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DURING the War the expression “Special Service” was a convenient but comprehensive synonym which might mean nothing, or a great deal; but in naval matters it was a useful hint to signify something of the hush-hush type. Special service ships might be decoys, or they might be detached units for keeping an eye on particular localities where the ocean cables ran the risk of being cut by a U-boat; or, again, those steam yachts were said to be on special service when they cruised off the Iberian peninsula gathering secret intelligence regarding enemy activities.

But whilst there were all sorts of units working individually, sent out on particular missions, there was only one Special Service Squadron; and so little has been written on this subject, except by casual mention, that it is well to give for the first time a complete account from many sources of an experiment which was thoroughly original, extremely interesting, and not without humour. Elsewhere the reader is made familiar with the plan that was developed for disguising commissioned ships of war to resemble innocent merchantmen, the intention being for the purpose of enticing enemy submarines, and the said vessels always worked independently.

The Special Service Squadron was the exact opposite of what eventually became constituted as Q-ships. The basic idea was to disguise genuine merchant steamers so that in every visible detail they appeared to be battleships or battle-cruisers; and to employ them not singly but together. Nor was the prime object to deceive U-boats (though this was not excluded), but generally to mystify by their presence and confuse the German intelligence system. What, it may be inquired, was the direct reason for putting this broad notion into execution at a given date?

For answer we have to throw our minds back into those dark days of late October 1914, when Admiral Jellicoe had taken his Grand Fleet right away the other side of Scotland and down to Lough Swilly in north Ireland until there was a base more inviolate from submarine attack than Scapa Flow at present afforded. It will be remembered that on October 27 one of these battleships (H.M.S. Audacious) after emerging from Lough Swilly had struck a German mine and foundered, but that before the final act of this disaster there had arrived on the scene the big White Star liner Olympic whose Master (Captain H. J. Haddock) did his best to tow the battleship as long as she seemed inclined to remain afloat. The Olympic then steamed into Lough Swilly, where she was kept several days, no communication being allowed with the shore, and every effort was made to preserve secrecy. Admiral Jellicoe telegraphed the Admiralty suggesting that the loss of the Audacious should not be revealed. The whole military outlook at that period was, in fact, so grave that it was considered vital that neither the strength nor the geographical position of the Grand Fleet should become known in Germany.

Now when it is alleged of a person that he was seen on a particular occasion in a certain locality, he has a perfect reply if he can plead an alibi. In the sphere of fictional literature we know the countless possibilities when a man has a double. And on the very day after the Audacious went to the bottom, the Admiralty took the novel determination to bring into being a squadron (afterwards increased to a fleet) which could show itself at sea to all beholders, and would pass for all practical purposes as part of the Grand Fleet. German spies ashore, or travelling in liners, or scouting U-boats, would be very welcome to report that they had noticed battleships and battle-cruisers in a certain locality steaming on an observed course. In other words the aim was to provide an alibi for the Grand Fleet, and to give them the chance of mistaken identity.

Thus was born the plan to produce in the minimum time a force that was first designated the “Tenth Battle Squadron,” afterwards changed to the “Special Service Squadron” (lest there should be any possibility of the term being confounded with the “Tenth Cruiser Squadron” that were engaged in carrying out the Northern Patrol); but unofficially the ships were hereafter always referred to as the “Dummy Dreadnoughts,” and the title was so fitting, so easy to the tongue, that it was generally accepted. Before the month of October was out, arrangements had been made to take over a number of good sized steamships from well-known lines and to have them fitted out by Messrs. Harland & Wolff at Belfast. All this necessitated a vast rush of work, consultations with Lord Pirrie, the Belfast Harbour Commissioners, Admiralty draughtsmen, and so forth. Special arrangements had to be made for preventing leakage of this secret endeavour, but of course the news did reach Germany within a few weeks.

The problem of converting so bold an idea into fact required enormous effort, but the essential scheme was started when the draughtsmen prepared the tracing of a selected steamer on the same scale as the tracing of a battleship’s design. By placing one over the other, it was possible to determine how the transformation would work out. The next stage was to let 2000 of Harland & Wolff’s men get busy on so many of the steamers as had arrived in the Lough. Ten ships were obtained readily, and so promptly were the conversions begun that within a week the first seven liners were rapidly changing their external characteristics.

