Hydrogen Peroxide Submarines
27 Friday Mar 2009
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Monthly Archives: March 2009
HIJRA AND TRUCE
27 Friday Mar 2009
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The greatest extent of the Toucouleur Empire at the time of El Hadj Umar Tall’s death in 1864.
Umar’s army lost 2,000 of its best troops in the failed siege. “I told you that you could not defeat the cannon”, the khalifa is said to have reminded his talaba. Worse, the failure to take Médine was a major blow to Umar’s prestige throughout the Senegal region. A new strategy was urgently needed.
Umar could not afford another confrontation like Médine . . . nor [could he] force the French back into the old dhimmi mould. He could, however, preach the corruption of association and dependence on European power by adding the weapon of hijra to the arsenal of jihad. Hijra was the holy act of removal from opposition and pollution which Muhammad had inaugurated in AD 622 as he went from Mecca to Medina.
Umar began appealing to Muslims in Futa Toro and other parts of western Senegal to leave their “polluted” homelands and join him in building a new, more godly state in the east. Observers at the time, including Faidherbe, saw this appeal as a threat to the future of the French colony. The French authorities were keenly aware of their dependence upon the largely Muslim population of Senegal. Already, significant numbers of peasants, artisans, and workers had gone east to fight for Umar. It is estimated that about 20 per cent of the population of Futa Toro decamped permanently for the east during the decade of the jihad.
Fearful of the impact of the call to hijra on his Muslim subjects and eager to get down to the business of consolidating his hold over western Senegal, Faidherbe proved receptive to Tukolor feelers for peace talks in 1860. For his part, Umar was weary of the seemingly endless warfare on two fronts, against the French in the west and the restless subjects of his jihad empire, the Bambara peoples of the newly-conquered states of Kaarta and Segu, in the east. On 10 September 1860 a treaty of peace was signed between Umar and Faidherbe at Médine. The settlement drew a boundary line between the French and Tukolor empires along the course of the Upper Senegal and Bafing rivers, and thus put an end to hostilities between the two sides for the next two decades.
In 1863 Faidherbe dispatched a delegation headed by a young naval officer, Abdon- Eugène Mage, to negotiate a new treaty with al-Hajj Umar that would permit French commercial penetration of the region between the Senegal and Niger rivers. Although the khalifa died before Mage could reach him, the French envoy, after being held a virtual prisoner for nearly two years, was finally able to negotiate a pact with Umar’s son.
THE SIEGE OF MÉDINE
27 Friday Mar 2009
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Eugene Mage‘s view of the lifting of the siege of Fort du Médine, from Voyage dans le Soudan occidental (1868).
Meanwhile, the jihad army had fared less well against its French opponents. Although the Tukolors won the odd skirmish against Faidherbe’s troops, most of the battles ended in French victories. “By all accounts al-Hajj Umar’s troops fought valiantly” against the French, a recent scholar has written,
But in the pitched battles their formations quickly broke up into formless frontal assaults, carried out with great impetus, but helter-skelter, and, more often than not, across open ground. They offered rewarding targets to the French-officered African regulars, in their tight squares and with their measured fire control. The drenching volleys usually saturated the attack before the jihadists with their inadequate weapons could get within killing range.
Firepower and fire control, however, were not the ultimate reasons for the French triumph over the Tukolors. What really determined the outcome of the Franco-Tukolor wars was the greater mobility of the French, the factor which had won Algeria for Bugeaud and the Armée d’Afrique. This was dramatically illustrated in the famous siege of the French fortress of Médine related below.
The object of Franco-Tukolor conflict during the Médine campaign was access to the strategic Futa Toro region, Umar’s native turf and the source of much of his support. Although the khalifa was prepared to concede physical control of the region to the French, it remained crucial to him as a source of soldiers for his jihad, and he continued to visit it on recruiting drives. The French, in turn, saw Umar’s jihadist agitation in the area as a threat to order and security in the whole western Senegal region, and naturally took steps to restrict his access. In 1855 Faidherbe personally oversaw the construction of a fort at Médine, on a bluff above the farthest navigable point of the Senegal River and astride Umar’s easiest line of communication with Futa Toro. The fortress also served as a rallying point for the Khassonké, the people of the surrounding kingdom of Khasso, part of whom were in revolt against the Tukolors, their nominal overlords. In 1857, urged on by his talaba and apparently against his better judgment, Umar ordered an assault on Médine. The ensuing siege has enjoyed a reputation as one of the epic battles in French colonial and Tukolor history.
From mid-April to mid-July 1857 some 15,000 Tukolors besieged the fort and its outlying walled village. Although the defenders numbered some 10,000, only about 1,000 of them were able-bodied men, of whom just 64 – including six French marine infantrymen and 40 African soldiers and sailors – had any military training. The rest were Khassonké women, children and old men. Nevertheless, strong in its bluff-top location and the cannon posted at each of its four corners, the fort withstood several massed assaults. The Tukolors, who, strangely, never brought their siege artillery into play, were unable to get close enough to the fort to place scaling ladders against the walls. By early July, however, the defenders were running low on food and ammunition. Fearing the worst, the fort’s commander, a mulatto merchant and militia captain from St. Louis named Paul Holle, had a huge banner hung over the fortress gate inscribed with the words, “Long live Jesus! Long live the Emperor! Conquer or die for God and our Emperor!”
But help was on the way, in the person of no less a figure than Louis Faidherbe, the governor himself. With 500 men crammed into two armed steamboats, he left St. Louis on 5 July and ten days later was approaching Médine, when his flotilla touched bottom in the river. The resourceful Faidherbe disembarked his troops in order to refloat the steamboats, then marched overland in time to join the boats in attacking the Tukolor host outside Médine. A cannonade from the steamboats and a bayonet charge by Faidherbe’s men scattered the enemy. And not a moment too soon. When rescue came, Paul Holle and his defending force were down to their last artillery round and were contemplating blowing themselves up in the powder magazine.
