GREAT NAVAL DISASTERS
The Loss of the Formidable and the Victoria
“YOU never know when anything may happen,” wrote Captain Noel Loxley, of H.M.S. Formidable a day or so before 1915 elbowed 1914 into the past; and before the New Year was much more than an hour old H.M.S. Formidable was holed by a German torpedo, and Loxley and a gallant band of noble sailors died like heroes for their king and country.
The Formidable left Sheerness on December 31 with a crew of 750 men, all in high spirits, to keep vigil on the Channel. At 1.30 next morning she was steaming at about eighteen knots, fighting her way through a south-westerly gale, a bright moon shining overhead when not obscured by thin clouds that sifted a drizzly rain upon her as she drove at the high seas.
Suddenly, above the howl of the wind and the thump of the engines, there was the report of a thunderous explosion on the starboard bow. The ship seemed to shiver, then reel. Down in the stokeholds men looked at each other in wonder; like the noise of a distant gun the sound came to them, and they thought, and hoped, that it meant an engagement with the enemy. Then again, from port, this time, there came another of those muffled reports—so near that they knew something had hit their ship.
“Torpedoed!” said one. “By Heaven, they’ve got us!”
And up on the bridge, standing there with his commander, Ballard, Captain Loxley also muttered “Torpedoed!” Its periscope hidden by the darkness and the swelling of the seas, a German submarine had crept up within striking distance, had launched her two death-tubes, seen them take effect, and then slunk away into the night.
Immediately he realised what had happened, Loxley, as calm as though he were at practice, ordered the water-tight doors to be closed and the men to be piped to collision quarters. Up on to the deck the startled men swarmed—startled men, truly, but calm—men who could stand at attention in the face of death and laugh and joke about “A fine New Year’s gift for us, this!” Men who could cry as they stood naked and shivering on the deck, “Here we are again! Undress uniform—swimming costume!” Men, too, who could enter into the spirit of the captain on the bridge, who could signal to another ship in the neighbourhood:
“Keep off! Submarines are about!”
Loxley knew what might happen to that ship if she stood by, as he had no doubt her officers would be prompted to do. Only a month or so before three British cruisers had been sunk in the North Sea, two of them through standing by to help the other. The Admiralty had issued an order that in such circumstances ships were not to attempt rescue work, but, as if to make assurance doubly sure, Loxley had given his signal; he wanted no risks to be run; he and his men were willing to take their chance of life and death without bringing others into danger. It is the spirit of the British Navy.
But if he would not allow others to help them, he used all his efforts to save his crew. There was no hope for the Formidable, he knew, and she would have to be abandoned. She was listing to starboard already.
“Out pinnaces and the launch!” was the order, and while the boat crews worked to carry it out there came another: “’Way barges 1 and 2!” Lieutenant Simmonds superintended the lowering of the boats, and by his fine work earned Loxley’s encomium, “Well done, Simmonds.”
Into one boat there scrambled seventy or eighty men, and she got away from the starboard side; soon after a second boat, with seventy men, pushed off from the port side, and, acting on instructions, she remained near the sinking ship for about an hour. All this time the gale had been blowing fiercely, and mountainous seas made the work of hoisting away the boats anything but easy. It was, indeed, found impossible to lower further boats, because the ship listed so much that only the starboard boats could be hauled out. One barge which they tried to launch slipped in the davits, and hurled her crew of sixty men into the water below. Dozens of men leapt overboard and swam to the two successfully lowered boats, and the captain, thinking of others all the time, told the boats to stand by and try to pick them up. The darkness, however, prevented this being done.
Meanwhile, on the Formidable was a strange scene. On the deck stood lines of men, naked many of them, calm all of them, puffing away at cigarettes or passing along a smoke to a comrade who had not brought his up from below. From somewhere there came the sound of a piano; a man sat playing breezy tunes to cheer his comrades in the face of death. In the stokeholds begrimed heroes stuck to their posts until, with a lurch, the ship knocked them off their feet and sent the fires rushing out at them; heroes who, when the word came, raked out the fires, while elsewhere engineers shut off the steam—all so that, when the ship sank, there should be no explosion.
Not a man lost his head. Their example was pacing the bridge, smoking, just as though the ship was riding in harbour with anchors down. “Steady, men; it’s all right!” he cried to them. “Be British! There’s life left in the old ship yet!”