It may be said at once that the faking was conceived with extreme cleverness. Structures of wood and canvas were ingeniously designed to reproduce in detail such striking features as guns, turrets, funnels, boats, tripod masts, bridges. Between the modern battleship and liner there is such fundamental difference in architecture, that the vast undertaking was far more awkward than one at first realises. For instance, a liner possesses much greater free board than a man-of-war, but this was overcome by giving the merchantmen ballast to bring them down into the water. Then there was the problem of the stern. In the Merchant Service this end is usually a counter: in the Navy it is like what is known as a canoe-stern, or more accurately what is called a cruiser-stern. So the designers got over the difficulty by filling in the under part below the counter. Similarly, the steamers’ bows had to be modified to bring them into line with naval practice.

Another item was how to make both funnels have reality. Smoke could exhaust itself through one, but what about the other? It would never do if this always seemed inactive. So a small fireplace was fitted to burn fireballs, and clouds of smoke could be emitted freely. As to the anchors, apart from the liner’s own customary gear for practical use, wooden anchors were secured to the bows Navy fashion, or else painted on. Internally there was no similarity to the pretended original battleship. Inasmuch as mines were causing such losses, it was decided that neither officer nor man was to berth forward, but only stores were placed in that part of the ship, so that if her forefoot caused mines to explode, the loss of life ought not to be great. The men were accommodated aft, whilst officers were amidships.

In the carrying out of this imitation theory, time was of principal importance. Ordinarily the work should have taken months: actually only the fewest weeks were permitted. It could not therefore be expected that the disguise was without blemish, and the most which might be expected was to produce an effect that possessed accuracy only at a distance of several miles. No fraternity is more critical than seafarers; every ship sighted on the ocean is mentally analysed and placed in her proper category. But it was hoped that with the kind of climate habitual to the British Isles these ships when descried in silhouette would pass for the real thing.

With one exception, the ten chosen steamers were of ancient or middle age. Thus the Ellerman liner City of Oxford was built as far back as 1882, the White Diamond S.S. Michigan dated from 1887, the Royal Mail Steam Packet Oruba from 1889. The Perthshire had been launched in 1893, the Montcalm four years later; and four of the Canadian Pacific Railway liners, Mount Royal (built 1898), Montezuma (built 1899), together with the twin ships Ruthenia and Tyrolia (both built in 1900), comprised nine which had to be bought in the usual way. But the tenth was the North German Lloyd Kronprinzessin Cecilie, which was a handsome American liner only nine years old and confiscated as a prize at the beginning of hostilities. The necessary figures of the respective tonnage will be found set forth on another page, but it will suffice for the present to add that the German (8684 gross tons) was the biggest of the ten, and the City of Oxford (4019 gross tons) was the smallest. These measurements, by the way, represent them as peace-time merchantmen: their displacements when fitted out as dummy men-of-war and well ballasted, had no regard to these figures.

The above ten were altered to resemble battleships of the St. Vincent, Orion, Iron Duke and King George V classes. So expeditiously were the City of Oxford and Michigan transformed into St. Vincents that within five weeks from the initial decision they steamed away from Belfast, Ruthenia (alias King George V) and Montezuma (otherwise Iron Duke) leaving five days before Christmas. But within another five weeks all the rest had departed with the exception of the Kronprinzessin Cecilie. It was a smart bit of co-operation to have brought about a dummy squadron inside three months. At the end of November (1914) it was further decided to take up four more steamers which were to represent the battle-cruisers Queen Mary, Tiger, Indomitable, and the Invincible. For this end there were adopted respectively the White Star Cevic, Merion, the Manipur (Messrs. T. & J. Brocklebank), and the Patrician (Messrs T. & J. Harrison), and once more only three months were required.

