I’m working on a book list of Chilean must-reads and came up with this one: https://read.rifflebooks.com/list/share/21695 But this reminded me that I better delve into some myth, too!

Should prove very interesting.

The {Providence} Evening Tribune
17 August 1915
p. 16

Thrilling Story of Shelling and Torpedoing of Iberian by German Submarine

Dr. Patrick Burns, Ship’s Doctor on the Steamer, Reached His Home in This City Last Night, Tells Stirring Tale of Escape of Capt. Jago, the Chief Engineer and Himself from Shell Fire, the Torpedo and Angry Waters of the Ocean.

Dr. Patrick S. Burns, who enjoys the distinction of being the only American subject who has set his foot on the destructive German submarine U-58 {actually the U-28 commanded by Georg-Günther von Forstner}, and who when the Iberian was sunk July 30 narrowly escaped with his life and was adrift on the ocean over eight hours until his boat was picked up by H.M.S. Sunflower, arrived at his home, 260 Smith street, early last evening. Dr. Burns was the ship’s doctor on board the Iberian when the ship was sunk by the submarine 150 miles off the Irish coast and 70 miles south of Fastnet. The escape of Capt. Jago, the Chief Engineer, and Dr. Burns, first from shell fire, second from a torpedo, and third from the angry waters of the Atlantic Ocean, furnishes a thrilling narrative.

Dr. Burns is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Burns of 177 Holden street, who have been residents of Capital Hill for 50 years. His early education was secured in St. patrick’s parochial school and the grammar and high schools of Providence. He then went to New York, graduating from the College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1912, served an intern at Bellevue Hospital, New York, Lying-in-Hospital and Boston City Hospital, after which he went aborad to study at the University of Berlin. He was there one year when war was declared and he came home with 20 other Americans. He has since been connected with the Cunard, White Star and Leyland steamship lines.

Dr. Burns told the following story of his experiences:

Ready for Emergency

The steamship Iberian sailed from LIverpool on July 30, 1915, at 6 a.m., outward bound for Boston, U.S.A., in command of Capt. T. B. Jago and Pilot Little of Liverpool. On reaching the Bar lightship, which is 14 miles out, the Iberian was stopped – this being the pilot’s limit. The voyage of the Iberian then began. Capt. Jago immediately ordered all lifeboats, six on each side, having a seating capacity of 40 persons each, lowered over the side and hanging from the boat davita, ready for any emergency that might arise. The roll call was then sounded, all of the crew answering to their names and handed badges, which were numbered and each one assigned to his boat, with instructions what to do in case of being torpedoed by a submarine.

“The day was beautiful and the sea very calm and silky. The Iberian was making 14 knots per hour. Every available man was in the stoke hole and fire room, feeding the furnaces with fuel so that she could go at her topmost speed. At 6 p.m., Capt,. Jago doubled the lookout from the crow’s nest both fore and aft, and distributed small candles for each of the staterooms, as the electric light was to be shut off, which is customary on all vessels passing through the danger zone. All portholes were blanketed so that not even the light from the candles could be distinguished. There was no one on board who thought about retiring the first night. Those who were not up and around on the deck ina ll probability were engaged in their dearest friend, the life preserver, in their staterooms, ready at the first signal to combat the inevitable to save their lives.

“The first day and night passed away without sighting any hostile objects, and everyone felt quite jubilant the next morning, but we still realized the danger zone was 24 hours in front of us, and the same vigilance was maintained as to the day previous.

