The trawler is a fishing-boat by birth, and a mine-sweeper by necessity; the destroyer is first of all a fighting ship, and a protector of the weak. They will both kill a submarine when it comes their way; but we have ships—classes of ships—whose whole profession and occupation it is to hunt the pirate. Their methods differ as the methods of two kinds of hound. The Q-boat hunts slowly and craftily, the P-boat and the Yacht Patrol by speed, the ram, and the dreaded depth-charge. It is unnecessary to give the technical description of either class. A yacht is a yacht, and for a P-boat you may imagine a long slim boat, with fine lines and a rather low freeboard, three officers, a surgeon, and some fifty-five men—depth-charges round the stern and a gun or two, but no torpedoes.

In September 1917, H.M.S. P.61 received orders to pick up in a certain roadstead the oiler San Zeferino and escort her to her destination. It was no easy job; the San Zeferino’s steering gear was defective, she could not zigzag; and in the misty showers and very dark weather prevailing, her course was embarrassingly original. But she was a valuable ship, and P.61 meant to get her in if it could be done.

The sea was moderate, but visibility was no more than three-quarters of a mile. P.61 kept on the convoy’s starboard bow and only about two cables ahead, zigzagging at seventeen knots. At three minutes to six in the morning, the oiler was suddenly observed to be settling by the stern. Lieut.-Commander Frank Arthur Worsley, R.N.R., on the bridge of P.61, had heard no sound of explosion, and no one in the ship had sighted a submarine. The Commander knew, however, that in the thick mist and with a head wind and wash against him, this was natural enough. He immediately circled twice round the convoy, signalling to her: ‘Have you been torpedoed?’ With some difficulty she replied ‘Yes,’ and also that she had sighted the submarine.

Lieut.-Commander Worsley ascertained that the San Zeferino had her boats swung out and was in no immediate danger. He then reduced speed, in order not to betray his presence to the enemy, and started off north-west on the chase. Inevitably he soon lost sight of the oiler in the fog, and was obliged to turn in order to regain touch. He found the convoy still heading on her course, though her engines were wrecked; crossed her bows, and passed down her port side and under her stern. Directly P.61 was clear, Lieutenant J.R. Stenhouse, R.N.R., on her bridge, sighted the enemy about half a mile away on the starboard beam, heading westward at nine knots.

Action stations had already been sounded, and fire was now opened from the port 12-pounder gun. One round of common shell was sent into the submarine, striking her just before the conning-tower. But a gun action was not the final object of P.61. Lieut.-Commander Worsley had got his engines up to full speed as he came on, and saw that the enemy could not escape his ram. So sure was he that, after three minutes’ run, he deliberately stopped both engines, so as to let the ship’s bows drop deeper in the water and make a better hit.

The engines stopped, the bows sank two feet, the order ‘Stand by to ram’ was heard, and P.61 struck the enemy stem on, on the port side, just abaft the conning-tower. Her speed at the moment was fully 20 knots, and the impact was severe; the submarine rolled over as the stem cut into her; and when P.61’s stern was just above her, a very violent explosion took place, giving Lieut.-Commander Worsley, for an instant, the nightmare that he had been torpedoed by another U-boat in the moment of victory. He was quickly reassured. P.61 had suffered no damage. But round the place of collision the sea was boiling with foam; immense air-bubbles were coming to the surface in rushes, and continued for some minutes after the explosion. There was oil upon the surface, and in it two men struggling. Lifebelts were thrown to them, and boats put out. One of the two was rescued and proved to be Ober-Leutnant Alfred Arnold, the commanding officer of the U-boat—the fifth upon the list of 150 published by the British Admiralty. The submarine was U.C.49 and lies at the bottom in forty-seven fathoms. The San Zeferino was taken in tow by P.61 and came safely in after an arduous twelve hours—an admirable piece of work. Lieutenant-Commander Worsley received the D.S.O., Lieutenant Stenhouse the D.S.C., and two petty officers the D.S.M. for excellent steering and gun-laying.

On this occasion the P-boat had left her patrol duty for the moment, to act as escort. This was not the case with P.57, who had a similar success in November of the same year. In the dark of early morning, about 6 o’clock, she had just challenged and examined by searchlight a vessel which turned out to be a friend, when the forward look-out reported ‘Buoy on the port bow!’ Course was altered to examine this buoy, and on approaching it both Lieut.-Commander H.C. Birnie, R.N.R., in command of P.57, and Lieutenant Isdale, R.N.R., his officer of the watch, simultaneously perceived it to be a large U-boat heading due west and only 200 yards distant.

