The Submarine That Vanished in the Dark, USS S-26

How a routine night patrol in January 1942 became one of the United States Navy’s most tragic submarine losses, and why the memory of S-26 endures.

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Lost 3 of 52

In January 1942, barely a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the United States Navy was still reeling from sudden and catastrophic setbacks in the Pacific. Submarines were among the few assets left to patrol vast ocean approaches and keep enemy fleets at bay. 

USS S-26 (SS-131), a World War I–era “S-class” boat, was pressed into this desperate effort. Just days before S-26’s voyage, the older S-boat USS S-36 had run aground in the Dutch East Indies. Miraculously her crew escaped injury as the sub was scuttled.

Now, with Japanese and German submarines prowling far-flung waters, S-26 prepared for her second war patrol in the defensively critical Panama Canal Zone. Having completed one unproductive patrol off Panama without sinking any enemy, the crew of Lieutenant Commander Earle C. Hawk’s boat was eager to meet the enemy. 

As they steamed out of Balboa harbor on January 24, 1942, the mood among the young sailors was tense but determined: they were going into harm’s way to guard the lifeline of the Western Hemisphere.

This is the story of USS S-26, the submarine that vanished in the dark.

Chapter 1: Under Cover of Darkness

As night fell on the Panama Canal Zone, S-26 slipped quietly out of Balboa harbor on the evening of January 24, 1942. She was not alone. In formation with her three sister S-boats—USS S-21, S-29, and S-44—and under the escort of patrol craft USS Sturdy, (PC-460). 

S-26 headed westward into the Pacific. Commander Hawk steamed his 1923–built submarine at surface speed, relying on darkness to screen the convoy. Sturdy maintained station about 1,500 yards ahead, all vessels at general quarters with running lights extinguished. The crew knew the risks: strict blackouts were ordered to avoid detection by any passing enemy patrols.

By 22:10, Sturdy signaled to the convoy from about 14 miles west of San José Light that her escort duty was complete and she would turn back to port. Only S-21, the lead submarine, received the blinker-light signal. The rest heard nothing. 

In the pitch-black night, S-26’s crew saw Sturdy swing sharply to starboard. For Commander Hawk and his men, it was a routine maneuver, and they continued on the ordered course, unaware that Sturdy’s return trip would soon seal their fate.

Late into the Pacific night, the four submarines remained surfaced, lookouts straining for any hint of lights or radio chatter. With only vague silhouettes for company, the convoy pressed on.

But misfortune was about to strike.

Chapter 2: Collision in the Night

At 22:21, S-26’s lookouts spotted a large unlit vessel crossing their course perpendicular to their heading. It was Sturdy, returning to Balboa. Both Hawk and Sturdy’s captain ordered emergency maneuvers: S-26 went to full reverse and collision quarters were sounded, while Sturdy jammed her engines astern.

Their efforts came too late. With her engines locked in full reverse, Sturdy’s propulsion jammed, unable to slow, and her bow plowed into S-26’s starboard side amidships at the torpedo room.

The impact was catastrophic. Deck plating tore away, and S-26 heeled sharply to port. Four men were on the bridge—a seaman at the helm, the lookout, and the two officers, Commander Hawk and his Executive Officer Lieutenant Robert E. Ward. All were hurled into the sea. 

Of those four, only three survived: Hawk, Ward, and Seaman Joe B. Hurst. The lookout was never recovered. 

In under a minute, the submarine lurched bow-first and disappeared beneath the waves. Gone with her were 46 men aboard. 

Only those three bridge-watch sailors had escaped S-26’s hull. Hawk, Ward, and Hurst bobbed in oily, debris-filled water, staring at nothing but the empty horizon. Dazed but alive, Hawk and Hurst swam toward the faint lights of Sturdy, which had halted nearby. Hawk later recounted that he and Hurst managed to reach Sturdy’s side, where a small boat from the escort hauled them aboard. 

Finally safe on the patrol craft, Hawk and Ward learned the awful truth: S-26 had gone down with all hands. Moments earlier, they had watched their ship vanish into the black depths; now, amid flickering searchlights, they realized they were the only survivors.

Chapter 3: Into the Deep

At dawn on January 25, 1942, word of S-26’s disappearance reached Coco Solo and Balboa, and Captain Thomas J. Doyle, commander of Submarine Squadron Three, took charge of an all-out rescue operation. Every available salvage and rescue asset was dispatched. USS Mallard, a converted minesweeper equipped with diving bells, steamed to the scene alongside destroyers and submarines. Five expert divers, flown in from Washington, D.C., including men who had helped rescue USS Squalus in 1939, joined the effort. 

