Part 39
“Before rising to the surface the commandant asks us to cry three times, ‘_Vive la France!_’ and to sing the ‘_Marseillaise_.’ Such were the last words and orders of the man who was and remained the commandant of the _Monge_, for he chose not to leave his beloved boat. As soon as we reached the deck we complied with his request and thrice shouted ‘_Vive la France!_’ and sang the refrain of the ‘_Marseillaise_.’ When the water rose to our waists we had only time to throw ourselves into the sea. The _Monge_ sank on Dec. 29, 1915, at 2:30 in the morning. There were three deaths—the commandant and two mechanician quartermasters.”
Afterward the French Government honored Lieutenant Morillot by giving his name to a ship captured from the enemy; but one wonders why so gallant an officer should have been so unprofitably sacrificed to a naval tradition. Captains go down with their ships because tradition and court-martials have made it more honorable than living to serve their country in new duties and responsibilities.
A NOTABLE EXPLOIT
Two Italian Naval Officers Destroy an Austrian Dreadnought in a Novel Way
Lieut. Col. R. Rossetti of the Italian Naval Construction Corps and his friend, Dr. Paolucci, also of the Navy, on the night of October 31-Nov. 1, 1918, destroyed an Austrian dreadnought in circumstances as thrilling as they were exceptional. They struck an entirely new note in marine warfare.
The Austrian warship _Viribus Unitis_, having a displacement of 20,010 tons, and an armament of twelve 12-inch guns, and representing a cost of $13,000,000, was moored in the harbor of Pola, about as secure a place as she could possibly have been at rest in. The entrance of the harbor was formidably fortified; it was a most important naval base and was guarded accordingly. Obstacles and obstructions, however, did not dismay Col. Rossetti, who was of a mind to blow up the greatest and newest of Austrian dreadnoughts of the super variety. He was of an inventive faculty, this daring Genoese, and he devised an apparatus, a curious motor, the especial purpose of which was to enable a swimmer to get a mine safely over the obstructions that closed Pola harbor.
With this device supporting the necessary mine, Col. Rossetti and Dr. Paolucci swam into the harbor in the night. They had approached as near as was expedient in the chaser _M. A. S. 95_ which towed the apparatus. They left the chaser with the parting whisper “_Vive il Re!_” and steered their course between two lighthouses until they came to the obstruction at the extreme end of the jetty. The obstruction consisted of long beams bound together at the ends by wire rope. Buoys at intervals kept the obstruction in position. The apparatus was put in a line with the beams and dragged slowly forward for about a quarter of an hour. At a certain point the beams were submerged and the men could no longer guide themselves by them, so the motor was put into action to reach the inner edge of the obstruction. In his official report Col. Rossetti gave in detail by hours the incidents and events that followed. The report is quoted:
“On our left (that is, toward the open sea) I have noticed a submarine with one tower. She is on the surface, and passes, darkened and noiseless, between the harbor obstruction and the chaser which had brought us. I can see her like a shadow against the sky, and point her out to Dr. Paolucci.
“About 11.15 p.m.—We can distinctly see a red light shining at intervals and moving up and down along the jetty. Probably it is on a patrol boat stationed between the jetty and the outside obstructions. This will not affect us, however, for here we shall be keeping to the outer side of the obstructions.
PAOLUCCI EXPLORES
“About 11.45 p.m.—We are nearing the jetty and are about 100 meters from it after passing rapidly through the second diagonal. At my request Dr. Paolucci swims off to explore in the direction of the jetty, and returns in a few minutes to say that we can proceed. During this pause I notice that a rather strong current runs northward along the coast. We move on until we reach the jetty, and then work along parallel with it, placing ourselves between our apparatus and the jetty. We have a good hand hold, as the jetty is made of blocks of cement, piled one on another. The current, too, is in our favor. Everything is going smoothly, but we are losing far too much time, so I venture to start the motor once more. This is not really imprudent—notwithstanding the phosphorescence produced by increased speed—for the breakwater, with large intervals between the cement masses, surely cannot be patrolled at night by a sentry. We are in a dead sector as far as sentries are concerned.
[Illustration: The _Viribus Unitis_, an Austrian Dreadnought Ready for an Engagement in the Adriatic]
“12.30 a.m.—Still clinging to the jetty, we reach a group of chains that are fastened to the top of the jetty and hang down toward the water. I judge this may be the end of the last diagonal of the first observation, and conclude, therefore, that we must be about 200 meters from the small opening of the jetty. Dr. Paolucci again goes alone to explore the opening. He soon returns with the report that we may advance. We are under way again by about 12.45. When the opening is clearly visible I silence the motor and we proceed hand-over-hand.