There was less than no time to be lost. Orders were given and obeyed instantaneously. The engines leaped to full speed as the ship came round sharply to port and steered straight for the enemy. In less than fifteen seconds the crash came—a heavy impact, at seventeen knots, on a point just before the U-boat’s conning-tower, very nearly at right angles. P.57 cut her way right through, and as she did so the order for the depth-charges reached the officer of the watch. The first charge was released with great promptitude and precision as the damaged submarine passed under the ship’s stern. P.57 turned sixteen points and came back over the spot, when a second charge was immediately dropped and a buoy put down.

An hour and a half afterwards Lieut.-Commander Birnie returned, after verifying his position, and found very large quantities of oil rising about fifty yards from his buoy. He dropped a third depth-charge and another buoy, and patrolled the neighbourhood all night. Sweepers arrived next day, located the U-boat with a bottom sweep in thirty fathoms, lowered a depth-charge on the sweep wire and blew the wreck up. For this ‘speedy and faultless attack’ Lieut.-Commander Birnie received the D.S.O., Lieutenant Isdale the D.S.C., and two A.B.’s the D.S.M.

This feat was a remarkable one, for it was performed in almost total darkness; but success was achieved in even more difficult circumstances by P.51 towards the end of March 1918. It was 8.30 in the evening; the sea was calm under the moonlight, but great spaces of it were darkened by cloud shadows. The commander, Lieutenant William Murray, R.N.R., was in the chart-house, and Mr. Whittel, the gunner, on watch, when the signalman on the bridge reported a submarine on the surface, about one point before the port beam and less than 300 yards away. Orders were at once given to increase to full speed, and starboard the helm to ram. As the ship swung, the commander reached the bridge and took charge. He could see the enemy’s wash and bow wave. Then she appeared more distinctly as a large U-boat, 350 feet long, with a huge conning-tower and about two feet of freeboard showing. P.51 continued to swing into the desired position and the moment for a successful ram seemed to have arrived. Then occurred one of those sudden and unforeseen accidents which try a commander’s presence of mind and decision to the utmost. To strike the U-boat fair it was, of course, necessary to put the helm over as soon as P.51’s head had swung far enough to be pointing for her, and so steady the ship on her course. But this order could not be obeyed—the helm had jammed. Lieutenant Murray knew that to struggle with it could only at best result in a bungling collision which would injure his own ship rather than the enemy. He made a lightning act of renunciation, kept his helm a-starboard and swung completely round, passing close along the submarine’s side and then turning altogether away from her. The helm was soon afterwards found to be acting again; but in the meantime P.51 had lost sight of the enemy.

She dashed westwards, and in two minutes sighted the U-boat again, a mile away on the port quarter. A new ramming attack was immediately planned, and the guns were ordered to open fire; but the submarine dived completely before they could pick her up in the uncertain light. In ten seconds Lieutenant Murray had brought P.51 over a patch of oil which betrayed the spot where the U-boat was submerging. Three depth-charges followed her down. The first two produced the usual upheaval of water, but the third blew a quantity of wreckage into the air, of many shapes and sizes. P.51 continued to circle around, and ten minutes later three shocks were felt below in rapid succession. Nothing more was seen, nor could any movement be heard on the hydrophone.

The official verdict was one of ‘Probably sunk,’ the evidence being considered good but inconclusive. It was, however, afterwards supplemented by final proof, and the case was re-marked ‘Known.’ Lieutenant Murray accordingly received the D.S.C. and two of his men the D.S.M.

Very little information has been given to the public about the Yacht Patrol; but it is certain that, when all is known, the history of this service will be eagerly read. There is a fine Elizabethan air about the gift of a ship to the Navy by a private owner, and we can imagine how keenly the giver would follow the career of his own boat, longing to command her himself, and glorying to catch her name now and then through the gales and rumours and gunfire of the seas, where she is at last flying the white ensign. Such a gift was the Prize, who with the heroic Sanders, her Commander, lies fathoms deep, and still unknown to many; but in time to come she will be remembered with Farnborough, Pargust and Dunraven, and her owner’s name will stand in a unique and honourable list.

Among the victories of the Yacht Patrol, one of the most timely and decisive was that of May 26, 1918. H.M. Yacht 024, Lorna, Lieutenant C.L. Tottenham, R.N.R., was on patrol that day in Lyme Bay, intercepting east-bound traffic, and keeping an eye at the same time on the activities of a U-boat off Portland Bill, whom she intended to deal with when opportunity should offer. Soon after 8.0 in the evening, she spoke two ships in succession, the Jabiru and War Cross, and ordered them both into Weymouth Bay, warning them at the same time of the enemy submarine. At 8.50 P.M. a lamentable signal came back by wireless—‘S.O.S., S.S.S.S., 2 miles S.W. of Portland Bill, ss. Jabiru, torpedoed.’

