THE BREESE SAW IT first. From her anchorage off Pearl City, the old destroyer-minecraft sighted a conning tower turning up the west side of Ford Island just after 8:30. The Medusa and Curtiss saw it a few minutes later, and signal flags fluttered from all three yardarms.
The Monaghan caught the warning right away. The ready-duty destroyer had now cleared her nest and was heading down the west channel, the first ship to get going. A signalman turned to Commander Bill Burford: “Captain, the Curtiss is flying a signal that means, ‘Submarine sighted to starboard.’”
Burford explained it was probably a mistake … such a thing could easily happen in all the confusion of gunfire and burning ships.
“Okay, Captain — then what is that thing dead ahead of us that looks like an over-and-under shotgun?”
The skipper squinted through the smoke and was amazed to see a small submarine moving toward them on the surface several hundred yards ahead. In its bow were two torpedo tubes, not side by side as usual, but one directly above the other. They seemed to be pointed directly at the Monaghan.
By now everybody was firing. The Curtiss pumped a shell right through the conning tower at 8:40 — decapitating the pilot, according to her gunners; clipping off his coat button, according to Monaghan men. The Medusa was firing too, but at the crucial moment the powder hoist broke on the gun that had the best shot. The Monaghan’s own guns were blazing as she rushed at the sub, but the shot missed and hit a derrick along the shore.
The midget missed too. It failed to get the Curtiss with one torpedo; the other whisked by the charging Monaghan and exploded on the Ford Island shore. The Monaghan rushed on, and everybody else held their fire as Burford tried to ram. He grazed the conning tower, not really a square blow, but hard enough to spin the sub against the Monaghan’s side as she surged by. Chief Torpedoman’s Mate G. S. Hardon set his depth charges for 30 feet and let them go. They went off with a terrific blast, utterly destroying the sub and knocking down nearly everybody on deck. Fireman Ed Creighton thought the ship had at least blown up its own fantail.
But she hadn’t. Instead, the Monaghan rocketed on, now too late to make her turn into the main channel leading to sea. She drove ashore at Beckoning Point, piling into the derrick already set on fire by her guns. Fireman Creighton ran to the bow and manned a hose; others wrestled the anchor free. Burford backed off, turned, and steamed out to sea while the nearby ships rang with cheers.
The whole harbor was on the upsurge. A trace of jauntiness — even cockiness —began to appear. Three men in a 50-foot launch hawked .30- and .50-caliber ammunition off the foot of Ford Island as if they were selling vegetables. A bomb hit a mobile “gedunk” wagon on 1010 dock, and men from the Helena dashed ashore to gather up the free pies, ice cream, and candy bars. A number of seamen sneaked away from their regular stations on the Whitney to take a turn at the machine guns — like patrons of a shooting gallery. When a gun crew on the Blue winged a plane, everyone stopped work, danced about shaking hands with one another.
A strange exhilaration seized the men at the guns. Not knowing of war, they compared it to football. Marine Gunner Payton McDaniel on the Nevada sensed the tingle of going onto the field at game time. Ensign Martin Burns on the Phoenix felt the excitement of the scrimmage. When the Honolulu and St. Louis winged a plane, Machinist’s Mate Robert White could only compare the cheers to Navy scoring against Army. And in fact, when the Marine gunners on the Helena knocked down a plane, Captain Bob English shouted from the bridge, “The Marine team scored a touchdown!”
In their excitement men performed astonishing feats. Woodrow Bailey, a sailor on the Tennessee, chopped a ten-inch hawser in half with one stroke. Gun Captain Alvin Gerth and two other men did the job of 15 men at one of the Pennsylvania’s five-inch guns. Kenneth Carlson ran up vertical ladders on the Selfridge with a bandoleer of .50-caliber machine-gun shells slung over each shoulder — normally he could handle just one of the 75-pound belts. A man on the Phelps adjusted a blue-hot 1.1 gun barrel by twisting it with his hands — didn’t even notice the heat.
There were fiascoes too. When an old chief on the St. Louis cleared some Navy Yard rigging from the ship’s foremast, other crew members paused to watch with delight a Mack Sennett classic — he was chopping away the scaffold he stood on. The Argonne gunners shot down their own antenna, then almost got the Fourteenth Naval District signal tower. Next a hole appeared in the powerhouse smokestack. Seaman Don Marman says the Helena fired the shot; Marine Gunner McDaniel of the Nevada also claims the honor. Other shells — with the fuses defective or not set at all —whistled off toward downtown Honolulu.
Little matter. At the moment all anybody cared about was keeping the guns going. The Tennessee’s five-inch guns fired so fast that paint hung from the overheated barrels in foot-long strips. On the Pennsylvania Gunner’s Mate Millard Rucoi was busy ramming shells when a man at the next five-inch gun began waving his arms, as though describing a shapely woman. Rucoi was too busy for frivolity and there was too much noise for conversation, so he just shook his fist and went on ramming. Finally the man came over and shouted to come and look at his gun barrel — it was so hot it was wavy. He asked Rucoi whether he should keep shooting. The answer was easy: “Hell, yes, keep her going.”
Nothing was allowed to interfere. At 1010 dock, tugs towed the sinking Oglala clear of the Helena to a new berth farther astern. As the lines between the two ships were cast off, Admiral Furlong appeared on the Oglala’s bridge and wandered into the line of fire of a Helena five-incher. A very young boatswain’s mate stuck his head out of the gunport: “Pardon me, Admiral, sir! Would you mind moving from the wing of the bridge so we can shoot through there?”
Lieutenant Commander Shigekazu Shimazaki got a real reception when he arrived with the second attack wave at 8:40. There were no torpedo planes this time —just 54 high-level bombers, 80 dive-bombers, and 36 fighters. The level bombers would concentrate on Hickam and Kaneohe, but the dive-bombers screamed down on Pearl, searching for targets that hadn’t been plastered.
The Maryland and Helena’s newly installed 1.1 guns now swung into action and bagged three planes right away. On the Castor, Quartermaster William Miller listened with clinical interest to the new weapon. It wasn’t a bark like the three-inch guns, or an ear-blasting crack like the five-inchers — just a muffled, persistent pom-pom that was somehow very reassuring. On the West Virginia, Ensign Ed Jacoby was more surprised than reassured; these guns had been a constant headache in practice —they were always breaking down — but this morning they worked like a charm.
A dive-bomber crashed near Ford Island, just off the dock normally used by the Tangier … another into the main channel near the Nevada … another off Pearl City, not far from the destroyer-minecraft Montgomery. Chief Machinist’s Mate Harry Haws sent Seaman D. F. Calkins in the destroyer’s whaleboat to investigate. The pilot was sitting on the wing, but refused to be rescued. As the gig drew alongside, he pulled a pistol. He had no chance to use it — Calkins shot first.
In their anger and excitement the men shot at anything that flew. This had already been learned by the B-17s coming into Hickam. Now it was discovered by 18 planes flying into Ford Island on a routine scouting mission from the carrier Enterprise.
The big ship had been due back at 7:30 A.M. from her trip to Wake, but heavy seas held up the refueling of her destroyers, and at 6:15 she was still some 200 miles west of Oahu. So the early-morning scouting flight took off as usual — 13 planes from Scouting Squadron 6; four from Bombing Squadron 6; one additional reconnaissance plane. They were to sweep the 180-degree sector ahead of the ship, then land at Ford Island. Ensign Cleo Dobson and the other married pilots were delighted — they couldn’t go ashore until the Enterprise docked, but they could at least call their wives.
