ORLEANS——
The First German U-Boat
Attack On American Soil
In the last war, the one and only attack on American soil by the Germans was at Orleans, Cape Cod.
On a quiet Sunday morning, July 21, 1918, the submarine, U-156, rose from the ocean waters a few hundred yards off the Orleans shore. In full view of numerous cottagers, the enemy sub leisurely began shelling the defenseless tug Perth Amboy and her three barges.
Exactly why these craft, of no particular military value, were chosen for attack has never been made known. It may have been an impulsive act of bravado by the Kaiser’s marauders or, possibly, a scare stunt to give Americans at home the jitters.
The Americans attacked, managed to get ashore in dories, while the firing continued. “One observer counted 147 shots.” There are conflicting versions, naturally, but it is agreed there was considerable shooting, and the U-boat operated throughout without meeting resistance.
FIRED ON COAST GUARD
At least one shot was aimed directly at the tower of a Coast Guard station. It missed by a small margin and landed in a marsh, according to the description given me by a former Coast Guardsman who was standing the tower watch at the time. The three barges were sunk. The Perth Amboy, while badly burned, was subsequently towed in for repairs, and she may even be in service today.
A Cape Cod man, strange as it may seem, was skipper of the Perth Amboy—Capt. Joe Perry hailed from Provincetown. Another Provincetown man, Henry J. James, son of a fishing captain in that old port at the tip-end of the Cape, was moved to write a significant book after the Orleans attack.
Of interest even today, this book—“German Subs in Yankee Waters”—came out not long before Pearl Harbor, though James (when I last heard from him he was superintendent of schools in Simsbury, Connecticut) had negotiated with publishers for a long time to get it into print.
Many American developments for defense in the present war coincide with suggestions made by James—small, fast boats for coastal defense, beam-trawlers for minesweeping, the registering of all small craft for coastal protection and other aids lacking in the last war.
The Cape Cod attack and its implications made a strong impression upon James in his youth; this spurred him on to devote many years of patient research to complete his book.
He relates that in 1918, during the final action of the last war, Germany had six U-boats operating in our waters and these alone sank 91 ships and took a toll of 368 lives. All this happened within a brief six months.
These half-dozen underseas boats operating along the Atlantic shore—3400 miles from their base at Kiel, Germany—all got away safely after their destructive work. All but one—this struck a mine in the North Sea, not far from Kiel—got back to the home base.
STRANGE MEETING AT SEA
A complete, authentic record of the Cape Cod U-boat attack is still lacking. Occasionally, however, a new bit of information is added to the story by one who was at the scene. One of the best anecdotes was told me by a physician who had a cottage on the shore and sat with a telephone in his hand, observing the shelling and giving a running account of the attack to the Boston Globe.
After the war this gentleman made a crossing on the Leviathan. He fell into conversation with a German steward, mentioning that he was from Cape Cod. The German asked if he had, by chance, ever heard of a U-boat attack there during the war, and then proceeded to give an accurate description of the Orleans attack. Thus, the doctor-reporter, who had scored the biggest newspaper scoop in Cape Cod journalism and an erstwhile member of the U-156 crew met in mid-Atlantic.
The German chuckled: “Yah! we had some fun on that cruise. You didn’t know, did you, that some of us went ashore one night in a rubber boat and attended a movie in your Beverly, Massachusetts!”
The only effort to repulse the attacking U-boat was made by a lone flier from a Naval station at nearby Chatham. He lacked ammunition and had to resort to bold bluffing. After diving a couple of times over the submarine, he made a final low swoop and let fly a monkey wrench at the heads of the crew standing on deck.
Some time ago an article I wrote about the Cape Cod attack was reprinted in a digest magazine. A retired navy officer, in a little town in Pennsylvania, read it. He wrote me: “Well do I remember that dull overcast Sabbath morning, as I was the fellow who threw the monkey wrench.” And, he invited me to drop in, if I ever got around his way, and he’d tell me “the whole story.”