Three administrative minds at the Admiralty concerned themselves in launching this ingenious proposition: Lord Fisher, Admiral Sir Percy Scott, and Mr. Winston Churchill. But all three had individually the same officer in mind to go afloat in charge of this remarkable squadron. It was to be that same Captain Haddock who had been in command of the Olympic. No better choice in all the Merchant Service could be found. Not merely was he eminently suited by his long Atlantic service in the biggest liners, but he had for years been known to, and admired by, both Lord Fisher and Sir Percy Scott. The notable effort of towing Audacious a few days previously by the 43,000-ton Olympic was an achievement in daring seamanship which Admiral Jellicoe has described as “most magnificent.” There could be no doubt that Captain Haddock must be appointed the squadron’s Commodore, a rank which instantly was reminiscent of that fine engagement when little more than a century previously Commodore Nathaniel Dance on his way back from China in command of East Indian merchantmen had met and defeated a squadron of French warships commanded by a Rear-Admiral.

“When I came back to the Admiralty as First Sea Lord on October 31, 1914,” wrote Lord Fisher,^[10] “I at once got hold of Haddock, made him into a Commodore, and he commanded the first fleet of dummy wooden ‘Dreadnoughts’ and battle-cruisers the world had ever looked on, and they agitated the Atlantic.” The bluff old First Sea Lord had first met the great Master Mariner in 1910 when the latter was commanding the famous Atlantic flyer Oceanic, and did not hesitate to regard Captain Haddock as the “Nelson of the Merchant Service.” “If this should meet the eye of Haddock,” added Lord Fisher, “I want to tell him that had I remained [at the Admiralty], he would have been Sir Herbert Haddock, K.C.B., or I’d have died in the attempt.” Greater expressions of praise could not have been forcibly framed by one whose frequent phrase was “sack the lot!”

But Sir Percy Scott also claimed^[11] to have been responsible for this choice. In his reminiscences he related that on being sent for by the First Lord (Mr. Churchill) on November 3, 1914, and being ordered to take supervision of converting and fitting out the dummy fleet, he found “the question of equipping this squadron with officers and men was a difficult one, but I had the good fortune to meet Captain Haddock, C.B., who had given up command of the Olympic. He had been with me in H.M.S. Edinburgh in 1886. I took Captain Haddock to the Admiralty, and suggested that they should make him into a Commodore, and place him in command of the squadron, with full power to ship the necessary officers and men.” It was Scott who suggested the title “S. C. Squadron,” which could be used to mean either the “Special Coastal Squadron,” or even the “Scare Crow Squadron!” According to this authority the cost to the nation of this experiment—that is to say the purchasing and alteration of thirteen ships, with the alteration of the fourteenth—amounted to £1,000,000.

Captain Haddock, then, was readily given command of these comic ships on November 6, 1914, and the rank of Commodore (First Class), R.N.R. The plan was to have in each vessel a Commander, R.N.R., and two Lieutenants, R.N.R. The remuneration was based on the usual Mercantile Marine pay plus 15 per cent. Even from the first so experienced an officer was invaluable in arranging preliminary details connected with personnel, and inspection of the ships.

It was on December 7 that Scapa Flow was interested, if amused, by the arrival of two St. Vincent class battleships from Belfast. These were Nos. 1 and 2, being hitherto the City of Oxford and the Michigan. Others followed, and the remoteness of Scapa Flow seemed specially suitable, as it would keep the squadron away from spies and public notice. But the ships’ original names were removed and (apart from the individual numbering) they were reported in all seriousness as King George V, Centurion, Dreadnought, and so on. Within a week of Christmas, however, the plain blunt fact emerged that here was another of those instances where theory and practice can never agree.

In the realm of literary ingenuity the employment of a “double” has on various occasions been the basis for a rattling good story. It is common experience that nearly everyone of us has his counterpart, and that nature seems to use the same pattern for very different personalities. Thus the reader of mystery novels is quite willing to accept the convincing situations into which the hero is led. Now the novelist, to be frank, would have to admit that he won over the reader simply because the latter was too lazy, or too lacking in imaginative penetration to bother excessively. It is only when the double-identity theme comes to be vitalised by the stage or cinema that the whole idea collapses because it is inherently weak. Less than twenty years ago the whole literary world was thrilled by a novel of this class, and when it appeared first as a serial story in a popular magazine, the suspense and uncertainty were so worked up that at least one man on his death-bed, fearful that he would pass out before knowing the sequel, sent a letter to the author begging to be informed as to the final chapter. Now in course of time this immensely successful story was produced by the late Sir George Alexander at the St. James’s Theatre, where it became an immediate failure simply because the double-identity idea, whilst powerful in the imagination, will not work out in such details as voice, mannerism, and other decisive items. But, until the two characters were seen in the flesh by the reader-spectator, this consideration had not been appreciated.

