DIVING THE GHOST FLEET
I traveled to Bikini as part of Dan Lenihan’s National Park Service team in 1989 and 1990. Lenihan, Larry Nordby, Larry Murphy, Jerry Livingston and I were the first to visit most of the wrecks since Operation Crossroads, and we were undertaking the survey at the request of the U.S. Department of Energy and the Bikini Council. The Bikinians, in their exile on the remote island of Kili, far away from their contaminated homeland, were eager to work with the Department of Energy to see if the sunken “swords” could be transformed into tourism plowshares. The National Park Service had the government’s only team of diving archeologists at the time, and our park-oriented approach was not at odds with tourism. Since I was the NPS maritime historian, I easily wrangled my way onto Dan’s crew. As well, my proximity to the National Archives and my love of research meant that I could do advance work to learn about the history of the ships and the tests, and thus help the team to figure out just what we would be seeing in the blue depths of Bikini lagoon.
In 1989 the U.S. Navy did a magnificent job of surveying the lagoon’s 180-foot depths to relocate the sunken ships of 1946. There was no chart documenting the location of the wrecks, so the Navy started with nothing but the generally known location of the aircraft carrier USS Saratoga, whose mast rose to within 50 feet of the surface and whose grave is marked by oil leaking from its fuel tanks. Our first dive at Bikini was on Saratoga.
Anchored over the wreck of USS Saratoga, we bob in the slight swell as each diver checks his gear under the blazing hot sun. Rolling backward into the water is a welcome relief. Clustered together like a group of skydivers, we fall in unison onto Saratoga. The carrier is huge, its 900-foot length the largest thing I have yet seen underwater. The superstructure towers above the flight deck, and in the clear water, it feels as if we are flying down the side of a tall building. Open hatches and deadlights invite inspection, but for now, we focus on the gaping maw on the hangar deck. Landing on the flight deck, we pause, and then one by one, drop down farther into the hangar. The flight elevator, bent and collapsed, lies at the bottom of the huge shaft. I turn left and head into the dark cavern of the hangar, following Dan and Murphy’s lights.
Lying on the deck is a rack of 500-pound bombs. Wedged beneath their noses is a smaller depth bomb. I suck in a little more air and, inflating my lungs, float just a little higher to avoid going near them. The deck below me is covered with silt, and I try not to stir it up. In the distance, I notice that Dan and Murphy’s lights have stopped moving. As I swim up, I see why. They have halted at a plane. Sitting upright on its wheels, wings folded up for storage, is a Helldiver, a dive bomber introduced late in the war. The cockpit is open and the gauges on the pilot’s panel are clearly visible. The plane is ready to roll out onto the
James Delgado and Dan Lenihan drop down to the wreck of USS Saratoga at Bikini Atoll. © Bill Curtsinger
elevator, rise to the flight deck and be readied for combat. If that is not exciting enough, there are two more intact planes in a row behind the Helldiver. Saratoga carried planes on the deck and in the hangar when the atomic blast sank her on July 25, 1946. Since the flight deck above us is largely empty, the survival of these planes in the hangar is something we had not envisioned. Rather, we had figured that being picked up and flung across the water by a nuclear tidal wave had smashed everything inside Saratoga. Not so, and as if to underscore this fact, Dan floats up to a row of unbroken light fixtures.
We move on to a hole punched through the flight deck. Rising up through the hole, we pass scattered equipment lying on the deck and look for the lines dangling from our dive boat. We hang there, above the wreck, decompressing to quiet down the gas in our blood and prevent the bends. We are many miles away from a decompression chamber, so we’re being careful to avoid a dive accident that could cripple or kill us. Bikini is a challenging dive location, to be sure. There are the unexploded bombs, and the fear of residual radiation. And there are the risks of entering rusting hulks that might collapse on us. In addition, the ships are artificial reefs that attract hundreds of potentially aggressive white tip sharks. Then there’s the greatest danger, the depth. The wrecks lie on the bottom of a 180-foot-deep lagoon, with the shallowest depth at Saratoga’s multistory hull as it rises up from the seabed. These are beyond the limits for most divers, particularly when using regular air and not a mixed gas. In 1989–90, our team breathes regular air, all that is available at our remote location, and we decompress with pure oxygen to scrub our blood clear of the nitrogen bubbles that build up on long dives.