AVOIDS A SENTRY BOAT
“About 1 a.m.—We have reached the edge of the opening, always sticking close to the jetty, which now slopes down to the opening and is guarded by a small gun (of about fifty millimeters), which is silhouetted against the sky as we pass under it at a distance of about five meters.
“A strong current coming from the interior of the roadstead meets the current flowing along the coast and drives us—despite all our efforts—out to sea in the direction of the northern extremity of the jetty. The motor is started into full action and we manage to make a wide loop toward the left, returning to the small opening.
“Here, too, we find an obstruction formed by several sections of floating beams, joined with wire ropes. Here and there points project above the water. Having satisfied ourselves that the obstruction has no submerged nets, we decide to climb over it while passing our apparatus underneath, and the plan is carried out without accident. We follow the inner side of this obstruction back to the jetty—easily recognized by the cannon and sentry-post which we had already seen from the other side. Still creeping along the jetty for a few meters, we find ourselves near the bow of a tug, moored there, and can hear the hissing noise of a jet of steam. A little further off, stern toward the jetty, is a large boat that guards the port. This is indicated on our chart, so we decide to turn toward the inner harbor.
“About 2 a.m.—We reach the third obstruction, which runs parallel to the jetty, without encountering that running from the jetty on the right of the guard boat to the large opening of the port. The obstruction now to be overcome is made up of a row of metal cylinders, with tops projecting about twenty centimeters above the water, supporting, about sixty centimeters below the water level, a metal cable to which a net is attached. Given the distance between buoys, and the depth at which the net begins, it is easy to pass this barrier. About ten meters behind it is a second, and then a third, all parallel and of the same type. These are passed without real difficulty, though we have lost time between the second and third series. A boat was moored not more than thirty meters from us, and we had to move with extreme caution and very slowly.
“It is easy to know where we are. Ahead and to our left, I can recognize Valmaggiore and the rocky mass near the curve toward the interior of the port. We consult the pocket compass, but it is full of water and will not work. Once past the third section of this obstruction, I steer in an oblique line to the right, the direction in which I believe we shall find the last series of obstructions—those projecting from the north coast and running perpendicular to the jetty.
“The first big ships—dark, shadowy forms—are barely visible on our right. Going forward, we can see three other ships, further in, that show lighted cabins and portholes, and that have white deck-lights.
NEARING THE SHIP
“About 3 a.m.—We reach and pass, without trouble, a triple series of obstructions similar to the preceding ones. Sure of our position, I steer so as to pass between the north coast and the line of big ships, along which we move for about 200 meters, now always fighting against the current.
“It is late, and we fear that the air pressure of 120 atmospheres will not be sufficient to insure our return to the chaser. After consultation, we agree to continue as far as the flagship, which had been pointed out to us as of special importance. After sinking this we will endeavor to land on the north coast, sink our apparatus and dispose of our waterproof suits. Then, in the uniform of Italian naval officers, which we wear underneath the waterproof, we will try to reach a place called Fontaine, near Rovigno, where it has been agreed that a motor boat will wait for us each night from the 2d to the 7th of November.
“As we move toward the ship I detach a small device that had been added at the last moment. It is supposed to insure an easy mooring for the propelling apparatus, but fails to work. To rid ourselves of this incumbrance I unsheathe my knife, lose the sheath, and am obliged to stick the knife into the wooden cover of the apparatus. (I mention this merely because it will explain why, later, I was so long under the _Viribus Unitis_.)
“At this time an incident occurs that very nearly puts an end to the whole business. We find that, with no apparent cause, our apparatus is gradually, unmistakably, sinking—especially at the stern, where I am. Greatly disturbed, I endeavor to counteract this sinking by crossing my legs beneath the stern, and by accelerating the motor, at the same time working to open the little valve that lets air into the balance tank at the stern. After a hurried examination, I find that the valve for flooding the afterpart is open; how it happened I cannot imagine. The valve is finally closed, and when air is readmitted the apparatus returns to its normal condition. Without doubt these were the most exciting moments of the trip.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
Corporal F. H. McKaig
_2nd Division, 6th Marines, 83rd Company_
He was acting as battalion runner. The Germans were counter-attacking around Jaulny; but Corporal McKaig with truest heroism carried the messages through the most dense enemy artillery and machine-gun fire.]
