The Ramming of U.S. Submarine S4 page 3

1000 candle-power flashlights assisted the divers in their race against time - eighteen divers standing by in all. And at last they accomplished their object. An air line was fixed to the listening tube, and the taps were turned on from the boat above. At 10 p.m. on the Wednesday, 102 hours after the disaster, a stream of fresh air hissed into the forward compartment of the submarine.

But the struggle had been in vain. The poor brave men had lived in agony only to die. For days they had waited for life-giving air, and now that air - more of it than they would ever need - was hissing into the silence and darkness which enveloped their dead bodies. Or, if they were not already gone then, they died without recovering from the stupor into which they had fallen. By 11 a.m., Thursday, December 22nd, air had been pumped into the compartment continuously for 13 hours, but still no further sound was heard. Death had come to claim the last of the crew of S4.

The third and final stage of this tragic story is one of endless days and nights of heartbreaking work, and the knowledge of defeat. It began with the second of two grim entries in the Naval Records. Thirty-six of the occupants of S4 were recorded as having died on December 17th, the fateful day on which the boat sank. The last faint tappings having been heard late on the Tuesday night, the remaining six were presumed to have died on December 21st.

When it was realised finally that there was no longer any possibility of saving the last sparks of life in that terrible prison, the tension felt by the whole world seemed to relax. Horrible as it all was, at least it was over; and it remained now to complete the work of salvage, to extricate the two-score bodies, and to lay them decently to rest on their native shores. And so the work proceeded, mechanically and methodically now, without the necessity for frantic endeavour. On the shore a mile distant an ever-changing group of people stood, day after day, throughout the long weeks as the work went on. Even though the worst was known, it was impossible not to discuss the many things which might have happened. If only the weather had not broken up. If only it had been practicable to supply food, oxygen and water through the torpedo tubes. If only the men had been able to escape through those same tubes. Several years previously a naval officer had made a demonstration "escape" through a torpedo tube. Though warned that he was attempting something which was almost certain death, he emerged from the submarine Porpoise at the bottom of Cavite Harbour, in Honolulu, and arrived safely at the surface. He had suggested at the time of S4's sinking that therein lay a possible means of escape.

Provided that the tubes were level, and the outward openings clear, there would, he said, have been a reasonable chance. The operation depended upon the ability to get air from the compressed-air flasks, however, and more than likely the collision had upset this factor. Assuming that compressed air was available, and that the men were able to open the outer door of the tube, and able to drain it - then escape was feasible. But two must always remain, because, when the more fortunate ones had left, there would be no one to operate the mechanism. This and many other similar possibilities were the source of constant discussions on the shore, during the ensuing weeks; but dominating them all was the now useless cry, "If only the weather had stayed as it was when we found them." Or, "If only it had been as fine on that first Monday and Tuesday as it was on the Wednesday and Thursday, then we could have saved them all."

On January 4th, 1928, divers recovered three bodies from the engine-room aft, and President Goolidge immediately asked Congress for authorisation to appoint a separate commission of five members, three of them civil, to conduct an inquiry into the whole affair. There were many points to be cleared up in order to satisfy the public. During those days of terrible suspense many suggestions had been made - mainly by those in great distress, it is true, and by others who had no conception of the difficulties under which the rescuers were labouring - and it was important that such things should be laid to rest once and for all. For instance, it was asked, "Why did the Falcon steam away from the scene of the disaster one day, even while those men were facing such terrible deaths below?" But the truth, quite reasonably misunderstood at the time, was that yet another deed of mercy had to be performed. One of the divers engaged in rescue work had become entangled in the wreckage, and had only been saved by the prompt and brave work of Diver Eadie. When he reached surface he was in such a bad state that he could not even be transferred in safety across the rough seas from the Falcon to another boat. The Falcon was unable to attempt salvage at the time, owing to the impossible conditions, and so she had returned to the shore with the injured diver.

By January 7th, seventeen bodies were recovered from the engine-room aft, and four days later thirty-two out of the thirty-four known to be in that part of the boat were brought ashore. The remaining two, however, could not be found. Then, on Saturday, March 17th, three months all but a few minutes after she had sunk, the conning tower of S4 appeared through the waves, raised at long last by the salvage crews. The divers, and others who had laboured so long for that moment, could not repress a cheer when they saw her, but in an instant this was stilled, as one by one the flags of all ships present were dipped to half-mast. And then began the long and difficult tow to Boston harbour, sixty miles distant. If the sinking had been so quick and tragically impressive, no less so was the actual raising of the lost boat. Six pontoons, at last sunk and fastened to her sides, were connected by air lines to the Falcon's mighty compressors. Still more air lines linked the flooded compartments of the submarine with the surface boats. Then, at a simple signal, valves were turned, and the air rushed down the hoses, forcing the water from the hollow metal shells. Minutes passed, and both submarine and pontoons became buoyant once more. Bubbles appeared amongst the waves. There was a sign of great turbulence from below. A cry:

"Here she comes!"