The relief of Médine makes clear that the story of the French conquest of Senegal and ultimately of the Western Sudan is in large part the story of the effective use of naval power. This has not been sufficiently recognized. Nor has sufficient credit been given to the sailors, French but especially African, who manned the vessels on the Senegal and Niger rivers and, in so doing, made a contribution to the French military effort in West Africa as important as that of the much-touted African light infantry, the Tirailleurs Sénégalais. It was the armed steamers of the French navy’s river fleet that brought Faidherbe’s troops inland for lightning raids on enemy villages. And as was seen in the siege of Médine, without the river fleet and its ability to bring forward troops and supplies, the whole French strategy of projecting power into the interior through the onward march of forts would have been impossible.
TUKOLOR ARMY
27 Friday Mar 2009
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El Hadj Umar Tall, also Umar Tal,Umar Taal “Umar Futi”, al-Hajj Umar ibn Sa’id Tal, or el-Hadj Omar ibn Sa’id Tal, (ca. 1797 – 1864) was a Senegalese politician, Islamic scholar, and Toucouleur king who founded a brief empire encompassing much of what is now Guinea, Senegal, and Mali. Early in his career he preached and wrote against social injustices such as the Trans-Atlantic slave trade.
Umar’s jihad army had as its elite corps his close disciples, the talaba, who, in the great tradition of warfare in the Western and Central Sudan, served as mounted shock troops. These cavalrymen were frequently full members of the Tijani brotherhood and, as students of Umar, could boast some education, even if it was of a doctrinaire religious kind. The Tukolor infantry, meanwhile, was composed of volunteers from Futa Toro and converted animists, known as sofas, and conscripted levies, called tuburru. Many of the latter had been forced to serve, and were liable to desert at the first opportunity. The sofas, in addition to bearing arms, functioned as servants to the talaba, setting up camp, cooking, and caring for the horses. Their loyalty was reinforced by the right to plunder the enemy alongside their talaba masters. The tuburru, on the other hand, were forbidden to take booty. Most of Umar’s soldiers were Tukolors from the Futa Toro, but there were also contingents drawn from other peoples in Senegal and from Guinea to the south, from Bornu and Sokoto in the Central Sudan and even from among the Arabs and Berbers of Mauritania.
The Tukolor army was reasonably well equipped with modern weapons. Generous monetary donations by the faithful, together with the early capture of the gold mines of the Bambuk region, made possible large purchases of muskets, powder and ball and some rifles and ammunition from English and French traders. The army also possessed four artillery pieces taken from the French. These were used to great effect in the capture of Segu and other cities in the Bambara kingdoms to the east. And, again like Abd el-Kader in Algeria, the khalifa employed his own gunsmiths to manufacture and repair weapons. Just how much of a help this was to his army remains open to conjecture. Says one writer:
No doubt this corps [of gunsmiths] could service flintlock muskets and supply locally made ball and powder. One wonders, however, how well they were able to cope with the miscellany of European rifles which the army also possessed. It is difficult to believe that al-Hajj Umar’s gunsmiths, without access to the proper workshop facilities required to repair precision weapons and to manufacture cartridge ammunition, can really have kept such weapons in service for any length of time.
During the era of al-Hajj Umar, in the 1850s and 1860s, the Tukolor army enjoyed a reputation as a formidable fighting force. No doubt some of this was due to the ability of the khalifa’s sofas and cavalry to manoeuvre in formation – the Tukolor army was one of very few West African indigenous fighting forces with this capacity as early as this in the century – but the real source of the army’s strength lay in the zeal of its soldiers. For the more devout in the ranks, war under Umar was an opportunity to spread the faith by crushing pagans and infidels. Others served loyally because they identified with the army’s Tijani leadership.
Common soldiers, for example, would have appreciated the more egalitarian outlook of the Tijaniyya order. Unlike other Sufi brotherhoods, such as the rival Qadiriyya, the Tijaniyya accepted all the faithful into membership, even women and slaves. Other soldiers might have welcomed the brotherhood’s anti-authoritarian tendencies. One of Umar’s favorite Sufi aphorisms concerned the inherent wickedness of kings. “The best of princes are those who repair to the learned,” he wrote early in his career, “but the worst of the learned are those who frequent princes . . . Men of learning are trusted by God’s Prophets so long as they do not mix with sultans; if they do so, they have betrayed them.”
Like Abd el-Kader in Algeria a decade earlier, al-Hajj Umar was a powerful charismatic figure, and it may well have been the fanatical devotion of his soldiers to his person that made the Tukolor army of his day such a potent fighting force. He had returned from his pilgrimage endowed by the master Sufis of his order with baraka, the blessing of God, and the gift of istikhara, “a formula of prayers [going back to the Prophet] which would always indicate to him the right line of action and lead him out of all difficulties”. His troops knew of these powers and believed that they would be invoked if necessary to save them from defeat in battle. Umar promised his followers that their deaths on the battlefield would ensure their entry into heaven. His description of paradise was a compelling one.
Its palaces are high, its light radiant, its rivers flowing, its bunches of fruit close at hand, its towers unbroken . . . Its buildings are of silver and gold. There is no clamor there, no illness. Even the pebbles are pearls and jewels. The rivers are of milk and honey . . . The palaces are of hollow pearl, towering seventy miles into the air, of green chrysolith of dazzling brilliance, of red ruby rising high.
No wonder Faidherbe could write of Umar’s warriors: “They charge our lines as if they are seeking martyrdom; it is clear they want to die.”
Nevertheless, despite the religious fervour which inspired it, there was considerable potential for disorder and indiscipline within the Tukolor army which only the charisma and prestige of its commander, al-Hajj Umar, seemed capable of holding in check. The tuburru as well as some sofas resented the preference shown to the talaba in matters of booty and positions of influence. The issue of booty was of critical importance, since loot was the only payment for service most of the soldiers ever received. In addition, “[m]any of the sofas were men of great personal courage and while some were brought into [Umar’s] counsel, others never received the distinction for which they had angled so hard”.