But there was not much life; listing, she gave a sudden plunge, and all knew that it was the end.
“Every man for himself!” came the order; and those that could jumped as she took her final plunge. About half the company got clear of her; but the two boats could not take many, and in addition to those in the boats only seventy were saved—by a light cruiser which later came upon the scene.
Loxley went down with his ship, as did hundreds of the men, standing in line, saluting the Old Jack for the last time. “The last impression on my mind,” said a survivor, “was of a long line of saluting figures disappearing below the skyline.”
For the men in the two boats there now began an anxious time. Many of them had no clothes beyond vests and pants—some none at all, and these had to be wrapped in the few blankets that were in the boats. The night was bitterly cold, the gale was blowing its hardest, the sea was running high. The first boat that put off found her difficulties at once; she shipped water by the ton, and the men had to improvise bailers. Those who had boots on took them off, and used these; a blanket, held at each corner by a sailor, was also brought into play for the purpose; caps and coats, too—every man doing something to clear the boat of water. For hours they toiled, expecting every minute to be their last. All through the night, till early morning, they drifted whither the waves would take them, and when dawn came they found themselves out of sight of land, with never a ship in view.
During the night they sang the modern warriors’ song, “Tipperary,” till they grew tired even of that; and the daylight brought them no relief from the monotony, till, about nine o’clock, their hearts gave a great leap. A liner appeared on the horizon. Shouting lustily, they hoisted a blanket on an oar and waved it madly, seeking to attract attention; but the liner changed her course and dipped over the horizon, leaving them to the waste of waters.
This hope of being taken up by a passing ship was renewed no less than eleven times during the day, each time to be dashed to the ground; and one survivor later said that he didn’t think much of the look-out on those ships.
As the day progressed the gale became stronger, and the boat was pitching and rolling, swinging high upon the crest of a wave, now racing down into the trough, the men becoming drenched through again and again, those who were nearly naked suffering extreme agony. No less than nine of them died of exposure.
At about one o’clock land was sighted; but when the crew, pulling sixteen oars, tried to make it, they found that they could not cope with the strong tide that was running. Darkness came, and found them still adrift. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of two red lights gleaming in the distance, and Leading Seaman Carroll, who had been the life and soul of the party, wielded his oar, with which he had all along been steering, and kept the boat headed for the lights of hope. Fortunately for them, the wind and tide were now with them; otherwise, so exhausted were they, never would they have made the haven—for haven it was. They heard the sound of breakers, saw in the shimmering moonlight the white foam of the water, pulled like mad to the “Pull, boys, pull!” of Petty Officer Bing, and after seven miles of stiff rowing were caught in a mighty wave that carried them straight to the beach at Lyme Regis, where very soon crowds of people gathered to give them help and drag them ashore, for they were too exhausted to help themselves. They had been adrift twenty-two hours.
It is time now to return to the second boat, which, after having picked up as many swimming men as possible, had to get away from the Formidable, lest she be dashed into her side by the raging sea. The story of the sufferings of the men in her is much the same as the others; but in this case nearly all the oars were smashed and the boat had a hole stove in her side. One of the men, whipping off his pants, stuffed them into the gap, and then sat there to keep them from being washed away. The little craft filled with water time and time again, and they bailed her out as fast as they could.
About nine o’clock in the morning someone noticed a large fishing smack to windward, and an oar was hoisted, with a black scarf on it as a signal of distress. It was seen by John Clark, third hand on the smack Providence (Captain Pillar, Brixham), and he immediately told the captain and his comrades, the second hand, Dan Taylor, the cook, and Pillar, the boy. Instantly they fell to work, set the storm jib, shook out a reef in the mainsail, and stood after the boat, which by this time had drifted far away, and was continually hidden by the heavy seas. Through the now blinding rain the smack pushed, and, coming near, found that it was impossible to get close enough on the present tack to do any good. Captain Pillar therefore decided to take a desperate chance; he would gybe the boat—that is, swing all her sails over violently—and get upon the other tack, which would put him in a much better position to effect the rescue of the men.
This was done successfully; and then the fishermen tried to get a rope to the boat. Three times they failed, but at the fourth attempt the rope pitched into the boat, where it was made fast, the other end being round the capstan of the smack. Then, working his vessel in a manner that won the praise of every sailor there, Pillar hauled the boat to a berth at the stern, and eventually got her to leeward.
