Submarine Rescue: The Race to Save Squalus | Into the Deep | 1
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Join Wondery Plus and Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app to listen to Against the Odds early and ad-free. It's 8.40 in the morning off the coast of New Hampshire, inside a submarine named the USS Squalus. The ship's captain, Oliver Naquin, strides into the control room, the nerve center of the sub.

We're at 15 seconds, men! It's a simulation emergency dive.

The year is 1939, and American military leaders know that a war in Europe and the Pacific is coming. A war the U.S. will almost certainly get dragged into.

Submarines like the Squalus will be a key part of the Allied war effort. But a sub on the surface is vulnerable to attacks from enemy planes. Emergency dives like this one test the sub's ability to escape bombardment and survive to fight another day. The Navy demands that the Squalus get 50 feet underwater in just 60 seconds.

Fail the test, and the sub won't get to join the Pacific fleet on active duty. Naquin checks his stopwatch and grimaces. It's now 20 seconds since he gave the order to dive. They should be farther along at this point. He glances at an ensign who holds a lever that controls the main induction valve.

This valve allows air to flow into the Squalus' diesel engines when the sub is on the surface. It has to be closed before a dive begins, or water will flood the sub. Naquin nods at the ensign. "Shut the main induction valve." The ensign throws the lever. Naquin waits for confirmation from his second-in-command that the sub is airtight. "Pressure in the boat." Naquin calls out the next step. "Flood the ballast tanks."

Naquin hears a gurgling sound fill the room. In a compartment one level below him, tanks are filling with water to make the sub heavier and allow her to dive. The descent begins at 31 seconds, still behind schedule, but only by a hair.

50 feet!

It reads 60 seconds plus one-tenth. That's close, but in the Navy, close doesn't count. Naquin closes his eyes. It's a crushing disappointment. His crew has never failed a test dive before, and he'll have to answer to his superiors for why. He goes over the dive in his mind to see where they lost time, but he simply doesn't know.

It's aggravating. But then, Naquin feels something strange. A fluttering in his inner ears. Like a change in air pressure. But a pressure change shouldn't happen inside a sealed submarine. Just then, a communications specialist on a headset yells out, "Captain, they're reporting flooding in the aft engine room. They say one of the main intake pipes is open." Naquin's eyes go wide. That's impossible.

But before he can say anything, the comms man yells out again. "Now the forward engine room is flooding! Repeat, both engine rooms are flooding!" Naquin doesn't understand. The induction valve that brings air into the sub is only supposed to be open on the surface, and he saw the ensign throw the lever to close it. So how can it be open? He rushes over and grabs the crewman's headset. He needs to hear this for himself.

But as he puts the headset on, he hears an awful sound. A Niagara of water. His gut clenches in terror. It's the worst possible disaster on a submarine. Naquin knows that he and his men have to act quickly to get the Squalus back to the surface. Otherwise, they're doomed to sink and die a horrible death, trapped on the bottom of the ocean.

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In the run-up to World War II, the USS Squalus was set to become the pride of the American submarine fleet. Most subs before her were cramped, dirty, and not very good at diving or staying submerged. The Squalus was something new. Sleek. Shiny. Fast.

She had cutting-edge technology and was crewed by the best sailors in the Navy. But despite all the advances, one aspect of submarine service had not advanced. The grim truth was, if a submarine sank, the Navy had no reliable way to rescue the crew. And subs did sink far too often. In the Navy, you were six times likelier to die on a sub than a surface ship.

Sailors referred to submarine duty as the "coffin service." New, state-of-the-art subs like the Squalus were supposed to be safer than their predecessors. But then, on May 23, 1939, the Squalus sank during a routine training exercise. The surviving crewmen found themselves trapped on the ocean floor, 240 feet down.

and it would take an unprecedented rescue effort to bring them back alive. This is episode one, Into the Deep. Gerald McLeese is bumping down a dirt road in Kansas. It's 1935.

And the 21-year-old is in a stranger's car, holding a handkerchief over his nose to stop from inhaling dust. He's silently willing the driver to go faster. He needs to get to Topeka in 30 minutes. It's his last chance to save his family.

Outside the window are endless scenes of desolation. Years of drought have killed crops and left cows rotting in the fields. Homes lie abandoned. McLeese's family ranch could be next. If they miss another mortgage payment, the local bank is set to foreclose, which would leave his family homeless. That's why he was desperate to hitch a ride to Topeka.

