“Germany must for all time to come maintain her claim to sea-power.”—Lt.-Gen. Baron von Freytag-Loringhoven, Deputy Chief of the German General Staff.

The Adriatic afforded much interesting naval news. The strategy of the Austrians was exactly that of the High Sea Fleet—tip-and-run raids and avoidance of battle whenever possible. During the blockade of the Austro-Hungarian naval ports of Pola and Cattaro previous to Italy’s becoming an active participant in the war, the battleships and cruisers of the French Fleet were frequent objects of attacks on the part of enemy underwater craft. The armoured cruiser Leon Gambetta escaped being submarined on the 2nd September, 1914, only to fall a victim on the 27th April, 1915. The Austrian U 5, a small boat with a surface displacement of 235 tons, commanded by Lieutenant von Trapp, picked her up some twenty miles south-west of Cape Leuca. It was a brilliant moonlight night, the armoured cruiser was steaming slowly, and hitherto no U-boat in the Adriatic had betrayed activity after the passing of day. The great black shape, with its four massive funnels, stood out a mammoth silhouette as the first torpedo sped on its devastating errand. It struck the port side, wrecked the dynamos, and plunged the ship in darkness, precluding the possibility of a momentary flash of a search-light to discover the assailant. The wireless was also put out of action by the same cause. A second torpedo wrought havoc in one of the boiler-rooms. “From the heeling of the cruiser,” says a Vienna account, “Lieutenant Trapp concluded that a further torpedo was unnecessary.”

An effort was made to beach the ship. This failing, it became the difficult task of Captain Andre to provide for the safety of his crew, a task not only hampered by lack of illumination, but by the boats having been swung inboard to ensure the more effective use of anti-torpedo guns. “The boats are for you; we officers will remain,” Admiral SÉnÈs told the crew without the slightest affectation of heroism, although neither he nor any single individual on the quarterdeck was to be saved. He called the men his children, told them to keep steady and take to the boats. “Forward, sailors of France!” he cried. “My destiny is here,” said Commander DepÉriÈre, the worthy colleague of so gallant an officer. “I die with my ship. Vive la France!” Portable torches were used to show the way to the wounded and the sick. To make escape easier the captain issued orders to fill the starboard compartments so as to counterbalance the intake of water on the other side. He did not want the great ship to turn turtle before mes enfants had been afforded an opportunity to escape. One officer, anxious to restrain any undue haste that would retard escape, took out a cigar from his case, lit it, and puffed away as calmly as though he were in Toulon Harbour instead of standing in a foot of water on a ship that was rapidly sinking under him. “Vive la France!” shouted the officers on the bridge; “Vive la France!” echoed the many who had failed to get away. With that ringing cheer of Victory and not of Defeat, the Leon Gambetta and 684 officers and men of the gallant company disappeared out of the night into the greater darkness. From first to last the tragedy took just ten minutes.

Those who were saved owed their lives to the fine courage of the commanders of Italian torpedo-boats and destroyers, who ran the risk of being mistaken for French men-of-war.^[25] Jean and Jacques are never at a loss when it comes to paying a compliment. Had they been British sailors who were pulled out of the water, a gruff but well-meant “Much obliged” would probably have sufficed. Frenchmen are more artistic. They cried “Vive l’Italie!” As for U 5, when she returned to Cattaro she was naturally received with honours.

The Danton, a French battleship with a displacement of 18,028 tons, completed at Brest in the spring of 1909, was on the point of celebrating the seventh anniversary of her launching when she was struck down in the Mediterranean on the 19th March, 1917. She had taken many months to build, but took only thirty minutes to sink. Destruction comes easier to man than construction. Two torpedoes accomplished her end. Fortunately the catastrophe occurred in the afternoon, and the tragedy of the personnel of the Leon Gambetta was not repeated, although even then 296 of her company lost their lives. The destroyer Massue and patrol vessels rescued the remaining 806 officers and men.

The story of how Lieutenant-Captain Robert Moraht sent the Danton to her doom was subsequently told by himself. The following is based on his lively narrative.

At midday the U-boat was off the south-west point of Sardinia, and those of the crew not actually required for the working of the ship were enjoying a breath of fresh air on deck with a delightful sense of having nothing whatever to do. Moraht was below, when the whistle of the speaking-tube blew a short, sharp blast. He answered the summons readily enough. “A steamer on the port bow,” came the message, spoken in a tone of some urgency. Almost before the commander had taken his ear from the instrument the men were clattering down the ladders and taking up action stations. Reaching the conning-tower with some difficulty by reason of the undue haste, Moraht distinctly saw the outlines of the vessel whose appearance had so suddenly changed their programme for the afternoon. The commander picked it up with his glasses. “French battleship!” announced a fellow officer who was standing at the telescope. At the moment the commander’s thoughts were centred on whether the U-boat had been seen, whether hunter and hare were both aware of the other’s presence.

