Submarine Rescue: The Race to Save Squalus | The Final Dive | 3
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Electrician Gerald McLeese sits propped against a wall in the forward torpedo room of the sunken USS Squalus submarine. He holds his breath in anticipation. Above him, he hears the sound of a rescue diving bell locking onto the emergency escape hatch. He's never heard anything more beautiful.

For the past 28 hours, McLeese and his crewmates have been trapped over 200 feet underwater on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean. They're freezing and running low on breathable air. He shivers as he wraps a wool blanket tighter around his shoulders.

An officer next to him holds a lantern, the only source of light in the room. McLeese can see the nervousness on the faces of his crewmates. But if all goes well, the diving bell will form a watertight seal over the rescue hatch. Then, rescuers will climb down from the bell into a small chamber above the torpedo room, called the escape trunk. From there, they'll be able to lift the submarine crew one by one into the diving bell, which

which will carry them up to the surface. A second closed hatch connects the torpedo room to the escape trunk. McLeese stares up at it, wondering what's taking so long. But then he hears a sound that makes his heart leap. Hello? Hello? Do you hear me?

Immediately, the whole crew in the torpedo room is on their feet. The officer holds up his lantern and shouts over the commotion. "Alright, let's open the escape hatch. Slowly." MacLees and another sailor reach up and begin turning the hand wheel that unseals the hatch. MacLees' hands tremble, from cold or excitement or both.

For most of the past 28 hours, he didn't think any of them were going to survive. Now, they're just minutes away from being rescued. He takes a deep breath and pulls down on the hatch's release handle. And then, his worst fear comes true.

Cold seawater begins pouring down through the hatch, drenching his face. In a panic, he slams the hatch closed again, then stands there panting and dripping, unsure of what just happened. Has the rescue been botched? But then he hears something, a muffled voice and movement in the escape trunk above. The hatch starts to open again, this time from the other side.

More water pours out, and McLeese leaps back in alarm. But it's less water than he expected, just a few gallons. And a moment later, a sailor ducks his head in upside down. Hello, men. My name is John Michalowski, and I'm the pilot of the rescue bell. McLeese stares at the man, confused. Is there a leak? Where'd all that water come from? A leak? No, just some residual water from the lower half of the bell. Didn't mean to scare you.

Miklis exhales hard. He feels like he's aged 10 years in 10 seconds. Then he hears someone call out behind him. "What the hell took you so long?" Michalowski flashes a toothy grin. "You should have seen the traffic." Everyone laughs, even Miklis. He's still shaken and cold, but it feels good. He thought he might never laugh again.

Then, Michalowski puts his hand up asking for silence. We're going to pass down some coffee, soup, and sandwiches. Then, let's get you guys out of here. Be advised, though, this kind of operation has never been done before. A lot of things could still go wrong. McLeese feels his whole body tense up.

Over the past 28 hours, he's thought a lot about that fateful day back in Kansas when he signed up for the Navy. He remembers the words of the recruitment officer who called submarine duty "coffin service." And while it's heartening that the rescue bell has arrived, McLeese can't stop worrying that the submarine will indeed become his coffin.

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On May 12, 1939, the submarine USS Squalus sank during a test dive off the coast of New Hampshire. Twenty-six sailors drowned within minutes, and 33 more were trapped at the bottom of the ocean, 240 feet down. The Navy mounted a furious effort to save them with a brand new rescue tool, a diving bell.

The bell's 10-foot-tall metal cylinder could lock onto a hatch outside the sub and bring the sailors to the surface. But the bell had never been used in a real emergency or at such depths. There was no backup plan. The rescue bell was their only shot. This is Episode 3: The Final Dive.

Diving bell pilot John Michalowski reaches down from the escape trunk above the torpedo room and grips the hand of a cook named William Isaacs. Isaacs will be the first sailor to board the bell. When the sub flooded, he nearly drowned, and he's still in bad shape.

