by Peter Maas
He had sent diver McDonald to bed. If for some reason an unexpected descent had to be made, he would need all the rest he could get. Lieutenants Behnke and Yarbrough remained with him. They provided Momsen a special comfort. Behnke was matchless in his knowledge of the efficient use of helium and oxygen, and nobody knew more about treating the bends than Pete Yarbrough. Momsen often worried that in their dedication to his underwater work the two doctors had jeopardized promotions they might normally expect by following more accepted paths to success as Navy medical officers. But neither would hear of a transfer. “You don’t often get a chance to be in on history in the making,” Behnke said.
As Swede Momsen pondered the past during those early morning hours of May 24, there was something else for him to consider. Had the Penacook indeed grappled the Squalus? Or did the heavy manila line that was attached to the wooden grating bobbing in the black water outside simply lead down to some long-forgotten wreck?
AT HER HOME in Portsmouth, Frances Naquin slept fitfully. Then she was startled wide awake by the sudden wail of sirens shattering the night silence. They were coming from police cars escorting the rest of Momsen’s experimental diving unit, twelve divers in all. After the planes transporting them had been forced down in Newport, they had been escorted northward at breakneck speed. Now the first group of them was just arriving.
13
THROUGH THE NIGHT, Naquin’s decision to husband his oxygen supply and keep the air quality slightly on the toxic side had caused many of the men to nod off. They were the fortunate ones. The cold had become increasingly severe.
Huddled under his blanket in the forward torpedo room, Charlie Yuhas stuck out his hands to flex his fingers and immediately withdrew them. Within a matter of seconds, he could feel them getting numb.
Near him, Harold Preble remembered how warm the forward battery seemed when he passed through it hours ago. He’d been so confident of a swift rescue then that when he went by Naquin’s stateroom door, he had impulsively scribbled on it with a grease pencil, “Everything as fine as can be expected.” He noted the time—0930—and signed his name with a flourish. He thought it would be a stirring reminder of the crew’s spirit once they reached the surface and the sub was salvaged. Even though things weren’t working out quite as he had hoped, Preble never entertained any other eventual outcome.
He found a mordant humor in his predicament. A fastidious man in his work and habits, he’d been annoyed by bits of pineapple stuck between his teeth after supper. To get them out, he used the only item he could find in the dim light—a sock left on the bunk he was lying in. As the night wore on, he tried to think of something to divert his mind from the cold. But it was no use. What he most yearned for he couldn’t have. Preble would have given just about anything for a cigarette.
Lieutenant Nichols never questioned that he would survive. Personally, he wouldn’t have been averse to resorting to the Momsen lung right off the bat. But it wasn’t his call. Still, despite the frigid water pressing down on them and the rigors of an ascent, he was sure that the men, at least in the beginning, had enough stamina to reach the surface using the lung. In their first hours, beside the primer he had given to Preble—the only man in the compartment who had not undergone escape training—he had reviewed aloud the key items in the lung’s use from one of the instruction manuals that every submarine carried: Once in the escape lock, be certain to hold your nose and blow hard to relieve the pressure in your eardrums. Always keep breathing normally. Never let go of the ascending line. Pause for the prescribed count at each stop on the line to avoid the bends. Once on the surface, close the mouthpiece and flutter valve to seal in the remaining oxygen so that the lung could serve as a life preserver until you were picked up.
“If there are any questions,” Nichols said, “let’s hear them now.” There were none. “OK,” he added, “the main thing is to conserve as much air as we can. We have enough oxygen to keep us going as long as we don’t start burning it up moving around and talking.”
As he spoke, soon after the Squalus was on the ocean floor, Nichols wondered if he shouldn’t engage in some sort of pep talk, the kind of rousing speech he remembered his high school football coach doing at half-time if the team had been taking a trouncing. But he discarded the idea. He’d feel pretty silly trying to buck up the spirits of a veteran chief like Gainor, or even Harold Preble. And not once, as the long hours dragged by, did he have any reason to regret his decision. Submariners were a special breed, he thought. That fellow officer on the battleship Maryland, the one who advised him that serving on a sub was foolhardy, would never understand it. As he surveyed the men in the forward torpedo room, a surge of emotion welled up inside Nichols. He was, quite simply, surrounded by a great bunch of guys.
