It’s 1914 and war has gripped the world…
Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton awakes after a night of heavy drinking with Hans Erhardt, a German P.O.W who has been interned at the neutral port of Manila.
Much to Knowlton’s dismay, he soon realises he’s missed his Submarine. It had left without him!
Baker an inexperienced sailor and friend of Knowlton’s, covers for his absence. However, without Knowlton to do his duty, the submarine sinks to the ocean floor, with all those on board perishing inside.
What is Knowlton to do? He’s has been presumed dead, as well as being the presumed cause of the tragedy for not doing his duty. If he’s found to still be alive he would certainly be court martialled and executed.
To make things worse, he sees Erhardt has stolen his uniform and is boarding a Dutch liner to make his way back to the war.
This was all Erhardt’s fault!
He now goes by the name of Tom Knowles and has been making a living as a hard-working, hard-drinking riveter in shipyards around the world.
He has been doing well for himself.
Soon, however, he hears about a German U-boat, U-38 that has been targeting and wreaking havoc among neutral American merchant vessels. This particular U-boat appears to be captained by none other than Hans Erhardt…
It can only be a matter of time before the U.S.A enters the theatre of war and Tom Knowles can enact his vengeance…
After a series of brave feats of ingenuity and horrific experiences at sea, he once again finds himself captaining a submarine and going head to head with the figurehead of his anger.
The detail and depth of emotion present in this chilling and claustrophobic tale in enthralling. A story of heroism and revenge in the harshest of conditions. A must-read for anyone with an interest in the history of the First World War, or any fan of Naval history. Commander Ellsberg’s attention to detail and bleakly realistic storytelling are simply brilliant.
Praise for Edward Ellsberg
‘done in high adventure style’ – Kirkus Reviews
'Authentic material in a good yarn' - Kirkus Reviews
CHAPTER I
Three blasts of a deep-toned whistle echoed over Manila harbour, rattled the windows in the Hotel España. The whistling ceased, a siren shrieked out its wailing note. The Dutch steamer Willemstad, lazily churning up the water, headed out for Batavia.
Sprawled on the bed in a room on the harbour side of the España, Thomas Knowlton, Lieutenant, U.S.N., stirred slightly as the windows rattled under the first blast, then relapsed into a stupor. The repeated rattling of the windows stirred him again. Subconsciously the whistle seemed to penetrate into his drunken sleep; to wake in him a vague reminder that his place was on deck when a ship was getting underway. He rolled over, stared aimlessly about the unfamiliar room. The siren shrieked. Its piercing note cut through his numbed senses, brought him staggering to his feet.
Knowlton clung uncertainly to the bedpost, stared out the window, with an effort focused his eyes on the clock in the distant cathedral. Ten minutes of two. He brushed his free hand across his eyes, trying to sweep away the mist that fogged his brain. Afternoon! And at seven in the morning, he should have been steaming out of the harbour himself with the C-3 and her sisters of the second flotilla for submerged manoeuvres!
Vaguely he considered that. Missed his ship. Tough break. That new flotilla commander was hell on discipline. The pigs had been too free and easy. Commander French was just waiting to hang someone to bolster up the morale in the force. Missed his ship. And the old man was just aching for a chance to yank someone up before a court.
Knowlton let go the bedpost, struggled across to the washstand, poured out a glass of water, gulped it down. Unsteadily he filled the basin, soaked his aching head in it. Missed his ship. What in hell had he been doing? Why was he here?
With an effort, he recalled a little, looked vacantly at the rumpled bed. Where was Erhardt? His eyes wandered around the room, searching. Nowhere. And yet he remembered vaguely that Erhardt had accompanied him to this room, suggested that they take it for the night instead of going back to their ships.