Michalowski grabs his hand and tugs, but Isaac struggles to hang on. Soon his hand slips and he collapses onto the floor below. He's simply too weak to hoist himself up into the escape trunk. Michalowski looks down into the room beneath him and reassesses the situation.

The men here are shivering and pale. Their clothes and shoes are soaking wet and streaked with grease. A few look ready to vomit, possibly from the lack of oxygen and high levels of carbon dioxide.

But Michalowski has no time to waste. The diving bell can only rescue seven men at a time, so they'll need to make multiple round trips. And oxygen levels in the sub are already dangerously low. So Michalowski points to two other sailors. Make a cradle with your hands and give him a boost. Good. Now lift him up. Easy does it. Isaacs looks embarrassed to need help.

but it works. He's finally able to climb into the escape trunk. From there, Michalowski helps him into the diving bell. Then, Michalowski returns for six more men, most of whom also need a boost. After 10 minutes, seven sailors are all aboard the bell. Michalowski seals all the hatches, then climbs into the diving bell's upper chamber. There, he sees all seven men staring at him,

Before, they looked overjoyed to see him, but now he can read the tension on their faces. Relax, fellas. I've done this a thousand times in trainings. The ride will be smooth as silk. It's a complete lie. Michalowski has never raised the bell such a long distance, and not every ride goes smoothly. But he gives them a reassuring smile and even whistles a tune to show he's relaxed.

Then he tells everyone to hold on. He turns a valve to blow air into the ballast tank so they can begin the long ride to the surface. Charles "Sweed" Momsen leans over the railing on the deck of the rescue ship USS Falcon, straining for a glimpse of the diving bell.

The bell made contact with the squalus an hour ago and should be emerging from the water any second. As the Navy's underwater rescue expert, Momsen knows the bell needs to rise slowly. If the cable winching it upward gets tangled, the bell could be trapped underwater. But the wait is excruciating.

Finally, he sees something, a gray haze in the blue water. Gradually, it grows bigger until the top breaks through the surface. Momsen watches as two sailors reach out with boat hooks to drag the 10-foot-tall bell over to the side of the falcon. Two other sailors open the hatch on top. A moment later, the head of a squalus sailor pops out.

As the crew of the Falcon cheers, Momsen feels a lump rising in his throat. It's been 14 years since he had to identify the bodies of friends who died in a horrible submarine accident. Every day since then, he's been fighting the Navy bureaucracy to get this rescue equipment built. It's been an emotionally wrenching journey, but he's finally made good on his promise. He's found a way to rescue sailors trapped in sunken submarines.

Momsen walks over to the rescued sailors. The Falcon crew is covering them in warm blankets and handing them steaming cups of coffee. Momsen can see their blue lips and hear their chattering teeth. He shakes their hands and gets their names. William Isaacs, Gerald MacLeese, and five others. But however triumphant Momsen feels, he has a hard decision to make.

He waves over Alan McCann, a talented engineer who helped him design the diving bell. They walk away from the Falcon crew for some privacy before Momsen speaks. "I want to bring up eight sailors next time. The bell's only designed for seven, plus two pilots. I know, but I want to push things." Momsen explains his reasoning,

There are still 26 sailors trapped aboard the Squalus. At seven men per trip, that makes four more trips overall. Momsen and McCann know that with the constant danger of the guide wires getting tangled up, the bell must move slowly and cautiously. Each round trip takes over two hours. Momsen worries time is against them.

It's already past 1 p.m., and the weather has grown harsh, gusting winds and choppy waves. It's forecasted to get worse as the day wears on. Momsen doesn't want the diving bell's final trip to take place after dark, in the middle of a major storm. That's why, on the next trip, Momsen wants to bring up eight sailors. And then, if the bell can handle eight, he wants to try nine men on the last two trips.

