In the dawn of the twentieth century, submarines were something between daring science fiction and mechanical gamble. For the United States Navy, the dream of underwater warfare was becoming real—though not without growing pains, near-disasters, and more than a few hard-earned lessons.
One of the Navy’s early forays into undersea warfare was the B-class submarine—three compact, steel-hulled pioneers that marked a turning point in submarine design. Among them was USS Tarantula (SS-12), a vessel whose name alone evoked a certain predatory elegance. She was laid down in Quincy, Massachusetts, and launched on March 30, 1907. The Navy would later simplify her name to B-3, but those who served aboard her knew exactly what she was: a trailblazer.
The B-class was built as an improvement over the earlier Plunger-class boats. These new submarines were slightly larger, more capable, and incorporated several innovations drawn from painful trial and error. Gone were some of the dangerous quirks of early designs. In their place were smarter features: better streamlining, a rotating torpedo tube cap that reduced drag, and a more efficient sail structure. Still, they were rough rides by today’s standards—small, slow, and powered by a combination of gasoline and electric motors. But progress is rarely comfortable, and these boats were stepping stones toward greatness.
USS Tarantula was commissioned in December 1907 and began her career conducting training and experimental operations along the Atlantic seaboard. Assigned to the First and Second Submarine Flotillas, she served as a floating classroom—teaching the Navy how to operate beneath the waves. In November 1909, she was moved to reserve status at Charleston Navy Yard, but her career was far from over. Recommissioned in April 1910, she joined the Atlantic Torpedo Fleet and continued her work with America’s early undersea warriors.
In 1911, the Navy moved to streamline its submarine fleet not just in hardware, but in names as well. The whimsical naming conventions—Tarantula, Cuttlefish, Viper—were replaced with cold, utilitarian designations. Tarantula became B-3 on November 17, 1911. This change signaled something more than just alphabet soup; it meant the Navy now saw its submarines as standardized tools of war, not one-off curiosities.
In December 1912, B-3 began a new chapter. She was towed to Norfolk and loaded aboard the collier Ajax for the long voyage to the Philippines, where she would serve with the Asiatic Fleet. She arrived at Cavite in April 1913 and was launched from the deck of Ajax a month later. The submarine and her crew—including a young Ensign named C.Q. Wright—worked tirelessly to retrofit her engines and prepare for her new mission: to stand guard over Manila Bay.
Tensions with Japan were simmering. The Navy issued sealed wartime orders to B-3: sink any Japanese vessel that appeared in the bay without warning. It was a sobering task for a crew of ten aboard a boat that could dive no deeper than 150 feet and had to be retrofitted in a foreign naval yard. But duty was duty, and these men stood ready.
In 1914, the Navy awarded B-3 the coveted Battle Efficiency Pennant, naming her the best-operating submarine in the fleet. Under Ensign Wright’s command, the little boat had risen above expectations. Her patrols were uneventful—but in this case, uneventful meant success. She was a deterrent, a shadow beneath the waves, always watching.
B-3 remained in Philippine waters for the rest of her career. After nearly a decade of service, she was decommissioned at Cavite on July 25, 1921. The following year, she was expended as a target—her final mission served in silence beneath the surface she had once patrolled.
What remains of Tarantula, or B-3, is not steel and rivets, but memory. She represents a crucial chapter in the story of the United States Submarine Force. The B-class submarines were not perfect, but they were essential. They taught the Navy how to think about life under the sea. They exposed flaws, demanded solutions, and dared their crews to venture where few had gone before.
For those who have served beneath the waves, B-3 is not just a relic. She is a reminder of where the journey began. Of what it meant to go to sea in a craft that barely earned the name “ship,” yet carried the hopes of a nation and the courage of a handful of men.
She was not flashy. She did not sink enemy ships or return to cheers. But she mattered.
And that is enough.
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