The question perplexed at least one prominent naval historian, the late Patrick Beesly, who, during World War II, was himself an officer in British naval intelligence. Britain’s secrecy laws prevented him from writing about the subject until the 1970s and 1980s, when he published several books, including one about Room 40, said to be a quasi-official account. There he addressed the controversy only obliquely, stating that if no deliberate plan existed to put the Lusitania in danger, “one is left only with an unforgivable cock-up as an explanation.”
However, in a later interview, housed in the archives of the Imperial War Museum, London, Beesly was less judicious. “As an Englishman and a lover of the Royal Navy,” he said, “I would prefer to attribute this failure to negligence, even gross negligence, rather [than] to a conspiracy deliberately to endanger the ship.” But, he said, “on the basis of the considerable volume of information which is now available, I am reluctantly compelled to state that on balance, the most likely explanation is that there was indeed a plot, however imperfect, to endanger the Lusitania in order to involve the United States in the war.” So much was done for the Orion and other warships, he wrote, but nothing for the Lusitania. He struggled with this. No matter how he arranged the evidence, he came back to conspiracy. He said, “If that’s unacceptable, will someone tell me another explanation to these very very curious circumstances?”
The absence of an escort also surprised Cunard’s lawyers. In a lengthy confidential memorandum on the Mersey inquiry, written to help a New York attorney defend the company against dozens of American liability claims, Cunard’s London firm wrote, “With regard to the question of convoy, Sir Alfred Booth hoped and expected that the Admiralty would send destroyers to meet & convoy the vessel. There were destroyers at Queenstown and no explanation has been given as to why there was no convoy except Mr. Winston Churchill’s statement that it was impossible for the Admiralty to convoy Merchant ships.” The memo left unsaid the fact that the Admiralty earlier in the year had in fact made provision to escort merchant ships.
It was a question that also troubled passengers and crew and the citizens of Queenstown. Third Officer Albert Bestic wrote, later, that in light of the German warning in New York and the Admiralty’s awareness of new submarine activity, some sort of protective force should have been dispatched. “Even one destroyer encircling the liner as she entered the danger zone would have minimized the danger, if indeed have not rendered the Lusitania immune from attack with a resulting loss of lives.” One of Cunard’s most prominent captains, James Bisset, who had served under Turner and was captain of the HMS Caronia when it met the Lusitania off New York shortly after departure, wrote in a memoir, “The neglect to provide naval escort for her in the narrow waters as she approached her destination was all the more remarkable as no less than twenty-three British merchant vessels had been torpedoed and sunk by German U-boats near the coasts of Britain and Ireland in the preceding seven days.”
As to whether an escort really could have prevented the disaster, Turner himself was ambivalent. “It might,” he said, during his testimony at the Kinsale coroner’s inquest, “but it is one of those things one never knows. The submarine would have probably torpedoed both of us.”
ANOTHER MYSTERY centered on the second explosion within the Lusitania. Its cause would be debated for a century to come, with dark talk of exploding munitions and a secret cargo of explosive materials. There may indeed have been a hidden cache of explosives aboard, but if so, it did not cause the second explosion or contribute to the speed at which the ship sank. The myriad accounts left by survivors fail to describe the kind of vivid cataclysm such an explosion would produce. The rifle ammunition was not likely to have been the culprit either. Testing done several years earlier had determined that such ammunition did not explode en masse when exposed to fire, and this prompted the U.S. Department of Commerce and Labor to approve the shipping of such cargoes aboard passenger vessels.
A more plausible theory held that when the torpedo exploded, the concussion shook the ship with such violence that the nearly empty coal bunkers became clouded with explosive coal dust, which then ignited. There is evidence that such a cloud did arise. One fireman, who had been standing in the center of a stokehold, reported hearing the crash of the torpedo and suddenly finding himself engulfed in dust. But this cloud apparently did not ignite: the fireman survived. Here too, survivors’ accounts don’t depict the kind of fiery convulsion such an ignition would have produced. Subsequent investigation by forensic engineers concluded that the environment in which the ship’s coal was stored was too damp, in part from condensation on the hull, to foster the ideal conditions necessary for detonation.