McCann nods, but looks uneasy. "Sweet, I understand why you want to avoid an extra trip, but I'm not sure the belt can handle that much weight. But you and I both know that each trip only multiplies the risk of something going wrong. A cable getting tangled, a motor breaking down, especially if a storm hits us and this chop gets any worse." McCann chews his lip, thinking hard.

He's probably running the same numbers that Momsen has been. The tensile strength of the cables, the buoyancy of the bell, the weather. There are a dozen factors to consider. McCann finally takes a deep breath and nods his head. "I think it's just barely possible. All right, let's do it." Momsen thanks McCann, then hurries to find the diving bell pilot. He'll have to sell him on the new, riskier mission.

Momsen knows it's the only way. Two hours later, Swede Momsen stands again at the railing of the Falcon, watching the diving bell rising from its second trip to the Squalus. But as it emerges from the waves, something looks off. The bell isn't riding high and bobbing in the water like it did before.

Instead, it barely breaks the surface. The Falcon's sailors struggle to reach it with their boat hooks. Momsen kicks the railing in frustration. Adding an eighth crewman has made the bell too heavy. And if it's already struggling to carry eight sailors, they can't risk bringing up nine on the next trip. It's too dangerous, which means they'll have to make three more trips, the very thing he wanted to avoid.

Momsen watches silently as the second group of sailors emerges from the bell. There's another cheer, but Momsen doesn't join in. He has a bad feeling about having to make that extra trip. The rescued sailors get warm blankets and coffee again. Momsen turns toward the sea with a sigh. The weather is taking a definite turn, which will make the final rescue attempts that much harder.

Momsen hears a commotion behind him and turns. It's coming from the huddle around the rescued sailors. Then, a young Falcon crew member hurries up to him. He's got red hair and wide eyes, and he's waving his hands in excitement. Sir, listen to the coffee mugs. There wasn't enough cups. There's nine. Hold on. What? The sailor takes a breath and starts over. He's a cook, and he made the coffee they're handing to the rescued sailors.

For this last rescue dive, he had eight cups ready. But after he handed out all eight mugs, one sailor still didn't have one. Surprised, he did a quick count and realized that nine sailors had actually come up last trip. Apparently, in the confusion below, an extra person squeezed onto the rescue bell. Momsen is stunned. His eyes dart over to the rescued sailors. He counts them himself, then counts again.

Sure enough, there are nine. That changes everything. The bell just proved it could handle nine men. And with 17 men still below, that means they can get by with just two more trips. Momsen is so overjoyed that he hugs the redheaded sailor. Then he checks his watch.

Two more trips should take four to five hours. By 9:00 p.m., every last sailor aboard the Squalus should be safe and sound on the surface. Captain Oliver Naquin reaches down, then helps boost the last of his men toward the escape hatch in the ceiling of the forward torpedo room. Naquin is next, the last man to leave the Squalus on the diving bell's fourth and final trip.

But there's a short delay while everyone makes room for him in the crowded diving bell above. Naquin recalls how proud he was when he first assumed command of the SUP. This was the best crew he ever had, one of the prides of the entire U.S. fleet. Now, for nearly half his men, it's a cold, sunken coffin. It still doesn't seem real. Such a waste of life. Captain? Captain?

Naquin hears the voice of the diving bell pilot. He takes a breath to compose himself and looks around one last time. Then he grasps the pilot's hand and musters just enough strength to pull himself up. It's crowded inside the bell, with each man nearly sitting on top of another. But the air pumped in from the surface is refreshing.

Naquin has spent the past few hours battling a headache from the poor air quality aboard the Squalus. The fresh oxygen here leaves him almost lightheaded. The pilot seals the hatch at their feet and begins blowing compressed air into the ballast tanks to make the bell buoyant. Then he snaps a lever into place and Naquin hears a winch start to crank. It's reeling in the guide wire that will lead them up to the surface.

