Back in July 1859, N. B. Brooks, captain of the Honolulubased ship Gambia, laid claim to the atoll for the United States under the Guano Islands Act of 1856. The Guano Act enabled U.S. citizens to temporarily occupy unclaimed Pacific islands in order to harvest the bird droppings for fertilizer. Brooks called the place Middlebrooks, partly in an attempt at self-aggrandizement, and partly in recognition of its location between Japan and the west coast of the United States.
Less than a decade later, in August 1867, Captain William Reynolds took formal possession of the Midway islands for the United States, under instructions from the secretary of the navy. There was little interest in the atoll until the turn of the century, when a transpacific cable was laid. In 1900 the tugboat Iroquois was dispatched to take soundings at Midway, and the crew discovered Japanese killing the local birds for their plumage. A series of protests by the U.S. government against Japanese poachers and squatters followed, and President Theodore Roosevelt placed Midway under the authority of the Department of the Navy on 20 January 1903.
Midway next became a cable station and received something of a makeover. Daniel Morrison, the station's superintendent from 1906 to 1921, imported grass, shrubs, and casuarina trees to be planted on the aptly named Sand Island. In August 1921 the tanker Patoka arrived to service U.S. Navy ships in the area. In 1935 Midway also became a refueling stop for Pan American Airlines, and Pan Am built a small, low-lying hotel at the northeastern end of Sand Island.
With the approach of war, Midway was proclaimed a national defense area under an executive order dated 14 February 1941. The U.S. Navy had already completed a barracks on Sand Island in 1940, and there was additional construction of hangars, fuel tanks, water towers, and a 5,300-foot runway on triangular Eastern Island.1
On the same day as the attack on Pearl Harbor, 7 December 1941, Japanese destroyers shelled Midway as both a diversion and a preemptive strike to protect the returning Japanese fleet. The next month, three Japanese submarines lobbed some shells at Midway as they passed by. They got off only a few rounds before return fire from shore batteries convinced them to dive.
Midway would assume center stage in June 1942. The Japanese hoped to seize the islands and establish a forward air base there. Under the plan devised by Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto, after softening up American defenses with bombardment by Japanese aircraft, a dozen troopships would land an occupation force of 5,000 men. Possession of Midway would extend Japan's lines of defense some 2,000 miles east. With a base there, Japanese planes and ships could threaten the American west coast and disrupt supply lines to the southwestern Pacific. The main objective of the attack, however, was to lure the U.S. carrier fleet from Pearl Harbor into a “decisive battle” and destroy it.2
By mid-May, Admiral Chester Nimitz already knew that the Japanese were planning an attack on Midway, along with an invasion of the Aleutian Islands (which led to Crowley and the S-28 being sent to Alaskan waters). In what some view as the Allied code breakers’ greatest triumph, they were able to discern the Japanese stratagem. The main U.S. submarine force was therefore deployed in a defensive perimeter around Midway. By 3 June, a total of twenty-five submarines, mainly en route to patrols, were stationed at the approaches to the atoll.3
When the Battle of Midway erupted on 4 June 1942, submarines played a minor role in what was primarily a contest between aircraft carriers. Fortunately for the Americans, the Japanese advance force of submarines, sent to scout Midway, arrived too late. By the time the submarines were on station, the U.S. carriers had already crossed their patrol lines. U.S. submarines, in contrast, did influence the course of events. The USS Nautilus was the only submarine to launch an attack on the Japanese fleet, and even though its torpedoes missed their mark, the Japanese left the destroyer Arashi behind to mount a depth charge attack on the upstart submarine. When the Arashi later headed north to catch up with the rest of the fleet, the Japanese position was given away when the destroyer was spotted by U.S. aircraft. Planes from the USS Enterprise subsequently bombed the heavy carriers Akagi and Kaga. The Japanese ships were caught with refueled planes on their decks, which added to the damage and forced the ships out of the battle.