The planes droned off. It must have been about 8:00 A.M. when they all heard Ensign Manuel Gonzales yell over the radio, “Don’t shoot! I’m a friendly plane!” No one ever saw him again.
Lieutenant (j.g.) F. A. Patriarca’s patrol took him north to Kaui, and as he swung back toward Oahu shortly after eight, he noticed planes orbiting northward in the distance. It looked like the Army on maneuvers. When he reached Oahu, he learned the truth and gunned his plane out to sea, calling again and again over the radio: “White 16 — Pearl Harbor under attack. Do not acknowledge.” He headed back for the Enterprise, but the carrier — now under radio silence — had changed course and disappeared. Running out of gas, Patriarca finally crash-landed in a pasture at Kauai.
The warning was too late for some of the pilots. Japanese fighters racked up Ensigns Bud McCarthy, John Vogt, and Walter Willis; only McCarthy escaped alive. Navy antiaircraft fire took care of Ensign Edward Deacon; he crashed into the sea, but both he and his rear-seat man were saved. Then a Zero caught Lieutenant (j.g.) Clarence Dickinson’s plane. The rear-seat man was shot, but Dickinson bailed out. Landing in a dirt bank just west of Ewa Field, he stumbled to the main road. He hoped at least to catch a ride to Pearl.
The rest of the pilots somehow squeaked into Ewa or Ford Island. Lieutenant Earl Gallaher arrived over Pearl about 8:35, decided it was hopeless and made for Ewa instead. Ensign Dobson happened along and decided that was a good idea too. They touched down, and a Marine ran up shouting, “For God’s sake, get into the air or they’ll strafe you too!” Taking off again, they circled about for a few minutes, finally headed into Ford Island when it looked like a lull.
As Dobson dropped his wheels to land, every gun in the Navy seemed to open up on him. Tracers flew by. A pom-pom shell burst under his right wing, throwing the plane on its side. He dropped his seat down … hid behind the engine … and dived for the runway. At 50 knots extra speed, he shuddered to think that his tires might be shot. But he made it all right, scooted the whole length of the runway, ground-looped to a stop just short of a ditch.
There was nothing dazed or stunned about Ford Island now. Some of the men were dragging damaged planes clear of the burning hangars. Others were salvaging the guns and setting up pillboxes. One ordnanceman had to improvise his mount out of some sewer pipe. There still weren’t enough guns to go around, and Chief Storekeeper Bonett — a quiet, unassuming man who was supposed to know nothing about weapons — was busy assembling .30-caliber machine guns in the paint storage building.
Others rallied around the oil-soaked men who struggled ashore from Battleship Row. Many of them headed for a spot near the gas dock, where the beach shelved off gradually. Chief Albert Molter dragged in a tall ensign, still wearing binoculars, who had passed out just short of the beach. As he tugged away, he saw another man swimming in, using only one arm. Molter thought he must be using a cross-chest carry on someone else, and helpfully called out that the water was shallow. The man murmured his thanks and stumbled to his feet — he was carrying a large canned ham.
The wounded were quickly taken in tow — some to the tennis courts, which had been turned into a receiving station; others to the mess hall, where they lay on tables yet to be cleared of breakfast. Seaman Thomas Malmin, who drove the bus that ran around the island, took the worst hit to the dispensary. Once he picked up an ensign —no apparent wounds but in a state of complete shock. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear, fought desperately to stay in the bus when it reached the building. Another time he gave four colored men a lift. They were all badly hurt but wouldn’t let anybody touch them or aid them in any way. They kept together in the bus and helped each other out at the end — still going it alone.
The dispensary was quickly swamped, and the men piled up in the patio —sprawling, sopping bundles that looked completely out of place on the bright, clean tiles. A young girl, perhaps 14, went around trying to get their names, but she just couldn’t bear to look.
The service families opened their larders and wardrobes for the men who weren’t wounded. An officer walked about in seaman’s jumpers; a sailor with him wore a T-shirt, swallow-tailed coat, and full-dress “fore and aft” admiral’s hat. Like the other good Samaritans, Mrs. Pat Bellinger had raided her husband’s trunk.
Off Ford Island, a weird flotilla dodged Japanese strafers, darted in and out of the burning oil, picking up the men still swimming. Boatswain’s Mate A. M. Gustchen maneuvered Admiral Leary’s barge with all the professional polish an admiral’s coxswain should have. Musician Walter Frazee, who had never steered a boat before, handled a launch from the Argonne. Chief Jansen brought his honey barge in close, fighting fires on the West Virginia. A water barge turned up to redeem a mildly tarnished past. For some time it had been the crew’s custom to give any ship more than its quota of fresh water — if the ship made it worthwhile. A suggested rate of exchange was 10,000 gallons for a big dressed turkey, sixty dozen eggs, with a few extra items to sweeten the deal. Just the day before, such a transaction was worked out with the Curtiss; in fact, the turkey was in the oven at the very moment the Japanese struck. Now, all thoughts of a Sunday feast were forgotten, as the barge rushed to help the swimmers.
They were all types. When Seaman Albert Jones idled his motor for a second to spread sand for better footage, a sailor in the water screamed hysterically — he was sure he would be forgotten. Another man swam over and did his best to help. It wasn’t easy, for he had just lost his own arm.
Ensign Maurice Featherman of the West Virginia lay exhausted on the deck of a harbor tug and didn’t care whether he lived or died. His shipmate, Ensign John Armstrong, appeared from nowhere in starched whites — looking as if he had just stepped out of the Harvard Club. Kneeling at Featherman’s side, he set about injecting his friend with the will to live: “Mo, history is being made now, and you and I are in the middle of it, and our actions might affect the outcome.”
Few men thought in such terms, but more and more acted as if they did. Chief Radioman Thomas Reeves hung on alone in a burning passageway of the California, trying to pass ammunition by hand, until he fell unconscious and died. The ship had taken a bad hit around 8:25, and flames raged along the second deck. As Ensign Herbert Jones lay wounded in their path, he calmly explained to two friends that he was done for anyhow and they must leave him.
On the bridge of the tanker Neosho — lying between the California and the rest of Battleship Row — Commander John Phillips prepared to move his ship from the area. As her engineers lit off the boilers and the blowers cut in, Aviation Machinist William Powers jumped with fright — that rising whine sounded just like bombs in the movies. By 8:35, some of the Neosho’s crew had joined air station personnel in the job of chopping the lines. Slowly she cleared the dock and backed up Battleship Row to the fuel depot on the other side of the channel.
Actually the Japanese weren’t interested in the Neosho. When one strafer flew down Battleship Row, he even held fire while passing the tanker — just a waste of good bullets. He might have cared more had he known she was still half loaded with high-octane aviation gas.
Next up the line, the Oklahoma lay bottom-up, but her men were by no means out of the fight. Marine Sergeant Thomas Hailey reached Ford Island, volunteered for a mission in a small unarmed plane. They gave him a rifle and sent him up. The mission: locate the Japanese fleet. The plane had no luck and returned five hours later. For Hailey it was an especially uncomfortable trip because he still had on only the oil-soaked underwear he wore from the Oklahoma.
Most of her survivors settled for the Maryland. A seaman covered with oil tagged after Chief Gunner’s Mate McCaine, calling, “What can we do, Chief?” Marine Sergeant Leo Wears found a shorthanded gun on the main deck, appointed himself a member of its crew. Ensign Bill Ingram took over another gun that seemed to need help. As he worked away, someone on the bridge hollered down, telling him that on the Maryland an officer was expected to wear his cap when he fought. There were plenty of them lying around, so Ingram put one on, paused long enough to wave cheerfully in the general direction of the bridge.