The diving bell is so packed that every time Naquin coughs or moves, he bumps into the sailors next to him. It's like standing in an overcrowded elevator, except the ride up takes a full 30 minutes. Most of his men either stare at the ceiling or keep their eyes closed, possibly praying. Naquin mostly watches the bell's depth gauge. Despite his exhaustion, his heart lifts with every foot they climb.

He was trapped in that submarine for 36 hours and frankly, doubted he'd ever see the surface again. Soon though, he'll be back on shore. They just have 160 feet to go, about half a football field. Then the nightmare will be over and he'll be back home in his wife's arms. But suddenly, the diving bell jerks to a halt. Naquin tumbles into the sailor next to him.

He sees the pilot grab the telephone to consult with the surface. The pilot nods, then hangs up and looks at his passengers. We're going to take her down a few feet along the down-haul cable. A wire probably got tangled somewhere. Naquin can't help but peek at the depth gauge again. It creeps from 160 to 165, then to 170. He knows it's just temporary, but it still pains him to reverse course.

Finally, the pilot stops and they start to rise again. But they slam to a halt a second time. The pilot curses. Hold on, I'm going to lower us again. But when he tries to lower the bell, nothing happens. The motor strains, but the bell won't go up or down at all. Naquin watches as the pilot picks up the phone that connects to the surface. His expression is grim. Yes, sir. No, sir. Okay. Okay.

I understand. The pilot hangs up and addresses the crewmen. Sorry, fellas. It seems like our downhaul cable has gotten tangled. Naquin speaks up. What does that mean, exactly? It means that for now, we can't go up or down. We're stuck. Naquin exchanges worried glances with his crew. He wants to say something to buck them up, but he's at a loss for words.

It was such a relief to know so many of his men were rescued and to be so close to escape himself. But now, Naquin realizes they're trapped again. And this time, there's no rescue plan. If they can't get the diving bell moving, they could all be doomed.

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Frances Naquin pours herself a glass of red wine and digs into the steaming plate of lasagna in front of her. The first bite is divine, and she closes her eyes, savoring the moment. Her friend has invited her to dinner, a kind gesture after a tense, exhausting day. This afternoon, the first rescued sailors shared the names of the men who had perished below. When the news reached the wives, Frances watched several of them collapse in grief.

She spent all afternoon comforting them as best she could. Frances knows that, as the captain, her husband Oliver will be the last one off the squalus. But the Navy told her the rescue is going well. She just has to get through this last stretch of waiting, and she'll get to see her husband again. During dinner, the phone rings in the next room.

Who keeps calling?

"Uh, just my mom checking in." But her friend won't look her in the eye. Frances presses her. "Please, just tell me the truth. Was it about the Squalus?" "No, well, yes. But I'm sure everything will be fine." "What's going on? Is it Oliver?" It takes her another minute to drag the truth out. And as soon as she does, Frances grabs her purse and runs for the door.

She's just learned that the diving bell's final trip, the one with her husband aboard, has hit a potentially deadly snag. Swede Momsen slams down the telephone leading to the diving bell. He stands on the deck of the USS Falcon, staring at the dark sea, his breath fogging up in the cold night air.

He's been talking to the diving bell pilot, John Michalowski, and walking him through various maneuvers to free the bell. Blowing the ballasts, turning on different motors, even rocking the bell side to side. But nothing's working. The damn thing is stuck.

Momsen looks at engineer Alan McCann, who's helping him troubleshoot. We need to send a diver down to the deck of the Squalus. To do what? Cut the downhaul cable connected to the diving bell, the one that's fouled up. Then we can pull the bell up by hand.

The diving bell is connected to two cables. One, called the retrieving cable, runs between the bell and the USS Falcon. The other, the downhaul cable, runs between the bell and the squalus. As long as the two cables work in tandem, raising and lowering the bell is like operating an elevator. But now that the downhaul cable is tangled, the bell can't move.

