In the end, the theory that the Flier hit a mine remains the most compelling explanation for its loss. According to Jacobson, the Flier crew initially tended to dismiss this idea because they knew that other U.S. submarines had recently passed through the area. Also, the Flier’s sonar did not indicate the presence of any mines.12 However, the use of frequency modulation sonar to detect mines was still in the developmental stage in mid-1944. Based on work done at the University of California War Research Laboratory in San Diego, Charles Lockwood informed Christie in late July that during recent trials, submarines had been able to pick up dummy mines at 450 yards.13 But the equipment was not regularly installed in submarines until 1945.
Japanese records confirm the presence of mines in Balabac Strait. Soon after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese submarines I-123 and I-124, two of Japan's four Kirai Sen–type vessels used for mine laying, were deployed in the vicinity of the Philippines. Their task included placing forty mines in Balabac Strait on 8 December 1941; they would later drop mines off Darwin, Australia, as well. The Japanese mines, known as type 88, carried 400 pounds of explosive and could arm in depths of more than 1,000 feet.
The I-124 was sunk off Darwin on 20 January 1942 in a combined attack by the Australian minesweeper Deloraine and the U.S. destroyer Edsall. Given that the submarine sank in only forty feet of water, American divers were able to recover Japanese codebooks from the wreck—a significant breakthrough for Allied cryptanalysts. Seven months later, on 29 August, the I-123 was spotted by an Allied aircraft in the vicinity of Guadalcanal and attacked by the destroyer-minelayer USS Gamble. Following a depth charge attack, the submarine sank with all hands.14 But the I-123 and I-124 had already planted the seeds of their revenge.
Whether the Flier was brought down by a mine laid early in the war or one placed later is unclear. According to Eugene McGee, it is more likely that the Flier struck one of the 600 deep-sea contact mines laid in March 1944. The Japanese minelayer Tsugaru, attached to the Third Southern Expeditionary Force, departed Palau on 24 March to carry out operations in the Balabac Strait area. It was laying type 93, model 1 mines, which could be placed in water up to 3,500 feet deep and could be set to explode at depths up to 230 feet. Each mine was housed in a floating case and anchored below the surface by a cable attached to the seabed. This type of mine presented a menace that the U.S. Navy was apparently unaware of at the time. The navy believed that moored mines were ineffective in water more than 600 feet deep. Coincidentally, the Tsugaru also found a watery grave. The same USS Darter that later grounded on Bombay Shoal torpedoed the Tsugaru on 29 June 1944 in the Molucca Sea, about 720 miles from Balabac Strait.15
As a mode of naval warfare, the use of mines can be traced back to the American Revolution, when they were essentially kegs stuffed with explosives. David Bushnell not only created the first fully functional submarine but also carried out early experiments with naval mines. On 13 August 1777, exactly 167 years before the sinking of the Flier, one of Bushnell's mines was launched against the British frigate Cerberus, sinking a nearby schooner instead of the intended target.16
By the time of the American Civil War, mines were being used on a fairly large scale. Barrels floating just below the surface could be fitted with contact fuses or wired to be detonated by an electrical current from shore. Sometimes they were simply towed behind ships. World War I saw the first experiments involving the deployment of mines from submarines, and German U-boats planted minefields around the British Isles with considerable success. By World War II mines had become more sophisticated. Some used electronic detectors that could respond to magnetic, pressure, or acoustic changes when ships came within range.
