The Rainbow. A World War One on Canada's West Coast Timeline

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    • YYJ

    1000 hours, SMS Princess Charlotte. Strait of Georgia, off Porlier Pass.

    Von Spee and Radl looked from the Princess Charlotte’s bridge wing back through the pass they had just transited, between Valdez and Galiano Islands. The foremast of the sunken Marama jutted from mid channel, like a navigational hazard marker. And, in effect, it was.

    “I had not intended us to end up on this side of these islands,” said Von Spee. “I was planning on taking us through Stuart Channel and behind all the islands in the gulf to arrive at Victoria by the back way. I got caught up in the chase.” He turned to enter the wheelhouse, to look at a chart, then stopped when he noticed Radl did not follow.

    Radl remained looking back at Porlier Pass. “That passage is well and truly blocked. It will remain so after the port of Ladysmith is built back. We are at slack tide now, but the tide runs through this pass at up to seven knots, every six hours. They can’t put divers down in that current. The wreck will have to be broken up with explosives.” He stopped to consider the implications. “Until the wreck is cleared, that will add another 40 nautical miles one way for a coal barge travelling to Vancouver. Or a rail transfer barge. That is 5 or 6 hours for a barge under tow. Or more. Ladysmith is the only rail transfer point from Vancouver Island to the mainland. Rather than building back that transfer wharf we burned, the Canadians would be smart to build another somewhere else.”

    “We had best travel south now,” Radl continued. “If you wish to get back into the waters between the gulf islands and Vancouver Island, we will have to enter by Active Pass, between Galiano and Mayne Islands. As will every other vessel, now that Porlier Pass is corked. Who knows, perhaps we will meet RMS Olympic in Active Pass and we can scuttle her there and plug that passage as well.”

    “Yes, south,” said Von Spee, distractedly. He had noticed smoke from a ship’s funnels to the east. “Take us south,” he ordered the bridge crew. “What is that ship there?” Radl looked through his binoculars. A coastal steamer with three funnels was running south down the middle of Georgia Strait, five miles distant.

    “The Canadian Pacific Railroad liner Princess Victoria,” answered Radl. “Something of a rival to this ship.”

    “She looks trim and fast,” said Von Spee.

    “Yes,” Radl answered. “She is.”

    “Will these coastal liners, like the one we are standing on, and that one there be used as troopships?” Asked Von Spee.

    “Oh, certainly,” answered Radl “Bringing troops from Victoria and the coastal towns to the rail head in Vancouver. Recall the Princess Sophia.”

    “Signals!” ordered Von Spee. “Send a challenge to that ship.”

    STOP AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED, sent the Princess Charlotte.

    The reply from the Princess Victoria’s captain is as famous as it is unprintable.

    Radl laughed long and hard.

    Von Spee, blinked dramatically, and looked a bit put out. “Give us full speed,” he ordered, and the engine telegraph clanged.

    “You will never catch that ship,” said Radl. “The Victoria is the faster ship, and her captain knows it.”

    Von Spee ordered the Princess Charlotte up to full speed, and angled her course to intercept Princess Victoria. “Range!” Von Spee demanded.

    “10,000 meters,” the gunnery officer answered.

    “Well beyond the reach of our 5.2 cm guns,” said Von Spee disappointedly.

    Princess Charlotte ran south east for 15 minutes, with the trees of Galiano Island lit golden by the mid morning sun to her starboard. The Princess Victoria was steering an almost identical course. The Germans did not seem to be gaining. Radl had never seen these waters so clear of shipping. Not even a fishboat was in sight, anywhere. Some smoke was showing to the south, past the Princess Victoria. The smoke looked to him to be in American waters, but at this distance it was hard to tell.

    “Galiano Island,” mused Von Spee, as the minutes passed. “Was our patrol vessel named after the island?”

    “Both were named after a Spaniard,” said Radl, “who visited here in the 18th century.”

    “Range!” Von Spee asked the gunnery officer again.

    “10,500 meters, sir,” the officer replied.

    “Are we at maximum revolutions?” asked Von Spee.

    The helmsman replied in the affirmative.

    “Well,” Von Spee said. “That liner has a full knot on us.”

    “I said…” replied Radl. “At her current speed and course, she will enter American waters within 15 minutes.”

    “To be interned?” asked Von Spee.

    “Unless she is carrying troops at the moment, she is a civilian vessel,” said Radl. “She is actually following her normal route right now, the Vancouver to Seattle to Victoria run. They call it the Triangle Route. So not interned. She can come and go as she pleases. But I suspect that passengers are not as eager to travel these waters of late.”

    What is that smoke?” Von Spee asked. Radl raised his binoculars and looked to the south east, and Von Spee raised his own. After a moment he called “Lookout!” up to the foremast crow’s nest.

    “Looks to be a patrol vessel, sir, painted white and flying the Stars and Stripes,” called down the lookout. “There is another, five miles further to the south, and more to the south east, close to the horizon, at least one, perhaps more.”

    “Helm, five points to starboard,” ordered Von Spee. “We want to stay clear of the border, and we want anyone watching to notice that we are.”

    “We will want to turn to the west in about six miles,” said Radl, “if you wish to turn back into the gulf island passages.”

    Princess Charlotte continued steaming south east, until she slowed to enter Active Pass at 1035 hours. Looking to the east, the officers could see that the Princess Victoria had now crossed the maritime boundary, and looked to be having a vigorous exchange of semaphore with the American Patrol vessel. Von Spee could now read USRC Unalga on the American ship’s pristine white bow. To the south, a smaller, but no less brightly painted USRC Shawnee was approaching northward, right on the boundary line.

    “That lighthouse marks the entrance to Active Pass,” said Radl, gesturing.

    “Helm, turn for the passage,” ordered Von Spee. “Mister Radl, you have the bridge.”

    Radl instructed the helmsman on his course changes through the S-bend of the pass, which narrowed to 500 metres in places. To the south, Mayne Island was heavily treed to the waterline, with a wide sandy bay midway through the pass sheltering a wharf and small settlement. To the north the shoreline of Galiano Island was also treed, but rockier, with cliffs and outcroppings of grey stone to the water’s edge, and fields of grass turned golden in the late summer heat. Homesteaders watched the German raider steam past, her German Naval Ensign flying high, from the shoreline and from small boats.

    “What with the Princess Victoria, the lighthouse, the farmers, and the Americans,” said Von Spee, “I expect our position is being reported to the minute.”

    The tide was beginning to turn, and ripples and eddies hinted at the volume of water moving through the narrow pass. With each course correction, a new vista opened up into small bays and coves, each looking, thought Von Spee suddenly, like a perfect spot for a submarine ambush.

    “Lookouts!” ordered Von Spee. “Keep watch for periscopes.”

    Princess Victoria 1903

    Passenger Ferry Princess Victoria Tahsis No 3 1903 Swan & Hunter Wallsend River Tyne
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    Active Pass Lighthouse

    Photographs, history, travel instructions, and GPS coordinates for Active Pass Lighthouse.
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    • Economics lecture

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1015. SMS Nürnberg, Howe Sound.

    Nurnberg had come up to her full speed of 23 and a half knots, racing up the inlet of Howe Sound. Von Schönberg found the body of water to be much like Observatory Inlet, on the way to Anyox, or the Inside Passage. Another wild steep sided seemingly endless channel. If anything, the mountains to the east were even taller than in the other inlets Nürnberg had visited on her tour of British Columbia. Far down the inlet Von Schönberg could see the purple tusks of what must have been the remnants of volcanoes, rock thrusting skyward through bright white skirts of glaciers.

    Trade Commissioner Augustus Meyer stood beside Von Schönberg on Nürnberg’s Shrapnel riddled bridge wing.

    “All of my military and sailor’s instincts tell me I should be heading back out to sea at this moment, Herr Meyer,” said Von Schönberg. “It is only on your insistence that we are taking this extra leg of the voyage.”

    “You told me your mission is to inflict the maximum damage on the British war making capacity,” said Meyer, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I am just advising you how to do it. Let me paint you the economic picture, Captain. Britain has almost no copper mines of her own, all their copper comes from the Empire and trade. And as I’m sure you know, no copper means no bullets and no shells.”

    Meyer seemed to be settling into his element, delivering an Economics lecture. “Canada and Australia produce most of the Empire’s copper, with about a tenth coming from South Africa. Canada alone produces significantly more copper than the German Empire. The copper production in the coastal region of British Columbia is around 17 percent of Canada’s total, and furthermore, those are the mines that are increasing in production, as the inland mines become tapped out. Copper production in the Coastal Region of British Columbia comes from just three groups of mines. The Granby Mines at Anyox, the Marble Bay Mines on Texada Island, and the Anaconda Mines at Britannia Beach.”

    “Now I understand that you have taken care of the mine at Anyox,” said Meyer appreciatively.

    “That was pure luck,” said Von Schönberg. “We came seeking coal.”

    “In any case, well done,” Meyer continued. “If your colleague Captain Haun manages, the mines on Texada Island will be going out of production right about now. And here we are, headed for Britannia Beach. So at a stroke, the British Empire loses a tenth of its copper production, for something like a year until the facilities can be built back. Oh, that will be felt,” Meyer rubbed his hands together in glee. “I can tell you, that will be felt.”

    “So we will continue then,” said Von Schönberg. Nürnberg continued steaming due north, passing Gambier and Anvil Islands. Ahead, a steam tug pulling a barge made its way slowly up the Sound. Nürnberg quickly closed on the tug and its tow. The tow was a rail transfer barge, with a dozen railcars densely packed on its deck. The towing vessel was a handsome wooden tug of around 150 tons with a tall single funnel. The name Faultless was painted on the battered stern. As Nurnberg drew even closer, PGE could be read painted on some of the boxcars.

    “Where are those rail cars going?” asked Von Schönberg. “To Britannia mines?”

    “No, to some other mines, further inland I expect,” replied Meyer. “You could say the rail line runs from nowhere to nowhere, although the owners promise it will reach the Grand Trunk Pacific main line at Prince George, eventually.” Meyer chortled to himself. “Prince George Eventually is a wag’s pun on the railway name. The Pacific Great Eastern Railway is underfunded, and I suspect it is a ruse to mine the Provincial Government loan guarantees. Ahh, the way business is done in this part of the world. You really have to see it to believe.”

    “Fascinating, I am sure,” said Von Schönberg. “I am going to sink that barge. I suspect it contains contraband of war. Signals! Send a challenge.”

    RELEASE YOUR TOW IT WILL BE SUNK WITH GUNFIRE, sent Nürnberg by semaphore.

    “The tug is transmitting our position in clear.” reported a wireless runner. “Should we jam, sir?”

    “Don’t bother,” replied Von Schönberg, “Our position is being frequently reported from shore. That tug has not responded. Sound the siren. Repeat the challenge.”

    “Sir the tug has changed course,” called the helmsman. “It is crowding us toward the shore.”

    “I see it,” said Von Schönberg.

    Nürnberg was now coming alongside the barge, and would soon overtake Faultless, passing on the cruiser’s port side.

    “Fire a warning shot,” ordered Von Schönberg. But before that could happen, a deckhand at the tug’s winch de-clutched the towline, and the tug turned hard over into Nürnberg’s path.

    “Helm!” ordered Von Schönberg. “turn around her!”

    “We’re not going to make it!” responded the helmsman.

    “Collision alarm!” ordered Von Schönberg.

    The winch on the tug’s deck sang as the towline paid out. A cloud of rust and grease spray rose around the spinning drum. With the towline slackening, the tug was able to make this violent maneuver without being impeded by the drag of her barge. Thus unencumbered, Faultless just managed to cut across Nürnberg’s bow. The deckhand re-clutched the towing winch. A man on the bridge wing made an obscene gesture in the direction of Nürnberg’s bridge.

    “All Stop!” ordered Von Schönberg. “We can not let the screws become fouled!” The engine telegraph clanged, and the vibration of the engines stopped, but Nürnberg still had 23 and a half knots of forward momentum. The cruiser’s ram bow cut through the water past the tug’s rounded stern, only meters away. A whizzing sound now could be heard, coming from the bow. Von Schönberg looked forward, and could see the towing cable had been hooked by the ram. On the barge side, to Nürnberg’s port, the cable had dipped deep into the water with the sudden extra slack but was now quickly being drawn taut again as the cruiser pulled the cable. Von Schönberg would have liked to get a better view of what was happening with the cable and Nürnberg’s bow, but the situation was about to become deadly if the cable parted and snaked over the cruiser’s deck, and anyway, there was no time. There was no time, even, for him to transfer command to the armoured conning tower.

    “Clear the deck!” Von Schönberg ordered. “Brace for impact!”

    The tow line to the barge continued to tighten, Von Schönberg, saw the line lift briefly out of the water for its full length, the barge accelerated for a second, then he looked to starboard and saw over the rail, the hull and funnel of the tug make a sudden whipsaw motion as Faultless was yanked backwards. A torturous creaking sounded, like pulling an immense nail from a piece of wood, then a snap, and Von Schönberg saw the winch, with large pieces of the tug still attached, leap into the air, bounce off Nürnberg’s, foredeck, and disappear over the cruiser’s bow into Howe Sound, with a splash that could be heard but not seen. Pieces of wooden decking and debris landed on Nürnberg’s upperworks.

    Von Schönberg noticed first that none of his crew seemed to have been killed, then that the starboard anchor capstan was bent well out of vertical. Astern to port, Faultless was drifting backwards. A large piece of her after deck was missing, and the streams of water pouring over her gunwales showed that her pumps were working hard. The barge was losing momentum and beginning to rotate on the current. Nürnberg was still coasting forward on her momentum, engines stopped, and gradually losing way.

    “Prepare to put a diver over the side to inspect the screws,” he ordered. “Guns, sink that barge.”

    “What of the tug, sir?” asked the gunnery officer.

    “They will be busy enough trying to stay afloat, I expect,” answered Von Schönberg. The number 9 and 10 guns made short work of the barge, at a range of 200 meters, and it capsized, the rail cars toppling as the barge rolled over. Echoes of the gunfire bounced back and forth between the mountainous sides of the inlet. Engineers leaning over the rail could see no evidence of the tow cable entangled in the screw or rudder, and soon a diver, secured with a rope, confirmed that no damage had resulted.

    “We are very fortunate to have caught that towline, rather than running over top of it,” said Von Schönberg. “Well then, all ahead full,” and Nürnberg again was under way. The cruiser steamed north for about 20 minutes, seemingly towards a dead end in the inlet, but then the channel turned to the north west and a haziness appeared in the previously clear air. Suddenly, past the projecting slope of a mountain ridge, emerged the steep sided valley of Britannia Creek, and on its estuary, the mill site of Britannia Beach. At the same time, three miles across the Sound, another industrial site emitted a white smoke column that dispersed across the inlet.

    “Behold, the operations of the Britannia Mining and Smelting Company,” said Mueller the elder. “And yonder, the brand new pulp mill at Woodfibre.” Nürnberg steered towards the copper mill.

    Ship details

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    • Schlangen und Leitern

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1045, Britannia Beach, Howe Sound

    The most striking feature at Britannia Beach was the Concentrator Mill building. This massive structure was built against a rocky hillside spur of Mount Britannia, up a slope of 45 degrees. A progression of stepped metal shed roofs marched up the mountainside, making a building with an overall height of 20 stories or so. A timber trestle structure sat like a hat at the summit of the mill building. As Von Schönberg watched through binoculars, a mechanism picked up an entire ore car and dumped the contents into a chute, raising a cloud of dust. The ore cars arrived through an inclined railway that led to the top level of the mill. An aerial tramway descending from a valley high above brought hopper cars of ore.

    Wide swaths of forest had been flattened to make way for the tram and railway. An electric locomotive pulled a line of cars into a tunnel on a rail grade cutting across the slope midway up the height of the mill building. Pipelines and conveyors ran downhill on spindly trestles, and stairways, power lines on poles, and a funicular crisscrossed the site.

    “Schlangen und Leitern,” said Von Schönberg.

    The wharf at Britannia adjoined a giant warehouse, and a loading gantry was pouring concentrated ore into the forward hold of a steam freighter of about 5000 tons, raising another cloud of dust. As Nürnberg continued to approach, Von Schönberg read Glencluny – Glasgow, on the freighters stern. Also tied up at the wharf were a pair of scows converted from grand old sailing ships, one apparently heavily loaded, the other empty and waiting its turn. A small coastal freighter of around 1000 tons was just pulling away from the wharf.

    “That is the Venture, of the Union Steamship line,” said Mueller. “I served on her as a second officer, some years ago. The lifeline to so many coastal towns. It would be a shame to sink her.”

    “She looks like she has passengers aboard, who I would rather not be troubled with,” said Von Schönberg, looking through his binoculars, “and we are in a hurry. Sound the siren. Guns, fire a warning shot off the mill. Keep your shot a good distance away from that coaster.”

    Nürnberg drew closer to the mill town, and the angle of the coast changed so that more of the mill site was revealed. To the north of the mill was a large company store, and some administrative buildings. Then a residential neighborhood appeared, following the now familiar plan of company town with scores, if not hundreds of small, identical, peaked roof wooden houses, and several hotels and bunkhalls. Looking up the steep slope, Von Schönberg followed the path of the aerial tram, and could see a loading terminal suspended in a high valley and glimpses of the buildings of another town site.

    The number two gun fired, and a water column rose in the bay.

    “The Canadian coaster is trying to surrender, sir,” reported the signal officer.

    “Send her on her way,” ordered Von Schönberg.

    CLEAR THE AREA, signaled Nürnberg by semaphore. The Venture turned away and steamed north.

    Nürnberg fired a second warning shot, right off the loading wharf. Her siren rang off the mountains, but the rumble of the mill machinery and crashing of the loading ore competed for attention. Gradually, response to the German’s arrival became visible ashore. A firebell began to ring, then another, and another. Men on the wharf ran about. Most ran away and toward the town site, but some ran seemingly in circles or on some errand. The loading gantry stopped pouring ore into the freighter. The trains and aerial tram came to a halt. The crew of the Glencuny abandoned ship, onto the dock, and away. Workers emerged from the giant mill building at ground level, up top onto the railway line, and at various levels in between onto precarious timber stairways. The fleeing workers ran both north and south, whichever was the shortest path to get away from the mill, and many went along the railway grade into the hauling tunnel and entered into the shelter of the depths.

    Von Schönberg watched with irritation at the time it took the Canadians to evacuate. “Guns, fire some warning shots across the inlet towards that pulp mill. Let’s get them started. This is taking too long. You would think the employer would have their men better practiced at fire drill.” A gun on Nürnberg’s port side fired, and a waterspout rose off of the Woodfibre mill, at a range of 5000 metres.

    Finally, the flood of men from the mill buildings trailed off, then stopped, and the evacuees had disappeared into cover.

    “Fire,” ordered Von Schönberg.

    After the first few salvos produced destruction but no fire, Von Schönberg considered that a mine, its product being essentially rock, was much harder to set alight than a pulp mill. Then shellfire on the middle section of the mill produced a flood of grey foaming slurry that burst out of windows and collapsed walls at ground level. A long single story building topped with transom windows to the left of the concentrator building produced a flood of water when it was hit, and all of the fire bells stopped ringing at once. Nürnberg ultimately expended more ammunition on the mill than Von Schönberg had hoped, but eventually the concentrator building and wharf loading facilities were burning, the Gluncluny was capsized alongside the burning wharf, and the two scows were sitting on the bottom. The mill operators had stopped the aerial tram during the evacuation but an exploding shell had caused it to run away, and the laden ore buckets ran downhill at an ever increasing pace, piling up on the loading structure below and leaving several kilometers of cable in a giant rat’s nest. A torrent of water continued to burst from the smashed pipes of the hydro electric plant and run down the step bank.

    “Ahead one half,” ordered Von Schönberg. “Helm, take us across to the pulp mill at Woodfibre.” Viewed from a range of 5000 meters, the pup mill town was a much smaller operation than the Britannia Beach, but it still did rank a deep water wharf, where a stream freighter of around 3000 tons was currently being loaded. The freighter had Sailor Prince painted on her bow and flew the red ensign. The pulp mill buildings stood to the left of the freighter, amounting to an 8 story concrete tower and some large equipment halls. To the right of the freighter was an older looking sawmill, its boiler producing clouds of steam and smoke, with a number of ramps running into the sea. The periphery of the settlement was ringed with residential houses in the tidy, cookie cutter style of a company town. The valley behind the town was bounded by tall mountains, and at its end loomed a taller craggy peak, with its own glacier.

    “That is Mount Sedgwick,” said Mueller. “It was first climbed in 1909.”

    “Fire another warning shot on the pulp mill,” ordered Von Schönberg. The shell landed, a waterspout rose, an a moment later on distant Mount Sedgewick, a puff of white appeared, which then tracked down high on the steep side of the mountain. “What do you know. We made an avalanche.” He searched the town with his binoculars.

    The workers and residents of Woodfibre and the crew of the freighter had just watched Britannia Beach be systematically destroyed moments before, so they had already fled into the relative safety of the forest. Von Schönberg saw some movement from the residential parts of town towards the trees, but no movement in the industrial areas or on the ship.

    “Fire, ordered Von Schönberg. He realized that in his impatience to leave these confined waters and feel ocean swells under his feet again, that he was finding the bombardment of industry to have become dull and repetitive. After two broadsides the Sailor Prince was listing and on fire. Three broadsides fired into the pulp mill buildings produced steam, flames, and chemical smoke. Another two broadsides set the sawmill on fire. The sound of the gunfire echoed around the inlet.

    “Cease fire,” ordered Von Schönberg, “Helm, bring us about.” Nürnberg turned. To the east, rising above the estuary that formed the end of the Sound a mountain rose with a sheer granite face at least 700 meters tall. “That looks like the Eiger-Nordwand” said Von Schönberg, referring to the famous peak in the Bernese Alps.

    “Yes,” answered Mueller. “The Stawamus Chief. Not as tall as the Eiger, but this cliff is rising straight from the sea. The local Squamish people say the mountain is a longhouse turned into stone, by a supernatural being.”

    “The supernatural beings in this part of the world are fond of turning things into stone,” observed Von Schönberg.

    “Look around!” answered Mueller, gesturing at the skyline. “How could they not be?”
    To the north of the impressive rock face, Howe Sound ended in a braided muddy river estuary. Upstream sat the roofs of a town. Where the river met salt water lay a steamer wharf, and railway transfer wharf. The hapless Venture was lining up to dock at the steamer wharf, but on seeing Nürnberg the small steamer again attempted to surrender. A locomotive and tender painted with PGE sat idling on a long timber transfer wharf, presumably waiting for the rail barge that was now resting on the bottom of the Sound.

    “Was that suicidal tug captain working for this railway?” Von Schönberg asked.

    “The Faultless is owned by the Westminster Towing and Fishing Company,” answered Mueller. “A subcontractor to the PGE.”

    Von Schönberg mulled the value of destroying the transfer wharf, versus the expenditure of ammunition. “Range to the transfer wharf?”

    “5000 meters, sir,” answered the gunnery officer.

    “How many shells to wreck that wharf at this range?” asked Von Schönberg.

    “No more than 4 or five broadsides, sir,” the gunnery officer replied. “One or two high explosive hits should get the creosote timbers burning.”

    “Blow up the wharf if you want to,” said trade commissioner Meyer, who was still on the bridge watching the drama. “But I tell you that railway will go bankrupt, sooner rather than later.”

    “Twenty shells,” Von Schönberg considered. “That is fair. I have developed a grudge against this railroad. I can’t spare the time to reduce the range. Make your first ranging shot a warning shot.”

    A waterspout rose short, and towards shore from the end of the wharf, where the locomotive sat. The water rose brown into the air. Through his binoculars, Von Schönberg watched the engineer and fireman jump down from the locomotive’s cab and run down the track towards land. When they were safely distant he ordered, “Fire.”

    Nürnberg fired two-gun ranging salvos. The first pair of shells fell short. The second went long. The third straddled the wharf. The forth salvo was fired from four guns. One shell struck a piling. The fifth salvo straddled the wharf. One shell hit the roadbed on the landward side of the locomotive, throwing ties and a rail in the air, and starting a fire. Another shell hit the locomotive directly in the boiler. The explosion of the high explosive shell released a blast of steam, and caused first the locomotive and then the tender to tip over, off the rails, and fall into the shallow water and mud. Only the tops of the drive wheels and the tender hitch remained above the surface.

    “Helm take us south, back to Georgia Strait. Full speed.”

    “Good shooting. Fifteen shells,” said Von Schönberg to his gunnery officer. “Very economical. Counting those last shells, we have expended four hundred and twenty two shells today, and four hundred and ninety one since we arrived on this coast.”

    “Let me consult my ledger sir,” said the gunnery officer. He retrieved his book, and leafed through the pages, hindered by the inch-diameter hole left by a Shrapnel ball. “As you say sir, we have thus far fired four hundred and ninety one main battery shells. We lost another eight in the propellant fire on the number four gun. That leaves us with…”

    “Nine hundred and sixty-nine shells,” answered Von Schönberg. He began to rapidly tap his finger on the chart table.

    Nürnberg steamed south, retracing her path back down Howe Sound. Smoke from the burning mill at Britannia blanketed the water, reducing visibility. Looking back at Britannia, the Germans saw that among the other fires, the timber loading trestle on top of the concentrator mill was now fully in flames, and was shooting fire and sparks like the top of a volcano. Fire hoses from the town were attempting to save some of the administration buildings from the spreading fire.

    After fifteen minutes, Von Schönberg noticed the tug Faultless aground on a gravel beach on the east shore of the Sound, apparently to stop her from sinking. He looked at the chart.

    “Helm, take us to the west of Anvil Island,” said Von Schönberg. I want to keep clear of those army guns when we arrive back in the Strait of Georgia. Does that make sense, Mister Mueller?”

    Mueller consulted the chart. “Yes, that course will work just fine.” Nürnberg rounded Gambier Island and steamed west into Thornborough Channel. The cruiser passed the cannery town of Longview and an excursion hotel at Seaside Park, where vacationers watched curiously from balconies, float houses, and the decks of moored yachts. The brick chimney of a mill towered over the shoreline trees to the west, and soon a another cluster of industrial buildings served by a deep water wharf could be seen.

    “That is the pulp and paper mill at Port Mellon,” said Mueller. “I believe it is derelict.” Indeed, no smoke rose from the mill’s stack and no activity was visible on shore.

    “The owners keep talking about a new secret buyer for the mill, or some new financing scheme,” said Meyer. “I suppose it could open again, what with the war.”

    “I am not slowing down to bombard that mill,” said Von Schönberg. “But we can take it under fire as we pass. Sound the siren. Guns, fire a warning shot.”

    The siren produced no response from the mill site. A warning shot directly off shore caused the appearance of a watchman from a shed, who looked groggily about, then ran for the trees when he saw the racing cruiser. Nürnberg fired 5 broadsides as she passed, from a range of 500 metres. This left the main mill buildings partially collapsed and on fire. The cruiser turned south to follow the channel, and the burning mill drew astern. As one of the warehouses became fully involved, tall flames of brilliant blue, and green rose high into the sky in Nürnberg’s wake.

    “What did they produce at that mill?” asked Von Schönberg, looking at the colourful flames.

    “Decorative wrapping paper,” said Mueller. “Apparently the owners overestimated the demand in Vancouver for decorative wrapping paper, and the cost to ship further afield was not economical.” Meyer paused to consider. “I suppose His Majesty's navy would not consider that product to be a vital war material.” He paused again. “But the flames are pretty.”

    Nürnberg continued to run south at full speed. Directly ahead they could see a gap to the open waters of Georgia Strait, past the wharves of the towns of Gibsons, Grantham’s Landing and Hopkin’s Landing. “That pass is too shallow,” said Mueller. Nürnberg turned east, then south, to pass through Collingwood Channel to the west of Bowen Island.

    At 1200 hours Nürnberg left the waters of Howe Sound and emerged into Georgia Strait.

    “Ship!” called a lookout. “Warship headed on an intercept course at high speed!”

    “Range 15,000 meters!” announced the gunnery officer.

    “Most likely, that is Haun and Leipzig,” said Von Schönberg calmly. A few moments passed.

