The Childrens' Story of the War, Volume 3 (of 10) / From the First Battle of Ypres to the End of the Year 1914

We are soon to hear how, by a stroke of good luck the Emden was caught tightly and destroyed.

CHAPTER XXII.

If you look at a map of the Indian Ocean, you will see, some 700 miles south of Sumatra and 1,200 miles south-west of Singapore, a group of about twenty atolls,[142] known as the Cocos-Keeling Islands. They are covered with palm groves, and they export cocoa-nuts and copra. The "king" of the islands is Mr. Sydney Ross, a descendant of the Captain J. C. Ross who settled on them in 1825. It was to these remote islands that Captain von Müller brought the Emden in the early days of November. His object was to destroy the important British wireless station established on Direction Island.

On the morning of 9th November the operators in charge of the station saw a cruiser in the offing. At first they believed the vessel to be a British warship, but they were soon undeceived. Before a boat could be lowered and a landing-party sent ashore, the operators at the wireless station, with true British coolness, sent off distress signals, and warned the adjacent stations, by means of the three submarine cables which come ashore on the island, that the Germans were about to land. One launch and two cutters, containing three officers and forty men, arrived about 7.30; the wireless mast was blown up; the instruments were smashed, the storerooms and workshops were completely wrecked, and a dummy cable and one real cable were cut and a third damaged. The remaining cable was left uninjured, probably because the Germans did not know that it existed. In less than two hours the work of destruction was completed. Then suddenly loud and repeated siren calls were heard from the Emden. Before the boats could return she was off at top speed.

She had been trapped at last. In the wireless room of H.M.S. Sydney, then engaged in escorting Australian transports, a message had been received: "Strange warship off entrance." In a moment Captain Glossop guessed that it was the raider that had so long eluded him. Immediately he worked up to twenty knots an hour, and with the "white bone" in his ship's teeth sped towards the island. At 9.15 the feathery tops of the cocoa-nut trees were sighted, and a few minutes later the Emden was seen bearing down on the Sydney at a great rate. Captain von Müller knew that the Sydney's 6-inch guns could destroy his ship at a distance too great for his 4.7-inch guns to do much mischief. He therefore tried to close in with the Sydney, which endeavoured to keep sufficiently far off to obtain the advantage afforded by her bigger guns.

Then began a running fight which lasted for an hour and forty minutes. At first the Emden's fire was very rapid and accurate, but as the Sydney's shells began to burst on her decks it slackened quickly. The foremost funnel of the Emden was shot away, then the foremast, then the second funnel, and lastly the third funnel. She was now burning furiously, and her deck was strewn with dead and dying. A few minutes later and she was seen to be making for the beach on North Keeling Island, where she grounded at 11.20 a.m. Captain Glossop gave her two more broadsides, and then left her to pursue a merchant ship which had come up during the action.

The merchantman was overhauled, and found to be a captured British collier in a sinking condition. As she was past repair she was sent to the bottom, and the Sydney, with the crew of the collier on board, returned to the Emden, now a dismal wreck amidst the surf foaming on the reef. Her colours, however, were still flying at the masthead. When called upon to haul them down her captain replied that he would never surrender. Very reluctantly, Captain Glossop again fired at the Emden. Five minutes later white flags fluttered aloft, and her ensign was hauled down.

German Landing Party on the Cocos-Keeling Islands.    Photo, The Sphere

The yacht shown in the photograph is the Ayesha, in which the landing party escaped from the island.

About six o'clock that night the Emden's landing-party seized and provisioned Mr. Ross's 70-ton schooner, the Ayesha, and made off. For months they were unheard of, though all sorts of rumours were current as to their fate. On March 1, 1915, it was reported that they had reached Damascus, and were on their way to Constantinople.

Captain von Müller was captured unwounded, and amongst his officers was Franz Josef of Hohenzollern, a nephew of the Kaiser. As a tribute to the gallantry and humanity which Captain von Müller had exhibited, he was permitted to retain his sword. While the German soldiers were making their name a byword of loathing in Belgium, Captain von Müller had been behaving as a sailor and a gentleman; consequently he was regarded in Britain as something of a hero. He had fought staunchly, and although he had perhaps violated the laws of war on several occasions, his sins were forgiven him because he had been merciful to the defenceless and the captive.

The Emden lost some 250 killed and wounded, while the Sydney had four killed and twelve wounded. Only about ten hits seem to have been made on the British vessel, and the damage done was surprisingly small. Australians were overjoyed to hear that a ship of their own navy had rid the seas of the famous raider. Their satisfaction was all the greater when they remembered that the victorious crew consisted largely of young and untried sailors.