Thankfully, no one gets the bends, though we have a few close calls. One dive team member runs out of air and nearly panics until another diver assists with a spare regulator from his tank. A few days later, I carelessly go too far, fascinated by a deck full of test equipment, and turn back dangerously low on air. I make it back to the decompression line with an empty tank and the reminder that as fascinating as wrecks are, you can’t appreciate them when you’re dead.
Fortunately, the bombs turn out to be no danger at all. A Navy team disarms a bomb that looks menacing, and later I learn from the archives that the bombs carried by Saratoga were filled with plaster, not explosives. If marine growth and corrosion had not covered the bombs, we might have seen the stenciled message that I find on the photos of the tests—rows of big bombs marked “INERT.” But the sharks can be aggressive, as we discover when we get too close. They are not “Jaws” size, but they can still tear out a big chunk of flesh, so we usually avoid them. One day, a shark gets too close, but I lash out and punch him in the gills, a sensitive spot. It hurts and he backs off—as do I. Another time, a shark swims by and rips into a fish, tearing it in two. He glares at me, half a fish dangling from his mouth, as if he’s daring me to try and take it. “No, go ahead,” I mumble in my regulator. “It’s your fish.”
The only other close call on Saratoga comes years later, on a dive with Fabio Amaral, as we probe a passageway inside the wreck during a Discovery Channel filming expedition. Dropping down Saratoga’s small bomb elevator, we make our way to a hatch that we are able to squeeze through, into a long corridor running off into the darkness. Fabio has been here before and laid down a line to guide us back should the silt stir up. We follow the line to deep inside Saratoga. More than halfway down, we stop in alarm at the sound of a loud bang behind us. When I look back, my lights pick up a wall of silt racing towards us. Fabio and I grab each other by the shoulder and go mask to mask as the silt washes over us, blacking out the corridor. The powerful glow of our lights is useless in the turbid, muddy water. Holding my light up to my face, I can just make out Fabio’s eyes, wide open and doubtless a mirror of my own fear. Dive training takes over, though, and we grope for the line. Slowly tracing it with our fingers, we move back until we reach a mass of fallen rusty steel. The deck above us has collapsed, burying the line and probably trapping us inside the sunken ship.
Then we both get an inspiration. The deck above us has fallen down, but that means another corridor has opened up. We slowly rise up out of the cloudy silt and find ourselves in a murky but clearer passageway. Following it, we come up to a sealed hatch that must lead into the bomb elevator. Straining against rusty hinges, we push it open to find ourselves floating above a mess of bombs at the bottom of the elevator. After a “thumbs up” sign, we swim straight up and out, breathing a sigh of relief.
Larry Murphy approaching the wreck of the Japanese warship Nagato at Bikini Atoll. Dan Lenihan, National Park Service
The thrills of a close escape, however, do not compare with the emotional impact of looking at these historic ships and the dramatic damage wrought by the atomic bomb. Saratoga has a huge dent in the flight deck caused by the falling column of water and silt thrown out of the lagoon by the bomb. It’s just one dent, but it’s a big one: 230 feet long, 70 feet wide and 20 feet deep. It looks like Godzilla stomped on the flight deck. The battleship Arkansas, a quarter mile away, is in even worse shape. The armored hull is u
pside down, warped and smashed nearly flat. A hundred feet of superstructure, masts and turrets lie buried in the coral sand, with only several feet of clearance between the main deck and the seabed. The force of the blast flipped and smashed Arkansas, then hammered her down with such violence that she is nearly one with the bottom of the lagoon. The attack transport Gilliam is something else altogether. Caught in an atomic fireball and swept by extreme temperatures equal to those on the surface of the sun, the ship has partially melted. It looks like a child’s plastic toy left out on a hot sidewalk, thick steel drooping and deformed. A bulldozer from the ship’s deck, tossed off by the blast, lies nearby with its thick blade twisted into an “S” by the heat.
