That thought may have been on his mind on May 1, 1915, when he boarded the British luxury liner RMS Lusitania, which was bound for Liverpool, England. He was traveling to attend a meeting of the International Horse Breeders’ Association. After boarding, he showed a friend a strange telegram he received from someone he did not know. The mysterious telegram said only, “The Lusitania is doomed, do not sail on her.”
Alfred Vanderbilt was the great-grandson of Cornelius Vanderbilt (1843-1899), the shipping and rail magnate who built one of the greatest business empires the world has ever known. After graduating from Yale University in 1899, Alfred and some friends set out on a two-year trip around the world. While in Japan, a few months into the trip, Alfred had to return home when he learned that his father, Cornelius Vanderbilt II, had died. Alfred’s father left him $40 million dollars and control of the family’s businesses, including the railroading empire. Alfred was just shy of his 22nd birthday, and one of the richest men in America.
The notice of the Lusitania’s departure and ports of call were published by the Cunard Line, owner of the Lusitania, in the New York World newspaper on the day of her departure. Right next to the notice in The World was a warning published by the German government stating, “Vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or of any of her allies, are liable to destruction.” The same notice appeared in 49 other newspapers.
The threat of an attack at sea by the German Navy was generally known among the passengers, some having read the notice. Only two passengers were believed to have cancelled because of it. After all, many reasoned, why would the Germans attack a passenger liner?
The Germans chafed under a British naval blockade of their coast that seriously restricted their own re-supply efforts and eroded their offensive capabilities. The German people, as well as her military, faced a shortage of supplies, including food. Vast quantities of supplies for the Allied war effort, including munitions, poured from factories in the United States, en route to England. Luxury liners plied the waters of Atlantic commerce, unimpeded in their prosperous enterprises—and the Germans were certain that they too carried munitions and supplies for the Allies. The German government determined that this situation could not be tolerated.
Though unable to stop the Allies from blockading their coast, the Germans did have one way to effectively fight this battle at sea—their submarines or “U-boats.” The Germans declared the coastal areas around the United Kingdom and Ireland to be a war zone, warning that any ship entering the zone was vulnerable to attack. Like the response to the newspaper notices, those who booked passage to the British Isles did not appear to be seriously concerned about the threat.
The German submarine U-20 had been on patrol for over a week with the mission of attacking British shipping. By May 5, U-20 had entered the Irish Sea south of Ireland and was operating in St. George’s Channel where a large number of British, American and European commercial ships routinely navigated. By the 6th, U-20 had sunk three British ships, and the British naval command issued several warnings to shipping, including the Lusitania, about the German submarine threat. These warnings were sporadic and the messaging was complicated by lack of coordination and confusion over the use of communication codes. In any event why the Lusitania, or any other ship for that matter, was allowed to navigate an area where within the past two days three ships had been torpedoed. For reasons that are still debated, the British Navy did not clearly warn the Lusitania or send destroyers to intercept U-20.
U-20’s commander was Walther Schweiger, an experienced submariner, who grew up in a well-respected family from Berlin. He had served on submarines for most of his naval career. On May 7, U-20 had only three torpedoes left and was low on fuel. Schweiger had decided to head back toward U-20’s home port when he received a message from the watch that a large ship had been spotted. The Lusitania, on the last leg of its voyage to Liverpool, was in U-20’s sights. Schweiger ordered U-20 to move in for the kill.
The Lusitania did not spot U-20, but was moving out of reach of U-20’s torpedo range as the submarine approached. Lusitania then made an unexpected turn, bringing the magnificent luxury liner almost perfectly in line with U-20’s firing position.
At 2 p.m., Seaman Leslie Morton assumed the watch on Lusitania. Ten minutes later, he spotted torpedoes in the water and sounded the alarm. Crew members were sorting baggage in anticipation of the arrival in Liverpool. It was a beautiful afternoon, the waters were calm, and many of the passengers were out on the deck enjoying the weather when they were suddenly jolted by the impact of a torpedo, followed closely by a secondary explosion. The great ship lost power and the lights inside the ship went out. Watertight bulkhead doors that were designed to limit damage had no power to open and passageways were blocked, trapping passengers and crew in a sepulcher of steel. Schweiger’s diary recounted the events:
“Clear bow shot at 700 [meters] . . . Shot struck starboard side close behind the bridge. An extraordinarily heavy detonation followed, with a very large cloud of smoke (far above the front funnel). A second explosion must have followed that of the torpedo (boiler or coal or powder?). . . . The ship stopped immediately and quickly listed sharply to starboard, sinking deeper by the head at the same time. It appeared as if it would capsize in a short time. Great confusion arose on the ship; some of the boats were swung clear and lowered into the water. …Many people must have lost their heads; several boats loaded with people rushed downward, struck the water bow or stern first and filled at once. …[A]t the bow the name “Lusitania” in golden letters was visible.
Attempts to get the 48 lifeboats safely over the side were thwarted by the severe listing of the ship and the speed at which it was sinking. Mayhem ruled. Only six life boats were safely lowered into the water.
Alfred Vanderbilt was fortunate enough to be on the side of the ship where life boats could be lowered into the water, and he had his life jacket on. As he helped others into the life boats, Alfred came upon a young mother and her infant who had no life jackets. He immediately promised to find her one, but in the chaos, and running out of time, another life jacket could not be found. Without hesitation, Alfred returned to the terrified woman, removed his own life jacket and tied it on the grateful mother as she held her child in her arms. It took 18 minutes for the Lusitania to sink, taking Alfred Vanderbilt, age 37, down with her—and Alfred could not swim.