Let me tell you of a pleasing little incident that happened when the Sydney, with prisoners on board, returned to the transports which she and the Melbourne were convoying. Captain Glossop had given orders that there was to be no cheering, as he had German wounded on board, and some of them might be dying. The Sydney steamed past forty transports, whose decks and rigging were crowded with patriotic men; but not a cheer was raised, though all were deeply stirred by the good news. Two German officers asked Captain Glossop the reason of the silence. When he explained, they were much affected. One of them shook him by the hand and said, "You have been kind, but this crowns all. We cannot speak to thank you for it."

The news was received with great delight by our soldiers in Artois and West Flanders. At one place where the opposing trenches were close together the men cheered, and passed on the information with appropriate comments to the enemy, who replied with a vindictive volley. At Lloyd's[143] the old Lutine bell[144] was rung, and when, amidst tense silence, the crier announced that the Emden's career of destruction had ended, underwriters,[145] brokers, and clerks burst forth into excited cheering, which was repeated again and again. During the past two months the insurance companies had been heavily hit; freight for the East had been difficult to obtain, Indian tea had gone up twopence per pound, the jute trade had been paralysed, and tin and rubber had largely increased in price. All this was now over, and shipping in Eastern waters resumed its normal course.

Almost equally good news arrived the same day. The Königsberg, after her attack on the Pegasus in Zanzibar harbour, had gone into hiding somewhere along the German East African coast. A diligent search was made for her by H.M.S. Chatham, and on 30th October she was discovered in shoal water about six miles up a river opposite Mafia island. The Chatham, owing to her greater draught, could not ascend the river; but she sank colliers in the only navigable channel, so that the German cruiser could not come out. She lay amidst dense palm groves, and was aground, except at high tide. Part of her crew had been landed and entrenched on the banks of the river. Both the entrenchments and the Königsberg were shelled, but owing to the thick foliage shrouding the ship it was not possible to estimate what damage had been done.

From the end of October 1914 until the beginning of July 1915 the Königsberg lay in this position. She was most difficult to attack, as only shallow-draught ships could get sufficiently close to engage her. In May 1915 the Admiralty decided to send to German East Africa two of the monitors—the Severn and the Mersey—which had done so much to foil the coast dash towards Calais. Aircraft accompanied the vessels, and discovered the exact whereabouts of the Königsberg. On 4th July the monitors entered the river and opened fire. The Königsberg replied, and fired salvos of five guns with great accuracy, twice hitting the Mersey, and causing some casualties.

The aeroplanes found great difficulty in "spotting" the effects of the monitors' fire, because of the dense jungle. For six hours the monitors continued firing, and the Königsberg was hit five times, though her masts were still standing. Then a salvo struck her, and she burst into flames. For a time she continued to fire with one gun, but during the last part of the engagement she made no reply, either because her ammunition had run out or because her guns were disabled. On 11th July another attack was made, and the Königsberg was battered into shapeless ruin.

During November 19 a British squadron approached the harbour of Dar-es-Salaam,[146] in which three German vessels had taken refuge. The entrance had been blocked by a floating dock, and only vessels of light draught could pass the obstruction. On November 28 a British flotilla supported by a cruiser entered the harbour, and after a parley the governor of the town hoisted the white flag. Commander Henry Peel Ritchie, R.N., who was in charge of the operations, now boarded the German ships, but soon discovered that the surrender of the town was a trick to destroy him and his men. A heavy fire was opened on the boats from trenches on shore, and Commander Peel Ritchie had the greatest difficulty in getting them safely out of harbour. He himself was one of the first to be hit, but he continued at his post until his eighth wound, received twenty-five minutes later, rendered him unconscious. The cockswain of his pinnace, though hit twice, gallantly stuck to the wheel until the boat was out of gunfire. For his splendid courage, and for the inspiring example which he set to his men, Commander Ritchie was awarded the Victoria Cross. The cockswain, Leading Seaman Thomas Arthur Gallagher, received the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal.

We will now follow the fortunes of the German squadron under Admiral von Spee. You will remember that it left Kiao-chau early in August for the South American coast. Von Spee's squadron, which consisted of modern ships, comprised two armoured cruisers, the Gneisenau and the Scharnhorst; and three light cruisers, the Dresden, Leipzig, and Nürnberg. The first two vessels had a speed of at least 23 knots, and were armed with eight 8.2-inch guns, six of 5.9-inch, and eighteen 21-pounders. The Dresden was a sister ship to the Emden, the Nürnberg was slightly smaller, and the Leipzig smaller still. The object of this squadron was to prey on British commerce in the Pacific. The Emden, as you know, was detailed for similar work in the Indian Ocean, and the Karlsruhe in the South Atlantic.

