USS Grampus SS-207

The loss of USS Grampus (SS-207) on (or about) March 5, 1943 is one of those stories that still haunts the depths of the Pacific. She was a tough, battle-tested submarine, having already sunk thousands of tons of enemy shipping, and her crew knew their mission inside and out. But in the shadowy waters near the Solomon Islands, something happened—something final. No distress calls, no survivors, no wreck found. Just a disappearance that left 71 American submariners lost to the sea.

By early 1943, the war in the Pacific had taken a turn. The brutal campaign for Guadalcanal had ended, and the Japanese were on the defensive, fighting to keep their supply lines open. The U.S. Navy was determined to cut those lifelines, and submarines like Grampus were at the heart of that effort. She had been through five war patrols, each more dangerous than the last, landing spies behind enemy lines, taking down enemy ships, and running silent in waters swarming with Japanese destroyers. Her crew knew the risks—they had lived them every day.

When Grampus left Brisbane on February 11, 1943, under Lieutenant Commander John R. Craig, no one imagined she wouldn’t be coming home. She was assigned to patrol around Bougainville and Kolombangara, hunting Japanese ships alongside USS Grayback. But after February 12, she simply vanished from radio contact. That silence would prove permanent.

After the war, Japanese records gave us some clues. On February 18 and 19, Japanese aircraft reported attacking an American submarine in Grampus’s patrol zone. The next day, enemy patrol boats spotted an oil slick—often the only evidence that a submarine had met its end. Yet Grayback later reported seeing Grampus on March 4, suggesting that if she had been hit in February, she survived—at least for a while.

Then came March 5-6, a night that may have sealed Grampus’s fate. Japanese destroyers Minegumo and Murasame conducted an aggressive anti-submarine attack near Kolombangara. The next day, a heavy oil slick appeared in the area, pointing to the possibility that Grampus had been caught on the surface and destroyed. Adding a twist of irony to this tragedy, those very same destroyers were themselves ambushed and sunk soon after in the Battle of Blackett Strait. If they had sunk Grampus, whatever details they might have provided about her final moments were lost with them.

Despite decades of searching, no one has ever found USS Grampus. She remains out there somewhere, her steel hull resting in the deep, silent and unseen. But her story isn’t just about loss—it’s about the bravery of the 71 men who took her into harm’s way, knowing full well that every patrol could be their last. Submariners fought a different kind of war—unseen, unheard, and often unacknowledged. They lived by their wits, by their training, and by the trust they placed in one another.

For the families of those lost, the lack of closure must have been unbearable. No telegram could explain the unknowable, no grave could be visited. For the men who served alongside them, the loss was a reminder of just how fine the line was between coming home and becoming a name etched on a memorial.

Somewhere, in the vast and endless blue of the Pacific, USS Grampus still lies. A time capsule of courage and sacrifice, holding the stories of men who gave everything they had in the fight for freedom. They were submariners. They were warriors. And they are not forgotten.