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

by Edward Ellsberg

  Next morning the Vestal arrived and anchored nearby. I hurriedly boarded her, sought out the navigator, Lieutenant Sauer. He had the exact latitude and longitude of the wreck, taken the autumn before.

  We climbed the Vestal’s mast. From that high point, we could make out to the westward Southeast Light on Block Island; to the northward, Point Judith Light; and to the northeastward, Gay Head Light far away on Martha’s Vineyard. Carefully we measured the angles between the lights with our sextants, laid out the angles on a three-armed protractor, and swung the protractor over the chart till each arm cut through its proper lighthouse there. We pricked the chart through the center of the protractor; the Vestal’s position plotted a quarter of a mile west of the point where the S-51 lay; the marker buoy apparently was one hundred yards north of it.

  With our new position, Hawes ran the surfboat over the indicated location of the ship, and started to drag on an east and west course, as the submarine lay on a line approximately north and south.

  Boatswain Hawes grappled all morning without success. Shortly after noon, we put Kelley over from the Falcon for a walk, hoping he might find the submarine. He made a circle of about one hundred feet diameter on the bottom but saw no part of the S-51. He did, however, bring up some encouraging news. He had run across several heaps of tin cans on the bottom. Apparently we were over old anchorage grounds.

  Hawes and the surfboat kept on sweeping. Late in the afternoon, they made a hard strike with their grappling hook. The Falcon steamed over, anchored, took the grappling line. Joe Eiben was dressed, hoisted over, slid down the line.

  “On the submarine!” he reported. With a cheer, I threw my cap in the air, caught it, jammed it on again. The anxiety of the two days of searching vanished. At least we had found our submarine.

  Eiben made a hasty inspection, then cut loose the grappling hook, tied the line to the gun, and came up. The submarine was lying exactly as we had left her on the last November day when Bailey froze his air lines. She was still heeled badly to port, was partly buried in the clay, was considerably more slippery to stand on.

  Work started with a rush. We planted our moorings once more, seven anchors in a circle about the boat. The Sagamore steamed away to recover the whistling buoy; the Lighthouse tender came out and replanted it with a heavier anchor.

  We dropped a thermometer on a line to the bottom, and obtained the temperature. It was 37° F., a little colder than when we left. The divers would have to keep on wearing their cumbersome gloves.

  Looking around, we saw the old familiar scene,—the sea restlessly tumbling by, our little fleet heaving at their anchors, a few gulls circling round, the whistling buoy sending out its doleful note as it rose to each passing wave, a glimpse of low-lying land on the distant westward horizon; far below us, the S-51 lying quietly in the calm peace of the ocean floor, firmly gripped with her cargo of dead by the cold sea.

  XXI

  PONTOONS AGAIN

  Our first endeavor was to lower pontoons once more to the stern. I had a new method. From Boston we obtained a twelve-inch hawser, strong enough to hold the weight of the pontoon even when totally flooded. But there was no intention of letting the pontoon get full. I figured that if we held the pontoon firmly at each end till it just submerged, let the water keep flowing in till the strain on the lowering hawsers reached about five tons, and then shut the flood valves, so no more water could enter while we lowered, we could let the pontoon go down slowly and evenly under control. There would still be the tendency of the pontoon to stand on end if the free water inside all ran to one end or the other, but by using a hawser strong enough for any strain we could hold the pontoon level in spite of that.

  On April 30, the Falcon steamed in and moored. The Sagamore, with a pontoon in tow, came out from Newport. Michels and Kelley went down, passed small manila reeving lines under the stern. We rove around, down one side of the submarine, up the other side, and finished up finally with two one-inch wire lines cut just long enough to handle the chains in lowering. The divers came up; the pontoon was brought alongside the Falcon, rigged for lowering. We shackled our heavy lowering hawsers into strong wire straps (endless loops made by splicing together the two ends of a short piece of heavy wire), the wire straps being secured to each end of the pontoon.

  The flood valves were opened, flooding began. We secured the two wire guide lines under the submarine’s stern to the lower ends of the chain hanging from the pontoon and took in all the slack.

