Such confusion about the fate of the crew was not uncommon. In other submarine tragedies, relatives sometimes learned of the loss of their loved ones through media reports. For instance, the wife of Earle Caffrey “Penrod” Schneider, commander of the Dorado, first heard the news of her husband's death on the radio. At the time, she was driving cross-country with her young son from New London to meet her husband on the West Coast.3 Alice Allyn Grenkowicz, married to a Darter crew member, heard on the radio that his submarine had run aground, but it was a month later when she finally learned that her husband was unharmed; she continued to suffer anxiety attacks for the rest of the war. Many relatives had to rely on individual initiative to find out what had happened to their loved ones. Ann Cottongin, after hearing that the USS Darter had been lost at sea with her husband, wrote to her congressman to find out the fate of the crew.4 Miscommunication and misinformation would remain features of naval disasters throughout the war.
Even at the best of times, communication with family could be difficult. Submariners who wanted to telephone loved ones from Pearl Harbor had to make an advance application, including any names and places likely to be mentioned in the conversation. Eventually regulations banned them from telephoning altogether.5 Some submariners wrote to their wives or other family members on a daily basis, but their letters could not be mailed—and none received—until they were in port. The American military machine recognized that efficient mail service was a central element of morale, but letters often arrived sporadically and were invariably censored. There was also a degree of self-censorship, in that those writing home often tried to minimize the risks they faced.6
Only recently, with the advent of e-mail, have submariners been able to communicate regularly with their families. Even so, being married to a submariner continues to be emotionally draining, with each prolonged absence capable of eliciting a “grief response.”7 During World War II the wives of submariners typically returned home to live with their parents or tried to find accommodations near a major port. The sense of separation could be especially acute for newlyweds. William Godfrey met his wife while assigned to a newly constructed submarine at Manitowoc, Wisconsin; they married after a whirlwind courtship. Only after arriving at Fremantle did Godfrey learn that he was the father of a daughter—some two months after her birth.8 Betty Thomson recalled that many of the Americans she met at the Red Cross club in Perth were homesick. One submariner talked incessantly about his family and cried when he received news that his wife had had a baby.9
Some couples worked out their own codes for evading censorship. A motor machinist's mate from USS Dace, for example, wrote to his wife that “Pa and Ma are doing fine” to let her know that he was in Panama.10 Some submariners were able to communicate with their families through friends they made in Australia. Norma Black Royle recalled that two sailors from the USS Swordfish often visited her home in Perth. Since personal letters were not censored, her mother wrote to the sailors’ mothers back in Kentucky to let them know that their sons were safe and well. Royle said that when they received a letter from the sister of one of the submariners, informing them that the Swordfish had been lost at sea, “the news shattered us.”11
The wives of submarine officers constituted another informal network for disseminating news on the fate of loved ones. These women often formed close bonds. So when Slade Cutter's former executive officer, Willis Manning “Tommy” Thomas, was lost with the Pompano, Cutter alerted his wife, who was living at Vallejo, California. Cutter's wife, Frannie, was thus prepared to comfort Thomas's widow when the bad news came.12
Those higher up in the navy hierarchy or those related to particularly esteemed personnel were often privy to more information. Following the loss of the USS Harder, Charles Lockwood wrote personally to Sam Dealey's mother, concluding, “my entire Command extends its deepest sympathy to you, to his wife and children, in your sorrow.”13 Admiral Chester Nimitz wrote to Dealey's uncle, Dallas newspaper editor George Bannerman Dealey. Nimitz's letter emphasized Dealey's excellent patrol record and alluded to the possibility of a Medal of Honor. He also tried to offer a measure of closure: “I cannot honestly encourage you to believe that he escaped the destruction of his ship, for, as you know, survivors from missing submarines are very few.”14