Once alongside, Pillar gave the word, and the sailors began to jump aboard the smack. It took half an hour to get that bunch of men off, so difficult was the work as a result of the gale; over thirty feet the waves mounted sometimes, and many a man wellnigh tumbled into the sea, from which his chance of rescue would have been small.
When all were safe on board the Providence, Captain Pillar turned her about and made for Brixham, his men meanwhile attending to the comforts of the sailors, who were exhausted and frozen to the bone. Hot coffee and food were served out, and never did men enjoy a meal as they did on board the Providence on that January afternoon. Near Brixham the Providence fell in with the Dencade, which took her in tow and brought her into Brixham, where the people on the wharves heard the lusty voices of men singing “Auld Lang Syne,” as though for hours they had not been adrift, helpless, hopeless, as though they had never felt the shock as the Formidable received her fatal wound, as though they had never stood face to face with death.
It is the cheery fortitude of the British Jack Tar that has helped old England to the command of the sea; and it is such men as Captain Pillar and his gallant crew who reveal the courage that lives in the hearts of men whose work keeps them in the field of peace—where as great victories are won as on the field of battle.
WHILE, during war, great disasters such as that of the Formidable are to be expected, when the wings of the Angel of Peace are spread the shock of a catastrophe is infinitely greater, because it comes when there seems to be no reason why it should. Such was the case of the loss of the Victoria battleship in June, 1893. A steel-armoured turret-ship of 10,470 tons and 1,400 horsepower, 39 guns and 8 torpedo-tubes, she was the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon, commanding the Mediterranean squadron, which, in addition to the Victoria, consisted of twelve other vessels, including the Camperdown, the ship which rammed her.
The squadron was steaming line abreast, bound from Beyrout for Tripoli, and going at eight knots an hour, when the admiral, calling his staff in, decided to form the squadron in two columns ahead, six cables’ length (1,200 yards) apart, the course to be later on reversed by the lines turning inwards. Staff-Commander Hawkins-Smith pointed out that, as the turning circles of the Victoria and the Camperdown (the latter leading the port column) were six hundred yards (or three cables’ length), the inward turn would involve a collision between this vessel and the Victoria, which was leading the starboard column.
“It will require at least eight cables, sir,” said Hawkins-Smith, to which Tryon replied, after a moment’s thought:
“Yes, it shall be eight.”
The staff-commander left the cabin; and then the admiral gave instructions to his flag-lieutenant to signal the order for the manœuvre he had in mind—to line ahead at six cables apart. Tryon had evidently changed his mind.
On board the Victoria several officers approached the admiral, and queried him on the matter, pointing out that he had agreed that eight cables’ length was wanted. But he adhered to his command, saying: “That’s all right; leave it at six cables.”
So the fatal order fluttered in the breeze.
Rear-Admiral Markham, on the Camperdown, was staggered.
“It is impossible!” he exclaimed. “It is an impracticable manœuvre!” and did not answer back, thus giving the Victoria to understand that he had not grasped the signal. “It’s all right,” he said to Captain Johnstone. “Don’t do anything. I have not answered the signal.” And then gave instructions for the flag-lieutenant to ask for fuller instructions.
Meanwhile, on the Victoria other signals were being hoisted, asking Markham why he was not obeying orders, and reproving him for it. The rear-admiral, knowing it was his duty to obey, decided to do so, thinking that Tryon must be intending to make a wider circle, and so go outside the Camperdown’s division.
The two ships therefore turned inwards, Markham and his officers watching the Victoria closely to see what she would do. On the flagship, too, officers were discussing the movement, and Captain Bourke asked Tryon whether it would not be as well to do something to avoid the collision he saw was inevitable. It was a case for haste, he knew, and he had to repeat his question hurriedly: “May I go astern full speed with the port screw?”
“Yes,” said Tryon at last, and Bourke gave the order. But it was too late; three minutes and a half after the two ships had turned inwards the Camperdown, although her engines had been reversed, crashed into the starboard bow of the Victoria, hitting her about twenty feet before the turret and forcing her way in almost to the centre line.
Instantly excitement reigned on the Victoria; but the crew, never losing their heads, rushed to carry out the orders which were now flung hither and thither:
“Close the water-tight doors!”
“Out collision mats!”
“All hands on deck!”