I have told at length of the short and merry life of the Emden. The Karlsruhe was not so successful, but she destroyed no fewer than thirteen steamers in the course of a week or two. She was remarkable for the number of attendant vessels which accompanied her, some of them her own captures. These she employed as scouts to warn her of danger, and to give notice of vessels which might be seized. It is said that she had many hairbreadth escapes from British cruisers. Towards the end of November she disappeared, and though many rumours were afloat, nothing was certainly known of her whereabouts. In March 1915 it was reported that she had gone down off the West Indian island of Grenada.

Destruction of the German Raider Emden by H.M.S. Sydney of the Australian Navy, November 9, 1914.

You can easily understand that without a regular supply of coal and provisions the German commerce-raiders could not long keep the seas. When a fighting ship in time of war puts into a neutral port, she may not receive more coal and provisions than will carry her to the nearest harbour of her own land, and she may not obtain any further supplies at that port for three months. Some of the South American states, however, were very slack in observing the rules of naval warfare, and two of them—Ecuador and Colombia—actually permitted German coaling and provisioning bases to be set up on their coasts, and allowed their wireless stations to be used for the purpose of ascertaining the movements of the British cruisers which were trying to catch the raiders. When Admiral von Spee sailed for the western coast of South America, he was going into waters where there were many harbours in which he could coal, and many friends who would see that he was well supplied. German merchants abound in Chile.

On 14th September von Spee's squadron touched at Apia, and on the 22nd two of his cruisers arrived off Papeete, in Tahiti, one of the loveliest of the Pacific Islands. A small French gunboat was sunk, and the town was bombarded. Then his squadron of five warships with attendant colliers concentrated near Valparaiso, and he was ready, like a twentieth-century Drake, to prey ruthlessly upon the merchantmen that came round the Horn.

Von Spee did not expect that he would go unmolested. He knew that Britain had a squadron which was even then cruising northwards along the coast of Chile, under the command of a renowned seaman, Sir Christopher Cradock. But this squadron was all too weak to meet him in fair fight. It consisted of two armoured cruisers, the Good Hope and the Monmouth, the light cruiser Glasgow, and an armed liner, the Otranto, the latter being incapable of engaging a ship of war. None of the vessels was speedy, and none was heavily armed. The Canopus, a seventeen-year-old battleship, was on its way to meet him, but had not yet arrived. Von Spee could count on sixteen 8.2-inch guns, and to oppose them Cradock had but two 9.2-inch guns. When the Canopus joined him his big-gun armament would be increased by four 12-inch guns, but even then the British squadron would be inferior in weight of broadside to the German squadron. Nor had the British any advantage of speed. The Glasgow could do 26 knots an hour, but the Monmouth could only do 23. In big guns, speed, and armour the Germans were greatly superior. Cradock was hourly expecting reinforcements, but for some reason they were not forthcoming. One of his officers wrote as follows on 12th October: "We think the Admiralty have forgotten their trade-route squadron 10,000 miles from London town. Five German cruisers against us. Pray that we may prevent them concentrating."

They had concentrated, as we know, and Cradock had now to decide whether he would give battle with his three cruisers or wait for the arrival of the Canopus. He was a dashing, fearless officer, and he took the risk. He sent off a wireless message to the Canopus: "I am going to attack the enemy now," and ordered speed to be increased to 17 knots. It is doubtful whether the Canopus ever received the message, for the enemy was "jamming the wireless"—that is, was sending out bogus messages to interfere with the messages of the British flagship. At any rate, the Canopus did not join Cradock, and he steamed without her towards the foe.

The Glasgow swept northward, and about four o'clock in the afternoon of 1st November sighted the enemy. She sent off wireless signals to the flagship, Good Hope, but they were jammed. The Monmouth and Otranto joined the Glasgow soon after, and at five o'clock the Good Hope came up. Both squadrons were now moving southwards, the Germans having the inshore course. At the head of the British line was the Good Hope, with the Monmouth, Glasgow, and Otranto following, one behind the other. The German line was headed by the Scharnhorst, with the Gneisenau, Dresden, and Nürnberg following.

Try to imagine the scene. The sea was running high; there was a stiff wind blowing, and away in the west the sun was sinking in a flaming sky of crimson and gold. Against the bright sunset the British ships stood out sharp and clear, while the German vessels were shrouded by the gathering gloom and the dark background of the land. Behind them were the long ridges and lofty peaks of the Andes, their eternal snows glowing red in the light of the setting sun. Amidst the roar of sea and wind the two squadrons raced south in the teeth of the gale. The day was speeding fast to its close, and the German admiral, owing to the superior speed of his ships, was able to choose the range at which the battle was to be fought.