    “Ship is flying the Imperial Ensign,” called the lookout. “I identify her as SMS Leipzig.”

    Britannia Beach:



    SS Glencluny:

    Screw Steamer GLENCLUNY built by Charles Connell & Company in 1909 for Western Steamship Company Ltd. - J. Gardiner & Co., Glasgow, Cargo

    Screw Steamer GLENCLUNY built by Charles Connell & Company in 1909 for Western Steamship Company Ltd. - J. Gardiner & Co., Glasgow, Cargo 27/04/1917: Whilst on a voyage from Bombay to Hull was torpedoed by UC.67 when 4 miles off Cap Sigli at a position 36.58N., 04.42E.
    www.clydeships.co.uk

    Woodfibre


    SS Venture:

    Ship details

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    Port Mellon :

    Port Mellon Pulp Mill - RBCM Archives

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    Seaside Park:

     
    Last edited:
    • Dilemmas

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1045 hours. HMCS CC-2, Swanson Channel.

    Lieutenant Keyes had his submarine on the surface, tucked up in the shadow of South Pender Island, in the entrance to Bedwell Harbour. To the east he was looking at a small cove with the evocative name of Smuggler’s Nook. This placed him in an excellent ambush position for the German cruisers when they inevitably made their run back to the Pacific down Boundary Pass. But the projecting headland of Tilley Point, while sheltering his vessel from German lookouts as the cruisers approached, also blocked his view eastward. It was one of several dilemmas he faced.

    Keyes weighed the variables that ruled his command decisions in the coming engagement. As a student of naval history, he knew that the deciding factors in a battle often came down to decisions made in matters of seconds. Meticulous preparation leading up to split-second decisions, often made intuitively. As one of his instructors at Dartmouth had said, the difference between a winning naval commander and a poor one can be 15 seconds. That instructor had been talking about surface warfare. If anything, opportunities arose and passed even more quickly in submarines.

    He had taken on an extra pair of torpedoes as reloads earlier in the morning. Considering that he had three German marauders to confront, and CC-2 was only equipped with three torpedo tubes, it seemed a bit much to ask for three hits from his only three shots. The reloads for his forward tubes would increase his chances. But, this was a gamble. As the Canadian submarine service had learned from their training and sea trials, these boats performed erratically when any heavier than at minimum load. Keyes was hoping to be able to attack on the surface, and not have to negotiate the unpredictable underwater behavior of this boat, should he risk a submerged attack with the reload torpedoes on board.

    His 18 inch Mark IV torpedoes had an on-paper range of 1500 yards. Perhaps even longer. But there was a fine distinction, Keyes thought, between maximum range and effective range. These torpedoes ran on cold compressed air. Upon launching, the expanding air travelled to the weapon’s counter-rotating screws by way of a tube immersed in seawater. The seawater warmed the cold air to provide an extra boost to the gas expansion, and to prevent the line freezing from endothermic effects. A valve regulated the pressure the Brotherhood engine received, but the torpedo had a tendency to lose speed along its run. So the torpedos could be expected to run at around 29 knots to 600 yards, slow to 28 knots at 800 yards, and eventually slow to 20 knots at 1500 yards, sometime shortly after that running out of locomotive power entirely. The water temperature in the Strait of Juan de Fuca was around 50 degrees Fahrenheit in August, cooler than the Mediterranean where most of the torpedo test facilities were, but warmer than the North Sea where Keyes had spent his time in submarines. So the torpedoes would run a knot or two slower, and shorter than their best expected performance.

    Torpedoes on more modern vessels in the Royal Navy burned kerosene to heat the compressed air and used a number of improvements to greatly increase speed and range. But at least these torpedoes loaded in the Canadian submarines had been retrofitted with gyroscopes to keep them running in a true line. The torpedoes on the Rainbow lacked even those, and Rainbow’s Torpedo Officer had to set the rudder before firing, like bending the control surface on the wing on a child’s paper airplane, and hope for the best.

    The upshot was, if Keyes wanted to make his torpedoes count, in fact if he wanted to have any chance of hitting the Germans at all, he had to get close. Very close. When these torpedoes were built sometime between 1895 and 1901, the proof test was that they had to pass within 24 yards of a target at 800 yards. The German cruisers were about 100 yards in length, so if Keyes fired at the broadside of a stationary cruiser from a range of 800 yards, his change of hitting was fair.

    He had no illusions that he would get a shot at a stationary enemy. All of the foe would be expected to be steaming well in excess of 20 knots. This was another reason to attempt a surface attack. The submarines could make 13 knots or better on the surface if pushed. Submerged, their batteries could only propel them at 10 knots. So on the surface he had a better chance to close the range. However, approaching an alerted warship to what amounted to rifle range, on the surface in bright daylight seemed like a folly reminiscent of The Charge of The Light Brigade. So more dilemmas. Perhaps a poem would be written about this day as well.

    As the morning progressed, the wind had risen from almost calm to a light breeze, and was now what Keyes would call a moderate breeze, with a Sea State of 3 or 4. Waves of 3 feet or more slapped CC-2’s hull, and sometimes washed over top of the deck. He had handled the boat in much heavier seas, out near Cape Flattery. Keyes looked at the waves, and occasional whitecaps.

    “It will be a lot harder for the Hun to see our periscope, or even our surfaced hull in this sea,” he said.

    To the south, 2000 yards away, the lighthouse tender USLHT Crocus cruised slowly east just on her side of the border, accompanied by several chartered yachts carrying men with cameras. One had a sign saying Press hung over the side. Keyes realized with some horror that a torpedo fired from his current location might conceivably cross over into American waters.

    As Keyes plotted his ambush, wireless messages were received and passed up to his position on the conning tower bridge.

    BRITANNIA MINING AND SMELTING COMPANY REPORTS GERMAN CRUISER COMMENCING BOMBARDMENT OF MILL 1045 HOURS

    SS ZURICHMOOR REPORTS GERMAN CRUISER ADVANCING ON POWELL RIVER 1040 HOURS

    HMCS CC-1 TO HMCS CC-2 PASSING GORDON HEAD WILL BE AT YOUR POSITION APPROX 1145 HOURS

    ACTIVE PASS LIGHT REPORTS SS PRINCESS CHARLOTTE FLYING GERMAN NAVAL ENSIGN ENTERED ACTIVE PASS WESTBOUND 1035 HOURS

    “Active Pass!” exclaimed Keyes. He scrambled for the chart. “That is 8 miles from here as the crow flies! Eleven miles by sea.” Keyes quickly plotted the course to block the southern entrance to the pass. And then noted that the reported position of the German was 20 minutes old. The raider would be through the pass by now. Keyes considered his options.

    The Nürnberg and Leipzig were the primary targets that Keyes wanted to engage. The commandeered liner was wreaking havoc as well right now, but in the long run had less to contribute to the overall German war effort. The reported positions of the two cruisers put them at least an hour and a half from CC-2’s present location. Keyes could dodge off and torpedo the Princess Charlotte, then sneak back to this spot before the cruisers arrived, if he was lucky. The alternative was to sit here for another 90 minutes with all of these permutations running around in his head. And Maitland-Dougall would be arriving here with CC-1 in an hour.

    “Helm!” ordered Keyes, “Take us west. Bring us to 13 knots.”

    18-in Mark IV Torpedo (UK) - The Dreadnought Project

    dreadnoughtproject.org dreadnoughtproject.org

    Category:Torpedo (UK) - The Dreadnought Project

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    Last edited:
    • Like Rabbits

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1055 hours. HMCS CC-2, Swanson Channel.

    Keyes brought CC-2 out of Bedwell Harbour and around Wallace Point. The fresh breeze made the canvas cover of the bridge rail flap against his legs, and the submarine’s bow cut through three foot waves.

    “Ship!” called the lookout, and Keyes spotted her at the same instant. A three funneled liner, of about 4000 tons, travelling fast on a course perpendicular to his.

    “Range 11,000 yards!” called the lookout.

    “Helm, keep us tight against the shore!” ordered Keyes. “We have the depth. Closer! So you can reach out and touch that sandstone! That’s good.” The sun had an hour before it came directly overhead at noon, and the bluffs on the west side of Pender Island still cast a thin band of shadow along the coast. Keyes kept the submarine in the shade. He swept the new arrival with his binoculars.

    “That is the Princess Charlotte for sure,” he said. “Look at those German Ensigns. They are not even bothering with stealth any more.” He saw guns mounted on the foredeck and astern on the boat deck. They looked like the secondary guns of a cruiser. Was he within gunnery range? Keyes was not familiar with the specifications of the German light guns. The submarine’s diesels roared, but the boat stayed in the shadow of the bluffs. He watched the German gun crews through his binoculars. They were alert, as if on watch, but miraculously the guns did not train on CC-2. So far, his ruse was working.

    The German raider crossed in front of Saltspring Island, and soon disappeared westward behind Portland Island, headed up Satellite Channel. Keyes pursued.

    CC-2 cut through the waves up Swanson Channel at 13 knots. Her progress, felt Keyes, was agonizingly slow. The submarine had managed 15 knots on trials weeks ago, but even at her design speed of 13 knots, the diesels had proved to be vulnerable to overheating.

    “More speed!” Keyes called down to the engine room.

    “Yes sir,” answered the engineer, “but I have my eye on the temperatura, and I will take those revolutions back when I need to.” Keyes and the engineer had had this conversation many times before. The engineer’s use of the Spanish word from the gauge label, intended for the original Chilean crew, had passed from a sly joke, to a running gag, to a habit.

    By 1130 hours, CC-1 rounded Lands End at the tip of the Saanich Peninsula, and Keyes had a view west down Satellite Channel. The Princess Charlotte could not be seen.

    “Where have you gone?” Keyes asked the absent Germans. “Back north? The south is a dead end.”

    ASSOCIATED CEMENT COMPANY AT BAMBERTON REPORTS ATTACK FROM GERMAN RAIDER

    “South it is then,” said Keyes. “This is a stroke of good fortune.” Saanich Inlet, among other industries, was the site of two cement plants, at Bamberton and Tod Inlet. It also, as Keyes had noted, had only one way in and out. The Germans would have to pass Keyes to get back to the sea.

    Ten minutes later, CC-2 rounded Moses Point, and had a view due south down Saanich Inlet. The body of water was 2 miles wide and 8 long, until it forked at the south end and then tapered to the estuary of the Goldstream River, out of Keyes’ sightline. The west shore rose in a series of cliffs to a high green mountain, to the east the coast was variegated with a series of bays and headlands, and populated by homesteader’s houses and fields. The mountains to the west gave the inlet some shelter from the wind, but the breeze was still fresh and the waves were two to three feet, with occasional whitecaps. Visibility was perfect.

    Six miles to the south, the steep western slope of the inlet was scarred by a limestone mining operation and gravel quarry. A cluster of industrial buildings, smokestacks, and quarrying equipment sat at the shoreline, served by a deep water pier. A steam freighter of around 5000 tons was tied up at the pier, and alongside her, the Princess Charlotte was moored, raft style. Keyes turned south, then southeast into Deep Cove as soon as he could, to cut behind Coal Point and use the undulations of the coastline to hide his approach. Six minutes later he rounded Coal Point, a nautical mile closer to his quarry. He now had a clear sight line to the Germans, and they to CC-2. He hugged the shore, hoping for concealment.

    “We are running hot sir,” announced the engineer. I am cutting our speed back down to 13 knots.”

    “Very well,” said Keyes. He was looking through his binoculars watching German landing parties roam the wharf at Bamberton cement plant and the deck of the freighter. The ship flew the red ensign and had Katuna – London painted on her stern. Flames appeared from one of the warehouses, then another. Then the dust cloud of an explosion rose, and toppled an elevated conveyor. Keyes heard the boom over the diesels, with a 15 second delay from seeing the flash of the explosion to hearing it. The rising dust and smoke from the fires soon obscured the site, and the Princess Charlotte from Keyes view. The grey and black cloud was carried east across the inlet by the prevailing wind.

    “Take us eastward into Patricia Bay,” ordered Keyes. “All this smoke and dust the Hun are making might just work to our advantage. If we can’t see them, then they certainly can’t see us.” CC-2 ran to the south-south-east, aiming to hide her approach behind the mass of Yarrow Point. The smoke blowing from Bamberton only became thicker, punctuated by occasional explosions. Keyes saw the Princess Charlotte, masked by smoke from her main deck upwards, pull away from beside the Katuna.

    “Now come right over here,” Keyes said to the Germans. But the Princess Charlotte turned to the south-east, and disappeared completely into the drifting smoke. “Now what are these Huns up to?” he asked. Several explosions rocked the Katuna, and shortly the freighter began to settle. Then a large explosion rose through the smoke pall. Pieces of concrete and debris sailed high into the air. When the sound reached Keyes’ ears 15 seconds later, the deep rumble of the blast drowned out the drone of the submarine’s diesels.

    “I suppose that was the dynamite magazine for the quarry, going off.” said Keyes. The hull of the Katuna remained visible below the smoke, until it capsized away from the dock. CC-2’s course took her behind an intervening point of land. When she emerged, the Princess Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. Keyes continued south. “Where the devil are you?” he continued his conversation with the foe. Patches of smoke obscured, then revealed, sightlines down the Inlet, but never showed all at once.

    At 1210 hours the submarine was a half a mile off the excursion resort hamlet of Brentwood Bay. The gentle slope of the Saanich Peninsula to the east was striped with farm fields and orchards. In the midst of this bucolic scene rose the tall stack and blocky structure of the British Columbia Electric Railway coal fired power plant at Brentwood Bay, with its attendant coal loading wharf. The electric plant stack was adding its own smoke to the passing clouds. Keyes expected this facility to be a likely target for the Germans, but when CC-2 rounded Slugget Point, he saw pleasure craft and a tug and coal scow, but no sign of the Princess Charlotte. Any trail from her funnels he might have seen over the landscape was lost in the smoke from the Bamberton fire.

    SS CHARMER BEING BOARDED BY GERMAN NAVY AT TOD INLET WHARF

    Keyes consulted his chart. At the southern end of Brentwood Bay, more smoke rose from the stacks of lime kilns, over top of a jumble of quarry pits. “They are at the Vancouver Portland Cement Company plant at Todd Inlet,” said Keyes in astonishment. Only 2000 yards from our current position.”

    A new burst of black smoke rose over the treed hill just to the south, this being unmistakably the result of a structure fire. The sound of explosions carried out over the bay. This smoke pall quickly grew to rival that coming from Bamberton, and was carried east across the Saanich Peninsula.

    “Helm, take us east.” ordered Keyes. He issued the course changes needed to bring the submarine further into Brentwood Bay, and to the lee of small Dapne Islet, and brought the boat to a halt, holding station. Keyes rapidly worked out his firing solution, and picked a spot, a rocky outcropping on the far shore topped with a distinctive Arbutus tree, that would signal his launch when the German passed.

    “Open bow doors!” he ordered. “Prepare to fire bow tubes!”

    From his position on top of the conning tower, Keyes could see over the rock of the islet and into the mouth of narrow Tod Inlet. The passage into the anchorage for the cement plant was a slot scarcely 50 yards wide. He looked up at CC-2’s wireless masts, bow and stern. The masts were a dead giveaway of his position. But then, there were a dozen yachts in the bay, both powered and sailing boats. One more pair of masts did not really draw attention.

    A column of smoke detached from the general conflagration of the burning cement plant. This new smoke blew away east with the rest, but it could be seen that the source was moving towards the entrance of the Inlet, towards CC-2.

    “Stand by,” ordered Keyes.

    The ribbon of smoke tracked towards the submarine’s ambush, and Keyes gripped the rail as he watched the base of the smoke trail approach Butchart Point. Then all of a sudden, the bow of Princess Charlotte leapt out into the Inlet, a bone in her teeth. Keyes calculated she was doing only 9 knots, but accelerating hard, with smoke pouring from her 3 funnels. German Imperial Ensigns stood straight out from her foremast and main mast in the wind. Guns on the foredeck and forward superstructure were manned, and officers on the bridge seemed to be looking directly at him. Princess Charlotte was 330 feet long, and only 400 yards distant. The liner’s straight bow crossed in front of the rock with the Arbutus.

    “Fire!” ordered Keyes. “Full speed ahead! Prepare to dive!”

    As he issued these orders, Keyes noticed the light chop in the bay did not hide a bubble trail running on an intersecting course with the liner. But he could only see a single trail. An alarm sounded on the German ship, and he could hear voices yelling across the water. CC-2 surged forward. The liner heeled over hard as she made an emergency turn away to rake his torpedo. But he was too close. At 29 knots his torpedoes would eat up the intervening 400 yards in 25 seconds. And the liner did not handle like a destroyer. Although, the Germans looked like they were trying to treat her that way. They almost ran their ship up onto Willis Point in their haste, but then corrected to avoid the landmass.

    Keyes was counting down the seconds, but the Germans had noticed the submarine, and took the CC-2 under fire. First a machinegun on the bridge wing opened up, followed some kind of pom-pom. Splashes rose all around the bay. The Germans initial fire was wild, but the gunners quickly gathered themselves, and the splashes converged towards the submarine.

    “Dive!” ordered Keyes. The lookout and helmsman shot down the hatch like rabbits, just like at drill, and Keyes was right behind them. He heard bullets hitting the conning tower, and saw holes appear in the railing canvas as he slammed the hatch. Keyes spun the wheel to dog the hatch, still counting down in his head. Bullets hitting the conning tower and hull rang inside, until the boat was completely submerged.

    “Attack scope up!” ordered Keyes, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Open stern door, prepare to fire stern tube.”

    “Sir, the number two bow tube misfired,” reported a rating. “Compressed air failure.”

    “Well let’s get that fixed, shall we?” replied Keyes. “ The submarine was maneuvering too violently to attempt reloading at the moment. Keyes’ count had reached 90 seconds, then he stopped counting. “How the devil did that shot miss?” he exclaimed. “They were right there, like the broad side of a barn!”

    Then just as the attack periscope rose into position, the sound of an explosion rang through the hull, like the blow of a colossal hammer.

    Bamberton Cement Plant

    British Columbia Cement Company plant, Bamberton, B.C., 1946 - RBCM Archives

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    Tod Inlet Cement Plant with SS Charmer

    Canadian Pacific Railway steamer 'Charmer'; at Todd Inlet cement plant, four years after plant in operation. - RBCM Archives

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    BCER Electric plant

    BC Electric plant, Brentwood. - RBCM Archives

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    • Fireworks

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1210 hours, SMS Princess Charlotte, Tod Inlet.

    The Princess Charlotte nosed her way through the narrow passage outbound from Tod Inlet.

    “I told you the ship would fit,” said Radl. He looked back at the basin in front of the burning concrete plant. Princess Charlotte’s screws had stirred up mud and sand from the bottom, and the green of the bay churned with upwellings of dark brown.

    “Oh so just barely,” replied Von Spee, displeased. “If I had to do this over, I would have held the ship outside the inlet, and sent in a landing party in boats.”

    “Then we would not have had the ships guns in the bay,” replied Radl. Von Spee had had to order a Spandau gun to fire warnings shots, in front of a large party of Sikh workers advancing from the residential area to the south of the plant. The men had looked to be preparing a counter attack against the landing party, armed with sticks and axe handles and the occasional sword.

    A Dynamite charge went off, causing a concrete smokestack to collapse. The falling stack cleaved through roofs of the blazing plant main buildings, raising a tall burst of flames. On the south side of the wharf, The CPR coastal steamer Charmer crackled as the flames aboard her took hold. The wharf top had also begun to burn, but not the pilings, since they were made of pre-cast concrete. A barge moored to the north side of the wharf had suffered the indignity of a scuttling charge moments before and the steel hull screeched against the concrete pilings as the barge capsized.

    “Well, the tide was in our favour,” considered Radl. We could not have entered the inlet at all if we were a few hours later. Anyway, you said yourself that we are on a spree. We have no time to anchor and send boats to row ashore.”

    “Quite right,” replied Von Spee. The 50 meter wide tree-lined passage of Tod Inlet turned slightly to the east, and revealed the waters of Brentwood Bay beyond. “Full speed ahead!” ordered Von Spee. The engine telegraph clanged. To stern, they heard a rumble as a deck cargo of more pre-cast concrete wharf pilings tipped off the sinking barge’s tilting deck and cascaded into the inlet.

    “That wreck will be challenging to salvage,” said Radl. “With the hold full of hundreds of tons of concrete.” Princess Charlotte was picking up speed, and her wake splashed hard against the nearby shores, making the liner appear to be racing down a raging river like a paddlewheel steamer of old. Then her bow burst out into the open water of Brentwood Bay.

    “Certainly,” chuckled Von Spee. “And think of that freighter across the inlet. By the time a salvour gets to her, the cement in her holds will have set up into a single mass, 5000 tons, hard as rock.”

    “The Canadians would be better off using the wreck as a foundation for a new wharf, rather than trying to raise her.” replied Radl with amusement. The stack of the BCER generating plant on the south end of Brentwood Bay began to appear over the intervening landscape.

    “Prepare to fire a warning shot off the generating station wharf,” ordered Von Spee. “We can’t afford the time to stop and bombard that station properly, but if the workers evacuate, we can take it under fire as we head back up…”

    “Torpedo!” called a lookout. “to starboard 400 meters!”

    Von Spee looked to starboard, and indeed, a bubble trail was converging with his course. And right there, behind a small island, sat a submarine, on the surface, end on to his ship.

    “Whoah!” Von Spee yelled, “Full port rudder!” The Princess Charlotte heeled over into the sharp turn. The bridge officers had to grab onto the nearest fixtures to avoid falling over.

    When Von Spee regained his balance, the ship was headed directly at a wall of green trees and moss covered rock outcroppings.

    “Ten points to starboard!” Von Spee ordered.

    “Two more,” said Radl. “The bottom is too shallow here.”

    “Yes, but the torpedoes,” countered Von Spee.

    “The torpedoes might miss us,” said Radl, “but we will not miss the bottom.”

    In answer, the Princess Charlotte suddenly slowed, and her wake boiled up with gravel and sand in the 10 meter gap between ship and shore.

    “Two points to starboard!” ordered Von Spee. The ship careened off the submerged gravel beach, and took a line slightly farther away from shore, leaving a wake boiling with grey sand. Von Spee had completely lost track of the torpedoes. Then he remembered the source of the torpedoes. “Take that submarine under fire!” The low narrow hull of the Canadian submarine was hard to see. It had emerged from behind the islet where it was hiding and was chasing Princess Charlotte. A Spandau gun on the starboard bridge wing opened fire, and he could hear the aft pom-pom join in few second later. Splashes rose around the submarine, and it began a crash dive.

    “Where have those torpedoes gone?” Von Spee asked aloud. “I think we would have felt one by now if the aim was true.” In answer, a water column rose up off the rock point ahead, 500 meters to the west, as tall as the trees on the cliff top, and the sound of the explosion echoed around the bay. Radl crossed himself. Princess Charlotte’s guns stopped firing, as the submarine had completely disappeared. The liner ran parallel to the submarines last observed course for a few more minutes, heading further out into the smoke filled inlet.

    “Sir,” reported a sailor from the engineering crew. “We have opened up some seams running aground. The forward hold and forward boiler room are taking water, but the pumps are keeping up.” The sailor saluted, turned, and went back below.

    “Take us north, full speed,” ordered Von Spee. “Wireless, send out a message to Nürnberg and Leipzig: Princess Charlotte survived submarine attack Saanich Inlet, with current position. Lookouts! Keep extra watch for periscopes. We have outrun that submarine for now, but we have been told to expect one more.”

    Bands of smoke from the burning facilities at Bamberton still blew across the inlet. The liner ran north at 21 knots. The wind remained constant, creating a light chop. No periscopes were sighted. Soon the smoke was left behind. Princess Charlotte reached Moses Point at 1230 hours, and turned east, sighting no submarines in Satellite Channel.

    “Ship!” called a lookout. “Appears to be an armed patrol boat. Range 10,000 yards.”

    Von Spee turned his binoculars on the new arrival. For a few seconds he entertained the hope that the lookout had spotted a neutral American warship, on the American side of the boundary, but no. A vessel was rounding Beaver Point on Saltspring Island, headed towards Germans, and well within Canadian waters. As he watched, and without doubt as the Canadians noticed him, the output of smoke from the vessel’s funnel increased. The ship was narrow with rakish lines, flew a red ensign, and had a gun mounted on the foredeck.

    “Is that a torpedo boat?” asked Von Spee. “Is that possible?”

    “Yes, it does look so from this angle,” answered Radl, “but the bow is too high. That hull has the lines of a schooner. But one converted to steam. I would identify her as probably the Canadian Government Ship Alcedo. A fisheries protection vessel. Well, really a tug. She can’t make much more than 10 knots. I see they have given her some teeth, since we arrived.”

    Head-on, it was hard to tell the Canadian vessel’s speed. But after a few minutes it was clear she was not converging rapidly on the Princess Charlotte.

    “Do you know the range of that gun on the Canadian?” Von Spee asked Radl.

    “No,” he replied. “It looks like a 6 pounder, or maybe a 3 pounder. Something they had rusting in the naval dockyard. I would guess with a range similar to our guns.”

    “We are still well out of range, and have twice her speed,” said Von Spee. “And nothing to gain from stopping to fight her. Lets keep some distance. Helm, take us south of Piers Island, into Colburne Passage.” Princess Charlotte turned a few points to the south, and headed through a narrower passage than the main channel she had run through almost two hours before. On the shore, they could see civilians pointing at their ship as it passed.

    At 1245, the Germans emerged from behind Coal Island into Moresby Passage.

    “Ship!” called a lookout. “Ships!”

    Von Spee spotted them at the same time, and this time he was seeing the American Neutrality patrol, 4 miles away right at the maritime boundary. First he saw what looked like a small freighter, possibly a lighthouse tender. A minute later the vista opened and he saw an armed tug. Both American ships were painted bright white and flew huge oversized versions of the stars and stripes.

    “Yes, that is right,” Von Spee said, looking at the giant American flags. “Let’s avoid any confusion.”

    Now more small vessels could be seen on the American side. Half a dozen yachts or more, and an excursion steamer. The rails of the American civilian vessels were lined with gawkers. There seemed to be a carnival atmosphere developing. The appearance of Princess Charlotte could be seen to provoke a great deal of excitement among the American passengers.

    “Helm, take us south,” ordered Von Spee.

    “These waters are treacherous, with shoals and sand bars,” said Radl. “I will give the helm fine direction if I may.”

    Von Spee nodded. Princess Charlotte wove a path down the east coast of the Saanich Peninsula. Smoke from the fires at Bamberton and Tod Inlet drifted across the farmland of the peninsula and made a haze on the water ahead. At 1255 the ship entered Cordova Passage, between James Island and the Saanich Peninsula. The Canadian patrol vessel was now left far behind, and hidden behind the maze of islands to the north.

    “There it is,” said Radl, pointing to a wharf ahead on James Island. “The Canadian Explosives Company factory. They just moved the factory to this island in 1910, because their former locations all frequently exploded.” The wharf was empty, except for several small boats. At the land end of the wharf, an inclined tramway ran up a steep sandy bluff to a factory complex. Von Spee could see the roofs of factory halls, smokestacks, chemical tanks, trestles, and a water tower peeking over the cliff top.

    “Sound the siren. Guns, fire a warning shot off that wharf,” ordered Von Spee.

    “We will be passing within 1000 meters of the factory,” said Radl. “Of the exploding explosives factory. Is that a safe distance? To… exploding explosives?”

    The bow 5.2 cm gun fired, and a waterspout rose off the wharf.

    “Bring us down to 10 knots,” ordered Von Spee. “At full speed we will pass through the Channel and out of visibility in 12 minutes,” he said as an aside to Radl. “That is too fast. We need to give the workers a fair chance to put some distance between themselves and the crater of their former jobsite.”

    The engine telegraph clanged, and the Princess Charlotte coasted down from over 21 knots to just 10. Several more warning shots were fired into the sea as the Germans closed on the waterfront before the factory, and since much of the complex was hidden behind the bluffs, when the range to the factory site had dropped to 1000 meters the forward gun shot a hole through the water tower for good measure. Fire bells from shore could be heard ringing on the German bridge, and Von Spee could see some activity on land. Men hurrying about, mostly away from the explosives plant. He waited until the plant was 2000 meters astern, and Princess Charlotte was emerging from Cordova Passage into the more open waters of Cordova Bay, before he gave the order at 1320 to open fire.