Precisely the same thing happened with these dummy battleships. The essential idea was perfect, but the impossibility of winning conviction could not be ascertained until the experiment was fully tried out. In order to succeed beyond question, every minute part of the composite whole must be 100 per cent infallible. And this is just where the Special Service Squadron flopped badly: it was neither one thing nor the other, but a proper misfit. The tactical utility of a battle squadron rests on its homogeneity, so that it can be employed as one mighty machine. In this imitation from Belfast the only homogeneity consisted of an attempt to deceive. By the time ballast and alterations had been put aboard there were only two ships which were identical in size: some were more than double the displacement of the others. In fact the tonnage now varied from 7430 to as much as 16,500. So, too, whilst the individual speeds were as high as 15 knots but as low as 10, it obviously meant that the squadron’s speed must be less than that of the slowest member. In practice it was found that 7 knots was the best rate at which this collection of dummies could steam when proceeding together to represent part of the Grand Fleet.

Apart altogether, therefore, from imperfect disguise, the faked battleships were condemned as soon as they were tested. A 7-knot squadron could certainly not be used in operations with the Grand Fleet of three times that speed. “The ships,” remarked Admiral Jellicoe, “could not under these conditions accompany the Fleet to sea, and it was very difficult to find a use for them in home waters.”^[12] So, quite early, the thought of using these improvised vessels as bait for the shy High Sea Fleet was found impracticable, though had it been attempted there might have ensued a remarkable ending to a grim joke. I wish to stress here the fact that every officer and man serving in that dummy fleet was potentially a hero: they were by willingness, if not in act, ready victims for the Allies’ cause. They knew that if once they were sighted by the enemy, it was all over, yet it might have the most desired opportunity for the Grand Fleet to step in and deal a smashing defeat. For this end these gallant Mercantile Mariners were fully prepared to sell their lives, and to this day they have never been conceded by the public that esteem which was most justly due. It makes no difference that officers and men were not called upon to immolate themselves in some such affair as a Dogger Bank action.

Had they been (as they fully expected) sent down the North Sea, to meet the enemy, they would for a few minutes, during the first misty recognition, have created a thrill: but a 7-knot speed would have enabled neither a protracted advance nor a rapid retreat. And the Germans would not have been puzzled for long by any camouflage. The first salvo would see wooden turrets and toy guns floating in the water or burning like a haystack. And then the joke would be transferred: within a few minutes not one of those converted steamers would be afloat nor one man alive.

So, it was ultimately settled, that instead of the dummy squadron being allowed to remain at Scapa as an unwanted embarrassment and occupying sheltered berths which were needed for better ships, they should be sent to Loch Ewe on the west of Scotland where loneliness and therefore secrecy could still be preserved. Here, during January, as the units one after another were commissioned and sent from Belfast, the collection grew, and Commodore Haddock worked them up to carry out fleet movements. “This,” wrote Admiral Jellicoe, “he did most successfully, so that had the ships possessed the requisite speed, use might have been made of them as a squadron for various decoy purposes. But under the conditions existing, this was impossible.”

On January 8, 1915, came the change of title from the “Tenth Special Service Squadron” to the “Special Service Squadron,” and we have it on the authority of Mr. Winston Churchill^[13] (then First Lord of the Admiralty) that the German Naval Staff had already by this time learned all about these dummies. But the laughable feature is that the Teutonic mind took them with a seriousness greater than we ever had conceded. Throughout the Royal Navy, regular or temporary, criticism of these imitation battleships was open and drastic. Everyone derided any possible good being practicable. But Germany was quite uneasy, and connected this costly production with some dire plan for blocking up some of their principal ports on the Elbe, Weser, Jade, and so on. What else could those silly English be contemplating?

