by Deborah Lake
In Berlin, the admirals had won the struggle against the politicians. The Chancellor’s peace initiative had foundered. A boastful overture to a peace proposal, delivered in the Reichstag on 12 December 1916, trumpeted that Germany and its partners ‘had given proof of their indestructible strength’. A written version was duly delivered to the Allies six days later. It gave no indication of the terms that Germany might accept.
Woodrow Wilson made his own appeal. He asked all belligerents to state their aims and the terms on which they were prepared to end the fighting.
In the House of Commons, on 19 December 1916, Lloyd George ensured that any political hopes died. He declared: ‘There has been some talk about proposals of peace. What are the proposals? There are none. To enter at the invitation of Germany, proclaiming herself victorious, without any knowledge of the proposals she proposes to make, into a conference, is to put our heads into a noose with the rope end in the hands of Germany.’
Britain’s response pleased the militant faction in Berlin. Another conference took place at Pless. This time, the Kaiser listened to the men in uniform. One of those present recalled:
Everyone stood around a large table, on which the Kaiser, pale and excited, leaned his hand. Holtzendorff spoke first, and, from the standpoint of the navy, both well and, above all, confidently, of victory. England will lie on the ground in at most six months, before a single American has set foot on the continent; the American danger does not disturb him at all. Hindenburg spoke very briefly, observing only that from the measure a reduction in American munitions exports had to be expected. Bethmann-Hollweg finally, with a visible inner excitement, set forth once again the reasons that had led him in the past to cast an opposing vote against a U-boat war beyond the limits of cruiser warfare, namely concern about the prompt entry of America into the ranks of our enemies, with all the ensuing consequences, but he closed by saying that in view of the recently altered stand of the Supreme Command and the categorical declarations of the admirals as to the success of the measure, he wished to withdraw his opposition. The Kaiser followed his statements with every sign of impatience and opposition and declared that unrestricted U-boat warfare was therefore decided.
Hindenburg’s assessment sobered Wilhelm and several others. The war, the field marshal declared, ‘must be brought to an end rapidly’. Although Germany could hold out, her Allies were crumbling.
The conference agreed. The U-boats came off the leash on 1 February 1917. Neutrals would receive some concessions during the first days of the new policy. From 13 February, however, every ship in the blockade zones around Britain and in the Mediterranean would be considered an enemy vessel to be attacked without warning.
The Royal Navy was already cock-a-hoop when Germany announced the new policy. U-boats were no match for Q-ships. On 14 January 1917, in the late afternoon, Penshurst made another kill. Again, the victim came from the unfortunate Flanders Flotilla.
Oberleutnant zur See Paul Günther and the crew of UB 37 were cautious men. They watched the ‘panic party’ leave. And held back. Unlike Noodt in UB 19, Günther resisted temptation. He stood off at a range of some 750yd. The U-boat fired fourteen shots at the decoy. Two shells found the target. They killed two men and wounded two others.
Penshurst had to reply as enemy shells splashed around her. At 1624hr, she fought back. With some luck and a great deal of skill, the Q-ship’s first round from her 12-pounder gun demolished the base of the conning tower. An explosion, possibly of stored ammunition, blew away part of the tower. Black smoke rose into the air. The 12-pounder’s second shot crashed into the hull just aft of the bridge. Penshurst’s starboard 3-pounder gun also scored direct hits. UB 37 reared like a dying horse and sank into the water.
Bayly’s decoys, operating out of Ireland, managed several encounters. Each one, seemingly, met with success. The admiral himself believed that his ships destroyed four U-boats in the first four weeks of January. Among the faulty claims came one from HMS Aubretia, a Flower Class convoy sloop. To her commander’s chagrin, details of his exploit appeared in German propaganda. Not only did the U-boat escape unharmed but her commander stoutly maintained that the Danish flag was flown throughout the fight. Once again, Berlin declared, it was ‘one of those shameless cases in which English steamers misuse the neutral flag in the most ruthless manner as U-boat traps’.
Despite the reasonable conclusion that the U-boat returned safely home, the Admiralty merely reduced Aubretia’s claim of ‘definite’ destruction to ‘possible’. The £1,000 award reduced to £200.