On our first dive on the massive Japanese battleship Nagato, Lenihan, Nordby, Murphy, Livingston and I realize that we’re the first to visit her since the 1940s. We swim around the stern, past the huge bronze propellers that are surrounded by a swarm of sharks. Dan Lenihan and I drop down to the seabed and slip under the overhang of the stern to make our way in the gloom towards the barrels of the aft gun turret. As we hover in front of the gun muzzles, we both think of our dives at Pearl Harbor. Japanese ordnance experts modified some of the 16-inch shells from Nagato’s magazines into the aerial bombs dropped at Pearl. One of the bombs punched through Arizona’s decks and set off the magazine explosions that destroyed her. I can’t help think that this is a full circle for us, particularly Dan, who has worked very hard to document Arizona and bring more of her story to the public.
That full circle feeling comes back on a later dive that we start aft from Nagato’s bow. As I slip out from under the deck, my eyes catch something ahead in the gloom. Dan and Murphy also see it, and we all swim forward at a fast clip. The entire superstructure of the ship, instead of being crushed like that of Arkansas, is laid out on the white sand. It’s the bridge; it’s the bridge of Nagato, where Admiral Yamamoto heard the radio message that the attack on Pearl Harbor was successful: “Torn, tora, torn!” It’s incredible. Sometimes, science be damned, you just get excited by what you find.
My last dive at Bikini Atoll takes place a decade after the National Park Service survey. With John Brooks, a former NPS colleague, and Len Blix, the assistant dive master at Bikini, I drop down to look at the destroyer Anderson. (Since our 1989–90 survey, Bikini has been opened to the world as a unique dive park for those with the skill and the cash to journey to what has been called the “Mount Everest of wreck diving.”) Anderson is a famous ship that fought in many battles, screening aircraft carriers in some of the greatest sea fights of the Pacific War, including the Coral Sea and Midway. She shelled Japanese shore installations at Tarawa and survived the war only to die beneath the dragon’s breath of the atomic bomb.
Anderson lies on her side in the dark blue gloom. We approach the stern, passing over a rack of depth charges that have tumbled free and lie scattered on the sand. The decks seem undamaged, except for a torpedo-launching rack that has fallen off. The bridge lies open, its hatches blasted off. When I look down into the bridge, the dark interior swarms with hundreds of small fish that have sought shelter inside this sunken warship. Moving forward, I see a subtle reminder of the power of the atom. One of the destroyer’s 5-inch guns has been twisted by the heat of the blast so that it points straight back to the bridge.
As I sail away from Bikini for the last time, I pause to reflect on all that I’ve seen there over the years. The crushed hulls, toppled masts and abandoned test instruments are material records that preserve the shocking reality of Operation Crossroads in a way that can never fully be matched by written accounts, photographs or even films of the tests. This ghost fleet is a powerful and evocative museum in the deep. It is a very relevant museum, too. Operation Crossroads and the nuclear age that followed have had and continue to have a direct effect on the lives of every living being on the planet. The empty bunkers and the abandoned homes of the Bikinians remind us of David Bradley’s 1948 comment that the islanders might not be the last “to be left homeless and impoverished by the inexorable Bomb. They have no choice in the matter, and very little understanding of it. But in this perhaps they are not so different from us all.” As I leave Bikini, I hope that it is a record of the past and not the harbinger of a terrible future.
CHAPTER FOUR
A CURSED SHIP
MUTINY ON THE USS SOMERS: NOVEMBER 26, 1842
On November 26, 1842, Captain Alexander Slidell Mackenzie of Somers adjusted his uniform and stepped forward to the young midshipman. “I learn, Mr. Spencer,” he quietly said, “that you aspire to the command of the Somers.”
Philip Spencer smiled slightly. “Oh, no, sir.”
“Did you not tell Mr. Wales, sir, that you had a project to kill the commander, the officers, and a considerable portion of the crew of this vessel, and convert her into a pirate?” Mackenzie pressed.
“I may have told him so, sir, but it was in joke.”
Mackenzie glared at the boy. “You admit then that you told him so?”
