And then you wait. The men of the Squalus huddled disconsolately on the torpedo room floor, eating canned pineapple. It is notable that neither crew, Squalus nor Tang, exhibited panic. Aboard the Tang, the commanding officer wrote in his report, “No one was hysterical or disorderly at any time. . . . Toward the last, conversation seemed to be mostly about their families and loved ones.” One of the last messages tapped out by the crew on the hull of the sub S-4, accidently rammed and sunk in 1927, was “Please hurry.” The laborious and time-consuming inclusion of “please” breaks my heart. It’s so Navy: courteous and respectful to the end.
The crew of the Squalus were as lucky as they were unlucky; the Navy’s first submarine rescue chamber had just been completed and tested. The Squalus was its maiden rescue. Thirty-three survivors rode it to the surface. The chamber was a modified diving bell. As with an inverted drinking glass lowered into water, the pressure of the air trapped inside keeps the water outside. A diver accompanied the bell to position its opening over the lip of one of the submarine’s hatches and bolt it in place. The sub’s hatch could now be opened, and small groups of crew helped into the chamber.
Prior to this, sinking was likely a death sentence. Even a few inches of water will bear down on a submarine hatch—or a car door, for that matter—with sufficient pressure that it can’t be pushed open (unless one equalizes the pressure by letting water in). On the smaller subs of the 1920s, the air would last about three days. It was one of these “iron coffins,” the S-51, that inspired Lieutenant Commander Charles “Swede” Momsen to come up with a way to get people out. Momsen’s sub had been the one that first arrived on the scene. All the crew could do was stare at the oil slick on the surface of the water, “utterly helpless,” as Momsen wrote to a friend. When the sub was salvaged, bodies of the crew were said to have been found with their fingers torn and bloodied from trying to pry open a hatch against fifteen tons of ocean.
Given that most US ballistic missile submarines today spend the bulk of their time in oceans that bottom out deeper than their crush depth, the term “iron coffin” has regained some accuracy. Crush depth is the point at which the hull succumbs to the extreme water pressure and the sub implodes. John Clarke likens it to putting a submarine inside a giant bomb. The sub shatters inward. And the crew? “If you can imagine,” Clarke says, “all the metal parts are imploding together and anything in the way would be crushed and shredded and pounded into bits.” No one saves your bottom now. On April 10, 1963, the USS Thresher imploded, killing all 129 men aboard. “She’s scattered all over the seafloor,” Jerry Lamb says.
In light of the deep-sea haunts of modern subs, why even bother with rescue and escape systems? Do they simply exist to, as one submariner expressed it, “give moms and dads a warm feeling”? No, no more so than airplane emergency exit slides. Because, as with airplanes, most collisions take place on arriving or departing: in port or airport, where the traffic is busiest but the plummet most survivable.
The Tang went down in water just 180 feet deep, but rescue was complicated by the circumstances of battle. She sank in the midst of the convoy of Japanese ships she’d spent the night torpedoing and sinking. In the end, bad air forced the crew’s hand. Smoke had built up from the burning of classified paperwork, and saltwater had reached the batteries, creating deadly chlorine gas. Disaster luncheon. You didn’t need a decision tree to know that Stay had turned into Go.
Swede Momsen invented something for this scenario, too. During World War II, subs were equipped with escape trunks and Momsen lungs. (The “lung” was a wearable air supply that, upon reaching the surface, handily converted to a flotation device). Like an airlock on a spaceship, the escape trunk allows for the equalization of pressure inside and outside. On a sub, this allows the hatch to be popped open and the lung-clad sailor set loose in the brine. The Tang was the first bottomed sub from which sailors escaped without the aid of a rescue bell. There were nine, four of whom subsequently drowned or disappeared. (In the surreal etiquette of war, the five survivors were plucked from the near-freezing water by their enemies—as the Tang’s commanding officer described them, “the burned and mutilated survivors of our own handiwork”—who then beat them and sent them to starve in a prisoner of war camp.)
