The Haunting Depths of the USS Squalus: A Tale of Survival and Tragedy

In the shadowy depths of the ocean, where light struggles to penetrate and silence reigns supreme, lies a story that transcends time—a tale of bravery, despair, and the haunting legacy of the USS Squalus.

This is not just a story about a submarine; it is a chilling account of the 33 men who found themselves trapped in a steel coffin, fighting for survival against insurmountable odds.

On May 23, 1939, the USS Squalus, a state-of-the-art submarine, embarked on what was supposed to be a routine training mission off the coast of New Hampshire.

The crew, handpicked and highly trained, was ready to dive beneath the waves, unaware that fate had other plans.

As the submarine descended, Lieutenant Oliver Nackin, the captain, felt a sense of calm.

He had conducted countless dives before, and everything appeared to be in order.

But as the Squalus slipped beneath the surface, a catastrophic failure unfolded.

The high induction valve, which was supposed to seal tightly to prevent water from flooding the submarine, failed dramatically.

The green light indicating safety was a cruel deception.

Instead of a controlled descent, the crew was met with a violent rush of freezing seawater, a torrent that would change their lives forever.

The chaos that erupted was unimaginable.

In an instant, thousands of gallons of water poured into the engine room, overwhelming the crew.

The submarine lurched violently, and Nackin shouted orders to blow the ballast tanks, desperate to regain control.

But the weight of the water was relentless, and the Squalus began to slide backward into the abyss.\

The depth gauge spun wildly, the numbers climbing as the crew braced for impact.

When the Squalus finally came to rest at a depth of 240 feet, silence enveloped the vessel.

The crew in the forward section quickly counted heads—33 men were alive, but 26 were missing, trapped in the flooded aft section.

Panic set in as the reality of their situation sank in.

They were isolated, cut off from the world above, with no means of communication and dwindling air supply.

As the temperature inside the submarine dropped, the men huddled together, sharing body warmth and blankets, but the cold was not their only enemy.

The air was growing stale, and the buildup of carbon dioxide posed an imminent threat.

Nackin, a smart leader, ordered silence and stillness, knowing that panic would only exacerbate their dwindling resources.

In the eerie quiet, some survivors reported hearing strange sounds coming from the watertight door separating them from the flooded aft section.

Was it the creaking of the hull adjusting to the pressure, or was it something more sinister? The psychological toll of their confinement began to manifest as they tapped on the bulkhead, hoping for a response from their trapped comrades.

But only the ocean answered back.

Meanwhile, on the surface, the Navy finally realized something was amiss when the Squalus failed to check in.

A rescue mission was launched, but the odds were stacked against them.

At 240 feet, the pressure was immense, and divers could only work for a limited time before risking the bends.

Just as hope seemed lost, a miracle occurred.

A distress rocket fired from the sub’s buoy marked its location, and the USS Sculpin arrived, establishing contact with Nackin.

However, just as quickly as that connection was made, it was severed by the ocean’s cruel hand.

The cable snapped, leaving the survivors alone once more.

It was a heart-wrenching moment, but one man refused to give up hope.

Charles Momson, known as “Swede,” had a radical idea: a metal diving bell designed to rescue the trapped crew.

Momson was a maverick, a genius who had faced skepticism for years.

Now, he was their last hope.

The Macan Rescue Chamber, as it was officially called, was a heavy, pear-shaped device that would descend to the Squalus and create a seal around its hatch.

If successful, it would allow the trapped men to escape.

As the rescue ship approached, the conditions were treacherous.

The sea was choppy, and the fog obscured visibility.

Diver Martin Sabitzky was sent down to connect the bell to the submarine.

His descent into the darkness was like a journey into the unknown, a leap of faith into the abyss.

When he reached the Squalus, he found the hatch and signaled for the bell to be sent down.

Inside the bell, operators prepared for the crucial moment.

As the bell descended, the survivors inside the Squalus felt a clank above them.

Was it salvation or more debris? When the seal held and the hatch opened, the sight of the operators was a moment of pure emotion.