The sun sank into the sea, and eight minutes later, at a range of about 12,000 yards—roughly, seven miles—the leading German cruiser opened fire with her biggest guns. Shells shrieked over and short of the Good Hope within a hundred yards of her, and the Otranto began to edge away to the south-west. The Good Hope and the Monmouth replied as best they could to the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, but their fire was ineffective; the two 9.2-inch guns of the Good Hope could not be brought into action, because they were mounted so near to the water's edge that the waves washed over them. Meanwhile the Glasgow was exchanging shots with the light cruisers Leipzig and Dresden. The shooting of the enemy was deadly, and in a few minutes all was over—the British ships were pounded to pieces by guns which quite outranged those which they carried. "It was as though a man standing at Charing Cross were attacked with deadly accuracy by a foe on Ealing Common, without any possibility of replying." Think of the horror and hopelessness of it all!

Broadside after broadside of powerful guns crashed on the British cruisers. The third salvo set the Good Hope and the Monmouth on fire. The range had now narrowed down to 5,000 yards, and darkness was coming on apace. Many of the shells falling into the sea threw up huge geysers of white spray, which gleamed ghost-like in the twilight. The British could fire only at the flashes of the enemy's guns, and often even these slight indications were hidden from the gun-layers by the heavy head seas.

The Monmouth had been heavily hit, and was rapidly becoming unmanageable; the fore turret of the Good Hope was burning fiercely, and she began to fall away out of line towards the enemy. Suddenly, at about a quarter to eight, there was a roar louder than that of the booming guns; the flames had reached the magazine of the Good Hope, and a terrific explosion took place. A column of fire shot up 200 feet, and the sea was strewn with débris. The Good Hope never fired her guns again. Down she went headlong into the stormy deep, with gallant Sir Christopher Cradock and his crew of nearly 900 officers and men.

The Good Hope going down with her last Guns firing.

(From the picture by Norman Wilkinson. By permission of the Illustrated London News.)

The Monmouth, too, was in dire distress. She was so badly damaged by the terrific cannonade that she could no longer fire. She was down by the head, and was obliged to turn away to get her stern to the sea. The little unarmoured Glasgow was now left alone, and on her the Scharnhorst and Gneisenau concentrated their fire. Again and again she was hit, but fortunately not dangerously. The sea was now running higher than ever; rain and mist came on, though the moon was rising. The Glasgow could render no aid to the Monmouth; she could not rescue her crew in the raging sea, and she could not contend with the heavily-armoured vessels of the enemy. There was nothing for it but to abandon the Monmouth and seek safety in flight. If she stayed to the end she would be needlessly sacrificing herself and her crew; and the Canopus, now coming up from the south, could not be warned of the destruction that awaited her.

So with a heavy heart Captain Luce swung his vessel to the north-west, and steamed off at full speed. As he did so the doomed men on the Monmouth gave her a pealing cheer. Before the sinking vessel was lost to sight another and another cheer was heard. At twenty minutes past nine o'clock Captain Luce counted seventy-five flashes of fire stabbing the darkness. The Nürnberg had come up, and was dealing the Monmouth its death-blows. It is said that the British ship in her final throes made a gallant attempt to ram the enemy. For a few seconds the watching men on the Glasgow saw the play of her searchlight. It disappeared, and all was over; the Monmouth had gone down with her flag flying.

The sole survivor, the Glasgow, sped away at 24 knots an hour, and as she gained on her pursuers she bore round gradually to the south. Her wireless was working in the hope of picking up the Canopus; but the enemy again jammed her messages, and only after several hours did she get in touch with her sister ship. At length they fell in with each other, and steamed in company southward, threaded the wild, glacier-fringed Strait of Magellan, and in due time reached Stanley Harbour, in the wind-swept Falkland Isles.

This disastrous sea fight will go down to history as the Battle of Coronel, for the little Chilian port of Coronel was the nearest place to the stretch of wild waters in which the Good Hope and the Monmouth went down. We shall never learn the full details of the action, for those who played the leading part in it on the British side are no more. The Germans have called their victory "the fairest sea fight of the war." No more misleading description can be imagined—even in Germany. The enemy had swifter, better armed, and more heavily armoured ships than we had, and his victory was due to superior speed and greater gun power.

Captain Luce tells us that "nothing could have been more admirable than the conduct of the officers and men throughout. Though it was most trying to receive a great volume of fire without the chance of returning it adequately, all kept perfectly cool. There was no wild firing, and discipline was the same as at battle practice. . . . The serious reverse sustained has entirely failed to impair the spirit of officers and ship's company, and it is our unanimous wish to meet the enemy again as soon as possible." We need no assurance that on that dread November day our tars fought and died as Britons are wont to do.