The U-boat men knew how to tackle trapships. Commanders of the big deep-water boats often adopted von Arnauld’s tactics. With their larger guns, they usually outranged Q-ship weapons. The decoys needed bigger and better guns – which were more difficult to disguise or hide.
In Germany, Scheer issued orders that considerably altered the tasks of the Hochseeflotte. Every part of his command was to support the U-boat offensive. He wrote:
We now enter a new stage of the war in which the U-boat arm is to resolve the situation by strangling British economic life and maritime connections. Every means of naval warfare must be put into the service of our U-boat operations. This will, obviously, principally apply to the light forces and auxiliary units charged with escort and minesweeping duties. However, the situation created by opening unrestricted U-boat warfare will have to be taken into consideration for the employment of the Battle Fleet as well.
The new tactics did not become immediately evident. Most of the deep-sea boats on patrol during the bitterly cold month of February 1917 continued to follow the Prize Regulations. When the campaign began, eleven boats from the High Seas Fleet roamed the seas of the South West Approaches and the Bay of Biscay. Seventeen smaller boats of the UB I and UB II Classes spread across the waters of the English Channel, the Irish Sea and the North Sea. The Flanders Flotilla sent five minelayers on patrol. Between them all, they destroyed thirty Allied merchant ships in the Western Approaches and the English Channel alone during the first week of February.
With so many boats out, Q-ship chances of an encounter rose. It was a haphazard business. With no means of detection, the decoys relied on guesswork, wireless messages and the captain’s instinct. Sailing the merchant sea lanes brought either exciting results or excruciating monotony. The decoys enjoyed one small advantage. Although knowledge of the trapships had spread through the U-boat fleet, many commanders believed that they could sort maritime sheep from goats.
On 31 January 1917, Commander Gordon Campbell and Farnborough, with a full crew and the ship’s lucky black cat, steamed out of Plymouth after a refit. The previous Number One, Beswick, stressed out by decoy work and, possibly, a demanding captain, had left. The new man was another RNR officer, Lieutenant Ronald Neil Stuart.
Stuart’s war, since he left the Allan Line to volunteer, had been one of boredom. Like his skipper, he spent long, grinding days, weeks, months on patrol duties in an ancient destroyer. His, at least, was the name-ship of the Opossum Class. A Victorian relic, she spent almost as much time under repair as on local flotilla duties. For Stuart, operating out of Devonport just as Campbell had done, the war was no more than a grinding routine of reporting ‘stray logs and boarding Dutchmen’.
His efforts to transfer to any job that even hinted at action and excitement got nowhere. Even the Royal Naval Division, fighting in the trenches of Flanders, had no vacancies for an RNR deck officer. Then his luck changed. Soon after the Soerakarta incident and Beswick’s departure for hospital, he met Campbell. And Campbell needed an efficient Number One.
German intentions to fight a ruthless U-boat war filled the papers for days. Kaiser Wilhelm, with his usual excited exuberance, wanted great results. ‘We will frighten the British flag off the face of the waters,’ the All-Highest threatened, ‘and starve the British people until they, who have refused peace, will kneel and plead for it.’
The Unterseeboote prepared to oblige their Emperor.
Decoy tactics, Campbell believed, must change. The new German policy of an all-out campaign demanded a different approach. Campbell concluded that the only way to convince a U-boat commander to surface was deliberately to take a torpedo strike. If a wake was sighted that looked as if it would go across the bow, Farnborough would increase speed. The trick was to manoeuvre the ship so that she was hit. With luck, the deck guns would still be able to fight on. In the face of the threat, every risk was acceptable.
Farnborough headed for her favourite hunting ground, south-west of Ireland. Campbell calmly disregarded standing instructions to dock after ten days at sea. He conveniently ignored three signals that ordered his return to port. Farnborough would stay out until empty coal bunkers forced her return. Fresh food and nerve-straining duty came second to a chance to engage the enemy. For chance there was. Staccato Morse chattered into the wireless room with depressing regularity. Calls for help from sinking ships. It was a matter only of time before Farnborough, now officially Q5, attracted a prowling U-boat. So Campbell hoped.