President Roosevelt's New Deal is creating much-needed jobs during the Great Depression, and MacLeese has heard there are some openings in Topeka. But the government office closes soon. He finally pipes up to the driver. "Do you think you could hurry, mister?" Just after 4:30, MacLeese hops out at the Topeka Federal Building and races up the steps. Inside, all the offices are dark.

Only one light is on for the U.S. Navy. As MacLeese rushes toward the light, a man in uniform steps out and locks the door. Hey, mister, do you have any jobs? Come back tomorrow. We're closed. I can't. I hitchhiked in, and I can't afford a hotel. And if I don't get a job, my family will lose our ranch. The officer studies the look of desperation on MacLeese's face. He sighs and inserts his key back into the lock.

All right, I'll give you 10 minutes. MacLeese bounds in, and the officer spreads several pamphlets out, listing different jobs. But MacLeese has no idea what these jobs are. Gunner's mate? Boat swain?

He asks the most important question. Which one pays best? None of these. Best pay is on submarine duty. What's a submarine? The officer rolls his eyes and explains about vessels that can submerge and fire torpedoes or cruise unseen along the ocean floor. MacLeese can hardly believe his ears. It sounds like something out of the science fiction comics he read as a kid.

The recruiter pauses. "But let me offer you some advice. Don't pick submarine service. They sink all the time and it's an awful way to go. I've seen bodies pulled out with their fingers clawed right down to the bone from trying to scratch their way out. And you won't do your parents any good if you're dead." But MacLees barely hears him. "Submarines sound amazing." "Where do I sign?"

The officer shrugs and grabs some forms. Two minutes later, MacLeese has signed his life over to the U.S. Navy. As he heads outside to hitchhike home, MacLeese can't stop thinking about those submarines. Sure, he covets the higher pay, 25% more than regular sailors make, $68 every month. But deep down, despite the officer's warning, he has to admit the danger appeals to him.

It's four years later, an early spring day in 1939 at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine. On a softball field, Gerald McLeese is playing third base. He's an electrician in the submarine service now. And these games between rival subcrews are a weekend ritual. McLeese pounds his glove as the pitcher lobs the ball toward the batter. Ball four.

Another walk. McCleese groans. Now the bases are loaded, and they're already down several runs. A runner from the other team trots from second to third. McCleese tries to be civil. How's it going? I have to admit, I'm surprised. How so? You guys are even worse at softball than you are at manning a sub. McCleese scowls. He and his teammates are assigned to the USS Squalus.

She's named after a type of shark, and she's part of a new class of state-of-the-art submarines. The Squalus can dive deeper and faster than any sub before it and carries far more torpedo firepower. It has working ovens and flush toilets, too. For MacLeese, it's a dream. Growing up, he didn't even have plumbing in his house. The Squalus and her crew are considered elite.

The best the Navy has. Or at least they're trying to be. But the team they're playing today runs the Navy's other state-of-the-art submarine, the Squalus' twin sibling, the USS Sculpin. And the Sculpin's crew thinks they're the best. This has led to a heated rivalry between the crews. And as much as McLeese hates to admit it, the Sculpin boys have been beating his own crew time and time again, where it counts the most —

and training exercises. That's why McLeese wants to win this softball game today. He and his crewmates have grown close during their training the past few months. And every last one of them wants to wipe that smug look off the faces of the sculping crew. So McLeese ignores the runner on third and calls out more encouragement. Come on, fellas, let's go.

Two pitches later, the batter hits a scorching ground ball at McLeese. He snags it and steps on third for one out, then pivots to throw out the runner racing towards home. McLeese can't believe what happens next. The runner lowers his shoulder and plows right into their catcher, knocking him flat.

In a supposedly friendly game, it's a dirty move. The bench is clear as everyone rushes toward the plate. Despite his small size, McLeese runs up and starts pulling teammates back and pushing the Sculpin players away. All around him, sailors are shoving and cursing.

When the dust clears, the catcher is out cold, his face smeared with blood. MacLees calls out to his teammates, "Come on, someone help me carry him to the infirmary." As they hurry off, MacLees' eyes shoot daggers at the sculping crew.

They may be good sailors, but they're the biggest jerks in the Navy. And he's absolutely determined not to let them beat his crew the next time they go head-to-head in a test dive.

