61 
Attack

An explosion only a few feet off the port bow sent a plume of white spray into the air.

The HMS Dauntless rocked slightly. It was the nearest miss yet.

Even a British battle cruiser was no match for the German U-boats. Every man on board knew it. If they didn’t knock this one out right now while it remained a little too near the surface and was visible, it would dog them underwater and out of sight until it found the mark and they were on their way to the bottom. On the main deck, midshipmen and officers were scurrying together making lifeboats ready and breaking out the supply of life vests. On the bridge, Captain Wilberforce and his officer corps kept watch with binoculars and waited. There was nothing much they could do now except zigzag between their own firings and hope for the best. The sub was out of range for their large surface artillery.

At the torpedo station, the headset crackled with the coordinates relayed from the tower above into the ears of the radioman.

“Port torpedo two, heading two-nine-three,” called out Petty Officer George Rutherford at the radio controls, passing the information along to the gunnery crew.

“Heading two-nine-three . . . locked,” barked back the confirmation.

Commanding the torpedo squadron, Lieutenant Forbes quickly checked chamber and heading and then gave the order. “Torpedo two . . . fire!” he called.

“Torpedo away.”

Even as new torpedoes were being prepared for chambers one and two by other of Forbes’ men, and as the lieutenant was moving on to chamber number three, from the lookout above now came another frantic message to the bridge.

“Incoming . . . incoming torpedo!” sounded a frantic warning.

“All hands—” cried the captain into the address system. But it was too late.

Another explosion rocked the ship. This time it was obviously more severe.

“Damage?” shouted Wilberforce into the microphone.

“Minimal, sir,” came the answer from below.

“Are we hit?”

“Checking, sir.”

“Engine room . . . damage?”

“None, sir—still at full power.”

More messages came shouting back and forth between deck and bridge and other parts of the ship.

“No penetration . . . glancing blow,” finally came the word.

Below, the torpedo squadron under Lieutenant Forbes had recovered its footing and readied for another firing.

“Petty Officer Rutherford,” called Forbes, “do you have the new coordinates?”

“They’re coming now, sir.”

Forbes waited.

“Torpedo three,” George called out in another few seconds, “heading two-seven-nine.”

“Prepare to fire,” called Forbes.

“Heading two-seven-nine . . . ready.”

Again Lieutenant Forbes gave the command to fire.

“Torpedo away,” said the first gunner.

As the British fleet under the command of First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill had dispersed from Scapa Flow in the Orkneys throughout the months of fall and early winter, gradually the threat to the coast of Great Britain itself lessened. The Fleet’s engagements with the German navy had during those months spread around the entire circumference of Europe into the North and Baltic seas, the Atlantic and Adriatic. The Mediterranean, where the HMS Dauntless had encountered a stray U-boat and was now battling for its very survival, had become the most strategic area of naval activity, just as the region of northern France and Belgium was for ground troops.

From all three of Europe’s seas, Allied ships, the Dauntless among them, were converging upon the Aegean, where an offensive was planned against the Central powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Turkey in support of Greece and Serbia.

A dull underwater explosion sounded some two thousand yards across the water. A bulging bubble of blue capped with white slowly rose from the surface of the sea.

“It’s a hit!” cried several officers’ voices on the bridge.

“I think we got it!”

On deck all those running about among the lifeboats stopped, their gaze riveted across the water. As the bubble rose, then exploded itself into the air, the tip of the submarine’s hull crested the surface momentarily at a dangerous angle, then disappeared.

A great cheer went up from the deck. They would not need the lifeboats today.

“Torpedo room . . . torpedo room,” came the message from the bridge, “stand down. You did it!”

Above, Captain Wilberforce glanced around at his officers and exhaled a long sigh. A few congratulations and handshakes went around, but mostly more sighs of relief. “I would rather it not be communicated to the men,” he said with a relieved smile of his own, “but I don’t mind telling you . . . that was what they call a little too close for comfort. All right—resume your stations, send a crew to check for minor damage, and set course for the Dardanelles. We must be there on schedule.”