The army’s grumbling may simply have reflected social tensions within the evolving Tukolor state. As the later example of the Mahdist state in the Sudan will bear out, it is difficult to sustain the fervour and commitment of religious crusades for very long, especially when they triumph. Once the struggle ends, the movement finds itself confronted with the often more difficult challenges of governing. Koranic wisdom does not always provide adequate answers to these. Like Sudanese Mahdism once again, the Tukolor empire toward the end of Umar’s lifetime, but especially during that of his son and successor, Ahmadu Seku, evolved into a traditional hierarchical state. The old ruling class in the conquered lands gave way to a new one composed largely of al-Hajj Umar’s faithful talaba. Indeed, B.O. Oloruntimehin sees the whole Tukolor empirebuilding process as a gigantic exercise in social mobility, with the new clerical elite, the talaba, generally emerging as the winners.
This crisis of the maturing jihad state was complicated by the fact that the majority population, the defeated Bambara, by and large never reconciled themselves to their new masters or their religion. But even among Muslim subjects there was frequent tension. Many of these were followers of the Qadiriyya brotherhood, and resented the scorn directed their way by their new Tijani overlords. These divisions, which only grew sharper with time, naturally played into the hands of the French. Their ability to find allies among disgruntled subjects of the Tukolors was eventually instrumental in giving the French military control of the Senegalese interior and the Western Sudan.
Whatever tensions may have seethed in its ranks, the Tukolor army held together well enough to overrun the Bambara states of Kaarta and Segu between 1854 and 1858 and to go on to conquer the neighbouring Muslim kingdom of Masina. By 1864, Umar’s army stood on the banks of the Niger far to the north-east, engaged in battle for control of the great city of Timbuktu. Until Samori’s empire was forged later in the century, the Tukolor empire was the largest and most powerful state in the Western Sudan. At its greatest, it spread along the river Senegal and included the Niger river basin north-eastwards to Timbuktu. It covered the present area of the Republic of Mali (excepting the largely desert areas north of Timbuktu), the Moorish emirates which now form the southern part of the Islamic Republic of Mauritania, the Dinguiray province in the northern part of the Republic of Guinea and parts of modern Senegal.
FUTURE RESEARCH
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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The air campaign in the Falklands war has numerous unexplored areas. However, because of the huge obstacles blocking research, the field cannot be recommended to scholars. Unlike students of the periods up to World War II, no unpublished archival materials are available. Of the three armed services, the air force has been the most reluctant to grant scholars direct access to its personnel. It has partially compensated for this reticence by allowing the publication of narratives and interviews, but without the filter of an independent researcher.
For the near future, the most promising approach is to reconstruct the early history of the Argentine air force. No scholarly analysis of its history exists, so when the Argentine air force suddenly burst on the scene in 1982, there was no readily available perspective. Some archival materials are available to trace the birth of military aviation in Argentina and the development of a propeller-based air force. The transition to jet airplanes during the Juan Perón era (1946–1955) and the establishment of the air force as a service separate from the army await scholarly examination.
Once sources become available, military historians will be able to shed considerable light on the period from the fall of Perón in 1955 to the outbreak of the war in 1982. During those years, Argentina made the crucial decisions that shaped the military aviation that was available to face the British. A scholarly examination of the structure, functioning, and practices of the air force is sorely needed. The immediate prewar period from late 1981 to March 1982 was crucial. During those months, air force chief Basilio Lami Dozo knew that the military junta was planning to invade the islands but apparently did nothing to prepare the air force.
The whole issue of the leadership of Lami Dozo during the war remains a mystery. He has not satisfactorily explained his lack of action. Most notably, the plans and motivations behind the decisions made at the headquarters and air bases in Argentina remain unclear or largely unknown. The pilots and ground personnel have been willing to speak honestly about their successes and failures, but the administrators have kept silent about the key decisions. Many tactical and operational details also remain unclear; most glaringly, an exact operational inventory of the weapons, airplanes, and equipment of the air force is sorely needed.
THE EPIC CHARGE OF THE PERUVIAN MARITIME BRIGADE
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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Born in 1824 from a wealthy American businessman and a distinguished Peruvian lady, Captain Juan Fanning was a man of courage and honor who served in the Navy since he was 15 years old. Fanning learn from his father what patriotism was, for as his mentor gave up all his fortune for the American War of Independence, he too, gave his up his wealth and his life in defense of his country. Commander Fanning lead one of the most spectacular infantry charges in the War of the Pacific, in which 400 of his 600 men from the Guarnición de Marina, died. Below, a canvass by European artist Rudolph de Lisle, depicting the aftermath of the Miraflores Battle.
The Peruvian port of Callao, West of Lima, is well known for several reasons, among them, for being, as many other ports in the world, a land of hard working, sometimes rough and tough men. And those men are, without a doubt, perfect raw material for good soldiers, military diamonds that, properly polished, can become perfect jewels in times of war.
It was January 10th, 1880, and the war with Chile was fought in the South of the country by the army. The armed forces were small in number and more men were needed to fight. That day, President Nicolas de Pierola established, through a decree, a naval brigade whose main objective was to “provide the ships of the navy with able and talented men in the use of artillery and for actions of disembark”. Nine days later the Supreme Director asked Navy Commander Juan Fanning to organize the brigade among the sailors of Callao. It was called “Guarnicion de Marina”.
Fanning was the perfect choice for this task and indeed he did a very good job. The son of American businessman John Fanning, who contributed with his fortune to the U.S. war of independence, the young Juan, born in Lambayeque in 1824, joined the Peruvian Navy in 1844, receiving his first commission as junior officer of the warship Libertad. He fought as Corvette Captain during the 1866 war with Spain, and from April to September 1879 was posted in Arica, preparing the batteries that defended the port’s garrison.