  As before, to prepare for contingencies, Hartley held the Falcon well clear of the submarine’s port quarter, where the first pontoon was to go. The pontoon slowly flooded and sank lower and lower, heaving slowly up and down against our side as the waves rolled by. We slacked out our hawsers to prevent straining than.

  Meanwhile we rigged out two stages, one suspended over each end of the pontoon. On these were to stand the men, who with long extension T-handled socket wrenches were to screw down on the flood valves after the pontoon was underwater. We could not use divers for that purpose; there was too much danger of their being caught between the pontoon and the Falcon.

  The weather was moderate, as good as we could normally hope for, but still there was considerable motion on, and the huge cylinder alongside us moved up and down about four feet as it rose and fell. We kept on flooding, the pontoon grew more “loggy” as it lost buoyancy, soon it submerged, first at one end, then at the other. We held the hawsers on the bitts; the hawsers stretched a little, the pontoon hung three or four feet below the surface.

  It was estimated to take about one minute to let the necessary extra water run in.

  Badders and Weaver stood by on the stages, their extension wrenches on the valve rods, ready to close them. (Thirteen complete turns were required on each valve to close it.)

  Trouble started. The pontoon, its huge mass giving it tremendous inertia, lay dead just below the surface, unmoved by the waves passing over it, but each time the Falcon rolled away, the hawsers took up with a snap as they came taut, then slackened slightly as the Falcon rolled toward the pontoon. The splices in the wire straps worked as the strains alternated, and gave a little with each jerk.

  I yelled to the stages: “Close the valves!”

  It was too late. Before either man could get more than a few turns on his valve, an extra heavy jerk pulled apart the wire splice to the forward end of the pontoon. The cylinder promptly took a vertical position, hung a moment on its end, then the other wire strap, now taking all the strain, let go on the next roll. The free ends of the hawsers, with the strains released, shot back on deck. A little cloud of spray, a few waves, and the pontoon disappeared, end first. We took in what slack we could on the hauling wires.

  Our second attempt to lower a pontoon had resulted in another failure.

  The weather was too bad for further diving.

  Next day, Bailey dived to find out how matters were below. He located the pontoon about thirty feet outboard of the stern and a little forward of it, standing vertically on one end. The chains led from it to the port quarter of the S-51, and the hauling wires ran clear, rising from under the starboard quarter, to the surface. The situation was not so bad. No serious damage had been done to the pontoon, we had missed the submarine, and the lines seemed all clear. I resolved to attempt to get the pontoon into position alongside the stern.

  It was first necessary to have the pontoon in a normal position,—horizontal. The two airhoses to the pontoon were still attached to it. Niedermair blew gently into the lower half of the pontoon till it lightened enough to capsize. Then we took a good strain with our winches on the wire hauling lines, while Niedermair slowly blew air into both ends of the pontoons. When the pontoon became buoyant enough to show signs of floating up, we heaved round smartly on the winches and dragged the lightened cylinder over the sea bottom in close to the port side of the submarine’s stern. When we could get no more slack on either hauling line, we vented the air from the pontoon, allowing it to reflood, and then s
ent Eiben down to examine it. He found the pontoon lying practically in the position originally intended.

  This operation took all that day. The following morning, with the weather a little better, the Iuka towed out a second pontoon. We rove our two wire lines coming up from the S-51 through the hawsepipes of this pontoon and hauled them moderately taut to serve as guides on which to lower.

  We secured our lowering hawsers to the ends of the pontoon again, except that in place of the spliced wire straps which had failed us, we now used heavy iron rings which the Vestal’s blacksmith had forged out during the night. The deck force connected up the airhoses, vent hoses, and opened up the flood valves. The pontoon started to fill. As usual, the Falcon was hauled a little clear of the submarine, to starboard this time.

  We swung out the stages. Badders and Weaver secured their wrenches to the flood valve rods, and then as the pontoon went awash, leaped from it to the stages.

  I waited, watch in hand, a little nervous. The pontoon submerged, the lowering hawsers started to strain. But I must wait one minute to be sure the pontoon got heavy enough to go down evenly. The men on the stages stood poised, the seconds slowly ticked away, the pontoon by the way it strained on the hawsers seemed already far overweight. One minute.