No one had shown the slightest sign of panic. Even Feliciano Elvina, the mess attendant who was so confused by the bewildering way the Squalus went down, sat calmly reviewing everything he had been taught in escape training. Elvina had a special worry. During training, he always ran into trouble with the clip because of his flat nose. If he had to use it, he reminded himself, it was important to place the clip as close as he could to his nostrils where there was less chance of it slipping off.
For some, the common discipline that held them together required enormous willpower. Jackknifed on a mattress he had dragged in from the forward battery, Gerry McLees was consumed with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the North Atlantic. McLees had kept trying to remember exactly how he had ended up in the forward battery instead of John Batick. Then he suddenly realized what it was. Batick had yet to finish the cup of coffee he was drinking in the crew’s mess when the dive was about to start. McLees wasn’t sure whether Batick was dead or alive. But when he had asked Will Isaacs whether Batick had made it out of the after battery, Isaacs said he didn’t think so. Isaacs was the last one to flee the flooding compartment and he hadn’t seen Batick. McLees shivered under his blanket, thinking, Sweet Jesus! A fucking half a cup of coffee!
The two crewmen of immediate concern to Lieutenant Nichols were Ted Jacobs and Charles Powell, who had taken over pounding out messages to the surface. Answering a query from the Wandank that first night shortly after nine P.M. requesting the number and placement of known survivors had exacted a particular toll on them. Laboriously repeating each word three times, they hammered back: “Fifteen in forward torpedo room. Eighteen in control room.” The effort left them panting. Jacobs was already throwing up and Powell was on the verge of it. All Nichols could do was to spread more CO2 absorbent and bleed in more oxygen.
Till nearly midnight, they continued to bang the hammers. Then, thankfully, the requests for information stopped because of Swede Momsen’s intercession. But it would be another two hours before the Wandank actually signaled his presence: “Momsen says twenty-seven feet pressure will not be injurious.” Admiral Cole had been right. The news cheered everyone who heard it. “He’s the man,” Lawrence Gainor said.
The forward torpedo room, as bad as it was, at least had stayed free of water except for the one brief burst of the sea through the overhead ventilation pipes during the final slide to the bottom. But in the sodden control room, despite the double hull ringing it to protect all of its delicate instrumentation in the event of a wartime depth-charge attack, it was worse. For William Thomas Doyle, the bitterness of the damp cold that enveloped him, its relentless penetration into every bone in his body, surpassed the bounds of his imagination. No matter what else ever happened to him, Doyle thought during those black hours, it was something he would always remember.
Along with the foul air, the cold had subdued them all. Long since forgotten was the whispered kidding, however lame, that helped ease the tension that afternoon. “Do you think they’ll bring down some steaks for supper?” Bill Boulton wisecracked.
“How can you think of food at a time like this?” came a retort. “How about a blond instead?”
Still, a quiet defiance never deserted
them. Not only was the pharmacist’s mate, Ray O’Hara, the newest man on board, but the Squalus was his first sub. Under his watchful eye, young Washburn, who had been so severely racked by chills earlier in the evening, had at last fallen into a feverish sleep. Afterward, Gavin Coyne, a strapping six-foot machinist’s mate with nineteen years of sub service, nudged O’Hara and said, “Guess you’re sorry you ever switched to pigboats.”
“Don’t bet the farm on it,” O’Hara said.
