#nautical shit

In 1843, the steamship SS Great Britain was launched; at the time, it was the largest vessel in the world at 322 feet long, and was the first ocean-going vessel to feature both an iron hull and a screw propeller.  

In 1816, the French frigate Méduse ran aground off the coast of what is now Mauritania in northwestern Africa.  The ship was carrying 400 people, but only about 250 could fit in the frigate's boats.  Thus, the crew quickly constructed a crude raft and at least 147 people crowded onto that half-ass vessel before the Méduse was engulfed in an approaching storm on July 5.

Since we don't usually hear about maritime disasters that have happy endings, you can imagine where this is going to go.

The raft was initially towed by the ship's boats, but was cut loose shortly thereafter.  It drifted for 13 days until it was found, and even that was only by chance--there was no concerted effort made to find the slapdash craft.  When the raft was discovered by the French brig Argus, only 15 men remained alive.  And it's no real wonder.  Here's what was provisioned for about 150 people:  One bag of hardtack (eaten on the first day), two casks of water (lost during fighting among the drifting wretches), and, because they were French, six casks of wine.  There were fights, murders, cannibalism, starvation, and suicides.   

The 15 survivors were taken to Saint-Louis in Senegal, where five of them promptly died. 

However, the story is not entirely bleak.  French Romantic painter Théodore Géricault used the raft's plight as inspiration for his 1819 work Le Radeau de la Méduse (that is, The Raft of the Medusa), and THAT work was, in turn, bastardized for the cover art of the Pogues' classic 1985 album "Rum, Sodomy, & the Lash."  So everything worked out in the end. 

I mean, except for the 135 or so corpses.  Didn't work out so well for them.

In 1916, 250 ships of the British Grand Fleet and the Imperial German High Seas Fleet squared off in the Battle of Jutland.  Though the clash itself was tactically indecisive, it resulted in a strategic British victory, as the powerful German fleet was unable to defeat the British in decisive battle and then roam the oceans sinking British cargo vessels.  

I could go on about the concept of a fleet-in-being, or the tactical deployments of both sides, or how chance, as always, plays an important role in such affairs.  But I won't.  What I will say is that the German name for the battle is WAY cooler than the British name.  The British simply refer to it as the Battle of Jutland; the Germans call the engagement the Skagerrakschlacht; that is, the Battle of Skagerrak.

In 1941, the German battleship Bismarck encountered and sank the HMS Hood.  The Hood was then the pride of the British navy, but was obsolete and outgunned by the Germans; the Royal Navy ship exploded and sank in three minutes, taking 1415 crew to the bottom.  There were three survivors.

In 1939, the newly-built USS Squalus, a Sargo-class American diesel-electric submarine, sank during a test dive off of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.  Due to a mechanical failure of an induction valve, the after torpedo room, crew’s quarters, and both engine rooms flooded, killing 24 sailors and two civilian technicians.  The rest of the crew, 33 men, managed to seal internal watertight doors and hole up in the forward end of the vessel, which settled on the bottom in 243 ft/74 m of water.

The sub’s forward end maintained its watertight integrity, so now the 33 survivors just faced the option of suffocating when they ran out of air to breathe.

And that’s when a bad motherfucker named Charles “Swede” Momsen said “Not today.”  After Squalus’ sister ship, the USS Sculpin, located the wreck, men on the two boats were able to communicate via underwater telephone.  The survivors on the Squalus gave their numbers, condition, and amount of remaining breathable air.  The Sculpin told them to sit tight and help would be on the way.

Momsen, who made a living out of spitting in Poseidon’s eye and then shitting in the sea god’s coffee cup, got to work with a new device called the McCann Rescue Chamber.  After two days of round-the clock effort, and some incredible work by Navy divers, all 33 survivors were rescued and brought to the surface.  Four enlisted divers--Chief Machinist's Mate William Badders, Chief Boatswain's Mate Orson L. Crandall, Chief Metalsmith James H. McDonald and Chief Torpedoman John Mihalowski--were each awarded  the Medal of Honor for their work in the cold waters during the rescue effort.

The usage of the McCann Rescue Chamber still marks the only time that people were successfully rescued from a sunken submarine.

The Squalus’ story was not yet over, though.  Because the boat incorporated a number of new design features, Navy brass decided to raise the entire boat and re-commission it.  Amazingly, they did just that; they salvaged the vessel, towed it back into the Portsmouth Navy Yard, completely refitted it, and re-commissioned it the USS Sailfish on May 15, 1940.

Shortly thereafter, as you may recall, the United States got involved in that whole Second World War thing that was all the rage at the time.  And the Sailfish took part in said war.  In fact, the boat made TWELVE successful war patrols in the Pacific Ocean.  I suppose all of its bad luck had been used up already.

Think, for just a second, how gigantic and brass your balls have to be to go into an actual shooting war on a submarine.  Then imagine doing that on one that had already sunk once.  

During the war, the boat’s commanding officer issued a standing order that anyone on board who was heard saying the name “Squalus” would be marooned at the next port of call.  Because submarine sailors are a stubborn, insubordinate lot, they decided to refer to their boat as the Squailfish.  Because some things just don’t ever change.

In 1912, the White Star liner RMS Titanic sank at 2:20 a.m., two-and-a-half hours after slicing open her starboard side on an iceberg.