After hearing the news of the Robalo’s loss, Admiral Ernest King personally arranged for Husband Kimmel, still enduring the investigation into his role in the attack on Pearl Harbor, to be flown to New York so that he could be with his wife as they awaited word about their son, Manning. Kimmel's other son, Thomas, was relieved from submarine duty and sent back to a desk job in Washington, D.C. Ralph Christie would later receive some ultra intelligence suggesting that Manning Kimmel had survived, and he discussed the matter with Tom Kimmel, who decided that the information was too indefinite to pass on to his parents.15
In a letter dated 14 December 1944, John Crowley wrote to the Casualties Section of the Bureau of Naval Personnel indicating that he had been “deluged” with letters from the crew's relatives wanting to know the particulars of the Flier’s loss. He also forwarded to the bureau, for its approval, a draft of a letter that he proposed to send to the relatives; five days later he received a telephone call giving him official clearance to do so. In the letter, Crowley told of the explosion that sank the Flier and briefly outlined the fate of those who had managed to swim to land. He held out some hope of other survivors, stating, “It is possible that some members of the crew may have escaped later from undamaged compartments.” He concluded: “I feel that it was a miraculous chain of circumstances that permitted any of us to return, and inasmuch as the will of the Almighty is beyond human understanding, I can only join with you in the hope that in some way your prayers for [relative's name]’s safe return may be answered.”16
The hope held out by Crowley may have tempered the shock and sense of loss experienced by the families. Details about the Flier’s loss also lent an air of reality, if not finality, to the deaths of husbands, sons, and brothers, in the absence of bodies and funerals. It was not until January 1946, however, that those who went down with the Flier were officially designated “dead” as opposed to “missing in action.” In part, this was done on compassionate grounds, since it allowed the wives to continue receiving their husbands’ pay, which otherwise would have been terminated.17
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, created at Arlington National Cemetery after World War I, provided a place of mourning for the families of those who died on the battlefield and whose bodies were never recovered. Many bereaved wives and mothers actually convinced themselves that the interred body was in fact their husband or son.18 But even this illusion was denied to the relatives of submariners. In the tradition of the sea, victims remained interred in their wrecks, often at unknown locations. The absence of a body or grave site made any sense of closure extremely difficult.19
Relatives could cling to the hope that their loved ones might turn up at a hospital or a prison camp. Even fellow submariners were not immune to such fantasies. For instance, after hearing that the USS Barbel had gone down with his former Naval Academy roommate and good friend Layton Goodman, Paul Schratz consoled himself that Goodman might have made it to an island.20 And occasionally, such hopes were realized. Some survivors from the USS Tang returned to the United States after being declared killed in action.21
With no direct evidence of death, there often came denial. As late as November 1947, Crowley advised the Casualties Section that he was still receiving correspondence from the widow of Lieutenant Paul Knapp. She insisted on knowing the exact location where the Flier had gone down. Crowley promised that he would send her a map with the position marked, but the Bureau of Personnel vetoed this as “inadvisable.” On 19 November 1947 the bureau wrote to Mrs. Knapp, telling her that although it was “impracticable” to send her a chart, it would provide the estimated coordinates of the submarine's sinking.22
Those left to mourn the dead included not only wives, parent
s, and siblings but also children. Some of the crew on the Flier had infants they had never seen or held. One of them—Walter Edward Dorricott Jr. of Philadelphia—had completed his training at the Submarine School in January 1944 and served on the Flier as yeoman second class. When officially declared dead in 1946, he left not only a widow, Barbara Maynard Dorricott, but also a seventeen-month-old son he had never laid eyes on.23
Epilogue
John Crowley's career survived two formal inquiries, and before the war was over, he was given command of another brand-new submarine. Crowley took charge of the USS Irex (SS-482), launched on 26 January 1945 and commissioned on 14 May 1945. The Irex was one of twenty-five new Tench class submarines built between 1944 and 1946. These submarines represented a further evolution of the American fleet boat, with a reduced silhouette, better internal layout, and improved machinery. With stronger hulls, the Tench class had a test depth of more than 400 feet. Eventually the Irex became the first U.S. submarine fitted with a snorkel, allowing it to use its diesel engines while submerged.
