Authors: Greg King
Second Class passengers also included those who, like their First Class counterparts, were on their way to Europe to join in relief efforts or visit relatives involved in the conflict. Handsome, twenty-seven-year-old surgeon Carl Foss of Montana was one such volunteer. Nephritis had prevented Foss from enlisting, and so he had signed on with the English Red Cross, hoping to put his expertise on gunshot wounds to good use. Still, like many others aboard
Lusitania,
Foss worried about a submarine attack, remembering, “We had been pretty nervous all the way over.”
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Sixty-five-year-old Phoebe Amory of Toronto was on her way to visit her four sons serving in the war, “probably for the last time on earth,” she sadly mused.
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Alfred, the eldest at twenty-nine, served in the Canadian Army Service Corps Battalion, while two of his brothers were training with the Canadian Expeditionary Force and the fourth was with the Imperial Forces.
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She had also booked passage so that she could see her gravely ill mother; unfortunately, her mother died before Phoebe could reach her.
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Phoebe had not seen the German warning in the newspapers; even had she done so, she insisted, “I should have made the voyage.” She later recalled “the vague feeling that so many were experiencing regarding the safety of the
Lusitania
when she should enter the danger zone.”
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Amory was impressed by
Lusitania
’s luxury, especially the Second Class Dining Saloon on D Deck. Although smaller than its Saloon Class counterpart, it repeated the same grandiose, Louis XVI design scheme, down to carved pilasters and columns supporting a second-floor balcony with a large, open well to the main room below.
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“Such a sight it was!” Amory recalled. “It would have gladdened the heart of anyone to gaze upon such a scene as was then before me. Such a beautiful dining room I had never seen, either aboard ship, or in the magnificent hotels that I have visited on both sides of the ocean. The pillars, extending from floor to ceiling, were as snowy white as the linen that covered the long tables. The walls and ceilings were frescoed in delicate tints, and in the center there was a round, open balcony, which permitted one to stand above and gaze down upon a spectacle that I believe could not be duplicated elsewhere.… I had never seen such palms as those that were profusely distributed about the saloon. One of them, I remember, reached nearly to the ceiling.”
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Just as the carved capitals of columns and decorative pilasters gradually became plainer as one moved from First to Second Class, so, too, did the simpler, heartier fare aboard
Lusitania
reinforce these distinctions. In Second Class, breakfast included apples, bananas, stewed prunes, figs, oatmeal, porridge, fried fish, omelets and eggs cooked to order, bacon, and sautéed potatoes, accompanied by an assortment of pastries and scones washed down with cocoa, coffee, and tea. Luncheons and dinners changed daily, and included such options as soups, salads, spaghetti, mutton, roast beef, brisket, steak, turkey, roasted chicken, veal cutlets, rice, vegetables, smoked haddock, flounder, salmon, and broiled cod in parsley sauce, with tarts, ice creams, custards, cheese, and fruits for dessert.
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Immersed in such surroundings, stomachs full of fine food,
Lusitania
’s Second Class passengers echoed many of the attitudes of their counterparts in First Class. They might not be enormously wealthy, but most were successful, and their money tended to cushion them from inconvenient realities. There was a sense of impervious defiance when it came to possible danger. To many, the war seemed far away, a distant reality that had not yet affected their lives. Although tensions inevitably heightened as
Lusitania
edged ever closer to the war zone, few could imagine even the dreaded “Hun” deliberately attacking an unarmed passenger liner filled with women and children.
Ian Holbourn, though, didn’t view the situation in quite the same way. Like many others, he’d seen the less-than-reassuring boat drills; his practical mind couldn’t comfortably dismiss the sense of impending danger. Like several of his counterparts in First Class, he went to see Captain Turner, complaining that passengers were being ignored. Turner listened and said that he would speak to one of his officers about it—apparently his attempt to avoid confrontation; Holbourn was sure that the terse captain actually resented the request. Holbourn had no better luck with his fellow travelers in Second Class. Several times, he urged that they should at least try on their lifejackets so that they would know how to work them if disaster struck. Rather than spurring them on to precautionary action, such pleas seemed only to upset many. One afternoon, a fellow passenger drew Holbourn aside. All of this talk about possible danger, he said, was disturbing the ladies. He advised Holbourn to drop the subject for fear of antagonizing others. Holbourn was stunned: he dubbed his obstinate travelers “the Ostrich Club.”
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Friday, April 30—the day before
Lusitania
sailed from New York and half a world away—another vessel slipped from its pier and set out for the sea. No newsreels captured the scene; there were no curious crowds, no bands playing patriotic songs, no flags waving in the early morning breeze. Orders had come down to the master and crew: “Large English troop transports expected starting from Liverpool, Dartmouth. Get to stations on fastest possible route around Scotland. Hold as long as supplies permit. Submarines to attack transport ships, merchant ships, and warships.”
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Quietly, without fanfare, U-20 left the German naval base at Emden on the North Sea. Her route took her around Scotland and south to Ireland. There, she turned east, to sail along the southern Irish coast, unknowingly bound for her tragic date with destiny.
Completed in 1913, the U-20 was a diesel-powered submarine some 219 feet long and capable of 15 knots on the surface; when submerged, two electric motors drove her at a top speed of 9 knots. She carried one 3.5-inch gun mounted on her deck near the conning tower and had four tubes, two forward and two aft, to fire torpedoes. On this particular voyage, she carried two types: the regulation bronze projectiles, and new gyro torpedoes, whose heads were fitted with charges containing some three hundred pounds of the explosive Trotyl. Between twelve and sixteen feet in length and each weighing roughly a ton, these missiles traveled at some 40 knots when fired.
