September 8th, 1916 — A bright, late-summer sun warmed the harbor at Newport, Rhode Island. Fishing boats bobbed lazily in the water, the American flag fluttered from the naval station mast, and the Atlantic breeze carried the sharp tang of salt and seaweed. It was a peaceful day—until the doors to Commander David Bagley’s office burst open.

“Sir!” a young ensign gasped, barely catching his breath. “A German U-boat has just entered the harbor!”

Bagley, a tall, composed figure with the etched lines of war-watching on his brow, stood up slowly. “A German submarine?” he repeated, voice tinged with disbelief. “Here?”

“U-boat U-53, sir. Docking now. The crew’s on deck.”

Within moments, Bagley had gathered a detachment of officers and a handful of Marines. The group marched briskly through the narrow cobbled streets of Newport toward the harbor. Already, a crowd of curious townsfolk had formed along the docks, pointing and murmuring in disbelief as the dark, shark-like shape of the U-boat loomed into full view.

There it was—slate-gray, sleek, foreign. The German Imperial Navy's U-53 had motored straight into an American harbor, brazen and proud, its crew standing at attention in clean uniforms. From the conning tower, a tall man descended, carrying himself with measured calm.

“Commander David Bagley,” Bagley said as he stepped forward, hand extended.

“Herr Kapitänleutnant Hans Rose,” the German officer replied with a warm, courteous nod. He took Bagley’s hand in a firm shake. His English, though accented, was polished. “I thank you for the warm welcome to your beautiful harbor.”

Bagley glanced at the submarine behind him, then at the growing crowd of onlookers and photographers. “You do realize, Commander Rose,” he said carefully, “that the United States is not involved in the war.”

“Of course,” Rose replied with a slight smile. “That is precisely why we have come.”

What followed was not confrontation but civility. Commander Rose extended an invitation, and Bagley, ever the professional, accepted. With a few officers in tow, he boarded U-53. The tour was brief but thorough: torpedo bays, officer’s quarters, engine room—all cramped and bristling with German precision.

Word of the submarine’s presence raced up the Eastern Seaboard. By the time Bagley had returned to deck from the hatch, a telegram from Washington had already arrived. The message was terse and unmistakable: Escort the German submarine out of Newport. Immediately.

Bagley found Rose on the deck of U-53 once more, the two men standing eye to eye beneath a setting sun that turned the waves to gold. Around them, the silhouettes of patrol boats began to appear on the horizon.

“It seems your stay has reached its end,” Bagley said.

Rose nodded, his face neutral but his eyes flashing with intelligence. “We never intended to stay long. I only wanted to pay a visit. To show... that we could.”

Bagley extended his hand again. “Safe travels, Commander.”

Rose gripped it firmly. “And may your country enjoy peace a little while longer.”

The two men stood for a final moment—representatives of nations not yet at war, bridged for a fleeting moment by respect and protocol. Then, as the patrol boats edged closer, the mooring lines were cast off, and U-53 slipped away from the dock like a shadow, heading for international waters.

The crowd at the harbor watched in silence as the submarine vanished into the gathering dusk.

In 1917, Germany’s policy of unrestricted submarine warfare made the waters around the British Isles perilous. U-boats sank ships—neutral or not—hoping to cut Britain’s lifelines. American ships were among the casualties, prompting President Woodrow Wilson to seek a declaration of war. On April 6, 1917, the United States entered World War I.

Among the first U.S. destroyers sent overseas was USS Jacob Jones (DD-61), commanded by Lieutenant Commander David W. Bagley. Departing Boston on May 7, she arrived in Queenstown, Ireland, on May 17. Her mission: escort convoys and patrol the U-boat-infested Irish Sea.

Jacob Jones soon proved her effectiveness. On July 8, she rescued 44 survivors from the British steamship Valetta, torpedoed by U-87. Two weeks later, while escorting Dafila, the ship was sunk by U-45 before Jones could counterattack. Even so, she saved 26 of the 28 crew.

The destroyer’s most dramatic moment came on October 19, while escorting a convoy of 20 steamers and 10 destroyers, including the armed cruiser Orama. U-62 surfaced and launched its last torpedo, sinking Orama. While USS Conyngham pursued the U-boat, Jacob Jones focused on rescue, pulling 309 survivors from the sea.