James Liddell continued as Crowley's executive officer on the Irex. For the superstitious or the wary (a high proportion of submariners), the two men's history with the Flier might be seen as either a bad omen or a lucky charm. Like aviators and bomber crews, those on submarine duty were especially alert to any signs that might alter their odds of survival. Given the Flier’s fate, at least one Irex crew member requested a transfer, only to have it denied. In any case, the Irex would never see combat. The submarine sailed for the Pacific, but the war ended as it was taking on supplies in the Panama Canal Zone. The Irex returned to Key West, Florida, to join Submarine Squadron Four.
Even without the threat of Japanese antisubmarine measures, however, the Irex would experience some harrowing moments. During a training dive off Key West, the submarine faced imminent disaster when, already approaching its test depth, seawater began spraying into the maneuvering room. It was later discovered that a three-quarter-inch plug had blown out of the circulating water system. The high-pressure water knocked out the control panel for the lighting and electrical indicators, and the diving planes jammed into a steep dive, taking the Irex below its design depth. Fortunately, Crowley immediately recognized the problem and ordered the crew to “blow the negative” and change the planes. The submarine finally nosed toward the surface.1
In January 1946 Norvell G. Ward replaced Crowley as skipper of the Irex. At the same time, both Crowley and Ward were awarded the Legion of Merit Medal. Ward received the award for his sixth war patrol in command of the USS Guardfish. Crowley's award, however, was described by the New London Day as “most unusual.” The citation referred not to his heroic submarine exploits but to his survival after the loss of the Flier.2 Crowley remained in the navy until 31 March 1961, holding a number of administrative positions, including fleet operations officer and deputy chief of staff to the commander of the Seventh Fleet during the Korean War.3
Even for those submariners who left the service at the end of the war, their wartime experiences were never far away. Many remained active in submarine veterans groups, attended reunions, and kept in touch with former crewmates. An enduring spirit of camaraderie served as both a compensation for and a reminder of the dangers faced in war.4
Among those who attended reunions of the USS Redfin crew was Carlos Placido, one of the American coast watchers who had helped organize the evacuation of the Flier survivors. On 29 September 1945 Placido and his fellow coast watchers were awarded Bronze Stars for their efforts. After the war Placido returned to his bakery business in Laguna Beach, California. He retired in 1982 and died of cancer on 10 November 2000 at the age of ninety-four.5
After the war the Redfin’s skipper, Marshall “Cy” Austin, commanded other submarines, as well as the Submarine School in New London. Like Crowley, he retired from the navy in 1961. He continued working for civilian defense industries and even acted as a consultant for the Hollywood film Ice Station Zebra. After surviving two earlier bouts of cancer, Austin died of heart failure on 19 July 2005, at age ninety-four. As it happened, Austin's fellow sub skipper, Norvell G. Ward, also died of heart failure the same day.6
John Crowley made little effort to keep in touch with the surviving Flier crew after the war, perhaps feeling that it was better to let some memories slip away. The Flier survivors only rarely corresponded with one another, and there would be only one reunion, at Annapolis in 1994, fifty years after the Flier’s loss.7
Earl Baumgart would later work to obtain a posthumous award for James Francis P. Cahl, the shipmate who had drowned after being washed overboard at Midway. Baumgart felt aggrieved that Cahl's family had received only a letter of condolence for his loss. Partly due to Baumgart's efforts, Cahl's name would be included on a waterfront memorial at the USS Bowfin Submarine Park honoring submariners lost during World War II.8
When the war ended, Alvin Jacobson was at the Panama Canal with the USS Ling, on his way back to the Pacific. Discharged from the navy six months later, Jacobson joined his father's brass foundry in Grand Haven, Michigan. He would later become director of the company, with responsibility for hundreds of employees. He married at age thirty-three and fathered two sons and a daughter. He retired at age seventy, and at this writing, he is the only living survivor from the USS Flier.9
Eventually fishermen in Balabac Strait claimed that they had located the hulk of the Flier in waters about 360 feet deep. To date, the wreck remains unexplored. An underwater survey might be able to confirm whether the Flier hit a mine and determine the extent of the damage caused. The question that remained uppermost in Jacobson's mind, however, was whether the escape hatches over the forward and aft torpedo rooms were open. Had men remained alive in the sunken submarine?