The safest way to disconnect the downhaul cable is from the top of the squalus. But McCann objects to the idea. "Sweed, we can't send a diver down there at night. Visibility will be close to zero." Momsen bristles. "I realize the risk, but my men are the best. I trust them." "Okay, fine. But even if we cut the wire down below, do you really think we can pull the bell up by the retrieving cable alone? Will that line hold the bell's weight with an extra man in there? It'll have to."

You can see McCann doesn't like that answer, but he doesn't have any better ideas. Like it or not, they'll have to send a diver down and hope for the best. Walter Squire switches on a headlamp on his diving suit, then peers into the inky dark water around him.

He knows he should be getting near the bottom and the squalus. But this deep at night, he can't see much beyond an occasional fish. Squire is one of the Navy's best and strongest divers. Swede Momsen picked him for the difficult task of cutting the tangled downhaul cable so the diving bell can start moving again. Squire flexes his hands to keep them nimble. His bulky suit weighs over 200 pounds and is difficult to move in.

The helmet is a metal sphere with a single round glass eye port, not much bigger than a peephole. But Squire is grateful for the suit's newfangled electric underwear. As it starts to work, he feels the heat keeping his core toasty.

As he gets deeper, Squire hears Momsen's voice through a telephone line connected to his helmet. What day is it, Squire? Wednesday. Who's the president? Franklin Roosevelt. Momsen is testing Squire's mental sharpness to make sure he's not suffering from nitrogen narcosis. It's a condition that affects deep-sea divers when they breathe air at extreme pressures.

At its mildest, nitrogen narcosis can make a diver seem like they're drunk. At its worst, it can cause hallucinations and even blackouts. A few minutes later, Squire touches down on the now-deserted submarine. He begins clomping along the deck, but his thick metal boots are hard to drag along, and the water pressure is daunting. It's like walking upstream against a fast current.

Squire can also feel his mind growing sluggish. It's the first twinge of nitrogen narcosis. And once it starts, he knows he has just a few minutes before it gets so bad he'll be useless or blackout completely. Momsen's voice again comes through. Talk me through what you're doing. I'm walking along the deck. I'm searching for the downhaul cable to cut.

Squire narrates his progress, knowing it will keep his mind focused as he fights through the narcosis. He finally reaches the hatch where the cable is connected. I am reaching for my wire cutters. I will cut the cable. He tries gripping the big, heavy-duty cutters, which look like pruning shears. But it's hard. His gloves are more like clumsy oven mitts. He fumbles the cutters several times before grasping them.

All of this is wasting time. Time he doesn't have. I am putting the cutters on the wire. I am squeezing the cutters. The steel cable is thick, thicker than his thumb. It's made of multiple individual strands. He adjusts his body to get more leverage. But with each cut, only a few strands snap.

He feels exhausted already, and he's barely halfway through cutting. He hears Momsen's voice. Squire, keep talking. What's going on? Squire sees black circles crowding his vision. He feels drunk. I can't cut the cable. Yes, you can. Take it one strand at a time. One strand at a time. I will cut the cable.

Squire blinks several times to refocus. Then he squeezes the cutters, but the exhaustion is overwhelming. The cutters nearly slip from his fingers. Squire, talk to me. Focus on the cable. I is cutting cable. He bears down, using his last bit of strength to squeeze.

Off to his left, something shifts suddenly. It seems alive. Squire staggers back a step, terrified. He steadies his headlamp and focuses his eyes. Then he realizes it's just the diving bell. The crew above in the Falcon lowered it to create some slack in the cable. And now the bell is swinging free just above him. He did it.

He feels a buzz of relief as he slurs the news to Momsen and closes his eyes. The last thing he feels is a tug on his lifeline as he's pulled upward toward the surface. Pilot John Michalowski rubs his hands together for warmth as his eyes dart over the various instruments and gauges inside the diving bell.

Far above on the surface, a winch on the Falcon is gently cranking the bell upward at five feet per minute. Michalowski is providing constant updates for Swede Momsen through the rescue chamber's telephone. But there's little to report beyond the intense cold. After piloting the bell for three of its four dives, Michalowski is exhausted. He glances at the depth gauge and cheers silently.