Apparently not. The Danton kept on her zigzag course, as yet far out of range. Had she sighted the submarine she could have got clear away; there was little chance now, for Moraht had submerged. Presently a destroyer made her appearance, likewise zigzagging, and in advance of the battleship. The U-boat was nearer the object of her vengeance, and likewise nearer danger. Destroyers are to submarines what terriers are to rats. Moraht felt a shade uncomfortable. Besides, a battleship in the Mediterranean, or any other sea for the matter of that, does not go about blind. Keen eyes look out for her safety and their own. What the men on the destroyer might miss, those on the Danton might find. The commander of the submarine was sparing in the use of the periscope. There is a tell-tale wake when that apparatus is above the surface that human device cannot dispel. The waters, parted by the tube, embrace as though long separated, leaving a trail of emotion behind. Moraht popped it up now and again as necessity compelled, took his bearings, lowered it, and checked his course.

The weather conditions on this ‘Mediterranean Front’ changed in favour of the Germans, as they usually did in France, according to popular belief, whenever the Allies took the offensive. Listen to the commander: “A considerable lightening of the mist was rolling up from the north-west, and the wind was freshening; thick white tufts of foam stood on the deep blue sea. That was the light we wanted. Anyhow, nobody saw us. The destroyer raced past without suspicion about 600 yards off, then the giant ship herself came before our bow. Everything was just right to-day. ‘Both tubes, attention! No. 1—let go! No. 2—let go.’”

The periscope vanished, its wash was replaced by that of the torpedoes and a liberal accompaniment of bubbles. The weapons, at an interval of five seconds between them, tore the ship asunder. Later, from a safer distance, Moraht took a peep at his victim in her death-agony. The rudder was hard to port, proof that the twin harbingers of destruction had been seen and a fruitless attempt made to dodge them. The torpedoes could scarcely have performed their duty more loyally. The Danton’s massive keel was where her turrets ought to have been; her bulgy side, with casemates resembling a fortress, revealed “two holes like barn doors.”

Moraht says that his boat ‘buck-jumped’ after the shots. This means that the compensating tanks, which fill with water to make up for loss of displacement when a torpedo leaves the tube, did not act quickly enough. As a consequence the periscope and the upper part of the superstructure appeared above the surface for a second or two. The Massue dropped depth charges, and the ‘buck-jump’ may not have been entirely unconnected with them.

To-day the submarine that robbed the Allies of a fine ship mounting four 12–in., a dozen 9.4–in., and sixteen 2.9–in. guns does not figure as a fighting unit in what remains of the German Navy. She has joined the Danton,

Austrian submarines depleted the ranks of Italy’s naval forces by several ships, but the hereditary enemy of the Land of Dante lost considerably more at the hands of Italy, which also policed some 300 miles of coast with flotillas of hydroplanes in addition to the regular naval units. During a reconnaissance in force in the Upper Adriatic, the Amalfi, an armoured cruiser of 9958 tons displacement, carrying four 10–in. and eight 7.5–in. guns, was torpedoed at dawn on the 7th July, 1915. According to information received, it was the intention of the Austrians to bombard the Italian coast. While searching the Dalmatian littoral for the enemy, with the idea of bringing him to battle before he could carry out his object, the cruiser was lost. The ship listed heavily to port almost immediately, and sank in less than thirty minutes. Nearly all her officers and crew, numbering 684, were saved. Before giving orders to leave the ship the commander lined up his men on the quarterdeck and shouted, “Long live the King! Long live Italy!” The response was not less hearty than if they had been given a week’s leave.

One instance of extraordinary bravery stands out conspicuously, though the discipline was exemplary in every respect. While in the water the chief engineer was drawn toward the revolving propellers, and one of his arms was completely severed. A surgeon witnessed the incident when swimming at no great distance away. With powerful strokes he reached the injured officer, took off his own belt, applied it as a tourniquet, and then supported the sufferer until help arrived. The surgeon was on the verge of collapse, but he had performed a feat probably unique in the annals of first aid.