What happened to the rest of the men gathered in the Tang’s torpedo room in their Momsen lungs? Why didn’t they escape? They weren’t sure how to do it. “A majority of the men,” reads the patrol report, “had never been properly trained in the use of the Momsen lungs or operation of the escape tank. They, therefore, didn’t have any self-confidence in their ability to escape, causing a general feeling of defeat among them. . . . After the first two attempts there were very few men left who cared to try an escape although they knew what was going to happen to them below.” They are all there in the Summary of Escapes. Torpedoman’s Mate Fluker: “Would not try after this, his second attempt.” Unnamed Ensign: “Removed in stupor from trunk; preferred not to try again.” Unnamed Machinist’s Mate: “Would not try after this, his first attempt.”
A little practice might have made the difference. “Although everyone had read how to escape,” says the report, “not one had actually went through the motions.” In 1930, at the urging of Swede Momsen, an escape training tank was commissioned for the submarine base in Groton. With the hope that every submariner would have a chance to went through the motions.
AT 40 feet deep and 84,000 gallons, the Naval Submarine School’s Pressurized Submarine Escape Trainer holds easily as much water as a hotel swimming pool. In diameter, though, it’s closer to a Jacuzzi. It’s the sort of thing you might drop into by accident, like a manhole, because you didn’t notice it was there. Despite the aquamarine water and the echoey tile walls, pool isn’t the right word. This is a column of pretend ocean that exists for a single, highly nonrecreational purpose: to practice bailing out of a stricken sub.
Twenty-six sub school students stand around the water’s perimeter in identical (Navy) blue swim trunks. They are young enough that the pimples on their backs still outnumber the tattoos. In ten years it will be different. Navy boys accrue ink like sun damage. A little more every year, in every port. The first training exercise will begin in an escape trunk that feeds into the water fifteen feet down. No breathing apparatus will be worn, just a life jacket. The instructor calls it “a buoyant exhaling ascent,” a term I will tuck away for later use should I ever be called upon to write opera reviews.
Exhaling is the word to be underscored. Faced with an ascent from deep underwater, novice swimmers are inclined to hold their breath—not just to stay alive, but to help buoy them to the surface. They may not realize that that initial lungful of air they took in will expand as they rise and the water pressure decreases. If that breath expands enough, it will burst the lung’s alveoli—the tiny sacs where an exchange of gases in the air and the blood takes place. Should this happen, air bubbles can get into the bloodstream. Air embolism. Not good. Critical care luncheon. The bubble can act like a clot, blocking blood flow and starving organs of oxygen. If the organ in question is the brain or heart, the tissue damage may be fatal. There is speculation in the Tang patrol report that this had been the fate of four men who made it out of the escape trunk but then disappeared: that they’d lost the mouthpieces of their Momsen lungs and hadn’t realized the consequences of holding their breath.
“It’s the Golden Rule of sub school,” the instructor, Eric Nabors, is saying. “Don’t hold your breath.” Nabors carries the evocative title Diving Officer, and seems built in keeping. His hair is buzzed to a half millimeter, his wedding band tattooed. Nothing disrupts the hydrodynamic flow of Eric Nabors in a wetsuit.
To modulate their exhalation—not too fast, not too slow—the young men are instructed to pretend they’re blowing out birthday candles. Yelling also works. To further discourage breath-holding, Nabors and his fellow instructors used to inflate a wine bag down at the bottom of the water and let it go. As it surfaced, the bag would bur
st.
While Nabors and I have been chatting, I’ve referred to the wine bag as a bota bag. Nabors finally stops me. “What are you saying?”
Did I have the wrong term? That goatskin pouch that herders used to sling over one shoulder? In Spain? The kind where you open your mouth and squirt in the wine?
Nabors blinks at me. “I’m talking about the bag from wine-in-a-box.”
My escort for the day has been chatting with Nabors, and I notice she calls him “Jim.” This would explain the Jim Nabors album (Kiss Me Goodbye) mounted on his office wall, but not the ID badge, which says “Eric Nabors.”
“I fought that battle for a long time,” he says when I bring it up. When your last name is Nabors, there will be people who call you Jim, no matter what you do to discourage them. “Eventually I gave up.”