The Falkland Islands lie some three hundred miles to the east of the Strait of Magellan. They were discovered by John Davis, the Arctic explorer, as far back as 1592, but were first settled by the French in 1764. Seven years later they became British. The group consists of two large islands and of about one hundred islets, rocks, and sandbanks. The two large islands are East Falkland and West Falkland, and the only town of importance is Stanley, in the north-east of the former island. Berkeley Sound and Port William are the two most important sounds in East Falkland. Stanley Harbour, on which the capital stands, is a large, safe, and easily entered inlet of Port William.

If New Zealand may be said to be the most English of all British possessions, the Falkland Islands are certainly the most Scottish. In appearance they resemble the Outer Hebrides, and a large part of the population is of Scottish descent. The winters are cold and misty, but not very severe. So violent are the winds that tennis and croquet can only be played on sheltered grounds, and unless walls are erected the cabbages in the gardens are blown clean out of the soil. There is only one real tree on the islands, and that stands in the governor's garden. Penguins are so numerous on the smaller islands and in the lagoons, that the governor is sometimes nicknamed King of the Penguin Islands. The total population is about 2,300, and the people are mainly occupied in sheep-farming and seafaring. The colony is prosperous, and Stanley, which has a wireless installation, is a refitting and coaling station for ships rounding Cape Horn.

When the Canopus and the Glasgow reached Port Stanley, and the defeat off Coronel became known, great was the alarm of the colonists. They felt sure that the victorious German squadron was about to swoop down on the islands. Their alarm was increased when the two British battleships were ordered by wireless to proceed to Rio de Janeiro,[147] where they were to be repaired.

One morning the church and dockyard bells pealed out an alarm; the lookout on the hill above the town had sighted a cruiser, cleared for action, and making straight for the wireless station. The volunteers paraded; non-combatants streamed out of the place, and all waited for the firing to begin. Signals were exchanged between the vessel and the shore, and the colonists breathed freely once more. It was a false alarm. The newcomer was not a German cruiser, but the Canopus.

Obeying orders, she and the Glasgow had made for Rio de Janeiro, but when two days from that port she had been instructed to return to Stanley, for a reason which we shall learn later. She came about at once, and tried to get into touch with the wireless station. As she could not do so, she concluded that the Germans had raided the island and destroyed the wireless station. Decks were immediately cleared for action; the guns were loaded and trained; and with every man at his post, ready to fight the whole of von Spee's squadron if necessary, the Canopus steered into Stanley Harbour. You can easily imagine the relief of the colonists when they discovered that the newcomer was a friend and not a foe.

Von Spee was a victor, but even while celebrating his victory he knew that his hours were numbered. He was well aware that the British would take good care to send an overpowering squadron against him, and that there would be only one end to the battle which could not be long delayed. It is said that when the German colony at Valparaiso gave a banquet to the admiral in honour of his victory, the steps near the door of the hall were strewn with flowers. Von Spee noticed them, and said, "I think you had better keep these for my grave; they may be wanted." He spoke the simple truth: they were wanted—in less than forty days.

CHAPTER XXIII.

We must now hark back to Kiao-chau, and learn what was taking place in that "model of German culture." I have already told you how Germany played the chief part in ejecting the Japanese from the Liao-tung peninsula, and how, while professing to be China's friend, she stole from her 200 square miles of territory, on which she established the fortress and naval base of Tsing-tau. A few years later, when a mixed force of British, American, German, French, Russian, and Japanese troops invaded China during the "Boxer" rising,[148] the Kaiser's soldiers treated the Japanese with the utmost contempt. Japan had therefore old scores to pay off. She was Britain's ally, and, as such, was Germany's foe. Friendship for Britain and hatred of Germany made her eager to take a hand in the great struggle, though it is said that many high-placed Japanese believed that Germany would win. Nevertheless Japan did not hesitate for a moment to throw in her lot with the British. She was staunchly loyal to her plighted word; while the Germans, who scorned her, were tearing up their bond in Belgium.

The war was not three weeks old when Japan declared war, and undertook to make a clean sweep of German sea power in the Far East. She proposed to wrest Kiao-chau from the Germans, and at the end of the war restore it to China. Japan has a fine navy of six Dreadnoughts, six other battleships, four first-class battle cruisers, and large classes of other cruisers, destroyers, and coast-defence ships. A squadron of her fleet at once co-operated with the British in Eastern waters. Her army, which had been trained on the German model, numbered 250,000 on a peace footing, and could be increased to 1,100,000. It was admirably equipped, especially with heavy guns. Japan was thus formidable, alike by land and sea.