As soon as the Squalus hit down, Al Prien had checked to make sure that the high induction lever was in its closed position. During supper, when there was a chance to move around a little, Prien glanced quickly at the lever again to prove to himself that he wasn’t dreaming it all up. “See,” he had wanted to shout, “it’s closed.” That single thought consumed him. And almost as if he were facing a ghostly band of inquisitors, he kept insisting in the privacy of his mind, “I did close the valve. I pulled it back as far as it would go. I checked the control board. None of the lights showed that there was any trouble. They remained green until the whole board went out.”
Like Prien, Lieutenant (j.g.) Robert Robertson was every bit as baffled by the high induction valve’s failure to close, if that’s what it turned out to be. He had happened to be on hand when the valve was first installed and tested at Portsmouth. Then he was present again last April 30, following an adjustment necessary on the valve when it did not open after a test submergence in the harbor. It was taken apart, put back together and had since performed like a charm, even better, if anything, than before. At the start of the dive, the Squalus already slipping beneath the waves, Robertson had been inside the conning tower. Seconds after word reached him that something had gone wrong, he heard a hissing sound of air in the hydraulic supply tank directly behind him. The high induction was hydraulically controlled. Could this be the answer? he wondered. Had the hydraulic system broken down somewhere along the line? But this led him to another conundrum. Why had the control board continued to register green? Unlike the valve, it ran on electricity. It seemed inconceivable that everything could have fallen apart at once.
Even allowing for the strict standards to qualify for submarine service, Chief Roy Campbell was astounded by the no-nonsense demeanor that prevailed in the control room. As the ranking enlisted man on board the Squalus, he had a dual role. On the one hand, he was Naquin’s bridge to the crew. On the other, he was a sort of father confessor to any sailor who had a problem he might be reluctant to discuss with an officer. So he’d been ready to step in at the first untoward note. But there wasn’t a hint of one.
Across from Campbell, one man came to a sober decision. Carlton Powell was as confident as anybody that every attempt would be made to get them out of here. But suppose things got screwed up and in the end the Squalus, like the S–51 and the S–4, wound up being raised out of the depths as nothing more than a grotesque coffin for him and the others. Powell, who had stayed at his lonely post in the pump room throughout the plunge, was not a person who was easily rattled. He decided, however, that he had to face up to the possibility that these might be his final hours on earth. If they were, he wanted to set things right. So Powell searched through his pockets for a piece of paper and a pencil to make out a last will and testament, leaving all his worldly possessions to his wife. He hesitated, not certain how to begin, before he started to write: “I, Carlton B. Powell, being of sound mind and body . . .”
Frankie Murphy was grateful for one thing. Keeping the log at least helped a little to keep his mind off the cold. And shortly after noting the Wandank’s message that Momsen was on the scene, he added: “Men resting as much as possible. Spreading carbon dioxide absorbent.”
This finished off the initial can of CO2 absorbent that Naquin had ordered opened exactly twelve hours ago. There were still a half-dozen cans left, but he remained determined to nurse his supply. His first flask of oxygen was now about a third full. Like Nichols in the forward torpedo room, he had a reserve flask yet to tap. A fifth flask remained in the forward battery until he decided which occupied compartment needed it the most. All in all Naquin reckoned he had enough oxygen to support life for at least another three days. If it came down to it, he also could bleed air from the pressurized cylinders normally used to blow the ballast tanks. But this would build up the pressure they were being subjected to even more. And, of course, it would do nothing to lower the level of carbon dioxide.
In his heartsick reliving of the dive, Naquin was no different from anyone else in trying to figure out exactly what had caused the sudden flooding of the after engine rooms, but it was still an educated guess. He’d only arrived at one firm conclusion. Both the valve for ventilation and the one for the diesels had to have been closed at the outset of the dive. Otherwise, how could the board have been green? How could there have been pressure in the boat? Naquin had been able to climb down from the conning tower, chat momentarily with Preble in the control room about how well the dive was going and then take his stance at the periscope before he had felt that first warning rush of air being pushed forward. The big valve for the diesels had inexplicably opened again after they were under water. There simply wasn’t any other answer that made sense to him.