It is estimated that more than half a million mines were laid by submarines of all nationalities during the war. On the American side, the huge Argonaut was the only submarine specifically built for mine laying. The Argonaut could accommodate up to sixty Mark 11 mines, laying them through two tubes in the stern. Other U.S. submarines were regularly employed for mine laying or, more accurately, mine firing. Fleet submarines could eject mines from their torpedo tubes in the same way they fired torpedoes. The standard U.S. mine, the Mark 12, was twenty-one inches in diameter (the same as a torpedo) and eight feet long. A submarine could carry up to forty of these mines. Each one contained 1,200 pounds of TNT and had a delay mechanism that prevented it from arming too near the submarine that deployed it. Even so, there was always the danger of a mine going off prematurely. Each mine also had a heavy anchor at one end, which made loading them into torpedo tubes backbreaking work. These factors, along with a general feeling that submarines were best used in direct attacks on Japanese shipping, made mine laying unpopular among American crews. Lockwood professed, “Mining is something which I want to do only when the supply of torpedoes is running low.”17
As a weapon of war, one of the advantages of mines was their relatively low cost; they were sometimes referred to as the “poor man's navy.” Their effectiveness, however, was questionable. It is estimated that the Japanese deployed more than 50,000 mines in the western Pacific, but some of their best “hits” were their own ships. According to one claim, submarines of the U.S. Seventh Fleet deployed about 600 mines that sank or damaged more than fifty ships. According to W. J. Holmes, however, fewer than thirty of those ships were Japanese. In any case, mines offered other tactical advantages. They deterred enemy ships from entering certain waters, delayed shipping by compelling vessels to use alternative routes, and caused the diversion of ships and manpower for minesweeping operations. In fact, the Imperial Japanese Navy employed some 350 craft and 25,000 men for minesweeping in 1945. The mining of coastal waters could also force ships into deeper water, where they were more vulnerable to attack by submarines.18
The question of how many U.S. submarines became the victims of Japanese mines is also open to much conjecture. Active measures known as deperming and degaussing were taken to make submarines less susceptible to magnetic mines and torpedoes. Deperming reduced the magnetism that ships acquired during construction; it was first employed in November 1940 on the submarine Sailfish. In addition, submarines regularly went through the process of degaussing to neutralize their magnetic signature.19 These measures may have been effective, but there were other types of mines that did not require a magnetic field to detonate.
Beginning in 1944 the Japanese increasingly relied on mines as an antisubmarine measure. It was not uncommon for American submarines on patrol to come across mines floating on the surface, torn from their moorings by storms. Although the Geneva conventions stipulated that unmoored mines were supposed to automatically disarm themselves, experience proved that this often was not the case. Submarine crews usually tried to explode these floating mines by shooting at them with the deck guns or small arms. During two patrols of the USS Atule, for example, the crew spotted fifty-two mines and managed to destroy forty-four. This could be dangerous work. The crew of the USS Dace was unable to detonate most of the mines they encountered, but when they did succeed in exploding one using the 20 mm gun, the shrapnel reached the deck. Floating mines remained a hazard well after the war and were blamed for damaging or sinking hundreds of ships. In fact, initial speculation was that the Russian submarine Kursk had hit a World War II mine, causing it to sink in August 2000.20
In addition to the Flier, it is commonly believed that as many as ten other American submarines were sunk by mines during World War II: USS Runner, USS Pompano, USS Capelin, USS Scorpion, USS Robalo, USS Escolar, USS Albacore, USS Swordfish, USS Kete, and USS Bonefish.21 Of these, the evidence for the sinking of the Albacore is most conclusive. A Japanese patrol boat witnessed the submarine's death throes on 7 November 1944 after the Albacore struck a mine while running submerged near Esan Misaki, off the south coast of Hokkaido. Such eyewitness accounts were a rarity, however. The presumed loss of the Scorpion to a mine in February 1944 was based mainly on captured Japanese records documenting the presence of extensive minefields where the submar
ine went missing. Interestingly, the Scorpion’s postwar nuclear namesake would also disappear under mysterious circumstances in 1968.22
Along with the dearth of survivors and other witnesses, one of the things that makes the cause of a submarine's loss so difficult to pin down is the sheer number of things that might go wrong. Even without the threat of enemy action, the potential for human error and equipment failure was enormous. For instance, on 11 September 1944 the USS Crevalle was nearly lost when it surfaced at high speed with its main vents open. This was a fairly common practice that allowed the submarine to dive again quickly if enemy aircraft were spotted. In this case, though, the Crevalle’s stern planes were jammed in the dive position. Seawater swamped through the upper hatch, and the submarine headed toward the bottom. Only the self-sacrifice of the officer on the bridge, Lieutenant Howard James Blind, who managed to close the conning tower hatch, prevented that dive from being the Crevalle’s last.23
Later that same month, the USS Narwhal found itself in a similar predicament. While evading an enemy plane, the Narwhal hurtled into a runaway dive when the stern planes seized up. The submarine's downward momentum was finally stopped at 300 feet after blowing all the main ballast and backing the engines at emergency speed. Such out-of-control dives—so-called Nantucket sleigh rides—occurred with alarming regularity.24 Many submariners had similar near-death experiences.
