Foreign News: Off Shivering Sand

At 7 p.m. Thursday, Jan 12, the little (643-ton) Swedish motor tanker Divina was plowing out of the Thames estuary, four miles from shore, between Red Sand Tower and the Shivering Sand banks. Second Mate Franz Leipelt, officer on watch, and a British pilot were on the bridge. At the helm, Swedish Able Seaman Herbert Tonning guided his ship at a cautious 10 knots through a calm, moonless night. From the bridge came a shouted order. Tonning spun the wheel, hard. He heard the crunch of steel on steel. Captain Karl Hammerberg, hunched over a pot of tea in the officers' saloon, was thrown headlong on the table. He ran to the bridge. The ship's clock stood at 7:04.

A Matter of Seconds. At 7 p.m. His Majesty's Submarine Truculent was headed up the Thames estuary for the Chatham Naval Base, after a diving test cruise in the North Sea. Aboard was her regular complement of six officers, 55 men, plus 18 civilian Navy yard technicians who had been checking up on recent repairs to the Truculent.

Most of the men, joking and waiting for supper, were standing around below decks. Second Class Engine Room Artificer Ed Buckingham was getting congratulations on his 32nd birthday. Navy Yard Surveyor Roy Stevens had just finished shaving. Leading Seaman Fred Henley got his supper early so that he could report for duty. He started up the conning tower to join the Truculent's bearded commander, Lieut. Cyril Philip Bowers (30), and three other young officers. Later Henley described what happened:

"Just as I was going up to the bridge, I heard the captain shout a quick order to the engine room. Almost at once we were struck. With the others, I stood still. In a matter of seconds, the ship seemed to sink beneath us and go straight down." Henley, Bowers and the three others were floundering in the sea.

A Matter of Minutes. Water gushed into the forward torpedo room through the hole made by the Divina's prow. Before the lights went out Civilian Stevens had a chance to check the depth gauge: the Truculent rested on the bottom, 42 feet below the surface. "I knew then that an escape could be made," said Stevens. "All that worried me was what would happen on top."

At a cry of "Everybody aft," men stumbled into two compartments: the engine room and the engineer's mess. Watertight doors were dogged shut with 20 men in the engine room, 22 in the mess.

In the engine room Chief Petty Officer Sam Hine, who had spent 20 of his 37 years in the Navy, was the senior rank present. He asked, "Who can swim?" Swimmers volunteered to give their escape gear* to those nonswimmers who had none.

Then Hine and his men began as desperate and difficult a job as seamen can undertake—escape from a sunken sub. At 7:40 Hine opened the sea valves and began slowly flooding the compartment. He lowered a canvas funnel, big enough for one man to get through. At the top of the funnel was a hatch, opening outside the vessel. The bottom of the funnel was under the surface of the water in the compartment.

The rising water in the compartment increased pressure. The men had to wait until the pressure inside approximately equaled that of the sea outside—otherwise, when the hatch was opened, the sea would rush in upon them. This process took 30 minutes.