Of Ants and Men
Retired Navy Cmdr. Robert K. Sheehan lives in Alexandria, Va., where he keeps a supply of bug spray on hand in case of retribution.

In 1958, our submarine, the USS Torsk, was in the Philadelphia naval shipyard for overhaul. For some months, we had been discussing what could be done to redecorate the wardroom, particularly what could replace the dreary painting on the bulkhead as the centerpiece of attention. 

We knew of one ship that had a clever aquarium framed by a porthole, giving the impression that exotic fish were cavorting just outside the sub. Another ship had an innocent-looking landscape for use in port, which could be reversed when it went out to sea to reveal a reclining nude. These were fine ideas, but we needed something uniquely our own.

One of the married officers talked about an ant farm he had bought his kids; he described how the little ants never stopped working and were the very essence of industriousness, focus, and determination. The spark of an idea was born. What if we built and installed a wall-sized ant farm in the wardroom? What an inspiration it would be to the men of the Torsk to watch the little fellows working nonstop. This had to be investigated!

First, committee assignments were made. One officer was designated to contact the nearest natural history museum to determine whether ants could tolerate a submarine atmosphere, which is somewhat high in carbon dioxide. Others were tasked to find the best and strongest species of ants and find out where to acquire them and what they ate. Yet others were assigned to have a large ant farm fabricated out of acrylic plastic. The most legally inclined officer among us was charged with perusing the Navy regulations to see if ants could be classified as pets.

Soon the reports came back. A respected entomologist thought that ants would breathe just fine in a submarine and wouldn’t be bothered by the roll, pitch, and yaw of a surfaced submarine. King ants were recommended for the farm, and a company in Texas was found to provide them. When it was determined that the definition of pets didn’t include ants, the project was approved and the team was directed to begin building and populating the world’s largest underwater ant farm.

Soon the ant farm was installed and filled with sand. Then the ant colony arrived. After a short induction ceremony, the colony was dumped into the farm. Immediately the ants began to burrow, their efforts in full sight of the wardroom viewers. We provided small pieces of lettuce dipped into sugar water as food, and the ants worked day and night. Before long more than a quarter of the ant farm was tunneled and the officers took delight in pointing out to passing crewmembers what great examples of industriousness these little fellows were.

When it was time for our sea trials, the Torsk proceeded to the surface test area. One of the tests was especially nerve-wracking, going from an “all ahead full” bell to an “all back emergency” bell. As the ship came to a shuddering stop on its way into reverse, it vibrated horrendously, and that was the downfall of the ant farm. The tunnels collapsed, and most of the ants were buried alive, crushed under the weight of the sand above.

Although one wag suggested replacing the farm with a similarly industrious beehive, cooler heads prevailed. Our farm was probably the last time ants or any other bug species were officially invited aboard a submarine. But the crew of the Torsk would not soon forget the six-legged sailors who gave their all.