The Maryland’s own crew were just as busy. Mess Attendant Arvelton Baines, who had been in the brig for fighting with civilians, worked to get ammunition topside until he passed out from exhaustion. A hulking Marine sergeant — nicknamed “Tiny,” as usual — rammed a five-inch antiaircraft gun with his hand when the hydraulic hammer got stuck. The men sweated away, oblivious of the flames blown toward them, above them, in fact all around them from the burning West Virginia and Arizona. Under the circumstances, Chief George Haitle was mildly astonished when an officer drew a gun and threatened to shoot the first man caught lighting a cigarette.
Men on the West Virginia were even more surprised when they too were chewed out for smoking. The ship was now a sea of flames — ammunition exploding everywhere, bullets and shells flying all over the place. Everything aft of the foremast was lost in choking smoke. Abandon ship had been ordered, and her port bow was level with the water, when Ensign Thomas A. Lombardi arrived from shore leave around 8:50. He stepped aboard and stood rooted in his tracks — could this litter of clothing, bedding, bodies, and debris be the same neat deck he had left the night before?
It was no weirder a picture than the one he made himself. As he pitched in to help the wounded, he was still wearing his white dinner jacket, black tie, and tuxedo pants. They didn’t matter, but he needed something far more effective than the black evening pumps he still wore. Then a miracle — he stumbled over a pair of rubber boots lying on deck. And an even greater miracle (for Lombardi was an old Syracuse football player with frame and feet to match) — they were size 13, a perfect fit.
On the signal bridge, Ensign Delano also had an unexpected windfall in the way of apparel — he picked up the only helmet he ever found that fitted. He clapped it on and checked two idle machine guns mounted forward of the conning tower. They seemed in good shape, so he recruited a young officer, a seaman, and Mess Attendant Doris Miller to get them going. The first two would do the firing; Miller would pass the ammunition. Next time Delano looked, Miller had taken over one of the guns and was happily blazing away. The big steward had no training whatsoever in machine guns, and at least one witness felt he was a bigger menace than the Japanese. But there was nothing wrong with his heart, and it was the only time Delano had ever seen him smile, except the day he won that big fight as the West Virginia’s heavyweight boxer.
As fast as men could be spared, Delano packed them off to help the Tennessee alongside. Others thought of it themselves and crawled across on the ten-inch hawsers. When a Tennessee gun captain asked one West Virginia ensign what fuse setting to use, he got an impatient reply: “To hell with fuse settings — shoot!” More shells sailed off for downtown Honolulu.
Everyone at least agreed there was no time for technicalities. Captain Charles E. Reordan fought the Tennessee in his Panama hat. Crew members gladly recruited Private Harry Polto, a soldier who happened to be visiting aboard, and assigned him to a five-inch gun. Men tossed scores of empty shell cases overboard with carefree abandon, forgetting completely the swimmers struggling alongside. But through all the scorn for details, the seaman’s prerogative to gripe was carefully preserved. Few seemed to mind Yeoman Duncan grumbling that his new whites had been ruined by a broken steam pipe.
Even the twisted, burning Arizona still showed signs of fight. Boatswain’s Mate Barthis and most of those still living stood on the fantail, dropping life rafts to the men in the water. Coxswain Forbis gave a hand until Barthis said nothing more could be done. Then he dived in — his watch stopped at 8:50. Radioman Glenn Lane was already in the water, had been swimming ever since the big explosion blew him overboard. He could have reached the shore easily but wanted some more interesting way to stay in the fight.
Suddenly he saw it right before his eyes. The Nevada was swinging out … getting under way … moving down the harbor. He paddled over to meet her. Someone tossed him a line, yanked him aboard. Two other Arizona seamen were hauled up the same way, and all three were assigned to a five-inch gun on the starboard side. The Nevada steamed on down the channel, gliding past the burning wrecks, proudly heading for the sea.
It seemed utterly incredible. A battleship needed two and a half hours to light up her boilers, four tugs to turn and pull her into the stream, a captain to handle the whole intricate business. Everybody knew that. Yet here was the Nevada — steam up in 45 minutes, pulling away without tugs, and no skipper at all. How could she do it?
She had certain advantages. It might normally take two and a half hours to get up steam, but two of her boilers were already hot. One was the boiler that normally provides power for a ship at her mooring. Ensign Taussig had lit the second during that last peacetime watch, planning to switch the steam load later. Now his efficiency paid off. Both boilers had plenty of steam — giving the Nevada some 90 minutes’ jump in getting away. Hard work in the fire room made up the difference.
And four rugs might normally be needed to ease the ship out, but in a pinch their role could be filled by a good quartermaster. The Nevada had a superb one — Chief Quartermaster Robert Sedberry.
It was the same with leadership. Captain Scanland and his executive officer might be ashore, but the spark was supplied by Lieutenant Commander Francis Thomas, the middle-aged reservist who was senior officer present. As damage control officer, Thomas was down in central station when he heard that the engine room was ready. He put a yeoman in charge of central station, vaulted up the tube to the conning tower, and took over as commanding officer.
Chief Boatswain Edwin Joseph Hill climbed down to the mooring quay, cut loose an ammunition lighter alongside, and cast off. The Nevada began drifting away with the tide, and Hill had to swim to get back on board. But after 29 years in the Navy, he wasn’t going to miss this trip.
In the wheelhouse Sedberry backed her until she nudged a dredging pipeline strung out from Ford Island. Then ahead on the starboard engines, astern on the port, until the bow swung clear of the burning Arizona. Now ahead on both engines, with just enough right rudder to swing the stern clear too. She passed so close, Commander Thomas felt he could almost light a cigarette from the blazing wreck.
So she was on her way — and the effect was electric. Photographer J. W. Burton watched from the Ford Island shore … Lieutenant Commander Henry Wrayfrom 1010 dock … Quartermaster William Miller from the Castor in the sub base — but wherever men stood, their hearts beat faster. To most she was the finest thing they saw that day. Against the backdrop of thick black smoke, Seaman Thomas Malmin caught a glimpse of the flag on her fantail. It was for only a few seconds, but long enough to give him an old-fashioned thrill. He recalled that “The Star-Spangled Banner” was written under similar conditions, and he felt the glow of living the same experience. He understood better the words of Francis Scott Key.
It was less of a pageant close up. All kinds of men compose even a great ship’s crew, and they were all there on the Nevada. As the Japanese planes converged on the moving ship, Seaman K. V. Hendon spied a pot of fresh coffee near the after battle dressing station; he paused and had a cup. A young seaman stood by one of the five-inch casemate guns, holding a bag of powder close to his chest — he explained that if he went, it was going to be a complete job. One officer beat on the conning tower bulkhead, pleading, “Make them go away!” Ensign Taussig, his left leg hopelessly shattered, lay in a stretcher near the starboard antiaircraft director. Turning to Boatswain’s Mate Allen Owens, he remarked, “Isn’t this a hell of a thing — the man in charge lying flat on his back while everyone else is doing something.”
As the Nevada steamed on, all the Japanese planes at Pearl Harbor seemed to dive on her. At 1010 dock, Ensign David King watched one flight of dive-bombers head for the Helena, then swerve in mid-attack to hit the battleship instead. Another group shifted over from Drydock No. 1. Soon she was wreathed in smoke from her own guns … from bomb hits … from the fires that raged amidships and forward. Sometimes she disappeared from view, when near-misses threw huge columns of water high in the air. As Ensign Delano watched from the bridge of the West Virginia, a tremendous explosion erupted somewhere within her, blowing flames and debris far above the masts. The whole ship seemed to rise up and shake violently in the water.