“We continue slowly and cautiously until 4.30 when we find ourselves at the bow of the _Viribus Unitis_, the last of the six ships that are drawn up in line. At about 100 meters from the ship’s bow the motor is stopped, and I move to the head of our apparatus and prepare the first weapon of offense. The time for the explosion must be calculated from 4.30 a.m., and the mine is so regulated that it will go off four hours from that time. This, however, is changed before finally sinking the mine.
“It takes from 4.30 until 4.45 to detach the mine from our propelling apparatus. Meanwhile the current carries us along parallel to the right side of the ship at a distance of sixty meters. We have drifted too far toward the stern so, by using our arms as in swimming, and by putting the propeller very gently into action, we succeed in turning our apparatus and in getting back toward the bow of the ship near the lower boom, at a distance of about twenty-five meters from the right side. After another slight change of position toward the rear, on account of the current, I detach the mine, and, swimming, push it before me until it touches the hull.
ALL LIGHTED UP
“The ship is lighted up and shows all the movement that is usual during the night. Some one speaks on the bridge (also lighted); some one is walking the deck. The spot toward which I am swimming is between the second and third of the 150-millimeter guns—counting from the stern—which corresponds roughly to the position of the principal motors. It is a convenient position for the sure sinking of the ship.
“On the weapon of offense is a contrivance for fixing the machine to the hull of the ship. It is connected by a small rope that must be loosened or cut. I set to work, but the knot is intricate and my knife is sticking in the wooden cover of the apparatus. Consequently, as the rope is wet and my hands numb with cold, it takes a long time to untie that knot. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the knot yields. I then attach the device to the hull, and also fasten it to a rope that I find secured to the ship at this point. During the operation (it is about 5.15) I hear the morning bugle—it is sounded repeatedly—soon followed by the noise of all hands on board awake and moving. Ashes are thrown out close to me, and more steps sound on the deck. I must hasten and complete the work. I change the clockwork regulating the explosion from 4 to 2; consequently the explosion should take place at 6.30. I detach the bandage of linen and cork that has floated the mine, and sink it. It is now 5.30.
“I swim away from the ship as quickly as possible; the sky is cloudy, but in the east are signs of dawn. It is a question whether I can succeed in reaching our apparatus or whether I must swim ashore and try to make my way to the point where they will be waiting for us. Happily, on my right I soon see Dr. Paolucci and the apparatus about fifty meters from the ship, and I soon reach them.
“Again taking command, I send the apparatus as rapidly as possible toward the bow of the ship, and parallel to it, hoping to get away from her and to gain the north coast as we had planned. The ship’s crew is now awake, and they must have discovered us by the excessive natural phosphorescence, which was increased by the more rapid movement of our apparatus. Suddenly a searchlight is operated upon the bridge and the light is thrown on us. We remain breathlessly still for a few moments, hoping against hope that we may not be seen. The light remains stationary on us and we move very slowly, for, although no shot has been fired, we understand that we have been discovered and that a boat will now be sent out to us.
“Dr. Paolucci, at the bow, now prepares the second mine, while I open the valves that will sink the apparatus. In this way, while a motor boat is leaving the ship and approaching, we abandon our apparatus which drifts slowly forward—sinking—with the mine that will destroy it. Our mission is ended.
TAKEN ON BOARD
“The motor boat reaches us, paying no attention to our apparatus, and they take us on board. It is 5.45. We are recognized as Italians and they take us to the ladder on the port side of the ship. A crowd of sailors receives us at the top of the ladder. We feel it our duty to shout ‘_Viva l’Italia!_’ This demonstration, contrary to what might be expected, is received in a spirit rather more cordial than hostile. To our surprise we notice the new Jugoslav insignia on the caps. We are asked, in Venetian dialect, how we come to be here. We answer (as Commander Ciano had suggested) that we lighted on the water in a hydroplane which we had afterward sunk. In the meantime they are escorting us aft. The friendly reception and the changed nationality of the fleet cause us to hesitate a bit; we consult and come to a decision, asking to speak with the Captain on a very important and urgent matter. The Captain is called, and it is 6 o’clock when he receives me in his cabin. I give him Dr. Paolucci’s knife, which I find myself still holding, and inform him that his ship is in immediate and very serious danger. The Captain inquires the nature of the serious danger and asks if other ships are in the same peril. I answer that I cannot disclose the nature of the danger and that no other ship is involved.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by Joseph Cummings Chase._
Sergeant Stacy A. Lewis
_1st Division, 2nd Machine-Gun Battalion, Company “A”_
On July 22, 1918, near Soissons, with great daring Sergeant Lewis killed an entire machine-gun crew and captured their guns. He voluntarily organized a machine-gun crew, with which in the hottest shell fire he advanced and gave battle to the enemy.]
