On the Bottom: The Raising of the Submarine S-51

by Edward Ellsberg

The first job was to clear the top of the submarine of radio antennae and other rigging in order to prevent the men from getting their air lines tangled up there.

  The S-51 sank with her radio mast up. From this point over the conning tower, the antenna extended to bow and stem; in addition, two heavy wire ropes ran from a ring in the stem up to a heavy A-frame over the bridge and then to another ring near the stern. These were the “clearing lines,” intended to form a guide so the submarine could slide through a net without catching her gun or conning tower in the meshes. To one of these clearing lines was secured a thickly insulated “loop antenna” for underwater radio communication.

  We removed these obstructions by cutting them with a special V-shaped knife attached to a line. Divers went down, hooked the V-bladed knife around the wires to be cut, lashed marline over the open side of the V to prevent the knife from slipping off, and then signaled us on the Falcon to heave on the line. A sharp pull on the Falcon’s winch, and the wire below, jammed into the notch of the V, was quickly severed. It took nearly an hour to secure the knife for each cut, and nearly two days to clear away all the rigging, but there was then no better way. About ten dives on this job and there were no more wires over the submarine’s deck. The divers secured a four-inch manila line to the rail aft and another one to the gun forward as guides or “descending lines.” These, brought aboard the Falcon at the surface, were to guide the divers down to the S-51. All was clear.

  IX

  IN THE ENGINE ROOM

  The first effort towards raising the S-51 was to seal up the undamaged compartments, and we decided to start on the engine room. Chief Torpedomen Frazer and Smith were selected for this job. I went with them aboard the S-50, where Lieutenant Commander Lenney, her captain, carefully explained to us what valves must be closed in that room to make it watertight. There were nearly thirty valves on voice tubes, oil lines, water lines, engine exhausts, and air inlets that had to be shut, many of them difficult to reach.

  Frazer rehearsed the work carefully on the S-50, starting at the after end of the engine room and closing the valves in succession as he came forward between the engines. The valves were of various kinds, from small one-half-inch drain valves to the huge twenty-four-inch air inlet valve which admitted air to the two Diesel engines. Several times Frazer went over the room, noting in detail the location of each valve, for on the S-51 he would have to find most of them by feeling around in the black water. At last he was letter perfect, he could locate all the valves in succession blindfolded. We returned to the Falcon; Smith and Frazer were dressed by the tenders.

  With a man on each side to assist, Frazer dragged his heavily weighted figure to the rail, where he stepped on the stage, grasping the steel bails to hold himself erect.

  “Up stage!” The winchman threw in his clutch, the stage rose till it cleared the rail. The boom swung over, the stage swung outboard, over the sea.

  “Down stage!” Slowly the stage dropped into the water, the sea rose over Frazer’s body, his helmet disappeared. A stream of bubbles broke the surface.

  “Hold stage!” Several feet below the surface we could see Frazer adjusting his air valves. I took his telephone receiver, adjusted it over my head.

  “All right, Jim?”

  “All right. Take me to the descending line.”

  Frazer stepped off the stage. Nothing below him now. We hoisted in the stage. The tenders dragged him, dangling by his airhose, about twenty feet along the Falcon’s side to where the after descending line went below. Frazer seized it, wrapped his legs about it, sang out:

  “Lower away!”

  His tender rapidly paid out the lifeline. Frazer disappeared. Swiftly the line went out. Fifty feet, a hundred feet, he must be nearly there. The airhose stopped running through the tender’s hands. I listened. A flat, strange voice came to me over the telephone:

  “On the bottom!”

  Frazer had landed on the submarine. We took Smith to the stage and hoisted him overboard also. Down he went, two streams of bubbles broke the surface of the sea. The line stopped running out. Once again came the report:

  “On the bottom!”