    “Fire.”

    Three 5.2 cm guns fired ranging shots at first, until they walked their fire into the midst of the factory buildings. Once they had found the range, the crews let go with a flurry of fire at 10 rounds per minute for several minutes, until they expended their ready ammunition. The aft pom-pom joined in, arcing its fire over the bluffs. The gunfire produced no visible effect right away. Von Spee swept the sea around the ship with his binoculars. They were beginning to enter the haze from the fires in Saanich inlet, and to the south the visibility was dropping. To the east, another American patrol vessel was hugging the border now 4 miles distant, and adding its funnel smoke to the general pall. Von Spee looked back north, and saw black smoke rising from the factory site, but nothing more.

    “It would be a pity, if we have let that factory stand,” Von Spee began to say to Radl. “Oh, look. There it goes.” White smoke rose very vigorously all of a sudden, then the first flashes of the detonations began.

    “Cease Fire!” ordered Von Spee. They were reaching the edges of the light guns’ effective range. “Full speed ahead! Course south-southeast! From here on,” continued Von Spee, “the chain reaction will have to do our work for us.”

    He was not disappointed. There began what looked like a fireworks display from behind the bluffs of James Island. Too many explosions to count happed in a short span of time. Then a tall mushroom shaped cloud rose. The smaller explosions continued, flashes scattering trails of bright sparks high in the sky. Then an orange fireball rose, and another. There was a certain pace to the explosions, increasing rapidly, then slowing, with the frequent smaller blasts punctuated by larger, deeper ones. Occasionally, a bigger explosion would toss burning debris up high in the sky, which would then itself explode in midair.

    “It is like a symphony,” said Von Spee, and beside him Radl only nodded.

    “I am glad we are not still in Cordova Channel,” said Radl.

    “Yes,” said Von Spee. Smoke from onging detonations was beginning to mask the island from their view, but many splashes could be seen in the water all around. Princess Charlotte continued southward into Haro Strait. Visibility was dropping to anything between 2000 and 10,000 meters, as clouds of dark smoke drifted by, then parted. Von Spee thought he saw yet another American patrol vessel in the distance to the east, but then it was lost in the smoke.

    Princess Charlotte passed close by small D’Arcy Island, the very southernmost Canadian Gulf Island. On shore, a gathering of men stood, impassively watching the events unfold. Von Spee noticed through his binoculars that the men were all Asian, and appeared to be dressed in rags.

    “Those men are lepers,” said Radl. “Marooned in the wilderness to their own devices.” He crossed himself again.

    A particularly large explosion rose over James Island.

    “Torpedoes!” shouted a lookout. There, in the lee of D’Arcy Island, less than 1000 meters distant, a submarine had been waiting on the surface. A pair of torpedo tracks ran towards the German liner, now only a few hundred meters away. Von Spee felt time slow down. He judged that the torpedo track to their port would run behind their stern. The other looked to be bound to hit dead amidships, if he held his course.

    “All astern full!” he yelled. “Collision alarm!” There was no time to turn. The engine telegraph clanged, and the deck felt like it was being pulled backwards from under him.

    Then there was a deafening blast. A shock rose up into Von Spee’s feet, as if a sailor on the deck below had pounded on the ceiling with a sledge hammer. The deck itself rose up, like the liner was climbing a storm wave on the open sea. The bridge crew all fell to the deck. A water column climbed into the sky directly ahead, filling the view from the bridge windows. Some of the windows smashed inwards, and salt water spray flooded into the wheelhouse. Von Spee blinked. The water spout fell back into the sea, and the sound of the torpedo blast trailed off, to be replaced by the sounds of the collision alarm, the grunts of injured men, and the distant explosions from James Island.

    James Island Explosives Factory

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    • Fearless

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1215 hours SMS Nürnberg and Leipzig, Georgia Strait.

    Captain Von Schönberg looked aft at Leipzig following behind Nürnberg, and then forward, down the Strait of Georgia. He was glad to be headed back towards the sea. Six hours before, when the Germans had first entered Georgia Strait at dawn, the sky had been cloudless, and visibility perfect. Now, columns of black smoke rose from Nanaimo and Ladysmith 10 miles to the west, and from Vancouver an equal distance to the east. The fires in the coal ports had drifted eastward across the Strait and produced a general haziness that reduced visibility at sea level to around 10,000 meters.

    At 1215 hours Von Schönberg had received a coded message from Von Spee.

    PRINCESS CHARLOTTE SURVIVED SUBMARINE ATTACK SAANICH INLET, with the liner’ current position.

    “Lookouts, keep alert for periscopes!” ordered Von Schönberg. “Finally, the lurking submarines appear, at least one of them. ‘Survived an Attack’ is cryptic, but I expect he would report damage if there was any.”

    The warships continued south, in line ahead formation. In the hazy conditions, the only land visible was the shore of the Canadian gulf islands, 5 miles to the west, appearing as a darker grey band above the grey water. The sun shone orange directly overhead. By 1300 hours the German cruisers had reached the 49th Parallel, the line of the Canada US border on the mainland. They were now retracing the route they had used to enter the inland waters. The ships had passed this very point in the other direction at 0600 hours that morning. The border dipped south for another 30 miles to the west, following the coast of Vancouver Island out to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The international boundary continued west from the 49th Parallel until it reached a cartographer’s center of Georgia Strait, creating a large triangle of American water projecting westward.

    “Ship!” called a lookout. At the very tip of this triangle, a steamship with a single funnel emerged out of the haze, moving slowly.

    “Range 11,000 meters,” announced the gunnery officer.

    “Navigator,” ordered Von Schönberg. “Confirm that ship is in American waters.”

    The navigator consulted his charts. “She is, sir.”

    Minutes went by, and the ships closed. Von Schönberg was able to make out the Stars and Stripes, and soon could read USRC Unalga on the bow of an American patrol vessel. The Germans seemed to be leaving the haze behind them, and visibility increased. The Canadian gulf islands to the west turned from grey to green, and the sun shone brightly again. Unalga turned to follow the German cruisers on its side of the line, but Nürnberg and Leipzig were steaming at 22 knots, and the Revenue Cutter seems to be capable of no more than 12.

    At 1330 the cruisers reached a point where the maritime boundary turned due south. The Germans turned to follow to line as it rounded Saturna Island. The island was the eastern most of the Canadian gulf islands, then the boundary turned west again. A lighthouse keeper on Saturna Island Light on East Point watched the Germans go past.

    “Esquimalt will be getting regular reports of our position. Keeping in the shipping lane close to the center of the channel is practical, to keep any enraged locals on shore from trying to snipe at as with their deer rifles,” said Mueller. “but it also keeps us off the reefs by Tumbo Island there.

    A US Revenue Service tug Shawnee stood guard at the point where the boundary turned to the west again, just off Patos Island lighthouse on the American side. The water was roiled with eddies and ripples with the outgoing tide, as well as being blown by a stiff breeze. Nürnberg slowed slightly, then rounded the corner, entering into a stretch of water called Boundary Pass, and Leipzig did the same 2000 meters in her wake. The Shawnee followed the Germans as fast as she was able.

    “Something is going on up there, on the American side,” said Von Schönberg. “I see another American patrol vessel, but also a bunch of small craft.”

    “I see it,” said Mueller. Indeed, 6 nautical miles ahead, just off American Stuart Island, steamed a small freighter painted bright white, with a large derrick on her foredeck. Perhaps two dozen yachts of various sizes were clustered around the freighter. “There are more Stars and Stripes flying there than at a Fourth of July parade.”

    The range closed quickly. At 22 knots cruisers covered a nautical mile in less than 3 minutes. Von Schönberg read USLHT Crocus on the American patrol vessel.

    “Ha!” laughed Mueller. “A lighthouse tender. The Yanks have everything that will float out today, making sure we stay on our side… the Canadian side. Those must be reporters, on those boats. Look, one says PRESS on the side. But there cannot be that many reporters in the whole United States. Some must be rubberneckers, out for an excursion.” To the south and east, an approaching stream of small sailboats and powerboats led back off into the distance, hinting that word had gotten out about something exciting happening on the border.

    “Captain, we should slow, to take this corner, “Mueller instructed. “Eighty degrees port, then we are in Haro Strait. See the lighthouse at Turn Point? Never has a piece of geography been more aptly named. Make sure to wave at the sightseers as we pass.”

    Looking ahead, around the corner past Turn Point, Von Schönberg could see sheets of smoke drifting low on the water across the Strait, from something apparently burning to the west. He glanced at the chronometer. They would turn into Haro Strait at 1355 hours, just a half hour late from the timetable he had laid out last night in Ucluelet harbor. Things were going well, all considered. He should expect to link back up with Lieutenant Von Spee and Princess Charlotte soon.

    “Wireless,” he ordered, “send a message to Princess Charlotte, giving our course and position. Ask for expected time of rendezvous.” The Americans on yachts were lined up along the maritime boundary, singly or in clusters. A few, frankly, seemed to have strayed well over onto the Canadian side. The officers on the lighthouse tender were trying to herd the yachtsmen, to little effect. Some of the smaller boats would certainly be in peril of swamping from the cruisers’ wakes. As Nürnberg flew by, Von Schönberg looked down at more cameras than he had seen in his life.

    “No response from Princess Charlotte,” reported a wireless runner.

    Von Schönberg’s eyes fixed on one of the American passengers, a man in a straw boater hat, standing on the cabin of a beautiful wooden power launch, eating a frankfurter in a bun with one hand, and waving a German flag with the other. Some of Nürnberg’s crew were waving. A cheer rose up from the German sailors, and answering cheer came from the American civilian boats, mixed with whistles and a few catcalls. Then he noticed another German flag waving from a yacht. This flag was waving more frantically. The wielder, wearing small round spectacles and looking like a schoolteacher, was repeatedly pointing to the north and mouthing a word.

    “Submarine!” shouted a lookout. “To starboard, on the surface!” Von Schönberg pivoted to look across to the opposite side of the bridge. A submarine was racing out of a bay to the north, raising a tall bow wave and churning up the water behind.

    “Torpedoes in the water!” cried the lookout.

    “Full Port Rudder!” yelled Von Schönberg. “Hang on!” Nürnberg heeled over hard into the turn. “Sound collision alarm! Guns! Fire! Sound siren and horn!”

    Nürnberg was turning so hard that the main battery guns could not traverse quickly enough to train on the submarine. Von Schönberg found himself regretting that his secondary battery was all damaged or given away.

    Leipzig fired, and her two forward guns straddled the submarine. The Canadian began to dive. Nürnberg, still leaning into her turn, had begun to cut through the pack of American yachts. The cheering and whistles suddenly turned into screams and curses, and the yachts scattered in all directions.

    “We are entering American territory!” yelled Mueller.

    “Guns! Hold Fire!” ordered Von Schönberg, then he paused. To the gunnery officer he said rhetorically, “Well, we can’t fire from within American waters, can we?”

    Von Schönberg looked aft. His ship was now stern-on to the firing position of the submarines torpedo salvo. “Rudder Amidships! he ordered. He could see no bubble trails from his position. But the sea around him was thick with yachts, maneuvering hard to avoid Nürnberg, and then in turn maneuvering hard to avoid each other. A muffled clanging sound came from the starboard side of the hull. Von Schönberg looked down from the bridge wing just in time to see a torpedo, a few feet below the surface, bouncing and grinding along Nürnberg’s side on a perfectly parallel course, at perhaps 5 knots faster than the cruiser. The torpedo disappeared, running past Nürnberg towards Stuart Island. He held his course for a few more seconds, wondering where the other torpedo had gone. No evidence of the second torpedo showed itself.

    “Silence siren and alarms! Helm, take us back west!” Von Schönberg ordered. USLHT Crocus was angrily flashing its Morse light, waving semaphore flags and sounding her horn.

    “Well, that was a close thing. Signals send a message to the American patrol vessel.”

    SMS NURNBERG REGRETS ACCIDENTALLY ENTERING US TERRITORY AM LEAVING IMMEDIATELY AT BEST SPEED SINCEREST APPOLOGIES

    Nürnberg was now on a course due south, directly towards Stuart Island. She had passed through the mass of American yachts and was now in open water. Miraculously, the cruiser had not run any of the boats down.

    “Helm, take us due west,” he ordered. “How did we not collide with one of those Americans? Not only that, two torpedoes passed through that mass of boats, and did not hit a thing. Incredible.” Nurnberg came about to her new course. 1500 meters to the north, on her original course and still on the Canadian side, Leipzig had caught up, and the cruisers were now steaming line abreast. Leipzig was beating the sea with her secondary armament of pom-poms, but the submarine had submerged.

    “We had best keep heading west until we return to Canadian waters,” said Mueller. “That will be much faster than turning back north. The boundary is less than a mile to the west.”

    “Yes,” agreed Von Schönberg. “That way we can cut the corner, and end up in lead position ahead of Leipzig again.” Nürnberg made a beeline for the international boundary.

    “Look at those boats!” Von Schönberg heard Mueller exclaim. “They think this is a lark!” Behind, in Nürnberg’s wake, a good number of the yachts, including all of the sailboats and some of the power boats, were trying to untangle the knot of courses that their panicked collision avoidance had placed them in. Two pairs of boats had actually collided, but none seemed to be sinking. All together they were doing a fine job of obstructing the path of the Crocus, and the lighthouse tender was laying on her horn. But a half dozen of the faster power boats, some beautiful specimens among them, were racing along with Nürnberg, as if they were at a regatta. These boats seemed to be evenly split, Von Schönberg noticed, between what looked like charters where a news photographer had paid a handsome bonus to chase down the scoop of the season, and daredevil young lads intoxicated in the moment and having the time of their lives. One such boat was riding the Nürnberg’s bow wave like a dolphin.

    “Looking at this spectacle,” commented Von Schönberg. “I do hope Germany manages to avoid the United States becoming entangled in this war. Their youth look to be fearless, to the point of insanity.”

    “We are coming up on the boundary now,” advised Mueller. The cruiser had passed Turn Point, on Stewart Island, and the vista down Haro Strait opened up. Another gaggle of civilian yachts were gathered on the boundary around the corner, the centerpiece of this fleet was a steamer of about 500 tons.

    “We really are the entertainment for the Yanks, this day,” said Mueller.

    “Yes, I’m sure war can be a wonderful spectacle, if you happen to be a neutral,” replied Von Schönberg.

    Nürnberg turned to the south, and effortlessly tucked back into her position in front of Leipzig. Drifting smoke again partially obscured the Strait ahead, four miles to the south. In the foreground, in front of the smoke, but hidden behind Sidney Island, something was burning very fiercely. Then a rapid series of explosions threw burning debris high in the air.

    “That would be the location of the Canadian Explosives Company factory, on James Island,” said Mueller.

    “Apparently Lieutenant Von Spee has been busy,” said Von Schönberg with a note of appreciation. “Wireless, send another message to Princess Charlotte, giving our location and heading, and requesting their status.” The American yachts had all turned to run south on their side of the line, matching the Germans’ course if not their speed. Von Schönberg read Whatcom on the bow of the excursion steamer. Her decks were lined with sightseers, many of whom were pointing cameras across several hundred meters of water at him. The mood on board all of the American vessels seemed festive and gay.

    Another blast from the burning explosives factory rose up over intervening Sidney Island. Von Schönberg heard an “Ooooh!” across the water from the tourists, and some boats sounded their horns. Nürnberg passed a small island to starboard, no further than 500 meters away.

    “Gooch Island, closest point of land to the American line,” announced Mueller. “I have no idea what that name means. Quite a popular spot for smugglers, I hear.”

    “Submarine!” called a lookout.

    In the lee of the island, a submarine was sitting on the surface. Von Schönberg looked at a young officer standing on the conning tower, looking back at him. He could see no torpedo tracks.

    “What is he waiting for?” asked Von Schönberg. “We will be out of his engagement envelope in seconds.” He heard cheering voices coming across the water, and glanced over his shoulder. Nürnberg was just drawing past the steamer Whatcom. A dozen other yachts were in close proximity, just over the line, less than 100 meters distant. The Canadian officer ducked down the hatch, and the submarine commenced a dive.

    “It seems we have hostages,” said Von Schönberg, frowning. Leipzig passed the point of the island, came in sight of the submarine, and opened fire with her pom-poms, The submarine finished her dive and disappeared under the surface. The Germans cruisers entered the drifting smoke, and the island behind was soon lost in the haze.

    Boundary Pass
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    San Juan Island National Historical Park · 4668 Cattle Point Rd, Friday Harbor, WA 98250

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    Boundary Pass and Haro Strait, from Turn Point Lighthouse
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    • It is up to us now

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1355 hours. HMCS CC-1, Haro Strait, off Gooch Island.

    HMCD ESQUIMALT TO HMCS CC-2 AND HMCS CC-1GERMAN CRUISERS REPORTED TURNING AT SATURNA ISLAND LIGHT SPLENDID SHOOTING ON PRINCESS RAIDER STOP

    HMCS CC-2 TO HMCS CC-1 AM IN POSITION OFF BEWELL HARBOUR WILL ATTACK ON SURFACE STOP ADVISE POSITION YOURSELF OFF POINT FAIRFAX MORESBY ISLAND STOP WE CAN CATCH GERMANS IN HAMMER AND ANVIL ATTACK STOP

    HMCS CC-1 TO HMCS CC-2 ACKNOWLEDGE AM CONCERNED ABOUT RANGE FROM CONCEALED POSITON AT FAIRFAX POINT FOR SURFACE ATTACK STOP DO NOT TRUST BOAT FOR SUBMERGED ATTACK STOP I SEE MORE CHANCE OF SUCCESS WITH VERY SHORT RANGE ATTACK FROM BEHIND GOOCH ISLAND STOP

    HMCS CC-2 TO HMCS CC-1 AS YOU SEE FIT LT COMMANDER JONES HAD UTMOST CONFIDENCE IN YOUR ABILTY STOP GOOD WORK WITH THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE STOP

    Lieutenant Willie Maitland-Dougal had scarcely finished his successful torpedo attack on the Princess Charlotte, when his commander Lieutenant Keyes ordered him north to join in another ambush on the approaching pair of cruisers. He had witnessed his one torpedo hit take 30 feet off the bow of the stolen CPR liner. If the Charlotte did not sink outright, she was now hors de combat. He considered putting another torpedo into the stationary German to finish the job, but Lieutenant Keyes had called him north, and anyway, the 3 remaining torpedoes would best be saved for the cruisers of the East Asiatic Squadron.

    Maitland-Dougal parked his submarine CC-1 in the deep water just south of Gooch Island, in Haro Strait. From this angle he could sight across the sand tombolo connecting Gooch Island proper to the unnamed islet to the east, and line up his firing solution on the German cruisers approaching from the north. The wireless had been screaming reports about the cruisers for some time now, and he was relived to have arrived at his chosen firing spot in time to catch his breath and size up the situation.

    Lieutenant Keyes was correct that a hammer and anvil attack would be the deadliest threat the submarines in company could present: whereby the two submarines fired their torpedoes in a coordinated fashion at right angles to one another, so that a target turning to rake one set of torpedoes would put themselves broadside to the other attack. But Maitland-Dougal did not have faith in the torpedoes being able to hit anything as they reached the limit of their range, and Bedwell Harbour and Fairfax Point were almost 6000 yards apart. Lieutenant Keyes’ proposed attack would have the Germans doing most of the work running up on top of his torpedoes at a converging speed of 50 knots. This seemed to Maitland-Dougal like trying to hit a thrown rock with another thrown rock. He could close the range by making a submerged attack further up the channel, but less than 10 minutes ago, still elated from landing a successful blow on the Princess Charlotte, he had dived to avoid return fire from the Germans. The boat had suddenly got into its head to aim straight for the bottom, and almost killed them all, before Maitland-Dougal had ordered the electric motors to be run in full reverse to pull them back to the surface.

    The way he saw it, his so-called submarine was really a slow conventional torpedo boat with the ability to occasionally hide underwater, if it happened to feel like it at the time. He intended to handle the vessel accordingly. And as for a torpedo attack, he would fire from as close a range as possible. Here behind Gooch Island, the distance to the American boundary line was scarcely 500 yards. At that range his torpedoes would still be running at 29 knots, and would have less opportunity to deviate from their aimed course at launch. That suited him fine.

    When Maitland-Dougal had run up Haro Strait an hour ago he had noticed American sightseeing boats gathering alongside the patrolling Revenue Cutters. Now, if anything the pack of civilian vessels flying the Stars and Stripes was even denser. It looked like the Americans were having a garden party, out on the water. A recent arrival was an excursion steamer of 500 tons and over 150 feet long. He recognized her as the Whatcom, a local coaster familiar from when he had spent time down in Puget Sound, before the war. As the steamer passed heading northward, Maitland-Dougal could hear a combo on the boat deck playing ragtime tunes.

    HMCS-CC2 TO HMCS CC-1 GERMANS IN SIGHT AM COMMENCING ATTACK GODSPEED

    “Here we go!” announced Maitland-Dougal. “Prepare to fire tubes 3 and 4!”

    Looking across the sand isthmus joining the two islands, Maitland-Dougal saw events rapidly unfold. Two German cruisers steamed down Boundary Pass at full speed, their Ensigns stretched out and copious amounts of coal smoke trialing out horizontally behind in the stiff breeze. He could not see Lieutenant Keyes, but the lead cruiser suddenly turned away sharply as if raking a torpedo attack. The German was running into American waters! American civilian boats steered off in all directions to avoid the German. The nearby Lighthouse Service vessel guarding the international boundary signaled in protest. He counted. If Lieutenant Keyes had fired, his torpedoes had by now missed.

    “It is up to us now,” Maitland-Dougal said grimly. “Steady. Ready to launch on my command.” The lead German cruiser left American waters by the shortest path, due west, then heeled over as she turned south again at high speed. The cruiser was about to pass right in front of his position. The cruiser disappeared behind the small island. When her mast appeared past a lone fir tree on the point, Maitland-Dougal would issue the order. An American sailboat appeared beyond the point, then a power launch. A steamship’s mast appeared.

    “Fire!” he yelled, “No! Hold Fire!” The mast was moving too slowly. It belonged to the Whatcom. The excursion steamer was right at the boundary, recklessly sailing through a war zone. Another batch of American small craft appeared, headed south as fast as their boats could go. Then the lead German cruiser’s mast appeared over the island. If his torpedoes went astray, he could easily sink an American vessel, with a hundred civilians on board. The German was steaming at least at 22 knots. He was more likely to hit the American. The Hun overtook the Whatcom, and passed beyond his engagement zone. The second German cruiser appeared. The Whatcom was still right there.

    Maitland-Dougal cursed under his breath. “Hold fire and stand down!” he ordered. “Dive!” The lookout and helmsman shot down the hatch. Puffs of gun smoke rose from the second cruiser, and he heard the sound of rapid cannon shots, but he was already down in the conning tower. As the boat submerged, he could hear the sound of two sets of screws running fast over the sound of his own machinery. “Periscope up!”

    The uncooperative boat sank deeper than commanded, then lurched back upwards. By the time the periscope broke the surface and Maitland-Dougal had lined up on the Germans, the trailing cruiser was 1000 yards to the south.

    “Take us south, at periscope depth,” he ordered. As he watched, the cruisers shrank into the middle distance, then their outlines became indistinct as they entered the haze from the fires on the Saanich Peninsula. He swept a full circle around the submarine with his periscope, as his training had taught him to do before surfacing. To the east, the party continued on the American vessels, even though the spectacle had disappeared. To the north, 500 yards away, CC-2 ran south on the surface. Lieutenant Keyes stood atop the conning tower, a scarf blowing from his neck in the stiff breeze.

    “Surface!” ordered Maitland-Dougal. This time the boat complied with a minimum of drama.

    The two submarines fell into line abreast formation. Lieutenant Keyes was running his boat at close to 15 knots, rather than 13 knots nominal top speed, and Maitland-Dougal had to push his engines to maximum to keep up. The roaring of the diesels made shouting by loud-hailer impossible, so the captains communicated by Morse light.

    THE GERMANS WILL BE OFF VICTORIA IN 45 MINUTES WE HAVE TO CATCH THEM UP, flashed Keyes.

    WE WILL OVERHEAT THE DIESELS AT THIS SPEED, replied Maitland-Dougal.

    SO BE IT THESE BOATS HAVE NO FURTHER USE THAN THIS FIGHT TODAY flashed Keyes in response. EVEN AT THIS SPEED WE WILL ARRIVE OFF VICTORIA HALF AN HOUR AFTER THE GERMANS

    IF I MAY SIR, flashed Maitland-Dougal, I WILL WATCH THE TEMPETURA CLOSELY AND SLOW IF I MUST SO AS TO ARRIVE FULLY OPERATIONAL

    USE YOUR DISCRETION CAPTAIN, flashed Keyes. THIS BOAT HAS ONE TORPEDO FORWARD AND ONE AFT

    I HAVE TWO FORWARD ONE AFT, replied Maitland-Dougal.

    USE THEM WELL, flashed Keyes. The boats travelled side by side for a few minutes, but then Maitland-Dougal got notice from the engineer that the engines were running hot. He ordered the diesels throttled back to 13 knots, and CC-2 began to pull away.

    The submarines gradually entered the bank of haze as they passed the southern tip of Sidney Island. Sporadic explosions still appeared from the site of the burning explosives factory. Something was going on over on the American side, with some larger ships moving about off San Juan Island, but Maitland-Dougal could not see for the haze. Ahead, the outline of CC-2 became blurry, but after a quarter of an hour they had begun to pass out of the haze again and Boat One could be seen to be leading by about 1000 yards. Haze or no, even a surfaced submarine was hard to spot, though Maitland-Dougal.

    East of Keye’s boat, another American patrol vessel was heading south on her side of the line, attempting to match speed with the Canadian submarines. This ship was USRC Itasca. She was big, almost 200 feet long, but old, and rigged like one of the Royal Navy sloops. Five miles to the south of her was a great patch of funnel smoke. Maitland-Dougal saw through his binoculars that this was an US Navy destroyer, with a numeral 12 painted on her side and 4 funnels very widely spaced in the American fashion, in the process of making a turn from a northern course back south. Further south again, close to the horizon at the entrance to Puget Sound, a much bigger ship with 4 funnels was raising its own smoke cloud.

    Maitland-Dougal passed D’Arcy Island, the site of his successful ambush on the Princess Charlotte. He swept the water with his binoculars, but no sign of that ship could now be seen. As the tree lined slopes of the island drew by, his view directly south opened up, and he saw the distant German cruisers rounding Discovery Island and turning west, their smoke trails rising from the pair of triple funnels and blowing out horizontally across Haro Strait. Lieutenant Keyes in Boat 2 followed the cruisers, with a 2000 yard lead on his boat, but still 6 miles behind the Germans. The Hun disappeared behind the island.

    “We are too late,” said Maitland-Dougal.

    ALL SHIPS ALL SHIPS DOMINION WIRELESS STATION VICTORIA SHOTBOLT HILL HAS TWO GERMAN CRUISERS IN SIGHT THIS MOMENT ALL SHIPS ALL SHIPS

    Maitland-Dougal received the wireless message and the message repeated several times. Then he heard, even over the sound of his diesels, the sound of naval gunfire. The wireless message broke off suddenly, but the sound of gunfire continued.

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    Last edited:
    • If his luck ran out

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1335 hours. SMS Princess Charlotte, Haro Strait.

    Lieutenant Von Spee rose up off the deck. At a glance, all of the bridge crew seemed to be alive, so that was something. His first realization was that the ship was now circling in reverse, following the last command of the helm and engine telegraph.

    “All ahead slow,” he ordered.

    Von Spee looked about and saw that the rest of the bridge crew were still slowly climbing to their feet, so he stepped to the engine telegraph and signaled the command himself. Then he switched off the collision alarm. The bridge was flooded with seawater and partially destroyed. Windows were smashed inward, and fixtures had been broken away, but the wheel and engine telegraph still stood. Then he looked forward through the broken glass.