Another hit on the starboard side slaughtered the crew of one gun, mowed down most of the next group forward. The survivors doubled up as best they could —three men doing the work of seven. It was all the more difficult because Chief Gunner’s Mate Robert E. Linnartz — now acting as sight-setter, pointer, and rammerman — had himself been wounded.
In the plotting room far below, Ensign Merdinger got a call to send up some men to fill in for the killed and wounded. Many of the men obviously wanted to go — it looked like a safer bet than suffocating in the plotting room. Others wanted to stay — they preferred to keep a few decks between themselves and the bombs. Merdinger picked them at random, and he could see in some faces an almost pleading look to be included in the other group, whichever it happened to be. But no one murmured a word, and his orders were instantly obeyed. Now he understood more clearly the reasons for the system of discipline, the drills, the little, rituals, the exacting course at Annapolis, the gold braid — all the things that made the Navy essentially autocratic but at the same time made it work.
The Nevada was well beyond Battleship Row and pretty far down 1010 dock when she encountered still another obstacle. Half the channel was blocked by a long pipeline that ran out from Ford Island to the dredge Turbine, lying squarely in midstream. Somehow Quartermaster Sedberry snaked between the dredge and the shore. It was a fine piece of navigation and a wonderful arguing point for Captain August Persson of the dredge. The Navy had always made him unhook the pipeline every time the battleships came in or out, claiming there wasn’t enough room to pass. Captain Persson had always claimed they could do it if they wanted. Now he had his proof.
The Japanese obviously hoped to sink the Nevada in the entrance channel and bottle up the whole fleet. By the time she was opposite the floating drydock, it began to look as though they might succeed. More signal flags fluttered on top the Naval District water tower — stay clear of the channel. Still lying in his stretcher near the starboard director, Ensign Taussig was indignant. He was sure they could get to sea. In fact, he felt the ship was all right — she looked in bad shape only because someone down below was counterflooding her starboard bow instead of stern. Sitting by his five-inch casemate gun, Marine Sergeant Inks had different ideas. He had been in the Corps forever and knew trouble when he saw it. He was gloomily muttering that the ship would never get out.
In any case, orders were orders. Thomas cut his engines and nosed her into Hospital Point on the south shore. The wind and current caught her stern and swung her completely around. Chief Boatswain Hill, who had cast off a long 30 minutes before, now went forward to drop anchor. Then another wave of planes dived on the Nevada in one final, all-out fling. Three bombs landed near the bow. Hill vanished in the blast — the last time Thomas saw him, he was still working on the anchor gear.
It was now nine o’clock, and the hour had come for the ships in drydock — the flagship Pennsylvania in Drydock No. 1, with the destroyers Cassin and Downes lying side by side just ahead of her; the destroyer Shaw in the new floating drydock a few hundred yards to the west.
The three ships at the main drydock fought under a special handicap. The water had been pumped out, dropping their decks to a point where the high sides of the drydock blocked most of the view. This was noticed right away by George Walters, a civilian yard worker operating a traveling crane that ran on rails along the side of the dock. From his perch 50 feet up, Walters saw the first planes dive on Ford Island. Like everybody else he thought it was a drill and caught on only when he saw the PBYs crumble.
He looked down and realized that the men lolling in the sun on the Pennsylvania, Cassin, and Downes were aware of none of this. He yelled but nobody paid attention. He threw a wrench, but that only made them angry. As the attack spread all over the harbor, they finally understood.
When the Japanese turned their attention to the Pennsylvania, Walters decided to capitalize on the ship’s predicament. He devised a unique defense. He ran his crane back and forth along the ship, hoping to protect it and ward off low-flying planes. A forlorn hope perhaps, but after all this was a crane taking on an air force.
At first, Walters’ contribution infuriated the Pennsylvania gunners, who felt he was only spoiling their aim. Gradually they learned to use him. They discovered that, sitting in their trough, they couldn’t see the planes soon enough anyhow. The crane’s movements at least gave them a lead on where a plane might next appear. Then they could set their guns and be ready when it came. Walters was just completing his transition from goat to hero when a Japanese bomb blasted the dock, putting him out of business.
It, of course, made no real difference: planes were swarming on the drydock from every direction. On the Pennsylvania, Gun Captain Alvin Gerth pumped out shells directly over the heads of the next gun crew forward. He had adjusted the gun to shoot a little below the safety cutout, and every time he fired, the blast would knock down the other gun captain. He in turn would jump up, run back, and kick Gerth in the seat of his pants. This went on and on.
On the Pennsylvania, too, there was a new jauntiness in the air. Electrician’s Mate James Power took time out for a quick glance at his hometown paper, the Odessa, Texas, Times. He just had to know the score of the big Thanksgiving game between Odessa High and Midland. When he saw that Odessa had won for the first time in ten years, he jumped and hollered with joy.
More bombs rained down, and Captain Charles Cooke of the Pennsylvania began to worry about the drydock gate. He realized that a direct hit would let in a rush of water, pushing his ship into the destroyers lying ahead. To guard against this, he ordered the drydock partially flooded and sent Lieutenant Commander James Craig to tighten up the mooring line. Craig carried out the job in nimble, skillful fashion … paying no attention to the bullets that whipped the ground around him. He seemed to live a charmed life. At 9:06 he stepped back on board, just in time to be killed by a 500-pound bomb that shattered the starboard casemate he was passing through.
Boatswain’s Mate Robert Jones rushed up to help the men hit by the blast. He gently pulled a blanket over one seaman who was obviously dead. The man thrashed out with both hands, yanked the blanket from his face: “I’ve got to breathe, ain’t I?”
The dock was flooding fast when yard worker Harry Danner suddenly realized he had left his lunch tin down in the pit. He started back but was too late. It was sailing away into the Cassin and Dowries, carried along by the inrush of water, just the way Captain Cooke figured a loosely moored battleship might do. When Danner finally reached the top of the dock, the Pennsylvania was still smoking from her bomb hit. He decided she could use some help and rushed up the gangplank. After a brief encounter with the duty officer, who couldn’t grasp the idea of a civilian manning a gun, he got on board and joined one of the five-inch antiaircraft crews.
As the Pennsylvania fought on, a record player could be heard in one of the ship’s repair shops. It had apparently been on when the attack started, and no one bothered to turn it off. Now, in the midst of this early-morning nightmare, it repeated over and over again the pleasant strains of Glenn Miller’s “Sunrise Serenade.”
Up ahead the Cassin and Downes seemed to catch everything that missed the Pennsylvania — a bad hit at 9:06 … another at 9:15. By the time the drydock was flooded, both destroyers were heavily on fire. Explosions racked their decks, and a big blast ripped the Cassin at 9:37. She sagged heavily to starboard and rolled slowly over onto the Downes. Seaman Eugene McClarty got out from under just in time, and as he streaked onto the drydock, another bomb crashed behind him, shaking the gangway loose. It fell into the drydock as McClarty pulled one sailor to his feet; but two other shipmates were too late, and plunged on down into the blazing caldron.
On the quarterdeck of the Downes a single sailor hung on, manning a .50-caliber machine gun. Watching from the Pennsylvania, Gunner’s Mate Millard Rucoi wondered how long any man could stand that kind of heat. He soon had his answer. As the flames swept closer, the sailor seemed to have a harder and harder time keeping his head up. Finally he dropped to his knees, head down, but with one hand still hanging on the trigger of the gun. That’s the way Rucoi last saw him when the flames and smoke closed off the view.