During those days Peru had not organized its Marine Corps like the British or the Americans did, and the creation of the naval brigade may be, at one point, considered as the nearest effort. The “Guarnicion de Marina” was composed exclusively, by citizens of Callao –known as “Chalacos”- mainly sailors that protected the Peruvian ships and boats during the siege of Callao. Combat was nothing new for these men, for they participated in several nocturnal fights against Chilean torpedo boats, becoming, in a short but intense period of time, experienced veterans.
The brigade was organized in six companies. The basis was an old infantry column called “Constitucion”. It had a total of 524 men, from which 37 were officers. Their armament consisted in Chassepot rifles (1).
After their successful maritime and land campaigns the Chileans decided to capture Lima with the purpose of forcing the end of the war by means of a capitulation that will include the cession to Chile of Peru’s Southern provinces.
The city of Lima was founded by Spanish conqueror Francisco Pizarro in 1541, between the bank of the Rimac River and the Pacific Ocean. It was called the City of Kings in honor of the king and queen of Spain and because it was the capital of the Nueva Castilla government. During the republic, the city, the “Three times crowned villa”, known also as the “Pearl of the Pacific”, kept her beauty and importance as Peru’s cultural and economic center.
In November of 1880, Chile disembarked in the beaches of Curayacu, at Lurin, South of Lima, an expeditionary force composed of nearly 30,000 men and one and a half month later it undertook the march on the Peruvian capital. The regular Peruvian army no longer existed and the remains of the “First Army of the South” were reinforced with units of volunteers coming from diverse parts of the country. This way, the Peruvians congregated a contingent of almost 18,000 men to defend their capital (2).
More than half the men were civilians with just a basic training. Most of the officers had brevet military rank. Many soldiers were peasants from the Andean regions. The rest of the ranks were composed of professionals such as lawyers, doctors, engineers, as well as traders and businessmen. Students from the universities, blue-collar workers and artisans also joined the army in order to defend their sacred soil from the invaders.
On early January 15th, 1881, after the disastrous Battle of San Juan, the reserve battalions “Guarnicion de Marina”, “Guardia Chalaca” and “Celadores del Callao”, moved from the port into Miraflores, and were placed in the positions between the reducts number two and three, which protected Lima from the invasion. The Commander of that sector was army Colonel Andres Caceres, probably the best Peruvian soldier of his time.
That afternoon, the Chilean army attacked, and the so-called Battle of Miraflores started. The Chilean Division under Colonel Pedro Lagos was ordered to occupy the Peruvian positions at the reducts. The Aconcagua regiment, part of the Lagos force, fiercely charged against their objective. After one hour of fierce fighting, Colonel Caceres, who was very much aware that the best defense was to attack, ordered a counter-offensive, and the gallant Fanning marched with his brave men to contain the Chilean assault (3).
At three o’clock, Fanning, mounted on his white horse and sword in hand ordered the Chalacos to fix bayonets and charge. His mariners advanced against the enemy with great determination and courage. The attack was such that the Chilean battalions Aconcagua and Navales not only stopped their initial charge but also were forced to retreat. The proud Chilean officers ordered their men to remain in their positions and stand the Peruvian charge, but it was impossible. The soldiers run, hid or simply disbanded. In their desperation they abandoned four guns and put in risk the brigade Barcelo, whose right flank was almost surpassed by the Peruvians.
Famed Chilean author Benjamin Vicuña McKenna, who was a witness of the war, said that:
“It was never seen before and there are no words to describe the gallantry and determination of the Peruvians. Our enemies seemed like if they dropped from the clouds or as if they grew from the earth. Our bands played martial music and Colonel Lagos requested reinforces, which the Chilean high command start to send to him with desperation”.
In vain the Chilean officers ordered the troops to regroup. They simply did not obey. Gradually however the chaos ceased with the arrival of reinforcements from the regiments Valparaiso, Caupolican and Santiago. Once reorganized, the Chileans executed another assault and the Guardia Chalaca again was sent to contain them.
Fanning shouted to his men:
Go on! Go on! Guarnicion de Marina, go on!
And so, the brave naval officer and his Chalacos charged like demons with the bayonet.
The battle reached its peak. At about 17: 00 the novel Peruvian defenses started to withdraw, but not the Chalacos, who kept fighting until the shadows of the night, without receiving any support. And when there was no more ammunition left the knife and the bayonet remained as the only Peruvian weapons of the bloody fight.
And as the number of the Chileans increased the brave Chalacos, without other troops to back them began to fall, one by one, not giving, not asking for quarter. They remained there, in the field, fighting to the end, giving their last drop of blood, knowing that their fate was sealed.
From the 524 men of the “Guarnicion de Marina”, 400 of them died in combat. From its thirty-seven officers, twenty-three of them perished in action, among them Captain Manuel Pino Diaz, Lieutenant Guillermo Higginson and the Richardson brothers. One of the few officers that miraculously saved his live, though severely wounded, was the brigade’s deputy commander, Colonel Andres Suarez.
The Chileans had during the battles of San Juan and Miraflores more than 5,000 casualties, including 1,250 deaths. It is clear that the biggest percentage of those casualties was a result of the amazing charge performed by Fanning’s brave marines.
The rich, fancy and valiant Captain Fanning was also mortally wounded. Agonizing, he was sent in an ambulance to his home, downtown Lima. The next day, January the 16th, the 57 old naval officer died in the arms of his wife.
His last words were, “I am dying for my country!”
And he expired.
. . . .
(1) Fanning’s brigade would be incorporated into the First Army Corps under Colonel Caceres, which was composed of two divisions, reserve and artillery. The First Division was composed of the battalions Guardia Peruana, Cajamarca and 9 de Diciembre. The Second Division had the battalions Junin, Jauja, Lima, Canta, 28 de Julio, Piura, Zepita, Arica, Manco Capac, Ayacucho, Libres de Cajamarca and Columna de Guias. The reserve was composed of the batalion Artillería Volante, Guarnicion de Marina and Canta. The artillery had 2 Rodmans, 2 Parrots and 2 bronze guns. The Chief of Staff of the army was General Pedro Silva.