Lorna immediately proceeded at full speed, to look for the sinking ship and give what assistance might be possible. But, at 9.14 P.M., she intercepted the reassuring message—‘Proceeding to port, torpedo missed fire.’ Lieutenant Tottenham at the same moment saw that War Cross, which had parted only twenty-five minutes before, had now turned and was steering westward, having evidently also received the S.O.S. signal from Jabiru. He altered course and spoke her accordingly, advising her captain to lay the land, and endeavour to round the Bill inside the U-boat’s operating radius. He also offered to go with him as escort, but War Cross pluckily declined, thinking he could do better by waiting for darkness and running in by himself.

Lieutenant Tottenham left him and searched the horizon for another smoke streamer. His game was to meet every ship which came that way and by closing them one after another, in the falling dusk, to ensure being within striking distance when the U-boat should make the next attempt at assassination. The only success which could satisfy him would be the destruction of the enemy before he had had time to strike the ‘live bait’—an ambition which showed great nerve, and a grasp of the principle of the offensive in war. It would have been easy to make all merchantmen give the Bill a wide berth, and perhaps save the next ten of them thereby; but the pest would be active again to-morrow, in the same place or another—destruction, at all risks, is the only cure for U-boats.

Before long another ship was seen approaching from the south, and Lorna at once headed towards her. But after steaming for about three and a half miles on this errand, Lieutenant Tottenham perceived that the new-comer was already in good hands, or would soon be so—the armed drifter Evening Primrose was closing her, evidently with the intention of acting as escort. At this moment a fresh ship came in sight, approaching the Bill from the west. Lieutenant Tottenham instantly altered course and made straight for her.

At 9.55 P.M., when he had hardly steadied Lorna on her new course, he sighted the periscope of a submarine. It was steering due west, almost directly towards the approaching steamer, and seeing the position of the two ships, and their converging courses, he assumed rightly that the enemy was manoeuvring for an attack of the usual kind, without warning. Of Lorna’s presence the U-boat was apparently quite unaware, though she was now only 150 feet distant and rapidly coming up on the starboard side of the periscope.

But aware or unaware, the pirates were doomed—caught in the act, and helpless as they had thought to find their victim. Lorna’s helm flew over to starboard. The ship swung, in one swift curve, through the intervening fifty yards, and in two minutes from sighting her enemy she was right over the periscope. The U-boat dipped, but far too late; as Lorna passed over the spot a shuddering jar was felt throughout her—her keel had struck the conning-tower, but so lightly that the pirates below probably thought they had escaped destruction for this time. A moment later they knew their error. Down came Lorna’s first depth-charge, set to fifty feet. The helm went over still further to starboard, and the second charge dropped about fifty feet from the first, and at the same depth.

Both charges detonated, and it was impossible to believe that they could have failed to destroy or seriously cripple the U-boat. They must have exploded in the most dangerous way possible, just alongside and underneath the target, where the resistance would be the maximum. The proof came a few moments afterwards. While continuing his circle, in order to pass again over the spot and make sure, Lieutenant Tottenham suddenly sighted four objects in the water among the disturbance caused by the two explosions. He turned and steered direct for the place, expecting to find wreckage of some kind; but on arriving, at full speed, he saw an astonishing tumult of water, caused by an upward rush of air, gas, and oil, which showed beyond doubt that the U-boat was immediately below.

The next moment was a terrible one. As Lorna’s third depth-charge dropped into this seething cauldron, cries of ‘Kamerad!’ were heard, and those on the yacht’s deck, looking back as she raced over, saw the new explosion hurl into the air the bodies of four men, who for a brief instant had been survivors from the sunken U-boat. Lieutenant Tottenham eased down and returned to pick them up. One was found still crying ‘Help!’ and ‘Kamerad!’ but the other three were already dead, from the effect of the explosion, or of the thick mass of oil in which they were submerged. About the unhappy prisoner there was no doubt. He was seriously injured internally, and was gone in three hours’ time. He lived and died in a cruel and cowardly business, but if care and kindness could have saved him, Lorna would have brought him into port and been glad to do it.

This submarine was U.B.74. She was a week out, and had already sunk three ships when she was caught. Her commander was Ober-Leutnant Schtiendorf, and his name will be found in the list of the 150, for his case was among those marked as ‘Known.’

One more patrol story must be added—a story in some ways unique, with mysterious details which haunt the imagination, but can never be finally explained. The vessels of the patrol on this occasion were not yachts, or P-boats in the strict sense of the classification. One was the Sarba, an armed trawler like those we have already met, and commanded by Lieutenant George G. Astbury, R.N.R.; the other was a small boat, with no name but T.B.055, commanded by Gunner T.H. Britton. On the morning of October 31, 1917, T.B.055 was accompanying the trawlers who were engaged in sweeping an important channel outside a British harbour. At 3.0 P.M. when the sweep was practically over, Mr. Britton noticed an oil track on the surface of the channel. This was in itself an astonishing sight, and not to be accounted for in a moment. How could a submarine have ventured into a channel only thirteen fathoms deep, and daily swept by a highly efficient force of trawlers? And for what possible reason could she be lying there on the bottom at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, in a position where she could use none of her weapons, and was certain to be found and attacked?

