Sailfish Reborn

The oceans were restless in the years leading up to World War II. Beneath their surface, the United States Navy was building a silent service that would eventually become the prowling teeth of Pacific warfare. But in those early days, undersea warfare was still uncertain, its technology complex and often unforgiving. No story better captures the peril, perseverance, and power of this era than the journey of a submarine that bore two names: first as a tragedy, and then as a warrior. This is the story of USS Sailfish, known to ghost and legend as Squalus.

She was born in the shipyards of Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, a marvel of pre-war engineering. Keel laid in October 1937 and launched the next year as USS Squalus (SS-192), she represented the cutting edge of American submarine design. With improved diving capabilities, streamlined hull design, and new safety systems, Squalus promised to be a fearsome tool of naval power. But fate had a cruel lesson in store.

On May 23, 1939, during what should have been a routine test dive off the Isles of Shoals, the Squalus never surfaced. A malfunction in the main induction valve caused catastrophic flooding in the aft compartments. Twenty-six men drowned almost instantly. Thirty-three others survived in the forward sections, trapped on the ocean floor nearly 240 feet down.

What followed was one of the most dramatic undersea rescue operations in naval history. Lieutenant Commander Charles “Swede” Momsen, already renowned for his invention of the Momsen Lung, directed the use of the McCann Rescue Chamber — a diving bell designed for just such emergencies. Over the next several hours, all thirty-three survivors were brought to the surface in a bold and risky operation. It was the first time such a rescue had been successfully completed. Squalus had sunk, but her survivors gave the Navy hope — and her hull still had more to give.

Over the next nine months, she was painstakingly raised from the seabed, refloated, and returned to the shipyard. The process was grueling. Hull breaches had to be sealed. Seawater damage reversed. Equipment replaced or refurbished. She was, in essence, being reborn. But the memory of the dead lingered. There was a consensus among naval brass and crew alike that the name Squalus should be retired. Superstition, perhaps — or reverence.

So, when the submarine re-entered service on May 15, 1940, she did so under a new name: USS Sailfish.

The date of her recommissioning was not just another calendar entry. It was symbolic. Sailfish was more than a fixed boat — she was a resurrected force. The ceremony was held with formality but solemnity. In attendance were not only Navy officials but many who had served aboard her in both name and spirit. Commander Morton C. Mumma took command. The submarine, once written off as a loss, was declared seaworthy and ready for war.

The Navy needed her. With war already raging in Europe and Asia, the United States began preparing its fleets for conflict. Sailfish’s return to service marked the first time in naval history that a sunken U.S. submarine had been salvaged, recommissioned, and returned to the fleet. The symbolism of resurrection and resilience made her an instant legend — and Sailfish would soon earn that legacy in blood and steel.

She entered World War II a veteran in spirit and soon became one in action. Assigned to the Pacific, Sailfish began patrols in early 1942, stalking Japanese convoys and reporting vital intelligence. She faced depth charge attacks, harsh seas, and the ever-present danger of mechanical failure. Yet she endured.

By the war’s end, Sailfish had completed twelve war patrols. She was credited with sinking over 20,000 tons of enemy shipping, including transport vessels, gunboats, and notably, the Japanese aircraft carrier Chuyo in December 1943.

The Chuyo sinking is remembered not only for its tactical impact but for its tragic irony. Aboard that carrier were American POWs — including survivors of the USS Sculpin (SS-191). Sculpin and Sailfish were sister ships. Before the war, their crews trained together. After Squalus’s sinking, it had been Sculpin who helped locate and support the rescue operation. The fate of Sculpin was sealed in November 1943, when she was lost during a patrol, her survivors captured. A month later, Sailfish unknowingly torpedoed the Chuyo, sending many of those same men to their deaths. The incident has become one of the darkest ironies in submarine warfare — a haunting reminder of how war entangles fates beyond reason or mercy.

Yet Sailfish served on, her name now synonymous with survival and redemption. She operated throughout the Pacific theater, conducting reconnaissance, delivering commandos, and taking part in rescue operations. Her service record became one of the most distinguished in the Gato-class family.

At war’s end, Sailfish was decommissioned for the last time in October 1945 and struck from the Naval Vessel Register in 1946. She was sold for scrap in 1948. Her conning tower survives as a monument — a steel sentinel standing watch over the legacy of a boat that once died, and came back fighting.

In telling her story, the name Squalus need not be hidden. It is part of what made Sailfish great. The disaster off Portsmouth was not the end, but the trial by which Sailfish earned her steel. May 15, 1940, was not just a recommissioning. It was resurrection — a nod to the enduring courage of the submarine service. She was born in darkness, rose in defiance, and fought with honor.

She carried ghosts in her hull, but heroes at her helm.