Before I describe the blockade, siege, and storming of Tsing-tau, let us have a clear idea of its geographical position. The map on the opposite page shows you the German protectorate of Kiao-chau and the surrounding country. Kiao-chau Bay, which has an area of about 200 square miles, is almost land-locked. At the southerly point of the peninsula on the eastern side of the bay you see the fortress of Tsing-tau, from which a railway twenty-two miles long runs north, skirting the shore and sweeping round the head of the bay to the station at Kiao-chau. The peninsula itself is flat and low-lying, except along the south coast; but here and there a number of low hills rise from the plain, and these the Germans had strongly fortified as the outer defences of Tsing-tau. You will see several of them on the map; one is marked Bismarck Hill, another Moltke Hill. Several rivers cross the peninsula, the most important being the Chang-sun, which enters the sea almost opposite to Potato Island in Kiao-chau Bay. The ground is marshy in the course of this river, and also along the coast farther north.

On 27th August an Allied fleet appeared off the south coast of the peninsula. A small island was seized as a naval base, and the sea was diligently swept for the mines with which the Germans had strewn it. So thoroughly was the work done that only one Japanese vessel was blown up by mines during the whole of the operations. The line of warships now extended east and west, so that all communication with the fortress by sea was cut off. Then the bombardment of the forts and harbour began.

On 2nd September the Japanese were ready to begin their land attack. The Gulf of Pechili lies directly to the north of Kiao-chau Bay. On the Shantung coast of this bay you will find Lai-chow. It was near this place that the first Japanese force landed. You will notice that the Japanese had to cross a strip of Chinese territory before reaching the boundary of German territory. When they crossed the boundary they found themselves held up and brought to a standstill. The autumn rains, always heavy in Shantung, had been heavier than usual; all the rivers had overflowed their banks, and had spread out into wide lagoons. Until the floods subsided it was impossible to reach Tsing-tau by this route. Nevertheless the Japanese by 13th September had reached the town of Kiao-chau, and had seized the railway station, twenty-two miles from Tsing-tau. General Kamio, who commanded the force, sent aeroplanes over the fortress, and bombs were dropped on the wireless station, the electric power station, and on the ships in the harbour. Soon the floods began to fall, and Kamio found himself able to advance. By the 27th he had reached Prince Henry Hill, the chief of the outer defences of the fortress. Next day he assaulted and captured the hill, from the crest of which all the forts around Tsing-tau could be bombarded. He was now in much the same position as the Germans when they had broken through the outer line of the Antwerp defences and were enabled to shell the inner forts. Prince Henry Hill was the key to Tsing-tau, and it is surprising that the Germans did not make a greater effort to retain it.

Landing of the Japanese at Laoshan Bay.    Photo, Record Press.

Meanwhile the Japanese had made another landing at Laoshan Bay, on the south side of the peninsula, where they were within the boundary of German territory. Japanese engineers erected a solid pier, by means of which men, guns, and stores were brought ashore, and on 23rd September transports arrived with a British force consisting of 1,000 of the South Wales Borderers and 500 Sikhs, under General Barnardiston, who was in command of our troops in North China. The British force was landed easily and rapidly, and all was now ready for a march on Tsing-tau itself. You will notice that the Allied force at Laoshan Bay had only a short distance to march before joining hands with General Kamio's men. The floods were no longer a great obstacle, and the advance was not delayed. On the evening of 28th September, just after the capture of Prince Henry Hill, the Allied forces were only five miles from Tsing-tau; and their lines stretched right across the peninsula, so that the fortress was shut in both by land and sea. German warships in Kiao-chau Bay attempted to do what British monitors afterwards did on the Belgian coast—that is, shell the right wing of the enemy. Japanese aviators, however, showed such skill and daring that the warships were driven off.

The Kaiser had ordered his troops to defend Tsing-tau as long as breath remained in their bodies. The feeble defence of Prince Henry Hill did not seem to show that they were disposed to hold out to the last man. During the next month General Kamio was inclined to think that their defence was largely make-believe, for they fired their shells in the most wanton and reckless fashion, sometimes discharging 1,000 to 1,500 projectiles a day. He therefore determined on a grand assault instead of a long, slow siege.

From the sea a vigorous bombardment was kept up, and on 15th October the Japanese general offered a safe-conduct to all non-combatants who cared to leave the fortress. The American consul, several ladies and children, and a few Chinese took advantage of the offer. On 31st October, 140 Japanese siege guns were in position, and as it was the Emperor's birthday a royal salute was fired with live shells. Before, however, the guns were fired, the Japanese signalled, "Are you now quite ready, gentlemen?" The reply came in the shape of a whizzing bullet. Then the shells began to whistle. All the forts were bombarded; fires broke out near the harbour; the oil tanks were speedily in flames, and black smoke filled the heavens. The forts were assailed by guns of practically the same calibre as those with which the Belgian fortresses had been battered down. A British officer who witnessed the bombardment said, "It really was a wonderful sight, and the Japanese shooting was magnificent. . . . Every shell seemed to find the mark. There was hardly a stick left in the forts and redoubts; concrete platforms, trenches, guns, and barbed-wire entanglements, all were destroyed. Our small force did their full share."