They're getting close. But a moment later, he hears a muffled snap from somewhere above. Then, several more snaps. Each one rocks the bell slightly. Michalowski addresses Momsen on the phone. Did you hear that? We're looking into it. Stand by. Through the phone, Michalowski hears yelling on the surface. It sounds chaotic.

In the bell, things are calm but tense. The eyes of everyone on board are boring into him. Even Captain Naquin looks rattled. Michalowski hears Momsen on the line again. "Bad news. The strands of the retrieving cable are snapping." Michalowski feels a cold shiver course through his body. That cable is the only thing keeping them from plummeting to the depths below.

Momsen explains that the strain of pulling the extra men has proved too much for the cable. One single strand, roughly the thickness of a guitar string, is all that's holding them up. Horrible thoughts flash through Michalowski's mind. If that single strand snaps, the diving bell will drop like a stone. The fall could tear out the electrical, telephone, and air cables in the ceiling of the bell, leaving huge holes behind.

Water would come rushing in, and the men inside would drown within minutes. Michalowski can barely get the next words out. What? What do we do, sir? Fill your ballast tanks with water. Then we'll lower you to the bottom. Back to the bottom? What if we get stuck in the mud down there? It's a risk, but we can't let that cable break. We'll send another diver down to attach a thicker one. Michalowski tries not to despair as he hangs up.

As the man in charge of the diving bell, he has to put on a confident face. He turns to the men aboard. There's no way to make this easier, fellas. We're in deep trouble here. We have to go back to the bottom and wait. The sailors look gutted to hear this. And Michalowski feels the same way. But he has no choice. He fills the ballast tanks with water to make the bell heavier. And soon, they're sinking again.

The needle on the depth gauge starts to plummet, and with every foot they drop, Michalowski's own spirits plummet even further. On the deck of the Falcon, Swede Momsen watches as a medical team carts another of his divers off to a decompression chamber.

He shakes his head. After Walter Squire barely made it back in one piece, he's had two more divers pass out and get hauled back to the surface with brutal cases of the bends. Both tried and failed to attach a new cable to the diving bell, which is now sitting on the bottom of the ocean. They're no closer to getting the last of the Squalus crew back to the surface.

Momsen looks up and sees Alan McCann approaching. I don't think we should risk sending another diver down. I agree. I think our only option now is firing the ballast to make the bell more buoyant. Firing the ballast will force water out of the ballast tanks with compressed air. That will make the bell lighter, so it will put less strain on their last remaining strand of cable as they haul it in.

But it's a risky procedure. The bell can't steer itself. It's clumsy and awkward. McCann looks skeptically at Momsen. "Do you think that will work?" "I don't see another choice. Do you?" McCann shakes his head. Momsen makes his way over to the phone to call Michalowski and the diving bell. When he picks up the phone, however, to his surprise, he hears the men below singing. "Michalowski? Hello?"

"Here, sir. Just singing to pass the time. Keeps morale up." "Huh. Whatever it takes, I guess." Momsen explains the new plan. He needs Michalowski to send small puffs of air from the bell's compressed air tanks into the diving bell's ballast tanks at regular intervals. Every puff will gradually increase the bell's buoyancy, and it will rise partly of its own accord.

Meanwhile, Momsen and several other men on the Falcon will gently pull the thin, fragile wire up by hand. Inch by inch, they'll coax the bell toward the surface. It sounds simple, but Momsen knows there are huge risks. If Michalowski mistimes his puffs of air and goes too slow, the wire could snap and the bell would tumble violently to the ocean floor.

After Momsen explains the plan, he asks Mihalowski the crucial question. Can you handle this maneuvering with the ballast? There's no room for error. There's a long pause. He can picture Mihalowski's slim face weighing the risks. Then he hears his pilot laugh. I guess I don't have much choice. Let's give it a whirl. Momsen wishes him luck and hangs up.