Mr. Britton went into the oil track to investigate; stopped his boat and listened on the hydrophone. His astonishment was redoubled—the submarine was there, and not only there, but busy and audible. The case was so extraordinary that he and his trained hydrophone listener took counsel together and classified the sounds they heard. First there were the usual ‘water noises’; these were continuous and perfectly familiar. Secondly, there was an almost continuous high-pitched sound, somewhat similar to that of a turbine engine running. Thirdly, at intervals of a few seconds, came a noise as of knocking or hammering upon metal; the speed of the tapping varied from slow to fairly rapid blows. Lastly—and this was the most unexpected and mysterious of all—on two occasions there was audible, over all the other noises, a sound as of wireless letters on a high musical note.

For three minutes these sounds were heard, noted, and compared. T.B.055 was then taken forward about 200 yards, to the end of the oil track, and the hydrophone was used again. Precisely the same sounds were heard, except that this time the musical note, as of a wireless message, was not repeated. Mr. Britton had no desire to lose time; but he was not troubled with nerves, and he was determined to make sure of his evidence. He took precautions to stop all ship’s noises. The fact only became clearer that the sounds below came from a live submarine. What her crew were doing no one could know; but she was there for an evil purpose, and she must pay the penalty.

The oil was still coming up in a visible thin stream from below the surface. T.B.055 dropped a Reindeer buoy with moorings, to mark the spot exactly, got under way and came back over the position. As she passed, a depth-charge was dropped. The tide was fairly slack at the time, and there was every reason to believe that it found the target. Mr. Britton returned to the spot once more. The volume of oil rising had now increased, and a strong smell of oil fuel was noticed, which had not been there before. The blobs of oil which now came to the surface had brownish air-bubbles and froth among them; in the hydrophone, nothing was to be heard but the ordinary water noises.

It was now 3.35 P.M., and the armed trawler Sarba was seen approaching. Mr. Britton reported what he had been doing to Lieutenant Astbury, who at once stopped his own engines and used his hydrophone. Then, as he too could hear no sign of life, he took a sounding, found sixteen fathoms and a sandy bottom, and decided that the enemy must be still there, alive or dead. Accordingly he steamed clear of the position, turned and came back over it at full speed. He determined to set his depth-charge for eighty feet, in spite of the shallowness of the water, because, with the boat on the bottom at ninety-six feet, he would be absolutely certain of getting a very close explosion. The charge detonated, and he returned at once to the spot. Large bubbles of air and quantities of oil were coming up, and within a short time the oil was covering a very wide area. Sarba stood by all night, using her hydrophone frequently.

It was now evident that the enemy was dead; but the more the circumstances were reflected upon, the more difficult it was to explain them. Next morning, when T.B.055 had ‘proceeded to sea in accordance with programme,’ Lieutenant Astbury, in Sarba, was left alone, with nothing but two buoys and an oil patch to give so incredible a story any kind of reality. He got out a sweep wire with a sinker of 1¾ cwt. and took a sweep along the position. The sweep brought up on an immovable obstruction, and the incredible seemed once more possible. At 2.0 P.M. arrived the armed drifter Sunshine and T.B.058. They found Sarba lying as near as possible in the position where she had exploded her depth-charge, and where her sweep had brought her up. They took a ground sweep under her, and their sweep wire also fouled the same obstruction. Sarba, like a faithful dog, remained on guard during the following night. At last, at 2.30 P.M. on November 2, the divers arrived.

Before the day was out, all uncertainty was removed. The diver who first went down found the submarine lying on her side. When visited a second time, she had been righted by the tide or some shifting of weight; but she and all her crew were dead. The main fact was thus proved; but the mystery remained and still remains inexplicable and haunting. Possibly the answer, to the first of the two questions involved, may be a simple one. The U-boat may have got into the channel in a fog, and finding herself there when the weather cleared, she may have dived for safety and decided to remain on the bottom till it was dark enough to steal away. But the sounds cannot be explained to the satisfaction of those who know most about submarine war. The U-boat commander must have realised the enormous risk he was incurring, when he allowed those noises to be made at such an hour of day. He must have known that the British Patrol is well equipped with hydrophones, with depth-charges, and with sweeps. Either he had some serious injury to repair, and no time to wait; or else his boat was completely disabled at the bottom, and the hammering and other noises were the desperate attempts of the crew to draw attention in the hope of being rescued. ‘There is also,’ said the Admiral of the station, ‘the third possibility, that the boat carries inside her a tragedy that will never be known.’