In any event, he resigned himself to the fact that nothing would begin to be resolved without the Falcon. Clearly, a decision had been made on the surface that no more action was to be contemplated until she arrived. Coupled with the Wandank’s message signaling a belief that the dragging operation had been successful, news was sent that the Falcon was expected at 0300 hours. But then, as midnight passed, the estimated arrival time was pushed back at least another hour and a half.
Naquin hoped there wouldn’t be any more delays. He was concerned about the effect of the cold on the men. He hadn’t pressed this in his own messages because he didn’t want to create undue anxiety on the surface. For the same reason, despite the leak in the pump room, he had answered “No” to whether the occupied compartments were taking any water. Around midnight, the last check of the pump room showed that the water level had risen no more than two feet. There wasn’t any indication that it was coming in faster.
Most of the men were actually sleeping or resting quietly. Naquin kept himself alert working out math problems in his head. As soon as he solved one, he started in on another. About two-thirty A.M., he heard the beat of new propellers. His trained submariner’s ears recognized them as belonging to a destroyer. Although there was no confirmation of this, he was right. It was the Semmes with Captain Richard Edwards, the New London commandant, on board.
ON THE SCULPIN, after conferring with Admiral Cole, Momsen said that he was going to get some shut-eye. The day ahead promised to be a rough one, and he wanted to be at his best.
Cole marveled that Momsen could so compartmentalize his mind at a time like this. It gave him renewed confidence that he had the right man for the job. Nothing seemed to unnerve him, Cole thought. “In the meantime, Swede,” he said, “I’ll see if I can’t have someone round up some proper clothes for you.”
Then, at four o’clock that morning, Momsen was awakened.
The Falcon was on the horizon.
14
IN THE BLEAK, gray dawn, on May 24, the sky remained overcast as Swede Momsen watched the Falcon approach.
Like the other vessels at the scene, the Sculpin had moved back a minimum of 700 yards at the request of the Falcon’s skipper, George Sharp. He wanted plenty of maneuvering room and he would need every bit of it.
Inside the Squalus, they heard the Wandank’s oscillator warn not to fire any more rockets, that the Falcon was mooring over the sub. The last part was a little premature.
Surface conditions could hardly have been worse for the task that confronted Sharp. Spurred by a stiff wind, a vicious chop danced off a heavy ocean swell that had suddenly renewed itself. Squalls swept in, one after the other, reducing visibility at times to near zero. Against this, Sharp had to work the Falcon alongside the wood grating pu
t down by the Penacook and straddle her over the presumed location of the Squalus. Sharp’s plan was to lay out a four-point mooring, which meant dropping four anchors in a rough square around the sub. It took him four frustrating hours to get his unwieldy ship in place. And when he finally did, it didn’t pan out.
An abrupt shift in the wind now sent the swells smashing almost broadside against the Falcon. Her anchors, unable to maintain purchase, started dragging. The Wandank moved in cautiously to help, lowering an anchor of her own off the Falcon’s port beam and transferring the line to the rescue ship. But even with five anchors, Sharp couldn’t achieve the stability he needed. Instead, his ship continued to roll violently. Putting the rescue chamber, or even a diver, over the side in these circumstances invited disaster. One hard bump against the side of the Falcon could easily put the chamber—the only one available—out of commission. All of Momsen’s misgivings about using converted mine layers of her class as rescue ships were being graphically realized right in front of him.
Sharp, of course, could begin all over again. But the hours that might take, when every minute was precious, was an option he would not accept. After consulting with Admiral Cole and his immediate superior, Captain Edwards, he adopted a daring course. Personally directing his engine room over the speaker, he maintained a precise power to stay in place while the bow line to one anchor and the quarter line to another one were switched. Once that was accomplished, he slowly swung his ship around, so that she was now headed directly into the wind. This didn’t stop her from pitching, but it was far preferable to the thirty-degree rolls she’d been enduring. More crucial, her anchors had now dug into the bottom and were holding fast.