“The Captain picks up his lifebelt and leaves the cabin at once, giving loud orders in German that all should leave the ship. We follow him up on deck, where he repeats the order—obeyed, scatteringly, by all. I ask the Captain to permit Dr. Paolucci and myself to leave the ship. He consents, and we go down the ladder at the right and swim off toward the ship’s stern with the current, but impeded by the great weight of our clothing. Numbers of swimming sailors pass us, as well as boats loaded with members of the crew. Searchlight signals are flashed to the nearest ship, _Tegethoff_, which sends boats to our assistance.
“About 6.20 a boat picks us up and takes us back to the ladder on the right of the _Viribus Unitis_, where a large boat is waiting for the remainder of the crew. When we reach the deck we are received with threats, though the men are not especially violent. I lose sight of Dr. Paolucci in the crowd. It seems that they no longer believe in our warning or in the danger. A sailor begins to rip up my waterproof suit with his knife; others go through my pockets.
“There is a short, smothered thunderclap; the ship shivers violently, while a crest of foam is thrown up all along her starboard side. External damage is very slight, but the ship heels over to the right, at first very rapidly, then more slowly, but steadily. Most of the crowd has left us; a few, however, now close in, threatening to shut us up on board. The Captain, who stands a few meters off, shows no interest in our fate. I appeal to him, reminding him that we are prisoners of war; that what we have done, as belligerents, gives us the right to have our persons respected; that the threatened treatment is contrary to rules of war. The Captain acknowledges the justice of my protest, again gives permission for us to leave, and gives orders in German for a boat within hailing distance on the left of the stern to return and take us off the ship. I succeed meanwhile, with the help of Dr. Paolucci, in ridding myself of my waterproof suit, which had hampered me in swimming and which the sailors had ripped open.
“Dr. Paolucci and I let ourselves down into the water on the port side of the stern. We are both pulled into the boat and can watch the end of the _Viribus Unitis_. She is still settling on the right. When the water almost reaches the deck—although the ship is still high out of the water—she suddenly heels over with remarkable rapidity. In a few seconds nothing is visible save the flat bottom of the keel and the four screws—encircled by smoke, flames, and fragments of shattered wood—while the sea all around is lashed up into frothy waves. One sailor in our boat gives vent to his grief in a most touching manner; all the others appear indifferent. If my calculations are correct not ten minutes elapsed between the explosion and the end.
“I have learned with sincere grief that Captain Ianko Vukovic de Podkapelski of the _Viribus Unitis_ was wounded by a fragment of the sunken ship while swimming to a place of safety. He was picked up and carried to the hospital in Pola but died a few hours afterward. Throughout, he was most chivalrous, and treated us with all the consideration that one could expect from an honorable enemy.
FREED AFTER THE ARMISTICE
“We were landed on the neighboring shore and taken, under escort, on board the _Hapsburg_. There we were despoiled of our clothing and given Austrian uniforms. Then we were removed to the arsenal, where we arrived at 8. From that moment we became prisoners of war, but for four days only. On the signing of the armistice with Austria, Italian naval forces entered Pola—and we were free.”
RESCUE EXTRAORDINARY
The Impossible Done in Saving Fifty Lives from the Flooded and Sunken Submarine _K-13_
One of the most dramatic episodes of the war, one in which the tragedy of suspense was exemplified with thrilling intensity, had nothing to do with siege or battlefield, though it partook of the nature and perils of both. It was the salving of the _K-13_. The story was first made public in its completeness, two years after the event, by Bennet Copplestone, who presented the facts, as he obtained them at first hand, in a vivid article contributed to the _Cornhill Magazine_.
The story, which could not be released until the war ended, is of such absorbing interest that it is here reproduced with little abbreviation. Mr. Copplestone begins:
“I was in Scotland when this happened that I write of, and I took the details in all their intimate simplicity from the mouths of the chief actors—from the salvors who sweated blood that they might be in time to pluck live men out of a steel coffin; from those who lay below and who, drugged by poisoned air, remained throughout indifferent to the issue, whether of life or death. It was a queer paradox of a fight in which the salvors, not those saved, got all the excitement and all the thrills.