And in a welter of bubbles and spray, the slimy sides of the S4 emerged from the deep, gleaming coldly in the first light which had fallen upon them in three long months. But once again, before the slow convoy reached port, the sea came within an inch of snatching back her prey. Another storm sprang up, and for some hours the pontoons were in danger of being punctured, and the air lines being torn. Those men had fought for their prize, however, and they were loth to lose it without a fierce battle. At nine o'clock on the morning of March 18th, S4 was finally docked in the Boston navy yard, three months and a day after she had sailed on her last terrible cruise. During the 44 days of actual salvage work, divers had descended to her on fewer than 566 times through those apparently impregnable 101 feet of water. Now they saw their labours ended, and on the morrow the whole world would know the complete story of the S4 disaster.

More tragic than any one had guessed was that story sealed behind strong steel doors; and first and most dreadful came the news that every single man had lived beneath the waves for at least one day. The diver had reported hearing faint sounds from the after compartments of the submarine, but, so he said, those sounds were doubtful and did not recur many times. Salvage men, when they had opened the tomb, found fifteen bodies beneath tarpaulin. A collapsible cot had been erected between the motors, and another body laid in it. The two bodies which had been missing at first were found behind machinery, swept there, no doubt, when salvage operations let in the sea. In the pockets of some of the men were gnawed potatoes. The shelves of the pantry had been cleared. Half-eaten vegetables were strewn about, and articles of clothing made hard and uncomfortable beds on various parts of the engines. Worse, when scrubbing had removed the slime and oil from the newly-painted sides, in no less than half a dozen places chipped paint and dented metal bore mute testimony of futile hammering for help.

Such, then, was the fate of the first thirty-four men. Their death was not due to drowning. The prow of the Paulding, driven three feet into the submarine's hull by the force of the collision, had torn a huge hole in the steelwork - but, as S4 reeled drunkenly from the shock, a large portion of the coastguard vessel's prow was ripped away. It remained in the gash as an effective plug. There was only one conclusion. Even though the inrush of water had not been severe, it had been sufficient to flood the battery-room, releasing vast quantities of deadly chlorine gas, and all members of the crew in that compartment had left immediately, shutting themselves in the temporary and comparative safety of the control-room on one side, and forward in the torpedo-room on the other side of the death trap. But here, however, the theorists were faced with a mystery which can never be proved completely. Safe in the control-room, there was no reason why those men could not have raised S4 to the surface again. The only acceptable theory is that the shutting of the watertight door was left until too late, and that vital control-room also became untenable through gas, and the fumes of burning insulation material from fused electrical gear. Whatever happened, however, one thing is clear: Once more the crew had to fly from one compartment to another - again bolting and wedging the watertight door behind them. Forward, therefore, trapped in the torpedo-room, were six of the men: aft, trapped in the motor- and engine-rooms, were the remaining thirty-four. There was nothing that any of them could do but wait.

But those aft were already in a grievous plight before the diver heard their feeble sounds. Unlike the six forward, there was less air in their compartment per head than in the torpedo-room. But they lived, and were hungry, as was seen by the pieces of raw food. And they hoped, as was seen by their pathetic efforts to attract notice by hammering. But they died, inevitably, because that help was not forthcoming in time.

Only one message was found. A card, on the body of one man trapped forward, bore a few simple words in red crayon: "My body to Pelnar, 6569 South Nineteenth Street, Omaha, Nebraska." That was all. They knew, then, that they were doomed. As the long hours passed, the awful realisation must have come to them, no matter how they strove to be cheerful amongst themselves. They had undressed and lain upon their bunks, waiting for the final sleep to come. But on the rack, apparently untouched, was a flask containing a considerable amount of oxygen.

This discovery, apparently unexplainable, gave rise to some very dreadful thoughts. Why did they not use that oxygen? Why did they announce that they were at the end of supplies? Was it because they knew the worst, and did not wish to prolong it? But, as the world knows, only a matter of hours after their last taps were heard an air line was successfully attached to their compartment.

Would that last supply of oxygen have maintained life until the vital air hissed into their prison?

Could the divers, taking advantage of fine weather, have passed in food, light and water through the torpedo tubes?

And, if so, could those men have lived three months in their narrow cell - borne up by the knowledge that they were safe?

Those questions can never be answered now, and perhaps they are best left unanswered. It can only be assumed that, dazed and exhausted from their long dark vigil, they allowed peaceful sleep to come, meaning possibly to use that oxygen later. And then sleep came, from which there was no awakening. The paint was chipped from the wall, and the steel was dented. A wrench was found among the wreckage and water, also dented, from the messages beaten out in code. No other things were found. The bodies were identified by finger-print experts: all except that of Lieutenant Fitch, who wore a ring and academy sweater. They were buried at Arlington, U.S. And the tragic story faded gradually from public memory.

There was the usual outcry, however: "Cannot anything be done to make submarines more safe? Why not fit eyelets on to the hulls?"

And there was a sequel, almost as dramatic as the actual accident because of its contrast. Rings or eyelets were fitted to the hull of S4. On December 18th, 1929, S4 was deliberately sunk, loaded with 80 tons of water in the engine-room. Within ninety minutes of her reaching the bottom, divers had secured special hooks to the eyelet holes. Pontoons were attached, pumping began, and in a matter of hours S4 came to the surface again. If only... But it is so easy to be wise after the event.