Norman Collins
Norman Collins lived in Hartlepool in 1914, a 17-year-old apprentice at one of the marine engineering firms in the town. He’d attempted to join the Army on the 4th of August, but his father had found out and got him withdrawn for being under-age. The bombardment was a vital factor in hardening his resolve to try again as soon as possible, which he’ll eventually do on his 18th birthday, when his parents can no longer stop him. His extensive recollections of the war were published some time ago, and I’ll be following him about to see how he gets on.
Walking towards town was one of the silliest things I have ever done, as I was walking into a battlefield, walking among the shells that were exploding. Yet I had no feeling of panic whatsoever. Just as I turned the corner into Lumley Street, I saw the body of Sammy Woods, aged nineteen, a school and Sunday School friend of mine; he was lying half in and half out of his doorway, dead of course. He had been caught by a shell that had fallen to my left into the rectory that belonged to St Hilda’s Church. A shell had burst just as he stepped out and a second before I turned the corner.
…
Later that morning I went and collected pieces of shell. There was debris everywhere. Shell fragments, some weighing several pounds, were being collected as souvenirs and I still have several which came through the roof of our house. They bristle with jagged edges and the mortar is still lodged in the steel. Elsewhere I found a dead donkey that had been grazing in the friarage field, the home ground of the Hartlepool Rovers Rugby Football Club, and I have the piece of shell that killed it.
Collins’s sang-froid in wandering about a town under fire (and then going souvenir-hunting!) is rather remarkable. According to him, it was so unexpected that it didn’t seem real, and so he couldn’t be scared by what was going on. He also speaks very perceptively of noticing German shells landing in the streets and failing to explode. They’ve been designed for use against heavily-armoured targets at relatively high angles. In the town they’re falling on brick and concrete at a relatively low angle, and so a healthy number of them aren’t detonating.
Meanwhile, at sea
Quick recap. The Admiralty knows of the raid from some captured German transmissions, and intends to respond in what they believe will be overwhelming force. What they don’t know is that the entire High Seas Fleet is waiting for them; enough capital ships are at risk to change the balance of naval power if they should be sunk.
And the story of the action at sea is one of cock-up upon calamity. In the early morning, the High Seas Fleet, some 85 ships strong including 22 battleships, discovered the interceptors (four battlecruisers, six dreadnoughts). However, it’s vital to remember here that the fog of war is well and truly in play. Influenced strongly by standing orders to protect his fleet, Admiral Ingenohl decides to withdraw. If they’re committing that amount of firepower, it’s very possible that the Grand Fleet has come with it and is just waiting for him to give battle with the vanguard…
The hand of fate descends once more an hour later, as the British force’s destroyers discover a scouting High Seas Fleet cruiser. Communications break down between the British admirals, and they do not pursue. Had they done so, this may well have provoked the encounter that the Germans have just tried to avoid. By this time, news has reached the British force of the raids, and they attempt a pursuit of the raiders. Further miscommunication comprehensively ties British shoelaces together, and the raiders escape without being forced to give battle.
The British remain unaware that the High Seas Fleet has been at sea until the evening. They mistake their “we’re coming home” signals for “we’re going out” signals, and the Grand Fleet caps the day’s events off by setting sail in search of a glorious battle with nothing. Fog of war, don’t you love it?
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