    The foredeck was gone. Ten meters was missing from the bow of the ship. The anchors, capstan, and forward derrick had disappeared. The bow 5.2 cm gun and its crew had vanished. The 3.7 cm pom-pom crew on the upper deck, just ahead of the wheelhouse, seemed all to be wounded by fragments or concussion. A jagged section of steel deck had been flung up like the tongue of a shoe, and beyond that was only the sea. The bridge crew hobbled to their stations.

    A gun fired, to aft. Looking to port, Von Spee saw the Canadian submarine in the midst of diving. A waterspout rose right beside the streamlined hull. Another gun fired, and achieved another near miss, and then the submarine was fully submerged.

    “Damage report!” called Von Spee.

    The crew was slow to respond. The Princess Charlotte had ceased her aimless backwards circling, and was now beginning to make headway forward.

    “All available crew on damage control!” ordered Von Spee. “Abandon the guns.”

    Radl had finally collected himself, and appeared at Von Spee’s side, bleeding from a cut to his scalp. He surveyed the foredeck. “This is bad,” he said. “Are we sinking?”

    “It is hard to tell,” replied Von Spee. “Helm, take us due east.”

    “You are planning on interning, Captain?” asked Radl.

    “If we don’t sink first,” answered Von Spee, “Or get finished off by that submarine, wherever it went.”

    “Yes, I think internment in America will be for the best,” said Radl coldly. “I do not wish to be taken prisoner by the Canadians.” He paused, and a scene seemed to play out in his head. “In fact, if the matter is in some doubt, let me know. I would rather swim to D’Arcy Island there, and live the rest of my days among the lepers than be taken prisoner by the Canadians.”

    “Well then, to facilitate our escape,” Von Spee said to Radl, “will you please supervise damage control forward. I suspect we will have to shore up the surviving bulkheads quickly in order even to make it to the maritime boundary.” Radl saluted and left the bridge. “Wireless, send a message: Princess Charlotte torpedoed in Haro Strait, include our position. Aiming to inter in United States.”

    The response to this order came more quickly. “Wireless not operational, sir. The antenna is disconnected, and the shock has damaged the transmitter.” The stays for the foremast had gone along with the bow, and the mast had shaken like a tuning fork, yanking out the signal cable from the wireless room.

    “If the wireless cannot be repaired immediately,” ordered Von Spee, “then go help with damage control below. Oh, and before you do, throw the code books over the side in a weighted sack.”

    A sailor from engineering came up to the bridge, his pants wet to the waist. “Hold number one is open to the sea, sir. Hold number two has 3 metres of water, and the bulkhead is badly distorted. The watertight doors cannot make a seal, and the plating seams are burst. Crews are working shoring that bulkhead with timbers and collision mats. Boiler room number one has half a meter of water, and is still leaking from the grounding. Lieutenant Radl is leading a party shoring the boiler room forward bulkhead, in case the bulkhead of the hold collapses. Pumps are working at full capacity. The engineer says we can try five knots, no faster.”

    The sailor turned to go. “Wait,” ordered Von Spee. “I will take the wheel,” he said to the helmsman. “You two attend to the pom-pom crew. Then go down and help as well. As if our lives depend on it.” He rang the telegraph to achieve 5 knots. The helmsman and engineer stooped over the prone pom-pom gunners, in their smashed position just outside the wheelhouse windows. They dragged the three men back to the radio compartment.

    “We have made the wounded comfortable, sir.” reported the helmsman a few minutes later. “They are incapacitated, but they will live.” The two sailors then went below.

    Von Spee could feel the ship’s resistance pushing through the water with a blunt and ragged bow. She was definitely down by the head. A piece of the hull plating must have been jutting out into the sea to starboard. Von Spee found he had to keep the wheel at near full lock to port in order to keep the ship tracking straight ahead. Through the smashed windows he could see the maritime boundary a mile and a half away. An American Revenue Cutter was sitting right at the line, observing the situation. Beside her were two civilian yachts circling.

    Von Spee was about to order a message to be sent with signal flags announcing his intention to cross the boundary and inter, but there was no crew left topside to raise them. His men were either dead, wounded, occupied in the machinery spaces, or performing damage control. Anyway, he thought, he did not know if the signal halyards were still up. He could not even order the boats to be swung out. The ship seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. At this speed, the tide and currents were having a visible effect. For every 100 meters Princess Charlotte gained eastbound, she drifted south 60 meters or so on the outgoing tide.

    The haziness from the fires in Saanich Inlet was to the north of his position now. Von Spee happened to glance in that direction and witnessed a submarine burst up to the surface, 3000 meters distant. Oddly, he realized, the submarine surfaced stern first, and moving backwards. Then it surfaced completely, and settled into a more normal attitude, stationary.

    “Looks like we are not the only ones having problems today,” he said to himself. Crewmen scampered up onto the bridge of the Canadian submarine, but when it came underway, instead of heading for the Princess Charlotte, it turned and headed north, remaining on the surface, until it disappeared into the smoke. Something was drawing it north. The wall of smoke to the north now made everything beyond it a mystery. He knew there was a Canadian patrol vessel that Radl had identified as the Alcedo, as well as two submarines. And somewhere, the Leipzig and Nürnberg.

    “And we have no way to contact them,” Von Spee said to no one, because he was alone on the bridge.

    The wounded liner continued eastward, at a pace so slow that it had Von Spee’s heart in his throat. The impressive snow-covered volcanic cone of Mount Baker directly ahead reared up stark and crystal clear. With no navigator, Von Spee could only guess the location of the international boundary by his relative position to the nearest American patrol vessel.

    By 1350 hours, Princess Charlotte had crawled to within 1000 metres of the nearest American ship, and at this range, Von Spee did not even need binoculars to read her name as USRC Manning. Trim and white, perhaps 1000 tons, 60 meters long, and armed with 4 deck guns. Two yachts packed with civilians accompanied her. The Revenue Cutter had been, Von Spee thought, keeping a poker face, as it were, and merely observing, but now she began to signal.

    It could no longer be ignored that the Princess Charlotte was entering American waters. But if he left the wheel to send a semaphore message, the ship would begin to circle to starboard. Somewhere below, there was a series of crashes, and the sound of rushing water. The Charlotte could still sink from progressive flooding, he thought, if his luck ran out. Within a minute Von Spee felt the bow sink deeper, and the ship slowed and became even less responsive to the rudder. After another minute, Radl appeared on the bridge again, red faced and his uniform filthy.

    “The bulkhead of hold number two has collapsed,” Radl reported, breathing hard. “We managed to shore the bulkhead of number one boiler room, and it seems to be holding. Good thing too, we need the all the steam for the pumps.”

    “Thank you,” said Von Spee. “Would you be so good as to send a semaphore message? I can’t leave the wheel, and our American friends are curious.”

    “It has been a long time since I handled semaphore flags,” said Radl.

    “I will dictate,” said Von Spee.

    GERMAN NAVY SHIP WISHES TO ENTER AMERICAN WATERS UNDER HAGUE TREATY 13 OF 1907 ARTICLE 17.

    The American signaled, in reply.

    THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA WILL RECEIVE YOUR SHIP I RULE YOU TO BE ENTERING UNDER ARTICLE 21 FOLLOW ME

    “What does that mean, Article 21,” asked Radl. “My international law is rusty.”

    “It means he is ruling that we are a prize, rather than a belligerent warship,” answered Von Spee. “Probably so he can seize the Charlotte from us under Article 22, and return her to the Canadians, if we do not obey the terms of the treaty. ‘On account of damage’ is the language the treaty uses to describe our situation. No matter which article we enter neutral waters under, we have 24 hours to effect repairs before we are required to be interned. More if we appeal to their discretion.”

    “They can’t for a moment believe we will repair this ship in 24 hours,” said Radl. “She will need a whole new bow, from the boiler rooms forward.”

    “Yes,” said Von Spee. “That would be one reason to extend the legal duration of our stay, under Article 21. We are required to leave when the circumstances which justify our entry to neutral waters are at an end. Our ‘unseaworthiness’ is not going to be at an end soon.”

    “The treaty does allow,” continued Von Spee, “Under Article 23, for prize crew, meaning us, to leave neutral territory aboard a warship that we arrived in convoy with. We could make an argument that we are still in convoy with Captain Von Schönberg’s cruisers. But I see no way to meet up with them. Nürnberg and Leipzig will be running at full tilt from now until they leave Canadian waters. They will not be able to stop for us, what with submarines and God know what else around. And the Canadians still have some armed patrol vessels about. We could ignore them when we ware faster and better armed, but not if we are rowing in lifeboats.”

    “I suppose,” said Von Spee with finality, “we are going to have to develop a taste for American food.”

    Formalities were exchanged with the Revenue cutter. Princess Charlotte was now due south of the Manning, and therefore must have entered the United States of America. The passengers of the yachts seemed to go into a frenzy, and most of them, men and women, were pointing cameras at the exotic wounded German raider. The Manning led Princess Charlotte towards the north end of San Jaun Island. Because the liner was in near-sinking condition, the Manning’s captain did not offer to bring her into Roche Harbour, and instead instructed that the ship be run ashore nearby on the falling tide, on a sandy beach in front of hamlet called Yacht Haven, at the mouth of Mosquito Pass. Von Spee could think of no reason not to. His men certainly could not stay on the ship. And he imagined the Charlotte was lost to the Canadians one way or another, so did not think that the extra finality of scuttling her in deep water was worth annoying their American hosts over.

    “Well captain,” said Radl. “I must say that was a frantic six days spent in service of the Kaiser. Not the week I had expected. And you, having your first two commands shot out from under you. I expect the big moustaches in Wilhelmshaven owe you some medals.”

    Von Spee became thoughtful. “It would please me if some account of our successes here made it back to my father.”

    The Manning had led them back north within American waters, and into the bands of smoke from the burning Canadian factories that reduced visibility.

    “Look there!” exclaimed Radl. The hazy grey outlines of Nürnberg and Leipzig passed by down Haro Strait, in line ahead formation, headed south at a high rate of speed. The cruisers’ smoke drifted eastward towards the interned Germans. They watched the cruisers pass, in silence, until the warships disappeared into the haze.

    When run up on the beach, the Princess Charlotte stranded some distance from dry land, she drew so much water from being flooded forward. So at 1445 hours, the crew lowered the aft lifeboats, packed up with their personal effects. Forty-six German sailors, including three wounded, and three Canadian Naval Reservist survivors of CGS Restless, were lowered into Mosquito Pass. The boats were to be rowed into Roche Harbour, escorted by the Manning, to be received at the small Customs office. The Canadians, blinking in the sunlight, had only moments before been prisoners of war, but now found themselves to be, like the Germans, sailors of a belligerent nation, interred by a neutral power.

    The German crews looked back on the grounded Princess Charlotte. Von Spee stood up and saluted her, and the rest of the crew followed his lead. The liner, with her bow jagged and missing, no longer looked like the vibrant living thing that had been their home and their weapon since the raid on Prince Rupert Harbour. Now, she just looked like a wreck. And in the silence of the moment, Von Spee was sure he could faintly hear the sound of distant naval gunfire.

    Historical note: To this day, the mystery of what happened to the 10 silver ingots taken from Anyox and carried onboard the Princess Charlotte has never been solved.

    Hague Treaty 13 of 1907
     
    • Splice the Mainbrace

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1400 hours. HMCS Rainbow, Juan de Fuca Strait.

    Rainbow’s engine repairs had taken until after noon to complete. Commander Hose had almost pulled his hair out in response to increasingly frantic wireless reports, describing the destruction the German squadron was wreaking on the coast, as his warship crawled to the rescue at 6 knots. Finally, at 1330 hours the engineer had announced that the port engine was ready to receive steam.

    “Bring us up to 15 knots,” Hose ordered.

    Rainbow was now off River Jordan, the last reported position of the vanished patrol vessel CGS Restless. In the bright daylight, from 4 miles offshore, Hose could easily see the logging camp on the river estuary, and the camp in turn would have a clear view of anything going on in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. But in the moonless night, anything could have happened out here. CGS Malaspina had reported finding wreckage from Restless at around 0230, but Hose could see nothing now. The New Zealand liner Niagara had reported a collision with Restless, but Niagara had failed to show up off Esquimalt. Given the timing, Hose now supposed that the Niagara report was a ruse, that the patrol craft had run into the German squadron in the dark, and the crew had been the first Royal Canadian Navy sailors to give their lives in battle in this war. Most likely the first Canadians of any service to be killed in action, although the wireless reported fierce fighting in Bamfield at daybreak.

    Recent wireless reports from the submarines had described a series of engagements around the Saanich Peninsula that had left the German merchant raider torpedoed, but the two cruisers slipping past Keye’s pair of submarines. Rainbow passed Sheringham Point lighthouse, and by 1430 hours was drawing past the entrance to the fishing harbor at Sooke basin. Hose was keeping Rainbow close to the shore, so as to shield the view of her approach from the German cruisers. He was not sure where the Hun was just now, but he could feel that contact was imminent.

    ALL SHIPS ALL SHIPS DOMINION WIRELESS STATION VICTORIA SHOTBOLT HILL HAS TWO GERMAN CRUISERS IN SIGHT THIS MOMENT ALL SHIPS ALL SHIPS

    “The message repeated several times, then suddenly broke off right in the middle of a word,” reported the wireless runner.

    Now Hose could hear the faint sound of distant naval gunfire, despite a breeze from astern.

    “Wireless,” ordered Hose, “Send a message.”

    HMCS RAINBOW TO HMCD ESQUIMALT AM OFF SOOKE HARBOUR PLEASE ADVISE CURRENT POSITION OF GERMAN CRUISERS STOP

    HMCD ESQUIMALT TO HMCS RAINBOW 2 CRUISERS IN COMPANY JUST EAST OF TRIAL ISLAND HAVE COMMENCED BOMBARDMENT OF VICTORIA STOP FORT MCAULEY IS ENGAGING AT EXTREME RANGE STOP

    “So, what we are hearing is the bombardment of the Province’s capital,” said Hose grimly. “Those old 6 inch guns at the forts will be outranged by the German guns, but they should be able to keep the Hun standing off at a distance. At least make them waste more ammunition. The 9.2 inch gun on Signal Hill could get lucky though.”

    “Navigator,” he continued, with a note of determination. “Plot a course to intercept. If we continue east at current speed, and the Hun are running west from Trial Island at 20 knots, when will we meet? Or say, when will we come within gunnery range.”

    The Navigator quickly performed his calculations. “We will round Race Rocks in just over 20 minutes, sir. If the Germans are steaming west from their current position at 20 knots, we will be within 10,000 yards when we make visual contact with them.”

    “Twenty minutes,” said Hose. He heard another distant salvo of artillery. “Well then, we had best prepare ourselves.” He looked forward, over the bow 6 inch gun. The crew were at their stations, wearing bright white flash hoods. “If we are going to take this grand old gal and face two of the crack units of Kaiser Bill’s East Asiatic Squadron, I can think of no better time to take some extra courage.”

    “Splice the Mainbrace,” ordered Hose. “Crews remain at your stations.” For the next ten minutes or so, the Master At Arms and a party of non-commissioned officers circulated through the ship distributing an extra tot of rum to the men standing by at the guns, operating the machinery, stoking the boilers, and every discrete corner of the warship. In a shortcut borne of urgency, the Master and his attendants skipped the ceremony with the scuttlebutt, and simply poured rum from a bottle into a gill measure, and from that straight into each sailor’s tin cup. Another NCO followed with a 10-ounce measure of water, filled from an enameled jug, to dilute the rum into grog. More than half of the men waved off the water jug, and tossed back their ration neat. A pair of ratings clinked along behind, carrying a crate of rum bottles.

    When the rum party passed through the bridge, Hose and his command officers joined in, Splicing the Mainbrace being the only occasion where officers took part in the tot. Hose welcomed the warming fire in his belly.

    The distant sound of naval artillery continued, and now Hose could make out a pattern. The crack of multiple guns firing simultaneously, sounded out like clockwork, with a salvo every 5 to 8 seconds. After listening intently for a minute, Hose could hear the intervals between every other salvo drift somewhat, as if two different ships were firing tight volleys. “That would be the Hun,” commented Hose, and the gunnery officer nodded gravely.

    A deeper voiced salvo sounded, three guns firing all within a second of each other. “There goes one of the 6 inch batteries of the forts,” said the gunnery officer. It was another whole minute before they heard that sound again.

    Then a still deeper and louder boom rang out, a single shot by itself. “The 9.2 inch battery on Signal Hill is joining in,” said Hose. “That will give the Hun a fright. With a 380 pound shell! Pity they only have a one gun in action.” The deep boom of the 9.2 inch gun repeated after a count of 20 seconds.

    Other sounds of artillery punctuated the rhythm, lighter guns firing more sporadically. “Perhaps the anti-torpedo boat guns, or the Shearwater,” said the gunnery officer. The view to the sources of all the gunfire, and whatever results it was producing, was all hidden behind the intervening high land of Rocky Point. Ahead the black and white striped lighthouse tower on Race Rocks kept watch. The lighthouse keeper would be able to see around the corner to Victoria and Esquimalt from where he stood at the railing outside the lantern.

    To the south, at the International boundary, a destroyer with 4 widely spaced funnels, flying the Stars and Stripes, had noticed Rainbow, and raced westward to dog her from the American side of the line. Hose looked at the small warship through his binoculars. “She has a 10 painted on her hull. That would make her the USS Paul Jones. Fast little thing, although she is an odd duck of a design.” Now Hose could see further east, perhaps 8 miles distant, and also on the American side, the 4 stacks of another warship.

    “That is a Saint Louis class Protected Cruiser,” said Hose to the gunnery officer, “and look, there is another one 4 miles to the east. One of those must be the Milwaukee, we’ve seen her on patrol. But the other could only be the Charleston. She was the receiving ship at Bremerton Naval Yard just a few weeks ago! So basically, a depot ship. The Yanks are really putting every vessel they can on neutrality patrol today. I don’t imagine the Charleston is even fully armed. I would bet her magazines are empty. Ha! Oh yes, see how high in the water she is sitting?”

    And so, the officers distracted themselves from the dark matter so close at hand.

    At 1445, as Rainbow approached Race Rocks, a curious and horrible sight greeted them in the shadow of the lighthouse. Black dorsal fins maneuvered aggressively in the ripping tide waters. A pod of killer whales was in the middle of ambushing a colony of seals. The terrified seals trapped in the water jumped and whirled and dove, while their companions and families watched from the rocks. The killer whales seemed to hunt as a team, and whenever a seal dashed for the safety of the rocks, a whale would cut it off and send it back into deep water. It was a massacre. Seals were snatched from below and torn to pieces. One young seal watching from the rocks got too close to the edge, a killer whale head reared up from the depths, grabbed the seal in its jaws, and tossed it high in the air, to be caught by another whale and devoured. The ocean seethed red with blood. On the rocks the surviving seals of the colony were barking frantically, when their voices could be heard over the sound of the naval gunfire.

    Then, at 1450, Rainbow drew past Rocky Point and the sightline to Victoria and Esquimalt was revealed.

    Panorama from Race Rocks Lighthouse. https://www.google.ca/maps/@48.2979...-no-pi-20-ya92-ro-0-fo100!7i8704!8i4352?hl=en

    en.wikipedia.org

    USS Charleston (C-22) - Wikipedia

    en.wikipedia.org en.wikipedia.org

    en.wikipedia.org

    USS Paul Jones (DD-10) - Wikipedia

    en.wikipedia.org en.wikipedia.org
     
    • Dead Giveaway

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1430 hours, Signal Hill Battery, Esquimalt Naval Dockyard.

    Lieutenant Alister Donnelly, of Number 5 Company Royal Canadian Garrison Artillery, stood on the flat concrete roof of his battery Fire Command Post, looking east over the city of Victoria through a pair of binoculars. He could clearly hear the sound of naval artillery. The Fire Command Post stood on the highest point of Signal Hill. Donnelly had hoped the extra eight feet or so of elevation he gained by standing on the roof would allow him to see the ships responsible over the intervening landscape of Beacon Hill and Moss Rock. It did not.

    “The Dominion Wireless Station on Shotbolt Hill reports they are being bombarded by two cruisers from off the Trial Islands!” reported the telephone exchange operator, with his head stretched out of the command post vision slit so as to better yell updates to Donnelly. Signal Hill Battery’s Mark X, 9.2 inch guns on their Mark V barbette mountings had a maximum range of 21,000 yards, and so could easily lob a shell as far as the Trial Islands. But Donnelly had no line of sight, and there was no central fire control system to correct the battery’s fall of shot beyond line of sight of the battery’s own Fire Command Post. Direct Fire it would have to be, so Donnelly needed to wait until he could see a target. He was not a patient man.

    What he could see through his binoculars, over top of the trees and buildings of downtown Victoria, were the masts of the Wireless Station, 5 miles away. Two tall wooden pole masts, surrounded by attendant guy wires, supported the long range antenna, perched on rocky moss-covered Shotbolt Hill. Puffs of smoke and dust rose from the slopes as German shells landed around the station. The sound of the exploding shells took 20 seconds to reach Donnelly’s ears, so after he saw one of the masts fall, yanking down the antenna with it, and the Germans ceased fire, he continued to hear the sounds of gunfire and shell bursts.

    “Traverse number two gun to its farthest east position,” Donnelly ordered. The gunlayers called out some numbers. The gun in the righthand position swung on its axis until it was aimed at Clover Point. The crew standing on the turntable and the heavy armoured gunshield rotated along with the gun, within its concrete emplacement. Any target north of that angle was hidden behind the high ground of the city of Victoria, and so was out of the battery’s engagement zone, no matter what the range. The massive barrel elevated to 15 degrees, its maximum elevation.

    Number one gun did not traverse. Its huge barrel was sitting supported on wooden timbers, waiting for a critical part of the recoil mechanism to arrive from repairs in England. In the space between and behind the two gun emplacements, stairs descended to the magazines and shell stores a full story underground. The gun captain of the Number One gun crew climbed up on the roof to stand beside Donnelly, having nothing better to do himself.

    “Rotten luck the recoil cylinders are still in shipment,” the captain said to Donnelly.

    “Rotten it is, but I don’t call it luck,” answered Donnelly bitterly. “The politicians in Ottawa decided to save money by starving these defences. You know as well as I.” Donnelly cursed. “Should we also say it is bad luck that the Position Finder for this battery was never shipped either? Ottawa just didn’t feel like paying for it. So we are going to have to try and direct our fire with a spare Depression Range Finder from one of the 6 inch batteries. It will be a bloody miracle if we hit a thing today.”

    “I heard that a Watkins Position Finder is on a train from Halifax right now,” replied the gun captain. “Although…”

    “Although,” continued Donnelly, “fat lot of good it will do us today, sitting in a train car. We are the counter-bombardment battery of this fortress. And it just so happens that the city is being bombarded at the moment. We have only one functional gun, a bodged together director, and thirty-six rounds in the magazine.”

    “I recall there being thirty-seven,” replied the gun captain.

    “Thirty-six,” Donnelly said definitively. “Ten Lyddite high-explosive, nine armour piercing and 17 solid shot. The magazine crew conducted an inspection this morning, and discovered that the driving bands on one of the armour piercing shells are damaged.” Donnelly thought he saw coal smoke to the east, but he could be mistaking it for smoke and dust from the bombardment, the wind was blowing it away from his position in any case.

    At least visibility was all one could ask for. The sun was bright and the sky perfectly clear. Today the mountain range of the Olympic Peninsula to the south was not hidden behind clouds as it so often was, and rose dark blue and sawtoothed across the whole southern horizon. The sea banded with silver and turquoise and was running with waves a couple of feet tall, showing occasional whitecaps. American warships were steaming back and forth on the international boundary, 10 miles to the south, and Donnelly imagined they were none too happy with what was transpiring this afternoon.

    Nearer to the south, just down the slope from the battery, were the streets and houses of the civilian townsite of Esquimalt. Some of the children and housewives were appearing on their lawns, curious about the sound of the distant gunfire.

    “Those houses will suffer badly from concussion when we open up,” said the gun captain. “They already have half their windows cracked from the reduced charges we have been using for the practice fires.”

    “Yes,” replied Donnelly. “The full charges will take care of the rest of that window glass. Saint Paul’s Church used to be right down there,” he said pointing, “before they moved it in 1904. Think of what the concussion would do to all that stained glass!”

    Donnelly looked over his shoulder at Esquimalt Harbour to his north. This was the Royal Navy’s and Royal Canadian Navy’s sole dockyard on the West Coast of the Americas, and his responsibility to defend. The Dockyard buildings, with all the administration and naval stores, were clustered on the peninsula to his west, between Signal Hill and Duntz Head. The Graving Dock was drained with the Grand Trunk Pacific freighter Prince Albert resting on blocks inside, having broken her propeller shaft two days previously. The coal- loading wharf was being replenished by a scow cut down from a 4 masted sailing ship. A tug stood by the scow, just a whisp of smoke rising from her funnel. A CPR Steamship, the Princess Royal, was raised out of the water on the ways at the Yarrows shipyard at Jones Landing. Only a single ocean going vessel was riding at anchor, the cable laying ship CS Resorer. Behind her, another mile and a half up Esquimalt Harbour, he could see the brick buildings on small Cole Island, the naval magazine for the Dockyard. If the German cruisers stayed out of range of the guns of Forts Rodd Hill and McAuley, then at least the naval magazine would remain safely beyond the range of the German guns.

    On the other side of the entrance to Esquimalt Harbour, just inland from Fisgard Lighthouse, the three 6 inch guns in the Upper and Lower Batteries of Fort Rodd Hill were elevated above their parapets and aimed east along the same axis as his own gun. He could also see the three anti-torpedo boat batteries, each with a pair of 12 pounder guns: Duntze Head and Black Rock Batteries on this side of the Harbour and Belmont Battery on the Rodd Hill side. And just barely visible over the trees of Saxe Point to the east, he could make out the glacis and elevated barrel of the easternmost of the 6 inch guns of Fort McAuley, guarding the western side of Victoria Harbour.

    The two 6 inch batteries of the forts were less than 20 years old but were already hopelessly obsolete. Donnelly tried not to rub this fact in the noses of their battery commanders, but it was an undeniable fact. Their range of 8800 yards made them useless enough, but their greatest sin was their poor rate of fire. With complicated and awkward hydro-pneumatic disappearing carriages, the six inch guns could not manage to get more than one shell off every two minutes. His own 9.2 inch gun, despite having a shell that weighed almost 4 times as much, could send shells downrange at a rate of three per minute with a fresh crew in top form. Meaning his singe gun had the same rate of fire as all six guns of the two other forts combined. Which made it all the more inexcusable that the 9.2 inch battery had been so neglected.

    Donnelly silently raged as he paced back and forth atop the Fire Command Post roof.

    “Fort McAuley reports the two cruisers are approaching Victoria Harbour from the east,” called up the telephone operator. “They are engaging.”

    Three booms in quick succession sounded from the east. Donnelly saw the muzzle flashes above the trees on Saxe Point, and saw the number 3 gun of the fort recoil, and swing backwards then downwards into the loading position in its pit.

    After a moment the telephone rating called up again. “Fort McAuley reports the cruisers are out of range, at just over 11,000 yards.”

    Donnelly made a scoffing noise.

    “Fort McAuley reports that the cruisers are heading south west, in company, at about 15 knots,” called the telephone rating, and gave some positions. “The commander suspects they are deliberately staying out of range of his guns. He expects they will become visible to us in a minute or so.”

    “Load solid shot!” ordered Donnelly. The gun crew received the 380 pound shell from the lift, rammed it from the trolley into the firing chamber, opened a zinc canister containing the silk bagged cordite charge and rammed that in behind the shell. The breechblock was closed. The crew moved to their firing positions.

    “We had best move inside the Command Post,” said Donnelly, and he hopped down onto the concrete glacis. “Well I had better. You should take your men into the crew shelter, and stand by in case Number Two gun takes casualties.” The men cleared the top of the fort. Donnelly entered the concrete Fire Command Post from the sheltered door at the rear. Inside the small space were half a dozen men, a telescope, a depression range finder and the telephone exchange. The artillerymen were working with a quiet efficiency. It had been two minutes since Fort McAuley had fired the opening salvo. The 6 inch guns of the fort sounded again.