  On the deck of the submarine, Smith stood by the hatch to tend the lifelines while Frazer dropped through the opening into the engine room. He carried a powerful submarine lamp, but in the murky water inside the submarine it cast only a dim glow. While Smith paid out carefully on his lines, Frazer started slowly aft through the narrow passage between the engines. He passed between the first cylinders of the starboard and port Diesels, turned sideways to avoid catching his lines on the cams. Another step, some obstruction hit his helmet and blocked his passage. Swinging his light upward for a close look, Frazer saw it was the engineer officer of the S-51 clinging to the throttle of the port engine, his half-dressed body jammed between the hull and the overhead valve gear, his legs hanging down into the passageway and closing it. Frazer set his lamp on the engine, seized the body by both legs, and pulled vigorously but without success. The man had been jammed in hard by the rushing water. Frazer could waste no more time. Picking up his lamp, he pushed the legs to one side, ducked low to pass under, and continued his way aft till he came to the door leading into the motor room. Here he set his lamp down on the floor plates, and feeling on the bulkhead, found the voice tube valve there. He screwed down hard on the handwheel to make sure it was tightly closed, then moved forward to the valves in the engine exhaust pipes. The exhaust clapper valves were closed,—evidently in that last desperate minute the engineers had tried to secure the boat for submerging. Frazer closed the globe valves on the inside of the clappers, then moved on to the multitude of smaller valves. All went well, a steady stream of air bubbles from his helmet trickled through the hatch at Smith’s feet; Smith carefully took up the slack in Frazer’s air line as he worked forward, to avoid having any loose hose to catch inside; on the Falcon we tended carefully both Frazer’s lines and Smith’s and kept them properly taut. The minutes went by, no word came from either diver, but we refrained from bothering them by questioning. Frazer’s hour was nearly gone; in a few minutes we would signal him to start up.

  Inside the boat, Frazer came once more to the dead engineer, pushed aside his legs, crawled under him, and made another attempt to pull him free. He was stuck too hard. Frazer left him and stepped forward to the last valve on his list. This was the largest one, the twenty-four-inch main air induction to the two Diesel engines, located overhead just forward of the number one cylinders, where it admitted air to the engines, somewhat after the manner of a huge carburetor. The valve was operated by a lever through a set of links and bell cranks. The operating lever was far over to starboard, with its locking ratchet in the “Full Open” notch on the guide arc. Frazer released the ratchet, grasped the handle, and pushed it to port. The handle swung over the guide arc evenly, the valve moved downward towards its seat, and finally it stopped with a metallic ring. Frazer swung his lamp close to the arc to make sure the valve was closed. It was not. The handle had stopped at “¼ Open.” There were still three inches on the arc to go to the “Closed” notch. Frazer pushed again, but the handle moved only a fraction of an inch further.

  On the Falcon, the timekeeper moved over to the rail where I stood with the receiver from Frazer’s telephone over one ear.

  “Fifty minutes for Frazer and Smith.”

  Their time was up. I motioned to the tenders leaning over the rail. Four long jerks on Smith’s airhose; the tender waited; in a moment he felt four answering jerks from below. Smith had acknowledged the signal to get clear and stand by to come up. In turn Smith gave four jerks on Frazer’s line.

  Frazer acknowledged the same way. It was time to leave, but the last and most important valve was still open. Seizing the handle with both hands, Frazer pulled the valve wide open to get a good swing, then shoved the handle to port with all his might. Over his telephone I heard a sharp metallic ring. Frazer looked at the handle, it was still “¼ Open.” I heard Frazer swear, then in the
flat faraway tones of a man under pressure, he spoke for the first time since he went down.

  “Mr. Ellsberg, the main air induction valve won’t close!”

  I could hear Frazer turn off his air while he listened for instructions. They were brief, but each word was spoken slowly and distinctly.

  “Never mind. Time up. Come out.”

  And to make sure, once again we gave Smith the signal to stand by to come up.

  Frazer came up the machinery hatch, assisted by Smith. He signaled us to take up the lamp, which we hauled quickly to the surface, and carefully turned off before taking it out of the water.

  Then four jerks on each man’s airhose, a moment’s wait for the four answering jerks from each that showed they were clear of all obstructions and at the descending line ready to rise. We swung the stage over the side and lowered it, shackled to the descending line, to ninety feet. Two tenders seized Frazer’s lines, and hand over hand, his lines came in over the rail as they hauled him up. At ninety feet, they paused, while Frazer let go the descending line and climbed on the steel stage.