Captain Oliver Naquin leans forward and frowns as he inspects a torpedo. He doesn't like what he sees. There's a smear of greasy oil. A Navy ship should be spic and span at all times. Naquin grabs a rag and angrily wipes the grease away. Someone's going to get chewed out for this.

It's not just the lack of neatness that concerns Naquin. The oil is also dangerous. These torpedoes weigh a thousand pounds each. That oil spot could cause a torpedo to slip from its harness and crush someone. It's the afternoon of May 22nd, 1939, and Naquin is aboard his submarine, the USS Squalus, docked at the Portsmouth Naval Yard.

Tomorrow, his crew has a crucial test dive. From full speed, they have to get the Squalus 50 feet underwater in just 60 seconds. Such a rapid dive could mean the difference between escaping the enemy or getting blown up. They get only a few chances to hit this mark over the next month. If they fail, they won't be able to join the Pacific Fleet on active duty.

For an ambitious officer like Naquin, failure is unacceptable. That's why Naquin is here in the sub to inspect every inch and make sure things are perfect for tomorrow. Naquin is standing in the forward torpedo room at the nose of the sub. After cleaning the torpedo, he ducks through an oval-shaped door leading to the room behind it.

This is called the forward battery. A chamber beneath this room houses the sub's massive electric batteries, which propel the sub when it's underwater. The forward battery is also where the sub's officers eat and sleep.

Despite his mood, Naquin smiles at the beds and kitchen. He's been in the Navy for 14 years. Before that, he was a good enough trumpet player to join a professional jazz band in his hometown of New Orleans. But ultimately, he turned the band down. He didn't want to be on the road so much or away from his wife, Frances.

Nequin also simply loves the Navy, the tradition, the structure, and the way he can mold his men into better people. Still, he's not nostalgic for his days aboard older submarines. They were utter horror stories. Old subs were hot and filthy.

They reeked of diesel fuel and sweat. There weren't even toilets. Crew members did their business in buckets. The Squalus, just three months old, is different. It's clean and air-conditioned, with flush toilets and good food. The Squalus and her sister sub, the Sculpin, are the most sophisticated underwater vehicles in the world.

But she's still a submarine, and the interior is cramped, especially when her full crew of 59 are on board. Pipes line the ceilings with valve wheels that jut down. One wrong step, and you'll have an ugly gash on your forehead.

Subs are also still subject to the ever-present dangers of the sea, including being trapped underwater. One mistake from Naquin's crew could spell doom, which is another reason why everything needs to be perfect.

The forward battery looks ship-shape, so he moves back one more compartment into the control room. This is the nerve center of the sub, where Naquin spends most of his time. Every square inch of wall space is covered with dials, levers, lights, and gauges. Tomorrow, this room will be thrumming with activity. Before Naquin can move on to the next room, a hatch opens up overhead, and an ensign pokes his head in,

Sir, I have a message. What is it? It's the Sculpin. They passed their 60-second dive test today. Naquin grimaces. That means the Sculpin submarine is now qualified to join the Pacific fleet ahead of the Squalus. This will only ratchet up the pressure on his crew tomorrow. Naquin nods at the ensign. Pass on my congratulations. Anything else?

Yes, the Sculpin crew is having a celebratory dinner tonight. The captain personally invited you. Naquin almost laughs out loud, as if he'd ever go to a celebration for the Sculpin. He certainly wouldn't do so the night before a big test. He's sure the captain of the Sculpin is taunting him.

Tell them no. And after this, I am not to be disturbed. What if a message comes through? Should I... Unless it's a direct order from Admiral Cole, then no. If Jesus Christ himself shows up, I don't want to hear about it. The ensign salutes and closes the hatch. Naquin feels bad for snapping at him.

But he needs to focus. He has several meetings tonight to go over every step of tomorrow's test. He and his crew have to be perfect. And he still has to finish his inspection tour. Beyond the control room, there are four more rooms. The after battery, which is where the crew sleeps and eats. The forward engine room. The after engine room. And the after torpedo room.

Naquin wants to make sure there's not a single thing out of place in any of them. He picks some lint off his pants, ducks through another oval door, and gets back to business. ♪

From the driver's seat, Frances Naquin glances in the rearview mirror at her two small children in the backseat. One boy, one girl. They're both napping sweetly, and she smiles at the sight. Then she checks her makeup in the mirror. It looks good. Her husband Oliver will be so happy to see her.