What most likely caused the second event was the rupture of a main steam line, carrying steam under extreme pressure. This was Turner’s theory from the beginning. The fracture could have been caused by the direct force of the initial explosion, or by cold seawater entering Boiler Room No. 1 and coming into contact with the superheated pipe or its surrounding fixtures, causing a potentially explosive condition known as thermal shock. The fact is, immediately after the torpedo exploded, steam pressure within the ship plummeted. An engineer in the starboard high-pressure turbine room reported that pressure in the main line dropped “to 50 pounds in a few seconds,” roughly a quarter of what it should have been.
IN THE END, Schwieger’s attack on the Lusitania succeeded because of a chance confluence of forces. Even the tiniest alteration in a single vector could have saved the ship.
Had Captain Turner not had to wait the extra two hours for the transfer of passengers from the Cameronia, he likely would have passed Schwieger in the fog, when U-20 was submerged and on its way home. For that matter, even the brief delay caused by the last-minute disembarkation of Turner’s niece could have placed the ship in harm’s way. More importantly, had Turner not been compelled to shut down the fourth boiler room to save money, he could have sped across the Atlantic at 25 knots, covering an additional 110 miles a day, and been safely to Liverpool before Schwieger even entered the Celtic Sea.
Fog was an important factor too. Had it persisted just a half hour longer, neither vessel would have seen the other, and Schwieger would have continued on his way.
Then there was the almost miraculous fact that Schwieger’s attack even succeeded. Had Captain Turner not made that final turn to starboard, Schwieger would have had no hope of catching up. What’s more, the torpedo actually worked. Defying his own experience and the 60 percent failure rate calculated by the German navy, it did exactly what it was supposed to do.
Not only that, it struck precisely the right place in the Lusitania’s hull to guarantee disaster, by allowing seawater to fill the starboard longitudinal bunkers and thereby produce a fatal list. No one familiar with ship construction and torpedo dynamics would have guessed that a single torpedo could sink a ship as big as the Lusitania, let alone do so in just eighteen minutes. Schwieger’s earlier attack on the Candidate required a torpedo and multiple shells from his deck gun; his attack later that same day on the Centurion required two torpedoes. And almost exactly a year later, on May 8, 1916, he would need three torpedoes to sink the White Star liner Cymric, which even then stayed afloat for another twenty-eight hours. All three ships were a fraction of the Lusitania’s size.
Moreover, Schwieger had overestimated the ship’s speed. He calculated 22 knots when in fact the ship was moving at only 18. Had he gauged the speed correctly and timed his shot accordingly, the torpedo would have struck the hull farther back, amidships, possibly with less catastrophic effect and certainly with the result that the many crew members killed instantly in the luggage room would have survived to assist in launching the lifeboats. The steam line might not have failed. If Turner had been able to keep the ship under power, he might have made it to Queenstown, or succeeded in beaching the ship, or even leveraged its extraordinary agility to turn and ram U-20.
However, it also seems likely that if the Lusitania had not be
en so visibly crippled Schwieger might have come back for a second shot.
Really the only good piece of luck that Friday was the weather. The water was preternaturally calm, the day sunny and warm. Even a modest sea would have swept survivors from their floating oars and boxes and planks of wood, and likely swamped overloaded lifeboats. At one point, survivor Ogden Hammond’s boat had seventy-five people aboard; its gunnels were only 6 inches above the water. The benign conditions of the day saved scores of lives, if not hundreds.
WASHINGTON; BERLIN; LONDON
THE LAST BLUNDER
FOR SEVERAL DAYS AFTER THE SINKING, WILSON SAID nothing about it in public. He stuck to his routines. He golfed on the Saturday morning after the attack, took a drive that afternoon, went to church on Sunday morning. During a conversation in his study, Wilson told his secretary, Joe Tumulty, that he understood his cool response might trouble some people. “If I pondered over those tragic items that daily appear in the newspapers about the Lusitania, I should see red in everything and I am afraid that when I am called upon to act with reference to this situation I could not be just to anyone. I dare not act unjustly and cannot indulge my own passionate feelings.”