  “On the stage,” shouted Frazer into his phone. I got it clearly.

  “Frazer on the stage! Start Smith up!”

  The tenders hauled on Smith, pulling him off the submarine and up, till he too sighted the stage, swung on to it, and reported.

  “On the stage!” sang out the man at Smith’s telephone.

  “Frazer,” I said, “unshackle the descending line.” Frazer acknowledged, leaned over on the stage, and cast loose the shackle that held the side of the stage to the descending line. Freed, the stage swung away from the descending line, which disappeared from his view.

  “All clear!” reported Frazer. Everything was clear for the next divers to descend. Smith and Frazer started their slow rise to decompress.

  X

  THE FIRST SNAG

  About two hours later, we hoisted the stage over the rail. The two divers clung tightly to the bails, as we swung them, dripping, in on deck. A group of dressers gathered round, loosed belts, shoes, removed helmets. The divers’ faces, a little pale, looked grotesque sticking above the heavy copper breastplates. Frazer leaned far over and a bucket of water ran out of his suit.

  “Exhaust valve leaked,” he explained.

  The dressers pulled off their diving suits. In heavy blue underwear, they rose and stretched, relieved of the crushing weight of their equipment. Smith, looking thin and slight by contrast with the huge frame of his companion, asked for a cigarette. Frazer, wet to the skin, did not linger. The doctor gave him a drink, half hot coffee, half whiskey, and he ran below.

  I found Frazer in his bunk, wrapped in blankets.

  “I got ’em all, Mr. Ellsberg, except the main air induction. Maybe I got that too, but it isn’t in the ‘Closed’ notch yet. I tried three or four times. It won’t go any further.”

  Then he described his efforts to pull the engineer free, and his. difficulties in working inside. The room was pitch dark, the water very dirty, he got only a dim glow from his lamp penetrating no more than a foot or two. It was very hard to walk inside because of the heavy list to port the submarine had; besides some of the steel floor plates had fallen into the bilges and it was necessary to hang on to the engines to get aft.

  I pondered the question of the open valve. Possibly the links were set differently and the valve might actually be seated even as it was. But we had to be sure. We could never blow the water out of the boat if that valve was not tightly closed.

  On the Vestal, I had Kyle, Lyra, and Geier, the three survivors of the S-51. Kyle was a machinist’s mate, Lyra a fireman, Geier an electrician. Kyle’s station was in the engine room. He should be acquainted with that valve.

  On the Falcon’s bridge semaphore flags started to wave, spelled out:

  “Vestal. Send survivors S-51 to Falcon.”

  The answering pennant rose to the Vestal’s yard arm. In a few minutes a motor launch, bouncing over the waves, made the run from Vestal to Falcon. The three survivors climbed over our rail.

  Kyle, stocky and heavily built, came first; Lyra, a tall, loose-jointed youth, next; and Geier, a small, thin man, last. Kyle and Geier had not got over the shock of their experience; Lyra did not seem so much affected.

  Kyle knew most about the valve. He had often operated it, the last time the very day the S-51 was sunk. They had made a dive that morning. It was his duty to secure the engines when diving, then close the engine main air induction valve. The valve had always worked perfectly, he had had no trouble in swinging the lever to the “Closed” notch the last time he tried it.

  To make doubly sure, I sent a radio to a former captain of the S-51, then in the Pacific Fleet. He confirmed Kyle’s statements about the closed position of the handle.

  Nothing but air had ever gone through the outer ventilation main to the engines before. The main intake in the conning tower fairwater was always closed before the ship submerged to keep water out of the main leading to the various compartments. The S-51, running in her surface condition, had sunk with that valve open; water rushing through the open main had evidently jammed something under the engine air induction. We would have to clear it.

  The valve on the S-50 was carefully inspected. There was no hope of getting into it from the inside of the submarine. And to reach it from the outside meant ripping up the deck to get at the valve bonnet, and then removing forty bolts to allow lifting the three-hundred-pound cover off the valve body. It would be a tough job. We could not afford to start it unless absolutely necessary. Perhaps in spite of all reports, the valve was closed. We must be sure before undertaking all that work.