Spencer’s smile vanished. “Yes, sir, but in joke.”
“This, sir, is joking on a forbidden subject,” Mackenzie said. “This joke may cost you your life.” Now furious, he leaned forward. “You must have been aware that you could have only compassed your designs by passing over my dead body, and after that, the bodies of all the officers; you had given yourself, sir, a great deal to do; it will be necessary for me to confine you, sir.” Mackenzie turned quickly to First Lieutenant Guert Gansevoort. “Arrest Mr. Spencer, and put him in double irons.”
Soon, Spencer was sitting on the open deck next to the ship’s wheel, hands and feet manacled. Mackenzie and his officers searched the ship, looking for incriminating evidence and for co-conspirators. They found both, or so they believed. The first was a note, written in Greek, with the names of those said to be “certain” or “doubtful,” and those to be kept, “willing or unwilling.” The night before, Spencer had approached Purser’s Steward Josiah Wales to confide his plan, joke or not, and had alluded to a plan on paper hidden in his neckerchief. Wales, fearful and sleepless, had reported his conversation with Spencer and told about the paper. A search of Spencer failed to find it, but a hunt of his berth turned up the incriminating document. As for co-conspirators, several of the crew had acted sullenly or had expressed contempt for the captain—led by Spencer, who had from the start of the voyage called the captain a “damned old granny” behind his back.
Then, the next evening, there was an accident with the rigging and a rush aft by the crew to fix. The crew’s dash to the quarterdeck, stopped by Lieutenant Gansevoort, who cocked his pistol and aimed it at the advancing men, was taken by Mackenzie as evidence that Spencer’s fellow plotters were trying to free him. The following morning, Mackenzie arrested two more men: Boatswain’s Mate Samuel Cromwell and seaman Elisha Small. On November 29, four more men joined them in chains. Mackenzie, on a small, 100-foot vessel with a 120-member crew—an extremely crowded ship—faced a real problem. He had no safe place to keep his prisoners, and he was not sure that there were not more mutineers in the ranks. He asked his officers for their opinion. They interrogated members of the crew and offered their advice on November 30: execute Spencer, Cromwell and Small as punishment, and quickly, to re-establish control of the ship.
The following day, in the afternoon, Mackenzie mustered the crew on deck. Most of them were young boys, teenagers, on a training cruise as part of an experimental program to create seagoing schools instead of the rough-and-tumble, often sordid, world of the between decks of a man-of-war. Now these boys were getting a strong lesson on the Articles of War, the rules that regulated naval life, and on the consequences of defying the absolute authority of a captain and his officers. Spencer, Cromwell and Small, with hoods over their heads and nooses around their necks, stood on the deck. Mackenzie asked Spencer if he wanted, as an officer, to give the order to fire the cannon that would signal the crew to haul on the lines and hang them. Spencer had accepted, but now,
at the end, found that he could not.
The crewman at the cannon approached Mackenzie, saluted and said: “Mr. Spencer says he can not give the word; he wishes the commander to give the word himself.”
Mackenzie did not hesitate. “Fire!”
The gun roared, and the crew grabbed the lines and ran forward, hoisting three kicking bodies up the yardarm. There they struggled, slowly strangling, until life left them.
Mackenzie climbed up onto the trunk, the cover of the passageway leading below to the officer’s quarters. It was the highest spot on the deck. From there, he spoke to the assembled boys and men, reminding them of the dead men’s crimes and how all men were masters of their own fates, and not to follow the example of those three. He ended by pointing to the flag fluttering at the stern. “Stand by, to give three hearty cheers for the flag of our country.” Three cheers, and the crew went below to dinner. The bodies, lowered to the deck, were cleaned and prepared for burial. Cromwell and Small were lashed into their hammocks with weights. Spencer, dressed in his uniform, was laid in a wooden coffin made from two mess-chests. A sudden squall sprang up, covering the decks with rain. When it ended, the crew, called up from dinner, stood in ranks. Darkness had fallen, and battle lanterns illuminated the scene as Mackenzie led them in prayer. Then, one by one, the bodies splashed into the sea.
Adventures of a Sea Hunter Page 5