Shots from Sub

“At about 3 p.m. I was summoned by the captain to go down to the engine room, as one of the men had fallen (col. 2) and became unconscious. After arriving and looking over the patient, I found he had taken a fit, and in a falling he lacerated his scalp. I ordered his removal to the upper deck, which was done immediately. I then crossed my surgical laboratory to procure bandages and medicine with which to treat the patient, and in passing the starboard side of the Iberian I heard a whizzing and loud report of a shot that fell about 100 yards astern, and in turning round I could make out a submarine about five miles away, coming at full speed toward us. We were then 150 miles off the Irish coast and 70 miles south of the Fastnet. This was the first intimation that we were to be made a target by the german submarines. Capt. jago decided then to race the ship for all she was worth. The engine room staff at once received orders from the bridge to put on full steam and if possible to escape, as on our previous voyage we encountered a submarine eight miles away, and managed to escape.

“But notwithstanding our best efforts the submarine began to overhaul, firing six shots. While so doing, one came right over the bridge, within yards of where I was standing, exploding and falling among the crew, six of whom were killed outright, three having their heads blown off. The S.O.S. signal was then sent out by Marconi wireless operator, giving our longitude and latitude, and asking for immediate assistance. Very soon after, another shot disabled the aerial and it became useless. It was apparent then that continued effort to escape was useless, and the ship was stopped. One long and two short whistles were sounded, which was the signal for the crew to man the boats that were hanging over the side. The submarine was then within a mile of us, and we expected at any moment to be blown to pieces. I, then, with Capt. jago and Chief Engineer Frank Ross, went below and ordered some of the crew to bring the wounded up, and the more seriously injured were placed in my boat, which was No 3. It was with great difficulty that we lowered them over the side. The remaining six that were killed outright, on my advice were left on the doomed vessel. Capt. Jago, myself and the Chief Engineer were the last to leave the vessel, coming down a rope ladder after the boat was lowered into the water. All boats then pulled away from the Iberian.

Torpedoed after Desertion

“The German commander hailed my boat, which was the nearest to the submarine and contained the captain, chief engineer, chief steward, eight wounded and ten of the crew besides myself. We were pulling away, when the commander of the submarine motioned us to go to the right, and when about 50 yards away we could see the torpedo travelling towards the Iberian, passing very close to our boats leaving a white sea foam behind. Immediately after the Iberian was struck by the torpedo amidships, she began to list to port side, and in twenty minutes not a vestige of her was to be seen, sinking stern first. The concussion and explosion was so great that it rocked our boats just like eggshells. I was thrown against the side of my boat and broke the crystal of my watch, which was presented to me by my class in college on graduation. It stopped very soon thereafter.

“After torpedoing the Iberian, the submarine commander threw a line over to my boat, which was the nearest. I caught the line and was pulled up alongside. The submarine numbered U-68, in large white letters – I would say about 10 inches long and two inches wide – and from observation she carried a crew of from 45 to 50 men, all of whom were around on deck and in the conning tower, and each heavily armed with a revolver. This submarine was painted a sea foam, white and a dark green, as a protective color, and armed with two large disappearing guns both fore and aft, and I would estimate the length of the submarine at about 300 feet and of the latest type, as everything about her seemed practically new.

“Did Not Mean to Kill Anyone.”

The commander of the submarine, after my boat was pulled alongside, asked the name of the boat, where bound, tonnage, etc., which he made note of, then turning towards me he asked how many were killed. I replied (col 3) that six were killed, three of whom had their heads blown off. His reply was that he was sorry and that he {sic} not mean to kill anyone. The turning to Capt. Jago, who was at the rudder of my boat, he said, ‘Why did you not stop when the first shot was fired?’ To this, Capt. jago replied: “I stopped as soon as I could.’ The German commander seemed somewhat vexed by this reply and said to Capt. jago: ‘You lie, you liar! You tried to escape!’

Boarded By Submarine

“The I asked the German commander for some bandages and cotton to dress the wounded, as I had no time to procure them before the Iberian was sunk. His reply was: ‘Yes. I will give you some,’ and he told me to step out of my boat to the deck of the submarine, at the same time sending one of his men below for bandages and cotton. After the ailor returned, the commander handed me the bandages and cotton, telling me to do the best I could and that he was sorry. He could talk the English language fluently, but with a German accent. I then stepped back into my boat and the German commander’s final question was. ‘Did you send any messages for help?’ – to which Capt. Jago replied that the wireless was disabled by shell fire and he was unable to send any. The submarine then steamed away towards where the Iberian sunk, leaving us to our fate. We could see the men on her very plainly for one hour afterwards, scanning the seas with telescopes for fresh victims.