The German warships in the harbour replied, but before evening one of them had disappeared, and a second sank two days later. On 1st November H.M.S. Triumph, in seven shots, silenced the forts on Bismarck Hill; on 2nd November Fort Iltis was put out of action, and the Allies drove the Germans off a hill which they were holding. Next day the electric light station and the wireless station were wrecked; and, under heavy shell and rifle fire, the besiegers advanced still nearer to the fortress. By the night of the 6th the Germans were almost ready to surrender.

Throughout the darkness the guns of the enemy roared at intervals. The Allies, however, pushed on and occupied central positions on the main line of defence. By this time they had dug their trenches to within a score of yards of the redoubts. When the Germans attempted to leave one of their strongholds they found enemy rifles and machine guns covering the only exit. Early next morning (7th November) all was ready for the final assault. Between six and seven o'clock, while the troops, in tense silence, were awaiting the order to storm, white flags appeared above the observatory and several of the forts. Then the little Japanese soldiers broke into loud shouts of "Banzai![149]" Tsing-tau had yielded, and the Kaiser had no longer an Asiatic "place in the sun."

At 7.50 in the evening terms of surrender were signed. Honours of war were accorded to the defenders, and it was arranged that they should march out the next day. At 10 a.m. on 10th November the governor, 201 officers, and 3,841 men laid down their arms as prisoners of war. The German casualties were heavy; the Japanese lost 236 killed and 1,282 wounded out of a total force of about 23,000; the British 1,500 were reduced by 12. In addition, the Japanese lost a cruiser, a destroyer, a torpedo boat, and three mine-sweepers.

In Japan the news was received with delighted surprise. There were great rejoicings in the island kingdom, and when General Barnardiston reached Tokio he was accorded a welcome such as had never before been given to any stranger. He was greeted by parades of troops and thousands of cheering school children. The whole Japanese nation made holiday to rejoice in its victory, and the capital was gloriously decorated and illuminated. The National Assembly was called together, and the greatest enthusiasm prevailed. The German officers had been allowed to retain their swords, and the people showed them the utmost kindness.

The rapid fall of the fortress was a great blow to German pride. One of the newspapers wrote as follows:—

The city of Warsaw looking north-west across the Vistula, which here flows under the three bridges connecting the city proper with its suburb, Praga.

Warsaw is beautifully situated on the left bank of the Vistula, which is here about as wide as the Thames at Gravesend. Most of the city is built on a low hill which rises from the broad plain to a terrace 120 feet above the river-level. Though dating from the Middle Ages, Warsaw is very modern in appearance. It is a large manufacturing centre, but has none of the smoke and grime which characterize most industrial towns. There is no livelier or gayer city in the east of Europe. Its buildings are fine, and its well-laid-out public gardens are a great attraction. In Sigismund Square is the former royal castle, round which the life of the city is centred. Four main thoroughfares radiate from it, and on or near these are the chief public buildings, churches, and statues. The Church of the Holy Ghost contains the heart and monument of the great Polish musician Chopin. The population of Warsaw in 1911 was 872,478, one-third of the people being Jews. Praga is the junction of six great trunk lines which converge from Vienna, Berlin, and Danzig on the one side of the frontier, and from Petrograd, Moscow, and Kiev (South Russia) on the other.

CHAPTER XXIV.

It is high time that we returned to the Eastern theatre of war. In Chapter XXXIV. of Volume II. you were told that at the end of September 1914 the Russians, after their crushing defeats of the Austrians, had advanced through Galicia to within a hundred miles of Cracow. At that time it seemed to us in the West that the Russian left would be almost certain to capture the great Galician fortress, and advance into Silesia and across the Carpathians towards Vienna within the next few weeks. Meanwhile we believed that the Russian right would be over the German frontier in full march for Berlin. It was rumoured—falsely, as we now know—that the Austrians shared our belief, and that their Government had decided to leave Vienna for Salzburg[151] or Innsbruck.[152] Though the Allies in the West were held up by the Germans on the Aisne, the prospects of their rapid and complete success in the East seemed very bright indeed.

Then suddenly came a great disappointment. We learnt that, instead of advancing on Cracow, the Russians were retreating from Galicia. By the middle of October they were back again on the San, with nothing to show for their victories and their weeks of hard fighting. Why had they retreated? They were not pushed back by the Austrians; they were retiring of their own accord in order to meet a new and dangerous movement which the Germans had begun to make in Russian Poland.