(2) All men between 16 and 60 years were called for arms.
(3) In this first charge the battalion Jauja supported the Guarnicion de Marina.
THE FIRST SUBMARINE – Peru
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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American readers are very much aware of the story of the CSS Hunley, the first submarine originally developed in an attempt to break the Union blockade of Charleston Harbor during the Civil War. The South already had had some success with semi-submersible crafts known as Davids. These steam-driven boats ran with their decks awash, each with just the turrets and a single smokestack protruding above the surface. In fact, one of the Davids was used in a successful attack on ships blockading Charleston Harbor, inflicting damage on the USS New Ironside on the night of October 5th 1863. However, the Hunley was one of the first workable submarines ever developed.
In 1864, the same year that the CSS Hunley attacked and sunk the USS Housatonic, a Peruvian citizen, Mr. Federico Blume (1831-1901), developed the design of the first submarine for the Peruvian Navy. Blume, a civilian engineer who participated in the construction of railroads in Peru, presented his idea after the Spanish Pacific squadron occupied the Chincha Islands (See chapter The War With Spain). His purpose was to create a device that could confront, with minimum risk, the powerful enemy fleet. The result was the “Toro Submarino” (Submarine Bull). It was a revolutionary design for the ships of those days. She could float and could dive by opening the seacock and filling the ballast tanks. It could also renew the air being submerged using the principle of the snorkel. The war with Spain however came to an end and the submarine was not built.
During the war with Chile, once again Blume decided to offer his services to the Navy, presenting an improved version of his 1864 submarine. The engineer started to work on his machine in June 1879, only two months after the declaration of the war, financing the project with his own resources. The work was carried out in secrecy during four months at a factory property of the northern railroad Piura-Paita. The submarine, a 48 feet long cylindrical ¼ inch thick iron boiler bound together by iron strips and rivets, could be operated manually by eight men, from a total crew of eleven, who, at the same, time could move the air fans and the water bomb. The ventilation tubes were made of brass and they could ascend and descend trough a special device. The ship also had gauges of internal pressure, depth and level of water in the tank of ballast.
On October 14th, 1879, Blume, together with his son and eight workers from the railroad, initiated in the seashores of the port of Paita the first tests on the submarine. The tests lasted almost 3 weeks, demonstrating that the submarine could reach a depth of 72 feet and a maximum speed of 4 knots. News about the amazing weapon reached Supreme Director Nicolas de Pierola, who became very enthusiast about the idea of using it against the Chileans, so preparations were made to show her capability to the authorities. The submarine was brought to Callao under the utmost secrecy hidden in the transport Limeña. In July 1880, under great expectation, the “Toro” made its first official submersion. Among the passengers was the Peruvian Minister of War. During those maneuvers, the submarine remained 30 minutes submerged without suffering any damage, which proved that it could be used as a reliable weapon. The Minister was very impressed. His report to the Government about the capabilities of the submarine was favorable and a decision was made to use it against Chilean warships (1).
The first task conferred upon the Toro was to advance at night towards one of the enemy battleships (Cochrane or Blanco Encalada), both anchoring at the shores of the San Lorenzo Island located few miles west of Callao, pulling two torpedoes. The submarine should deploy below one of the battleships and release the torpedoes, which, activated by a time device, would explode and sink the objective. However, when the Toro was preparing to attack, already under 36 feet of water, the Chileans, informed by their spies that the Peruvians had a “secret and powerful weapon”, moved their battleships to the South and the mission was aborted.
On January 16th, 1881, after the battle of Lima and at the brink of the occupation of the Peruvian capital, Blume´s submarine was sunk with the other ships of the Peruvian fleet to avoid capture by the enemy.
Peru was not only the first Latin American nation to develop a submarine. In 1911, it also bought the first submarines used in the region: The French-made Labeauf Class, “Ferre” and “Palacios” named after the heroes of the Huascar that died at the battle of Angamos.
. . . .
(1) This way the Peruvian Navy officially commissioned a submarine 20 years before the United States Navy commissioned its first unit, the USS Holland, or SS-1 on April 11, 1900. That submarine was equipped with an Otto-type gasoline engine for surface running and electric motors for submerged operations
THE SUBMARINE BULL
Above, a sketch of Federico Blume’s “El Toro Submarino”. The idea of Blume’s submarine was developed the same year that the CSS Hunley sunk the USS New Hampshire during the American Civil War. The sketch shown is an improved version of the original idea. During the official tests, the submarine remained 30 minutes below the surface, reached a depth of 72 feet and a speed of 4 knots.
ISLAMIC SHIPS AND SHIPBUILDING
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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A felucca is a traditional wooden sailing boat used in protected waters of the Red Sea and eastern Mediterranean including Malta, and particularly along the Nile in Egypt. Its rig consists of one or two lateen sails
The ship occupies a unique position in the Islamic tradition. The Qur’an counts it among the ayat (miracles) of God and devotes twenty-eight verses enumerating its benefits to mankind. The generic Arabic words for ‘‘ship’’ that appear invariably in the classical Arabic sources are markab (lit., a conveyance or riding vessel), safýna, and law (lit., a board or plank of wood); fulk (Ark), which is another term to denote a ship, is Qur’anic. It may be surmised that some of the variations are more linguistic than physical and that professional sailors and experienced sea travelers could appreciate the actual sailing characteristics of each type of vessel. A typical seagoing merchant vessel had to carry on board many anchors, appropriate hawsers and ropes, canvas and/or cotton sails, masts, oars, rudders, and draw bridges (for greater ease in embarking and debarking), in addition to nautical instruments, pilot books, and charts. Oversized vessels had to have service boats on board for the transport of goods to the quayside. Identical rules applied to ship sales and purchase contracts. Both parties to the contract had to specify the vessel’s tackle and navigational instruments in the bill of sale. When signing a contract to lease a specific vessel for the conveyance of cargo, shippers were most concerned with the seaworthiness of the ship, besides other considerations such as the freight tariff. Seaworthiness of a ship was associated with the equipment and amount and proficiency of the crew it was required to carry. The design, structure, condition, and equipment of the ship had to be suitable for carrying goods of a particular kind and bringing them safely to their destination. Meaning, it had to be technically able to encounter the ordinary perils of the voyage. Concerning the crew, bringing the carriage into completion required a lessor to recruit a competent master and professional complement to navigate the vessel under various circumstances; a ship that was powered by unskilled mariners could certainly be regarded as unseaworthy.