Certainly the First Lord that month strove hard to keep this squadron compact. On January 26 he suggested to Admiral Jellicoe that the Grand Fleet should be transferred from Scapa to the Firth of Forth, which at that time was being made fairly proof from submarines; and those of us who recollect the complicated wire curtain hanging down from the Forth Bridge, together with the outer booms then being perfected, will not forget the great security that enabled anxious commanders to sleep restfully. It was also part of Mr. Churchill’s scheme that Scapa should, after the Grand Fleet’s transference, be occupied by the dummy battleships, together with a certain number of genuine destroyers and trawlers. But Admiral Jellicoe thought otherwise, and Mr. Churchill’s views did not prevail. So the time passed on, and still the big Belfast undertaking had not attained.

The exact position was still one of uncertainty, and there were now fourteen imitation battleships and battle-cruisers being kept in commission with a hope that they might be of service for some undefined purpose. Meanwhile a large number of valuable officers and seamen were being prevented from performing more necessary duties. But the Dardanelles campaign suggested that here would be an opening for at least a few of the dummies, and the Admiralty resolved to send out Nos. 11, 12, 13, and 14 (ex-Manipur, Cevic, Patrician, and Merion) which pretended to be respectively the four battle-cruisers Indomitable, Queen Mary, Invincible, and Tiger.

Now at this point comes into the story Captain W. B. Forbes, R.N., who had been born as far back as the year 1845, and was remarkable for his innate bravery. Here was one who had been for many years retired, but now at the age of seventy came back to offer his services, and was accepted. He thus had the distinction of being the oldest naval officer afloat, and if his body was not as virile as it once had been, there were the same courage and the same devotion to duty which marked his early career. Such a spirit is an inspiration among any body of men. As an indication of his character we may picture ourselves in the month of September 1870, aboard H.M.S. Rapid which was proceeding under sail bound from Tarragona to Barcelona.

It was a pitch-dark night, Forbes was down below at dinner in the wardroom, the vessel was cruising along at 6 knots, when suddenly there rang through the decks the cry of “Man overboard!” The gallant Forbes, without stopping even to divest himself of his dinner jacket, rushed up, dived off the stern and began swimming about for the man through the inky waves. Within two minutes a boat was lowered, and luminous lifebuoys were thrown over, followed presently by the lowering of two more boats. The Rapid was hove-to, and waited, the minutes sped by, eager eyes looked out towards the flaring buoys, but no good news came along. One of the crew named Pritchard had fallen from the main yard and, instead of dashing his head lifelessly against the deck, he had dropped clear into the drowning waters. The Rapid rose and fell to the waves and at the end of an hour the second with the third boat could be seen returning, but they arrived alongside having failed in their search. Half an hour later came the sound of oars again, and the first boat bumped against the ship, but two inert figures were noticed lying on her floor boards. They were Pritchard and Forbes.

But Forbes had been able to rescue Pritchard, and it was found that whilst both were almost lifeless there was still hope. They were given every possible care, and the glorious result was that by midnight the crisis had been passed, so that both happily recovered after escaping death by the narrowest of margins. Had it not been for the instant, unhesitating bravery of the 25-year-old officer hurrying straight from a pleasant dinner table to the chill sea, Pritchard’s expectation of rescue would have been about one in two million. For this life-saving act Forbes received the Albert Medal. He continued in the service until the year 1888, and during his long retirement the Navy had so thoroughly been transformed that there was scarcely one characteristic which belonged to the days when he was handling ships under yards and canvas.

But here was just the personality who, whilst unsuited for the super-mechanical modern “Dreadnoughts” full of such wonderful gadgets, had the right daring for any kind of special stunt involving peril. On January 5, 1915, when the Oruba (otherwise dummy No. 6, alias H.M.S. Orion) was completed, Commander Forbes was appointed in command, being the only Royal Navy officer in the squadron; all the other Captains such as Commanders P. Tonge, A. Murray, G. I. Price, W. S. Quinn, R. J. Trotter, C. Calvert, R. M. Robertson, J. Cunningham, G. M. Comber and J. Brown, belonging to the Royal Naval Reserve. Five days later, however, Commander Forbes was summoned by Lord Fisher to the Admiralty and entrusted with the command of the four dummy battle-cruisers, which he was to take out to the Dardanelles. They were to proceed in company from a rendezvous near Barra Head, that solitary southern extremity of the Hebrides. They were fitted with short-distance wireless, and each had one 3-pounder gun! I believe that these four battle-cruisers were the only units to have even so indifferent an armament. Commander Forbes himself was in No. 14 (Tiger, ex-Merion).