Of the presumed victims of enemy mines, the fate of the USS Robalo is especially pertinent to the loss of the Flier. Although the details were unknown at the time, the Robalo was lost two miles off the west coast of Palawan Island near Balabac Strait on 26 July 1944, only a few weeks before the sinking of the Flier. Earlier, while on its second war patrol, the Robalo had already suffered an experience similar to that of the Crevalle and the Narwhal. In that incident, a Japanese plane dropped a bomb off the Robalo’s port side as it dived for cover. The submarine's main induction began flooding, and the Robalo plunged out of control to 350 feet before regaining equilibrium.25
The Robalo departed Fremantle for its third war patrol on 22 June 1944. While traveling from Pearl Harbor to Fremantle, the Flier apparently crossed paths with the Robalo on 30 June. At about 3:00 A.M. the Flier’s radar picked up a craft at 7,500 yards, and the crew went to battle stations. On closer inspection the radar operator became convinced that the vessel was an American submarine, and later information led to the conclusion that it had been the USS Robalo.26
The last message from the Robalo was received on 2 July, when it reported sighting a Japanese battleship with escorts. Eventually it would be learned that the Robalo sank on 26 July, with the loss of seventy-four men. Four of the crew managed to swim two miles to the west coast of Palawan Island. They made their way through the jungle only to be captured by Japanese military police and taken to the infamous Puerto Princesa prison camp. On 2 August the Robalo survivors threw a note from their cell to a prison work detail. The note, which included their names and the Robalo’s designation number (SS-273), eventually ended up in the hands of guerrillas. On 15 August the four men from the Robalo were put on a Japanese patrol boat or destroyer, after which their fate is uncertain.27 The Robalo crewmen believed that their submarine had gone down as a result of a battery explosion. Most commentators, however, believe that it is more likely that the Robalo struck a mine. The fates of both the Robalo and the Flier support this theory.
Contrary to most other submarine disasters, there was only one officer among the Robalo’s survivors, Ensign Samuel L. Tucker. The skipper, Manning M. Kimmel, had been given command of the Robalo on 29 March 1944. He was the eldest son of Admiral Husband E. Kimmel, who, as commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet in 1941, had received much of the blame for the devastation at Pearl Harbor. At President Franklin Roosevelt's direction, Admiral Kimmel had been relieved of all naval duties on 17 December 1941 and replaced by Admiral Chester Nimitz. Some, including Ralph Christie, thought that his father's notoriety prompted Manning Kimmel to be overly aggressive in his submarine patrols. After confirmation of the Robalo’s loss, Christie wrote to Vice Admiral Thomas C. Kinkaid and noted in a postscript: “We had the impression that Manning was a little extra aggressive because of his Dad's P.H. experience. In fact, I warned him not to ‘press.’”28 In the end, though, it was probably not Kimmel's aggression or recklessness that sank the Robalo but simply bad luck.