Well, he’d been a fool. It was all right for Erhardt to drink like a fish, but he should have known better. Erhardt didn’t have to go to sea. His ship was anchored out there off Cavite for keeps, — well, anyway until the war ended. What difference did it make to Erhardt how much he drank? It had been two months now since, with the shells from a British cruiser exploding round her stern, the Cormoran had barely escaped into neutral Manila, and Erhardt and his ship had been interned. Damn lucky for them too. The limeys or the Japs had sunk all the other German raiders in the Far East. No neutral ports handy for the Emden to intern in when the big cruisers finally got her within range. A rusting wreck she was, out on Keeling Island.
Lieutenant Knowlton looked hazily through the window.
Yes, there was the Cormoran, swinging idly at anchor, the white and black Imperial insignia fluttering at her staff, her brightwork glistening against the dull grey of her war colour. He remembered — he had had dinner there with Erhardt last night, friendly little dinner, just Lieutenant Knowlton, skipper of the U.S.S. C-3, and Herr Lieutenant Hans Erhardt, captain of S.M.S. Cormoran, unfortunately interned in a neutral port and a prisoner of the United States till the war ended — if it ever did. Knowlton remembered how Erhardt had chafed at that — interned with the war only four months old. Since October 1914. And his shipmates in the High Seas Fleet straining behind the minefields at Helgoland, preparing for Der Tag, near now, when they should surge forth and, with gun and torpedo, wreak havoc on the hated British Fleet. And here was he, Herr Lieutenant Erhardt, till the war ended, interned in the Far East! Was it not too bad? Another drink, my friend. Hoch! Had not the British always been their enemies? Drink again! Possibly America would join Germany to fight again for the freedom of the seas? Another glass. If so, then America would release his ship; Lieutenant Knowlton would be his brother in arms! Hoch der Kaiser! Hoch President Wilson! Boy, another bottle of champagne! What, his friend shook his head? America would not join in the battle to overthrow England’s tyranny, baffle her attempts to keep Germany from her rightful place in the sun? Too bad. With sword and submarine Germany would be victorious anyway. Hoch! Boy, more wine!
Somehow Knowlton remembered they had come ashore in Erhardt’s gig, they had had other things to drink. He had protested, he must take his boat out for manoeuvres, one must be careful when there is the responsibility of a submarine to operate. What had happened to his will? Erhardt had dragged him from club to bar, from bar to club, and finally had suggested this room in the España for the night, so that Lieutenant Knowlton might have a rest and be well prepared to take his boat out for manoeuvres in the morning.
In the morning! Here it was two in the afternoon and a court-martial to face. Knowlton looked dizzily for his companion.
No use. He was certainly alone. Erhardt had left. Probably back on the Cormoran. Damn him! What difference did it make to anybody when Erhardt got back to his ship? He had no manoeuvres to take part in, no flotilla commander to face.
But Lieutenant Knowlton! He shook his head wearily, soaked it again in the washbasin. He might as well face the music. Tough. The C-3 was his first command. Probably lose it, go back as second on a tiny spit-kid a thousand miles up some God-forsaken Chinese river.
He staggered back to the bed, sat down heavily on it, looked around for his clothes. There they were in a heap on a chair near the door. He measured the distance uncertainly, then cautiously worked his way around, leaning first on the bed, then on the wall.
With an effort, he put them on, found a little difficulty in buttoning the jacket, clapped on his cap. The jacket pinched his arms, the cap seemed to perch on top of his head. It must be an illusion, he told himself; his head couldn’t possibly have swelled that much, no matter how it ached. To reassure himself, he looked in the mirror over the washstand, then sank back on the bed, thoroughly befuddled. Those were not his clothes; that was a German naval cap, a set of German shoulder marks. He fumbled again with the buttons — German. This was Erhardt’s uniform!
Knowlton rose, cursing violently. Erhardt was gone, his uniform was stolen, he began to see a light. Rising from the bed he maneuvered cautiously round to the window, stared out over the harbour.
There, just disappearing beyond Cavite was the Willemstad, a Dutch ship bound for a Dutch port. And aboard her, in the guise of an American naval officer, was Erhardt in his clothes, escaping from internment on the first leg of his way back to Germany.