Her visit to the base tonight is a surprise. Oliver has been under loads of pressure lately, and she wants to cheer him up on the night before the Squales' big test dive. Oliver has been brooding about it for ages. Normally, he plays the trumpet to unwind, but he hasn't touched his instrument in weeks. He needs to relax. That's why she's driving to base to surprise him.

She has a chicken dinner in a picnic basket and a jello casserole, and they're going to enjoy the lovely weather. It will only take an hour and will do him a world of good.

She pulls up to the naval base and rolls down her window to address the guard at the gate. I'm here to see Oliver Naquin. Sorry, Mrs. Naquin. I'm afraid I can't let you through. He left strict orders not to disturb him. Just try. He'll want to see us. The guard looks dubious, but picks up the phone and dials. Frances checks her hair in the mirror and wakes up the kids in back.

A moment later, she hears the guard hang up. I'm sorry, ma'am. The answer is no. Did you speak with Oliver directly? He should... I have orders. I'm sorry, ma'am. You have to leave. Frances is stunned. She tries arguing more, but a car horn beeps behind her. Angrily, she puts the car in reverse and backs away from the gate.

A mile down the road, she's more humiliated than angry. Her husband is never around, and she hates the submarine service. It's good pay, but she's so worried about the danger that she can barely sleep some nights, especially now that it seems like war with Germany and Japan could break out at any moment. The next time she glances in the mirror, she sees her face has flushed red. She'll let things go today.

War is coming, and she doesn't want to be another stressor in Oliver's life. He needs to be focused. So many lives depend on him. She just hopes that his new sub is as safe as he says it is.

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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Navy electrician Gerald McLeese strolls along a dock at the Portsmouth Naval Yard. To his right floats a squalest submarine, 300 feet long and almost 1,500 tons of sleek metal. Every time he sees it, McLeese nearly whistles in admiration. He feels lucky to serve on it.

It's 6 a.m. on May 23rd, 1939. He's reporting for duty early on this cold and overcast morning because his crew has a crucial test dive and he wants to be prepared. He nods at the guard outside the squalus, then hops onto the sub's deck. There, he climbs into an open hatch and down a short ladder into the sub's interior.

McLeese takes the rungs quickly and lets his eyes adjust to the dimness at the bottom. Then he starts making his way toward the rear of the sub. He pushes open a steel door and enters the after battery, named for the huge batteries in the compartments below. It's also home to the crew's beds, and just beyond that, the mess area where the crew eats. McLeese pokes his head into the tiny galley kitchen and

and the smell of sizzling sausages makes his stomach growl.

He nods at the cook, William Isaacs. Smells delicious. Grab a plate. I'll serve you up. MacLeese sits down at a table, bolted to the floor, and digs in. Then he pulls some papers from his pocket to study the procedure for today's test dive. It's the latest in a series of increasingly difficult tests, all in preparation for shipping out to active duty in the Pacific. MacLeese signed up for the Sense of Adventure,

But lately, the thought of being on active duty makes him nervous. The newspapers say war is coming. Today's test simulates an emergency dive, as if someone just spotted enemy planes, planes that could bomb the sub.

It's the single most demanding maneuver on a submarine, requiring flawless teamwork and intricate choreography within cramped spaces. MacLeese desperately wants to pass the test, especially because the Sculpin already has. He'll be damned if he lets those Sculpin jerks hog all the glory. Another crewman sits down nearby. MacLeese looks up and frowns.

It's John, a fellow junior electrician, and the one guy on the squalus that MacLeese doesn't like. John's a complainer and a bit lazy. MacLeese watches him yawn theatrically between slurps of coffee. The two men have a few things to discuss before today's test. They also have a decision to make.

The submarine has two battery chambers, one forward and one aft. During the test, McLeese will be stationed in one and John in the other to help the sub transition from diesel power to electric as it dives. But they have to decide who goes where.

Before MacLeese can say anything, John speaks up. So listen, I'm taking the after battery, you take the front. You had the after last time. It's my turn. Who says we take turns? I call dibs, fair and square. MacLeese bristles. The after battery is a better assignment. It's less hot and cramped. It's also near the crew's kitchen and beds and away from the officers' quarters, so it's more relaxed. MacLeese pushes for the aft. MacLeese is not.

but John won't relent. MacLeese finally throws up his hands. "Fine, I'll take the front, Jesus." He spears his last sausage and stomps off. Halfway out the door, MacLeese stops. He's steamed and wants to go back and pull rank. He's slightly senior and could force John to relent,

But before he can, he hears a voice. "What's the matter, MacLeese? You look upset." He turns to see Joseph Patterson, a junior officer with wavy blonde hair and a wide smile. Patterson is a star athlete. He finished fourth in the 400-meter hurdles at the recent Olympics in Berlin. As the youngest commissioned officer on board, he's a favorite with crew members, someone they come to with their troubles.

