THE "TIN SARDINE."

Greymouth Evening Star, 1 July 1915, Page 8

THE "TIN SARDINE."

SUBMARINE ATTACKS THE ''DARK GREY POLE." Baron von Dewitz. a Danish subject with evident pro-German sympathies, has written in the subjoined article a vivid description of an imaginary attack of a submarine upon a warship. By a transposition in the imagination by which . the Cunard liner Lusitania is substituted for the fictitious man-o*-war, one may get a succinct idea of tlie submarine's part in the tragedy off the coast of Ireland. The haze of jsarly dawn' broods over the bigut of Heligoland. A gale and chilly sunrise pecks cautiously over the iuies.an dune outlining the crags of the island fortress crested with cannon. Slowly the pale beams filter through the vaporous curtain lifting a covur in places like a "hausfrau"' making up her bed. ~ V i The sea sleeps calm and frigid like a great undulating jelly sealed under a blanket of hiraw. The stillness is oppressive, ominous. Lt is broken at intervals, but not relieved, by gruff, muffled thuds from the inner harbour—from the dim, hidden distance of warlike mystery and menace. Were it not for the portly, rubicund buoys that gasp and coughIheir warning notes, swaying lazily m the tide, one would fancy a school of sea lions' barking a salute to the sun. Beyond the cordon of buoys a row ot painted poles sail in the inlet, marking the channel that is loaded with anchor mines. The poles are bobbing gently up and down like floats in some giant s fishing tackle. One"of the poles seems to be driftinK ,-iway fivm the line. It is of a dark grey colour. Curiously enough, it moves against the tide, leaving a thin, keen wake of froth, and is lost to view in the haze. Faster and faster the pole travels; sharper and sharper waxes the wake. Under the runaway pole, hidden safely below the sleeping surface, stands a man in a conning tower; Ins eye is glued to a periscope. To the r'h'ht and left are speaking tubes, dials, gauges, and levers. He is the commander of that most dreaded of all naval craft, the submarine, the stiletto of the high seas. Except for the intense drone of the electric motor there is no sound within the steel skin of the great mechanical fish. There is no splashing of wafer against the sides, no wave motion, only the tremendous pressure of the ocean depths, and the "crusher" gauge shows it. INSIDE THE STEEL FISH. The chief gunner stands in the torpedo breech, in the prow, clasping the central hand wheel. A fling of this wheel and all the torpedoes dart away simultaneously. Other men stand by other wheels 'commanding port ami starboard torpedoes for single shots. The quartermaster is posted at the wheel control (1 f the horizontal rudders intent on gauges showing the inclination degree and depth level of the craft. His movements are .curbed to the fraction of an inch; he works as carefully and minutely as a jeweller—an awkward move of the wheel means disaster to all hands. Shoulder to shoulder with the commander is the helmsman, his eye on the compass, his hand on the wheel steering the vertical rudder.

Back in the stern is the chief engineer with his assistants standing by switches and levers, cocks, and valves. This- is a "split-second" crew, ready on the instant to slop or reverse the motors, to disconnect them altogether or start the gasoline engines in place of them, to blow out or force water into the ballast tanks, to draw oxygen and expel carbonic gases, to load storage batteries, to tend compressors, to watch pressures in pistons and chambers, to make quick repairs when necessary —to do more engineering and do it'efficiently, in the smallest and compactest engine room ever devised, than was ever done before. Conversation is . forbidden. Martial discipline governs every action. Speech is reduced to words spoken in the performance of duty. The electric lights are so arranged that tho_ tools and appliances needed are distinctly visible. Everything is in its proper place from tiie potash cartridge chamber that absorbs the foul air to the refuse ejector that blows waste out into the Water. At the ear of every man is a speaking tube. From the officer in the turret comes an, occasional command—a wheel is turned, a lever is moved, a switch is thrown—and tlie big mechanical fish continues its daring- course, gliding through hostile depths dotted with floating mines and ploughed by the swift forefoot of a hundred cruisers whose smallest gun could send the dauntless diver to the bottom with a single shot. RUNNING AWASH.