Similarly, the USS Tambor contributed indirectly to the Americans’ success. In the early hours of 5 June, a group of four Japanese cruisers spotted the submarine, and in their haste to evade a possible attack, the Mogami rammed the Mikuma. The damaged Japanese ships then made relatively easy targets for U.S. aircraft, which further damaged the Mogami and sank the Mikuma. More generally, various submarine sightings distracted Admiral Osami Nagumo, causing him to send out short-range antisubmarine patrols rather than long-range scouts searching for the U.S. carrier fleet.4
The Battle of Midway would later be described as a turning point of the war, and some deemed it the decisive naval confrontation in the Pacific. With the destruction of four of its aircraft carriers and a thousand planes, Japan lost both its naval airpower superiority and its psychological edge in orchestrating the war. Many of the Japanese pilots who had participated in the attack on Pearl Harbor six months earlier were killed and would prove to be largely irreplaceable. In Japan, accounts of the defeat were suppressed; the surviving crews were even denied shore leave, lest they spread the demoralization. Although the United States lost the carrier Yorktown and more than a hundred aircraft, its industrial strength meant that Japan could never regain naval superiority. Admiral Ernest King lauded the battle as “the first decisive defeat suffered by the Japanese Navy in 350 years.”5
Whether any of the Flier’s crew members were reflecting on these dramatic events as they approached Midway is uncertain. For most of the men it was simply a pit stop on the way to the real action. Charles Lockwood, commander of submarines in the Pacific, had fought hard to establish Midway as a submarine base, eventually persuading Admiral Nimitz to divert the necessary dredging equipment and other resources. Given that Midway was nearly 1,300 miles closer to Japan than Pearl Harbor was, topping up fuel tanks there could considerably extend the range and length of a patrol.6
The amenities on Midway remained spartan. When the USS Gurnard moored at Midway on 17 April 1943, crewman Bill Gleason wrote in his diary, “This place is a mess, nothing but sand and more sand.”7 Although it had been developed as a leave center, submariners were far less enthusiastic about spending their precious time at Midway than at Pearl Harbor or at Fremantle, Australia. When the crew of the Pollack was forced to take leave at Midway in April 1943, they were disgusted to find “no girls, no hard liquor, no nightlife, and no entertainment.”8 The main attractions were the beaches, along with tubs of ice-cold beer, poker games, and good food. Another favorite pastime of the submarine crews at Midway was to watch the peculiar antics of the local Laysan albatross—or gooney birds—well known for their mating dances and incompetent landings. Unfortunately, the birds had to be continually chased off the volleyball courts, and their noise tended to keep crews awake at night.9
The Flier established radar contact with Midway at half past noon on 16 January 1944. Even before it was sighted, the atoll's presence was usually obvious by the hundreds of birds wheeling overhead—terns, gulls, and pelicans, as well as gooneys. By 1:15 P.M. Midway's low islands could be made out (the highest point on Sand Island was forty-three feet). At 2:00 P.M. the Flier was just south of the entrance buoys to Midway Channel. An anchor detail was already waiting on the after 20 mm gun platform.
The first attempts to deepen the harbor at Midway had taken place in 1870. A wall of coral some 6 to 15 feet wide circled the lagoon, and in 1923 a hole had been blasted in the southern reef to run the transpacific cable. In 1938 the U.S. Navy had begun to dredge a channel between Sand Island and Eastern Island. When the Flier arrived at Midway, the channel was less than 40 feet deep and measured 400 feet wide at its narrowest point.10
Weather-wise, it was not a good day at Midway. Although the atoll was situated only several hundred miles north of the Hawaiian Islands, the winter weather could
be severe. In between sunny days, cold gales could whip the lagoon into a choppy mass of whitecaps. As the Flier sat off the entrance buoys, squalls of rain passed over, at times totally obscuring the islands. Rough seas shuddered against the submarine from the southwest, with some waves exceeding twenty feet. Because of the high seas and big waves, Crowley ordered a change from diesel power to battery power. On diesel power, there was a danger of waves swamping the boat through the main induction. On battery power, with the main induction closed, the Flier was less vulnerable to suddenly being pooped by high swells. As another concession to the rough weather, the anchor party was stationed on the gun platform instead of on the more exposed deck.11
