As the U.S. Navy destroyer glided through the waters off the Kuril Islands in October 1964, Captain Reynolds maintained a steady gaze on the horizon. The cruise took a turn when Anderson, the sonar operator, detected a distinct clang of metal against metal.
A general alarm sounded through the ship, and men scrambled to their posts, expecting the worst, an attack from Russia or China, allies of the North Vietnamese Communists. It was all they had heard about from the Armed Forces Radio Network in the last week, putting them on edge.
Notified of the ping, Reynolds moved to the sonar room. Joining him were Chief Boatswain’s Mate Miller, who was feeling unwell, and the ship’s doctor, Dr. Lawson.
With the Passage circling, Anderson listened intently for the sound to grow stronger, “It sounds like metal on metal, Captain. Kind of like a ships hull being struck with a hammer.”
Lieutenant Bradley quickly inquired about the possibility of a missing submarine in the area, “Negative Captain, Command says all are accounted for, with none on patrol in this sector.”
“Maybe it’s a haunted sub,” Seaman Jackson joked. No one laughed.
Miller suddenly descended into a frenzy of unnerving behavior, including an unexplained fainting spell, and taken to sick bay. Lawson followed close behind.
Determined to uncover the reason behind the continued clanging, Reynolds ordered the ship’s diver, Petty Officer Turner, into the water, about 30 fathoms or 180 feet in depth.
“Report directly to me and no one else,” Reynolds ordered Turner. “No sense in causing anymore scuttlebutt than what we already have.”
Turner disappeared beneath the waves and eventually came to stand on the ocean floor. Following Anderson’s instructions, he slowly moved toward where the sonar operator said the sound was coming.
From the murky waters rose the silhouette of an American submarine, the number 44, barely readable from the conning tower’s battered side. When Turner banged on the submarine hull, an unsettling response echoed in return, sending shivers down his spine.
Fighting off panic, Turner radioed for a return lift to the surface.
Miller, now sleeping in a bed in sickbay, plagued by apparitions of dead sailors, spiraled further into madness. Lawson, attempting to reason with a near-psychotic man, attributed the visions to combat fatigue from wartime experiences, dismissing them as mere nightmares.
Turner, having returned to the ship, reported to Reynolds as instructed. Reynolds directed Bradley, “Get on the horn with Command and find out anything you can about the SS-44.”
“Aye-aye, Skipper,” the Lieutenant responded as he disappeared towards the radio room.
Contemplating the unthinkable, Reynolds sought an emergency rescue operation, “Gather your team, Turner. I need you aboard that boat, pronto.”
Descending again into the depths in rescue bell, this time with two other divers, Turner forced open the crusted-over hatch only to make a discovery — a dog tag with the name Miller. Gathering it up, he slipped into the darkness of the interior, still filled with seawater, and turned on his underwater torch.
Finally awake and now confronted with his past, Miller confessed to Lawson his role in the submarine’s demise during the war.
“That was our fifth time at sea,” he said. “We thought we were getting ready to deep-six a fishing boat, turned out we found a Jap escort.”
Lawson waited for Miller to gather himself.
“We tried surrendering, even ran a white pillow case up the mast,” He continued. “They just kept shelling us, and then ordered to abandon ship. I figured the Skipper scuttled her and went down witht ship because I never saw him again.”
“Is that how you became a P.O.W.?” Lawson asked.
“Japs picked me and Jones up,” Miller answered, adding, “They beat the hell out of us, starved us nearly to death, and then sent us to the Ashio copper mines.”
Looking better and acting like himself again, Lawson released Miller to his berth and returned to Reynolds to report what he had learned. By the time Lawson made it topside, Bradley was briefing the Captain on the history of the submarine.
The overhead speaker blared, just then, “Diver’s aboard, diver’s aboard.”
Ten minutes later, Turner reported to Reynolds. “Several sets of remains are still aboard the vessel. And I found this.”
Turner handed the dog tag to Reynolds, who looked it over. He gave Lawson the tag.
Overwhelmed by survivor guilt and convinced his deceased comrades beckoned him, Miller donned his dress uniform and quietly walked out onto the Poop Deck.
When questioned by a Marine guard about what he was doing there, he smiled and casually answered, “They’re calling muster on me!” before tumbling backward into the water.
Helpless to stop him, the young Marine radioed, “Man overboard!” setting the ship into futile action. Chief Boatswain’s Mate Miller, like his shipmates 20 years before him, would be listed as lost at sea by the Navy.
Turner, after leading the unsuccessful rescue mission to find Miller, never spoke about the desolate submarine, the remains of the sailors still aboard, or the one clutching a ball pein hammer.