December 6, 1917 — the North Atlantic churned under gray skies as USS Jacob Jones (DD-61) sliced through icy swells alone, her silhouette trailing behind a convoy she had just helped escort to Brest, France. The sleek Tucker-class destroyer, commanded by Lieutenant Commander David W. Bagley, zigzagged through the danger zone on her return to Queenstown, Ireland—every turn a gamble, every wave hiding potential death.

Unknown to Bagley and his crew, beneath those rolling black seas stalked a ghost from the past: Kapitänleutnant Hans Rose, commander of U-53. Months earlier, the two had met not in battle but in civility—on the docks of Newport, Rhode Island, when Rose’s submarine had slipped into the harbor in an act of diplomatic defiance. They’d shaken hands, exchanged pleasantries, and parted without hostility. But now, fate had brought them together again—this time with warheads and steel, not handshakes.

At 16:20, near coordinates 49°23′N 6°13′W, a sharp cry rang out from Jacob Jones’s deck—“Torpedo starboard side!” Bagley reacted instantly, shouting orders—rudder hard left, full emergency speed! The engines roared, but it was too late. The white wake of the German torpedo closed the distance in seconds.

Impact. The torpedo struck the rudder with a shattering boom. Power blinked out. The ship groaned as she listed, her lifeblood spilling into the sea. Crippled and adrift, Jacob Jones couldn’t even radio for help—she was utterly alone.

Bagley, calm amid chaos, gave the final order: abandon ship. Lifeboats were flung into the sea as sailors scrambled to escape the doomed vessel. Within eight minutes, the destroyer’s bow rose skyward, pointing like a grave marker to the heavens. Then, with a terrible moan, she slipped beneath the Atlantic. But the worst was yet to come.

As she sank, armed depth charges strapped to her deck detonated, sending deadly shockwaves through the water. Men still aboard were lost instantly. Others, already struggling in the sea, were stunned or killed outright by the blasts.

The Jacob Jones was gone—the first American destroyer lost to enemy fire. The war had caught up with her.

The North Atlantic had gone strangely still in the aftermath. Bits of wreckage bobbed between the waves—splintered decking, a twisted lifebuoy, a lone duffel bag drifting aimlessly. All around, the lifeboats rocked in rhythm with the sea, filled with battered and shivering men. Some groaned in pain; others stared blankly into the distance, their faces drawn with salt and grief.

Commander David W. Bagley, soaked to the bone and wrapped in a ragged wool blanket, sat quietly in the stern of one of the lifeboats. The frigid air cut deep, but the silence cut deeper. His ship—his crew—was gone. The Jacob Jones, sleek and proud just hours earlier, now rested at the bottom of the Atlantic. Sixty-six of his men were dead. And the man who had struck the fatal blow… had just extended a hand of mercy.

On the horizon, barely visible through the gathering mist, the conning tower of U-53 pierced the waves one last time. The number 53, painted in stark white against dark steel, briefly gleamed in the dim afternoon light as the submarine turned broadside.

Then it slipped beneath the surface, the sea closing over it like a lid on a secret. No salute, no final shot—just a quiet, solemn retreat.

Bagley never took his eyes off it.

One of his surviving officers, face bruised and wrapped in gauze, leaned in. “Was that really… Rose?”

Bagley nodded slowly. “Yes. It was him.”

Reports would later suggest that Hans Rose, perhaps recognizing Bagley’s presence, had surfaced deliberately. He had taken a single American sailor aboard—one who could no longer survive exposure in the boats. He had even, according to several survivors, radioed the coordinates of the sinking to Queenstown before vanishing into the deep. The U.S. Navy officially denied receiving such a transmission. But among the men in the boats, the truth had a different weight.

Rose could have fled. He could have fired again. But he didn’t.

For Bagley, that silent act was not a victory or an absolution. It was a grim echo of an earlier time—when two naval officers met not as enemies, but as men.

“I shook his hand in Newport,” Bagley muttered, almost to himself. “And now… he’s taken my ship.”

He looked around at the faces of his surviving crew—exhausted, frostbitten, grieving.

“But not all my men.”