MacLeese explains his annoyance with John. When he finishes, Patterson nods. Yeah, I'd be annoyed too. But think about the bigger picture. What do you mean, sir? We have the test dive today. Sculpin already passed, so we can't have any distractions, right? I suppose. And it's just for this morning. If this happens again, you come find me and I'll straighten things out. MacLeese nods and thanks him.

Patterson claps him on the back and moves toward his station in the rear of the sub. MacLeese decides that Patterson is right. He can't create a distraction, so he makes his way toward the forward battery at the front of the sub. His other crewmates and this crucial test dive have to come first. 13 miles off the coast, Captain Oliver Naquin stands outside on the deck of the Squalus, stopwatch in hand.

He's itching to start today's test dive. He can feel the throb of the giant diesel engines underfoot as the sub works its way to a full speed of 16 knots. To the east, the mid-morning sun is hidden behind a dense cover of steel gray clouds. The wind is cold on his face. A hatch opens behind him.

He turns to see his second in command, Lieutenant William Doyle. Ready, sir. Naquin scans the horizon. The spot he's picked for their test dive is a few miles past White Island, a barren, rocky outcrop with an old lighthouse. The only other vessel around is a distant lobster boat. He fingers the stopwatch and turns to Doyle. All right, commence emergency dive in three, two, one.

Doyle disappears in a flash, shouting orders. Naquin hustles down after, closing the hatch behind him and sliding down the ladder into the control room. A klaxon sounds, the signal for the dive to begin.

In the dim light, Naquin glances at the stopwatch. Five seconds, right on time. In the control room, he begins relaying orders to different parts of the sub. First, they have to switch from the surface diesel engines to the underwater electric motors. When the engines cut out, Naquin checks the stopwatch and grimaces. 20 seconds. They should be under that time. Pick

Pick it up, man. He hurries over to the most important instrument during a dive, a panel of red and green lights, nicknamed the Christmas tree. The lights are wired to different intake pipes that suck in air when they're on the surface. Every last pipe has to be closed before a dive begins, or water will flood the sub. A green light means a closed pipe. A red light indicates an open pipe. Naquin peers at the board and sees mostly green. It

except for the two biggest intake pipes. They're located in the two engine rooms and always the last ones closed before a dive. Naquin glances toward the corner at an ensign holding a lever. Shut the main induction valve. The ensign throws the lever. The last remaining red Christmas tree lights flash green.

Lieutenant Doyle checks an air pressure gauge and calls out. Pressure in the boat! That confirms the sub is now sealed and airtight. Naquin orders the ballast tanks to be flooded. The extra weight will send the Squalus into a steep dive. As expected, a gurgling sound fills the room as the nose of the sub tilts toward the ocean floor.

Naquin glances at his stopwatch. 31 seconds. They're still running behind. The descent continues. 20 feet, then 30, then 40. 50 feet! When they reach 50, Naquin clicks the stopwatch and groans. They miss the target time by one-tenth of a second. So close, but still a failure. But the captain can't wallow. He can feel the eyes of his men on him.

He needs to buck them up and tell them that they'll get it next time. But before he can speak, he senses something amiss. Naquin feels it in his ears first. The air pressure on the sub has changed. This is alarming. It means that something is open on the submarine that should be closed. And with the weight of the Atlantic Ocean bearing down on them, this could mean disaster. A communications specialist yells out,

His name is Charles Cooney, and he's wearing a headset that allows him to communicate with the rest of the submarine. Captain, they're reporting flooding in the aft engine room. Naquin's heart starts to pound. He was expecting a tiny leak, but this sounds much worse. The two engine room intake pipes are 27 inches in diameter and controlled by a single valve.

If that valve is open, it could flood the whole sub in a matter of minutes. Naquin's eyes dart to the Christmas tree board, but all the lights are still green. There must be some mistake. Then, Cooney yells out again. Forward engine room is flooding. Repeat, both engine rooms are flooding. Naquin doesn't understand. How can the intake pipes be open? He grabs Cooney's headset, but as he puts it on,

He hears an awful sound, a roar of water. No matter what the green lights say, the pipes are open and gushing water. It's a worst case scenario. If the sub takes on too much water, she'll sink to the ocean floor, dooming her crew. Naquin knows they have to act quickly to get the Squalus to surface before that happens.

