Many a mariner has been in a typhoon, but few have had the experience of having the center of one pass directly over them. In the center of a typhoon there is a short period of calm, but the winds are blowing with hurricane force, the seas are high, confused, and dangerous, being swept in from all directions. Therefore, to the seafaring man, is important to determine as early as possible the approximate location and direction of travel of the center of an approaching storm to enable him to maneuver his vessel to keep out of or escape from the dangerous semicircle and to avoid the center of the storm. The U.S.S. Pigeon Was unable to escape from the typhoon of November 11, 1937, the center of which passed over landlocked Subic Bay in the Philippines and so was faced with the Problem of riding out the storm. Before proceeding with this tale I’ll give a brief description of these tropical cyclones or typhoons and something of the characteristics of the Pigeon herself—so that anyone may judge just what he would do under similar circumstances. I, for one, found out that the due and proper respect for a typhoon can be gained only by being in one.
The Pigeon is the submarine rescue vessel of the United States Asiatic Fleet, similar to the Falcon that played such an important role in the rescue and salvage of the Squalus. She is a converted mine sweeper, built in 1917, with a single propeller, a vertical triple expansion type of engine, and two B & W oil-burning boilers. Her displacement is 1440 tons fully loaded. She has a length overall of 187 feet and 10 inches, an extreme beam of 36 feet and 10 inches, and a mean draft of 10 feet and 7 inches at standard displacement. The installation of the decompression chamber and the addition of submarine rescue and salvage gear have made this type of vessel heavy in the stern and high out of the water at the bow. The draft usually being less forward than aft, the bow has less hold on the water than the stern and presents a greater surface to the wind; hence this type of ship does not always react according to the accepted rules for single screw ships. Wind and seas under varying conditions will have varying effects on the handling of the ship, and a fair speed is essential for her proper handling. When she is moving slowly through the water, wind and sea have an undue effect upon her and may combine to manifest themselves in unexpected and seemingly erratic ways—such was the case during the typhoon of November 11, 1937.
Briefly, tropical cyclones, hurricanes, or typhoons are great swirls averaging about 300 miles across, which develop usually within latitudes of 10 to 25 degrees north or south of the equator, and almost invariably move westward (in the Northern Hemisphere) from the place of origin at a speed of about 10 knots, gradually turning to the northwestward. As these storms reach higher latitudes they tend to incline more to the northward and on reaching the vicinity of 20 to 25 degrees begin to swing around past north finally setting off in a northeasterly direction. Typhoons are similar in many respects to the lows or cyclones of the middle latitudes, but are more intense. In a typhoon, the winds of hurricane force circulate counterclockwise round the center of low pressure in the Northern Hemisphere. Rains are torrential and more or less equally distributed around the center. These tropical cyclones may occur in every month of the year, although 80 to 90 per cent develop during the late summer and autumn. The outstanding characteristic of a typhoon is the center of the storm—a calm central area, usually with a diameter of 10 to 20 miles within the ring of hurricane winds where the barometer is lowest. Points over which the center passes experience a radical change, the winds dying down for a period of perhaps an hour and then coming back equally strong or stronger from the opposite direction.
Although the most striking characteristic of these typhoons is the strong winds spirally towards the center, the destructiveness is only in part due to the winds. The winds usually uproot trees, strip others of their fruit and leaves, and generally demolish the less substantial houses. Indirect results of the winds commonly do more damage than the wind itself. Waves produced engulf boats, break them, or drive them upon the shore, and do great damage upon low-lying coasts. Wall-like waves 5 or 10 feet in height are common, due both to the wind-driven water of the inrolling waves and in a lesser degree to the partial vacuum at the center.
The typhoon signal system used in the Philippines and Hongkong is comprised of signals numbered from 1 to 10, which give the approximate force and direction of the typhoon, winds to be expected, and proper precautionary measures to be taken. On the Asiatic Station the regular weather broadcast schedules are supplemented by the latest information from the weather bureau at Manila and by reports from the naval vessel in the area carrying an aerologist. With the aid of reports sent in by various observing stations and ships at sea, a low pressure area, or depression, is normally spotted quickly and warnings are sent to each ship, which then plots the track of the typhoon on a chart from the reports received and is in readiness to take precautionary measures in accordance with the “Typhoon Bill” for the area. But sometimes a typhoon is born relatively close by, or it has not given the usual warnings of its nearness. In this case there is none of the ushering which fiction describes as preceding the typhoon: the ominous brooding calm is missing, the cirrus haze is not in evidence, the long swells cannot be seen, and the barometer is not unsteady. These indications were all absent on the afternoon of November 11, 1937, and the ship was in a landlocked bay.
