The eve of our first departure was drizzling and misty. Attempts for some advance sleep were of no avail—too much pressure had directly preceded. When 11 o’clock came without sign of the two ships due from the inner anchorage in Beauly Basin, we in the flagship wondered why. The tide was falling, another half hour passed—would they never come? Signals and radio failed to get through. Very soon, if not already, they would be unable to pass through the new dredged channel. At last, near midnight, they appeared. The pilots had been delayed through a misunderstanding on shore, in itself slight—but it was a narrow escape from being 10 hours late, which, on our first operation, would have made a bad impression, without and within.
The start is made without signals, all dark and noiseless on board, except for the rumbling chain as the ship gets underway. As the San Francisco heads out slowly, one after another the signal quartermaster reports the other ships underway and following. We take two-thirds speed now. The full number of lookouts are at their stations and warned to be alert, and the men are now sent to the battery, making a little stir for the moment, then quiet falls again. Fort George shows the signal for an open gate, we increase to standard speed, and as the second ship passes out through the submarine net, they all form single column astern and close up—to 500 yards apart. The rocky shore looms high and black on the left, not a single house light showing. On the off-shore side, small patrol craft can be dimly seen, on watch against lurking danger. Fifteen minutes more and we see long, low forms slinking against the dark background of North Sutor. Those are the escort destroyers, going out to form a screen. Close following them we make out larger, higher, moving shadows—our detachment from the other base—one, two, three, four—five! All there! The detachments are so timed that they reach the junction buoy at the same moment, and the whole squadron stands on, without pause, together, 10 ships in two parallel columns, 500 yards apart. Ahead and on either side are four destroyers, 12 in all. No signals, no lights, no sound but quiet tones on the bridge and the swash of the water overside. Three miles along, the water deepens to 60 feet. A screened flash from the flagship to the opposite leader and the squadron, all together, slackens speed, to get out paravanes—those underwater, outrigger-like affairs which guard against anchored mines in one’s path. Only a few minutes, then up each column comes the sign “yes,” passed by ships in succession—another flash from the flagship, and we resume standard speed again, keeping on, out Moray Firth, through the one-mile wide channel, which is swept daily for mines.
The Mine Squadron at Sea.
Returning to Base After Laying the Ninth Minefield.
Off Pentland Skerries, near John O’Groat’s House, we turn east, and here as we pass, the supporting force files out of Scapa Flow—six light cruisers, then a squadron of battle cruisers and another of four battleships, each squadron screened by six destroyers. Very impressive are these great ships, majestic in movement, as they sweep off to the southward and eastward, disappearing in the morning haze, which magnifies their towering bulk. We see them no more until next day but know they are there, on guard against raiders.
The British Minelaying Squadron is out, too, four ships with a joint capacity of 1300 mines, but we do not meet. Though protected by the same heavy squadrons, we work independently, in different areas. They are bound this time for the section near the Norway coast, Area C it is called, while we are to begin at the southeastern corner of the middle section, Area A, and work to the westward.
Straight over to Udsire we go, a small island off the Norway coast, the nearest good landmark from which to take a departure for the minelaying start point. We make Udsire Light near 11.30 p.m., close in to about 11 miles distance, turn north for a sufficient run to give a good fix, and then head off-shore. Accurate determination of the minefield’s position is necessary for use in laying another field close by subsequently, and also for the safety of the vessels sweeping the mines up after the war. There must be steady steaming and steering, with a minimum of changing course—no hesitation, no trial moves, for neither the time at disposal nor the submarine risk will permit.
All goes smoothly until the turn to head off-shore, when one destroyer crosses too close under San Francisco’s stern and cuts her “taut wire.” This is fine piano wire, furnished in spools of 140 miles of wire, the whole weighing one ton. A small weight would anchor the end to the bottom, and then a mile of wire meant a mile over the ground without question.
The wire is soon started again, and as the Baltimore is running her wire on the other flank, and the weather is clear enough for good navigational bearings and star sights, no harm is done. We head for a position seven miles in advance of the start point, so that the squadron may turn together to the minelaying course and have still a half-hour in which to settle down.
It is a busy night and early morning, keeping the ships in formation, verifying the navigation, keeping a keen lookout in every direction for submarines—we are now in their regular route—going over the mines for final touches and making other preparations necessarily left to the last. About 4 o’clock, Lieut. Commander Cunningham, the flagship’s navigator, reports that we shall reach the start point at 5.27 a.m. Captain Butler and I check his figures, and at 4.27 the signal is made that minelaying will begin in one hour. The crews go to mining stations, to see all clear and then stand by. In the flagship we watch for the reports of readiness. Ship by ship they signal in the affirmative. They are ready, every one.
Now the last turn has been made and the signal is flying to begin laying in seven minutes. The ships are formed in a single line abreast, speeding towards the start point—like race horses when the starter’s flag is up. It is a stirring sight. How will it go, after all these months—for some of us years—of preparation? Our work to-day will mean much to those in Washington.
No ship is off the line by so much as a quarter length. Commander Canaga stands with watch in hand—“two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds, fifteen?” He looks up inquiringly. A nod—all right. “Five seconds—haul down!” Up go the red flags on the first ships to plant, the sign that their minelaying has begun, and word comes from the flagship’s launching station at the stern, “First mine over.” All well so far.
The minelaying now runs entirely by the time table. Each ship gives her successor five minutes warning and, as her last mine dives overboard, shows the signal “Begin minelaying at once; I have suspended.” The successor begins accordingly, showing her red flag. The staff officers on board the San Francisco watch for these signals, comparing the times with what they should be, and counting also the seconds elapsed between the launching of successive mines, from the ships whose sterns we can see. A few seconds out now and then—otherwise all goes according to schedule, just as planned before leaving the United States.