Sensing that Tumulty did not agree, Wilson said, “I suppose you think I am cold and indifferent and little less than human, but my dear fellow, you are mistaken, for I have spent many sleepless hours thinking about this tragedy. It has hung over me like a terrible nightmare. In God’s name, how could any nation calling itself civilized purpose so horrible a thing.”
Wilson believed that if he went then to Congress to ask for a declaration of war, he would likely get it. But he did not think the nation was truly ready for that kind of commitment. He told Tumulty, “Were I to advise radical action now, we should have nothing, I am afraid, but regrets and heartbreaks.”
In fact, apart from a noisy pro-war faction led by former president Teddy Roosevelt, much of America seemed to share Wilson’s reluctance. There was anger, yes, but no clear call to war, not even from such historically pugnacious newspapers as the Louisville Courier-Journal and Chicago Tribune. In Indiana, newspapers serving smaller communities urged restraint and support for the president, according to one historian’s study of Indiana’s reaction to the disaster. The state’s “six- and eight-page dailies and the weekly journals were practically of one mind in their hope for peace.” Petitions arrived at the White House counseling caution. The Tennessee State Assembly voted a resolution expressing confidence in Wilson and urging the state’s residents “to refrain from any intemperate acts or utterances.” The Louisiana Legislature voted its support as well and warned that the crisis at hand “calls for coolness, deliberation, firmness and precision of mind on the part of those entrusted with the power of administration.” The students of Rush Medical College in Chicago weighed in, all signing a petition expressing “confidence in the sagacity and patience of our President” and urging him to continue his policy of neutrality. Dental students at the University of Illinois took time out to do likewise.
German popular reaction to the sinking of the Lusitania was exultant. A Berlin newspaper declared May 7 “the day which marked the end of the epoch of English supremacy of the seas” and proclaimed: “The English can no longer protect trade and transport in their own coastal waters; its largest, prettiest and fastest liner has been sunk.” Germany’s military attaché in Washington told reporters that the deaths of the Americans aboard would at last show the nation the true nature of the war. “America does not know what conditions are,” he said. “You read of thousands [of] Russians or Germans being killed and pass it over without qualm. This will bring it home to you.”
WILSON KEPT SILENT until Monday evening, May 10, when he traveled to Philadelphia to give a previously scheduled speech before four thousand newly minted citizens. He had seen Edith that afternoon, and by the time he reached Philadelphia was still roiled in the emotional after-sea of that encounter. In his speech he talked of the importance of America as a force for instilling peace in the world and of the need for the nation to stand firm even in the face of the Lusitania tragedy. He used an outline, not a fixed text, and improvised as he went along, not the best approach given his emotional state. “There is such a thing as a man being too proud to fight,” he told his audience. “There is such a thing as a nation being so right that it does not need to convince others by force that it is right.”
These were lofty sentiments, but that phrase “too proud to fight” struck a dull chord. America did not want to go to war, but being too proud to fight had nothing to do with it. A pro-war Republican, Sen. Henry Cabot Lodge, called it “probably the most unfortunate phrase that [Wilson] had ever coined.”
Wilson told Edith he had spoken while in an emotional haze caused by his love for her. In a letter composed Tuesday morning, he wrote, “I do not know just what I said at Philadelphia (as I rode along the street in the dusk I found myself a little confused as to whether I was in Philadelphia or New York!) because my heart was in such a whirl from that wonderful interview of yesterday and the poignant appeal and sweetness of the little note you left with me; but many other things have grown clear in my mind.”
