This is a most unusual story about a dream that contributed to the rescue of a sunken submarine's crew.

Edward Johnson, a lifetime seaman and veteran captain of the small tramp steamer ALANTHUS, normally slept quite soundly. However, on the night of 1 September 1920, he tossed and turned until midnight --- it was then that he had this dream.

Johnson related, "My dead father came to me in a dream, I'm not sure whether he spoke or simply placed thoughts in my head, but he managed to warn me that a ship was in distress and that I was responsible for the lives of its crew,"

In fact, so vivid was this dream that Captain Johnson was compelled to rouse his crew and, amid their grumbling protests, sailed out of Boston Harbor shortly before daylight. Some fifty miles at sea, he set the ALANTHUS on a zig-zag course and commenced searching for this mysterious ship supposedly in distress.

Acting purely on the impulse promoted by his dream, he sailed south along the coast. At the time, Captain Johnson knew nothing about the Navy submarine USS S-5, that had departed Boston the previous day on a 72-hour endurance run.

The six month old S-5 was under the command of Lieutenant Commander Charles M. Cooke, Jr., with a crew of 36.

At about 1400 on 1 September, Lieutenant Commander Cooke decided to put the boat to a test and ordered a crash dive. He stated, "Our navigator had calculated that we were some 55 miles off Cape Henlopen (Delaware). The charts indicated that we had great water depth beneath us. There was every reason to believe we would surface in a routine fashion within a matter of minutes."

Cooke was mistaken, He wasn't aware of the faulty sea valve in the forward torpedo tube.

The submarine slipped quietly beneath the surface of the sea, angling downward in an apparent orderly dive. Everything proceeding normally. Then suddenly from the forward room came the shrill hissing noise that was comparable to escaping steam. Frantically someone shouted, "Water!"

Sinking rapidly bow first, salt water commenced gushing into the forward room. The report to control was that the valve in the forward room could not be closed, the pressure was too great.

Control reacted to the emergency and barked out orders. Water had now reached the coaming of the bulkhead door and threatened to lap over into the battery compartment. That would be fatal! Every submariner knows the hazard of mixing salt water and sulfuric acid from the battery cells - deadly chlorine gas!

Cooke reacted rapidly and ordered all hands to abandon the torpedo room. The bulkhead door to the forward room was closed and the battery compartment remained dry. The deadly hazard had been temporarily detained.

However, back aft there was still another problem. In the motor room another valve had jammed in the open position. Young Lieutenant junior grade Charles F. Grisham had been dispatched to survey the problem. He reported the valve could not be closed, Water commenced to pour into the compartment. Hurriedly he ordered the bulkhead doors between the motor room, engine room and control room closed. Finally, and with a great deal of difficulty, the stubborn valve was closed, but not until some seventy tons of water had been taken on board, Now the 231 foot submarine lay solidly on the muddy bottom.

Several futile attempts were made to force the water from the forward room. The pumps back aft were not rigged to clear the bilges on the bottom with a pressure of 150 pounds per square inch resisting them. Besides the pumps had blown their gaskets.

Cooke pondered this serious problem and then dug deep into his bag of tricks. He certainly hadn't been nicknamed "Savvy" for nothing. He knew there was little else to do but take a big gamble. His idea just might work - it had to! There actually wasn't any other alternative. He knew that waiting on the bottom to be found could take weeks and then it would be too late. He had to work quickly, time was working against him.

Utilizing the depth gauge, he knew the keel rested on the bottom at 183 feet and his submarine was 231 feet long. Now, by raising the stern about seventy-five degrees, the stern would stick out of the water. It was possible they could be spotted and also a hole could be cut through the hull for fresh air. Without fresh air they couldn't last much over seventy-two hours.

Over the intercom system Cooke informed all hands of his plan. He would blow the ballast tank and all fuel tanks. Of course, shifting the flooding water would present problems too. His big fear was of salt water seeping into the battery wells. Chlorine gas! With that thought, Cooke had the crew put on gas masks. The tanks were blown successfully. Then Cooke ordered the motor room to give full reverse power to the electric motors. This lifted the boat off the bottom a few feet. The stern rose a little. All was ready for the big gamble, moving the flooding water from back aft up forward, The crew was alerted and at a given signal the bulkhead doors were opened. The stern continued to rise slowly, then the water shot forward. Water, tools and men were hurdled forward and then the stern suddenly shot upward. The bow remained on the bottom.