Availing itself of the haze, the sub. marine 'ventures to the surface arid runs awash at its cruising speed of six. teen knots until the British coast

heaves in sight, when the course is laid

N.E. At six bells in the afternoon the lookout at the ouiniscope signals a fleet of fishing smacks on the port bow. The helm is laid down and the big mechanical fish bears down upon the dowsed smacks. The haze has cleared. On the fringe of the horizon is a spot, a dark spot getting ever darker and bigger. With his binoculars fixed in the periscope the officer gleans the blurred outline of three large funnels belching black smoke. There is a sharp command. The gas engine stops. The speaking tubes commence to rattle with words of command —sharp, precise, staccato—answered by the quick, "Aye, aye, sir," of the crew. The commander takes an observation, the distance between the enemy is measured mathematically, the course is laid by compass; the rate of speed is timed to the distance, there is a rapid inspection of all gears—and the final dive is ordered. The engine tube speaks- At once the electric motors speak up, sending the craft on its course. The trimming tank tube speaks, and hand wheels are set spinning as the forward tanks blow their ballast. The quartermaster has already clasped his wheel. The tube talks and he digs in with a gleam in his eye. The dial of the inclinometer shows how smartly he is pointing the craft on its downward dive. The chief -gunner is at his post in the torpedo breech. Presently his tube speaks.

He spins a, small wheel, a piston snaps with a hollow thud, and the |?ar head of the torpedo chamber clicks into righting trim, pointing three savagelooking missiles at the enemy. And thus to the hum of throbbing motors punctuated by snapping pistons, speaking tubes croaking with commands, the war head gleaming with torpedoes at the ready, the mechanical fish plunges through the foaming brine downward to its fighting level of twenty feet below the surface, bearing down upon an enemy it cannot see with uncanny precision—relentless, irresistible. Availing itself of the fishing Meet as a screen, the submarine is able to take one more peep over the surface without being detected by the enemy, which develops to be a superdreadnought. PORT TORPEDO--READY! The experienced eye of the commander observes at a glance that he shall miss his target unless—the. emergency command rimjs out:. "Starboard helm! Forward trim!'' The submarine destroyer swerves from its course, rising at the sjime time to a somewh-'t hi' T,w <r level. By this manoeuvre the commander hopes to cut the course of Me immeasurably swifter dreadnought and intercept her before she can pass—- " Port torpedo—ready!" rings the tube. A great-monstrous shadow comes* bearing down upon the little craft. With incredible swiftness it approaches, seeming almost to draw the craft toward it with the suction of its menacing bottom. The.'plunging bilge keels are visible now. A collision means death not only to the dreadnought but to the destroyer as well. Just as the great armoured ram of the ponderous hull, ripping through the foam, gaunt and grim with barnacles seems to aim a death-blow at the little craft, the main tube in the torpedo breech screams, "F-e-u-rrr!" A hand wheel spins, pistons click in the war head, there is a hollow p6p as of ujmge cork being pulled, and a glittering forffedo, charged with superheated energy, darts out, cutting the brine at a mile a minute clip. Submarine distance is always deceptive ; the dreadnought is fully a cable length away. "Starboard torpedo—ready—Fire!" follows the command.' But before the second missile can cut the water there is a thunderous explosion. The whole forefoot of the huge warship is lifted 'clean out of the water. Before its yawning freeboard is buried in the swirling foam the second torpedo knocks a hole amidships, exploding her magazines with, the roar of an erupting volcano. The huge leviathan of armour plate and giant "gun. fleet as a scout, strong as a fort, representing 12.000.000 dollars m. the mint of the realm, and 900 lives :n human flesh and bone, has been scrambled into a horrible, tottering wreck—steam whistles screaming for help, boilers exploding like a field of mines, flames bursting from hatches, masts snapping in two, monster cannon rousing their turrets overboard, the crew jammed like squealing rats in a hundred traps, lashed by jets of scalding steam, the scuppers oozing blood like the nostrils of a wounded bull. In short, a capital ship, the pride of the proudest navv, has been vanquished by a small marauding craft, looking very like a mechanical fish; a little marine toy, a poor skate of a. craft, engineered by a boat's load of daredevils, the joke of na-, val messrooms, and sometimes derisively referred to as the "tin sardine."