In rapid succession the orders came; the doors were shut tight, the mats were hung over the side, where, so great was the gap left when the Camperdown backed away, the water rushed in in torrents. Captain Bourke, having visited the engine-rooms to see that all that was possible had been done, rushed up on deck, and there found that the Victoria had a heavy list to starboard. On the deck all the sick men and the prisoners had been brought up in readiness, and all hands except the engineers were there, too.
All this time the only thought in every man’s mind had been to save the ship; actually, no one imagined that the fine vessel would presently make a final plunge and disappear. Tryon had, indeed, signalled to the other ships not to send the boats which were being lowered. Having received the report that it was thought the Victoria could keep afloat some time, Tryon consented to her being steered for land. But the helm refused to work.
The admiral now signalled: “Keep boats in readiness; but do not send them.” And then, turning to an officer, said: “It is my fault—entirely my fault!”
The seriousness of the position was now breaking upon him, though even then he did not realise how near the end was. The crew worked hard but orderly, hoisting out the boats, or doing whatever they were told, while down below the engineers and stokers kept at their posts, albeit they knew that they stood little chance if the ship dived beneath the surface.
Presently the men were drawn up on deck, four deep, calm, cool, facing death without a tremor or sign of panic, which would have been calamitous.
“Steady, men, steady!” cried the chaplain, the Rev. Samuel Morris; and steady they were, till Tryon, seeing that all hope was gone, signalled for boats to be sent, and gave orders for every man to look after himself.
“Jump, men, jump!” was the command; and they rushed to the side, ready to fling themselves overboard. As they did so the great ship turned turtle, and men went tumbling head first into the sea, down the bottom of the ship as she dived, her port screw racing through the air.
The scene that followed beggars description; but the following extract is from a letter written to the Times by a midshipman who was on one of the other ships. He was sent off in a boat to rescue the struggling men in the water.
“It was simply agonising to watch the wretched men struggling over the ship’s bottom in masses”
“We could see all the men jumping overboard,” he wrote. “She continued heeling over, and it was simply agonising to watch the wretched men struggling out of the ports over the ship’s bottom in masses. All this, of course, happened in less time than it takes to write. You could see the poor men who, in their hurry to jump over, jumped on to the screw being cut to pieces as it revolved. She heeled right over, the water rushing in through her funnels. A great explosion of steam rose; she turned right over, and you could see all the men eagerly endeavouring to crawl over her bottom, when, with a plunge, she went down bows first. We could see her stern rise right out of the water and plunge down, the screws still revolving. It was simply a dreadful sight. We could not realise it. Personally, I was away in my boat, pulling as hard as we could to the scene of the disaster.... After pulling up and down for two hours, we reorganised the fleet, leaving two ships on the scene of the disaster; and, making for Tripoli, anchored for the night. No one can realise the dreadful nature of the accident.
“However, dropping the Victoria for a minute, we must turn to the Camperdown. She appeared to be in a very bad way. Her bow was sinking gradually, and I must say at the time I thought it quite on the cards that she might be lost also; but, thanks to the indomitable way in which the crew worked, they managed to check the inrush by means of the collision mat and water-tight doors. All last night, however, they were working hard to keep her afloat.
“You can imagine our feelings—the flagship sunk with nearly all hands, the other flagship anchored in a sinking condition. We have a lot of the survivors of the Victoria on board, but their accounts vary greatly.... Anyhow, what is quite certain is that the admiral did not realise the gravity of his situation, or else he would have abandoned the ship at once, instead of trying to save her. The discipline was magnificent. Not until the order was given did a single man jump overboard.
“The last thing that was seen was the admiral refusing to try to save himself, whilst his coxswain was entreating him to go. Another instance of pluck was exhibited by the boatswain of signals, who was making a general semaphore until the water washed him away. Unfortunately the poor chap was drowned. Many of the survivors are in a dreadful state of mental prostration. Most people say that Admiral Markham should have refused to obey the signal, but I think that Admiral Tryon infused so much awe in most of the captains of the fleet that few would have disobeyed him. However, he stuck to his ship to the last, and went down in her.”
Thus was the Victoria lost; less than a quarter of an hour after being struck she was lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean, Admiral Tryon and 400 gallant seamen going with her.
At the court-martial Captain Bourke was absolved of all blame for the loss of the ship, the finding being that the disaster was entirely due to Admiral Tryon’s order to turn the two lines sixteen points inward when they were only six cables apart.