A Lusitania-Related Hoax

By

J.D. Wetton CGA

Mr Wetton is one of Britain's leading forensic handwriting and document analysts.

Whenever tragedies strike or maniacs stalk the streets, hoaxers - strange, unfathomable and generally anonymous individuals - stand ready to stake their claim to a few moments of notoriety. Because of such people, law enforcers cannot safely show ransom notes or threatening messages to the general public and ask for help. In 1888, a tidal wave of false messages swept through Britain after the Police displayed letters purportedly written by Jack The Ripper. Wags, trouble-makers and disturbed individuals gleefullly led the Police round in circles - spreading terror and masking the real criminal. Almost a century later, the infamous “Wearside Jack” hoaxed investigators in the same fashion by posing as The Yorkshire Ripper.

Though technology has moved on and sophisticated computer graphics allow pranksters to simulate all kinds of invented claims, the pen is still the favourite tool of many hoaxers. Let’s look at one relatively harmless deception from the past; it is the work of an amateur - perhaps a journalist who needed a story or somebody who added a little colour to an unexciting seaside vacation. You will undoubtedly be able to expand on my simple analysis and find even more reasons to ‘smell a rat’.

On May 7th, 1915, the grand ocean liner Lusitania was torpedoed within sight of the coast of Ireland and 1,198 people lost their lives in the calm, but cold waters of the Celtic Sea. Years later, somebody digging on an English beach found (or at least claimed to have found) a bottle buried in the sand. It contained a torn and soiled piece of paper which bore the name of the ship, the date of her sinking and a plea for help. At the time, the horrors of the Great War were still very fresh and painful; the notion of somebody deriving amusement from the Lusitania tragedy was considered quite unthinkable - the note was widely regarded as genuine and reproduced in the newspapers.

However, modern analysts would suspect the document’s authenticity for a number of reasons. For a start, the nature of the communication is not very practical; it could be argued that a terrified passenger might have been tempted to float a message ashore by the closeness of the Irish mainland - but time was not on the side of anybody who wished to try this ruse. The ship sank in 18 minutes and began to both roll over to one side and go down at the bow so swiftly that there was soon no doubt at all about her fate.

Also, clues within the handwriting itself contradict the writer’s storyline. If the person who created the note truly expected it to reach potential rescuers and promptly inspire effective help, wouldn’t it have made more sense to put the time of writing at the top of document? Instead, he or she has provided only the date of the attack - a date as meaningful to that particular generation as September 11th 2001 is for us.

The note has been composed in two halves. The ship’s name and the date have been penned significantly faster (and more spontaneously) than the second half which pleads for aid. The writer’s fast and fluent start is followed by a pause (can you see how the angle of the paper was altered?) and he or she returned to the task with a more calculating, less openly expressive style - note the way that the latter part of the note features either upright or left-slanted stroke formations (as opposed to the more freely forward-moving elements of the first section).

People who dash off frantic messages in moments of escalating danger tend to reflect the prevailing tensions of the current reality - yet this individual did the exact opposite and apparently became less reactive as the peril increased. All these basic observations add up to the suggestion that the note is, in all probability, a hoax.