    “There they are!” exclaimed the young private on the telescope, then he composed himself and reported, “Sir, a German cruiser has appeared from behind Saxe Point. Range 13,000 yards. I identify her as Stettin class.”

    “That would be the Nürnberg,” Donnely said. He strode over to the view slit and gazed out at Saxe Point, just in time for the bow of a second cruiser to thrust out where he could see it. The shells from Fort McAuley had been in the air for 16 seconds, and landed just then, raising a trio of waterspouts several thousand yards short of the Germans. Donnelly took over the telescope, and trained on the leading German ship.

    “Yes, that is the Nürnberg all right,” he said. He panned the telescope over to the second cruiser. “And that second one is Bremmen class.” A recognition silhouette sheet was pinned to the wall of the post, and the exaggerated ram bow of the second cruiser was a dead giveaway. “Leipzig.” Suddenly the guns on the cruiser flashed, causing Donnelly to jump. Then he laughed. “Get me a firing solution for the lead cruiser. The soldier on the range finder began calling out numbers, and these were relayed to the gun crew.

    “Ready!” came the reply.

    “Fire!” ordered Donnelly, and the order was passed on. Donnelly plugged his ears and opened his mouth. The force of the blast pressed on his chest, and raised dust in the small space of the command post. When the sound of the blast died away he ordered, “Load solid shot!” He looked through the telescope at the Nürnberg to spot the fall of shot. Her guns flashed again, with a 4 gun broadside. As he waited for his shell to land, he heard shells rumble overhead from Fort Rodd Hill, followed by the boom of the fort’s 6 inch guns. At this angle his battery was on the flight path of the western fort’s shells. Now incoming higher velocity German shells made a different note as they passing overhead from the direction of the sea.

    “Over!” called the soldier on the rangefinder. His first shell had fallen far outside of his field of view from the telescope, so he had completely missed its landing. “By 3000 yards.”

    “Ready!” announced the gun crew. The director adjusted the aim point.

    “HMCS Shearwater reports she is engaging the cruisers!” announced the telephone operator.

    “Fire!” ordered Donnelly. The big 9.2 inch gun roared again. “Load solid shot!” This time Donnelly looked up from the telescope to get a wider field of view. Leipzig’s guns flashed with a 5 gun broadside. A pair of waterspouts rose a thousand yards short of Leipzig, as expected. Shearwater’s pair of 4 inch guns had a 9600 yard range, longer than the 6 inch guns of the forts, but still not long enough. His 9.2 inch shell also landed short by a thousand yards, and well astern of Nürnberg. Donnelly looked back through the telescope. Nürnberg’s guns flashed. Her guns were aimed somewhat to the east, perhaps at Victoria harbor. Another pair of Shearwater’s shells landed, short again. At least Shearwater was armed with quick firing guns.

    Both German cruisers were now rapid firing salvos, one every five seconds or so. The shells whistled as they flew overhead. Donnelly could hear splashes as shells landed in the harbor, and explosions as they struck something more solid, but he did not take the time to look just now.

    “Shearwater reports she is exchanging fire with the lead cruiser,” reported the telephone operator.

    “Ready!” called the gun crew.

    “Fire!” ordered Donnelly. The gun thundered. “Load solid shot!” A German shell landed nearby, close enough that small pieces of rock rained down on the battery. He heard the lowered steel shutters of the command post ring as they were struck with fragments. He was not worried about the Germans landing any effective counter-battery fire on his position. The guns and its support facilities were dug deep into solid rock and protected by concrete. These positions were built by Royal Engineers. In fact, the best possible outcome would be if the Germans did engage in an artillery duel with the forts, and wasted their shells fruitlessly trying to silence the guns, rather than destroying the much more vulnerable and valuable parts of the Dockyard. No more shells landed nearby the battery, and he guessed that the Germans understood this as well.

    “Long!” called the artillery spotter. “By a thousand yards. Last two of our shots straddled.”

    “That is about as accurate as we are going to get with this equipment,” said Donnelly.

    “Ready!” called the gun.

    “Fire!” Donnely ordered. The gun thundered again. “Load High-Explosive! We might just get lucky.”

    “The Dockyard reports they are receiving shellfire,” announced the telephone operator. The sound of incoming shells and nearby explosions had become constant, and drowned out the sound of the distant guns. The sharp smell of detonated TNT, wood smoke, and burning tar drifted into the Command Post, on the breeze.

    “Range 11,000 yards,” called the soldier on the rangefinder. “The cruisers have accelerated to over 20 knots.”

    “Fire!” ordered Donnelly. “Load High Explosive.”

    “Victoria reports the Inner Harbor is under bombardment,” reported the telephone operator.

    The engagement continued like this, for a perhaps five more minutes, until the cruisers were directly south of Signal Hill Battery. Smoke blowing east from the fires in the Dockyard now blanketed the Signal Hill, at times completely obscuring their vision. The rate of fire of all the guns had dropped, with the cruisers each firing a salvo every 20 seconds, and the 9.2 inch gun getting a shell off every 30 to 45 seconds. The other forts reported occasionally by telephone, but not once had one of their shells reached as far as the cruisers. Donnelly noticed that the anti-torpedo boat battery at Black Rock had opened up with their 12 pounders, and even these were outranging the 6 inch guns, but still to no effect.

    “That was the last of the high explosive shells,” reported the gun captain.

    “Load Armour Piercing.” ordered Donnelly. “Let’s see if they are done with us, and run past out to the Pacific, or if they want more destruction.”

    “Ready!” announced the gun captain.

    “Fire!” ordered Donnelly.

    “Sir, the cruisers are turning!” reported the soldier on the telescope. Donnelly looked and indeed they were, in a tight turn backtracking their previous course.

    “Brass balls.” Donnelly muttered to himself. His first AP shell literally missed by a mile.

    The cruisers steamed eastward for another two minutes, inflicting more punishment on the Dockyard and Victoria harbour. Waterspouts rose in a zone several thousand yards to the north of the warships, as if making a fence through which they dared not pass. At some point the fire from Shearwater had ceased, but by now all three of the anti-torpedo boat batteries had joined in, rapid fire. And the lone 9.2 inch gun added its wild fire to the mix.

    “Cruisers are coming about again,” reported the telescope. The two cruisers turned while firing, and raced westward once more, chased by the shore batteries. Two minutes later they again passed directly south of the Signal Hill Battery.

    “There goes the last of the AP shells,” reported the gun captain.”

    Donnelly thought he saw a smoke trail of a ship to the west, coming from beyond Race Rocks, but it was hard to tell through the smoke of the burning Dockyard. Another American warship on neutrality patrol?

    “Sir! I have HMCS Rainbow in sight!” reported the telescope. “Just rounding Race Rocks now!”

    I can find no photos of the Signal Hill Battery with guns mounted. This is a similar battery on the River Tyne. From victorianforts.co.uk

    9.2 inch gun.jpeg


    Coast Defences 1914.png

    il_794xN.1623053905_n5g3.jpg


    Modern view towards from top of Gonzales Hill, formerly called Shotbolt Hill
    www.google.ca

    Google Maps

    Find local businesses, view maps and get driving directions in Google Maps.
    www.google.ca www.google.ca

    Modern View from the Roof of Esquimalt Naval Base Wardroom, on top of Signal Hill. Number One Gun Position is visible just below the white geodesic dome.
    www.google.ca

    Google Maps

    Find local businesses, view maps and get driving directions in Google Maps.
    www.google.ca www.google.ca

    Modern Walk Through of Fort Rodd Hill, starting at the Lower Battery
    https://www.google.ca/maps/@48.4321...9THvCq10qUp_3AT5hABA!2e0!7i13312!8i6656?hl=en

    Much about 9.2 inch guns

    Federal Government Historical and Architectural Report on the Signal Hill Battery
     
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    • Warship masts

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1430 hours, SMS Nürnberg, off Victoria.

    “Cease Fire!” ordered Captain Von Schönberg. One of the wooden masts holding up the antenna of the Canadian wireless station had been toppled by Nürnberg’s fifth salvo, putting the station off the air. The dust from the bombardment drifted east, over a residential municipality the chart labelled as Oak Bay.

    “Wireless has stopped transmitting,” reported Nürnberg’s wireless cabin.

    Nürnberg, with Liepzig following 1000 meters astern, rounded the Trial Islands, a group of low rocky islands with a lighthouse on the southern point. Clouds of gulls wheeled, having been disturbed by the gunfire. The outbound tide running past the point produced deep furrows and eddies in the water. The sun was bright, the sky was clear. The mountains of the Olympic peninsula marched toward the ocean to port, until they disappeared in the distance. A fresh breeze blew the ships’ smoke straight out astern. Before him in the early afternoon sun were spread out the neighborhoods of Victoria, capital city of one of the colonies of the British Empire, and to the west, Esquimalt, a Royal Navy Dockyard.

    A chart showing the approaches to Victoria and Esquimalt harbours was laid on the chart table, and overlapping circles had been drawn in pencil showing the presumed ranges of the guns of the coastal defence forts. Command officers were clustered around the table at the back of the wheelhouse.

    “This line marks a 10,000 meter distance from the shore batteries,” said Von Schönberg, his finger on the chart. “N says the published range for the 6 inch guns of these forts is 8000 meters, so if we steam no closer than this line we should keep a good margin of safety.”

    “What is N?” asked Mueller.

    “Nachrichten-Abteilung, answered Von Schönberg, frowning. “The Naval Intelligence Bureau.”

    “Ah,” said Mueller. “Well, between the lighthouses at Trial Island and Race Rocks there are no hidden reefs this far off shore, so feel free to maneuver as you wish.” He stepped back from the huddle of naval officers.

    “At 10,000 meters it is challenging to hit a ship with accuracy,” said Von Schönberg gravely, “but we will be shooting at area targets. Now, on every previous occasion when we have bombarded an enemy port, they have been ‘Undefended’, and thus have fallen strictly under the provisions of Hague Treaty 9 of 1907. As we are about to see, we can hardly describe the dual ports of Victoria and Esquimalt as undefended, but while Esquimalt is a military establishment, the city of Victoria is primarily a civilian port, with some military facilities.”

    “I do not recall Vancouver as being undefended,” interjected Mueller.

    “Once we had silenced the shore battery, it was,” answered Von Schönberg curtly, then produced a printed page from the table and held it up to read from.

    “Hague Treaty 9 of 1907, Article 1,” Von Schönberg read, “just to remind you officers, says ‘The bombardment by naval forces of undefended ports, towns, villages, dwellings, or buildings is forbidden.”

    “Article 2 continues, ‘military works, military or naval establishments, depots of arms or war matériel, workshops or plant which could be utilized for the needs of the hostile fleet or army, and the ships of war in the harbour, are not, however, included in this prohibition. The commander of a naval force may destroy them with artillery, after a summons followed by a reasonable time of waiting, if all other means are impossible, and when the local authorities have not themselves destroyed them within the time fixed.”

    “He incurs no responsibility for any unavoidable damage which may be caused by a bombardment under such circumstances. If for military reasons immediate action is necessary, and no delay can be allowed the enemy, it is understood that the prohibition to bombard the undefended town holds good, as in the case given in paragraph l, and that the commander shall take all due measures in order that the town may suffer as little harm as possible.”

    “Well, immediate action is clearly necessary,” said Von Schönberg. “We believe that the Canadian training cruiser is still chasing our false messages somewhere around Dixon Entrance, but those submarines we met are only half an hour behind us.”

    “Still, we wish to cause as little harm as possible to the fair city of Victoria and her citizens, as we degrade the war making capacity of the British Empire. We, that is Nürnberg, will shell the port and industrial facilities of Victoria. Leipzig will shell the naval dockyard at Esquimalt. Leipzig retains her 5 gun broadside, so she can place more shells on target than we can in out limited time here. By engaging each harbour individually we will have a clearer view of our fall of shot. I wish to keep us in front of the harbours for no longer than 10 minutes. I trust the guns of the East Asiatic Squadron can make an impression in that amount of time.” The sound of incoming shells came from ahead, and a trio of waterspouts rose from the sea, well short of the two cruisers. “Gentlemen.”

    “For the Kaiser!” called the officers in unison, then departed to their stations.

    Von Schönberg swept the scene with his binoculars. To the south a pair of four stack American armoured cruisers, and three destroyers were fiercely patrolling the international boundary, their smoke streaming eastward. Beyond them, a couple of transpacific freighters were steaming south in American waters, their wakes and smoke trails showing they had obviously left Victoria recently. Von Schönberg noticed both ships flew the Japanese merchant ensign.

    To the north, the peninsula on which Victoria sat was heavily treed with what looked like oaks. Wide swaths had been cleared, as Canadians seemed wont to do. The land was dotted with homesteads, some ramshackle, some tidy as an English countryside. His binoculars came to rest on a projecting point, and he saw an arrangement of grave markers that looked familiar from the villages around Tsingtao. A Chinese cemetery, here. Another mystery that would have to wait. Further to the west, the shoreline rose into a continuous series of cliffs. A grassy hill facing the sea looked to have been dug up and was host to an entrenched infantry unit. The men in khaki were still scrambling into their slit trenches. He located the mouth of Victoria harbour. A mole, more than a kilometer long, was under construction, with barges mounded up with great stone blocks and a derrick moored alongside.

    Two minutes had passed since the first salvo of the fort guns. Now Von Schönberg saw muzzle flashes from the point on the far side of Victoria harbour. Then another pair of flashes came from the deck of a ship behind the mole. He looked more closely. It was a sailing ship. Had the Canadians dragged out muzzle loading cannons? She was running a White Ensign up her mainmast. No, this was a Royal Navy sloop, he realized, Condor or Cadmus class. His memory reeled off the characteristics. Armed with half a dozen 4 inch guns, of shorter range than Nürnberg’s. Three waterspouts were raised by the shells of the fort, and another two from those of the sloop. All well short. The gun barrels of Nürnberg’s starboard broadside, minus the wrecked number 4 sponson gun, were elevated to 30 degrees, and slowly tracking to stern.

    “Range on that warship behind the mole,” ordered Von Schönberg. “Fire!” Nürnberg walked ranging shots towards the sloop. Astern, Leipzig began firing on the naval dockyard from maximum range. Because the German warships were steaming just beyond the edge of the forts’ range, their semi-circular course was now taking them south west, as if they were sailing away from the city. But their guns spoke differently. Leipzig’s shells had begun to land among the dockyard buildings, raising clouds of dust. Nürnberg’s shells had found the range of the sloop, and waterspouts rose in the basin behind the unfinished mole. The tempo of Nürnberg’s gunfire increased as she began to fire for effect.

    “Enemy shell, over!” called a lookout. Von Schönberg turned to look, and from the port wheelhouse windows he could see the remains of a waterspout falling back into the sea, 3000 meters beyond Nürnberg, almost in American waters.

    “Where did that come from?” Von Schönberg asked.

    “Unknown, sir.” answered the lookout.

    Nürnberg’s shells were churning up the harbour basin behind the mole. The plucky sloop kept up her rate of fire, despite all of her shells falling short. At this range the German shells were well dispersed. The sloop began to take hits. The derrick barge was struck, and the crane toppled and disappeared from sight. Some shells struck the mole itself, and raised dust, but did negligible harm to the giant granite blocks. A secondary explosion on the sloop cast the forward guns and their shields in sharp silhouette. A shell burst on top of the pile of stone blocks on its barge. The outline of the sloop became indistinct, as fires took hold. The flashes of gunfire from the sloop’s guns stopped. The White Ensign had disappeared when the mainmast was carried away.

    “Cease fire!” ordered Von Schönberg. The barge loaded with stone blocks slowly capsized, until the cargo slid off and crashed into the sea.

    Shell splashes from the sloop’s guns had stopped, but those from the forts continued, with long intervals between. The forts at Rodd Hill and McAuley Point were now both shooting. A much larger splash rose, out of synch with those from the forts, but equally short by more than 1000 meters. Von Schönberg did not like the look of it. His ears were ringing from the sound of Nürnberg’s guns, and now that they had ceased, all he could hear were Leipzig’s, so his ears were no help in locating the source. Was that a shell from the 23cm guns? The ones that N said were not operational? he thought. The gunnery officer looked at him expectantly.

    “Mueller, what are we looking at here?” Von Schönberg asked, surveying the harbour entrance. As luck would have it, the wind was carrying the smoke from the burning sloop east, clearing the view to the harbour.

    “That is Rithet’s Pier,” said Mueller, pointing at a pair of long warehouses atop timber wharves, well inside the mouth of the harbour. “On Shoal Point. Victoria’s main cargo handling facility.” The masts of two large sailing ships rose beside the warehouses.

    “Take those wharves under fire!” he ordered. Nürnberg’s guns fired, as one.

    “Enemy shell, over!” called the lookout again. “By more than 1000 meters.”

    “Did you see that?” Von Schönberg hollered at the gunnery officer, just as one of Nürnberg’s salvos fired.

    “I did,” answered the gunnery officer. Another salvo fired.

    “Could that be a 23 cm battery?” asked Von Schönberg.

    “Excuse me, sir. High Explosive! Fire for effect!” he ordered the guns, then responded, “I suppose. I only see one shell splash.” An outgoing salvo thundered. “It would be hard to range properly with just a single gun. Whatever is happening, they are not shooting well.”

    “Perhaps it is time to cut short this leg of our mission.” Von Schönberg said, with consideration. Nürnberg fired another salvo. A waterspout rose, well astern of Leipzig and over by more than 1000 meters. His ships were steaming at 20 knots. The Canadians were shooting badly. Poor training? Bad equipment? Whatever the cause, he judged that the revelation of the heavy guns was not an overwhelming threat. He was at the moment in the midst of bombarding the provincial capital and seaport of the Kaiser’s enemy. “We will continue.” Nürnberg’s guns fired again. “We will break off at 1450 hours.” The chronometer now read 1443. The wharves were now blazing, producing volumes of smoke. Both sets of ship’s masts listed as he watched. More waterspouts from the fort’s guns appeared, predictably short. Some lighter quick firing guns had joined in, but these also could not reach the cruisers.

    “Shift fire!” Von Schönberg ordered. “Mueller?”

    “There is the BAPCO chemical plant on Laurel Point,” offered Mueller, gesturing at a tall factory partially hidden behind the smoke from the wharves, with a smokestack, water tower, and rooftop sign reading SATINGLO, in reverse. Four salvos had the structure burning fiercely, with shockingly variegated colours of flame. The German cruisers were at the western end of their circuit around the city’s defences, and were approaching Race Rocks Lighthouse. This aspect gave Von Schönberg a view deep into Victoria’s harbour, its skyline punctuated with sailing ship masts, brick buildings, water towers, silos, and smokestacks. The large splashes from the heavy gun continued to dog them, with shells long and short, ahead and astern, but none had landed within 500 meters of the cruisers.

    “The BC Electric Railway power plant,” said Mueller. The Romanesque brick powerhouse in Rock Bay collapsed after six salvos. Nurnberg was running out of sea room, and was getting close to the hills of Metchosin so Von Schönberg had her reverse her course in a tight turn and steam east again.

    “Clark and Turpel’s Shipyard at Point Hope.” Six salvos looked to sufficiently wreck the works, leaving the ways on fire, and incidentally collapsing one span of the nearby Point Ellice bridge.

    “The Esquimalt and Nanaimo Railway Yard.” Eight salvos reduced much of the roundhouse structure to piles of bricks and burning wreckage, destroyed a good number of rolling stock, and dismounted the locomotive turntable.

    Nürnberg steamed east, with Leipzig keeping station behind. Much of the harbour was cloaked in smoke now. Some shells had clearly fallen afield of their designated targets, and other fires could be seen to be burning in the town. Von Schönberg again had a view deep into the harbour, between sheets of smoke.

    “There is the Provincial Legislature building,” pointed out Mueller. A green dome loomed out of the drifting smoke. Mueller’s outstretched arm pointed about the city. “Janion Wharves with its coal stores, Murihead and Mann Planer Mill, Spratt’s Wharf and Albion Ironworks. The CPR and Grand Trunk Pacific wharves are there, hidden behind the rise.”

    “Bring us about again!” Von Schönberg considered the targets that Mueller was identifying to be too closely surrounded by the residential neigbourhoods of the city, and was quite frankly beginning to find Mueller’s eagerness to help with his former countrymen’s destruction to be distasteful. This is what we have made of the man, he thought. Thus far Von Schönberg had mostly not been observing the work Haun was doing on the naval dockyard, but now he did, and saw the whole base to be swathed in flames and smoke. A particularly dense black plume showed that the coal stores had been set alight. And finally he saw a single large muzzle flash, atop the tallest hill in front of Esquimalt harbour. Then the hill was hidden again behind palls of smoke. The chronometer read 1450.

    “Helm, take us out past Race Rock light,” he ordered. With some relief he added, “we are heading back out to sea. Wireless, contact Princess Charlotte, and ask her status.” Ahead he could see the wharf and buildings of the William Head quarantine station, and beyond, the black and white striped lighthouse tower.

    “Smoke! From a ship!” called a lookout. Indeed, a smoke trail was drifting past Rocky Point, just inshore of Race Rocks. This smoke seemed too close to be from any of the American warships on neutrality patrol. Von Schönberg did not have time to stop and take another prize by cruiser rules, he might just ignore this ship, or order her to abandon ship to be sunk by gunfire, depending on who she was.

    “Warship masts!” called the lookout. A ship was emerging from behind the cliffs of Rocky Point. “Two funnels. White ensign. Royal Navy cruiser!”

    “I identify her as Apollo class,” reported the gunnery officer. “Range 7000 yards!”

    “Fire!” ordered Von Schönberg. The enemy warship’s single forward gun flashed, just as the words left his lips. “So there is the HMCS Rainbow. I’ll say that is some surprise.” Nürnberg’s forward guns fired. A shell whistled close overhead, and landed in the sea, midway between the two German cruisers.

    The gunnery officer poked his head out onto the bridge wing to look astern. “Leipzig is masked by us”, he reported. The Canadian cruiser turned several points to starboard, to bring her broadside to bear, firing as fast as she could.

    “Incredible!” exclaimed Von Schönberg. “The Canadian is crossing our T! And maneuvering to cut us off. Helm, take us southeast!” Nürnberg heeled over as she made the sharp turn. “Transfer command to the conning tower!”

    The German gunners had their aim thrown off by the violent maneuvers. Nürnberg fired rapidly, but without accuracy. Liepzig opened fire when she was unmasked, and then turned to follow line astern of Nürnberg, spoiling her shooting.

    With the turns completed, the battle emerged with the Germans and Canadians on parallel east-southeast courses 7000 yards apart, with the Germans on the northern track. Nürnberg and Leipzig were accelerating to 22 knots, but had thrown off much speed in their turns. The Germans cruisers were initially firing their 10.5 cm guns with four and five gun broadsides respectively, with one salvo every 4 seconds. The Rainbow was steaming at 15 knots, her broadside of two 6 inch guns firing every 10 seconds, three 4.7 inch guns every 5 seconds, and two 12 pounder guns every 4 seconds. Rainbow concentrated her fire on the lead ship, the Nürnberg.

    Almost immediately, each side was straddling the other, and the ships were surrounded by a forest of waterspouts. This situation went on for almost a minute before the first hit was landed, a 6 inch Lyddite high explosive shell to Nürnberg’s bridge.

    HMCS Rainbow

    Victoria Fire insurance Map 1885
    www.loc.gov

    Image 4 of Sanborn Fire Insurance Map from Victoria, British Columbia, British Columbia.

    1885. 26. Double-paged plates numbered 1-12. Bound.
    www.loc.gov

    Rithet's Wharf

    Rithet's (Outer) Wharf at Shoal Point - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

    archives.victoria.ca archives.victoria.ca

    Ogden Point Breakwater under construction

    Ogden Point breakwater under construction - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

    archives.victoria.ca archives.victoria.ca

    British America Paint Company
    www.victoriaharbourhistory.com

    BC Soaps and BAPCO Paints

    The BAPCO plant on Laurel Point. Image courtesy of Victoria History In 1879, William Pendray established Victoria’s first soap-works at Humboldt and Douglas streets, on the northern edge of the James Bay mudflats. By 1883 his White Swan soap plant was
    www.victoriaharbourhistory.com www.victoriaharbourhistory.com
     
    Last edited:
    • Bully for them!

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1450 hours. HMCS Rainbow, off Race Rocks

    Commander Hose had taken his station in Rainbow’s armoured conning tower before the ship passed Race Rocks lighthouse. On the foredeck through the vision slits, he could see the men standing at the guns, impatient for action. “Gentlemen, whatever the outcome of this action today,” he said to the bridge crew, “I consider it a privilege to have served with you.”

    “The sea state is on our side today sir,” said the gunnery officer cheerfully. He meant that the broadside guns, in a well deck one level below the 6 inch guns, could drop their shutters without fear of taking water over the side, and thus Rainbow could freely deploy her full armament.

    From wireless messages, Hose had a pretty good idea that both Nürnberg and Leipzig were bombarding the twin harbours of Victoria and Esquimalt. The sound of naval gunfire he had been listening to for the last 15 minutes told him that some kind of battle was raging. But as Rainbow passed Christopher Point, and the southernmost parts of the City of Victoria appeared from behind the cliffs, the sound of gunfire dropped off. Specifically, he could still hear the slow firing, deep sounding guns of the forts, but not the rapid fire of the German cruisers. Furthermore, he could see no ships. What he could see were dozens of pillars of smoke rising, from the naval dockyard all the way over to the port of Victoria. The smoke from the fires was being carried east by the wind. Rainbow was passing Race Rocks lighthouse, and turned to a north easterly course.

    “Our smoke is being carried ahead of us by the wind,” said Hose to his first lieutenant. “That should announce our presence to the Hun, if they are at all alert. And I expect they will be.” He paused. “But we should be able to see their smoke as well. Where are they?”

    The first Lieutenant cursed, seeing the extent of the damage to Rainbow’s home port. “With all that smoke in the background sir, the Hun’s smoke could be missed.”

    “Ship!” called a lookout. “Two ships! Warships! Due north! Flying German Ensigns!”

    “Range 7500 yards,” spoke the gunnery officer, in a reserved monotone.

    Hose looked out the port vision slits of the conning tower. Yes, there they were, close by the shore of Metchosin, just past William Head. And coming at Rainbow head on. Well within range. So here it is, he thought.

    “Fire available guns!” Hose ordered “Helm, bring us to a course east south-east. We need to bring our broadside to bear.” He looked again at the Germans. The chatter of information involving gunlaying passed between crewmen, and then the forward 6 inch gun fired. “I can see only one ship,” said Hose, “Where is the other?” He looked about the wide bay.

    “They are steaming line ahead sir,” said the gunnery officer. Rainbow heeled over as she turned to starboard. “See? The Hun are turning to match our course.” A waterspout rose, short of the Germans. The German forward guns flashed, then the cruiser turned hard, revealing another cruiser behind.

    “Wireless, send a message,” ordered Hose.

    HMCS RAINBOW TO HMCD ESQUIMALT HAVE MET 2 GERMAN CRUSIERS OFF RACE ROCKS AND AM ENGAGING GOD SAVE THE KING STOP

    Rainbow’s forward gun fired again. The lead cruiser leaned hard into the turn, because the Germans were turning a full 90 degrees to Rainbow’s 45, and because the Germans were going faster.

    “That sharp turn is bound to disrupt the Hun’s aim,” said the gunnery officer. Guns flashed, and waterspouts rose around the Canadians, but the initial German fire was, as the officer predicted, inaccurate. Hose heard Rainbow’s broadside 4.7 inch guns join in, the stern 6 inch gun, then the pair of broadside 12 pounders as well.

    “I ordered the 12 pounders to fire, sir,” said the gunnery officer to Hose. “For what good they will do. Might as well, they are in range.”