He's known Michalowski for years. He's his most trusted pilot. And Momsen knows if anyone can pull this off, it's him. But Momsen can't help but wonder if he'll ever see Michalowski alive again.

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Head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. It's midnight on May 25th, 39 hours since the USS Squalus sank. Diving bell pilot John Michalowski stretches his freezing, numb fingers, then grips the metal wheel that controls the diving bell's compressed air tanks. He reminds everyone to hold on. He doesn't want any injuries if the bell lurches.

Then he turns the wheel and waits for the bell to lift. After Michalowski lowered the bell to the sea floor, it came to rest in several feet of sticky mud. Mud so thick it's holding the bell down. Michalowski is trying to blow enough compressed air into the ballast tanks to lift the bell free. So Momsen's crew can then tug the bell upward on the last remaining strand of frayed wire.

But when Michalowski turns the wheel and blows air into the ballast tank, nothing happens. The bell doesn't move. Michalowski calls up to Momsen on the surface. "We're still stuck. I think we should let her rip. A blast of 15 seconds." "That long? If you overshoot, you'll careen out of control." Michalowski acknowledges this danger.

If there's too much air in the ballast tanks, the bell will shoot upward uncontrollably. It could even flip upside down or rush all the way to the surface and smash into one of the rescue ships. But Michalowski presses his case. Sir, you've got to trust me. I have years of practice with this bell. I know I can control her. Besides, we're out of options.

Michalowski hears silence on the phone. He knows that Momsen is weighing all the dangers. "Okay, John. Don't let me down." "I won't, sir." Michalowski hangs up, then grips the wheel again. "Hold on, everyone." When the blast ends, Michalowski feels the bell begin to rise. It's working.

But then, the bell lurches violently to one side. Michalowski tumbles into the man next to him. He flails for a handle and braces for disaster. After a few seconds, the bell slows down and glides to a halt. Michalowski gasps in relief. They won't shoot to the surface. He calls Momsen to tell him the good news.

Momsen congratulates him, but they're not out of the woods. He reminds Michalowski that the diving bell still needs to climb to the surface on that single strand of wire. And Michalowski still needs to provide buoyancy through the blasts of air to keep the strain on the wire minimal. He'll have to guide the bell up, inch by painstaking inch. And if his tempo isn't perfect...

Things still could end in disaster. Swede Momsen grips the retrieving cable and gently resumes pulling. He's easing it along hand over hand. A dozen other men are lined up behind him on the deck of the Falcon doing the same. Every so often, Momsen calls out orders. Steady men, keep pulling. Stop. Tell the diving bell to blow a bit more ballast. The cable feels too tense.

Miraculously, the cable is still holding, but it's nearly frayed through. One aggressive pull could snap it and send the bell tumbling back into the depths. It's a delicate, dangerous balancing act.

Below him, Momsen knows that pilot John Michalowski is engaged in his own balancing act. He needs to give the bell just enough buoyancy to ease the tension on the frayed wire, but not so much to risk sending the capsule tumbling upward. Here on the surface, Momsen weighs every ounce of tension in the wire and is freezing nearly numb fingertips. At some points, he hardly dares breathe.

They spend a full half hour reeling in the cable inch by inch. The pressure is excruciating. I see it! There it is! Bell spotted! That's the bell! Finally, voices cry out. Momsen looks up and sees the top of the bell peeking above the dark surface of the water. Navy divers plunge in to secure the bell with another line. Cheers erupt on deck. Momsen feels his shoulders droop with fatigue.

All 33 surviving men have now made it to the surface. It's the greatest moment of his life, and he's too exhausted to truly enjoy it. Momsen watches the final batch of sailors emerge from the bell. Last of all is the captain, Oliver Naquin. As he steps onto the Falcon, Momsen summons his strength, squares his shoulders, and strides over. Welcome aboard, Oliver. I'm damn glad to be aboard.