Near the back of the sub, cook William Isaacs feels a flutter in his ears. He's standing in the galley, a cramped kitchen just off the after battery. Confused about the pressure change, he pokes his head out into the main room. A gush of salt water from somewhere overhead slaps him in the face. He ducks back into the galley, stunned, then wipes the sting from his eyes and carefully looks out again.

His mouth drops open at what he sees. The room to his left is the forward engine room, and the door between the after battery and the engine room is half open, with water surging in all around it. He rushes forward to secure the door. It's not easy. Water is gushing through the opening, and his feet slip on the wet floor. But he bears down and finally gets the watertight door closed and locked.

The door has a single round window called an eye port. As Isaacs cups his hands around his eyes and peers through, he can't believe what he sees. From a pipe on the ceiling, there's a torrent of water pouring down, white and churning. The diesel engines around the room are already completely submerged. Isaacs strains his eyes, searching for any crewmates who might be trapped.

He knows there must be some. The back three compartments on the Squalus have stations for two dozen men, but he can't see anyone. All he can see is more and more water gushing into the sub and getting deeper by the second.

In the control room, Captain Naquin barks orders, desperately trying to save his vessel. The men controlling the diving gear slam several levers into place. Others scramble to engage the compressed air tanks that make the sub more buoyant. Dive planes up!

Naquin hears a noise, like a distant wind tunnel. Beneath him, compressed air at 3,000 pounds of pressure per square inch is blowing into the ballast tanks, forcing the water inside them back out into the ocean. Blowing water out of these tanks will lighten the squalus and cause her to rise. And it starts to work.

After a few seconds, Naquin feels upward pressure on his feet, like a slow but powerful elevator. "Steady men, steady! She's climbing!" Thirty seconds later, Naquin feels the heavy drag of water on the Squalus give way. She's broken the surface. It's a massive relief, but it only lasts a second.

Without warning, the Squalus lurches, as if her back end was jerked downward with a giant cable. Coffee cups crash down, and crew members tumble backwards. Naquin has to grab his periscope to keep on his feet. Naquin now feels the sub tilting backward. He realizes what's happening. The rear of the submarine is flooding, which means it's heavier and sinking. Blow the ballast again!

Naquin's knuckles grow white on the periscope as he holds himself up, but the water pouring into the sub is simply too powerful. The flooded back end tilts down faster and faster, and Naquin knows that it won't stop until it drags them down into the deep.

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The room he's standing in, the after-battery, is now half-submerged. He's covered to his waist. Then, he sees a burst pipe overhead. It's connected to pipes in the engine room and must have exploded under the pressure of the incoming water. The whole sub lurches violently, knocking Isaacs off his feet. It's tilting backwards at a 45-degree angle.

Isaacs tries to stand, but slips and falls on the floor, which is now steeper than a ski slope. In horror, he realizes all the water from the burst pipe is now rushing down towards him. Within seconds, it's reached his armpits. A wave of panic surges through him. If he doesn't move soon, he'll drown.

His only hope is to reach the door of the next compartment forward, the control room. Isaacs plunges forward into the freezing water. He's actually swimming uphill, his arms and legs thrashing. It's nearly impossible to get anywhere. But he's got to reach that door, or he's as good as dead.

In the compartment below the forward battery, electrician Gerald McLeese feels the sub straining to rise. The sensation confuses him. He thought the squalus was supposed to stay underwater and do more drills. Curious, he opens the hatch above him and pops his head up to the main floor of the forward battery. McLeese is shocked to hear yelling from the control room.

The place is normally so calm. Before he can decipher what's happening, a metal coffee pot bounces past and nearly clobbers him in the head. Then more debris slides past him. Coffee cups, an operations manual, someone's hat. MacLeese feels a surge of fear. Submarines like the Squalus are often tense, but also orderly.

Between the yelling and the sub's backwards tilt, he can tell something is very, very wrong. He scrambles up the ladder from the battery hold and looks right and left, trying to decide what to do. He jumps back as someone goes flying past him in the narrow passageway. His superior, Chief Electrician Lawrence Gaynor. We're flooding! Out of the way! McClure.