    “Very good,” replied Hose. “We are not saving the ammunition for a rainy day,” The seven quick firing guns on Rainbow had found the range were creating a constant din. The lead German cruiser, the one Hose identified as Nürnberg, was running through a storm of waterspouts. Hose found his vision often obscured by water columns from German near misses, and both falling water and shell fragments were striking Rainbow. Miraculously neither side had scored a hit yet. Then, a bright orange explosion burst right on Nürnberg’s bridge. Hose saw the bridge roof, which formed the floor of the signal deck, silhouetted against the burning glow as it lifted into the air then fell over the side into the sea.

    “Huzzah!” cried the gunnery officer, and cheers from other crewmen filled the conning tower. Hose knew a great advantage in battle went to the side that scored the first hit. Nürnberg streamed smoke and flame from the ruin of her bridge, and on her next broadside the forward gun was silent. But the salvos still came like clockwork, and the German ship continued straight on her course. More troubling, he thought, with Rainbow concentrating fire on the lead cruiser, Leipzig was shooting unmolested, as if she was at drill. Then Hose heard two shells hit Rainbow, one right after the other, somewhere astern.

    A wireless runner appeared on the bridge, panting. He seemed to have been struck by a shell splinter along the way, and was holding a bleeding shoulder. He passed a transcript to Hose.

    HMCS CC-2 TO HMCS RAINBOW HEADING WEST TO YOUR POSITION NOW HOLD ON STOP TUBBY STOP

    The German ships had come fully up to speed, and were drawing away from Rainbow, attempting to open the range, with the opposing ships still on parallel courses. This brought both guns on the German rear decks into action. Hose now saw 6 flashes from Leipzig and 4 from Nürnberg with every salvo. He felt another shell hit Rainbow. Then another. Correspondingly, he heard Rainbow’s volume of fire drop off some.

    “Hit!” called the gunnery officer. “On Nürnberg, midships, just above the waterline.” Another shell struck Rainbow somewhere.

    “Hit! Hit!” the gunnery officer announced again. “Two! Whoa look at that! Her mainmast has fallen! And there goes the aft searchlight platform into the chuck!”

    A large waterspout rose ahead of the Nürnberg, and Hose realized that with the Germans opening up the gap from Rainbow to over 8000 yards, the 9.2 inch coastal battery had jumped back into the fray. The cruisers’ south east course was also bringing them close to the American line. Hose was shocked to see one of the giant American Saint Louis class cruisers now only 3000 yards to his south, on a westward course that was rapidly converging with his own south easterly course. The US Navy ship was angrily signalling with flags and Morse lights, and probably wireless as well. Maybe they will decide to fire warning shots, thought Hose. Would anyone even notice?

    “Signals! Raise STAY CLEAR,” ordered Hose.

    “Halyards are down sir,” answered the signal officer. “And wireless reports being out of action.”

    “Sir!” called the navigator. “We are within half a mile of the International Boundary. Too close for me to give our accurate position.”

    “Helm, take us due east,” ordered Hose, and Rainbow heeled to port. The Germans were turning as well, northward. Now another one of the 9.2 inch shell splashes rose, this time abeam of and about 500 yards beyond the American cruiser. The American continued to scold the combatants, but changed course away from the boundary. The German cruisers continued their turn, apparently heading through 180 degrees, but in a wider turn this time so they maintained fire control. In the background, the port of Victoria burned.

    Hose was knocked off his feet, and deafened, and stunned. He had felt two detonations close by, then another three explosions almost overlapping. A bright orange light as from a blast furnace lit the conning tower through the vision slits, then the space filled with acrid smoke from burning cordite. He heard nothing but coughing. Hose shook his head back and forth to clear it. He could not allow himself fall into shock, he had men to lead.

    The helmsman called out a heading. Good, at least the ship was headed towards Canadian waters. The smoke cleared, and he saw the bridge crew inside the conning tower had not a wound among them. He looked out one of the vision slits. The forward 6 inch gun was askew, with the mount tilting to starboard and the crew nowhere in sight. The foredeck was a blacked ruin, and there were flames coming up through gaps in the deck plates.

    “The Germans are turning back westward!” called a lookout, and giving the heading. “Range closing!”

    “Closing the range favours us,” said Hose to his first officer. Rainbow’s gunfire was now coming as individual shots, rather than salvos, and had slowed. Hose had a hard time telling how many of his guns were still firing, but it surely was less than his full broadside. Another shell struck Rainbow, but Hose pressed on speaking. “The Hun are squeezed between us and the forts. And Keyes is headed west with his submarines. We need to bottle up the Strait until the subs can come into action. The Hun have already tangled with the subs, and will know where they are. They can expect the boats will be coming here.”

    “We are taking damage sir,” said the first officer. “No reports yet.”

    “Let’s pray that we can hold on until Keyes arrives.”

    A rating stumbled into the conning tower, wearing navy trousers and an undershirt. What remained of his uniform was blackened and torn.

    “Damage report, sir!” he yelled, over Rainbow’s gunfire. “Number 4 and 6 guns are out of action, along with a 12 pounder. We have two fires amidships, which are being fought. No shells have penetrated the armoured deck.” He paused as another shell struck Rainbow. “The wireless is disabled. Most of the ships boats are damaged or destroyed. I have no count of casualties, but it is a mess back there, sir.”

    “Thankyou,” Hose replied, and the rating stepped back outside. According to the damage report, he only had two guns of his main battery port broadside still firing, the stern 6 inch gun and one of the 4.7 inchers. He looked out the vision slits. Smoke from Rainbow’s funnels and fires was being blown ahead of her, greatly obscuring the view. The German cruisers could still be seen, intermittently. They had come about and were now headed westward. Waterspouts from the forts rose several thousand yards to their north. Rainbow was on a converging course with the Germans, offset to the south by about 3000 yards.

    “Bring us around to north west,” Hose ordered. A near miss showered the foredeck with water, and shell splinters pinged off the armour of the conning tower. “This course will cut the Hun off, and bring our starboard broadside to bear. Guns! We are bringing the starboard battery into action.” Rainbow heeled over as she turned. A German salvo had been anticipating her previous course, and fell short.

    “Range, 6500 yards!” announced the gunnery officer. Shells landed all about the Canadian cruiser. Rainbow’s turn was almost complete, and a full broadside rang out from the starboard guns, minus the destroyed bow 6 inch mount. Rainbow was hit astern. Another broadside fired.

    “Hit!” called the gunnery officer. An explosion blossomed on the Nürnberg, the lead cruiser, just behind and below the wheelhouse. Secondary explosions followed. The forward port sponson gun did not fire on the next salvo. The German cruiser was still burning from her smashed wheelhouse, and several places astern as well. The main mast was only a stump rising from the aft bridge deckhouse, which was also on fire. Hose noticed other patches of black on the hull and unrepaired damage from before this engagement. Her rate of fire had slowed.

    “The lead Hun ship is looking a little rough!” remarked the first officer jovially. Hose felt a shell strike Rainbow, then another.

    “I expect we don’t look our best either,” replied Hose.

    “Range 6000 yards!” called the gunnery officer. Hose watched the German cruisers converging through binoculars. Then his eyes caught the briefest blur of a falling object in motion. A streak plunged from the sky and struck Nürnberg just under her ruined mainmast, raising a cloud of dust, but no explosion. The ship heeled out of line, then straightened her course. White steam escaped from ventilators, and openings in the afterdeck.

    “Extraordinary,” said Hose. “I believe the 9.2 inch gun just landed a shell on the Hun!”

    “Bully for them!” exclaimed the gunnery officer. “That was a lucky shot indeed! Hit! Hit!” he called, as Rainbow landed more blows on Nürnberg. “Splendid! Both in the hull near the waterline midships and the bow.”

    Nürnberg was now firing only three guns on her broadside. The adversaries continued to converge.

    “Range 5500 yards, called the gunnery officer,”

    “Guns,” ordered Hose. “Shift fire to the second ship.”

    “Aye, sir!”

    “We only need to do so much damage to the Hun to spoil their raiding days…”

    An explosion extremely close by rocked the conning tower, causing the bridge crew to stagger. Despite being temporarily deafened, Hose felt the impact of more shells striking Rainbow vibrating up through the deck. Only a couple of outbound shells came with Rainbow’s next salvo, then three more shell hits shook Rainbow. Smoke blanketed the bridge.

    “Range 5000 yards!” Hose saw through drifts of smoke that Nürnberg seemed to have stopped firing entirely, and the spray of firehoses played over her after deck. Leipzig, however, was landing shots on Rainbow with nearly every salvo, and now moved into the lead position as Nürnberg slowed. Rainbow’s return fire became sporadic. Visibility eastward was blocked by smoke from his burning ship.

    “We will close to torpedo range.” Hose announced, his voice flat. “Failing that, we will attempt to ram. Give me 19 knots, or whatever best speed we can manage.” Another two minutes passed like this, with Rainbow placing herself right in the path of the escaping German cruisers and suffering frequent hits.

    “Range 4000 yards!” By now, Leipzig was simply pummelling a defenceless burning Rainbow. Hose felt the revolutions of the engines surge, but he did not feel a corresponding acceleration. The note of the nearly continuous impacts changed.

    “I believe the Hun are firing armour piercing shells now!” reported the gunnery officer. “At our waterline.”

    “We can’t keep up this speed sir!” called the helmsman. “The funnels are both down, we do not have draft.” A shell careened off the side of the conning tower, ringing the armour like a church bell.

    “Range 3000 yards!”

    Then the sound of shells rending the ship stopped. Without the din of explosions, Hose could now hear the sound of roaring flames, and escaping steam, and Rainbow’s ancient triple expansion engines rattling themselves apart.

    “Sir, our Ensign has been shot away,” said the signal officer. “The nearest German cruiser is signalling.”

    “Raise another Ensign!” Hose ordered. “Come on Keyes, where are you? We don’t have all day.”

    Rainbow's fore and aft guns. One each bow and stern.

    Britain 6"/40 (15.2 cm) QF Marks I, II and III - NavWeaps

    www.navweaps.com www.navweaps.com

    Rainbow's broadside main guns: 3 per side

    Britain, Italy and Japan 4.7-inch (12 cm) QF Guns - NavWeaps

    www.navweaps.com www.navweaps.com

    Rainbow's tertiary armament: 2 per broadside

    Britain 12-pdr [3"/40 (7.62 cm)] 12cwt QF Marks I, II and V - NavWeaps

    www.navweaps.com www.navweaps.com

    Nurnberg and Leipzig's main battery guns: 10 each.

    Germany 10.5 cm/40 (4.1") SK L/40 - NavWeaps

    www.navweaps.com www.navweaps.com
     
    • A hammer blow.

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1452 hours. HMCS CC-2, off Victoria

    “You can’t say I didn’t warn you sir,” said the chief engineer. The engineer stood beside Keyes on top of the conning tower, his face black with grease and soot. On the after deck, the engine room crew stood coughing, holding onto safety lines as the submarine rose and fell on the waves. The rear escape hatch was open to vent brown smoke from the seized diesel engine. This was a problem, because waves were breaking right across the submarine’s low deck, and salt water was cascading down into the engine room.

    “Switch to electric power,” ordered Keyes. “We will continue on the surface for now, but I expect we will be diving soon.”

    “We will get about an hour from the batteries at our full speed,” said the engineer, “before we go dead in the water. Maybe less.”

    Keyes looked ahead, at the action in the Strait. “If we are still alive in an hour, I will eat my hat,” he muttered to himself. “Very well.” The engineer took a few deliberate breaths of fresh sea air before descending back down the hatch.

    The sound of naval gunfire was constant. 5000 yards to the west, the German cruisers were steaming on an east-south-eastward course, furiously exchanging fire with Commander Hose on Rainbow. The Canadian ship was a further 7000 yards away, matching the Germans course, and her broadsides were flashing with a great rapidity. Hose looked to have scored first. The lead German cruiser already had a large fire burning on her bridge structure.

    “Looks like the old girl still has some fight left in her,” commented Keyes, with appreciation. “You just keep the Hun busy Walt, we will get stuck in there ourselves.” He chafed at his boat’s slower progress, now that she was running on batteries. “Eventually. Ohh.” Keyes made an involuntary expression of anguish, as he saw two shells burst on Rainbow, amidships and aft.

    The strong breeze blowing eastward across the Strait was carrying the cruisers’ smoke due eastward alongside and ahead of the ships in a band close over the water. The German and Canadian funnels were making prolific amounts of coal smoke, as the captains pushed their machinery to the limit. The burning German cruiser was adding to this smoke. Now Rainbow contributed her own smoke as well, as fires from German hits took hold on her decks. The battle Keyes was watching became increasingly indistinct, as the smoke haze blurred the ship’s outlines, and sometimes obscured them entirely. At times all he could see in the haze was the flash of guns and rising waterspouts. He looked aft. The drifting smoke from the fires in Victoria harbour and the Naval Dockyard blanketed the shore. The whitecaps on the ocean were now constant. He chanced to see young Willie Maitland-Dougall’s Boat One just rounding Trial Island, almost 2 miles astern of him, then he lost him again. The sea conditions and low hull made the little submarine almost invisible, even running on the surface at full speed in broad daylight.

    Maitland-Dougall was following the same course Keyes had, turning closer inshore than the bigger cruisers had dared. By running between the Discovery Islands and Cadboro Bay, they had cut a corner, and several miles, off the distance the Germans had travelled. Keyes’ insistence at running his diesel at maximum revolutions, over the objections of his engineer, has given him a 7 or 8 minute lead over Boat One, but now his pig-headedness had caught up with him and he was left with only 10 knots from his batteries. Perhaps Maitland-Dougall was the wiser of the submarine captains. “I thought it was the young who were supposed to be the hot-heads. We shall see,” he said, wondering if Maitland-Dougall would reach the Germans first. But, he considered, looking at the situation, they would be hard pressed for either submarine to get into the action.

    The conflagration of smoke, muzzle flashes and waterspouts continued to move east. Hose was doing a wonderful job of pressing the Germans against the gunfire of the forts. Waterspouts rose intermittently on the landward side of the German battle line. The slow firing guns of the forts were unable to reach the German cruisers, but did serve to remind them that they could not steer any closer to shore, and thus could not open the range to Rainbow to a position more advantageous to the longer ranged German guns.

    Keyes attempted to set a course that would best allow his slow moving boat to intercept the speedy cruisers. He looked at his chronometer. The time was 1456 hours. There was no way CC-2 could cross ahead of the German line before they passed to the east of his present course. He tapped his knuckles on the conning tower rail. The Germans wanted to get back to the wide Pacific. They would be headed there now if Hose had not cut them off. Keyes could cross the wake of the German squadron, and place himself in their path when they returned to a western course, if the cards fell right. If he tried to chase the Germans east, he risked getting left behind when they reversed course. So he maintained his current southwest course. The German cruisers, shill shrouded in smoke, were now 3000 yards to the southwest, and looked to be set to pass directly across his bow in about 3 minutes at present course and speed, still well beyond the reach of his torpedoes. His boat only had one bow tube left, and the stern tube. He considered it unlikely that the stern tube would come into play.

    More waterspouts from the forts rose, closer to his position at this time. He expected his boat would be impossible for the gunners to see. Which, he realized, made for another problem. As the Germans steamed east, the guns of the forts tracked to follow them. As Keyes closed on the Germans, he would reach a point where his course would pass through the arc of the forts’ fall of shot. It was unavoidable. He chuckled.

    “Wouldn’t that just be something in the annuls of Canadian naval history” he said to himself. “If one of those old six inchers manages to score a bullseye on us.”

    “What’s that sir?” asked the lookout.

    “Nothing,” Keyes replied. “Keep a close eye on the Hun. I wish to stay on the surface for as long as possible. The smoke should mask us until they pass across our bow, but if it clears we will have to dive earlier. If the Hun see us, the jig will be up, and we will never get a shot.” Aft, he caught a rare glimpse of Boat One. Maitland-Dougall seemed to have made the same judgement as he had himself, and had set his course even further to westward of Keyes’ own. To south, the US Navy was gathered on the international boundary with everything they could muster, guarding the line like nervous sheepdogs. To the east, over the green slopes of the coastal range mountains, the snow capped volcanic cone of Mount Baker rose majestically, indifferent to the plight of the frail humans below.

    Keyes did not have a clear view to the combatants, but from his vantage point it looked like both Rainbow and the leading German cruiser were taking a beating. The flashes of high explosive shells detonating against the ships’ hulls had a different look and sound to outgoing gunfire, and the smoke from shipboard fires had greatly increased. At 1500 hours on the dot, The German battle line crossed Boat Two’s bow, at a range of 2000 yards. The stern of the trailing cruiser began to emerge from the smoky haze accompanying the battle.

    “Clear the bridge! Dive!” Keyes ordered. He heard the rumble of shells passing close overhead, and a pair of waterspouts rose just 500 yards directly ahead. “I’m going to have to have a word with the coastal artillery,” he muttered as he followed the lookout and helmsman down the hatch.

    CC-2 slipped beneath the waves, and Keyes took up his station in the control room. Sailors were clustered around their respective outcroppings of gauges and controls. The stale air had a strong smell of burned oil. They could hear the sound of distant high-speed screws and shells exploding in the water, coming through the hull. The submariners on the 3-foot diameter wheels controlling the bow and stern dive planes worked them with a learned finesse, feeling into the subtleties required to have the cantankerous sub maintain its attitude in the narrow zone between heading for the depths and heading for the sky.

    “Maintain course!” Keyes ordered. “Periscope up!”

    Keyes swept the periscope through 360 degrees, then settled on his target. The Germans were still running to the south southeast, at a range of about 2000 yards. He figured they would be able to maintain that course for no longer than 10 minutes, before they crossed the line into American waters. Rainbow was just west of south from CC-1, at a range of around 8000 yards. The poor old ship was showing a lot of smoke from fires. As he watched she was struck again. One of the American cruisers was signalling and approaching her, to a proximity that was wildly unsafe, considering how much steel was in the air.

    “Yes, I suppose Rainbow will be getting close to the American line indeed,” he said.

    Rainbow initiated a turn to port, and was hit again. Keyes had to pull his eyes away.

    “Periscope down!” he ordered. The seas state would help prevent the Germans from spotting his periscope, but the longer he observed, the more likely a German lookout was to see his periscope feather. “Steady as she goes.” CC-2 continued on her course. Every 2 minutes Keyes called “Periscope up!” and took a quick survey of the situation. At 1506 hours, Rainbow was well into a turn, and had brought her undamaged broadside to bear on the Germans. Keyes lost track of the Germans for a few minutes. He heard the sound of two pairs of high-speed screws getting louder, and the sound of shells hitting the water seemed to be getting closer.

    “Periscope up!” Keyes saw a burning cruiser bearing down on him, 1000 yards to his east, and set to pass to his stern at a range of perhaps 750 yards. A huge German Imperial Naval Ensign flew from the top of her foremast. Near misses were landing about the ship. CC-2 shook from the explosions.

    “Prepare stern tube!” he ordered. “No time to come about.” He lined the cruiser up in the graduated crosshairs of his periscope. He quickly calculated his firing solution. “Stern tube fire in 3,2,1. Fire!”

    He felt the compressed air pushing the torpedo out on its way, and heard the sound of the torpedo’s screw in the water. The deck of the control room tipped up, as the boat’s stern, now 1500 pounds lighter, rose with the increased buoyancy. The sailors on the diving planes struggled to regain proper attitude. Keyes lost visual contact as the periscope ducked under water.

    “Periscope down!” he ordered. “Bring us about!” Keyes ordered a west-northwest course to follow the fleeing Germans. The submarine rattled from shells bursting in the water nearby. Keyes counted. He could no longer hear the sound of the torpedo screws over other underwater noises. “28, 29, 30, 31…” When he reached a count of 45 he stopped, knowing the torpedo had missed for certain. He was now in a stern chase with his submarine capable of 10 knots following after the cruisers who were running at over 20 knots.

    “Periscope up!” Keyes got a view of the German cruisers stern on. They had apparently not noticed his attack, and had not turned to rake his torpedo. The trailing cruiser, apparently still intact, was now trading positions with the battered and burning leading cruiser, which looked to have acquired a slight list. He saw no gun flashes from the damaged German cruiser. Waterspouts rose to their north. Both Germans had now turned several points southward, apparently to avoid coming within range of the forts. Keyes swung the periscope to the south. Rainbow was attempting to cut off the German escape route back up Juan de Fuca Strait.

    “Oh, Walt,” exclaimed Keyes. “Your ship looks about done.” Rainbow was burning in more places than she was not. Her upperworks had been pounded into shapeless wreckage. Her guns were pointed askew and silent. As the range decreased, more and more German shots resulted in direct hits, now aimed mostly at Rainbow’s waterline. Rainbow had slowed, yet she was still under power, and steering a strait path, converging with the German battle line. As Keyes watched, the foremast fell, taking Rainbow’s Ensign with it. The German shell fire stopped. Rainbow maintained her converging course. Within a minute, a sailor scampered up to the top of Rainbow’s blasted wheelhouse roof and lashed a small ensign to a bent railing post, the tallest point remaining on the ruin of her superstructure. The German guns waited until the sailor had disappeared below before resuming the destruction.

    At 1520 hours the range between Rainbow and the Germans had come down to 1500 yards. Keyes knew this was just within German torpedo range, but outside of Rainbow’s. But the Germans did not seem to be lining up for a torpedo attack, as they would have to with their fixed broadside underwater tubes. They appeared to be set to blow past poor Rainbow on their way to the Pacific. Barring some Divine intervention, Keyes was not going to catch the Germans. He had no idea where Maitland-Dougal had got to.

    Then the trailing German cruiser made a sudden turn to starboard. Keyes could see lookouts on the forward searchlight platform opening their mouths and pointing. “One of the Hun has turned to rake a torpedo attack!” Keyes narrated. The trailing cruiser maintained the new course strait to the north, while the undamaged leading cruiser continued west. Directly ahead of the northbound cruiser, A submarine’s bow broke the surface at a crazy angle. The bow settled down, and Boat One emerged on the surface. The German cruiser, trailing smoke, and rapidly closing the gap, looked set to run her down.

    “Helm! New course!” ordered Keyes, and Boat Two turned northward to intercept. A savage close-range engagement unfolded, framed in Keyes periscope lens. On the German deck, sailors sprang up from below, abandoning whatever damage control had occupied them, and ran for the guns. By now, the initial torpedo attack must have missed. Lieutenant Willie Maitland-Dougal appeared on the bridge of Boat One, and Keyes could see his mouth moving as he issued orders. One of the main battery guns on the German cruiser got off a shot, but the shell landed well over. CC-1 turned tightly, and Keyes realized that Maitland-Dougall was trying to bring his stern tube to bear. The range between the German and the CC-1 was down to a ship length.

    Maitland-Dougall had not managed to bring his stern around quickly enough, and stayed in a tight turn to bring his rear tube in line. The German cruiser turned at full rudder herself, making a wider circle outside of the CC-1’s smaller circle. The sea was whipped up into a froth by the overlapping wakes of the combatants. German main battery gins fired, but had a hard time achieving enough depression and traversing at such short range. No German secondary guns seemed to have joined the fusillade.

    The two adversaries were locked in this death circle for three full orbits. The smoke from the burning cruiser at times obscured Keyes’ view. The Germans brought a Maxim gun on top of the forward searchlight platform into action, and swept the bridge of the Canadian submarine. The canvas bridge rail covering became shredded, and Keyes could see sparks ringing off the periscope tubes. Maitland-Dougal took cover behind the periscope fairing, drew his revolver, and returned fire, then dodged back into shelter to reload. The German machinegun began to steam, then stopped firing. Then CC-1 made a sudden turn across the German cruiser’s bow, in a desperate attempt to run past and get a shot with her stern tube. She almost slipped past, but the German turned wide, and run up onto the submarine’s after deck with her ram bow.

    Boat One rolled over onto her side, and Keyes lost sight of Maitland-Dougall, as the conning tower was plunged under the water. The German rode up on top of CC-1, then a great boiling of water rose from around her screws, and she slowed dramatically.

    “Willie,” whispered Keyes. Then he announced, “The Hun has rammed Boat One, and is coming to a stop to avoid fouling her screws. Lieutenant Maitland-Dougal has sacrificed himself so that we can get this shot. Prepare forward tube, fire on my order. Range 1200 yards!”

    The German cruiser had come to a full halt. The fort’s guns were drawn to this opportunity, but their waterspouts fell more than 1000 yards short. The water around the German screws continued to boil, and the cruiser slowly backed off of CC-1’s overturned hull.

    “Range 1000 yards!”

    The wounded submarine came free from the German hull, and her stern rose into the air, inverted, then began to settle with upwellings of escaping air.

    “Range 800 yards! Fire!”

    Keyes felt the torpedo leave the tube. He saw the trail of bubbles cross the intervening sea. Lookouts on the German searchlight platform opened their mouths and pointed.

    Keyes felt the explosion through the water like a hammer blow. A huge water column rose directly under the German cruiser’s first funnel.
     
    Last edited:
    • That Old Girl

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1445 hours. British Columbia Provincial Legislature.

    Sir Richard McBride, Premier of British Columbia, sat in his office composing a telegram.

    TO PRIME MINISTER RIGHT HONOURABLE ROBERT BORDEN AM LISTENING TO GERMAN WARSHIPS BOMBARDING MY CAPITAL AS I WRITE STOP LET US REVISIT DISCUSSION ABOUT FUNDING DEFENCE OF THE PROVINCE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE STOP R

    McBride sent a clerk off with the message, then tossed his fountain pen down on his desk, overcome with ennui. The windows of the Premier’s upper floor office were open to allow the fresh ocean breeze to take the edge off the early afternoon heat. The sound of explosions echoed off the stone buildings of the downtown. Outside his windows, in the Inner Harbour, framed to the east by the chateau styled mass of the new Empress Hotel, and to the north by the stolid Customs House, the expansive docks of the Canadian Pacific Railway steamship line were unusually sparsely populated. Only the smaller steamers Princess Mary and Princess Maquinna were tied up. Their smokestacks emitted no smoke, their boilers were cold. No ship was heading out of the harbour this afternoon.

    The Grand Trunk Pacific steamship docks were completely empty; their ships were all either up the coast, requisitioned by the Navy, or captured by the enemy. No American ships of the Puget Sound Navigation Company were in port. Some neutral vessels had fled earlier in the day, others had bypassed scheduled stops in Victoria and landed in the United States instead. Farther up the harbour, the moorages of the whaling and sealing fleets on work Street were mostly empty, holding only a few derelict vessels that had not joined the hunts this year. The masts of half a dozen sailing ships rose from behind the warehouses and mills lining the inner harbour, both above and below the E & N Railway swing bridge, and a cluster of steam tugs were rafted together at the foot of Telegraph street.

    McBride heard the whistling of an incoming shell, and a waterspout rose from the inner harbour.

    “Well,” he said to his remaining clerks, “I believe it is time to head for the basement.” The clerks did not hesitate and, efficient as always, were out the office door in a flash.

    McBride turned to follow them. He knew there was now a great risk of overpressure from nearby exploding shells sending the window glass spraying into the Legislature offices. Or perhaps the Hun was directly targeting this very building, and a shell would soon come crashing through Rattenbury’s exquisite copper domes to land on McBride’s desk. Bombarding the seat of government of a British Empire Dominion Province would make a plum prize for Hunnish propaganda. Yet, like a bystander drawn to the spectacle of an automobile accident, McBride could not pull his eyes away, so he remained standing there, on his Persian carpet, watching the drama unfold.

    Another shell fell in the harbour off Laurel Point, but McBride could see the majority of the shellfire was landing in and around the British American Paint Company plant on Bellville Street, a short 3 blocks west of the Legislature. The windows in his office rattled, and he could feel the concussion from the high explosive detonating, but the open windows allowed the pressure wave of the explosions to pass through without breaking the glass, for now at least. Bright orange fireballs blossomed in the sprawling BAPCO factory, and debris few high in the air.

    “If there is a city block in Victoria more densely packed with things that burn,” McBride muttered to himself, ”I have yet to hear about it.”

