Seventy-three Fathoms Down

Off the U.S. Navy's base at Portsmouth, N.H., three submarines appeared one morning last week for practice dives in the Atlantic. The O-8, the O-9, and the O10 belonged to a class of the smallest (480 tons), oldest (1918) Submarines in the Navy. Age wears submarines faster than any other class of naval vessels, and the eight O-boats would never have been recommissioned, after years of discard, unless World War II had made it absolutely necessary for the Navy to train new crews as fast as possible.

Aboard the O-9 were Lieut. Howard J. Abbott, a line officer who had four years of submarine experience; Ensign Marks P. Wangsness, a 27-year-old reservist; and 31 crewmen, some of whom were youngsters just recruited. Seaman Charles L. Eagleton, 24, after a test dive in shallow water, had recently written his father: "Everything went wrong, but we've got it under control now." Seaman Francis Golden had told his father that the O-9 had sprung 19 leaks, that "water poured into her right away" on her first runs. Seaman Nathan Gersen had told his family in The Bronx that everything was fine, including the eats, and that he was lucky to be as signed to the O-9.

At 10:36 a.m., the throaty chuff of the surface Diesels ceased, and the O-9, along with the O-8 and O10 sank into the sea for a deep-water dive. They were built to withstand water pressures down to 250 feet; and off the Isles of Shoals, 15 miles southeast of Portsmouth, they had nearly twice that depth to operate in.

Presently the O-8 and the O10 reappeared. The O-9 did not. That afternoon, the Navy announced that she was missing. Then, in the same waters where the Squalus vanished two years ago (saved: 33; lost: 26), another drama of succor unfolded. The salvage boat Falcon, with divers who had gone down to the Squalus at 240 feet, had labored there at the peril of their lives; other submarines, destroyers, tugs, airplanes, searchlights when night fell--all were there.

When grapnels touched "an object" at 73 fathoms (440 feet) submen knew what to expect: at that depth and pressure (almost 200 Ib. per square inch) the old O-9 must have folded, bow to stern, like an accordion. Oil slicked the surface. Cork, from the O-9's inner walls, bobbed up into the glare of searchlights. Pieces of the O-9's deck gratings, flakes of paint appeared. In the press room at the Portsmouth base, a Navy veteran said: "Boys, that's the end of the O-9"

It was, except for some further gestures of rescue. Diver George Crocker slid down a grapnel line to 370 feet, found that his special mixture of helium and oxygen (to keep nitrogen out of the blood stream, thus forestall bends) was failing him. Later, two divers did reach the bottom, in the subterranean dark and pressure could see nothing, do nothing. On the third day, the Chief of Naval Operations (Admiral Stark) in Washington announced: "The decision must be to accept the situation as loss of naval personnel at sea, who can best be honored as men still at their station of duty. Not one of them would expect or wish another naval man to risk his life to provide another final resting place."

Over the O-9's last station the Navy fired 21 guns, dropped wreaths, said eulogies. In seven submarine disasters since 1915, the Navy had lost 173 men. Unlike the O-9, those numbers will rise again. Submarines are dangerous.

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