Lieutenant Knowlton slumped back on the bed, discouraged. Another specification for the court-martial to hang him on — aiding the captain of an interned man-of-war to escape internment and engage again in hostilities against nations with which the United States is at peace. He could hear the judge-advocate reeling it off at the court. Guilty or not guilty? Viciously Knowlton knocked off the German cap, buried his head in his hands, gazed occasionally at the rapidly fading ship.
Slowly the minutes went by, the Willemstad cleared the harbour. Knowlton collected his thoughts with an effort, wondered what had happened when Commander French from the C-1 ordered the flotilla to get under way and the C-3 reported no skipper to take her out. He could imagine. Ensign Baker, his “makee-learn” second, a mighty nice boy. Just five months out of the Academy. Didn’t know much about subs yet, but a very loyal assistant. Baker’d wait till the last minute, giving him every possible chance to get aboard before his absence had finally to be reported. Tough on Baker, having to report his own skipper. And Commander French! Knowlton could see him working up the charges in his mind, even while he ordered the other boats to get under way, leaving the C-3 behind.
The unfortunate officer groaned aloud. He dropped his arms, rose painfully, looked out toward the anchorage off Cavite, trying to make out the C-3. His bloodshot eyes were unable to see clearly that far. He might as well start back. His eye fell on Erhardt’s cap, white against the dirty matting on the floor. No, he couldn’t go back in those clothes. Bad enough without that. He fumbled in the pockets, drew out some bills, pawed over them clumsily. Nothing missing. At least Erhardt had left all his money.
A racket in the street below. Knowlton shoved the money back into his trousers, leaned out the window. The shrill cries of newsboys, dashing wildly down the street, pedestrians eagerly buying papers. Shouts. Something lost! Well, what of it? He drew back.
What’s that? Submarine lost!
As if jolted by an electric current, Knowlton stiffened up, seemed to sober suddenly. Hatless he ran for the door, dashed down into the street, tore a paper from a. newsboy.
SUBMARINE C-3 LOST WITH ALL HANDS! Knowlton’s glazed eyes scanned the details. C-1, C-2, C-3, C-4, out for flotilla manoeuvres submerged. The other boats had started back, the C-3 had failed to rise. No answers to signals. The tenders were dragging over a spot where a stream of bubbles was rising. Very deep water there. About three hundred feet — too much pressure for a boat like the C-3. All hands were undoubtedly dead. Commander French, flotilla commander, had already cabled the names of the lost crew to the Navy Department.
The paper dropped from Knowlton’s nerveless hands. First on the list, LOST WITH THE C-3, was Thomas Knowlton, Lieutenant, U.S.N., Commanding Officer!
Release Date: April 25, 1933
Release Time: 101 minutes
Director: Jack Conway
Cast:
Robert Montgomery as Lieutenant Thomas Knowlton, USN
Walter Huston as Lieutenant Commander T. J. Toler, USN
Madge Evans as Joan Standish
Jimmy Durante as "Ptomaine", the cook
Eugene Pallette as "Mac" MacDougal
Robert Young as Lieutenant Ed "Brick" Walters
Edwin Styles as Flight Commander Herbert Standish
John Lee Mahin as Lieutenant "Speed" Nelson
David Newell as Lieutenant Radford
Sterling Holloway as Seaman Jenks
Rear Admiral Edward Ellsberg returned to active service with the navy the morning after Pearl Harbour, after a life of hazardous adventure in salvage operations, during which he won the United States Navy’s Distinguished Service Medal. He thereby became the first man to gain the award in peacetime. At Massawa he raised the two Italian Floating Docks, in spite of expert opinion that it was impossible. Later he served as Principal Salvage Officer under General Eisenhower in North Africa and afterwards in the Normandy Invasion. Rear Admiral Ellsberg was awarded the C.B.E. by His Majesty King George VI, and two Legions of Merit by the United States Government.
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