The bursting bag has been replaced by a video of itself, because the real thing was too intimidating, and no one wanted to get in the Escape Trainer afterward. Few of the students will cop to it, but there’s some anxiety in the house today. Some of these boys can barely swim. The Navy entrance requirement is minimal. You are dropped in a pool fifty feet from the edge, and you get to that edge however you can. You don’t have to like water to join the Navy. “I don’t even like baths,” said one submariner I met.
Nabors explains to the students the sequence of events. A pair of divers are with each student up to the time he begins his ascent, to be sure he’s exhaling at the right rate, that he’s been able to clear his ears, that he’s not feeling panicked. Then they let him go. It’s over in a few seconds. “You’re going to pop out of the water, and a diver is going to say, ‘Are you okay?’” Nabors says. “And you’re going to shout your name, your rank, and ‘I’m okay!’” (So the guy standing by with the clipboard can put a check next to the name.) “Got it?”
“Yes, sir!”
A few minutes later, the first student pops out of the water, buoyant with air and relief. A diver is there to receive him and steer him to the edge. If you wandered onto the scene without knowing where you were, you might think, baptism?
“Are you okay?” shouts the diver.
“Yeah.” Nabors and the clipboard guy exchange a look. Kids today.
One student backs out of the ascent. You can tell who he is by the red bathrobe; everyone else’s is tan or blue. This isn’t done to shame him; no one but the staff knows the significance of being “red-robed.” It’s a way to alert them to keep a watchful eye out, in case a medical issue develops. In this case, the boy was just scared. He confesses a fear of drowning. I glance at his bare feet for the traditional Navy “anti-drowning tattoos”: permanent inkings of a pig and a chicken, one on each foot. Because when the old frigates sank, pigs and chickens from the ship’s hold could be seen floating on the water’s surface.
The boy’s fellow students were sympathetic, and this he expected: “One team, one fight.” I’ve heard the word brotherhood applied to submariners. At 7 percent of the Navy, it’s a tight-knit community. Especially boat by boat. Where an aircraft carrier crew may number 6,000, US submarines have room for fewer than 200. There’s an intimacy born of not only the diminished personal space that the smaller classes of subs impose but the months-long isolation and, until recently, the absence of women. “There’s a lot of hugging and stroking heads,” a former NSMRL psychologist told me. “I was taken aback by how physically affectionate they are.”
Inevitably, this has fueled rumors. Andrew Karam, author of Rig Ship for Ultra Quiet, told me about sitting in a bar with his shipmates when a “skimmer”—a surface sailor—walked in. “When he realized we were all submariners, he said, ‘I know about you guys. Hundred forty men go down, and seventy couples come back up.’”
“That’s not true,” Karam deadpanned. “We have some threesomes.”
The US Submarine Force began integrating female officers in 2010, with enlisted ranks following in 2016. So far, so good. Jerry Lamb says a recent ban on cigarettes provoked more clatter. And then this happened: The day before my visit, Navy Times broke the story that female officers on the USS Wyoming had been filmed in the shower.
I ask Nabors whether he has to tell his students not to urinate in the Escape Trainer.
“It’s not even a topic of discussion. It happens.”
I forgot he’s a diver. I’m told divers pee in their wetsuits. Me, I’ve never. “I can’t even pee in the ocean.”
The guy with the clipboard glances at Nabors. Wow, the glance says. Live a little.
THE STUDENTS troop single file to the stairwell, ducklings in a row. They are going down to the bottom of the Escape Trainer for the big ascent, the 37-footer. This time they’ll wear a SEIE (Submarine Escape and Immersion Equipment) suit, a partially inflatable head-and-face-encompassing zip-up that attracts unwanted comparisons to a body bag. Like its more minimal predecessors the Momsen lung and the Steinke hood, the SEIE suit incorporates an air supply and openings to vent excess air as it expands on the ascent. This allows the escapee to breathe normally and not have to worry about bursting lung parts. Students practiced the “exhaling ascent” earlier so they’d know what to do if there was a problem with the escape suits. Something like this, for example: “The rubber was cracked and tacky and most of them were stuck together.” This is Andrew Karam in an email to me, describing the Steinke hoods he was asked to inventory for an underway in the late 1990s.
