Submarine Failures

To Sir George Hubert Wilkins and his 18 men in the 24-year-old submarine Nautilus--surface cruising the North Atlantic to England last week, en route to the North Pole--went radiograms as foreboding as the witch cries that menaced Macbeth.

On the opposite side of the earth, in the Yellow Sea of Wei-hai-wei, the spanky new British submarine Poseidon came spuming to the surface like a dolphin after air. The hatches sprang open. The crew started clambering out. Thirty-one were on deck and 18 below when the Yuta, Chinese merchantman, smacked against the Poseidon's forward starboard side. In two minutes the Poseidon sank in 120 ft. of water.

Invention had promised succor for just such a disaster. In the U. S. Lieut. Charles Bowers Momsen and in England R. H. Davis have each invented a "lung" for submarine escape. The essential parts of both devices are a small tank of compressed oxygen, an inflated bag and a mouthpiece. Connecting mouthpiece and tank is a stout tube. Thus a man escaping from a sunken submarine can breathe the minutes required for him to bob to the surface and rescue. That is, if he can get out of his deep, steel prison. Since the Momsen "lung" was invented there has been no U. S. submarine catastrophe to give it vital testing. And for the Davis "lung" none until last week.

While in the Yellow Sea the British rescue forces were frantically hunting for oily bubbles which would show where the Poseidon lay, one man popped to the surface. Then another. The Davis "lung'' had served them well. But the compressed air which had ejected them like torpedoes from the Poseidon's hatches had bruised them mortally. Four more men came through all right.

Then divers descended and hammered a Morse-code query against the Poseidon's hull. The return tap-taps indicated that at least eight of the 18 were alive. A day passed and the taps from the Poseidon ceased. The British Admiralty decided that the 18 men were dead.

Bit by bit this doleful news reached the old Nautilus toddling over the Atlantic toward England. What if, in the Arctic, an iceberg clapped against them?

Cruising had been smooth and uneventful. Then unexpectedly the batteries began to fail. Next the starboard engine failed completely. On one engine, the Nautilus grunted through quiet seas at 8 knots. A gale came up. All night the crippled submarine fought the waves. By morning Sir Hubert decided he had better wireless for help. The U. S. S. Wyoming and Arkansas turned to rescue. The Shipping Board tanker Independence Hall was close to the Nautilus. The liner President Roosevelt headed for the trouble. In the rocky sea it took all day long to throw a line between the Nautilus and the Wyoming. By dark the hawser was snug and, as other ships turned to their proper business, the Wyoming began an 850-mi. tow of the Nautilus to Queenstown, Ireland and repairs.

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