The Shaw was having just as much trouble in the floating drydock to the west. A bad hit around 9:12 … fire spreading toward her forward magazine … a fantastic explosion about 9:30. It was the Fourth of July kind — a huge ball of fire ballooned into the air; bits of flaming material arched and snaked across the sky, trailing white streamers of smoke behind. Once again the whole harbor paused to take in the scene. Seaman Ed Waszkiewicz watched from the Ford Island seaplane ramp, nearly half a mile across the bay. At this distance he knew he was at least safe — until he looked up at the sky. One of the Shaw’s five-inch shells was tumbling end over end, arching directly at him. He dived behind a fire truck as the shell hit the concrete ramp several feet away. It didn’t explode, merely bounced a hundred yards along the ramp and clanged into one of the hangars.
Ensign David King also took in the show from his station on the Helena. The gun mounts, mattresses, and bodies flying through the air reminded him strangely of the dummies and clowns fired from a gun in a circus. Only this time, he mused, no one would land in a net.
By now many of the planes were shifting over to the seaplane tender Curtiss, lying off Pearl City on the other side of Ford Island. A little earlier the Curtiss had clipped a bomber, which crashed into her starboard seaplane crane — perhaps the war’s first kamikazi. In any case, it started bad fires, and these may have attracted the pilots hungry for a new kill.
Scaled in the transmitter room, the Curtiss’ four radiomen couldn’t see any of this, but they could hear the bombs coming closer and they could feel the ship shudder from near-misses. Radioman R. E. Jones was on the battle phones and couldn’t move, but the other three could and did. James Raines squatted between the transmitters; on his left crouched Dean B. Orwick; right in front of him, Benny Schlect — three men packed together in a space 30 inches wide.
Raines never really noticed any noise — the incredible thing was the hole that suddenly appeared in the deck right in front of him and no hole above. How could a bomb do this without coming through the overhead?
Then he noticed his left shoe was missing … then that Schlect was dead and Orwick hurt. The room filled with smoke as Jones ran over to help. Together they got Orwick to the door, undogged it, and laid him outside. Jones went back to try to move Schlect, and Raines stayed with Orwick. There was little he could do — a shot of morphine … a tourniquet … a few comforting words. Orwick asked quietly, “My foot’s gone, isn’t it?” Raines said yes it was, but everything would be all right. Corpsmen were there now, and they carried Orwick away. To his deep sorrow, Raines later learned that Orwick didn’t pull through. Also, he was quite surprised to hear that he had broken his own back.
On the beleaguered Raleigh, Captain Simons watched the bomber crash into the Curtiss around 9:10, saw another plane in the same formation let go two bombs at his own ship. The first missed; the second was a perfect strike. It landed aft between a couple of gun crews … grazed an ammunition ready box … passed through the carpenter shop … through a bunk on the deck below … through an oil tank … through the bottom of the ship … and exploded in the harbor mud.
The Raleigh took a bad list to port, and from then on the battle was to keep from capsizing. The first step was to get rid of all topside weight. The planes went off on a scouting trip; everything else went over the side — catapults, torpedo tubes, torpedoes, booms, ladders, boat skids, chests, stanchions, anchors, chains, rafts, boats, everything. All the time Captain Simons kept a yeoman busy with pencil and paper, carefully plotting where everything fell, so it could be recovered later. Then he got some pumps from the Navy yard, another from the Medusa … stuffed life belts into the holes … borrowed four pontoons … warped a lighter alongside. He also found time to send Carpenter R. C. Tellin with an acetylene torch to help Commander Isquith investigate some mysterious tappings coming from inside the hull of the overturned Utah.
While this work was getting under way, the Raleigh never stopped firing. Captain Simons thought his 1.1 guns had a lot to do with the plane that struck the Curtiss … another that crashed north of Ford Island … two more that fell near Pearl City … and a fifth that blew to bits in midair.
But there always seemed to be more —Simons watched another plane bomb the Dobbin, moored with her destroyers off the northern end of Ford Island. The bomb just missed the big tender, exploding off her starboard side. But a near-miss could do a lot of damage. Shrapnel slashed across her afterdecks, gouging the mainmast and smokestack … ripping a whaleboat to splinters … wrecking a refreshment stand … cutting down the crew at No. 4 gun.
Twenty-two-year-old Fireman Charles Leahey watched the blood trickle around the corner of the gun mount, and he thought about the Navy planes that drowned out the sound track every night there was a movie: “They always come around when we’re having a show; where in the hell are they now?”
Just east of the Dobbin, the hospital ship Solace was getting ready for a busy day. In the main operating room, Corpsman T. A. Sawyer was breaking out drapes, getting the sterilizers started. Near him a nurse stood by, occasionally peeking through an uncovered porthole at the battle raging outside. Heavily influenced by the movie comedian Hugh Herbert, she would exclaim, “Woo-woo, there goes another one!” whenever a Japanese plane was hit. Another nurse was tearing long strips of adhesive for holding dressing in place after surgery; a near-miss rocked the ship, hopelessly entangling her in the tape. Out on the promenade deck a chief petty officer, clearly all thumbs, was hard at work rolling bandages.
A steady stream of launches began unloading the injured, sometimes escorted by shipmates and friends. Seaman Howard Adams of the Arizona helped carry a buddy to the operating room. He took one look, turned to the rail, and was sick. But he came back, asking if he could help. It was a big decision, for that day he chose his career —medical work.
A few hundred yards north of the Solace, the destroyer Blue cast off and moved slowly down the east channel toward the harbor entrance. As she passed Battleship Row, Machinist’s Mate Charles Etter helped toss lines to the men still swimming in the water. Some were hauled aboard, but others couldn’t hang on and fell back into the thick oil that spread over the channel. There was no time to stop for a second try.
The men on the blazing wrecks cheered the Blue, and the other destroyers, too, as one by one they glided by. As fast as they built up enough steam to move, they got under way —no waiting for skippers who still were on shore. The Blue sailed under Ensign Nathan Asher —his complement of officers was three other ensigns. Aylwin was handled by Ensign Stanley Caplan, a 26-year-old University of Michigan chemistry graduate in civilian life.
Outside the harbor, Quartermaster Frank Handler watched and waited on the bridge of the Helm. For 40 long minutes she and the Ward had been out there alone. For all anyone knew, the whole Japanese Navy might be just over the horizon. When would help come?
The first destroyer burst out of the channel just about nine o’clock. It was the Monaghan, fresh from her brush with the midget. Then the Dale … the Blue … the Henley … the Phelps … men soon lost track. Perhaps not much to start a war on, but there would be more to follow.
With a splintering crash Admiral Leary’s special mahogany gangway sailed over the side of the cruiser Honolulu and broke in half on the dock. It was the first thing 30 men headed for, when word was passed to strip the ship of unnecessary equipment and prepare to sortie.
The Honolulu was warped alongside the St. Louis in one of the Navy Yard’s finger piers, and as the men cast off the lines between the two ships, a dive-bomber charged down on them. Seaman Don Marman ducked under the narrow space between the Number 1 turret overhang and the deck — there was about a two-foot clearance. He never knew so many men could get in so small a spot at one time. The bomb plunged through the concrete pier on the port side and exploded next to the ship. It holed her oil tanks, pushed in the armor plating, and made any sortie impossible. Perhaps she couldn’t have gone anyhow, for in the excitement of casting off, one man chopped away the power line to the dock. Since the Honolulu didn’t have enough steam yet to supply her own power, this knocked out her lights and all the electrical gear for operating the guns.
