Singeing the King of England’s Beard
On the morning of 8th August, the Southern Railways steamer Itchen was heading north on her regular scheduled sailing from Dieppe to Dover. Shortly after sunrise, the crew and those few passengers who were awake were enthralled by the sight of a mighty dreadnought charging past them; her crisp White Ensign flying proudly in the breeze. Far ahead, the Itchen’s Captain could see other British warships; several destroyers of the Dover Patrol. Clear proof, if any were needed, that Britain ruled the waves.
At 0545, he saw the battleship turn to starboard, putting her on a course to cross the Itchen’s own. He was mildly annoyed that the ship was steering so close to his own and said as much to his First Mate … then again, he thought, the Navy could be a law unto themselves. However, what started out as a constant bearing soon began to slowly change, and it became clear that the big ship was going to pass astern. A few more passengers were on deck now, admiring the sight, and he thought perhaps the battleship had turned to join up with the destroyers a few miles ahead.
A few minutes later, she had passed and was still less than a mile away, when the admiring chatter on the Itchen’s decks suddenly turned to horror, as the White Ensign at the battleship’s stern was hauled down and was swiftly replaced by the German colours.
A minute later, Goeben’s ten 11” guns crashed out their first salvo of the war, hurling three tons of steel and explosive towards the destroyers ahead. Aboard the Itchen, the passengers at the rails, stood aghast at the thunder of the guns. Below deck, the sounds were totally unfamiliar; frightened men and women heard the thunder and the subsequent cries of alarm, and assumed the ship was sinking. As the passengers increasingly milled around in panic, Itchen’s Captain swung her away from the battleship and headed west at full speed.
Much would be made of this by the press in subsequent days, including John Bull’s ridiculously fanciful cover sketch, showing the Itchen passing under the Goeben’s guns, as women fainted on the decks and children were thrown helplessly into the sea by the violent rolling of the ship.
In truth, the Itchen had never been in any danger; Goeben was firing almost directly away from her, and neither international law nor the honour of her officers would have allowed a sneak attack on an unarmed passenger ship. Nevertheless, both real and imagined stories from her passengers would flood the British press; they were the closest eyewitnesses to the first naval battle of the war.
Ten minutes later, Goeben and the British destroyers had closed with each other and the German ship was firing rapidly. Her stokers fed the furnaces with renewed vigour as the ship strained to reach 25 knots.
Admiral Souchon had been expecting a hotter reception than three destroyers. He thought they had been spotted yesterday, when a number of British pre-dreadnoughts had been sighted far to the north, just as the Goeben approached the Cherbourg Peninsula. However, they had made no move to follow, and his concerns had reduced overnight as the ship left the major British bases behind her. The Goeben had been lucky, and her disguise had confused the enemy. She had in fact been sighted by HMS Formidable, whose log merely recorded; ‘1816. Three-funnel French warship sighted steaming east. Did not respond to signals at long range.’
Having successfully dodged the threat of the slow battleships of the British Channel Fleet, Souchon had decided to attempt a brief bombardment of the English coast near Dover, as he passed by at high speed. However, when British destroyers were sighted during the approach, he decided to abandon the bombardment plan; returning home was more important than firing a few shells at Dover Castle.
Ahead of the Goeben, the three British ships were now on an intercept course, and her Captain swung her around to allow her guns to bear. Although British patrols were alert to the possibility of a German attack, they hadn’t expected it to come from the West, and Goeben was able to gain time and distance before the destroyers pressed home their attack. These were some of the oldest destroyers in the Royal Navy, and their tiny 12-pdr and 4” guns, obsolete engines and lightweight hulls were being thrown against the battlecruiser’s 11” and 5.9” guns. None executed a successful attack, and Goeben soon left HMS Tartar in a sinking condition, while HMS Amazon was later towed back to base missing her bows. HMS Nubian was damaged early on, but managed to fire a single 18” torpedo, before limping away towards the English coast using saltwater in her boilers.
The response of coastal batteries was later described as ‘feeble and slow’. 6” artillery couldn’t reach the enemy ship, while crews of the more powerful 9.2” guns took several minutes to answer the call to action, and when they did, their shooting was so poor that it never came close to harming the Goeben. After just 12 rounds, fire was halted, reportedly to ‘avoid risk of damaging other vessels.’
It was still the early days of the war, and commanders on all sides had a lot to learn about the realities of fighting.
After another four hours of hard steaming, Goeben was off the coast of Holland, skirting Dutch waters. Even so, she should have been within range of British light cruiser squadrons stationed at Harwich, but due to a mix-up of wireless and telegraphed orders, Commodore Tyrwitt’s forces didn’t sail until 0850. They were still almost fifty miles from the German ship, and although they charged East, they could never catch her.
The sole remaining ship in the way was the armoured cruiser HMS Bacchante, on patrol in the Broad Fourteens to guard against German torpedo boats and destroyers. Via wireless, she had received news of the attack in the Channel and had readied for action, steaming steadily North, expecting to join up with her sister-ships in the 7th Cruiser Squadron.
However, the Amethyst, Aboukir and Cressy were near the Dogger Bank, and suffered from the same signal mix-up as the Harwich force. Goeben was heading almost straight for the Bacchante, and shortly after 1000, the two ships sighted each other. Bacchante increased speed to try to stay ahead of the Goeben while gaining time for other ships to join her, but the old cruiser’s engines couldn’t push her at much more than 20 knots. She opened fired with her aft 9.2” gun at 1042 at extreme range; so much so that the Goeben didn’t bother to reply for another ten minutes. By 1054, however, she had closed another mile, and the battlecruiser turned slightly to allow both A and C turrets to bear. From 13,800 yards, she obtained a straddle with her fourth salvo.
The cruiser’s Captain now had nothing to lose, and Bacchante hauled around to bring both of her 9.2” guns and her port battery of six 6” guns to bear. It was a brave fight, but the 12-year old armoured cruiser was no match for a modern ship more than ten times as powerful.
The British would later claim that Goeben entered Dutch waters as she turned East-Southeast to bring her full broadside to bear, but it could never be proved one way or the other, and the Dutch government hesitated to press the matter in the face of the ongoing German advance which soon encircled their country.
By 1125, Goeben had passed the cruiser, leaving HMS Bacchante a blazing wreck. She sank shortly before midday, leaving Tyrwhitt’s squadron to rescue barely half of her crew.
After hours of hard steaming, Goeben’s clinkered furnaces could give her no more than 22 knots, but Admiral Souchon felt relieved. His gamble had worked; the British had not expected a single ship to make a high-speed run through the Channel from the West. Smoke was visible on the horizon astern, but whoever they were, they were too late. At 1414, lookouts sighted ships ahead. Recognition signals were flashed and it was confirmed that they were German cruisers. Souchon had done what Medina Sidonia and Villeneuve had failed to do; he had run the gauntlet of the Channel, and come out the other side with a battle-ready ship.
The entire ship’s company would later be commended by the Kaiser himself;
‘Your gallantly has confounded the English and brought glory to the Fatherland!’