Naquin grins as they shake hands. Then, the two men move toward the pilot house to get out of the wind and cold. Their long ordeal is finally over. Oliver Naquin eases himself down a gangplank toward shore. It's nearly 2:00 a.m., and his legs are shaking with exhaustion. But he steadies himself on the railing and scans the gathered crowd. Then, he sees her, his wife Frances.

She looks beautiful. He throws his hand up and waves. He's blinded by a photographer sticking a camera on his face. Then the photographer frowns and looks at him. "I think I missed that shot. Can you wave again?" "Get out of my goddamn way." Naquin pushes past the photographer, bumping him aside. The crowd parts as Naquin approaches Frances. She runs up and throws her arms around him. He can feel her hot tears on his shoulder.

They pull back and gaze at each other. The moment doesn't even seem real. Naquin leans in. "Give me a kiss." "Not with the photographers around." "To hell with them. Come here." This time, the photographers get their shot, but Naquin doesn't care. It's the most heartfelt kiss of their lives. Naquin takes his wife's hand and starts to walk away.

He's eager to get home and hug his children. But a few steps later, he stops in his tracks. He's spotted the wives of the men who didn't make it out of the Squalus alive. They're standing off to the side, weeping and staring at him. Francis whispers to him, "Some of them refuse to believe that their husbands didn't make it. They came down here tonight hoping for a miracle. But there was no miracle. They're all widows now. It tears Naquin's heart.

He walks over and salutes them. A few tears form in his own eyes. He's proud of all he did to save the 33 survivors. But he'll never forget the 26 other brave men who died aboard the USS Squalus.

The USS Squalus operation marked the deepest and most dangerous submarine rescue ever to succeed. Equally important, the deployment of the diving rescue bell made submarine service significantly safer afterward. Many sailors still die in sub-accidents, but thanks to the diving bell, they at least have a fighting chance of making it out alive. A version of Momsen and McCann's diving bell is still in use today.

The Squalus didn't remain on the seafloor long. To recover the bodies of the dead sailors aboard, the U.S. Navy decided to raise and salvage her. The salvage operation required 640 dives over several months to attach the necessary cables and floats.

Once again, several divers almost lost their lives. But on September 13th, 1939, 113 days after she sank, the Squalus was finally lifted to the surface. The Navy refurbished her and renamed her the Sailfish. The sub eventually joined the Pacific Fleet. The Sailfish saw heavy action during World War II and sank several Japanese ships, including an aircraft carrier.

Incredibly, four Sailfish crew members were veterans of the Squalus. One of those four was electrician Gerald MacLeese, who served in 10 combat missions overall. MacLeese stayed in the Navy until 1956 and died in 2004. He was 90 years old.

Diving bell pilot John Michalowski won the Medal of Honor for his efforts. It's the highest military decoration in the United States and is rarely won outside of combat. Charles Swede Momsen, despite his earlier clashes with Navy administrators, became a hero himself. He went on to command submarine squadrons and captain a battleship during World War II.

He died of cancer on May 25, 1967, exactly 28 years after the Squalus mission ended. A naval court of inquiry attributed the sinking of the Squalus to mechanical failure. The sub had flooded because two air intake pipes inexplicably opened during the test dive. Officially, the court cleared Oliver Naquin of any wrongdoing, but he was reassigned to surface ships and, to his severe disappointment, never served on a sub again.

He rose to the rank of Rear Admiral before retiring in the 1950s and died in 1989. After World War II, the Squalus Sailfish submarine was sold for scrap metal. The Navy preserved only her conning tower, which now resides in a park in Kittery, Maine. It stands as a monument to the greatest submarine rescue in history. This is the final episode of our 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 Keen wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Our audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Sound design is by Rob Shieliga.

Produced by Matt Almos 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. We're Wondery. Wondery.

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