The hardest task is on board the Housatonic—a new ship, with a new mining installation, of type untried in service, and a crew inexperienced in minelaying—dropping 675 mines without intermission, 1 every 11½ seconds, during 2 hours and 10 minutes. Her mate is standing by, ready for any interruption, but the Housatonic completes the task without a break—making a world record, a continuous line of mines, 28 miles long. On a later occasion, the Canonicus planted 860 mines in 3 hours 35 minutes, an unbroken line of 43 miles.
About 20 minutes after planting began, an explosion was felt and a geyser seen astern. A few minutes later the same occurred again, and other explosions followed, at varying intervals and distances, some just visible on the horizon. Others which were nearer, as evidenced by the sharpness of the shock, threw up no geyser, indicating that they were at the middle or lowest depth.
In the proof tests held off Cape Ann in April, it had been observed that a mine at the middle level, 160 feet submergence, made no surface disturbance when detonated, until 8 seconds had elapsed, and then only as much as the wash of a light swell over a submerged rock. At the deepest level, 240 feet submergence, a detonation produced no more surface upheaval than there is in a glass of well iced champagne. The ship being about 800 yards away, the shock was heavy and sharp. The water surface all over could be seen to tremble with the shock, but directly over the mine itself, when, after 27 seconds, the gas came up, there was no more surface disturbance than a pleasure canoe could have ridden with safety. A slick on the water would follow, but this could not be distinguished at much over a mile distance nor at all if there were a white cap sea running.
Observers recorded the number, times, and approximate positions of all explosions and, on board the San Francisco and Baltimore, there were listeners stationed at the submarine signal receivers, so as to get a full count. All observers did not agree, as the indications from sounds and shocks varied according to distance and depth. Some explosions gave a prolonged reverberation, at times sounding to the unassisted ear like two or three explosions in rapid succession, but in the submarine signal receiver each explosion made a distinct sound, unmistakable.
The count by the San Francisco and Baltimore, differing by only 2, practically agreed on 100 explosions, or about 3 per cent of all mines planted. Although a perfect record was desirable, the detonations showed the minefield to be alive and sensitive, and their number was not large for a new mine, not yet long enough in service to refine out the minor defects.
Surprising enough on deck, where one could see, that first explosion must have startled the men in the engine room, in the coal bunkers, and on the lower mine decks. The blow rings sharper down there, where resulting damage, in broken pipe joints or started boiler tubes, might be expected first. Whether gun, torpedo, or mine, however, it is all one—the duties go on just the same.
As the mines on the launching deck move slowly aft, those on lower decks move forward, to the elevators and up. Working spaces are cramped, passages narrow, bulkhead doors closed wherever possible. At the right time, a door will be opened, the portable section of mine track adjusted, the mines in that compartment hauled out, and the door closed again water-tight, all as quickly as possible. Close, hot, foul with oily steam and seasickness—it is sweating, disagreeable work below decks. But complaint is nowhere in the ships. The feeling is well expressed by one man, writing home:
When the first mine went over, I had a curious feeling of exultation. The fear, the perils, the uncertainties that surround our work, slipped from me like the foolish fancies of a nightmare. There, at last, was a nail in the Kaiser’s coffin. Come what might, I had justified my existence. Had the whole German High Seas Fleet appeared in the offing, I am sure I should have gone to my battle station with a shout of glee.
Prolonged activity, in preparing the squadron and bringing it out, makes it trying now for me, to look on, hands folded—nothing to do while everything goes well—yet constantly alert, for instant decision in case of mishap. After nearly four hours, the schedule is finished. Some marker buoys are dropped, for later use in beginning another minefield. The line of ships then takes the narrower route formation, and we head back for the base. Butler, Canaga, and I exchange quiet congratulations. Our work together has been to good purpose.
The men clean up the decks, get a wash for themselves, and those off duty drop asleep—anywhere—the deck is covered with them. On top of the duties common to all men-of-war, to move the 400-ton masses of mines, in slow but steady time, is very fatiguing, even with steam winches to help.
We are not finished yet. Expectation of a quiet afternoon doze, handy to the bridge, is rudely dispelled by a smoke screen started by the destroyers. Unaware it is only an exercise, all hands tumble up to battle stations. Then one minelayer must stop, to tighten a nut working loose. Two destroyers are left to guard her, all three overtaking us in a few hours. Next a dirigible balloon heaves in sight, and then a widespread smoke covers the horizon, developing into a convoy of 50 vessels. Finally, in the midst of dinner, the siren of our next astern shrieks “Submarine to port!”
While the minelayers, upon signal, swing together away from the danger quarter, the Vampire swoops by at 30 knots, to drop two depth charges on the spot indicated. Captain Godfrey signals, “Whatever was there, those charges will keep him down for a considerable time.” All quiet again, we return to our cold provender, remarking that, as a name, mine squadron is ill chosen. It should be “Crowded Hour Club.”
Reports had now come in from all the ships that there had been no casualties. All were prepared to undertake another operation upon receiving the mines, and without further incident we returned to our former anchorages, arriving at 3.30 next morning. But ere that day closed, so memorable in our lives, I signaled the squadron:
The operation to-day was an excellent performance by each ship and by the squadron as a whole. The fact of some premature explosions does not detract from the highly creditable mine handling and steady steaming. Confidence in the personnel and faith in the undertaking are well justified, and captains may well be proud of their commands, as the squadron commander is of the squadron.