Daniel Virgil Moore was born in Fremont, Nebraska, in the United States of America, on the 16th May 1879, the son of James and Mary J. Moore (née Dunn). His father was a farmer, and Daniel was the youngest of six children. His grandfather was a cousin of the great Irish poet, Thomas Moore (1779 – 1852).
He graduated from the Medical College of Creighton University, Omaha, Nebraska, and Columbus Hospital, New York, qualifying as a physician and surgeon. He practised in Yankton, South Dakota for many years prior to 1915.
In the spring of 1915, he decided to travel to England to offer his services as a doctor to the British War Office and as a result, he booked second cabin passage on the May sailing of the Lusitania from New York to Liverpool. Leaving Yankton by rail at the end of April, he joined the liner at her berth at Pier 54 in New York harbour on the morning of 1st May.
The liner’s sailing was delayed until the afternoon as she had to embark passengers, crew, and cargo from the Anchor Liner Cameronia, which had been requisitioned by the British Admiralty for war work at the end of April. She finally left the port just after mid-day and just six days later, on the afternoon of 7th May; she was torpedoed and sunk twelve miles off the coast of southern Ireland and only 250 miles away from her Liverpool home port destination. Having survived her sinking, Dr. Moore was rescued from the sea and landed at Queenstown, where he gave an account of his experiences to the press and this was published, amongst others, in The Brighton Gazette of May 1915. He stated: -
The first abnormal thing I noticed was a zig-zag swing of the 'Lusitania'. This occurred about one o'clock in the day. It attracted the attention of several of us and with the aid of glasses we observed in the distance some two and a half miles away what seemed to be a black object, with four apparently dome like projections. This object cruised swiftly at times, then slowed down, disappeared, and re-appeared. During all this time, the 'Lusitania' continued on an even course, at what I judged to be a speed of about 18 knots. During the voyage, when doing her best, she had made about 23 knots. The conclusion we came to was that the object we had espied was a submarine and that it was a friendly one, or otherwise the 'Lusitania' would not have gone back to an even course. At lunch, there was some discussion about the object we had seen, but everybody was calm and confident.
About five minutes to two, there was a muffled drum-like sound, coming from the direction of the bows, accompanied by a trembling motion of the ship. Immediately afterwards the 'Lusitania' began to list to starboard.
With such startling suddenness did it come that we felt the heavy list before we were able to make our way out of the saloon. There was a general exclamation by the women when the noise of the impact was heard, but the men present did everything they could to reassure them. The lady passengers were told that there was no danger, and that only a small mine had been struck. The soothing word addressed to the women-folk quietened down the tendency to panic.
As I reached 'D' deck I found myself in difficulties owing to the list which was at a very sharp angle. With other passengers I did my best to scramble to the promenade deck. There was no crushing and it was entirely owing to the tilt that one's progress was not easier. No boats were being launched on the starboard side. I helped a stewardess to adjust a lifebelt and tied one on myself.
On the promenade deck I noticed a woman clinging to the side. I dropped her eight feet into a boat and jumped overboard myself. As this boat was being lowered there was some hitch with the ropes, and it hung suspended in an almost perpendicular position until a young fellow found a hatchet. With a few strokes, he released it and it dropped into the water. Beside me was a young woman struggling for her life and I got her into the boat. A moment later I was able to render a man similar help. At this juncture, somebody shouted “For God's sake shore off or you will go down in the suction.” I got oars and in an almost despairing effort pushed off the boat into which I had scrambled. We drafted about 50 yards. The water was then lapping over the sides of the 'Lusitania', and I could see that she was filling very fast.
It was necessary to bail out our boat in the effort to keep her floating and I used my hat for the purpose. We did not seem to make much progress and I clearly realized that our frail craft was becoming rapidly submerged. Noticing a keg lying in the bottom of the boat I threw it out and flinging myself over the side I reached it and clung to it. Not very far off was a young steward supporting himself on a deck-chair. I urged him to let it go and cling to the keg with me. He did so and we both hung on to it. Not far away was a boat containing a number of passengers. It turned completely over and that was the last I saw of it.
After my companion and I had floated around with the keg for fully an hour and twenty minutes, we got to a raft on which was huddled a crowd of 25 persons, but they managed to take us on board. We selected a lighthouse as our objective and rowed desperately all taking turns at the oars.
At last we were cheered to see the patrol boat 'Brok' and we were taken on board. As the “Lusitania” dived beneath the waves I saw two or three persons jump from the topmost point of the stern. One of these was a woman. I heard no screaming but as the great liner took her final plunge, there struck upon my ear a long wailing despairing and beseeching cry.