“We then started rowing our boats to the north, as each lifeboat was fitted with a compass, by which we could guide ourselves. It was then about 5 p.m., and after using up the biggest part of the bandages and cotton on the wounded, that the German commander gave me, and making as comfortable as possible under the existing circumstances, I then relieved one of the sailors at the oars. We kept on rowing until {?} p.m., when everybody was pretty well exhausted. It started to rain heavily and in a short time we were all drenched to the skin. We drifted about for half an hour, to regain some of our lost strength, after which we resumed rowing again. All six boats kept within speaking distance. The sea was beginning to get rough and choppy and the boats were in danger of being swamped. The night was pitch dark and the fog was getting thicker. We kept burning red dash signals to locate each other.

Rescued at Last

“When about midnight we sighted a large vessel astern, about five miles away. We then sent up rockets in distress, which were taken up and responded to by the vessel. Then in about one hour afterwards she steamed up to within 50 yards of our boats and it was with great difficulty that we were rescued from what seemed to be certain death. My boat, which was No. 3, was the last one to be picked up. We rowed for one-half hour trying to come alongside the rescue ship and finally succeeded. The wounded were taken aboard and our boats turned adrift. It was then 1 a.m., and I found whom when boarding the vessel it was one of the British battleships, called the Sunflower. We were given some hot coffee and biscuits, after which my attention was given to the wounded; the battleship steaming for Queenstown and arriving there at 7 o’clock Saturday morning.

Attended the Wounded

“My first patient was Ralph Wiley, whom I had previously known and treated while acting as intern at a Boston hospital. He sustained many bodily injuries from the shell fire and was in such a weak condition that in spite of all aid he died on the battleship within half an hour from shock. My next patient was the cook of the Iberian, who had sustained a compound fracture of the right leg and left arm, also a fracture of the clavicle and minor injuries from shell fire. Patient No. 3 was John Proudfoot, the fireman, with a fracture of both bones of the forearm and minor injuries over the entire body from shell fire. He died on the battleship at 8 a.m. The other five were injured from shell fire, and after making them comfortable as possible by opiates, etc., I was about exhausted and covered with blood from head to foot. When we arrived in Queenstown at 7 a. m. Saturday morning, ambulances were ready and the wounded were conveyed to the hospital. Upon arrival we were taken to the Queen’s Hotel, where clothes and refreshments were served and cable messages sent broadcast to notify our kin of our rescue and safe arrival.

“While in Queenstown at my hotel I was interviewed by the American Consul, Mr. Frost, and his secretary, who were ready to aid me or any Americans who were in distress, and while talking to the American council the chief of politics and coroner of Queenstown came in and asked me if I would be kind enough to go with him to the Town hall and identify the dead – which I did – accompanied by the American Consul, who asked me how many Americans were killed, as the State Department in Washington had just cabled for the number of killed and wounded. I told him one American – Mark Wiley of Boston, Mass. The coroner then showed me a body, which was close by Mark Wiley’s, on a marble slab, encased in a life belt labeled ‘Lusitania’ which was washed ashore the day previous. Mark Wiley, the American citizen, was buried the next day. The following day, all survivors left Queenstown for Liverpool. I went to a hotel to recuperate for a few days, after which I sailed on the Bostonian for Boston, arriving to-day Aug. 16.

“I managed to retain part of the bandages given to me by the German submarine commander as a memento; and also a suitcase containing a sod of turf and a piece of stone from my father’s house in Roscommon, Ire. where he was born – it being my first visit to Ireland.