But at the end of October, the German consul in Vera Cruz told Daehne that the Columbus had been ordered by Berlin to run the blockade. Daehne protested, arguing that he had been fortunate to reach Mexico. He advised that the liner be sold, even for the pittance in Mexican currency that she would bring under the lamentable circumstances. The diplomat told him that the order was irrevocable; a successful escape would have a salutary effect on the Latin neutrals, encouraging them to withstand the diplomatic and economic pressure of the Allies. Besides, the consul said, there was no danger; the British would not attack inside the American neutrality zone. The Columbus would have to sail. “Sie muessen fahren,” he insisted. “Sie muessen!”
Heartsick, Daehne felt that the loss of his ship was inevitable; but he was determined to preserve the lives of his men and keep the liner from being captured by the British. He took a long time to get the Columbus ready for sea. The ship was painted over and slightly modified to alter her appearance, the crew moved amidships, lifeboats and safety gear were checked, “abandon ship” drills were held; salons once redolent of perfume and liquor smelled of paint and sweat; bandages and dressings were arrayed incongruously on polished dance floors, and men lugged sandbags and mattresses into stately cabins for splinter shields. For two full weeks, specially trained parties practiced the swift destruction of the liner; buckets of gasoline were placed so that they could quickly be emptied down ventilation shafts, and drums of oil, gas, and benzine were stored near rags and other flammable wastes. The British would not take the Columbus.
Despite the consul’s assurances that the two American destroyers patrolling offshore would probably escort the liner safely through the security zone, Daehne was worried by them. The ships were the Lang and Benham, the latter glad to be in calm Gulf waters after her rough stint off the Grand Banks.
Columbus refueled from a Mexican tanker, and on 13 December, edged toward the channel entrance. The green sea was running high, and she began her venture under a gray sky; the expectations of the men inside her were as gloomy as the day. The Lang fell in behind the ship, to be relieved the first night out by two four-stackers. The weather remained dreary, and at night, the destroyers had to close to within six hundred yards of the liner’s stern quarter, one on each side, in order to maintain visual contact. The American ships ran fully lighted, as always when patrolling at night, but they sometimes approached so close that Daehne reluctantly elected to keep on one of his own night lights. At times, when the destroyers were very near, his ship barely had room to turn or maneuver. He felt like a “dog on the leash.”
The destroyers were replaced by a fresh pair, venerable Cole and Ellis, off Cape Canaveral. The Columbus cleared the dangerous Florida Strait in safety, but was consuming 450 tons of fuel per day; Daehne felt compelled to reduce speed to an economical 16 knots to save a hundred tons of fuel daily. The liner stayed close to the American coast until she was abreast of Cape Hatteras and in more crowded waters, then she swung east, out to sea, to make her break for Germany.
Cole’s skipper was Lieutenant Commander Paul F. Dugan; his four-stacker was one of those recently recommissioned. She was old and short-legged, but Dugan was fond of her; he remembered that after World War I she had set a record by once making over 42½ knots. Pride is born of small things, and Dugan’s men gave their best to the old Cole and made her a welcome friend in any melee at sea. Now, Dugan watched the liner thrash into the moderating seas, listening sadly as the Ellis sent out a position report in plain language every four hours. He was sorry the Cole had drawn this wretched duty. Certain that the transmissions would be picked up by the Royal Navy, Dugan felt that the American vessels were giving the “kiss of death” to the liner.
About a hundred miles out, two other American destroyers appeared, swaying slightly against the horizon. Dugan told his signalman to blink out “bon voyage” to the German, and the Columbus sent back a similar signal. The Cole then swerved away from the big ship’s quarter to make room for her replacement, and set course for Charleston. At sea, it was hard to think of Columbus’ men as pawns of a vicious ideology; they seemed simply sailors working hard to save their ship, and Dugan hoped that none of them would die because of anything that he had done. It was a thoughtful trip home for the Cole.
Not long afterward, the heavy cruiser Tuscaloosa swung in behind the Columbus, dipping her flag politely and blinking out good wishes in bright, yellow flashes. But Captain Daehne grumbled, “What the devil does this all mean? Is he protecting us or shadowing us?”
The 19th was a mild, clear day. The British destroyer Hyperion, cruising about 320 miles northwest of Bermuda, picked up transmissions between the Tuscaloosa and another ship; Hyperion radioed the American cruiser, “What ship are you escorting?” Captain Harry Badt of the Tuscaloosa did not identify the Columbus, but the suspicious circumstances alerted the Hyperion to investigate, and Captain Badt had no orders to warn her off. An hour later, Hyperion sighted Columbus and signalled her by flag hoist to halt. The liner radioed her position and circumstances, in order to alert Berlin to her fate. Captain Daehne looked to the Tuscaloosa for help; his ship was about 425 miles off Cape May, and he thought her still inside the vaguely defined American security zone. He hoped to see the gun turrets of the cruiser swing to commence tracking the smaller British warship. But instead, the Tuscaloosa decreased speed to stand by about a mile away. The Hyperion fired twice in a single rumbling roar, and two high spouts of white water rose up off the liner’s bow. Daehne ordered the Columbus stopped, and most of her crew, with a calm born of long practice, went to the lifeboats. Three officers and two score men roamed the vessel, spilling drums of petrol into the passageways, then firing Very pistols to send rivers of orange fire coursing through the insides of the liner. They opened seacocks, smashed skylights, and set fire to oil-soaked rags. Twenty-three minutes later, they went over the side.
On the bridge, Daehne watched the Hyperion with a numbed detachment; like all captains who have lost a ship, he suffered from a sense of guilt. It is this feeling, rather than the lure of tradition, that impels skippers to go down with their ships. Daehne flung the weighted bag containing the ship’s code books and secret documents overboard. Hot flames twisted nearby metal, and it occurred to Daehne that his immolation would serve no high purpose. He swung down a rope into a launch manned by sailors off the Tuscaloosa, who by training and inclination did not readily concede the life of any man to fire or water.
From the scattered boats, the seamen of three nations watched the blazing Columbus settle into the blue swells, as spirals of brown-black smoke formed a bleak, sooty cloud over the liner. Finally, a young American sailor said to Daehne, “Isn’t war awful, sir?”
With the slight accent that had charmed many a female tourist in happier times, the German answered, “It’s the vorst there is!”
The scuttling cost the Columbus but two of her 557 men. The survivors were taken to the United States and, as “distressed mariners,” were freed.31
The President was not inclined to have the work of the Neutrality