‘I had been going ahead partly submerged, with about five
feet of my periscope showing. Almost immediately I caught sight of the first
cruiser and two others. I submerged completely and laid my course so as to
bring up in the centre of the trio, which held a sort of triangular formation.
I could see their grey-black sides riding high over the water. When I first
sighted them they were near enough for torpedo work, but I wanted to make my
aim sure, so I went down and in on them. I had taken the position of the three
ships before submerging, and I succeeded in getting another flash through my
periscope before I began action. I soon reached what I regarded as a good
shooting point.
Then I loosed one of my torpedoes at the middle ship. I was
then about twelve feet under water, and got the shot off in good shape, my men
handling the boat as if she had been a skiff. I climbed to the surface to get a
sight through my tube of the effect, and discovered that the shot had gone
straight and true, striking the ship, which I later learned was the Aboukir,
under one of her magazines, which in exploding helped the torpedo’s work of
destruction. There was a fountain of water, a burst of smoke, a flash of fire,
and part of the cruiser rose in the air. Then I heard a roar and felt
reverberations sent through the water by the detonation. She had been broken apart
and sank in a few minutes. The Aboukir had been stricken in a vital spot and by
an unseen force; that made the blow all the greater.
Her crew were brave, and even with death staring them in the
face kept to their posts, ready to handle their useless guns, for I submerged
at once. But I had stayed on top long enough to see the other cruisers, which I
learned were the Cressy and the Hogue, turn and steam full speed to their dying
sister, whose plight they could not understand, unless it had been due to an
accident. The ships came on a mission of inquiry and rescue, for many of the
Aboukir’s crew were now in the water, the order having been given, “Each man
for himself.” But soon the other two English cruisers learned what had brought
about the destruction so suddenly.
As I reached my torpedo depth, I sent a second charge at the
nearest of the oncoming vessels, which was the Hogue. The English were playing
my game, for I had scarcely to move out of my position, which was a great aid,
since it helped to keep me from detection. On board my little boat the spirit
of the German Navy was to be seen in its best form. With enthusiasm every man
held himself in check and gave attention to the work in hand.
The attack on the Hogue went true. But this time I did not
have the advantageous aid of having the torpedo detonate under the magazine, so
for twenty minutes the Hogue lay wounded and helpless on the surface before she
heaved, half turned over and sank. But this time, the third cruiser knew of
course that the enemy was upon her and she sought as best she could to defend
herself. She loosed her torpedo defence batteries on boats, starboard and port,
and stood her ground as if more anxious to help the many sailors who were in
the water than to save herself. In common with the method of defending herself
against a submarine attack, she steamed in a zigzag course, and this made it
necessary for me to hold my torpedoes until I could lay a true course for them,
which also made it necessary for me to get nearer to the Cressy.
I had come to the surface for a view and saw how wildly the
fire was being sent from the ship. Small wonder that was when they did not know
where to shoot, although one shot went unpleasantly near us. When I got within
suitable range, I sent away my third attack. This time I sent a second torpedo
after the first to make the strike doubly certain. My crew were aiming like
sharpshooters and both torpedoes went to their bullseye. My luck was with me
again, for the enemy was made useless and at once began sinking by her head.
Then she careened far over, but all the while her men stayed at the guns
looking for their invisible foe. They were brave and true to their country’s sea
traditions. Then she eventually suffered a boiler explosion and completely
turned turtle. With her keel uppermost she floated until the air got out from
under her and then she sank with a loud sound, as if from a creature in pain.
The whole affair had taken less than one hour from the time
of shooting off the first torpedo until the Cressy went to the bottom. Not one
of the three had been able to use any of its big guns. I knew the wireless of
the three cruisers had been calling for aid. I was still quite able to defend
myself, but I knew that news of the disaster would call many English submarines
and torpedo boat destroyers, so, having done my appointed work, I set my course
for home. . ..
I reached the home port on the afternoon of the 23rd, and on
the 24th went to Wilhelmshaven, to find that news of my effort had become
public. My wife, dry eyed when I went away, met me with tears. Then I learned
that my little vessel and her brave crew had won the plaudit of the Kaiser, who
conferred upon each of my co-workers the Iron Cross of the second class and
upon me the Iron Cross of the first and second classes.’