“On the bright side,” Karam went on, “we spent almost all our time in water more than a thousand feet deep, so opportunities to use them were few and far between.” The maximum depth at which a Steinke hood has been successfully tested is 450 feet. The greatest depth at which a SEIE suit can be counted on to save you is 600 feet. That is really all you need ask for, because if you’re escaping into water deeper than 600 feet, you’re likely to be killed by decompression sickness no matter what outfit you have on.
To understand decompression sickness (the bends), it’s useful to think about one of those countertop carbonation units. Bubbly water is tap water with the bends. When you force pressurized gas into a container with liquid in it—be that container a SodaStream bottle or a scuba diver—some of that gas may go into the liquid. (To get all jargony, the gas goes “into solution” for the greater cause of equilibrium.) Now say the pressure in the container lets up suddenly—because the bottle has been opened or the diver has swum up toward the surface. Those gas molecules that had been forced by the air pressure into the liquid will now come back out of solution. (Here again: seeking equilibrium.) As they do this, the gas molecules link together in the form of bubbles. Never mind why. They just do. Now you have a glass of refreshing fizzy water, or a looming case of the bends. The bends is bubbles migrating through the body and causing problems: acting like a clot and disrupting the flow of blood to vital organs, or pushing apart tissue and causing pain, or both, and more.
Divers can avoid the bends by ascending slowly. This gives the body a chance to simply exhale the gas as it comes out of the blood and into the lungs. (Nitrogen is the main culprit; air contains a lot of it, and it likes to dissolve and hide in fat.) The more time a diver has spent breathing pressurized air, and/or the more highly pressurized the air, the more nitrogen she’ll need to dump and the slower, therefore, she’d need to ascend.
Decompression may or may not pose a danger to escaping submariners. If they’re lucky, the air inside the stricken sub has remained as it was when they left port: pressurized to sea level. In that case, submariners can usually escape with little danger of the bends. But if the vessel floods, the water that’s come on board will compress the air like a trash compactor. Now the sailors are like scuba divers: They’re breathing pressurized air, and some of the gases in that air will be pushed into their blood and tissues. Depending on how long they breathe this air and how compressed it is, they may, like a diver, need to decompress in order to ascend to the surface safely. Breathing the pressurized air in the escape trunk for the minute or so that one is inside it isn’t
enough time to create a problem unless one is down very deep. At, say, 800 feet, the air in the escape trunk would have to be so highly pressurized (to equalize with the outside pressure and allow the hatch to open) that breathing it for even a minute would force enough nitrogen into the body to put one at risk for the bends.
At the far, nightmare extreme of the bends is something called explosive decompression. On November 5, 1983, four divers were relaxing in a decompression chamber on the deck of an oil rig in the North Sea. For reasons that remain unclear, one of the dive tenders opened the hatch, reducing the pressure in the chamber from what it would be at 305 feet underwater to what it is at sea level—in a fraction of a second. Nitrogen bubbled out of solution instantly, in the men’s brains, their blood, their fat and muscles. The pathologists wrote in the case report that the men’s fat looked like “sizzling butter on a frying pan.” They surmised that the blood had begun to bubble instantly, “leading to an instantaneous and complete stop of the circulation.”
Diver four had been at the hatch when it blew. Good-bye, Wilkie. He was the champagne at the top of the bottle. The pathologists speculated that in addition to the breakage caused by being shot through the partially open hatch, he “also must have exploded.” He arrived at the autopsy suite in four plastic bags. Some of his organs were missing, having been “blown straight into the sea.” Like the gases in the abdominal cavity, air in the brain pan had also expanded in an explosive manner. “The scalp, with long blond hair, was present but the top of the skull and the brain were missing.”
I’ve been looking through a porthole at the bottom of the Escape Trainer. Watching this scene, the rag doll movements of the divers and the silvery jellyfish air bubble that floats from the hatch in a languid blurp, it is easy to forget the murderousness of deep water. Submariners can’t afford to forget. Mistakes can so swiftly give rise to disaster, and then where are you? Too deep for help or escape.