The vessel described by Dr. Moore as the patrol boat ‘Brok’ was, in fact, the Royal Naval trawler H.M.S. Brock, and the young steward supporting himself on a deck-chair was Waiter Matt Freeman.
In the book The Tragedy of the Lusitania, written by Captain Frederick D. Ellis and published not long after the disaster, Dr Moore gave slightly different details of his experience: -
“We had been in sight of land for three hours,” Dr. Moore said. "About one o'clock, when we were still some twelve miles off the coast, I noticed the Lusitania was steering a zig-zag course.
I went below and got my glasses. Through them, off the port beam, I could make out an oblong black object with four domelike projections. I thought it was about two miles away.
Except £or those domes it might have been a whale. At times the thing would race along above the surface, then it would dive and disappear. Other passengers had noticed the object. We took it for a friendly submarine. There were no other vessels in sight except a couple of fishing boats.
At 1.40 o'clock, still mildly interested in our convoy, I sat down to luncheon in the second saloon. Twenty minutes later there was a muffled, drum-like noise forward and almost immediately the Lusitania began to list to the starboard.
We had been torpedoed, but most certainly, unless the submarine we saw had been speedy enough to run rings around us, the torpedo must have come from yet another vessel. I heard no second explosion.
Of course there was great excitement among the passengers. The women were soon quieted, however, by assurances that the Lusitania had probably struck a small mine. We all left the saloon in good order. On deck I had difficulty in walking, owing to the list. With most of the other passengers I ran to the promenade deck, which was crowded. Looking over the side, I could see no evidence of damage. I started to return to my cabin, but the list was so marked I gave up the idea and remained on deck. Later, looking over the starboard rail, I saw the water had climbed to within twelve feet of the deck at one point.
I went to look for a lifebelt and ran across a stewardess struggling with a pile of them in a rack. I helped her to put one on and took one for myself.
By this time the ship was almost on its side and sinking by the bow. I saw a woman clinging to the rail near where a boat was being lowered. I rushed her into the boat and jumped after her. It was a twelve foot drop. The boat was heavily loaded, and when it dropped into the water we were almost swamped. Although we kept an even keel water came over the gunwales faster than we could bail it out with our hats.
I realized that we would sink soon, so I threw a keg overboard and sprang after it. A young steward named Freeman also used the keg for a support. A full minute later we saw the boat swamped. After an hour and a half Freeman and I were picked up by a raft. There was a small boy aboard it with a broken thigh, and I did what I could for him. He kept asking if some one hadn't thought to bring a funny paper.
It is not known whether or not Dr. Moore ever carried out his intention to serve the war wounded, but it would appear unlikely as he suffered exposure and shock as a result of his immersion in the ocean which developed in to sinus infection, neuroses and cardiac distress. He required intense medical treatment for a period of eighteen months after his ordeal, and due to his nervous condition, he was unable to perform operations or practise as a physician for some considerable time.
Waiter Matt Freeman, having been landed at Queenstown, eventually got back to Liverpool and thence to his home in Southampton, Hampshire.
Dr. Moore later filed a claim for compensation with the Mixed Claims Commission which awarded him the sum of $10,000.00 for personal injuries, and a further $1,250.00 to compensate him for the loss of his personal belongings, which went down with the ship.
It is not known when he returned to the United States of America, but when he did, it was to Yankton, South Dakota. By 1925, he had moved to Sioux City, Iowa, where he remained for many years, in private practice.
He died on the 7th February 1953 in Manchester, Hartford, Connecticut, aged 73 years. He was interred in Sacred Heart Cemetery, Yankton, South Dakota.
1900 U.S. Federal Census, 1910 U.S. Federal Census, 1920 U.S. Federal Census, 1925 Iowa State Census, 1930 U.S. Federal Census, 1940 U.S. Federal Census, U.S. Passport Applications 1795 – 1925, New York Passenger Lists 1820 – 1957, Cunard Records, U.S. World War I Draft Registration Cards 1917 – 1918, U.S. World War II Draft Registration Cards 1942, Mixed Claims Commission Docket No. 265, Brighton Gazette, The Times, Tragedy of the Lusitania, PRO BT 100/345, Graham Maddocks, Stuart Williamson, Geoff Whitfield, Michael Poirier, Jim Kalafus, Cliff Barry, Paul Latimer, Norman Gray.
Copyright © Peter Kelly.