“Hello, fellows,” one of them said, and the floodgates of relief opened.

The first group of seven men climbed into the bell, and as it ascended, they broke the surface, gasping for fresh air after 30 agonizing hours.

One by one, the men were brought to safety, but the last trip would prove to be fraught with danger.

As the final group, including Nackin, climbed into the bell, disaster struck.

The cable jammed, leaving them suspended in the depths.

For four agonizing hours, they hung in limbo, the tension palpable.

Nackin kept his men calm, sharing stories and jokes, but the threat of the bell plummeting back into the abyss loomed large.

Finally, the rescue team on the surface managed to cut the jammed wire, and the bell was pulled to safety.

All 33 men from the forward section were alive, a miraculous outcome against all odds.

But the story of the USS Squalus did not end there; it would take a dark turn as the Navy sought to uncover the truth behind the disaster.

The divers returned to the wreck to recover the bodies of the 26 men still trapped in the aft section.

What they found was chilling.

The interior was a chaotic mess, but amidst the wreckage lay heartbreaking scenes frozen in time.

The bodies were not just floating aimlessly; they were clustered near the highest points of the room, indicating that they had fought for air as the water rose around them.

In the aft torpedo room, the discovery of Sherman Shirley, a sailor found near the telephone, revealed a tragic truth.

He had died trying to call for help, a testament to the desperate struggle of the crew.

Personal items, such as letters to loved ones and cherished belongings, floated in the murky water, creating a time capsule of lives cut short.

But the most haunting discovery was in the escape trunk, a small airlock used for leaving the sub.

There, the body of a man was found, untouched by water.

He had sealed himself inside, safe from the flood, but unable to escape due to the crushing pressure outside.

He had waited in that tiny steel box, alone, until the oxygen ran out, succumbing to a peaceful death while his comrades fought for survival.

The official investigation concluded that a mechanical error had caused the disaster—a broken gear in the induction valve.

Yet, the lingering questions persisted.

Why did the gear fail? Was it simply bad luck, or was there something more sinister at play? Rumors of a curse surrounding the Squalus began to circulate, fueled by the eerie coincidences that followed.

Instead of scrapping the Squalus, the Navy refurbished it, renaming it the USS Sailfish.

But the specter of its past haunted the vessel.

Crew members reported strange occurrences—tools going missing, cold spots in the engine room, and the sound of rushing water when the ship was perfectly dry.

The legacy of the Squalus was inescapable, a ghost that lingered in the shadows.

In a cruel twist of fate, the Sailfish, now a warship, found itself in the midst of battle.

During a patrol in 1943, it sank the Japanese aircraft carrier Chuyo, only to discover that it was carrying American prisoners of war—survivors of the USS Sculpin, the very ship that had aided in the rescue of the Squalus crew.

Of the 21 men from the Sculpin who were aboard the Chuyo, 20 perished in the attack.

This dark coincidence raised unsettling questions.

Was the Squalus cursed? Did it carry a debt that needed to be paid? Or was it simply the brutal randomness of war? The ocean, with its vast depths and hidden secrets, held the answers but refused to reveal them.

Today, the conning tower of the USS Squalus stands as a somber monument at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, a reminder of the courage and sacrifice of those who served.

The rest of the ship was eventually scrapped, its metal repurposed into everyday items, a haunting thought that pieces of the Squalus might be all around us.

The story of the Squalus is a poignant reminder of the fragility of technology and the indomitable spirit of those who face unimaginable challenges.

It teaches us that bravery can be found in the darkest of places, and it leaves us with lingering mysteries.

Did the 26th man truly survive in the airlock? What did the divers see in those windows?

As we ponder these questions, we must remember the 33 men who emerged from the depths, forever changed by their experience, and the 26 who remained behind, their stories woven into the fabric of history.

The ocean keeps its secrets well, but the legacy of the USS Squalus will never be forgotten.

So here lies the question: Was the Squalus truly cursed, or was it merely a victim of fate in the brutal theater of war? Share your thoughts and theories, for the ocean’s mysteries beckon us to explore further, to seek the truth hidden beneath the waves.