On 17 February, still with coal in her bunkers for four more days, at 0945 on a clear, fine day, Farnborough steamed eastward towards the Irish Sea, impersonating a cargo tramp homeward bound from North America. A weary Red Ensign flapped from her stern. Campbell wanted to be torpedoed. To the north-east, some 40 miles distant, County Cork enjoyed the winter sunshine. Nothing disturbed the calm sea. Even sharp eyes missed the slender line of a distant periscope. Kapitänleutnant Bruno Hoppe and U 83 were on the prowl.
The torpedo came in from the right, at long range. Campbell made no attempt to avoid it. At the last possible moment, however, he swung the helm hard over so that it missed the engine room. The torpedo smacked into number 3 hold instead. Water poured into the ship.
Campbell’s cool response saved the lives of men down below in the engine room. With the exception of the engineer sub-lieutenant who suffered a slight injury, everyone else on board escaped unharmed. The blast did knock over the captain and several men and blew the cat into the water.
Campbell’s crew was almost too well disciplined. As Campbell stood up, he saw a group of his panic party, lazily looking over the side, smoking, laughing, doing nothing. Rehearsed only to go into their charade when the order came, they still waited for the instruction.
Campbell gave it.
The boat party went into frantic pantomime. One boat, partially lowered, was allowed to hang. The deck crew rushed to another one. Eventually, two lifeboats and a dinghy made it to the water. The periscope that poked up some 200yd away saw the remarkably fat chief steward pushed over the side in the mêlée. Unable to support himself on the rope, he crashed down into the waiting boat, landing on top of the men already there. Any watcher could see that it was unrehearsed. Finally, the ‘master’, distinguished by his gold-banded hat, left the ship.
Farnborough was badly hurt. She possessed only two bulkheads. The torpedo strike had smashed the one aft. The sea snarled in, filling the ship from the boiler room to the stern. Steadily, inexorably, with increasing speed, she began to settle by the stern. An extremely annoyed black cat paddled round the side to the stern to clamber back on board. It shook sodden paws and body, disgusted at the terrible turn life had taken. On board the Q-ship, nothing moved, except the bedraggled cat.
Still submerged, Hoppe closed on Farnborough. The dark hull approached the boats. The periscope swivelled as he took in details of the shipwrecked crew. ‘Don’t talk so loud,’ one sailor muttered. ‘He’ll hear you!’
U 83 did not surface. Closer, closer still, to Farnborough. Campbell, hidden on the right-hand side of the bridge saw the whole length of dark steel hull under the water, mere yards away. He resisted the temptation to open fire. Shells lose momentum in water, even at close range. U 83 stayed safely under the waves.
Farnborough’s stern sank lower into the sea. The crew at the after gun felt the water lap at their feet. The ship was going down. Nobody stirred. Campbell had trained them well.
The U-boat moved along the starboard side towards the bow, crossed over to the left-hand side of the ship. Slowly she shifted away. Campbell crawled across the bridge to change places with the signalman.
Twenty minutes after the torpedo crippled Farnborough, Hoppe surfaced. 300yd away. None of Farnborough’s guns could bear. Campbell ordered his wireless operator, alone in his cabin, to signal Queenstown that Q5 was torpedoed.
The panic party’s boats floated on the port side between Farnborough and U 83. Hoppe moved towards them. Time to identify the master, take the ship’s papers for the deskbound warriors at the Marineamt, and possibly a chance to acquire English foodstuffs. With luck, the abandoned freighter would yield fresh meat, real coffee, butter, eggs, marmalade, sugar. Anything was a change from issue macaroni and bacon, canned pea soup and hard biscuits. There might even be fat hams to take home when they docked. It was one of the perks for a U-boat man. That, and dying for the Fatherland.
U 83 opened her conning tower. Water streamed down her hull as she rose, 100yd distant from her victim. Broadside on at 1010hr.
Campbell crisped the fire command. The wheelhouse collapsed. The ship’s sides fell down. The hen-coop vanished. The White Ensign broke out at the masthead to flutter in the breeze.
At close range, at 100yd, the human brain does not react quickly enough when a 6-pounder gun fires directly at it. Farnborough’s first round was a direct hit on the unfortunate Hoppe. His head vanished in a flurry of blood and bone. The body dropped into the control well before the crew reacted. After which, three 12-pounder guns and one 6-pounder pumped forty-five shells at U 83. Nearly all found the target. Small-arms rounds peppered the hull and tower. After eight months of service with the Imperial German Navy, U 83 went down. She took all but eight of her crew with her. Only two were dragged alive from the icy, oil-heavy water. One officer and one rating. The panic party returned to a wounded ship.