The Pigeon had been operating that week in Subic Bay engaged in the routine training of divers. Typhoon Signal No. 1 was hoisted at the U. S. Naval Station at Olongapo about noon of that fatal day. The ship was anchored close to Olongapo and it was decided to await further word on the progress of the typhoon before proceeding to our base at Manila. Signal No. 1 indicates that “a typhoon has developed, but its position or location is yet unknown” and this signal is a common occurrence at this time of the year. The normal procedure is to prepare to light fires and to strengthen the moorings. Since the Pigeon had shifted anchorage twice that day the engine was fully warmed up and no further precautions were indicated. Diving operations were then completed and the routine work of cleaning up the ship and stowing away diving gear was undertaken as usual.
A fine mistlike rain set in about 2:00 p.m. which decided all hands against going ashore for any recreation that afternoon. Peace and quiet settled over the ship as everyone was tired after a hard day’s work. At 3:50 p.m. the mistlike rain changed to squalls of rain, and a wind of increasing force suddenly came up causing white caps to form on the previously calm waters of the bay. The barometer, which had been steady all afternoon, suddenly dropped. The visibility had now decreased to a point where it was impossible to get out into the open sea outside of Subic Bay through the narrow channel. The only remaining choice was to shift the anchorage to a point where the ship would have the maximum amount of sea room in every direction. Accordingly, the berth was shifted, 75 fathoms of chain were veered out, and both boilers were ready with full steam to the throttle. The sea watch was set and all was in readiness for any emergency—or so we thought! At this time the shore station at Olongapo ran up Typhoon Signal No. 4, which means “Typhoon dangerous, though the danger is not yet imminent. Look out for the next signal.” All indications showed us that the center of the storm was to the south of us and unless it curved or spent itself inland it would pass over us—but little did we know the fury of this typhoon.
The great storm was ushered in by winds which increased steadily in violence until they broke into a riotous tumult. The wind was now blowing at about 60 miles an hour with gusts that seemed to exceed 80 miles an hour. The sea was lashed into a fury and the air was filled with the white spume of the sea. At 6:30 p.m. the ship was found to be dragging anchor towards the coral reefed shore. Here was a real danger as by now it was dark and impossible to see more than 50 feet to the windward and not much further to the leeward. Almost all of the shoreline of Subic Bay is studded with dangerous coral reefs, and the northeasterly wind was blowing us down upon it. Since we had a fairly good idea of the ship’s position we walked out the anchor chain to 90 fathoms in the hope that the anchor would take hold but the ship continued to drag with her beam to the wind. Here was that dreaded tendency of the ship to throw her stern into the wind. The ship was yawing now as much as 120 degrees and heeling over far on her side. An effort was made to pull the bow of the ship into the wind by the use of the engine and rudder in order to take some of the strain off of the anchor chain, but all efforts were unsuccessful. The engine was operated at speeds up to full power with the rudder hard over, but the ship held her position and the dragging continued. The only assurance we had was that the soundings, which were continuously taken, showed we still had enough water beneath us due to the rising sea level.
Shortly before this time a radio message had been received from Manila that Typhoon Signal No. 6 had been hoisted there at 5:20 p.m. This signal means that “Center of typhoon will pass or is passing to the north at a short distance.” As Olongapo is west northwest of Manila, we knew that the center would pass over us. The wind was steadily shifting to the left which further indicated that we were in the dangerous semicircle and that the center of the storm was approaching rapidly. With this conviction added to by the dangerous position of the ship, we had the second anchor standing by for the moment when the soundings would indicate shallowing water. At 7:00 p.m. the gale increased to a vicious roaring tempest; solid masses of water engulfed the ship and there wasn’t a dry spot anywhere. The terrific winds increased in force and the torrential rains seemed to merge with the whole sea into a swirling cloudburst.
At about 7:30 p.m. the wind began to decrease and shifted sharply to the left. The anchor held at last and the storm was abating. The seas were less violent, the sky cleared, and the visibility improved. A church-like silence surrounded us. At 8:00 p.m. we were able to cut in the ship’s position and found that we had been saved by the shifting winds. The barometer was still down and showed no indication of rising, so we knew that we were at the center of the typhoon and were in for the rest of it. During the lull we got under way to place the ship in a position better suited to the 180-degree change of wind that was expected. It was still impossible to head for the open sea as the clear visibility seemed to be confined to our immediate vicinity—besides, there was the danger of being caught in the narrow channel by the second half of the storm. Numerous vivid flashes of lightning were seen in the sky to the southward in the direction of Manila, heralding the approach of the remainder of the storm. These sudden flashes gave an eerie appearance to the night as they pierced the silenced darkness. After the first half of the typhoon had passed over and the calm had arrived, several members of the crew prepared to take their bedding out on the weather decks and turn in for the night, but hastily retreated below when they learned that the storm was not yet over.