German Lieutenant Otto Weddigen, recalling his part in
the sinking of the Aboukir, Cressy, and Hogue by U-9 in September 1914, cited
in Source Records of the Great War, vol. 2, pp. 297–300.
The opening gambits of the war in 1914 did provide Germany
with some spectacular U-boat successes. Significantly, and quite unexpectedly,
these were not against unarmed merchantmen, but against powerful surface warships
that conventional wisdom claimed were immune from underwater attack. On 5
September 1914 Kapitanleutnant Otto Hersing’s U-21 made history by launching
the first submerged torpedo attack of the war, sinking the British light
cruiser HMS Pathfinder near Scotland’s Firth of Forth; on 22 September 1914
Kapitanleutnant Otto Weddigen’s U-9 created the first piece of enduring combat
iconography by destroying three of the Royal Navy’s 12,200-ton Cressy-class
cruisers in a single hour: HMS Cressy, Aboukir, and Hogue. In doing so,
Weddigen vindicated the submarine as an offensive weapon and provided his
country with a naval hero when it sorely needed one. Every aspect of the attack
was a new venture and would be described in surprisingly accurate detail in
postwar literature.
Surfacing that morning near the Maas Lightvessel after
having ridden out the previous day’s storm submerged, Weddigen and his crew
found calmer weather and clearer visibility. Captain, engineer, and the
watch-officer Johannes Spieß (who also would become a famous
skipper) were taking in the morning air after a fetid night and were bracing
themselves against the heavy swell. It was 0545, just before sunrise. As the U-boat
began charging her batteries with her notoriously smoky gasoline engines, Spieß
cursed the billowing exhaust that could betray her presence. Weddigen reduced
speed in order to cut down the smoke and went below, leaving Spieß
to carry out a lazy zigzag course along the Dutch coast, some twenty miles from
the town of Scheveningen. The crew were anxious to catch their first glimpse of
the enemy; anxious, too, to avenge the loss of their “chummy ship” U-15,
which had been rammed and sunk by the cruiser HMS Birmingham in August. Thus
when the first target hove into sight over the horizon, Spieß
all-too-readily identified it as one of the “Birmingham-class.” That
meant a light cruiser, U-9’s crew went swiftly to battle-stations. A series of
automatic commands triggered well drilled responses: battening hatches,
flooding tanks, switching from petroleum engines to batteries, arming
torpedoes. And in all this controlled swirl of activity, the last navigational
fix and target bearing were taken to begin setting up the first outlines of the
tactical picture. Poised at periscope depth despite the swell that could thrust
her exposed hull to the surface, U-9 waited for the target to approach. It soon
became clear that not one cruiser, but three were heading their way, steaming
in line ahead. No U-boat had ever faced such a threat before, and only one had
ever fired a torpedo in hopes of killing such Goliaths. So new was both the
situation and the technology that no one really knew for certain what would
happen when the fight began. Would U-9 survive against such massive surface
power? And if she could get in close enough for a kill, would the explosion of
her torpedoes against the cruisers’ hulls destroy her as well? These questions
were by no means idle. The officers all knew the fate of U-15 and they knew
that U-21 had been severely shaken by the explosion when torpedoing HMS
Pathfinder from a range of 1200 meters. It was generally accepted that at a
virtually lethal range of 500 meters they could expect heavy bow damage and the
possible destruction of her diving planes. In a series of short, snappy
periscope sights, Weddigen coolly calculated his chances and decided to strike
the cruiser steaming in the middle of the column. Weddigen cautioned the crew
to take the boat down to fifteen meters and stay there once he had fired, for
the range was “rather tight.” It was, in fact, just under 500 meters.