  “Close the valves!”

  Carefully Weaver and Badders turned, peering down through the water as they worked to make sure their sockets did not slip off the valve stems. Thirteen times the wrenches revolved.

  “After valve closed!” sang out Badders.

  “Forward valve closed!” repeated Weaver.

  Each man gave an extra twist to make sure, then pulled up his extension wrench. The stages were swung in on deck.

  I took position at the forward bitts, where my hawser was coiled in figures of eight over the horns. Hartley stood by the after line. The hawsers were marked with a colored ring of paint every fathom, alternately red, blue, yellow, and white.

  A few feet below the surface, the pontoon hung from the side, already its outline vague and ill defined.

  “Stand by!” The men at the bitts stood ready. Hartley kept his eye on me.

  “Lower together!” At the forward bitts the men slacked a little on the hawser; the turns rendered around the bitts, went overboard. A few inches at a time they paid out, till the first fathom was gone.

  “Hold it!” They laid back on their end of the line. The turns gripped on the bitts, the line stopped.

  “How’s your line, Hartley?”

  “On the first red!” he replied.

  We each had one fathom out. The pontoon was no longer visible.

  “Lower together!” Again the lines were slowly rendered out over the bitts. The first blue, the first yellow, and the first white rings went out, when we held again to check. My men were a few feet ahead of Hartley’s. He ran out several feet to even up, and then once again we both lowered.

  We could feel the lines stretch as the Falcon rolled away from the pontoon, and shorten a little as she rolled towards it, but it was not a bad day and our heavy hawsers stood the test beautifully. And so, fathom by fathom, we paid out from the Falcon, till the pontoon was sixteen fathoms down, and should have been just above the submarine. We held it then.

  Wilson was standing by dressed, all but his helmet. This the tenders screwed on and hoisted him overboard. He slipped down the airhoses secured to the pontoon and landed on it. He walked to the after end of the pontoon, looked over but could see nothing through the water.

  “On deck! Nothing in sight yet. Lower some morel” We lowered gradually till Wilson could make out the hull of the submarine below him. We paused a moment, while he got his bearings.

  “On deck! She’s just clear of the side, but too far aft. You’ll hit the diving rudders. Take her forward five feet!”

  We hauled ahead on the Falcon’s bow moorings, slacked a trifle on the stern lines, till Wilson reported clear. Then we lowered again, till the strain was lost on the hawsers. We had finally planted a pontoon alongside the submarine, just where we wanted it. Wilson checked the pontoon’s position, then cast loose the lowering lines at each end by tripping the pelican hooks shackled into the iron rings. We hauled up the hawsers, which came in on deck swelled a little from their immersion.

  Wilson was hauled up.

  The next business was to see that enough chain was showing through each of the hawsepipes so that we could get the locking bars through the chains at the right points. This was important. The two chains formed the cradle in which the stern of the submarine was to be suspended. The chains were already secured on top of the first pontoon of the pair by heavy clamps, put on before that pontoon was lowered, with the chains hanging from it. We had lowered the second pontoon on the other ends of those chains, dragged under the submarine by the guide wires. We had to pull enough chain through to make the cradle the desired length, and then lock the chains over the top of the last pontoon.

  Michels went down to examine this. Both chains were not far enough through, so we heaved on the hauling wires, one at a time, and dragged more chain up through each hawsepipe till twenty extra links showed through above each hawsepipe. We were then ready to secure the chains.

  How to lock the chains over the pontoons on the bottom of the sea was a problem that had given us all considerable worry. In shallow water when the pontoons were first used, the chains had originally been secured by heavy split steel clamps, bolted together over one of the links. But each clamp weighed about three hundred pounds, and juggling it into position was difficult. In Honolulu harbor, where the water was shallow, quiet, and warm, it had taken several divers a number of hours to secure the clamps; in deep water we dared not let the divers exert themselves lifting heavy weights. In addition, there was no practical method of holding the chain vertical and steady while the divers tried to bolt up a clamp; suspended from the Falcon, the chain would move steadily up and down some six to eight feet as the Falcon rolled. A diver standing on a pontoon resting on the sea bottom would have no chance of fitting a three-hundred-pound clamp on the chain as it swung up and down. Besides, there was an excellent chance that the heavy chain as it swung to the Falcon’s motions would hit the diver and knock him off the pontoon, if nothing worse.

