Death in a Submarine
One of a Crew That Was Saved Tells of the Thrilling Moments Just Before the Final Plunge
Many submarines, rammed or shot, were sent to the bottom with their crews, and for the most part the world has been left to imagine how the doomed men met their fate. There is always a desire, deeper than mere curiosity, to know how men behave in such circumstances; now and then the desire is gratified, and we have learned that brave men go down to death cooped in a submarine with the same resolute calm with which brave men meet death in any guise. That the spirit of man is a wondrous thing the war has given new proof in myriad ways.
A survivor tells the story of the crew of the Monge, a French submarine commanded by Lieutenant Morillot, rammed by an Austrian warship and sunk in the Adriatic, Dec. 29, 1915. It was more than a year after that date before any of the details became known. Then the letter of one of the crew released from an Austrian military prison was published, giving the thrilling particulars. After telling how the warship smashed into the submarine the letter continued:
“The water enters in torrents. The safety hatch is closed, but the Monge descends very swiftly; it reaches a depth of 200 feet, and the plates crack under the pressure of the water. We give ourselves up as forever lost. Our vessel is being crushed; we feel it flattening in upon us. No one says a word, but everybody works. Orders are executed as in ordinary times; no panic, not a cry.
“We are facing the most certain and perhaps the most hideous death, yet our commander is superb in his coolness, and he has a crew that is worthy of him. The steel braces supporting the hull—bars as thick as my fist—are twisted like so many wires. The accumulators fall down on each other; the electric current is intensified, the fuses burn out, the acid decomposes—it is the second phase; after the crushing comes asphyxiation.
“‘Courage! Courage! We are rising!’ That is the cry of the second torpedo master, for to him belongs the most delicate and certain of all our remedies. In fact, we feel that we are rising, and in a minute or two we have gone from a depth of 200 feet to the surface. We are saved!
“Alas! A third ordeal! The Austrians have seen us and begin shelling us at short range. A single shell pierces our hull. The commandant orders for the third time: ‘To your posts for the dive!’ This time all is indeed ended; the motors no longer act, none of the machinery runs, and the water keeps pouring in. Everybody goes to his post without a murmur, and yet we all know that this time death awaits us—and what a death! The commandant changes his mind. Our vessel is lost; why sacrifice the crew? He lets his arms drop, and two big tears roll down his cheeks, tears of pride and of impotence.
“In a calm voice, however, he tells us to save ourselves. The impossible had been attempted; we could give up with a light heart.
“Before rising to the surface the commandant asks us to cry three times, ‘Vive la France!’ and to sing the ‘Marseillaise.’ Such were the last words and orders of the man who was and remained the commandant of the Monge, for he chose not to leave his beloved boat. As soon as we reached the deck we complied with his request and thrice shouted ‘Vive la France!’ and sang the refrain of the ‘Marseillaise.’ When the water rose to our waists we had only time to throw ourselves into the sea. The Monge sank on Dec. 29, 1915, at 2:30 in the morning. There were three deaths—the commandant and two mechanician quartermasters.”
Afterward the French Government honored Lieutenant Morillot by giving his name to a ship captured from the enemy; but one wonders why so gallant an officer should have been so unprofitably sacrificed to a naval tradition. Captains go down with their ships because tradition and court-martials have made it more honorable than living to serve their country in new duties and responsibilities.