In May 1998, fifty-four years after the most harrowing events of his life, Jacobson made a pilgrimage to the spot where the Flier went down. Accompanied by his son Steve, he retraced the route the survivors had taken to Brooke's Point. They also visited Puerto Princesa and the site of the Japanese massacre of POWs. On Bugsuk Island they found the water cistern the survivors had drunk from more than half a century earlier. Most things had changed, however. The once sparsely populated area of Brooke's Point had become a town of 40,000 people. What had not changed was the emotion that welled up as Jacobson stood on the bow of a ship sailing over the site of the USS Flier’s final resting place.
Notes
Abbreviations
CBC Clay Blair Collection, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming, Laramie
JAG Judge Advocate General, Department of the Navy, Washington, D.C.
NARA National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, Maryland
SFM Submarine Force Museum, Groton, Connecticut
UBSM USS Bowfin Submarine Museum, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
Prologue
1. T. O. Paine, The Transpacific Voyage of His Imperial Japanese Majesty's Submarine I-400 (Tom Paine's Journal, July–Dec. 1945) (self-published, 1984), 7–8.
2. Ernest J. King and Walter Muir Whitehill, Fleet Admiral King: A Naval Record (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1953), 392–93.
1. The Aleutians
1. Thomas Parrish, The Submarine: A History (London: Viking Penguin, 2004), 337. See also David Jones and Peter Nunan, U.S. Subs Down Under: Brisbane, 1942–1945 (Annapolis, Md.: Naval Institute Press, 2005), 27; Dan Van Der Vat, Stealth at Sea: The History of the Submarine (London: Orion, 1995), 170; Stuart S. Murray, The Reminiscences of Admiral Stuart S. Murray (1974; reprint, Annapolis, Md.: U.S. Naval Institute, 2001), 86.
2. J. D. Crowley file, UBSM.
3. Biographical files on Captain John D. Crowley, Naval Historical Center, Washington Navy Yard, Washington, D.C.; Skippers of U.S. World War II Pacific Ocean Submarine Patrols—John Daniel Crowley, box 67, folder 2, CBC; John D. Crowley Military Personnel Records, National Personnel Records Center, St. Louis, Mo.
4. W. J. Holmes, Undersea Victory: The Influence of Submarine Opera
tions on the War in the Pacific (New York: Doubleday, 1966), 34.
5. Stephen Budiansky, Battle of Wits: The Complete Story of Codebreaking in World War II (London: Viking, 2000), 3; Edwin T. Layton, “And I Was There”: Pearl Harbor and Midway—Breaking the Secrets (1985; reprint, Annapolis, Md.: Naval Institute Press, 2006), 385.
6. Foster Hailey, Pacific Battle Line (New York: Macmillan, 1944), 331.
7. John Crowley, narrative recorded at Pearl Harbor, 2 October 1944, box 67, folder 2, CBC (hereafter, Crowley narrative); USS S-28 First War Patrol Report, 20 May, 2 June, 18 June 1942, UBSM.
8. Crowley narrative; Harry Holmes, The Last Patrol (Annapolis, Md.: Naval Institute Press, 1994), 25.
9. USS S-28 First War Patrol Report, Health and Habitability.
10. See Fleet Type Submarine Online, http://www.maritime.org/ fleetsub/index.htm (accessed 13 December 2005).
11. USS S-28 Second War Patrol Report, UBSM. See also USS Wahoo Fourth War Patrol Report, Major Defects, in U.S.S. Wahoo (SS-238) American Submarine War Patrol Reports, ed. J. T. McDaniel (Riverdale, Ga.: Riverdale Books, 2003), 86.
12. USS S-28 Third War Patrol Report, UBSM.
13. Quoted in Jones and Nunan, Subs Down Under, 49.
The USS Flier Page 15