As Spieß later recalled, these were nerve-tingling moments. At
0720 Weddigen fired the first shot. Thirty-one seconds later a dull blow
announced the detonation and triggered jubilation in the U-boat. Unable to see,
they could only guess what was happening by listening to the abrasive
underwater sounds of cracking and wrenching soon emanating from her victim’s
death-agony. After a cautious wait, Weddigen brought u-g to periscope depth to
watch Aboukir sink. Meanwhile all available crew of U-9 were kept running
between bow and stern in order to maintain diving trim in the swell. The bow
had immediately become buoyant once the torpedo had fired and would only regain
its displacement as the bow tube was reloaded. A quick look from close range
revealed a serious miscalculation: the targets were not light cruisers at all,
but huge Cressys. By this time U-9 was committed. At 0755, thirty-five minutes
after his first shot, Weddigen made two direct hits on Hague from 300 meters.
But despite all efforts to tighten her turning-circle in the escape maneuver
racing full speed ahead on one screw and full speed astern on the other, U-9
scraped her periscope along Hogues’s hull. There was just time to reload when
HMS Cressy loomed into range. At 0820, precisely one hour after the first shot,
Weddigen fired his two stern torpedoes and struck from a range of 1000 meters.
Cressy died slowly, and Weddigen fired his last torpedo into her as a coup de
grace. Spieß’s
final periscope glimpse of the scene was especially vivid. Up until now U-9 had
been witnessing the destruction of machines and had not yet seen men die:
“But now life entered this tragic theater. The giant with his four stacks
rolled slowly but inexorably over onto his port side, and like ants we saw
black swarms of people scrambling first onto one side and then onto its huge
flat keel until they disappeared in the waves. A sad sight for a seaman. Our
task was now done, and we had to see to getting ourselves home as quickly as
possible … When we blew tanks and surfaced at 0850 there was no enemy to be
seen. The sea had closed over the three cruisers.” For many years to come,
veterans would hallow 22 September as “Weddigen Day,” and heroic
tales would capture much of the flavour of wartime reality, U-9’s successful
triple attack had been unprecedented, and many national presses – including those
of Allied powers – recognized the fact. The Kaiser cabled congratulations and
awarded Weddigen and his crew the Iron Cross; “bundles of congratulatory
telegrams,” one of the officers later wrote, awaited the submarine on
arrival home. The crew allegedly required a special shed to keep all the gifts
and letters that a grateful German public showered upon them. Admiral Scheer
explained the national euphoria thus: “Weddigen’s name was on everyone’s
lips, and especially for the navy his deed was sheer relief from the feeling of
having as yet achieved so little in comparison with the heroic deeds of the
army. Such a success was necessary in order to appreciate the value of the
submarine for our conduct of war.”
Yet once the euphoria had died down, many voices began to
minimize the success. The three cruisers, as the British press had correctly
pointed out, had been old and should never have been deployed in the exposed
area that had been Weddigen’s patrol zone. Indeed, as a British submariner
would observe in 1930, Weddigen’s success had been in large part due to
Britain’s “early policy of heroic but useless sacrifice.” Moreover, the
Royal Navy’s standing orders had actually required the warships to stop to pick
up survivors after the initial hit. This effectively turned the remaining two
warships into stationary targets for the likes of Weddigen. But on 15 October
1914 Weddigen’s U-9 again vindicated the U-boat when it torpedoed and sank the
modern 7,800-ton cruiser HMS Hawke northeast of Aberdeen. The U-boat’s mission
had covered over 1700 nautical miles and had expended virtually all her fuel.
It now seemed abundantly clear that submarine technology was allowing German
sailors to operate deep within British waters and to destroy heavily armed
ships. Weddigen this time won the coveted Prussian award Pour le merite.
U-Weddigen had become the stuff of legends. They persisted
long after his death in action in 1915, “an event which was felt most
painfully by the whole nation,” as his former watch-officer recalled in
1930. Myths conveniently ignored the fact that when attacking a British ship of
the line on 18 March 1915 in his new boat, U-29, he had been ignominiously
destroyed by an ancient maritime weapon – the ram. Ironically, the fatal blow
had been struck by the bow of the obsolescent battleship HMS Dreadnought.
Weddigen’s exploits had nevertheless encouraged public and naval leadership
alike. Widely disseminated throughout the country, a volatile mix of fact and
fiction about submarine adventures encouraged boldness in both naval and civil
circles.