    To the east of the factory complex, closer to the Legislature, the gingerbread clubhouse of the James Bay Athletic Association took a direct hit, and was blown to smithereens. A shell struck the Canadian Pacific linen stores building, and it soon caught fire. But the BAPCO factory received most of the incoming shellfire. Drums and storage tanks of linseed oil, turpentine, shellac, alcohol, and mixed enamel paint were torn asunder by red-hot shell splinters, the vapours ignited and roared skyward in a series of volcanic upwellings. Pigments carried by the flames burned with a variety of colours, adding a Dominion Day fireworks display quality to the conflagration. Along with the flames, the fires produced a huge smoke pall. This was carried eastward by the strong breeze, and within a minute McBride had his view of the burning factory blotted out by thick smoke enveloping the Legislature. The smoke came right in the open windows, and McBride’s eyes immediately began to sting with partially combusted vapours. It was the smoke filling his office that finally drove him away, coughing horribly. He fled into the equally smoke filled hallway, and felt his way along the walls and down the stairs, unable to see or breathe.

    The premier had directed his staff to take shelter in the Legislature basement, but as he himself took his blind flight from the upper floors, he emerged from a sally port onto Menzies Street. There he found himself hatless, among a sea of humanity fleeing from the proximity of the falling German shells. Workmen in overalls from the BAPCO plant, grandmothers holding shawls over their faces, gentlemen in waistcoats or shirtsleeves, and mothers carrying infants in arms or dragging weeping toddlers streamed eastward and southward from the immediate danger and into the residential streets of the James Bay neighbourhood. Their collective voices expressed a chorus of woe. A carriage, driverless, pulled by a pair of wild-eyed horses, stampeded down the cobblestone street, scattering the fleeing Victorians onto the the boulevard and Legislature lawn, trampling flower gardens and picket fences. Only the famed rose gardens were able to defend their ground, by virtue of their thorns. The sky was black with smoke. The sun high overhead just barely showed through the gloom, its disk filtered to a hellish orange.

    McBride passed by the Menzies Street Armoury. Its great barn doors were thrown wide open. In the courtyard sat a pair of 13 pound field guns hitched up to their limbers. Not one member of the militia was in sight. A man rode by on a pennyfathing bicycle, a woman in skirts sitting on his lap; between them they carried a brass birdcage and a dressmaker’s dummy. An acquaintance of McBride’s, an insurance broker, recognized him. The man ran up to Sir Richard and grabbed him by the shoulders.

    “I am ruined!” the man exclaimed. “I am ruined!” Then he ran off. Insurance salesmen had been making a killing over the last 3 weeks selling bombardment policies. I suppose they will have to start paying out on claims, thought McBride. The sound of exploding shells echoed through the air, now sounding more distant. The tide of humanity drew McBride southward, towards the oceanfront. He passed an escaped green macaw, perched atop the street sign at the corner of Menzies and Superior streets.

    “Nevermore!” shouted the parrot. “Nevermore!”

    McBide heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. This sound grew and magnified. The parrot flew off. The crowd parted to allow the passage of a thundering troop of the 30th Regiment, British Columbia Horse, racing westward along Superior Street at full gallop. Rifle scabbards and swords clattered as the cavalry rode past. “The Hun are landing at Ogden Point!” he heard one cavalrymen yell to a passerby.

    Menzies Street had become jammed with a crowd of milling humanity, and McBride, for once in his adult life, found himself anonymous and powerless to influence the masses. He cut a block eastward, down Superior Street, past a stationary and abandoned streetcar , then continued south on Birdcage Walk, and onwards to Government Street. In contrast to the crush on Menzies Street, this street was deserted. Tendrils of smoke wove between the houses and the Gary Oak trees lining the boulevard.

    “Help!” McBride heard a chorus of plaintive children’s voices calling through the smoke. “Help! Help!” He picked up his pace to a trot, in order to render assistance, but when he emerged from the smoke he saw a flock of peacocks and pea hens, escaped from Beacon Hill Park, pecking away at a vegetable garden. A large male standing atop a pergola fanned its tail at Sir Richard, and called again with its eerie human-like voice.

    A block further along, McBride passed the young proprietor of a boarding house, standing in the front garden of her establishment, known locally as The House of All Sorts. She was soothing a worried monkey that stood on her left shoulder, and the woman surveyed the smoky street with a resigned disapproval.

    Now the quality of the smoke filling the air had changed, and taken on the aroma of burning wood and tar. McBride made his way down Government Street until he reached Holland Point, and the cliffs at the ocean front. A crowd had gathered on seaside Dallas Road, watching the naval spectacle off shore. Here, the air had cleared, and the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula stood out in sharp detail, 20 miles to the south. The partially sunken wreck of HMS Shearwater burned behind the Ogden Point breakwater construction site, and beyond, towers of smoke rose from the direction of Rithet’s Pier, but this was blown into the streets behind them. The smoke trails from the German cruisers could be seen as the ships retreated to the west, out towards Race Rocks . Shells seemed to have stopped falling on the city. Waterspouts from Fort Rodd Hill and Fort McAuley chased the Germans, but always fell short. The crown lining Dallas Road included more than a few venerable retired sea captains, all of whom had brought their telescoping spyglasses.

    “There is a new ship rounding Race Rocks!” exclaimed one of the former sea captains, and speculation raged back and forth in the crowd about who the new arrival might be. “She is engaging the Hun!” The sound of fresh naval gunfire sounded out.

    “My I see?” asked McBride, reaching for the spyglass. The owner would have none of it, and stepped away. McBride had to remain content with the sea captain’s narration, and what he could make out with his naked eyes.

    “She is flying the White Ensign! That’s the Rainbow!” called out the captain, and a “Hurrah!” rose from the crowd.

    The sounds of naval gunfire increased. McBride attempted to again get a view through the spyglass, and was again rebuffed. The old salt with the spyglass gave a running report, as if he was watching a sporting event. The cruisers had turned west again, and the gunfire increased in ferocity and rapidity. This seemed to provoke great anxiety among the United States Navy ships who raced back can forth along the border. The battle was hidden by the funnel smoke, and then from fires on shipboard as damage was inflicted. The narration came to include more “I can’t quite see,” and reports of hits corrected with, “no, that’s not right.” McBride could see lots of waterspouts and smoke, but no detail of the action. The tension among the crowd only increased, but it was hard to maintain as the length of the battle stretched out. At one point the boarding house proprietor McBride had seen earlier shouldered past him, the monkey still perched on her shoulder, to get a better vantage point to sketch the battle with charcoal sticks on a coil-bound pad of paper. McBride looked over her shoulder as the woman’s hands flew lightly across the page, tracing delicate curls of funnels smoke, mountaintop, and tide lines in the sea.

    “The leading Hun is doing poorly,” reported the retired captain. “But the Rainbow is having a hard time as well.” The battle turned west again, and the combatants now emerged from the enveloping smoke. One of the German cruisers could be seen to be burning all over. The Canadian warship was even worse off. “I can’t see if Rainbow is firing any more at all.” said the captain. The battle lines continued to close one with the other. The ships maneuvered in a way that was hard to decipher.

    “Something is going on out there,” the captain reported. “A boarding action? No. Is Rainbow trying to ram?” The crowd pestered the old man with the spyglass, demanding more information. Then everyone saw, without the need of a spyglass, a waterspout rise from the side of the burning German cruiser, taller than the mast top. The sound of this louder explosion arrived to the ears of the crowd, and echoed off the cliff.

    “A torpedo hit! On the Hun!” called out the captain, but he was drowned out by a cheer that ran all down Dallas Road. “Hurrah!” “Three cheers for the Rainbow!” Men threw their hats in the air. There was a great deal of embracing, backslapping, and handshaking. Bottles were produced, and toasts were offered.

    McBride finally managed to get ahold of the telescope, and have a look for himself. One of the Hun’s cruisers was definitely injured, and had come to a halt. He panned across the battle scene. The Rainbow was barely moving, had completely lost her upperworks, and was burning stem to stern.

    “I would wager that is wasn’t Hose that landed that torpedo blow,” McBride said to himself. He swept the water with the spyglass, trying to spot a periscope or conning tower, but the whitecaps did a splendid job of hiding that kind of detail, and at this angle of the sun was throw ing reflections into his eyes. His gaze was drawn further to the west. Great amounts of black smoke showed from the vicinity of the Naval Dockyard. The coastal defence guns were attempting to hit the damaged German, but remained frustratingly out of range.

    The damaged German came under way again, and began to limp away westward. Her forward two funnels were venting dirty grey steam, but her after funnel produced black coal smoke. The other cruiser escorted her slow departure around Race Rocks until the two disappeared from sight.

    Rainbow wallowed in the moderate seas, at the base of her funeral pyre, making very little headway, but steering in the direction of the Royal Roads anchorage. McBride noticed a launch appear from the William Head Quarantine Station wharf, and set course towards Rainbow. The lighthouse keeper’s boat from Race Rocks soon followed. The Fisheries Protection patrol vessel CGS Alcedo rounded Trial Island, her 3 pounder gun bravely manned but late to the fight, and headed to assist Rainbow as well. Soon a regular flotilla of small boats converged on the dying cruiser, with a pair of steam tugs from Victoria harbour, a yard boat from Esquimalt, and even a few private sailing boats joining. Off at the International Boundary, USS Milwaukee had swung out her boats, but remained on the American side of the line.

    The Rainbow was definitely sitting lower in the water. The quarantine station launch was the first of the rescuers to reach the wounded cruiser, but had difficulty coming alongside on account of the flames. The Tug SS Maud arrived next, and brought her firehoses into action to knock down the flames around Rainbow’s conning tower. CGS Alcedo added her hoses to the effort. McBride could not see onto Rainbow, but from the attitude of the tugs crews, the evacuation of the cruiser was being coordinated from her own conning tower. The steam tug SS Lorne attempted to take Rainbow under tow, while other rescue boats rafted to the outside of Maud and Alcedo. Survivors from the cruiser walked or were carried across the decks of the tugs to the outboard moored boats, depending on their conditions.

    The old sea captain retrieved his spyglass from McBride and surveyed the rescue operation.

    “They had better have pumps running to make up for all that firefighting water going topside, or they are going to sink that old girl,” he commented. “Oh, I expect she is done for anyway, God bless her.”

    McBride had seen enough. Despite his prominence, or notoriety in the community, he somehow remained anonymous in the crowd of spectators. A horse drawn taxi appeared, and he flagged it down.

    “Take me to Esquimalt,” he told the cabbie. “I may wish to make some stops along the way.”

    BAPCO factory, taken from GTP Wharf, Victoria inner harbour.

    Dredgers, a platform drill and the tug S.S. "Point Ellice" deepening the harbour - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    Victoria Parliament Building, in which the Provincial Legislature sits.

    Parliament Buildings - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    • Spant 68

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1525 hours. SMS Nürnberg, Juan de Fuca Strait.

    “The torpedo struck at spant 68, frame 68,” reported the engineering officer.

    Von Schönberg racked his memory for details of Nürnberg’s structural plans, to locate the damage in his mind. His ears were still ringing from the torpedo explosion. He could hear the roar of venting steam from the funnels. The boilers?

    “That is directly on the bulkhead between boiler rooms three and four,” continued the engineer. “Both boiler rooms are open to the sea. The officers in charge acted quickly to vent the steam, so as to prevent an explosion. I am not sure how many survivors we have from those compartments, but I don’t imagine there will be many.”

    “Are we sinking?” asked Von Schönberg. “I would prefer not to abandon ship right here.”

    “I do not think so sir,” replied the engineer. “Compartments 8 and 9 are flooding. That is a lot of water, but the weight is amidships, so we should have enough buoyancy to remain afloat.”

    “I would like a more complete damage report,” ordered Von Schönberg. “But if we are sinking none of it matters. And if we are not sinking, get me some steam. This is a bad place to be sitting.”

    “Very soon sir,” said the engineering officer. “We need to secure any open steam lines. Then we will be able to bring power to the engines.” He ducked out or the conning tower.

    The din of rapid firing cannon sounded close by. Leipzig was circling Nürnberg, and raking the water with her pom-poms, harrassing the Canadian submarine. “Those submarines have been a menace,” Von Schönberg said to himself. “The one we rammed is certainly sunk. No submarine submerges like that. But the other could be anywhere.” He felt like he was about to jump out of his skin, sitting helpless like this in sight of the enemy coast. The presumed 23 cm shore battery had ceased firing a while ago now. The slow firing 15 cm guns of the other coastal defence batteries were aiming at his stationary ship, but did not have the range to reach him, thankfully. Waterspouts rose from the sea, 1000 meters closer to shore. The tide seemed to be taking them westward as Nürnberg drifted, further away from the guns.

    The engine telegraph rang. “We have steam, sir,” announced a voice from the engineering spaces, through a voice tube.

    “Full ahead,” ordered Von Schönberg. “How many knots can you give me?” he asked, down the voice tube.

    “We shall see,” answered the voice. “Perhaps ten or twelve.”

    “I want a more comprehensive damage report,” ordered Von Schönberg. He felt the engines receive power, and the ship begin to make headway. “Take us west, up the Strait of Juan de Fuca.” Nürnberg responded to the helm, and turned into the wind. She set a course back towards the black and white striped lighthouse.

    “That old Canadian cruiser had more fight in her than I ever imagined,” said Von Schönberg, with a note of appreciation in his voice. “Good for them. Bad for us.” And an ominous note for future actions, where His Majesties forces have to fight against the British Empire Dominions, he thought.

    HMCS Rainbow was now well astern, and on fire for her whole length.

    His own ship was also on fire. Ironically, the torpedo impact seemed to have put out the fire behind the conning tower in the armoury deckhouse. Firefighting efforts would be continuing further aft, with the gun crews handling the hoses. Through damage and casualties, Nürnberg was not a functional ship of war any more. Leipzig had taken the lead, and Haun would be champing at the bit, thought Von Schönberg, to get out to open water. Although Leipzig’s triple expansion engines would appreciate the rest after being run at near full speed for the whole day.

    Nürnberg rounded Race Rocks light, and he was able to look west down Juan de Fuca Strait towards the Pacific. No ships were visible in the Strait. However, on the American side of the line a giant armoured cruiser and a pair of destroyers were following, matching speed with the German squadron. Von Schönberg considered that it was safe to leave the armoured box of the conning tower, and stepped out into the fresh breeze on the foredeck. The planks were pitted, and empty brass shell cases rolled about the deck. He looked up at his bridge, and one glace told him that he would be handling Nürnberg from the conning tower for the remainder of her voyage. The walls of the wheelhouse were blackened and splayed. The window frames were empty, and he could see the sky through them. The port bridge wing sagged down to the main deck.

    The hit on the wheelhouse had showered the foredeck with shell splinters, killing or wounding the gun crews, and the forward pair of main battery guns had not fired since, but the guns themselves did not look to have taken much damage. Further aft the smoke of active fires rose from various parts of the ship. He could not really see past the third funnel. The spray of hoses arced up into the clear air, but the operators were lost in smoke. The forward funnel was producing no smoke at all, but the after two produced the expected plume of black coal smoke, although some was escaping through rents in the funnels’ sides.

    He noticed, with some shock, that the main mast was nowhere to be seen, even the aft searchlight platform was missing. He looked up, to make sure an Imperial Ensign was still flying, and was relieved to see the Kaiser’s flag stretched out high on the foremast, albeit riddled with holes. No mainmast would mean no wireless antenna. The signal deck atop the wheelhouse had fallen into the Strait, so flags and Morse lights were also gone. He would be hard pressed to improvise semaphore flags from scrounged materials. This was going to make Nürnberg’s role as flagship difficult.

    A sensation that had been growing within Von Schönberg since Rainbow landed her first catastrophic hit, and that he had been suppressing for the last half of an hour, was finally forcing its way to the surface. Nürnberg had sustained damage that could not be repaired outside of a Kaiserliche Werft, half a world away. The loss of his ship was now not an abstract event, inevitable because of the East Asiatic Squadron’s difficult starting position, but able to be forever pushed into the future by his stubbornness and élan. No. The loss of his ship was a real event that had already happened.

    Von Schönberg was fixed to the spot, suddenly aware of his breath, the breeze on his face, every smell of the ship, and sensation of her movement on the sea. If he was going to remain an effective leader, he was going to have to drop attachment to his identity as captain of the cruiser Nürnberg, and step into the role of commander of this detached squadron of Admiral Von Spee’s fleet. He had to make that shift immediately. Nürnberg might be finished, but he still had another cruiser and 6 auxiliary prizes under his command, both armed and unarmed. Nürnberg might be exhausted as a ship of war, but she was still a resource that contained armament, ammunition, and, most important of all, officers and men of the Kaiserliche Marine.

    He realized that he had been negligent in his focus on his own ship, and not the wider picture. He had no idea where Lieutenant Von Spee was in Princess Charlotte, or Krüger in Galiano. The fleet of supply auxiliaries: Desalba, Bengrove and the giant Niagara, were just over the horizon awaiting recall. Princess Sophia was further afield, but it was time to call the ships in now, so as to be ready to regroup and redistribute his forces. And here he was without a wireless.

    Von Schönberg was just starting to put the pieces together, when he was approached by the engineering officer.

    “Sir!” the engineer saluted and began his damage report. “We are maintaining 12 knots. The engines themselves are in undamaged condition. The flooding is mostly contained to boiler rooms 3 and 4. I have had men inspect the damage from above. The coal bunkers have been stoved in to both of the affected boiler rooms, on the impact side, and coal has slumped into the compartments. This makes patching the holes from inside impossible. However, the coal is making a kind of matrix that is slowing the seawater ingress, and I think we should be able to keep speed without risk of progressive flooding.”

    “You said the flooding is mostly contained to those compartments,” said Von Schönberg.

    “There is some water leaking into the torpedo flat from Boiler Room 4, but the pumps are keeping up, and we have bigger problems to attend to, sir. Firefighting is occupying most of the available crew. We are making progress, and most of the contents of the compartments involved are burning out. The officers’ quarters astern have been heavily damaged by fire, and several of the hammock storage bins in the well deck are consumed.”

    “I suppose now we will all have to stay awake forever,” said Von Schönberg.

    “That 23 cm shell that hit us astern caused extensive damage, sir. The shell struck at the base of the mainmast, by gun number 7, penetrated the armoured deck, hit the port dynamo, and then went through the port condenser and boiler feed water generator. Presently we are without electrical power, but the electrician tells me he can make that good with the starboard and auxiliary dynamos given time. The condenser and feed water damage is more serious. We can keep going for a while, but I was told we will have to devote the drinking water condenser to keep the boilers working, so we only have what fresh water in the tanks now. The demand on the condensers is actually made easier by us only having six boilers operational. The shell itself is lodged in the double bottom, and is not accessible. It did not explode. We are unsure if the shell is a dud, or if it is a solid shot. I would expect the shell would have gone clean through the ships bottom, if it had not struck so many solid pieces of machinery on the way.”

    “If that shell had struck one compartment to sternward, sir,” the engineer said solemnly, “it would have passed through the after magazine.”

    Von Schönberg frowned, and nodded. “Please, do you know the number of casualties?”

    “I do not know the number,” said the engineer. “I know the infirmary has flowed over into the Between Deck accommodations. We have been lucky to have been spared hits forward below decks, where the wounded are laid out. We have 3 firefighting crews working. Each fire crew is a conscripted gun crew. The men from the magazines and shell handling rooms are fighting fires as well. So we have enough able bodied men to serve 3 guns, should we need to, feed the two boiler rooms, keep the engines running, and steer the ship. Barely. A few men are plugging leaks or effecting other repairs, but that is pretty much it, sir.”

    “That sounds like less than a hundred men still on their feet,” said Von Schönberg.

    “That does sound right sir,” said the engineer.

    “How many of our main battery guns are undamaged?” Von Schönberg asked.

    “Guns 2, 4, 7, and 8 are clearly damaged or destroyed,” answered the engineer. “I did not see damage to the remainder of aft and midships guns, but then gunnery is not my specialty, sir.”

    “Thank you,” replied Von Schönberg. “You may go. I have kept you from your other duties long enough.”

    Von Schönberg managed to find and direct a regular seaman away from other urgent tasks, and had him quickly improvise semaphore flags.

    “Send a message to Leipzig,” Von Schönberg ordered. “Recall the auxiliaries to Barclay Sound.”

    Message sent, the captain stood just outside the conning tower with the breeze blowing across his face, and the sun warming him. The smells of his burnt ship were being blown behind him. Sooke Harbour passed by to port, and whatever fishing boats were present remained in the harbor. The American Navy continued to match his speed, on their side of the boundary, their oversized Stars and Stripes fluttering from the mast tops.

    He still had his pair of binoculars around his neck, and inspected Leipzig, 1000 meters ahead. Her aft auxiliary bridge deckhouse was burned out, and she had lost most of her boats, but Haun’s cruiser looked to be in no worse shape than she had been when the two cruisers had reconnected off Howe Sound at 1230 hours.

    His eyes roamed over Nürnberg’s unattended pair of 10.5 cm forward battery guns. Their surfaces had some scratches, and the gun shields were pockmarked, but they looked to be fully operational to his trained eye. “Up to six main battery guns,” he said to himself. “Half of our ammunition. Two torpedoes.” He watched the green wilderness and jagged mountain tops scroll by. American to port. Canadian to starboard. “Half of our ammunition…”

    Again, plans of SMS Emden

    The setting
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    • Downtown

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1455 hours, Victoria BC

    The streets of Victoria were still swathed in smoke. The taxi took Premier McBride on an easterly route to the downtown via Douglas Street, behind the looming edifice of the Empress Hotel, to avoid the worst of the poisonous fumes from the BAPCO factory fire. Along the way they passed a number of stationary streetcars.

    “The electricity is out.” noted the cabbie.

    The men heard a loud clanging firebell approaching. Soon a horse drawn fire engine, its boiler belching smoke and steam, crossed their path along Yates Street. On the side of the tall boiler was painted the badge of the Oak Bay Fire Department.

    “They are really pulling everything out today.” said the cabbie. “I hear there is a great batch of fires down by the harbour.”

    “I am going to make a stop at City Hall, said McBride. “Please wait.”

    “As you wish sir.”

    The air was thick with smoke at Victoria City Hall. McBride could hear all manner of voices in the distance, but very few people were in sight. An iceman’s delivery wagon lay on its side in the middle of Pandora Street, leaking a pool of water onto the cobblestones. The idled horse was free, but still wearing its harness, and stood drinking from the puddle. No firemen were to be found at the adjoining Tiger Company Fire Hall, or Police at the nearby station. All were out on call in the city. He did find a lone city alderman, out in the street, being interviewed by a reporter from the Daily Colonist.

    “Oh, Sir Richard,” called out the reporter. “Have a gander at this! An artillery shell clubbed the Tiger Company fire bell right out of its tower and sent it careening down Cormorant Street, ringing like the devil’s own doorbell!”

    “The shell must have skipped off something and been tumbling,” said the alderman, a Boer War veteran. “Maybe the sea. Otherwise it would have gone through the brass bell like a rifle bullet through an apple.”

    “I have a scoop for you,” McBride said to the reporter. The man held his pencil up to his notebook expectantly. “One of the Hun cruisers was torpedoed. By our submarines. So let’s have a kind word for those with the foresight to purchase those boats, shall we?” The reporter made a wry expression at McBride, then raised one finger, as if counting a point scored.

    “I had to abandon the Legislature,” reported McBride to the alderman. He checked his pocketwatch, “At quarter to three. I have received no briefings on the situation in the city for almost an hour.”

    “You can see the situation as well as I,” said the alderman, gesturing at the smoke, the firebells ringing, and the overturned wagon. “But I can tell you that the electricity is out, as are the telephones. The fire and police call boxes were still working when I was last informed. I am told the Point Ellice Bridge has fallen, but I have heard so many rumours since this morning that I am disinclined to believe anything I do not see with my own eyes. The mayor is off wandering the streets, attending to his constituents.”

    McBride bid the men good day, and called for the taxi. “I have heard the Point Ellice Bridge is broken, he told the cabbie as they rolled down Pandora Street.

    “I have heard that as well,” the cabbie answered. “If true, you will have to walk across the swing bridge, or go the long way around Tillicum. My horse can’t walk on the open railway ties.” The taxi drove slowly down Fisgard Street through Chinatown. The stores were shuttered, and McBride could sometimes see faces peeking fearfully from the darkened interiors.

    When they reached the corner of Johnson and Wharf streets, by the Esquimalt and Nanaimo Railway station, many sights greeted them, but the first thing McBride noticed was that the swing bridge span was open, and so could not be crossed. “I will get off here,” he said, and paid the cabbie. Just south of the swing bridge, a waterfront building was burning with bright yellow flames. A Tiger Company fire pump team was hosing down the blaze, but it looked too late to save the adjoining freight sheds. A brigade of volunteers were passing bales and boxes of merchandise hand-to-hand across Wharf Street to get them out of reach of the flames. Several doors down, a wholesale liquour merchant had posted guards, one armed with a shotgun, others with axe handles, to deter overenthusiastic volunteers from removing his inventory.

    An unruly gathering of men stood just south at the next street corner. Some kind of disturbance seemed to be in progress. McBride was drawn to the scene. Carl Lowenberg’s Men’s Furnishings store had been looted and vandalized on August 18th, the night of the despicable Anti-German Riot. The windows at street level were still boarded up. Now his premises had been hit by a shell on its upper floors. Blackened window frames showed that a fire had broken out, but had since been extinguished. Merchandise lay out in the street, this time thrown there not by drunken Canadian patriots, but by German TNT.

    The proprietor, Carl Lowenberg himself, stood in the midst of a small group of supporters, some German-Canadian, some not. A larger group of men surrounded them, shouting anti-German slogans. Lowenberg had functioned as the German Consul in Victoria, up until the commencement of the war, and this drew the particular ire of Victoria’s more jingoistic residents. His loud and public denouncement of his former role, and his disavowal of Imperial Germany had come too little and too late for many, including apparently, this mob.

    “See?” A weeping Herr Lowenberg yelled with a hoarse voice, and pointing to his store’s gutted upper floors. “I suffer, just like you! Just like you.”

    McBride approached the knot of men. Some on both sides of the imbroglio were well dressed, and McBride recognized them from his social circle. He in turn was recognized. The confrontation paused. He looked down into the street at the scattered merchandise, stooped to pick a black top hat off the cobblestones, and dusted it off. He checked the size, and tried the hat on. It fit just fine. McBride dug into his pocketbook and handed Lowenberg payment.

    “No, Mister McBride.” said Lowenberg, refusing the money. “If you have lost your hat, you deserve one on the house.”

    “I insist Mister Lowenberg.” replied McBride. “You need the income to start repairing your business.” he cast his gaze out at Lowenberg’s antagonists. “We all need to stick together in these difficult times.” Then he addressed the men directly. “Go make yourselves useful, will you? The city is on fire.” He tipped his hat to the gathering. A few stayed to help Lowenberg clean up, but most dispersed.

    McBride walked over to the trestle approach to the E&N swing bride. The bridge’s rotating span remained open, allowing the passage of taller ships between the inner and upper harbours, and he could now see why. The steam tug fleet of Victoria was applying themselves as volunteer fireboats, attacking some of the larger structure fires from the water while the fire department fought the fires from the land side. SS Madge had her hoses trained on a blazing turpentine factory on Porter’s Wharf, alarmingly close to the timbers of the swing bridge. Across the inner harbour, two steam tugs played arched streams of water on the BAPCO fire. To the immediate north of the bridge at Hope Point, SS Pilot was fighting the fires in the Clark and Turpel’s Shipyard, while workers in the yard assisted.

    McBride was about to give up crossing the harbour, when he spotted a Songees man in a dugout canoe, salvaging floating planks from the bombardment flotsam. He waved to summon the man, and the canoe turned and paddled over to the east side of the harbour. McBride walked down onto Janion’s wharf, then across the deck of a moored coal scow. He arrived at the water’s edge, just as the canoe pulled up. It had been a while since McBride had sat in a canoe, but he managed to climb on board with grace to suit his station.

    “I will pay you to take me across to Work Point Barracks,” he said, and the man agreed. Paddling through the inner harbour, with his eye level a scant few feet above the water, McBride could see the full extent of the devastation to his capitol. The canoe hugged the west and north shore as it crossed the harbour. The smoke lay in a dark lid over the water, making the space feel close and stuffy. Fires raged through industrial buildings directly ahead and astern, and at all points of the compass between, over McBride’s right shoulder. The flames reflected orange off the water. From this angle he could see the Hudson’s Bay Wharf, and the commercial and residential parts of the downtown to his left seemed to have been mostly spared.