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Commanding U-20 was thirty-year-old Kapitänleutnant Walther von Schwieger. Born in 1885 to an aristocratic family in Berlin, Schwieger was the very image of Teutonic pride: tall and handsome, with blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and fine features, he had a “distinguished bearing” in keeping with his ancestry; he hated the pretensions that went with the honorific “von” and quietly dropped it from his name.
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Comrades remembered the unmarried Schwieger as very intelligent, with “gifts of poise and urbane courtesy,” a man who adored music and whose “talk was full of gaiety and pointed wit.”
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Schwieger had joined the Imperial Navy as an eighteen-year-old sea cadet in 1903, and gradually worked his way up the ranks: in 1911, after serving aboard torpedo boats, he transferred to the Imperial Navy’s U-boat division. In 1914, he was promoted to Kapitänleutnant and received command of U-20.
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It took a special kind of man to helm a submarine: they were still on the cutting edge of technology and largely unproven. An aura of danger surrounded their missions, one that offered not only excitement but also opportunity. Courage and ability led Schwieger to his post: one man called him “one of the ablest officers we had, and a recognized expert on submarine matters—one of the few commanders who were consulted by Grand Admiral von Tirpitz and on whose advice von Tirpitz relied.”
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On this point, everyone agreed: Schwieger was one of the most respected commanders in the service, known for his courtesy and courage.
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Under Schwieger, the U-20, said one crew member, was a “jolly boat … a kindly boat.” With four officers and just over thirty men crowded into the submarine’s cramped quarters, maintaining morale was a constant struggle. The men wore waterproofed leather suits that became unbearably hot.
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Water was scarce, hygiene a luxury, and fresh air rare: the inside of the submarine habitually smelled of sweat, cooking oil, and food.
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Men slept in shifts, in bunks, or hammocks strung perilously close to torpedoes. “At first I was kept awake a bit at the thought of having so much TNT in bed with me,” a crewman recalled. “Then I got used to it.”
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The men morbidly jested with the torpedoes, giving them names like “Fat Bertha,” “Shining Emma,” and “Yellow Mary.” At all times, “like all ladies,” said an officer, they were treated with tender “care and courtesy.”
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As much as was possible, a submarine rode the waves rather than remain submerged. This allowed the batteries to recharge, and fresh air to permeate the vessel. The crew could walk the slick gray surface of the U-boat, and play with the vessel’s dogs, a pair of black dachshunds, one of whom had been rescued from a Portuguese ship the submarine had sunk. “A canine romance developed,” recalled a sailor, and soon the submarine was filled with the sound of four little puppies, tended to by a grizzled old salt. Eventually the men gave three of the dogs to other submarines, and kept three for themselves, snuggling with them in their bunks at night.
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Above all, life aboard U-20 was filled with uncertainty. Schwieger had to be on nearly constant duty, and often went several days without sleep. Spotting an enemy ship was not merely a potential opportunity to attack, but also brought with it the very real danger that the submarine itself might be rammed, fired upon, or hit by depth charges. At such times, men stood silently in unspoken fear as “the noise is distinctly heard of the propellers of the enemy’s ships, hunting for us overhead.”
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There had been several attacks by British merchant vessels on U-boats. The British steamer
Thordis
had rammed and sunk a German submarine in February 1915; King George V decorated the captain for his actions and the crew was financially rewarded. Four other U-boats had also been lost to British ramming or gunfire by the time Schwieger left Emden, and several other submarines had suffered close calls.
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With British vessels painting out their names and company colors and flying neutral flags, accurate identification was often difficult. Then there was the threat of an ambush: given Winston Churchill’s continued boasts that British merchant vessels had been armed, a U-boat commander had no way of knowing if he would be fired upon. Schwieger was nothing if not a skilled and able commander, a man who put duty and the safety of his vessel and crew above all other considerations. In February 1915 he waged an unsuccessful attack on a clearly designated British hospital ship. He reasoned that as it was leaving England, it could not have been carrying wounded soldiers. His method of operation was remarkably consistent: if suspicious or in doubt about a vessel, he attacked.
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As circumstances permitted, Schwieger attempted to follow the Cruiser Rules, though only when it was clear that the encountered vessel didn’t threaten his submarine. On Wednesday, May 5, Schwieger spotted a small schooner,
Earl of Lathom,
off the Irish coast near the Old Head of Kinsale. The 132-ton ship posed no threat to U-20, so Schwieger surfaced, fired a warning shot, and, speaking English in “a very gruff voice,” demanded to see the ship’s manifest.
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Soon he ordered the five-man crew to abandon ship. He waited until they had safely disembarked, then fired his deck gun into the vessel until she sank. Later that same afternoon, he spotted a British steamer bearing the Norwegian flag. Schwieger was suspicious and fired a torpedo, but the projectile missed and the vessel escaped.
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Early the following day, Schwieger spotted
Candidate,
a six-thousand-ton British merchant vessel that flew no flag and whose name had been painted out. He surfaced and opened fire with his deck gun. As the ship listed, he stopped his fire and allowed the crew to safely abandon her, then launched a torpedo into the vessel’s side. The ship seemed to right itself: rather than fire another torpedo, Schwieger used his deck gun to sink the vessel. Shortly after this, U-20 spotted
Candidate
’s sister ship,
Centurion
. She, too, flew no flag; after U-20’s pilot, Rudolf Lanz, identified her as a British vessel, Schwieger fired a torpedo into her side. The crew had ample time to abandon ship: even after an hour, though,
Centurion
was still afloat. It took a second torpedo to send her to the bottom of the Irish Sea.
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