On the frontier of East Prussia there was a deadlock, and von Hindenburg had come to the conclusion that all the victories that could be won in that deadly region of lake and swamp would avail him nothing. His business was to destroy the Russian armies, and that could not be done by even a dozen successful campaigns in East Prussia. He must strike hard at the Russian centre—somewhere across the Polish plain, which was then but lightly held by his enemy.

At what point in the Russian centre should he try to break through?—that was the question. There was one point that seemed to beckon him with the promise of full and speedy success. I have already told you that on the Vistula, half-way between the German fortress of Thorn and the Galician frontier, stands the great city of Warsaw.[153] It is not only a great place of manufactures, but a powerful fortress and the capital of Russian Poland, which contains twelve million people—Poles, Germans, Russians, and half a score other races. Amongst these mixed peoples Germany had many friends who would spy for her, and otherwise help her to win the city. Though the Tsar had promised to set up the old kingdom of Poland again if all went well with his arms, nobody yet knew whether the Poles would be loyal to Russia, or whether they would throw in their lot with the Germans. The Kaiser's agents had been secretly at work amongst them, striving hard to show that Codlin was their friend and not Short.[154] They believed that if the Germans could seize the capital of Poland the Poles would declare for them.

There was another and more important reason why von Hindenburg should launch his attack against Warsaw. The city is a great railway junction. Four railways, with cross lines to relieve the pressure on any one line, meet at Warsaw. One of these lines runs northwards to East Prussia; a second goes north-east to Petrograd; a third eastwards to Moscow; a fourth south along the right bank of the Vistula to Novo Alexandra, where it sweeps eastwards, and links up with the main system of South Russia. If Warsaw could be seized the Russian communications would be cut; a wedge would be thrust in between the northern army and the southern army in Galicia, and, so divided, they would be an easy prey. Clearly, Warsaw was the place at which the Russian centre must be broken.

The task was by no means easy. Warsaw itself lies on the west bank of the Vistula, with strong forts and lines of entrenchments in front of it; but the main railway stations are on the east bank of the river in the suburb of Praga, which is connected with the city proper by three bridges—the fine Alexander Bridge, for foot passengers and ordinary traffic, in the middle; the new road bridge to the south of it; and the railway bridge, protected by the guns of the citadel, to the north. Between the city and the main railway stations flows the river Vistula, broad, deep, and rapid—the greatest military obstacle in Eastern Europe. The capture of the city alone would not be sufficient for von Hindenburg's purpose. If the Russians could hold the eastern bank they could still bring up reinforcements, and could still maintain communications with their armies to the north and south. If, however, the stations in Praga could be seized, the Russians could not use their railways, and, as you know, a modern army cannot live long without railways. Further, the Germans would be in an excellent position to carry the whole line of the Vistula; and, once this was won, the Russians could be kept at bay by means of comparatively small forces, and prevented from making war in Poland until they had retaken the line of the river. The bulk of the German armies would then be able to leave the Eastern theatre of war and fall in strength upon the Allies in the West.

Now, it was highly important that von Hindenburg should capture Warsaw without loss of time. The autumn rains were setting in, and the Polish roads, never good, would soon be quagmires, through which heavy guns and wagons could only be hauled with great difficulty. The Russians believe that General Winter always fights for them; in Poland, General Mud is their equally good friend.

In the early days of October, by means of the gridiron of railways which Germany has constructed on her eastern border for the express purpose of invading Russia, von Hindenburg massed about a million men all along the frontier from Thorn southwards, and soon they began to move across the rolling ridges and low boggy valleys towards the Vistula. The left (A) advanced towards Warsaw along both banks of the Vistula; the centre (B) pushed eastwards from Kalisz; while the right (C) moved north-eastwards from Silesia. The right consisted of three columns, the most southerly of which was composed of Austrians, who were to push along the Upper Vistula. This Austrian column was to work with the column on its left, and both were to strike at Josefov, which stands between the confluence of the Vistula and the San and the fortress of Ivangorod.

A glance at the map below will explain why an attempt was to be made to force the river at this point. There is no railway on the eastern bank of the Vistula between Novo Alexandra and the San. The railway strikes off south-east from Ivangorod, and the nearest point on it to Josefov is Lublin, thirty-three miles away. All the roads in this region are bad, and the forces fighting in it are at a great disadvantage, because they have no railway by which to bring up troops, food, ammunition, and big guns. The Russians defending Josefov had no railway on the eastern side of the river within thirty-three miles, while the Germans had a railhead about ten or twelve miles away on the western side.