Careful staff work was of course necessary to prevent any untoward action against these strange vessels, and our patrols had to be warned not to interfere with them. It had been intended that this detached squadron should leave on February 16, and proceed by the west of Ireland; but, owing to an accident, only Nos. 11 and 14 (Indomitable and Tiger) got away, and after some postponement. The former left Belfast on February 17, was held up in Loch Ewe the same day and the next, owing to bad weather, but this couple finally began their voyage south on the evening of the 19th. By midnight of February 26-27 they were passing through Gibraltar Straits, but even though they sheered off when inquisitive merchant steamers approached to investigate these quaint objects, there was no deceiving British skippers, who promptly reported their true nature.

The voyage was satisfactorily accomplished, and the pair steamed through the Mediterranean slowly, thence up the Ægean to Tenedos where they arrived on March 12. No. 12 (Queen Mary, ex-Cevic) never came out and was used for other purposes, but No. 13 (Invincible, ex-Patrician) started from Loch Ewe on March 26 bound for Mudros via the north of the Hebrides. By keeping fifty miles off the Spanish and Portuguese coasts when in the Atlantic, but allowing themselves to pass only so near to steamers as to enable the dummies to be reported as battle-cruisers, every effort was made to keep up this bluff. The latter were forbidden even to enter Gibraltar, so all three made a non-stop run.

Mr. Churchill^[14] has indicated that the Admiralty regarded the dummy ships as “indistinguishable” from the genuine men-of-war “at three or four miles distance,” though most practical seafarers would regard that as somewhat optimistic. These three dummies were ordered to be used “with due precaution to prevent their character being discovered, and should be shown as part of the Fleet off the entrance to the Dardanelles. They may mislead the Germans as to the margin of British strength in Home Waters.” Such were the orders written by the first Lord and approved by Lord Fisher.^[15] “We now know,” adds the same writer in regard to these three fakes, “that they completely deceived the Turks, who identified and reported one to Germany as the Tiger.”

But from another source we may explain exactly what happened, and perceive how truly do adventures continue to await the adventurous even after the lapse of forty-five years. Commander Forbes in the harmless Tiger had been doing meritorious work for some weeks guarding the transport route in the Ægean, through which so many thousands of shipping tons and lives were being carried northward. It will be recollected that April 25 was the date when the famous landing took place at Gallipoli. But on this self-same day did the enemy begin sending out from Germany their submarines to the Ægean, the first being U 21, which after refitting at Pola in the Adriatic reached the Dardanelles and created an historic sensation by torpedoing the British battleship Triumph on May 25, and the Majestic two days later.

Now on the evening of May 30 Commander Forbes in his imitation Tiger was patrolling about half a dozen miles to the east of that Ægean island Strati, off the coast of Asia Minor. It was just ten minutes past eight, and about the time when forty-five years ago he had heard that summons aboard H.M.S. Rapid. But to-night there was not utter darkness. The ship was using her best anti-submarine precautions by zigzagging at eight knots, when, all of a sudden, the fluffy white wake of a torpedo was seen approaching at high speed, and before anything could be done the vessel had been struck just forward of the starboard beam. The missile penetrated the hull between engine-room and stokehold, a violent inrush of sea immediately extinguished the furnaces, sweeping engineers and firemen from their stations.

As might be expected, Commander Forbes’ organisation and discipline were such that there was no further noise nor any confusion. The crew were piped to “Abandon ship,” boats were lowered and manned without trouble, every man going to his allotted place exactly as he had learned at drill, and the Captain supervising everything with quiet efficiency. When the boats had stood by the sinking ship for some time, and there was nothing more to be done, they rowed in the direction of Mudros and spent the next day still in the Ægean. But at 2.15 a.m. on the first of June they were picked up by a tug who duly brought them safely to Mudros.