The tug of hope was on: could anyone still be alive down there?

Using a grapnel sweep, Mallard located the sunken S-26 by dragging a heavy cable across the seafloor at roughly 300 feet. Divers then began 25 perilous descents into the frigid depths, braving cold, darkness, and jagged wreckage. 

At one point, a diver discovered the bridge hatch shut from the inside, a sign that someone might have survived long enough to seal it against flooding. They could not force it open, however, the hatch had locked under massive hydraulic pressure.

On January 27, approximately 75 hours after S-26 went down, a rescue party waited anxiously for taps from within the wreck, the traditional signal that sailors remained alive. None came. Later that day, divers recovered a signal‐gun buoy floating on the surface. Attached was a scrap of paper reading, “Both ends of the submarine… had been flooded. Central compartment still dry. Crew uninjured.” Against heavy odds, the trapped sailors had fired this buoy to announce their plight, but the silence from below confirmed the dire reality.

Rear Admiral Frank C. Sadler and Captain Doyle pressed on with every dive, but each new attempt yielded only the same silent answer. Finally, on January 29, diver Robert Agness descended through 301 feet of water to S-26’s final resting place. His report was chilling but certain: all 46 souls were entombed in the cold ocean. With the diving bell unable to seal properly against the uneven hull, there was no way to reach any survivors.

By that afternoon, Rear Admiral Sadler formally announced:

“All 46 personnel are presumed dead.”

The rescue effort ended, and S-26’s crew transitioned from hope to mourning.

Chapter 4: Mourning at Sea

As rescue efforts ended in heartbreak, the Navy honored those who had perished. On the afternoon of January 29, the day diving operations concluded, the fleet held a formal memorial service at sea above S-26’s final resting spot. Rear Admiral Sadler presided over a brief ceremony aboard USS Mallard. 

Sailors stood at attention, heads bowed, as Protestant and Catholic prayers were intoned. A wreath of lilies, fern, and laurel was cast overboard, marking the grave of the 46 lost submariners. A second wreath was then released by one of S-26’s sister submarines, her crew gently floated the wreath from her periscope onto the waves.

Back in Panama, news of the disaster reached families. Official notices bore the grim warning that “all hope had been abandoned” for the missing men. Many wives and mothers received word that their husbands and sons would never return. 

At Coco Solo, the 15th Naval District held additional memorial services as word filtered in. Submariners, who called themselves the “Silent Service,”reflected on the peril that had befallen S-26. Though there had been no enemy, the loss of the submarine underscored the ever-present danger of war.

In the days that followed, S-26’s sister boats bowed their periscopes in tribute each time they passed her coordinates. The name S-26 was added to the roll call of the 52 American submarines lost in World War II, and her crew joined the Silent Service’s hall of fallen heroes.

Chapter 5: Legacy and Remembrance

USS S-26’s sinking remains a sober chapter in naval history, a reminder that even skilled crews and well-built ships can fall victim to the fog of war. Her wreck, upright some 300 feet beneath the Pacific west of Panama, is officially a protected war grave. Under international law and US Navy policy, her hull and the remains within are sanctified as the final resting place of American sailors. 

Today, the service and sacrifice of S-26’s crew are honored by submarine associations and naval history circles. The names of the 46 men who went down with S-26 are memorialized on plaques and registries devoted to the Silent Service. 

Each year on January 24, submariners pause to remember USS S-26 alongside her lost crew. Their story, a routine patrol ending in sudden tragedy, underscores the ever-present courage of submariners who risk the deep sea. 

Though more than eighty years have passed since that fateful night, the heroism of S-26’s sailors endures in naval lore. Trapped together while comrades above fought desperately to save them, their fate speaks to both the vulnerability and bravery inherent in undersea warfare.

In the broader sweep of the Pacific War, S-26’s loss came early, before the tide had turned. It served as a grim warning about the dangers of night operations and the need for better signaling—lessons quickly adopted. 

More importantly, the legacy of S-26 lives on through remembrance. From the submarine memorials at Pearl Harbor and the Golden Gate to solemn entries in naval archives, the Silent Service ensures that the name S-26 and the story of her crew remain on eternal patrol.