At 2:15 P.M. the Flier exchanged signals with a tower on Sand Island. The submarine received instructions to stand by for a pilot. As the Flier waited, some of the crew remarked about the strength of the submarine's welding, joking that they hoped the hull would not break in half in the rough seas.12
4
Grounded
The Flier’s stopover at Midway, intended as a brief visit to refuel, turned into a weeklong ordeal. Waiting outside the Midway Channel, the Flier prepared to take a pilot on board from the tugboat YT-188. The tug pulled alongside the submarine's lee side, but the seas were too high to contemplate transferring personnel. Someone shouted through a megaphone from the YT-188, but he could not be heard over the roar of the wind and the ocean. The tug then signaled by semaphore for the Flier to follow it into the lagoon.1
At about 3:00 P.M., some half a mile south of the entrance buoys, the Flier began trailing the tug from a distance of about 750 yards. With Crowley conning the submarine, they proceeded at two-thirds speed, or ten knots. Crowley feared overtaking the tug if he ran at standard speed, which was fifteen knots. The Flier passed between the channel entrance buoys about twenty minutes later. In addition to Crowley, the men on the bridge included Lieutenant James Liddell, acting as officer of the deck. The chief quartermaster on the bridge was Albert Leightley; he communicated orders through a voice tube to the helmsman in the conning tower. Seaman First Class James D. Russo had been the helmsman since the Flier’s commissioning, but he had only a few months on the job. As they passed the entrance buoys, Leightley jumped down to the conning tower to check on Russo. Leightley had been to Midway before and knew from experience that steering in the channel could be tricky. The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Ernest Adams Jr., acted as navigator. The rain and sea spray made it too wet to use a chart, so Adams alternated between the bridge and the conning tower, where he checked navigational aids through the periscope. As the Flier entered the channel, a rainsquall reduced visibility, and Adams tried to take bearings through the periscope.
Just as it passed the entrance buoys, the submarine yawed suddenly to the left as it was hit by heavy swells. Part of the problem seemed to be the Flier’s reduced speed. Without enough momentum, the vessel was being lifted and thrown off course by the surf. An order was given to change course to the right, but then the submarine yawed sharply to the right. Lieutenant Liddell relayed an order to the helmsman for full left rudder; in the heavy seas, though, the vessel responded lethargically. As they swung to the left, the crew could feel the submarine hit bottom with a sickening shudder. Rising swells lifted the Flier momentarily before it slammed into the reef again. Crowley tried to maneuver the submarine to the west, and when the seas lifted the boat again, he ordered all ahead full. Again the submarine struck the bottom.
Belowdecks, Earl Baumgart had recently finished his watch in the engine room. He had cleaned up a bit and then went to lie on his bunk. Suddenly he found himself thrown on the deck with a number of other men. They knew immediately that they had either run aground or collided with something, and they headed toward the control room to find out what had happened. As they passed through the crew's mess, they found it in disarray, with pots, food, and drink strewn about.2
In the maneuvering room, the shock of the grounding knocked a large tool chest from its mounting, and a screwdriver flew from the chest into the main terminal of the number four motor. This caused a short circuit, which ignited a pile of rags in the corner of the motor room. The maneuvering room was soon filled with smoke, and the crew had to deal with a fire on top of their other worries.
Meanwhile, Crowley tried to use the propellers and rudder to winch the submarine free of the reef. In addition to the fire, there were now reports of flooding in the torpedo room and the motor room. The situation looked grim enough for Lieutenant Liddell to ask Crowley whether they should evacuate the men from belowdecks. Crowley replied, “Not yet,” but he gave an order for all the men below to put on their life belts.3
Standing ready topside, the anchor detail was ordered forward. It was hoped that dropping anchor would prevent the Flier from being pulled back farther onto the reef. Members of the anchor party, stationed on the after 20 mm gun platform, were wearing rough-weather parkas and overalls, but they had no life belts, and this would have dire consequences.