Cooke monitored the depth gauge, the boat was at sixty-two feet. The crew had survived the sudden surge of crashing water and debris with only minor injuries. All hands were ordered aft and the bulkhead doors up forward were secured. Chlorine gas in growing amounts was already creeping into the atmosphere of the boat. The submarine had been sealed off in an effort to thwart this surge of deadly gas.

The battered, water-soaked crew huddled about in the sealed off motor and engine rooms eagerly anticipating Cooke. Under his plan, an officer had previously rounded up an assortment of tools to aid in cutting through the thick steel submarine hull.

This boat did not have any stern torpedo tubes, so all the way aft in S-5 was the dinky tiller room. This compartment, a mere eighteen feet in length, was accessible only through a small manhole that was primarily used to inspect the rudder gear. Cramped into this compact space was Cooke. Here he determined where the waterline was by listening to the water lapping against the hull outside and tapping on the hull. Once locating the precise spot, Cooke commenced to drill into the hull.

The submarine electrician's mate had been able to jury-rig battery power to operate the electric drills. Visibility wasn't the best as compartment lighting was virtually out, the lights flickered like a candle. The work was long and tedious. The crew took turns drilling and hacking into the hull.

About dawn on 2 September , the exhausted crew had finally managed to cut their way through the hull. It had taken almost thirteen brutal hours to cut a hole less than an inch wide and about six inches long.

Sometime after daylight, Cooke peered out through the small hole and caught a glimpse of a passing ship on the horizon. He realized S-5 was too far away to be seen, As the morning wore on, two more vessels slipped past on the horizon. Cooke was aware that time was rapidly running out. The chances of seeing the stern of S-5 was very slim and Cooke knew his haggard crew would not last another night. The air in the boat had become very foul, the temperature had risen to around 125 degrees inside and yet not one of the crew complained. They all remained very quiet and almost lethargic.

To break the monotony, one of the crew ripped off his skivvy shirt and attached it to a piece of pipe. For the next several hours the crew took turns waving this makeshift distress signal from the small hole.

Back on the surface, the ALANTHUS was cruising slowly along on her zig-zag course, then, from the bridge, Captain Johnson spotted the waving skivvy shirt and knew immediately that he had found what he was hunting. By then it was 1400. 2 September, almost twenty-four hours since S-5 had plunged to the bottom.

The old merchant vessel had no torches or tools that were capable of cutting through the submarine hull. So, Captain Johnson rigged a deck pump and attempted to pump fresh air and water to the crew trapped beneath the sea. He also secured S-5 to the ALANTHUS with heavy lines to keep the boat from shifting and settling to the bottom with her precious human cargo.

The ALANTHUS had sailed so hurriedly that the radio operator had been left ashore, so Captain Johnson ran up distress flags and sent up black puffs of smoke to attract attention. These signals were crude and visibility was poor, but Captain Johnson's efforts paid off. At 1720, the smoke signals were spotted by Panama Lines' SS GEORGE W. GOETHALS. The GOETHALS was a most welcome sight even though they didn't carry any cutting torches, they did have a radio.

Radio distress signals by GOETHALS was picked up by David Moore, a ham operator in Farmington, Connecticut, and relayed on to the Navy. A rescue unit, comprised of the battleship OHIO and three destroyers was formed and dispatched to the scene.

However, the gutsy Chief Engineer of GOETHALS, William S. Grace, would not stand idly by and wait for the Navy rescue unit. He rounded up several of his men and armed with an assortment of tools took a small boat over to S~5. With hack saws, crowbars and drills he finally cut into the submarine and rescued the crew. It was then 0245, 3 September some thirty-eight hours after S-5 had gone down. The final crewmembers were gratefully assisted off and a reluctant Cooke was the last to depart the stricken submarine.

The Navy rescue unit arrived later and intended to salvage S-5. The plan was to drag the submarine hull into shallower water. However, this was not to be, the sea would not give up its prize. During the towing attempt, S-5 slipped off into deeper waters and was lost forever.

All thirty-seven crewmen of S-5 had been rescued because of the sheer tenacity of the Chief Engineer of GOETHALS and the skipper of an old tramp steamer who had acted on the whims of his dream.