Farnborough had destroyed her target but she was in no great shape herself. The engine room and boiler room had flooded. Water rose steadily in the two aft holds. Only the cargo of wood stopped the ship from sliding, stern first, to join U 83.
The wireless room chattered busily as Campbell called Queenstown for help. One reply came from Bayly himself: ‘Splendidly done; your magnificent perseverance and ability are well rewarded.’
With his panic party back on board, Campbell called for twelve volunteers to stay on board. The rest of the crew would take to the boats for real.
Every man volunteered.
Campbell picked twelve men to join him. Nobody commented that an unlucky thirteen now manned the ship.
Time ticked past. 1100hr. Farnborough sat sluggishly in the water. No rescue ships appeared. Campbell calmly followed procedures. The crew burned the secret charts and confidential papers. A last coded message stammered across the ether to Queenstown: ‘Q5 slowly sinking respectfully wishes you good-bye.’ After which, the ship’s safe, the code books securely inside, went over the side with a satisfying splash.
Nothing further could be done except to wait.
The destroyer HMS Narwhal, arrived in a hurry at noon. Most of Campbell’s crew transferred to her. Close behind scurried HMS Buttercup, a Flower Class sloop. After some discussion, Buttercup took Farnborough in tow. Still down by the stern, she had not settled deeper in the water. The chances of saving Q5 were slender but better than simply letting her founder. Campbell recalled the scene.
‘No sooner were we in tow than the cable parted, owing to our helm being jammed hard over and immovable. Luckily, our donkey-boiler, or auxiliary boiler, was high up in the ship, and we were able to raise steam in this, which gave power to steer and assistance in working the cable, and we eventually got in tow about 5 p.m.’
As dusk stole across the ocean, another destroyer, HMS Laburnum, arrived to relieve Narwhal, who then left for Queenstown with most of Farnborough’s crew and the two prisoners.
Buttercup and Farnborough plodded slowly homewards
with their anxious destroyer escort. With no warning, at 0200hr in the cold morning night, the Q-ship started to heel over. The water rose enough to quench the auxiliary boiler and cut all power. Campbell just had time enough to centralise the rudder before the steam died.
Campbell and his chief engineer, Lieutenant Leonard Loveless, RNR, tried to find the cause. Armed with guttering candles, they toured the unlit ship. The candles went out with disturbing ease. Finally, they discovered that one starboard bunker had lost its coal. The sea took its place. Q5 lurched once more. Their last candle expired. Nearby they heard the cat meowing. Campbell and Loveless spent some minutes crawling around in complete darkness to find a coal-black cat. They failed.
At 0330hr, Campbell ordered the last of the crew into the remaining lifeboat. It was time to go. As he checked one last time that all was clear, one of the depth charges in the stern exploded. As it was located just above the ship’s ammunition store, Campbell moved towards the boat at a smart pace. Lieutenant Ronald Stuart waited at the rail. He had ignored the order to leave. He argued that it was part of his job to ensure the captain was ‘all right’.
The motor-boat’s engine decided not to work. Campbell and his men drifted around in the black morning until Laburnum rescued them. Buttercup had left after the depth-charge exploded. Her captain thought another torpedo had hit Farnborough. Aware that the sinking ship could drag under his own command, he swiftly slipped the tow. The sloop hurried back to Queenstown to report that the decoy was probably lost, along with Campbell and his men.
Dawn came. Farnborough floated. Campbell and five others rejoined one black cat on board the ship. Laburnum took up the tow. The unlikely duo edged towards safety.
Campbell ignored an order from Sir Lewis Bayly to sink the ship. The admiral believed that she would become a half-submerged derelict, a danger to any vessel in the area. Campbell simply carried on. Most of his command was above water, the tow held, and land was not far distant. Berehaven, County Cork. They reached harbour. Farnborough’s list had reached 20 degrees and her stern wallowed under 8ft of water. Laburnum dropped the tow. A tug, Flying Sportsman, assisted by the trawler Luneta pushed the old lady on to the beach at Mill Cove. It was 2130hr.