The second armoured ship to be lost by Italy was torpedoed three weeks later in the same sea. She bore the honoured name of Giuseppe Garibaldi, whose presentation swords of gold were kept on board as treasures beyond price. The cruiser formed part of a squadron that had been bombarding the railway and fortifications at Cattaro, where a number of Austrian battleships had taken refuge, unwilling to face four Italian vessels which had outlived their youth. The enemy adopted much more stealthy tactics. As the Giuseppe Garibaldi, the Vettor Pisani, the Varese, and the Ferruccio were steaming away they sent out a flotilla of submarines. The first attack was skilfully fended. Subjected to a withering fire, in which the Giuseppe Garibaldi joined, two of the U-boats sought safety in flight. U 4 was so badly damaged that she sank. A fourth either lay ‘doggo’ for a time or returned to the attack a little later. Her first torpedo, fired at the close range of about 500 yards, missed, but the second did such damage, despite the cruiser’s belt of 6–in. armour, that saving her was out of the question. The majority of her crew of 540 were rescued.

When Germany and Austria arranged to drench Europe in blood in pursuit of Teutonic ambitions, the Austro-Hungarian Navy possessed three completed Dreadnoughts, of which the Viribus Unitis was one. This powerful battleship of 22,000 tons, carrying twelve 13–in. guns, twelve 5.9–in. quick-firers, six torpedo-tubes, and a complement of nearly 1000 officers and men, was attacked in Pola Harbour by an intrepid French submarine, which succeeded in damaging her to such an extent that she was rendered useless for a considerable time. Had she been at sea it is probable the Viribus Unitis would have sunk, but plenty of assistance was handy, and she reached dry dock with a very ugly wound in her hull and certain portions of her engines so badly wrecked that the workshops at Trieste had to get busy to provide new parts. This was in December 1914. She was still in Pola Harbour in May 1918, when a little Italian motor-boat penetrated the mine-field, cables, and steel nets guarding the entrance and completed the discomfiture of the great vessel. Captain Pellegrini and three volunteers discharged two torpedoes at the Viribus Unitis, and after seeing them take effect, sank their own tiny craft to prevent it from falling into the hands of the enemy. This was the thirteenth operation by the Italian Navy against enemy bases, and was completely successful. Apparently the Dreadnought was resurrected, for she was again sunk in November 1918 by means of a time-charge laid by two Italian officers.

Italy also lost several fine destroyers by attack from Austrian or German U-boats. The Impetuoso was submarined in the Straits of Otranto on the 10th July, 1916, with small loss of personnel, but the fate which befell the Nembo was more tragic and more romantic. The Nembo was escorting a transport to Valona. The submarine was sighted on board the destroyer, whose commander at once changed course so as to cover his charge, which had some 3000 soldiers on board. He succeeded in doing this, and the torpedo intended for the transport struck the Nembo with full force. She at once began to settle, but the indomitable officer swung his ship round with the intention of ramming his assailant. Loss of speed and gain of water on the part of the destroyer gave the U-boat time to submerge, but the commander still had another card to play. He ordered depth charges to be dropped overboard. There was a mammoth upheaval of water, followed by the reappearance of the enemy showing evident signs of distress. Shortly afterward destroyer and submarine went to a common grave, the Nembo carrying with her most of her gallant crew, while eleven men from U 16 managed to scramble into one of the destroyer’s boats that floated by without a solitary occupant.

Vienna newspapers, like those of Berlin, endeavoured to bolster up the naval cause of the Central Powers by deliberately manufacturing desirable news. In January 1915 the Austrians were told that their E 12 had sunk the French battleship Courbet, a Dreadnought armed with a dozen 12–in. guns. That was sufficiently wide of the mark in all conscience, for it was absolutely untrue, but the loss of the Jean Bart by colliding with her when going to her assistance was tagged on to make the victory still more complete. E 12 certainly did succeed in hitting the Jean Bart with a torpedo, but the material damage was of slight importance and was speedily repaired. At the time the Courbet was many miles away from the scene of the imaginary action—“in excellent trim,” as the French Ministry of Marine stated. On another occasion the French battleship VÉritÉ was alleged to have been seriously damaged by a German submarine.

This tale of disaster, terrible in the loss of great ships and greater men, is at the worst only a record of what is legitimate in modern naval warfare. Those who thought, like Nobel, that the more violent the agencies to be employed in conflict the more likelihood of preserving peace had their fond delusions shattered in the saturnalia of the centuries. Likewise those who sow the wind often reap the whirlwind.