The calm and silence prevailed for about an hour; the center passed over us and then on the storm came again with sudden renewed fury, but in a reversed direction as if to finish the work of destruction it had previously started. A roar, unearthly in its might, rose at intervals into wild shrieks that overwhelmed one’s voice. The solid rain drove horizontally, penetrating to the very heart of the small ship. The crests of waves were blown over us and the sea flattened under the crushing pressure of the storm. The wind came, not straight, but in fearful twisting swirls. It did not seem possible that ship or human beings could survive once in the mighty grip of the typhoon. The ship bobbed about like a matchstick, disappearing in the waves one moment and seeming to lie down on her side the next as if to give up the mighty struggle. After about a half hour of this buffeting with the ship keeping the wind on her port quarter, the forecastle crew reported “Land ahead.” The starboard anchor was let go immediately, but the soundings did not indicate shallow water. The visibility was zero and the proximity of land could not be verified. The strain on the chain was so great that it was not safe to veer freely as it could not have been stopped once it started running out. The forecastle gang had to crouch down in the lee of the bulwark to keep from being blown or washed overboard. The only means of communications between the bridge and forecastle was to have a man creep up along the bulwark and up the ladder, holding on for dear life, to the bridge. The men on the forecastle were half drowned by the mountainous seas that swept the ship and their clothes were torn to shreds by the wind. The gusts of wind appeared to be far in excess of 100 miles an hour and the ship was yawing badly again and heeling over so far on her side that the leadsman standing on the gangway platform, which ordinarily is 8 feet out of the water, was in water up to his knees and he had to be lashed in place. In an effort to ascertain the proximity of land it was decided to man the forward searchlight. It was a tense moment as the men climbed up to their perilous perch on the mast with life lines secured about their waists and around the mast, but when the light was turned on the searchlight beam just flattened out against the rain and was of no assistance. Once up there the men could not get down. Their presence there called our attention to the mast which was bending over in a sickening curve.
The anchor did not hold, and with the ship dragging her position could only approximately be estimated. Even the soundings could not be relied upon, considering the conditions under which they had to be taken. The coral reefed beach was all around us ready to tear the heart out of the sturdy Pigeon, and sturdy she was, but totally unmanageable. In an effort to hold the ship in position, the second anchor was let go and the chain slowly veered. The ship continued to drag with two anchors down, each weighing about 2,500 pounds, 90 fathoms of chain to each anchor and full power on the engine. The fact that we had used every ounce of available horsepower in an unsuccessful attempt to save the ship from the impending disaster all around us was disheartening indeed. The very air had become an enemy against which nothing could stand. The ship was placed in the material condition best suited for possible grounding, the pumps were warmed up and put on the secondary drain, and the collision mat was made ready. Life jackets were issued to all hands and the men removed all unnecessary clothing. Every possible precaution was taken for the safety of the ship and the crew. The special watch on the bridge recorded every act and available bit of information in the ship’s log—for posterity. The tense and drawn faces of all hands told their individual thoughts of loved ones, of things left undone, and of things that should have been done in the calm past, when the sun shone and the world was a bright and peaceful place.
At 10:15 p.m., after approximately two hours of riding out the second phase of the typhoon, the winds began to abate. The screaming of the rigging changed to a new note, one of a lower pitch. The humming reverberations of the ship under the pounding seas gradually lessened and the general strain on ship and men was gradually relieved. From this point, the barometer rose steadily as the winds died down to gentle breezes. The seas quieted rapidly in the landlocked bay and the storm passed on with the same suddenness with which it had arrived. The lowering clouds began to disperse and the moon, once a prisoner, burst forth and smiled upon us.
When the lights became visible along the shore we plotted our position and found ourselves in good deep water at the apex of a triangle 250 yards from two small reef-studded islands. Whether we had passed around or between them on the rising sea level we will never know, but the yawing of ship and the shifting winds somehow had saved us from certain disaster. We had dragged our anchors a total of 9,500 yards across and around the bay and had escaped without any damage to the ship or loss of life—not even the anchors were fouled. Two small schooners were beached high and dry near us on one of the islands, so we sent a boat to rescue the crews which could be seen waving frantically to us from the rocks. They were found to be loaded with lignum vitae, which is about the most undesirable cargo one could carry in any storm. The men were found to be quite safe and we took them aboard with us when we steamed back to our anchorage off Olongapo to see how the town and naval station had fared in the typhoon and to report that we were safe. It was later learned that they had given us up for lost in the first phase of the typhoon. As we steamed along that morning the sun shone on a happy though worn-out ship’s company and it also shone upon a land hideous in its ruin. The forest lay shapeless, with once majestic palms and uprooted acacia trees strewn among the common wreckage—but the storm was hushed. Those who rode out that typhoon in Subic Bay and Manila Bay on November 11, 1937, will always remember this date, not as Armistice Day, but rather as “The Night of the Big Wind.”