  The clamp method seemed impracticable for us. A better method was to slip a heavy steel bar through a link of the chain just above the hawsepipe, the bar being long enough to bridge across the hawsepipe hole, and heavy enough to stand the forty-ton lifting load on the chain without bending.

  This method looked feasible, but to get the bar through a link of the anchor cable, it was necessary to burn out the steel stud in the center of the link. These studs are fitted into each link of an anchor cable to prevent the chain from kinking and jamming; we could not afford to remove the studs before lowering the chain for fear it might kink up in the process of reeving under the submarine.

  With the new underwater torch, the task became possible. Where the bar was to go through, the stud could be burned out of the chain as it lay on top of the pontoon; then the toggle could be slipped in the link and locked in position.

  The toggle bars were made of special nickel steel; each bar was forty inches long, and weighed one hundred and forty pounds. The ends of the bars were wedge shaped, to facilitate slipping them into the link. Each bar had drilled through it two small parallel holes near its center; through these holes when the bar was entered in the chain link were to be secured two long half-inch bolts, one each side of the link, so that thereafter the toggle bar could not slip back out of the link.

  XXII

  MY FIRST DIVE

  The second pontoon lay alongside the starboard quarter of the S-51, the chains hauled up through the hawsepipes, ready to be secured. Two toggle bars were lashed to the top of the pontoon, waiting to be inserted in the chain. The time had come to put in practical use the new torch.

  I elected to go down to do the first burning. Chief Torpedoman Kelley, the only other man familiar with the torch, was to a
ssist.

  In my stateroom, I pulled on the usual three suits of blue woolen underwear and three pairs of socks. Looking quite fat with all this on, I came to the dressing bench on the quarterdeck, where the bears started on me. I put on my woolen gloves, slipped into the diving dress. With difficulty I worked my hands down the stiff sleeves and into the rubber mittens. Lead shoes, lead belt, copper breastplate—the weights became burdensome. The telephone receivers were strapped over my ears, I tested out my telephone. A helmet was dropped over my head, given a quarter turn and locked tightly in position. I looked out through the glass faceplates, tried my air valve, tested the exhaust valve. I could not see it, but I felt for the knife on my belt,—always the diver’s first concern.

  With the helmet on, I could hardly rise. Two bears assisted me to the stage (Kelley had already gone down). I grasped the bails and was swung over the side. A last glimpse of the Falcon in the sunlight, the stage was in the water, was being lowered till the waves broke over my helmet. Air began to gurgle out the exhaust valve near the back of my head. The stage paused a moment to give me a chance to test my equipment in the water.

  I opened the control valve wider and gave myself a trifle more air. A moment went by; apparently everything in my rig was working properly. I saw the torch dangling in the water in front of my faceplate. I grasped it, slipped the lanyard holding it over my left arm.

  “All right!” I bellowed into the telephone transmitter. On deck the tender took in the slack of my lifeline. I stepped off the stage onto nothing, and dangling me by my lifelines, the tenders dragged me forward along the side of the Falcon some twenty feet to where the descending line led downward. I grasped this line with both hands, wound my legs around it, took one last look upward at the silvery surface of the sea, gently undulating over my head.

  “Lower away!”

  They slacked off. I began to descend. The bright light quickly faded to a deeper blue as I sank, the air roared through my helmet. Down, down, it seemed a long way. It was early spring, the water was clearer than it would ever be again that year. I kept my gaze downward, but could see nothing. Down I slid, the light constantly getting dimmer. Would I never reach the bottom? The pressure increased. I began to breathe more rapidly, the air started to feel different, heavy. Then gradually there took shape, dimly outlined against a dark formless background, the stern of the S-51 below me, peacefully resting. As it loomed up, magnified considerably in the water, it looked perfectly huge. My heart sank. How puny our efforts and our strength were to move such a mass!