The same thing happened on the New Orleans at the next pier. Hot cables danced on the decks, the lights went out, the ammunition hoists ground to a halt. So the men formed human chains to pass the shells and powder from the magazines to the guns. As they sweated away in the dark, Chaplain Howell Forgy did his best to encourage them. He passed out apples and oranges … stopped and charted with the gun crews … patted Seaman Sam Brayfield on the back … told him and the others that they couldn’t have church this morning, but “praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.”
Nobody chopped the cables that gave the St. Louis power, but nothing else was spared. A shopfitter dropped down over the starboard side and burned off the gangway with an acetylene torch. Somebody else chopped loose the water hose, leaving a 12-inch hole in the side of the ship; Shopfitter Bullock welded a plate over it in ten minutes. Up on the bridge, Captain George Rood signaled the engine room, and the St. Louis began backing out at 9:31A.M. — the first cruiser under way.
As she pulled out, Captain Rood called down to the wardroom and requested some water. The strafing was especially heavy, but Pharmacist’s Mate Howard Myers took pitcher and glass up the exposed ladder and served it properly. For the men on the St. Louis, nothing was too good for Captain Rood.
As the ships began pulling out, the men caught on shore raced to get back in time. Admiral Anderson tore through red lights in his official car. Admirals Pye and Leary got a lift from Richard Kimball, manager of the Halekulani. When Admiral Pye noticed one of the B-17s circling above, Kimball recalls him exploding: “Why they’ve even painted ‘U.S. Army’ on their planes!”
Ensign Malcolm of the Arizona drove his overnight host, Captain D. C. Emerson, and as the car hit 80, the old captain tapped Malcolm on the shoulder: “Slow down, kid; let’s wait’ll we get to Pearl to be killed.”
Commander A. M. Townsend of the St. Louis chugged along as best he could in a ’29 jalopy. Entering the main gate, he gradually overhauled a man running toward the fleet landing. It was a friend he hadn’t seen for ten years.
Yeoman Charles Knapp of the Raleigh and eight other sailors piled into a taxi at the YMCA. Hundreds of others caught in town did the same. Manuel Medeiros’ Pearl Harbor Drivers’ Association kept at least 25 cabs shuttling back and forth — Driver Tony Andrade alone took six loads.
There were no taxis on the dusty country road where Lieutenant (j.g.) Clarence Dickinson stood after parachuting from his burning plane. He resorted to an old American expedient — hitchhiking. After a while a pleasant middle-aged couple drove up in a blue sedan. Mr. and Mrs. Otto F. Heine were on their way to breakfast with friends at Ewa, completely unaware of any battle. It took a few minutes to grasp that this hitchhiker was different — that he had just been shot down from the sky. At first Mrs. Heine said politely that there really wasn’t time to help him, that their friends were already waiting. But when the facts sank in, she bubbled with solicitude. Mr. Heine drove on toward Pearl without saying much. As they rounded the closed end of the harbor, strafers raked the car in front of them. He took one hand from the wheel and gently pushed Mrs. Heine’s head under the dashboard.
The strafing planes were doing their best to paralyze the traffic now converging on Pearl Harbor. Radioman Frederick Glaeser wasn’t convinced it was a real attack until a dive-bomber gave his car a burst about three miles from the main gate. Jack Lower, a civilian electrician, was a little closer when the planes got interested in him. He was with a group of other workers, riding in the back of an open truck. Every time a plane approached, the men would hammer on the cab roof, the truck would stop, and everybody would scatter —behind palm trees, in the bushes, under the truck, anywhere. When the plane was gone, they would jump back in and start off again. It took 20 minutes to go two miles.
Even more snarls resulted from the average American’s knack of creating his own traffic jams. A vegetable truck stalled and tied everybody up for a while. Word spread that a Fifth Columnist did it, but more likely some frightened farmer was trying to get to safety. About a mile from the gate everyone was held up by cross-traffic slanting off to Pearl City and Ewa. Two columns of cars sat bumper to bumper. In one line Commander Jerry Wiltse, skipper of the Detroit, waited in his station wagon. The car opposite him in the other line contained an old chief and his wife. When Wiltse’s line began to move, it was too much for the chief. He jumped out and got in the commander’s car, as his abandoned wife screamed, “But you know I don’t know how to drive!”
Near the gate Commander Wiltse stopped again, this time picked up an aviator running alongside the road. It was Lieutenant Dickinson, who had left the Heines’ sedan at the Hickam turnoff rather than involve them in the Pearl Harbor jam. When Wiltse reached the officers’ club landing, Dickinson hopped out and eventually found still another ride to the landing opposite Ford Island.
Out on the main road, more jams developed. Finally Captain A. R. Early, commanding Destroyer Squadron One, jumped from his car and told a traffic cop to throw all cars without Pearl Harbor tags into the cane fields. To his surprise, the officer did it. There had been a feud between the Navy and the local police for years, and ordering that cop around was the only pleasure Captain Early got from the day.
When he finally reached the Navy Yard, Captain Early methodically put his car in its assigned parking space, carefully locked it, and then went on to the officers’ landing. It was full of men trying to get rides to their ships … trying to find where their ships were … and, in some cases, trying to grasp the fact that their ships were gone forever. Commander Louis Puckett, supply officer of the Arizona, sat in the grass near the landing with four or five other officers from the ship. They just didn’t know what to do.
A steady stream of launches ferried the men out to the ships and Ford Island. Commander McIsaac, skipper of the McDonough, gave Admiral Anderson a lift to the Maryland in his launch. The admiral marveled at the fearless, debonair spirit of the men in the launch; Commander McIsaac was pretty impressed by the admiral’s own poise — he even had the little bag he liked to carry ashore.
It wasn’t always possible to show such poise. A dive-bomber screeched down on Seaman P. E. Bos’ launch, and it was a toss-up whether to dive overboard or stay in and take a chance. Bos was one of the ones who stayed — the machine gun missed them by inches. Shrapnel holed the crash boat taking Seaman Joseph Smith to the Dale, and the men abandoned it by the old coal docks. They all switched to another boat and chased the Dale out to sea. They never caught up with her. Nor did Lieutenant Commander R. H. Rogers, skipper of the Aylwin, who pursued Ensign Caplan in a motor launch.
It was all right with Captain Early, the squadron commander. He only wanted to get his destroyers out, and he was quite satisfied as he stood on the shore at 9:30 and saw that he now had on his hands more unemployed skippers than ships.
Pearl Harbor had no monopoly on hectic efforts to get back to duty. The men who pulled on their clothes, gulped coffee, kissed their wives, and dashed off to Hickam were just as frantic. Master Sergeant Arthur Fahrner couldn’t find any collar insignia, and Mrs. Fahrner didn’t help — she was forever handing him a tie.
“We’re at war,” he kept telling her; “you don’t wear a tie to war.”
First Lieutenant Warren Wilkinson meticulously pinned on all his insignia but started his car too abruptly. His chin banged against the horn button and it stuck. For a few seconds he drove on toward his squadron hangar, then couldn’t stand it any longer. In the midst of the bombing and strafing he got out, raised the hood, and disconnected the horn.
By the time Wilkinson reached the hangar area, the dive-bombing had tapered off and the field seemed strangely quiet. Sergeant H. E. Swinney wandered out from Hangar 11 and joined a group of men looking at a big bomb crater nearby. Sidewalk superintendents appeared everywhere, inspecting the damage, taking uneasy sidelong glances at the bodies that sprawled on the grass.