All that Tuesday, Wilson worked on a protest he planned to send to Germany about the Lusitania. Typing on his Hammond portable, he sought to find the right tone—firm and direct, but not bellicose. By Wednesday evening, he was done. He wrote to Edith, “I have just put the final touches on our note to Germany and now turn—with what joy!—to talk to you. I am sure you have been by my side all evening, for a strange sense of peace and love has been on me as I worked.”
Wilson sent the note over the objection of Secretary of State Bryan, who felt that to be truly fair and neutral, the United States should also send a protest to Britain, condemning its interference in trade. Wilson declined to do so. In his note he mentioned not just the Lusitania but also the Falaba and the death of Leon Thrasher, the bombing of the Cushing, and the attack on the Gulflight. Citing what he called “the sacred freedom of the seas,” he described how submarines, when used against merchant vessels, were by their nature weapons that violated “many sacred principles of justice and humanity.” He asked Germany to disavow the attacks, to make necessary reparations, and to take steps to ensure that such things did not happen in the future. But he was careful also to note the “special ties of friendship” that had long existed between America and Germany.
Wilson’s protest—the so-called First Lusitania Note—was the initial salvo in what would become a two-year war of paper, filled with U.S. protests and German replies, made against a backdrop of new attacks against neutral ships and revelations that German spies were at work in America. Wilson did all he could to keep America neutral in action and in spirit, but Secretary Bryan did not think he tried hard enough, and resigned on June 8, 1915. His resignation brought universal condemnation, with editors comparing him to Judas Iscariot and Benedict Arnold. The Goshen, Indiana, News-Times said, “The Kaiser has awarded the Iron Cross for less valuable service than that rendered by Mr. Bryan.” In a letter to Edith Galt, Wilson himself described Bryan as a “traitor.” He replaced him with the department’s number two man, Undersecretary Robert Lansing, who by this time had come to long for war.
Wilson had cause for cheer, however. In a letter dated June 29, 1915, Edith at last agreed to marry him. They wed on December 18, 1915, in a simple ceremony at the White House. Late that night the couple set out on their honeymoon, traveling by private railcar to Hot Springs, Virginia. They had chicken salad for a late supper. As the train pulled into the station early the next morning, Wilson’s Secret Service man Edmund Starling happened to look into the railcar’s sitting room and, as Starling later wrote, saw “a figure in top hat, tailcoat, and gray morning trousers, standing with his back to me, hands in his pockets, happily dancing a jig.”
As Starling watched, Wilson, still oblivious to his presence, clicked his heels in the air, and sang, “Oh, you beautiful doll! You great big beautif
ul doll!”
GERMANY’S U-BOAT campaign waxed and waned, in step with the rising and falling influence of factions within its government that favored and opposed submarine warfare against merchant ships. Kaiser Wilhelm himself expressed a certain repugnance for attacks on passenger liners. In February 1916, he told fleet commander Admiral Scheer, “Were I the Captain of a U-boat I would never torpedo a ship if I knew that women and children were aboard.” The next month, Germany’s most senior advocate of unrestricted warfare, State Secretary Alfred von Tirpitz, resigned, in frustration. This brought a sympathy note from an odd quarter—Britain’s former First Sea Lord, Jacky Fisher. “Dear Old Tirps,” he wrote. He urged Tirpitz to “cheer up” and told him, “You’re the one German sailor who understands War! Kill your enemy without being killed yourself. I don’t blame you for the submarine business. I’d have done the same myself, only our idiots in England wouldn’t believe it when I told ’em. Well! So long!”
He signed off with his usual closing, “Yours till hell freezes, Fisher.”
That June, 1916, the Kaiser issued an order forbidding attacks against all large passenger ships, even those that were obviously British. He went on to order so many restrictions on how and when U-boat commanders could attack ships that the German navy, in protest, suspended all operations against merchant vessels in British waters.
But the Lusitania remained a point of conflict. President Wilson’s protests failed to generate a response he deemed satisfactory—much to the delight of Britain’s director of naval intelligence, Blinker Hall, who argued that any delay in resolving the Lusitania situation was “advantageous to the Allied cause.”