  On the bottom of the engine air induction valve was a small one-inch drain cock. I unscrewed this on the S-50, and made a feeler, three feet long, of heavy wire, bent to go through the hole left by the drain cock, reach up to the valve seat where the end of the wire, bent over at right angles, could feel between the valve disk and its seat. Frazer practiced with it on the S-50; the next day, Frazer and Smith made their second dive to the engine room. Frazer entered through the hatch, the feeler and a Stillson wrench tied to his belt. He found the drain cock, unscrewed it, carefully inserted his feeler rod and pushed it upward till it struck the disk, then moved it outward, to the edge. The hooked end passed between disk and seat; Frazer found three-fourths-inch clearance between them. Moving his feeler around the circumference of the disk, on one side it struck something between disk and seat. Frazer worked the valve handle and pushed with the feeler, but he could not dislodge the object. The valve would not close. Frazer and Smith came up.

  We prepared to remove the superstructure deck over the engine room. With special long-handled socket wrenches to unbolt part of the portable wood sections, Frank Anderson and Applegate prepared to dive. Anderson was the Navy Yard diver, the oldest man we had, a veteran of long years’ work in the water. He was about forty-five, I thought, really too old for deep water diving, but he had pleaded hard to come; I acquiesced, feeling his experience might compensate for his lack of youth. Applegate was about thirty; he had done many odd jobs in shallow water, and a little work at one hundred feet.

  They were dressed, hoisted over the side, Anderson first. “On the bottom!” from Anderson; “On the bottom!” from Applegate. Hartley tied the long socket wrenches to a shackle, slipped the shackle around the descending line, and lowered away carefully on a small manila line, led forward to keep it clear of the descending line. The wrenches reached the submarine. Anderson unscrewed his diving knife from its sheath, cut the lashing holding the wrenches, gave Hartley four jerks on the manila lowering line. Hartley hauled it up.

  Anderson took the wrenches, started aft along the sloping deck. Applegate attempted to follow him. A strong current swept over the ocean floor, making it hard to stand up. Applegate slipped to the low side, caught the rail, hung on. The heavy pressure started to affect him; he developed “oxygen-intoxication,” an exhilaration very similar to the alcoholic type, but c
aused by the excessive oxygen he was breathing. He staggered drunkenly, trying to follow Anderson; he fouled Anderson’s lifelines. Anderson dropped the wrenches, untangled his airhose from his companion, tried to recover the wrenches and go to work. He found himself in trouble, breathing with difficulty, fighting the sweep of the tide, trying to hold his feet on the slimy incline of the deck down which the current was pushing him. Applegate fell against the rail, started to topple overboard. Anderson seized him, pulled him erect again. It was all he could do to hold on himself, he had little to spare for his shipmate.

  Anderson looked around. The wrenches lay at his feet against the hazy outline of the deck. Nothing seemed to stir, yet he felt the water pressing him overboard. He leaned over as if facing a heavy windstorm. His heart pounded violently as he breathed.

  He made another attempt to get to work. Reaching low, Anderson recovered a socket wrench, found a corner bolt holding down a section of the deck, slipped the socket over the bolt head, and twisted hard on the T handle of his wrench. The bolt failed to start. He motioned Applegate to help him, but Applegate, clinging drunkenly to the rail, was in no state to do anything. The wrench slipped off the bolt.

  Anderson felt himself weakening. He gave us the signal to come up. But first he cleared Applegate of all entanglements and saw him start ahead before he himself was hauled up the descending line. Hardly were his feet off the deck, before the vague outlines of the submarine faded from his sight.

  Once aboard the Falcon, Anderson came to me much upset:

  “I guess I’m too old to dive in deep water any more,” he confessed. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t stand the pressure the way I used to when I was young. I guess I’ll have to go home. My son George will stay and do everything he can. You didn’t know it, but I’m fifty-eight years old.”

  Fifty-eight! That settled it. Thirty-five is considered the age limit for deep work.

  We kept Frank Anderson a week to make certain a cold he developed did not turn to pneumonia; then with regret we saw him board the Penobscot and sail for home via New London. A brave old man, trying to conceal his age for another chance to fight the sea. And so we lost the first of our small group of experienced divers.