The office of Islamic muhtasib (market superintendent) supervised, among other duties, the construction of ships at the shipyard and carriage by sea. The muhtasib was helped by assistants called ‘urafa’ al-sina‘a (arsenals’ inspectors), whose main task was to insure the shipwrights’ observance of technical standards and prevent them from using inferior and inadequate raw materials. Exacting and thorough inspections were carried out to avoid human and financial losses. Whoever violated these regulations was punished. While the ship was still in the yard, a comprehensive technical inspection had to be carried out by the muhtasib (see Markets), the captain, and the ship’s scribe. Islamic law entitled sailors and lessees to not honor a leasing contract if a technical defect was discovered in the ship. The working hours of carpenters, including shipwrights, began late in the morning and ended before evening. Thus the inspection of commercial ships took place between sunrise and sunset, but not in the evening and prior to the loading processes. The amount of cargo the ship could properly carry was determined by the muhtasib. When the cargo was stowed and placed appropriately and the ship was ready to depart, an official examination to prevent overloading was requested by the muhtasib, or his representative, and the captain. The hisba manuals plainly state that ‘‘a ship can be freighted with cargo as long as the waterline (plimsoll) alongside the outer hull is visible.’’ Islamic law requires that each ship be marked with a load line to indicate how deeply the ship could legally be submerged. The waterline mark along the outer hull could not lie more than a certain depth below the surface of the water. The provision against overloading was intended to prevent not only sinking but also the overexertion of the rowers.
Types, dimensions, and technical constructions of ships varied in accordance with their purposes and bodies of waters they plied. Nukhayli counts more than 150 nautical crafts, including river crafts, coasters, and oceangoing and seagoing vessels that differed in their structures. Recent underwater archaeological excavations off the Palestinian, Turkish, and French coasts have shed further light on the Islamic technology of shipbuilding from the seventh century CE onward. Material and written evidence show that the length-to-beam ratios of a typical size of commercial vessel were usually 3:1 or 4:1, with a shallow keel and rounded hull; the wide beam relative to the length aimed to provide maximum storage for cargo. Shipwrights in the Islamic Mediterranean employed the skeletal-building method in all stages of the hull’s construction. All the frames were in place before the wales and upper side planks were added. At some point after side planking began, the open area between the bottom and sides was covered with an odd configuration of strakes, at least three of which did not run the full length of the hull. When planking was completed, they were caulked with a mixture of pitch or tar. After all the floor timbers were in place, the keelson was bolted between the frames and through the keel at irregular intervals with two-centimeterdiameter forelock bolts. Then stringers were added to the floor of the hold, on which a removable transverse ceiling was placed. Next came the side ceiling, clamps, and deck beams. The major difference in the construction techniques and methods between the Islamic Mediterranean and the eastern part of the empire is in reference to planking. The ship’s planks in the Red Sea and Indian Ocean were sewn together with ropes, while in the Mediterranean, iron nails were used. The lateen sail was a distinctive feature of the rig of Islamic ships in the Mediterranean.
The materials needed for shipbuilding were found within the Islamic domain. For instance, Egyptian shipwrights used different types of timber—lebek, acacia, fig, palm, and lotus, which were abundantly found in Egypt—in their arsenals. Later. and due to deforestation processes, cedar, pine, and other timbers were imported from Palestine, Lebanon, Asia Minor, and Europe. Furthermore, a closer look at the arsenals’ locations prove that beyond strategic considerations, they were situated near forests and areas rich in mining.
Further Reading
Baghdadý, ‘Abd al-Latif (557–629/1162–1231). Al-Ifada wa’l I‘tibar. Translated into English and edited by Kamal H. Zand et al. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1965.
Bass, George, and Frederic H. van Doornick. ‘‘An 11th Century Serc¸e Liman, Turkey.’’ The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology and Underwater Exploration 7, no. 2 (1978): 119–132.
Christides, Vassilios. ‘‘Byzantine Dromon and Arab Shini: The Development of the Average Byzantine and Arab Warships and the Problem of the Number and Function of the Oarsmen.’’ Tropis 3 (1995): 111–122.
———. ‘‘New Light on the Transmission of Chinese Naval Technology to the Mediterranean World: The Single Rudder.’’ In Intercultural Contacts in the Medieval Mediterranean, edited by Benjamin Arbel, 64–70. London: Frank Cass, 1996.
Constable, Olivia R. Trade and Traders in Muslim Spain: The Commercial Realignment of the Iberian Peninsula 900—1500. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994.
Delgado, Jorge L. El poder naval de Al-Andalus en la e´poca del Califato Omeya. Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1993.
Dickson, H.R.P. The Arab of the Desert. London, 1959.
Fahmy, Aly M. Muslim Naval Organisation in the Eastern Mediterranean from the Seventh to the Tenth Century A.D. Cairo: National Publication & Printing House, 1966.
Flecker, Michael. ‘‘A Ninth-Century A.D. Arab or Indian Shipwreck in Indonesia: First Evidence for Direct Trade with China.’’ World Archaeology 3, no. 32 (2001): 335–354.
Goitein, Shelomo D. A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, Economic Foundations. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967.