MacLeese watches as Gaynor leaps into the same battery hold that MacLeese just climbed out of. A shiver ripples down MacLeese's spine. Gaynor said the sub is flooding. And if that's true, MacLeese can't help but think that a room with a bunch of electrical equipment is the absolute worst place to be.

Electrician Lawrence Gaynor jumps off the ladder leading down into the forward battery compartment. He's 40 years old and has worked in submarines half his life. And he's never seen so much chaos on board one. Despite the panic in his chest, he knows where his duty lies. He needs to disconnect the submarine's batteries immediately or every single person aboard could die.

The problem is this: the water flooding into the Squalus will eventually reach the sub's bank of massive lead batteries. The submarine has 126 of them, each six feet tall and weighing 1,600 pounds. If they get flooded with water while they're still connected, they'll short out and explode. That could blow a hole through the hull of the sub and drown everyone on board.

So Gaynor needs to hit the kill switches for the batteries as quickly as possible. The battery chamber is dark and cramped, but Gaynor can see there's already water leaking in here through damaged pipes. And all the electrical equipment in the sub is connected. So a short in the back, where there's massive flooding, will cause problems here too. In fact, Gaynor can already smell the sizzle of melted rubber insulation.

The battery leads around him are popping and sparking. The passage toward the kill switches is barely wide enough for him to squeeze into. He has to duck his head and shield his eyes from all the electric sparks. He finally feels his way to the kill switch on one side and flips it.

A lightning bolt of blue-white electricity explodes inside the chamber. Gaynor's body flies backward, and his head slams against the wall.

He slumps down to his knees, moaning. The smell of burning almost makes him vomit. He finally opens his eyes, but he can't see much. Most of his field of vision is a white glow. It's completely disorienting, especially because the ship is still tilting violently.

But he knows he has to get to the other kill switch. If he doesn't, the remaining batteries could still blow a hole in the hull. With all his strength, Gaynor gets one foot under him, then another. He staggers down the corridor.

Groping along, his fingers find the switch and curl around it. But before he pulls it, he hesitates. Throwing the second switch could produce another massive electrical discharge, like the first one that knocked him off his feet and nearly blinded him. He's not sure he'll survive another blow like that.

But he has a duty. Even if he dies, he owes it to the other men on the Squalus. He'll have to sacrifice himself. He gropes for the switch again, braces himself, and slams it home.

To his amazement, nothing happens. The sparks from the batteries go quiet, and all he can hear is his own breathing. Gaynor slumps down again and catches his breath. He still can't see much, just blazing, blinding whiteness.

After another minute, he starts groping his way toward the ladder, using the batteries to pull himself up the tilted floor. He's feeling wretched, but he did it. The risk of explosion is over, and for now at least, he's alive. William Isaacs thrashes uphill against a flood of water, still trying to reach the door at the far end of the room. The water is almost over his head now,

and with the tilt of the submarine increasing, he's barely able to keep from being swept backwards. Suddenly, he's plunged into darkness. The ship's power must have gone out. He abandons his plan to swim,

Instead, he starts grabbing pipes and valves on the walls. He'll have to pull himself upward toward the door, but his plan backfires. He forgot about a table bolted to the floor, and his shin slams into it. The pain leaves him howling, and he loses his grip and slides backwards.

After his head clears, he sees that the ship isn't totally dark. Through the open door up ahead, flashlights and lanterns shine. He tries to swim towards them, but then something blocks the lights from view. In horror, he realizes that someone is pulling shut to the door he's trying to reach. He's about to be trapped, and if that happens, he'll drown for sure. Then he hears a voice. I'm

I'm closing the door. Anyone else in here? Half submerged, Isaacs pushes himself up to yell yes. There is someone in here. But at that very moment, the sub lurches again. A wall of water slaps his face. He's left coughing and sputtering. He tries to yell, but the words won't come out. Isaacs is seized by pure white hot pain.

He lurches forward, thrashing harder than ever through the flooded compartment. But in the faint glow, he can already see the light around the door ahead of him, growing dimmer by the second. This is episode one of our three-part series, Submarine Rescue, The Race to Save Squalus.

A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we highly recommend the books "The Terrible Hours" by Peter Moss and "Back from the Deep" by Carl Laveau. I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Sam Kean wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez.

Sound design is by Joe Richardson. Produced by Matt Olmos and Emily Frost. Our managing producer is Tanja Thigpen. Our coordinating producer is Matt Gant. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis. For Wondery. Wondery.

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