The incident of this not very valuable unit, which had caused an experienced submarine commander, owing to the limitations of light and periscope lens, to be fooled into loosing off a torpedo uselessly, certainly has its humorous aspect when we think of the wooden 13.5-inch “guns” with their buoyancy and reluctance to sink. But 117 men were poised between life and death and, whilst only two engineers and two firemen were killed instantly, the casualties would have been much heavier except for the training which had been kept up during these weeks. The wireless operator, through his own persistent pluck, had quite a narrow escape. After the torpedo struck, an attempt was made to call up other ships, but the explosion had knocked everything out of condition. The Tiger was without electric light and in darkness, the door of the wireless office was firmly jambed: but, presently, by the aid of two men who voluntarily risked their lives, it was burst open. Thereupon the operator remained tapping his Morse key, ticking the message until the water had risen so high that he was made to stop.

Unfortunately this message never passed through the ether, for the aerials had collapsed through the explosion. But such were the undaunted characters of Commander Forbes and a large number of his crew that, instead of being sent home to England, they begged to be kept actively employed on the Dardanelles station. It was a fine gesture for a septuagenarian, and the Admiralty did not fail to send him a letter of appreciation for his conduct. But not even the strongest will could prevent an aged physical body from feeling the effects of that Ægean sinking, and Commander Forbes eventually had to return, though he was given employment with the Dover patrol.

With regard to the ten dummies which still remained in the British Isles, fluctuating events always so affected them that the original intended method for employment was never possible. Certain special operations which were planned for the early spring, in which the Special Service Squadron were to play their part, never matured; but by April there was a feeling that something important was about to happen. Perhaps the German battle-cruiser Von der Tann might be about to attempt breaking through the blockade and reaching the American coast to succour the two raiders Kronprinz Wilhelm and Prinz Eitel Friedrich, and combine with a general exodus of the thirty German liners which remained interned at New York. The position on April 11 was that both these two raiders had arrived in the United States harbour of Newport News at the end of a long cruise, but only the latter had been interned and there was no telling what might happen.

British cruisers were too few for the many jobs of hunting raiders, patrolling trade routes, and watching for any sudden rush of internees from New York or other port. It was therefore deemed advisable to send the dummy battle-cruiser Queen Mary (ex-White Star S.S. Cevic) as soon as possible across the Atlantic. True, her one 3-pounder gun gave her no fighting value, but she would be able to patrol up and down to seaward of New York in waters so familiar to White Star officers; and by economising coal would be able to remain there for several days. Whilst keeping her distance from steamers, she could exhibit herself sufficiently to let the news reach the interned that a British battle-cruiser was outside in readiness.

She came out of Belfast, grounded on Rathlin Island during a fog, returned to Belfast but was found undamaged and started off westward from her Scottish base on April 13. On April 25 early in the morning she was off New York, and on the next day the Kronprinz Wilhelm was interned. After remaining some time on her station, the crisis eased up and the United States gave assurance of their determination to maintain watch on the interned fleet. So the Queen Mary was able to come home again.

Commodore Haddock used to fly his pennant in No. 9, the ex-German American liner Kronprinzessin Cecilie, which now pretended to represent the King George V and had one of those imitation bow-waves which at this time were fondly thought likely to put a submarine Captain off his stroke. One used to see destroyers and all sorts of craft so painted, but before long such “waves” were abolished. The 7-knot H.M.S. Vanguard (alias S.S. Perthshire) was the slowest duck of the squadron, it seemed useless to keep her any longer in the service, and indeed the time was now approaching when the question would in all decisiveness have to be faced concerning this collection of misfits. First of all, it seemed futile to keep them based any longer at Loch Ewe. The Humber was suggested, as this would be so far south and nearer to Germany that the dummies’ slow speed would matter less when ordered to a North Sea rendezvous to meet the Grand Fleet. But the Humber was a very busy thoroughfare throughout the war, and one was impressed with the large trade that was being done in foreign steamers, especially from Denmark and Scandinavia, whose opportunities for carrying back information of booms and warships up the estuary were almost unlimited. Such considerations ruled out likewise other anchorages, and on May 14 the squadron moved from Loch Ewe to Scapa.