Near the barracks across the street, Sergeant Robert Hey put down his Tommy gun for a breather; then about nine o’clock he got word that the high-level bombers were coming. At first he couldn’t see them at all. Then he saw antiaircraft bursts to the south above Fort Kamehameha. Soon he could make out the planes themselves — tiny specks far above the puffs of smoke. They were flying in a perfect V, never had to break formation. As he watched the planes pass over, he heard a faint rustling sound which kept getting louder. He yelled a warning, dived across the sidewalk into the dirt next to the barracks. Two of the bombs hit less than 50 feet away, and the fragments whizzed by, just over his head.
There was no warning in Hangar 15. Sergeant Swinney had returned from his inspection tour and was checking a damaged B-18. Under the plane some men were changing a bullet-riddled tire. Nearby the crew chief was explaining how the wheel was assembled to some mechanic who had chosen this particular moment to learn his trade a little better.
The bomb plunged through the roof with a deafening roar. The hangar went totally dark, and Swinney thought to himself that this was the end. Then the smoke and dust cleared, and an encouraging shaft of sunlight streamed through the hole. So he was alive after all — but he now had the terrifying feeling that everyone else had completely disintegrated. It was an illusion, however, for after he had groped his way out — alive but unhurt — he saw several dead lying where he had stood.
Corporal John Sherwood was working outside Hangar 15 when the high-level attack began. For some reason he headed for Hangar 13 — a poor choice, since it had not yet been damaged. But he found a good corner in the engineering office, lay down, and waited. For the first time that morning he even had a chance to pray. As the bombs thundered closer, two young lieutenants —both crying like children — ran in and tried to dislodge him. Sherwood told them to go find their own corner. The hangar took several hits, and Sherwood realized he was in the wrong place after all. He ran out, leaving the lieutenants free to take any corner they liked.
At the base hospital Nurse Monica Conter also had to fight for her cover. Lying on the floor with other nurses, doctors, and patients, she had seized the galvanized lid of a brand-new garbage can and was holding it over herself. Someone kept tugging, trying to get it, but she managed to hang on.
Once again, good shelter was at a premium. Private Bert Shipley joined four men in a manhole who were firing at the planes with rifles. They knew they wouldn’t hit anything, but it made them feel better. Some cooks in the bombed-out mess hall holed up in the freezer. More bombs hit the building, and they were all killed by concussion. Private John Wilson dived under the edge of a one-story frame building. He was glad to find the shelter, but it was even better to be there with his buddy Stan Koenig. He kept thinking if he was going to be killed, he wanted some friend to know about it.
Hickam couldn’t do much about the high-level attack, but when the dive-bombers returned around 9:15, the men fought bitterly with what was left. One airman manned a .30-caliber machine gun in the nose of a damaged B-18 and kept firing until the plane burned out from under him.
As fast as men fell at the machine guns on the open parade ground, others rushed out to take their place, and then they too would fall. Old-timers, like Sergeant Stanley MeLeod … young recruits, like Corporal Billy Anderson of Virginia, lay there side by side. A few men somehow survived. Staff Sergeant Chuck Middaugh, a burly 235-pound roughneck always in trouble, grabbed a .30-caliber machine gun in his hands and fired away until he got a plane.
On the ball diamond two men set up a machine gun on a tripod between home plate and some trees along the edge of the field. It looked like a pretty safe spot with a good field of fire. Suddenly a wave of planes roared out of the sky, saturating the field with bombs … scoring a direct hit on the gun … killing both men instantly. They had no way of knowing that the Japanese were sure the ball diamond was clever camouflage for Hickam’s underground gasoline system.
Other bombs did put the system briefly out of action. They hit a water main near its real location, and since it worked by water, it could no longer operate. The damage was serious, but Staff Sergeant Guido Mambretti, the Petroleum Section’s maintenance man, bet Major Robbins a bottle of cognac he could get the thing working again. He did too, but he still hasn’t collected.
While Mambretti toiled away, volunteers rushed up and moved several loaded tank trucks out of the storage area. Other volunteers turned up who had no connection at all with Hickam. Major Henry Sachs, an ordnance specialist passing through on his way to the Middle East, dashed to the Hickam cargo pier and took on the job of unloading the SS Haleakala, a munitions ship full of dynamite and hand grenades. A Hawaiian motorcycle club appeared, on the hunch they might be useful. One of the members, a huge, fat native, attached himself to Captain Gordon Blake, who was trying to disperse the B-17s. They made quite a pair bouncing along the runway — the Hawaiian resplendent in aloha shirt and rhinestone-studded cyclist belt; Blake seated behind, hanging on for dear life.
In between motorcycle trips, Blake tried to guide the B-17s still in the air to someplace where they could land. One put down on Kahuku Golf Course; another suddenly turned up at Wheeler. As the pilot climbed out, Colonel William Flood, Wheeler base commander, told him dead-pan to get back up and find the Japanese fleet. The pilot looked depressed: “You know, Colonel, we just came over from California.”
“I know, but, son, there’s a war on.”
“Okay,” the pilot sighed, “if I can just get a cup of coffee, we’re off.”
Flood couldn’t bear to keep the joke going any longer, told the pilot to get some sleep and he’d use him tomorrow.
It’s hard to say how many planes really did get up from Wheeler. General Howard Davidson, commanding all the fighters, thought about 14. Air Force records indicate no P-40s and only a handful of worthless P-36s. Perhaps the general was counting in Welch and Taylor, who landed three different times for ammunition and then took off again.
These two were having a busy morning. After reaching Haleiwa, they had rushed straight for their planes. No briefing or checking out — Major Austin, the squadron commander, was off deer hunting, and they didn’t bother with Lieutenant Rogers, the acting CO. They just took off.
First they flew down to Barbers Point, where the Japanese were said to be rendezvousing. Nobody there. Just as well — there hadn’t been time to belt up enough ammunition. So they dropped by Wheeler to get some more. By nine o’clock they were almost ready to take off again when seven Japanese planes swept in from Hickam for one last strafing run. Welch and Taylor gunned their P-40s and flew straight at them. Both men were up and away before the Japanese could give chase. Instead, the P-40s managed to get into the Japanese flight pattern and shot two down — one was the plane that grazed the eucalyptus tree behind Mr. Young’s laundry.
Then Welch and Taylor headed for Ewa, where they had seen some dive-bombers at work. It was a picnic. Between them, they got four more before Taylor had to land with a wounded arm. Welch stayed on and picked off another.
They had plenty of cooperation from the ground. Ewa, like the other airfields, was bounding back. Sergeant Emil Peters and Private William Turner manned a machine gun in one of the disabled planes; Sergeant William Turrage manned another; Sergeant Carlo Micheletto was firing too, until a low-flying strafer cut him down.
A piece of shrapnel nicked Lieutenant Colonel Larkin, the base commander, and Captain Leonard Ashwell became another casualty when he sped off on a bicycle to check some sentries. He forgot about a barbed-wire fence, careened into it, and arose somewhat the worse for wear. As Pharmacist’s Mate Orin Smith treated the wounded, he himself was hit in the leg. He patched it up and rejoined his ambulance, which eventually accumulated 52 bullet holes.
On the windward side of the island, Bellows tried to fight back too, but a group of Japanese fighters gave the men little chance. Lieutenant George Whitman took up the first P-40 about nine o’clock, and six Zeroes got him right away. Next they pounced on Lieutenant Hans Christianson before he could even get off the ground. Then they caught Lieutenant Sam Bishop just after he took off. He managed to crash-land into the ocean and swim to safety. The attack was over before anybody else tried his luck.