Hocker, Frederick M. ‘‘Late Roman, Byzantine, and Islamic Galleys and Fleets.’’ In The Age of the Galley: Mediterranean Oared Vessels since pre-Classical Times, edited by Robert Gardiner, 86–100. London: Naval Institute Press, 1995.
Hornell, James. ‘‘A Tentative Classification of Arab Sea Craft.’’ The Mariner’s Mirror 28, no. 1 (1942): 11–40.
Ibn ‘Abdun, Muhammad Ibn Ahmad al-Tujibi (12th century CE). Seville Musulmane au debut du XIIe Sie`cle. Traduit avec une introduction et des notes par: E. Le´vi- Provenc¸al. Paris, 1947.
Ibn Bassam al-Muhtasib, Muhammad Ibn Ahmad (d. 884/ 1479). Nihayat al-Rutba fý Talab al-Hisba. Baghdad: Matba‘at al-Ma‘arif, 1968.
Ibn al-Ukhuwwa, Muhammad Ibn Muhammad (648–729/ 1250–1329). Ma’alim al-Qurba fi Ahkam al-Hisba. Cairo: Al-Hay’a al-Misriyya al-‘Amma lil-Kitab, 1976.
Joncheray, M.J.P. ‘‘Le navire de Bataiguire.’’ Archeologia 85 (1975): 42–48.
Kahanov, Yaakov. ‘‘The Tantura B Shipwreck: Preliminary Hull Construction Report.’’ In Down the River to the Sea, edited by Jerzy Litwin, 151–154. Gdansk: Polish Maritime Museum, 2000.
Kaplan, Marion. ‘‘The History and Construction of the Dhow.’’ Available online at http://nabataea.net/ships. html, 2002.
Kindermann, H. ‘‘Safýna.’’ In The Encyclopaedia of Islam. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995, vol. 8, 808–809.
Kreutz, Barbara M. ‘‘Ships, Shipping and the Implications of Change in the Early Medieval Mediterranean.’’ Viator 7 (1976): 79–109.
Lichtenstadter, Ilse. ‘‘Origin and Interpretation of Some Qur’anic Symbols.’’ In Studi Orientaliststici in Onore di Giorgio Levi Della Vida. Roma: Instituto per l’Orient, 1956, vol. 2, 58–80.
Makrypoulias, Christos G. ‘‘Muslim Ships through Byzantine Eyes.’’ In Aspects of Arab Seafaring: An Attempt to fill in the Gaps on Maritime History. Ed. Yacoub Y. al-Hijji & Vassilios Christides. Athens, 2002: 179–190.
Manguin, Pierre-Yves. ‘‘Late Mediaeval Shipbuilding in Indian Ocean: A Reappraisal.’’ Moyen Orient and Oce´an Indien 2 (1985): 1–30.
Moreland, W.H. ‘‘The Ships of the Arabian Sea about A.D. 1500.’’ Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (1939): 63–74 and 173–192.
Nicolle, David. ‘‘Shipping in Islamic Art: Seventh through Sixteenth Century A.D.’’ The American Neptune 49 (1989): 168–197.
Nukhayli, Darwýsh. Al-Sufun al-Islamiyya ‘ala Huruf al-Mu‘jam. Alexandria: Alexandria University Press, 1974.
Pryor, John H. ‘‘From Dromon to Galea: Mediterranean Bireme Galleys A.D. 500–1300.’’ In The Age of the Galley: Mediterranean Oared Vessels since pre-Classical Times, edited by Robert Gardiner, 101–116. London: Naval Institute Press, 1995.
Rezq, ‘Assem M. ‘‘The Craftsmen of Muslim Egypt and Their Social and Military Rank during the Medieval Period.’’ Islamic Archaeological Studies 3 (1988): 3–31.
Saqati, Abu ‘Abd Allah Muhammad Ibn Abu Muhammad. Un manuel hispanique de Hisba (Adab al-Hisba). Ed. G. S. Colin and E. Le´vi-Provenc¸al. Paris: Librairie E. Leroux, 1931.
Shihab, Hasan S. Al-Marakib al-‘Arabiyya, Tarikhuha wa-Anwa‘uha. Kuwait, 1987.
Steffy, J. Richard. ‘‘The Reconstruction of the 11th Century Serc¸e Liman Vessel: A Preliminary Report.’’ The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology and Underwater Exploration 11, no. 1 (1982): 13–34.
Van Doornick, Frederick. ‘‘The Medieval Shipwreck at Serc¸e Limani: An Early 11th Century Fatimid-Byzantine Commercial Voyage.’’ Graeco-Arabica 4 (1991): 45–52.
Wachsmann, Shelley and Yaakov Kahanov. ‘‘Shipwreck Fall: The 1995 INA/CMS Joint Expedition to Tantura Lagoon, Israel.’’ TheINAQuarterly 24, no. 1 (1997): 3–18.
Yajima, Hikoichi. The Arab Dhow Trade in the Indian Ocean. Tokyo: Institute for the Study of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa, 1976.
Zayyat, Habib. ‘‘Mu‘jam al-Marakib wal-Sufun fi al-Islam.’’ Al-Mashriq 43 (1949): 321–364.
Desert Snapshots 1941-42 – Axis Forces II
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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Book Review: The Brusilov Offensive.
26 Thursday Mar 2009
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Timothy C. Dowling. The Brusilov Offensive. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008. xxv + 208 pp. Illustrations. $24.95 (cloth), ISBN 978-0-253-35130-2.