It seems ludicrous to add that these alleged “Dreadnoughts” were for safety’s sake escorted by armed trawlers and a steam yacht! But all those hastily contrived theatrical effects so cleverly fashioned at Belfast had after fair trial proved themselves unable to face rough weather: the external fittings were too frail except for smooth water cruising. So what with lack of speed and inability to keep up their appearances in Northern waters, the big idea had failed, and back the dummies were banished to Loch Ewe. No Commander-in-Chief wanted them, for they were at the best a continuous source of anxiety. On the other hand the shortage of shipping, thanks to losses by mines and submarines, thanks also to the increased demands of tonnage, was now making itself to be felt.

By June it was decided to drop the dummy “Dreadnought” notion, to remove all the fake fittings and convert the units to straightforward purposes. One ship (No. 6 which resembled H.M.S. Orion) was retained for a time by Admiral Jellicoe, and in August of this year, 1915, she was intentionally sent to sea from Scapa to Rosyth with a heavy list to suggest a disabled battleship going south for repairs. Escorted by destroyers, she tried to attract the attentions of submarines which had been busily active up and down the North Sea this summer. But no attention was paid to No. 6, so the destroyers were robbed of any fun.

Looking back on events, we can be thankful that the Special Service Squadron never paraded in the North Sea, but spent its time to the west of Scotland away from submarines and the High Sea Fleet, either of which would have sent hundreds of men straight to their destruction. The collapse of an ingenious idea was brought about because it was impracticable under the conditions of weather, sea, and speed; but also because no particular and unique occasion (such as a feint) offered itself. It is, however, conceivable that during a war whose main theatre is not the spy-infested North Sea but an ocean such as the Pacific with its great manœuvring distances, that the same idea might be carried out with greater leisure and material strength. The enemy might be put to considerable confusion as to the real position of the rival force at any given moment. There is too much concentrated traffic round the British Isles, through the Gibraltar Straits, and up the Ægean for the scheme to succeed in Europe.

			Best	Displacement	How Employed
		Disguise.	Speed	when fitted for	when
Name of Ship.	No.	H.M.S.	Knots	Dummy Service.	Disbanded.
City of Oxford	1	St. Vincent	12	7,430 tons
Michigan	2	”	11	—	Block ship at Mudros
Montezuma	3	Iron Duke	10	15,250”	Oiler Abadol
Ruthenia	4	King George V	12	11,850”	Royal Fleet Auxiliary water-carrier
Tyrolia	5	””	12	11,850”	Oiler Saxol
Oruba	6	Orion	15	9,800”	Block ship at Kephalo Bay
Mount Royal	7	Marlborough	12	15,000”	Oiler Rangol
Montcalm	8	King George V	12	11,800“	Oiler Crenella
Kronprinzessin Cecilie	9	””	15	—	Transport. Discharged on private service
Perthshire	10	Vanguard	7	—	Royal Fleet Auxiliary water-ship
Manipur	11	Indomitable	12	16,500”	H.M.S. Sandhurst, Depot ship
Cevic	12	Queen Mary	13	—	Oiler Bayol
Patrician	13	Invincible	13	—	Oiler Teakol
Merion	14	Tiger	12	—	Sunk by Submarine May 30, 1915

So the grand disbandment of the dummy fleet began. Nos. 11 and 13 were recalled from the Dardanelles, the latter bringing home the survivors of No. 14; and before the summer was over the whole list, from No. 1 to 13 inclusive, were being turned into kite-balloon ships, oilers, water-ships, torpedo depot ships, blocking ships, though the Kronprinzessin Cecilie was used for transport work until paid off in April 1916. No. 2 (Michigan) was filled up with ballast at Swansea in December 1915 and sent out to be sunk as a block ship at Mudros. In October, after being ballasted with concrete at Peterhead, No. 6 (Tyrolia), without troubling to have her disguise removed, was sent out to Kephalo Bay, there to prolong the breakwater.

Thus, within a year from the time when the first dummies had been ready for sea, the squadron as such had been swept into things forgotten. For that reason there is reason in collecting and arranging the facts of so interesting an experiment. The table opposite will enable the reader to read their careers at a glance. The study forms a fitting pendant to that of decoy ships in time of war.