11
Black Water
Immediately after the Flier sank, the survivors began to gather in the water. In the dark they shouted out their names, and fourteen men were accounted for. The ocean was mercifully warm, with a relatively low swell of about two feet. There was an oil slick, however, that discouraged them from opening their eyes or mouths. The oil clung noxiously to exposed body parts, but later this may have offered some protection from the tropical sun.1 Alvin Jacobson, recalling his lifesaving training, stripped down to his underwear (though he later considered this a mistake). He decided to keep the binoculars that hung around his neck, since they practically floated on their own.2
According to executive officer James Liddell, who was interviewed in October 1944, he and John Crowley discussed a plan of action and decided to head for the nearest island. However, Crowley's various accounts differ from both Liddell's version and each other in some respects. According to Crowley's survival report, although Comiran Island was the nearest land, at an estimated three and a half miles away, they believed that Japanese soldiers were garrisoned there. Rather than risk capture, they decided to head for coral islands to the northwest. In contrast, in an account published in 1981, Crowley indicated that without stars or moonlight to guide them, it was futile to set off for land, and they agreed to tread water until the anticipated moonrise.3
Whatever the case, the survivors made little headway in the almost pitch-black conditions. Crowley later told a news conference, “You couldn't see three feet in front of you.”4 Occasionally a flash of lightning and a break in the clouds afforded a glimpse of land, but Crowley and Liddell agreed that they probably spent much of the night swimming in circles. Liddell noted, “I think we swam back and forth through that oil slick several times before moonrise.”5 The relatively warm water at least reduced the risk of hypothermia. Studies of rescues during the war indicated that in temperatures below forty degrees Fahrenheit, survival time in the water could be only a matter of minutes. Even at temperatures of sixty degrees, men were unlikely to survive more than five hours.6
By the time the moon afforded some light at approximately 3:00 A.M., a number of men had already disappeared into the black water. An early casualty was Edgar Walker Hudson, chief motor machinist's mate from Dickson, Tennessee. Among those who eventually reached land was Arthur Gibson Howell, originally from East Moriches, New York. Howell was the Flier’s chief radio technician, and Crowley had singled him out on the previous patrol for his excellent work with the radar system. As Howell later described the events, he tried to assist Ensign Philip Stanley Mayer, but Mayer lost consciousness after about twenty minutes in the water. Howell had to let him go, and he believed that Mayer sank below the surface.7
Not long after Mayer lost consciousness, Lieutenant Paul Knapp, the Flier’s third officer and engineer, became separated from the group. A 1942 graduate of the Naval Academy, Knapp had impressed Crowley on the first patrol by his calmness under pressure. Liddell described him as “one of the finest naval officers I have ever been associated with.”8 Knapp was also popular with the crew; Earl Baumgart characterized him as “a likeable guy, and a person you could easily communicate with.”9 Knapp had been on the bridge at the time of the explosion. Although he was initially spotted in the water, he would not be seen or heard from again.
Despite their experience at Midway, none of the men in the water wore life preservers. As noted earlier, submariners did not wear them as a matter of routine—perhaps because they would rather not even contemplate the possibility of ending up overboard. Another explanation is that it would have been bad for morale if onl
y the crew on deck were wearing life preservers.10 In any case, apart from oil, the only things that surfaced from the Flier were baseball-size chunks of cork. Men who came across these pieces of cork put them in their pockets for added buoyancy.11
Crowley had gained some notoriety at the Naval Academy for his lack of swimming ability. But fortunately for him, passing a swimming test was a requirement for graduation, and cadets who were considered below-par swimmers had to spend additional time in training and received instruction in how to survive in the water. It was a policy that probably saved many lives during the war.12 Even so, Crowley was the oldest in the group, and he had to swim slowly, often floating so that he could rest.
Chief Charles Pope, the sonar operator, had been in the conning tower when the Flier went down. After about two hours in the water, Pope asked Liddell how much farther they would have to swim. Trying to sound optimistic, Liddell told him about nine miles. Pope replied, “To hell with this,” and he stopped swimming. Most of the men who never made it to land simply swam silently to one side of the group, never to be seen again. The more or less calm decision to end their own lives after hours in the water was not unusual. In depositions from survivors, some of those who nearly drowned told of entering a euphoric or delirious state in which the thought of death did not distress them.13
Meanwhile, Liddell tried to cope with cramps in his legs. He would pinch the muscles as hard as he could to dispel the pain. Jacobson fought to keep himself awake. To cope with fatigue he constantly rotated his swimming technique, changing from sidestroke to backstroke to breaststroke. He found that his breaststroke was most effective.14
After four or five hours in the water, Lieutenant John Edward Casey, gunnery and torpedo officer, dropped out. He had been on the bridge at the time of the explosion, which had partially blinded him. Like Knapp, Casey had graduated from the Naval Academy in 1942, and the Flier was his first submarine duty. Liddell described the native of Philadelphia as “a quiet, rather tall, good-looking boy.”15 Unable to see properly or swim on his stomach, Casey frequently veered away from the group and would have to be called back. Howell was among those who assisted Casey. He stated: “I helped him until I could do no more, and then had to tell him that I was sorry but I could do nothing more. I had to watch him sink beneath the water. He put himself in God's keeping and went down without a struggle.”16 Crowley, however, believed that it had been too dark for Howell to see Casey's final moments.
The USS Flier Page 8