Ensign Herbert Albert Baehr, nicknamed “Teddy,” was acting as junior officer of the deck. He led the three-man anchor detail down the starboard ladder of the gun platform to the deck. Baehr was then ordered back to the platform, and a short time later he was sent to get a report on the fire in the maneuvering room. He found that the men below had managed to extinguish the fire in about ten minutes, which was good news. When Baehr returned to the bridge, however, he was told that there were men overboard.4
While Ensign Baehr was investigating the fire below, Crowley had ordered the anchor detail forward to stand by the anchor gear. Just as they reached the forward section of the conning tower, a massive wave broke over the deck. Waite Hoyt Daggy, fireman first class, managed to grab the doghouse door of the conning tower but suffered a bad gash on his chin. A short, muscular man from the state of Washington, Daggy would carry the scar for the rest of his life.5 Kenneth Leroy Gwinn, chief torpedoman's mate, was also sent sprawling back into the conning tower. He managed to claw his way back to the bridge and the gun platform. The third man, James Cahl, last seen carrying an anchor wrench, was swept overboard.6
Lieutenant Liddell had initially been watching as the anchor detail moved forward on the forecastle, but his attention had been diverted elsewhere when he heard the cry, “Man overboard.” From his vantage point on the bridge, Crowley could see a man in the water about twenty yards off the port side, adjacent to the forward capstan. Another crewman, Joseph Antoine Lia, would later describe Cahl as having “a hopeless look on his face” as he treaded water with his arms outstretched.7
There were, in fact, two men overboard. Clyde Gerber also ended up in the raging sea, about twenty yards off the submarine's port side, parallel to the four-inch deck gun. A life ring and three life belts were heaved into the ocean, but none of them landed close enough for either Cahl or Gerber to grab on to. Liddell called for a strong swimmer from among the men gathered on the gun platform. George Joseph Banchero, motor machinist's mate second class, came forward and stripped off his clothes. Wearing an inflated life belt and carrying a cork life ring, he went over the port side near the engine air induction. By this time, Gerber had drifted back more or less even with the conning tower. Cahl, however, had been swept about fifty yards off the bow and already looked beyond help. He could be glimpsed through the waves periodically, but soon after Banchero went into the water, Cahl disappeared from view entirely.
In the turbulent water, Banchero was soon stripped of the life ring, and he had difficulty spotting Gerber over the waves. From the conning tower, Liddell motioned both men to head for the beach rather than try to swim back to the Flier. Banchero finally reached Gerber, and the two men struck out toward Eastern Island. They spent the next three hours struggling in the water but were eventually discovered standing together on a sand spit.
Apparently on his own initiative, Joseph Lia, torpedoman's mate third class, also went into the water to try to assist his crewmates. Lia had initially be
en on deck as a line handler when the plan had been to dock with the pilot tug. Upon seeing the men in the water, he put on an inflated life belt, and Kenneth Gwinn from the anchor detail secured a line to him. Ensign Baehr tended the line as Lia jumped over the side and struck out toward Cahl and Gerber. He was unable to make any headway, though, and drifted back toward the stern of the submarine. Lia was hauled to safety and sent below to be checked out by the pharmacist's mate.
As these events unfolded, orders were given to lighten the submarine in the hope that it would float off the reef. Baehr was again ordered below to get a report on all variable ballast. Finding no one available to help him, Baehr blew overboard two of the fuel ballast tanks and two of the regular fuel tanks. He also pumped out all the variable ballast tanks inside the pressure hull, but the Flier still would not budge, and the current continued to drive the submarine east into shallow water.
At 3:45 P.M. normal steering was lost, and the helmsman had to shift to emergency steering by hand. The continual pounding of the rudder on the bottom, however, made it impossible to regain control. Fifteen minutes later the crew tried to release the anchor, but it was jammed. The packing glands around the propeller shafts were also leaking badly by this time, and water poured into the maneuvering room.
Suddenly, the hope of rescue appeared. The USS Macaw made its way toward the floundering submarine, anchored a short distance away, and signaled that it would try to pass the Flier a line.
5
USS Macaw
By 4:00 P.M. the USS Macaw (ASR-11) was anchored off the Midway entrance buoys. The plan was to float a line to the Flier and tow the submarine off the reef. Unfortunately, the Macaw’s next message stated starkly: “We are aground.”1 The Macaw had grounded less than 100 yards west of the submarine.
The 250-foot-long, 2,000-ton Macaw was a Chanticleer class submarine rescue vessel. Built in Oakland, California, the ship had been commissioned on 12 July 1942, making it about a year older than the Flier. The Macaw carried a complement of 102 crewmen, heavy-lifting machinery, and deep-sea diving equipment, including the McCann rescue chamber. The rescue bell, some ten feet high by seven feet wide, was designed to convey men from a sunken submarine to the surface. It would be of no use, however, in dealing with the Flier’s situation.2
The USS Flier Page 3