Reviewed by Jeffrey R. Smith (School of Social Sciences, Northwestern State University)
Published on H-German (March, 2009)
Commissioned by Susan R. Boettcher
Uncovering the “Unknown War”
For English-speaking audiences of the twentieth century, the history of the First World War has overwhelmingly been told from the perspective of the western front, with its traumas of trench warfare, military immobility, and the introduction of new technologies, all of which would have profound consequences in shaping the politics of postwar Europe. Equally significant but much less familiar to these audiences is the eastern front, the scene of a titanic conflict involving the old, powerful empires of the Romanovs, Hohenzollerns, and Habsburgs that ultimately resulted in the downfall (or complete collapse) of all these states, a Marxist revolution in Russia, and an anticipation of German racial imperialism in the East. It comes as no surprise, therefore, that in recent years several efforts have been made to flush out what Winston Churchill called the “unknown war.” The latest of these is Timothy C. Dowling’s frequently engaging book, which delineates the preparation, execution, and aftermath of Russia’s greatest military contribution to the Allied war effort. Launched in June 1916 and planned in conjunction with Somme offensive in the West, General Aleksei Brusilov’s campaigns were essentially responsible for ending the offensive capacity of the Austro-Hungarian military, the remnants of which would be placed under a German unified command for the remainder of the war. What therefore emerges from Dowling’s work is a partially rehabilitated picture of the Russian military effort against the Central Powers. Nevertheless, Dowling concludes, the mass casualties Russia experienced during the offensive did ultimately help “create the conditions for revolution within the Russian Imperial Army” (p. xv).
At the outbreak of World War I, Dowling argues, the Russian army was not of inferior quality to its German and Austrian counterparts in every respect, especially since the number of soldiers under arms was equal to the forces of the Central Powers combined. Additionally, he emphasizes, “it was the only army in Europe that met a first-class army in the field of battle” during its war with Japan in 1904-05, Russia’s defeat notwithstanding, and “when led well and vigorously, and adequately equipped at the most basic level, Russian units were at least the equal of either the German or Austro-Hungarian forces” (p. 13). Dowling also reminds the reader that, because of the Japanese war, more veterans occupied the ranks of the Russian army than of any other in Europe. The underlying problem for Russia vis-à-vis its wartime enemies, therefore, lay not in its soldiery but in its still antiquated command structure, a problem reflected especially in its substandard officer class, which was still drawn predominantly from the nobility and who acquired their rank more from “social prestige than of martial ardor” (p. 10). Dowling stresses further that many officers were not even educated. He thus correctly attributes Russia’s poor performance in the war’s first two years, culminating in the disastrous “Great Retreat” of 1915, which ultimately led to Germany’s occupation of most of Poland and the Baltic states, to its largely dysfunctional military leadership and its reliance on outmoded military tactics, such as corrupt staff officers who supplied units with only fixed bayonets to face German artillery, as well as the command’s misplaced confidence in Russia’s defensive fortifications.
Nonetheless, Russia’s experience of the Great Retreat brought about a significant restructuring and even modernization of the Russian army and its command hierarchy that ultimately made the successes of the 1916 offensives possible. By assuming personal command of the armed forces, for example, Nicholas II brought a new tone to Stavka and allowed a new breed of professional officers to attain more influential positions, Dowling argues. Among the important outcomes of this restructuring was the promotion of Brusilov, commander of the Eighth Army through 1915, to the command of the entire southwestern front and its four army divisions mobilized against Austria-Hungary. “In both background and outlook,” Dowling writes, “Brusilov embodied the qualities of the ‘new’ Russian army that began to take form in the spring months of 1916, led by ‘modest and sensible technicians’” who were, most importantly, “free of the class prejudices” of the old officer class (p. 37). Brusilov’s most significant innovation was to apply the so-called Joffre attack, a western front tactic that involved short, small-scale artillery bombardments of nearby enemy trenches in preparation for a forward assault, to the broad expanses of the eastern front, which previous Russian leaders believed was not conducive to such a strategy. Brusilov’s largely successful application of this approach underpinned the execution of his eponymous offensive against Austria-Hungary from June to December 1916.
Dowling then proceeds to devote the majority of his work to providing a detailed technical account of Brusilov’s 1916 campaigns on Russia’s southwestern front, thereby making his book a largely straightforward military history of the offensive. He does draw several significant conclusions regarding the far-reaching outcomes of the battles, however, and these may deserve greater consideration. Especially significant are the rather contradictory results of the Brusilov offensive, which Dowling isolates. For the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the offensive represented a military disaster that would ultimately contribute to the collapse of the Habsburg monarchy itself. Brusilov managed to inflict such high numbers of casualties on the Austrian forces (roughly two-thirds of the army) so rapidly that, by the end of 1916, its military had “for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist” (p. 173). Not only was the Austrian leadership forced to place its remaining military forces under German command for the rest of the war, but more importantly, the collapse of its military removed a major pillar of the monarchy’s support, jeopardizing the empire’s likelihood of surviving the war intact. Dowling thus successfully provides an important example of how the military situation on the eastern front ultimately contributed to revolutionary conditions throughout central Europe by 1918.
Dowling also emphasizes that, despite Brusilov’s ability to eliminate Austria-Hungary as a fighting force, the 1916 campaigns represented Russia’s final military contribution to the war as well as the “beginning of the end” for Russia itself (p. 160). The bottom line was that the Brusilov offensive caused approximately two million casualties for the Russian army, losses that would ultimately create revolutionary conditions within the military through the replacement of disaffected reservists “increasingly poisoned by propaganda,” according to one officer (p. 161). In addition, the unprecedented mobilization the Russian war effort demanded resulted in a massive increase in the size of Russia’s officer class between 1914 and 1917, and the majority of these new recruits came from non-noble families. The result, Dowling argues, was the significant diminishment of the “stabilizing influence of the aristocratic officer class” (p. 161). It is thus impossible to separate Russia’s descent into revolution from the ultimate outcome of the 1916 offensives, Dowling maintains. Unfortunately, he only devotes a few pages of his work to these very important conclusions, and readers would certainly benefit from a further investigation and elaboration of these issues. What is particularly striking is the apparent suggestion that the modernization of the Russian army after 1915 served to undermine the stability of the Russian imperial state, a paradox that would certainly seem to merit more in-depth examination. For English-speaking audiences in general, however, Dowling’s work represents a significant contribution to a critical theater of the First World War that is only beginning to receive the attention it merits.
