. Three of these charges were allotted to each—one forward, one aft, and one amidships; and when the alarm-bell of the clock in each should ring, contact would be made and the end would come. The point decided on was reached at last. The bells rang, and E.19, E.1, and E.9 sank to their own thunder. E.8, by some failure of her clock, remained unhurt, and since the ice-breaker could not stay out at sea longer, she was left to die another day, with other comrades. At 7.0 next morning, Lieut. Downie put to sea again with C.26 and C.35 and the torpedo-barge, with the few remaining stores. When the clocks rang this time, E.8 sank, and C.26 with her. The barge and C.35 were left to wait for C.27, the last of that victorious company. On the following morning the barge was blown up, and the two submarines were simply sunk in fifteen fathoms. They went down uninjured, but within three minutes two great explosions followed, and twelve-foot columns of water shot up. ‘This, presumably,’ says the report, ‘was the exploding of their batteries.’ Our Viking ancestors would have said, perhaps, that it was the bursting of their dragon hearts.