    “Bad day.” said the canoe owner.

    “Indeed it is,” agreed McBride. The canoe moved almost silently through the harbour. “You have a long paddle to get home,” feeling a need to make small talk.

    “My home used to be right here.” answered the man, pointing with his paddle at a beach to their right, nestled between rocky outcroppings, now built over with industry adjoining the burning E&N railyard.

    “Oh yes, of course,” McBride replied quickly, remembering his role in lobbying the national government to move the Songees village far to the west, to a place less inconvenient for expanding business interests on the Victoria harbor front, a mere 3 years before. He lost his desire to make conversation.

    The outgoing tide helped pull the canoe along. They passed by the blazing BAPCO factory to their left, now collapsed to the ground but very much still aflame. McBride felt the heat on his cheeks as they passed. Soon this was left behind, and was replaced by the spectacle of Rithet’s Pier, the site of Victoria’s main transpacific cargo wharves, burning to the waterline. The water became rougher as the canoe crossed the middle harbour, but the Songees man handled his craft with skill, and the dugout canoe itself was quite seaworthy.

    The canoe rode up on a gravel beach on Work Point, formerly home of the Royal Engineers that build Esquimalt Naval Dockyard, and now barracks for the 88th Fusilier Battalion defending the western side of Victoria. McBride thanked the canoe owner, and paid him for his trouble. He climbed up a bank, though shrubbery, and appeared like an apparition on the parade ground of the barracks quadrangle. A middle aged lieutenant, who had until recently been a frequent player in McBride’s Sunday bridge club, recognized him and saluted.

    “I wish to get to the dockyard.” he said to the lieutenant.

    “You are in luck, sir,” the lieutenant answered. “A truck is just leaving now with men to help with the fire fighting.” The lieutenant moved to clear a seat in the cab, but McBride waved him off and climbed up over the tail gate to take a seat with the privates of infantry. Once he finished greeting the soldiers, the talk between the enlisted men turned to their desire for revenge for the day’s events, and their eagerness to deploy overseas and take the fight to the Hun.

    Songees Canoes, circa 1900, when the village was still in the Inner Harbour.

    First Nations canoes pulled up on the beach of the Songhees Reserve. Laurel Point centre background - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    Victoria Fire Department

    Victoria Fire Department headquarters, Cormorant Street - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    Victoria Inner Harbour Aerial View. Taken in 1950 but most of the places mentioned in the chapter are still there.

    Aerial View of Harbour - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    E&N Swing Bridge

    Esquimalt & Nanaimo Railway (E&N) swing bridge at the time of the Johnson Street Bridge construction - City of Victoria Archives' Online Search

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    1913 Fire Insurance Map of Victoria. Big slow to load file
     
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    • Mortal Remains

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1645 SMS Nürnberg, Juan de Fuca Strait.

    Nürnberg had been managing 12 knots for the last hour, but had begun to lose ground against flooding. The fires had by now all been extinguished, or burned themselves out, and all crew not absolutely required for the operation for the ship were involved in shoring bulkheads and patching holes. Nürnberg had suffered a lot of holes. And as her draft increased on account of flooding, more and more holes that were previously above water became submerged, and became sources of flooding themselves. When Von Schönberg ventured inside the conning tower, he could hear and feel the tapping of hammers reverberating up through the deck, driving wedges into hull penetrations, or stuffing oakum into split bulkhead seams. Just off Sheringham Point lighthouse, Von Schönberg received a report that the torpedo compartment flooding had increased, through the sprung bulkhead plating, and that water was making its way through pipe pass-throughs into Boiler Room Two.

    “Signal Leipzig,” he ordered. The improvised semaphore flags were put to use again. Leipzig came alongside Nürnberg, and both ships slowed to less than 5 knots. Neither of the cruisers had any working ships boats left, so whatever could be used as bumpers were lowered over the sides, including charred bundles of hammocks, and the ships were lashed together. Numerous hoses and spouts connected to the pumps below sent streams of water splashing into the space between the ships. Planks were thrown across the gap, and soon Von Schönberg and Haun were conferring across the void and the churning waters of the Strait.

    “Nürnberg is at the end of her tether,” yelled Von Schönberg. “I still have hopes we can reach Barclay Sound, but I will need some help from your ship if we are to have any chance of making it.”

    “I am very short myself, but you can have whatever men and gear I can spare, Captain,” yelled Haun in return. “My lookouts have just spotted some smoke, on the horizon, heading from the open Pacific. Whatever ship is making it is still hull down, but let’s be speedy shall we?”

    Thirty men crossed over to Nürnberg to assist in damage control, carrying gasoline powered portable pumps, and laden with tools and patching material. Another party made from members of both ships’ companies formed up to pass needful things between the vessels. First, Nürnberg’s wounded were brought over to Leipzig.

    Forty-seven men incapacitated by varying degrees of injury were assisted across to Leipzig. Some leaned on the shoulders of their shipmates, but most were carried on stretchers or in hammocks. Von Schönberg knew all of their names, but not all of the men were recognizable, with their faces covered in the filth of battle or beneath bandages. He knew that another seventy-eight of his crew had died today, between the action in Vancouver Harbour and what he expected would soon be called the Battle of Esquimalt. He knew all of those men’s names as well.

    Many of the dead men were laid out below, wrapped up in hammocks, in the hollow blackened space that had once been the Officer’s Mess. But among this total a good number were simply unaccounted for. Missing. None of the searches of the ship had turned up these souls. Their mortal remains might be in a flooded compartment, or blown overboard, or consumed in a fire, or evaporated in a burst of British Lyddite.

    “So fragile are we,” Von Schönberg said to himself, “in the path of what Fate has set in motion.” He watched as the last of the wounded were carried over to Leipzig.

    “Now let us lighten our load forward,” he said. “I am sending over the contents of my forward magazine,” he yelled over to Haun.

    “Much obliged,” Haun yelled back.

    “I may send you my after magazine as well, later,” continued Von Schönberg, “but I am formulating a plan than might make use of it.”

    The line of sailors on the foredeck were soon passing shells for the 10.5 cm main armament across to Haun’s cruiser. Their work was made easier by the improvised repair of part of the ships electrical system, which got the ammunition hoists working again.

    “What remains in our forward magazine for the Leipzig?” Von Schönberg asked his gunnery officer. He had lost track of his own count, what with all the distractions in the last phase of the battle.”

    “One hundred and seventeen main battery high explosive rounds, Sir,” answered the officer. “One hundred and ninety armour piercing, and twenty-seven solid shot. There are almost 1500 rounds for the 5.2 cm guns, and 500 rounds for the 3.7 cm pom-pom. Also some boxes of belted ammunition for the Spandau guns, and crates of rifle ammunition. In the forward magazines. There remains a similar amount in the after magazines.”

    “Leipzig has pom-poms, and machineguns, but no 5.2 cm secondaries,” said Von Schönberg. “Still, I want to reduce weight forward. The secondary rounds in the forward magazine alone weigh in the order of 4 tons, and we have no surviving guns to shoot them.” The talk of Nürnberg’s secondary armament made Von Schönberg think of Lieutenant Von Spee’s command Princess Charlotte, upon which 3 of Nürnberg’s former 5.2 cm secondary guns were mounted. His worry about Von Spee had been growing for the last hour, in between his other worries. But he had no way to contact the liner, Nürnberg having no wireless.

    “Have you heard news from Princess Charlotte?” Von Schönberg yelled over to Haun.

    “None.” Haun answered. “We have attempted to contact her on half-hour intervals, but received no reply. Wireless has been monitoring transmissions, but we have heard nothing.”

    “Please take 200 shells for those secondary guns.” Von Schönberg yelled to Haun. “In case Von Spee suddenly shows up with Princess Charlotte. That should be enough to keep his guns occupied as a raider. If that liner enters into a pitched battle, she is lost anyway. I am going to have the rest thrown into the sea.”

    “Gunnery,” ordered Von Schönberg. “Take 200 rounds of the 5.2 cm ammunition over to Leipzig. Jettison the rest overboard.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “Janke, the Torpedo Officer, is dead,” said Von Schönberg to the Gunnery Officer. “So I am asking you. I would like to transfer our two remaining torpedoes to Leipzig. Is that possible in our current condition?”

    The Gunnery Officer gave the question some thought. “The torpedo compartment is a meter deep in water now, and that is slowly rising. Much of the handling equipment has been damaged by the hit on Gun Number 4, and the resulting fire. The derricks on the boat deck have been shot away. We will be able to jury rig some solution, given enough time, Sir. But in speaking to the engineer, my understanding is that we are constrained by manpower. If I take a team off of plugging leaks, we may be able to move the torpedoes, but we could lose the ship.”

    Von Schönberg made a disappointed expression. He hated to let anything go to waste when his resources were so limited to start.

    “No torpedoes for you, Haun,” Von Schönberg yelled across to Leipzig. “We can’t spare the men from damage control.”

    “I feared as much,” Haun yelled back. “I say, that transfer would be a bugger outside of a dockyard.”

    The sound of splashes reached Von Schönberg’s ears. A chain of sailors was pitching 5.2 cm shells over the rail and into the sea.

    “But I do have one more item to send over,” Von Schönberg announced, his mood lifting. “Plunder!”

    “Aha! That’s more like it.” Exclaimed Haun. “I thought I saw a gold earing in your ear, you brigand.”

    “Schedule Two, Article 4, Conditional Contraband,” yelled Von Schönberg, serious again. “Gold and silver in coin or bullion, and paper money. Property of the Kaiser.” Ten wooden crates each containing a 50 pound ingot, one of gold, the remainder of silver, and 3 metal boxes filled with Canadian currency were carried over to Leipzig.

    “And I have a passenger for you.” Augustus Meyer, the trade commissioner, emerged onto the foredeck. He blinked in the sudden bright sunlight. Meyer had been sheltering in the forward auxiliary steering compartment, beneath the armoured deck, listening to projectiles strike the ship. Now he was astonished to be still alive. Sailors helped the disoriented trade commissioner across the gap. Herman Mueller, Nürnberg’s pilot, attempted to follow him.

    “Not yet, Mr. Mueller,” said Von Schönberg, placing a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “I still need you, should we make our way to a port.”

    “All during this battle, I have been thinking of what the Canadians will do if they capture me,” said Mueller, shuddering. “I had not planned on setting foot in Canada again.”

    “Keep yourself together, Mr. Mueller.” Von Schönberg said in a comforting tone. “If need be we will put you in a petty officer’s uniform and give you the identity card of one of the fallen. But my ship has not sunk yet. Keep the faith.”

    Von Schönberg looked at his pocket watch. Half an hour had passed since Leipzig had come alongside.

    “Captain!” Von Schönberg heard. Leipzig’s lookout, high atop the foremast crow’s nest was pointing out to the Pacific while calling down to Haun. “Warship masts, dead ahead, range 20 miles!”

    The setting, with the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula to the south. In the story there are fewer clouds.
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    Sheringham Point Lighthouse
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    • Cherry Red Glow

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1530. Esquimalt Naval Dockyard.

    The truck bounced along Esquimalt Road. To their right they passed a number of streetcars stranded on their track. Detachments of Fusiliers marched down the side of the road, and their comrades riding in the truck jeered at the men on foot as the truck passed them by. The smoke became thicker, as they approached the Dockyard. The truck passed the 9.2 inch battery on Signal Hill, now silent, and entered the Dockyard gates. Now at least he could see what was causing all the smoke.

    The buildings of the Naval Dockyard were mainly built of brick, for its fireproof properties. So most of the walls of the Dockyard buildings still stood, as blackened shells of their former selves. McBride saw teams of sailors, dock workers, and soldiers engaged in putting out the flames. The street corner hydrants looked to be ignored, and the fire hoses in play snaked back to the waterfront.

    “Have you seen Commander Trousdale?” McBride asked a passing seaman.

    “I think I last saw him down at A Jetty sir, replied the sailor.

    The air was dense with smoke. Craters had heaved up the cobblestones. Fallen walls clogged the streets of the base with piles of brick and blackened roof timbers. McBride wove his way north, and arrived at the naval harbour. A tug was arcing steams of water onto some of the waterfront buildings. Firefighters had another tug tied up at the landward end of A Jetty, and were using its pumps to charge the hoses running through the streets. The outer half of A Jetty had burned to the waterline. The Naval slipways were smouldering wrecks. To his right, the bunkers of the coal store and the Naval Coal Wharf were fully engulfed in flames. The mounds of smouldering coal emitted a cherry red glow, and a tremendous amount of black smoke, which the wind carried to the east.

    Directly ahead, the Graving Dock was open to the ocean, with the burned superstructure of a steamship listing out of the greasy, debris-littered water. Another pair of masts stuck out of the middle of the harbour. In Constance Cove, the Yarrows marine railroad ways were also burning, with a 200 foot long steamship atop. The naval hospital buildings could be seen past the Yarrows fire, intact and lively with activity. Vessels of various sizes were coming and going from the direction of the naval hospital wharf. To southwest, past Fisgard lighthouse, more funnel smoke from approaching rescue ships showed over the rocks.

    McBride finally spotted Commander Trousdale, at the wharf side, hailing a yard boat. He picked up his pace, and met the Ranking Naval Officer just as he stepped aboard the launch.

    “Ah, McBride. Good.” said Trousdale, inviting the Premier onto the launch’s deck. “I am just on my way over to check on the survivors from the Rainbow.”

    “I am glad to hear there are some.” said McBride. The launch pulled away from the remains of the wharf, and headed north across the harbour.

    “There are,” Trousdale said cheerily. “More than you would expect, considering the pasting she took. I have not heard from Hose yet, but the early arrivals have told that he is among the survivors.”

    “The Dockyard has seen better days,” said McBride, looking around.

    “It is a right mess. More than 200 shells fell on this harbour,” said Trousdale. “The underground pipes feeding the fire hydrants were broken, and all the men took shelter during the bombardment, so the fires got a good start before we were able to even begin fighting them. Coal bunkers are almost impossible to set on fire with artillery, but once the Hun’s high explosive got the creosote timbers of the wharf and bunkers burning, the coal soon followed. One piece of good news is that the naval magazine is still intact, so we can re-arm any Royal Navy ships that visit. And the Graving Dock has not been destroyed. The lads flooded the basin to put out the fire on the Prince Albert, but the gates are undamaged. Those gates are quite substantially built. Sadly the pump house took a direct hit, so I expect all the valves and pipes are smashed. It will take weeks of repairs before we can drain the dock.”

    “And of course we have lost most of our naval stores,” Trousdale continued. “It is far too early to tally what remains, but I am not expecting much. I saw the Naval Intelligence officer fleeing from his Y Station with a wheelbarrow piled up of books and files. So we may be able to communicate with the fleet, if the Hun leave any of the Dominion Wireless stations standing when they leave.” The launch passed the burning Yarrows shipyard. McBride read Princess Royal – Victoria on the stern of the roaring skeletal wooden steamship up on the ways.

    “Princess Royal was built on that very spot, in 1907,” said McBride.

    “And there she dies,” replied Trousdale sadly.

    “The ability of this dockyard to service the navy has been seriously depleted.” remarked McBride.

    “Yes,” agreed Trousdale, “the Hun have been very thorough. If Captain Powlett wants to take Newcastle into dry dock when she finally arrives, he will have to go to Vancouver.”

    “I heard reported that the Wallace shipyard in Vancouver looks like this one here,” said McBride. He glanced back over at the burning shipyard. Flames had started to erase the name off the CPR liner’s stern.

    “At least we will be able to provide coal.” said Trousdale. “The Hun may have rampaged through the coal ports, but this province is simply made of coal. We should be able to tow a scow or two into the harbour by the time a warship arrives.”

    “Japan will enter the war at noon Tokyo time,” said McBride. “That is seven o’clock tomorrow night, local time.”

    “Oh believe me,” replied Trousdale, “I have been counting down the hours in my head as well. We could see Izumo as soon as tomorrow. But the Japanese have been playing coy. I have no idea where that great big cruiser of theirs is now, and I have a feeling we will only know when we see them show up. Mark my words, the Japanese are playing their own game.”

    “Pity they did not decide to show the flag in a neutral capacity, and anchor off Royal Roads for the last week.” said McBride.

    “Yes, well… if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” said Trousdale. “Pity your national government did not actually build and station those two Weymouth class cruisers and three Acorn class destroyers in Esquimalt in 1910, as promised, Sir Richard. Those would have come in handy these last few weeks.”

    McBride made an unintelligible noise of displeasure, and stared off into the harbor in silence. Not only was Trousdale, a Brit, absolutely right, he also knew that the current sad state of Canada’s navy was entirely the fault of the Borden government, McBride’s close political ally in Ottawa.

    The yard launch arrived at the Naval Hospital wharf in Pilgrim Cove. The hospital, mercifully, was well north of the burning parts of the Dockyard and free of smoke. Doctors, nurses, soldiers, and civilian volunteers scurried on the shore like ants, assisting the wounded from Rainbow up to the brick hospital buildings. A pair of civilian sailing boats had just finished unloading their wounded, and the dock master was shooing them away. A steam tug, the Maud, and the Fisheries Protection vessel CGS Alcedo had followed McBride’s launch across the harbor to the Hospital wharf and sounded their whistles, impatient to dock. The sailing boats and launch hurriedly cast off.

    The wharf was too small for both arriving rescue ships to dock at the same time in tandem, so Alcedo tied up first, and Maud rafted to her outboard rail. Most of this load of wounded were able to walk themselves, with assistance, being the last of the men to abandon Rainbow. The crew were filthy with coal dust, smoke, and grease, some with their uniforms in rags, and many had already been crudely bandaged. McBride and Trousdale stood aside on the wharf watching the men pass. A good number of the bandages were as filthy as the sailors were, noted McBride, meaning that the men had been treated and remained at their stations while wounded.

    Last of the survivors over Alcedo’s rail was Commander Hose. He was black with smoke from head to toe. Hose made a point of walking on his own, despite offers of support from the rescuers, but he had to pause every few steps to bend over and succumb to a fit of coughing. When he had his feet on the wharftop, Hose noticed Trousdale, and saluted. Trousdale returned the salute.

    “On the opening day of the war, sir,” said Hose, and paused to cough, “Naval Services Headquarters sent us a message, telling me ‘All Canada was watching, and to remember Nelson and the British Navy’. I hope we have not disappointed them. We have engaged the enemy. We heavily damaged Nürnberg, and held her up long enough for one of our submarines to torpedo her. If Nürnberg has not already sunk from the damage, I would say her part in this war is over. I regret that the Leipzig escaped the same fate, but we did hit her more than once, before our guns were all silenced.”

    “Rainbow is gone. We managed to get her to the shallows of Royal Roads before she sank, so her remaining ammunition may be able to be salvaged. Her armament as well, if any is still serviceable. But I should be clear that I consider her to be a war grave.”

    “No living man was left behind when Rainbow went down. We abandoned ship in good order. I counted one hundred and thirty-three officers and men boarding the rescue ships. I consider every one of them to be heroes. I have a list of men, living and dead, who I would specifically recommend for decoration, but every man-jack onboard displayed conspicuous gallantry this afternoon.” Hose was overcome with a long fit of coughing.

    McBride remembered that Rainbow’s full crew had been around 270. Hose had lost more than half his men.

    When Hose recovered from coughing, he said, “Excuse me, sirs. I must go check on my wounded.”

    A tug was entering Esquimalt harbor. McBride noticed she was towing something, and it took him a moment to realize the tow was a surfaced submarine.

    “Now that we are here,” said Trousdale, “one of us needs to review the wounded, Sir Richard. As Ranking Naval Officer, I should meet with the submarine commander to get his action report. And find out how soon the submarines can sortie again.” Trousdale flagged down the idling yard launch. McBride walked up the hill to the hospital.

    Esquimalt Graving Dock

    Drydock – Esquimalt During World War I

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    SS Princess Royal

    SS Prince Albert, in sunken condition

    The SS Prince Albert. - RBCM Archives

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    Esquimalt Naval Hospital

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    • Lattice Mast

    • YYJ

    Aug 21, 1715 SMS Nürnberg, Juan de Fuca Strait.

    “Warship masts, dead ahead, range 20 miles!” called Leipzig’s lookout. “Definitely masts of a cruiser!”

    Von Schönberg stiffened. He had some decisions to make quickly. Whose cruiser was this? American? Japanese? British? If it was American, there was no problem. The American warships still matching his course and speed 5 miles to the south and escorting him from the Strait of Georgia, were not firing on him, so he had no expectation that a fresh American warship would behave any differently.

    A Japanese warship, and that would most likely be the Izumo, would theoretically be constrained from hostilities until the declaration of war tomorrow night. But the extent of damage that his squadron had just inflicted on Japan’s soon-to-be ally might push an ambitious captain to take decisive unilateral action. Von Schönberg knew Izumo’s captain Moriyama Keizaboro. He was a consummate warrior. Von Schönberg imagined for a moment what he might do in Moriyama’s situation, and decided that combat would be likely if this newly arrived cruiser was flying the Rising Sun.

    A British cruiser, of course, would mean another battle within the hour. Any cruiser the British brought would likely be superior to Leipzig.

    “I am calling my crew back aboard!” Haun yelled. “Karl?”

    Von Schönberg chose to ignore the over-familiar use of his first name. But Haun was right, it was time for decisive action. If this new cruiser proves to be hostile, could he distract the enemy with Nürnberg, in order to give Leipzig time to escape? Thus sacrificing Nürnberg? No, he could not do that to his men. His only choice was to move his crew to Leipzig, and scuttle Nürnberg. Did he have enough time to pass over the rest of Nürnberg’s ammunition? He watched Leipzig’s men emerge from below and dash back across to their own ship. His crew could fill out Leipzig’s gun and machinery crews. Heading into battle against a superior cruiser would be a sad end to this voyage, but he had to admit his luck had been almost unbelievable these last few weeks. And perhaps Leipzig could shoot its way past a small British cruiser and make it to the Pacific. He believed the German gun crews of the East Asiatic Squadron to be superior to any they might encounter.

    His only other option would be to take Leipzig and run east again and north, out through the Inside Passage and all the way around Vancouver Island. That would be 280 nautical miles of high-speed steaming through narrow passages. And Leipzig had been running her engines constantly at near full speed for almost 24 hours already. Triple expansion engines did not like to be treated that way. If the hostile cruiser did not run them down, the Canadians would likely scuttle hulks ahead of them in the narrowest part of the Passage, or lay a barrage of log booms. No, it was better to fight, and trust in God. He opened his mouth to give the order to abandon Nürnberg.

    “Warship has one lattice mast!” yelled Leipzig’s lookout. “One military mast and one lattice mast.”

    Von Schönberg let his pent-up breath escape with relief. Only one navy in the world used those strange lattice masts, the United States Navy. He reassessed the situation. The planks were brought back aboard and Leipzig cast off.

    “I want those pumps back when you are done with them!” yelled Haun, and saluted. Leipzig pulled ahead into lead position again.

    The engineering officer came to report to Von Schönberg. “Sir, those extra men from Leipzig made a real difference while they were over here, patching leaks. The extra pumping capacity is being used in the torpedo compartment and boiler room 2. The water has stopped rising, perhaps it is even going down. We jammed a mass of cargo netting and mess tables and whatnot into the space between the disabled boilers and the torpedo damage in compartments 8 and 9. This has slowed the ingress of seawater, and should relieve the pressure at speed. I believe we will be able to come up to twelve knots again. I have the men on damage control still chasing down shell and splinter holes. Every little hole we plug helps.” The engineering officer paused. “How long do we need to keep the ship afloat sir?

    “If you can give me until tomorrow morning, lieutenant,” said Von Schönberg, “I would be deeply grateful. Any other news?”

    “The drinking water tanks under the torpedo deck are contaminated. Most of the food supplies have been destroyed along with the bakery and the galley. There is a bit of bread, some sausage, and raw carrots. This has been distributed to men at their stations. We have re-established some electrical power, enough to run lighting and the ammunition hoists, as you saw. The stokers are giving a superhuman performance sir, they really are.”

    “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

    “Signal Leipzig, and tell her to keep trying to reach Princess Charlotte,” he ordered the sailor with the semaphore flags. “And have her also contact Galiano. We should be at her position by nightfall.” This talk of food reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast.

    Von Schönberg wanted to send Leipzig ahead to meet the auxiliaries, but he also wanted to have her on hand in case Nürnberg’s situation suddenly deteriorated and he had to abandon ship. He decided to keep her close for now, and let Haun use the slack time to perform damage control and maintenance. Nürnberg came up to 12 knots, and reports from below were optimistic, the flooding did not seem to be increasing.

    At 1730 hours, Nürnberg passed by the logging camp at River Jordan. Sixteen hours before Nürnberg had fired the opening shots of this foray, sinking a hapless Canadian patrol vessel on this very spot. “My God, it has been a long day,” Von Schönberg said to himself.

    The US Navy cruiser approaching from the Pacific was now only 5000 meters to the west of the Germans. This new warship slowed, then came about to join the rest of the neutrality patrol shadowing his command from the American side of the line. She had 4 funnels, and looked to be at least as big as Admiral Graf Von Spee’s Scharnhorst and Gneisenau. Von Schönberg had lost all of his ship recognition manuals when his chartroom burned out, but this American giant looked to be of the same class as the USS California, of the International Squadron off Mexico. First Nürnberg and then Leipzig had been a part of that squadron, in what seemed like an age ago. That would make the American a Pennsylvania class cruiser. She looked to be at least 20 meters longer than the other 4 stack American cruiser, and similarly armed with a forest of gun barrels. As the American ships maneuvered into position Von Schönberg read South Dakota on the stern of the bigger cruiser, and Milwaukee on the smaller. A pair of destroyers accompanied the cruisers, but he could not read their names.

    And so the time passed. The Canadian wilderness rolled by to starboard, and the American mountains of the Olympic peninsula defined the horizon to port. Von Schönberg even took a nap for an hour, stretched out in a hammock in a relatively undamaged part of the forward crew accommodations. The tap-tap-tapping of damage control parties plugging gaps intruded even in his dreamless sleep. He woke with a start, then felt that the ship was moving in a familiar way, and settled into wakefulness again. His first realization was that he was ravenous, His immediate desire was to sleep for another 24 hours, but instead he climbed the ladder to the conning tower, feeling the deck lifting more from swells as Nürnberg drew closer to the open ocean.

    “How is the ship holding up?” Von Schönberg asked the officer of the watch.

    “We are pitching and rolling more, now that we are entering the ocean swells, sir,” the officer replied. “Putting more of the hull patches underwater. The damage control parties, that is everyone not on the bridge or running the machinery, are making rounds and plugging up anything that comes loose. So far the pumps are keeping up, with all running at full capacity. We are fortunate that the torpedo damage is on the starboard side, facing away from the open sea.”

    The conning tower chronometer read 1845 hours. The shore on the Canadian side was just more primeval forest, with a lighthouse on a rocky headland five miles to the west. All was lit golden by the low angle of the sun. To the south, just to Nürnberg’s port beam, the Olympic Peninsula ended abruptly at Cape Flattery in a series of cliffs and wave-swept black rock spires, and then a final foreboding steep-sided islet, topped with another lighthouse. After a further 15 minutes, their American escort slowed and turned. The Germans had passed the imaginary line where the American three-mile territorial limit met that of Canada. Now to Nürnberg’s port was the open Pacific, and international waters. The United States Navy ships stayed in their own waters. The pair of destroyers turned and steamed back east up the Strait, but the two cruisers remained, and entered into a slow north-south circuit, shrinking slowly into the distance astern.

    “We have spotted smoke to the west sir,” the officer of the watch informed Von Schönberg. “We believe it to be from our auxiliary fleet. If true, the smoke is right where we would expect it to be.” Leipzig confirmed wireless contact with the auxiliaries , reporting to Nürnberg by Morse light. Another half hour passed, and the smoke resolved itself as 3 sets of masts, and then 3 ships hulls appeared over the horizon: a steam freighter, a tanker, and a giant two funnelled liner with the profile of RMS Niagara.

    USS South Dakota

    Cape Flattery
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