None of the planes could even fly at nearby Kaneohe. The horizontal bombers took care of everything the strafers missed. Then there was a lull, and the bull horn bellowed for all hands to fight the hangar fires. Aviation Ordnanceman Henry Popko joined a wave of men who surged forward to answer the call. Halfway there, the strafers met them, and the men had to scatter. Seaman “Squash” Marshall raced for cover with the bullets snapping at his heels. It was another of those classic dashes that seemed to catch everyone’s fancy. He actually outran a Zero for 100 yards, according to one man, then zagged to one side as the bullets plowed straight on. The men who watched set up a huge cheer — just as if someone had hit a home run at a ball game.
By 9:30 the dive-bombers were back, but now everybody seemed to have some kind of gun. Ensign Hubert Reese and his friend Joe Hill sat in their clump of weeds, popping away with rifles. Others had mounted machine guns on water pipes, on tail-wheel assemblies, on anything. Big, friendly Aviation Machinist’s Mate Ralph Watson cradled a .30-caliber weapon in his arms, kept it going long after he was hit.
Suddenly all guns began to concentrate on one fighter. Everyone had the same idea at once — it seemed like telepathy. Smoke began pouring from the plane. It kept on diving, motor wide open. Ensign Reese wondered if the pilot was crazy — it was hard to believe they were actually shooting one down. But it was true. The pilot never pulled up. As he hit the hillside, there was a cloud of dirt, a burst of fire in the air, and the plane completely disintegrated.
It wasn’t the gunfire or bombing; it was the door that swung to and fro from the concussion that bothered Lieutenant Commander McCrimmon as he operated on his third patient at the Kaneohe dispensary. The man had a bad stomach wound, and Commander McCrimmon just couldn’t concentrate. Finally he had a sailor hold the door steady so he could finish the operation.
He was scrubbing up for the next patient, when he suddenly realized what he had done. The door had distracted him so much he had sewed the wrong parts of the stomach together. Before the man came out of ether, McCrimmon had him back on the table, reopened the wound, corrected the error, and sewed him back up.
Three miles away, Mrs. McCrimmon stood in the yard beside the house, watching the planes dive on Kaneohe. The McCrimmons lived on the beach, and pretty soon 27 Japanese planes came flying down the coast, so low overhead she could see the white scarves worn by some of the pilots. Her two little boys waved and waved, but none of the pilots took any notice.
The Navy families on Ford Island had no time to watch and wave. The war surged all around them. Some huddled in the strong, concrete Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Others brought Cokes and cigarettes for the men swimming ashore. Chief Albert Molter turned his home into a first-aid station. He had about 40 there — all soaking wet, all covered with oil, most suffering from shock, some burned very badly. He borrowed a first-aid kit from the big crate the Boy Scouts used as a clubhouse. He broke open the canned fruit and juice he was keeping in case of emergency. He raided the linen closet for sheets, towels, blankets. He gave away all his civilian clothes — he didn’t expect to wear them soon again anyhow.
At the senior officers’ housing quarters on Makalapa, Mrs. Mayfield and her maid Fumiyo went next door, to sit out the raid with Mrs. Earle. They were soon joined by Mrs. Daubin, the only other wife on the hill. In the Fades’ living room the women built a makeshift shelter by turning over two big bamboo sofas and piling all the cushions on top. In the course of this construction work Fumiyo whispered: “Mrs. Mayfield, is it —is it the Japanese who are attacking us?”
Mrs. Mayfield told her yes, as kindly as she could.
The shelters and defensive measures varied from house to house. Mrs. Mary Buethe, a young Navy wife, grabbed her children and hid in a clothes closet every time she heard a plane. At the Hickam NCO quarters, Mrs. Walter Blakey preferred her bathtub. Mrs. A. M. Townsend filled her tub with water and some pails with sand at her house in the “Punchbowl” section of town. Mrs. Claire Fonderhide, whose husband was at sea in a submarine, sat with a .45 automatic and waited. Mrs. Joseph Cote’s little boy Richard used his gun too — he filled a water pistol with green paint and fired it all over the place.
Mrs. Carl Eifler, wife of an infantry captain, couldn’t find her little boy. He had completely disappeared, the way little boys will. She busied herself, packing a suitcase, filling jugs with water, emptying the medicine cabinet, all the time wondering where her child could be. He finally sauntered home, but things looked so black by now, her thoughts were following a new channel: “Do I allow myself and my boy to be taken or do I use this pistol?” While she tried to make up her mind, she washed the bathroom woodwork.
Mechanically, other wives also went about their daily chores. Mrs. William Campbell, whose husband was in the Navy, carefully washed his whites and was hanging them on the line when an amazed Marine sentry saw her and chased her to cover.
Mrs. Melbourne West, married to an Army captain, did her ironing. She had this incessant feeling that her husband would need a lot of clean shirts if there was going to be a war.
As the service families numbly adjusted to war, much of Honolulu carried on as usual. The people in close touch with the Army and Navy knew all too well by now; but for the thousands with little contact — or perhaps out of touch for the weekend — the world was still at peace.
Mrs. Garnett King called her local garage: could they wash the family car? They said they were pretty busy right now, but could take it in the afternoon. While explosions boomed in the distance, civilian Arthur Land helped transfer 20 gallons of salad from a caterer’s truck to his own car — this was the day of the Odd Fellows Picnic. As the noise gradually subsided later in the morning, Mr. Hubert Coryell remarked to another civilian friend, “Well, that was quite a show.” Then he went off to archery practice.
People somehow ignored the most blatant hints. Second Lieutenant Earl Patron, off duty for the day, was out with friends in a chartered fishing boat when a plane plunged into the sea nearby. Assuming it was an accident, they headed for the spot to help the pilot. Then another plane swooped by, strafing them with machine guns. One of the party was even nicked, but Parton charitably assumed the second plane was just attracting their attention to the first.
Walking home from church, Mrs. Patrick Gillis saw the side of a house blown in … figured someone’s hot-water heater had exploded. Mrs. Cecilia Bradley, a Hawaiian housewife, was in the yard feeding her chickens when she was wounded by a piece of flying shrapnel. She thought it was somebody deer hunting in the hill behind her house. Mrs. Barry Fox, living on Kaneohe Bay, awoke to the sound of explosions, looked out, and saw strange-looking planes circling the base, flames boiling up, a wall of smoke. She decided it was a smoke-screen test. She didn’t become really alarmed until she turned on the radio at 9:30 and didn’t hear the news. That was the time she always listened to the latest bulletins, and this morning there was only music.
One by one they gradually learned. Stephen Moon, a Chinese 12-year-old, was at early mass on Alewa Heights — he planned to go on to the school club picnic at Kailua. Near the end of the service his mind began to wander, and his eyes strayed out the window. Right above Alewa Heights two planes were in a dogfight. But that was common, and he thought nothing of it. He glanced a little to the left and saw black puffs of smoke in the sky. That was strange — he knew the practice ammunition always left white smoke. As his attention drifted back to church, he became aware of a completely changed atmosphere. Right in the middle of the service, parents were slipping in and hurriedly taking their children out. He knew there was something wrong now, for the grownups were whispering and acting very mysteriously. The mass ended, and instead of the regular hymn, everyone stood and sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
But it was all too deep for Stephen. Still thinking about the picnic, he strolled off toward a friend’s house. Then a plane roared down from the sky and shot at a car driving toward Pearl. He spun around and ran home as hard as he could. His mother was glad to see him too; she had been looking for him everywhere.
Captain Walter Bahr, one of Honolulu’s crack harbor pilots, also noticed the black puffs of smoke as he went out to meet the Dutch liner Jagersfontein, inbound from the West Coast. The pier watchman explained it was probably the Navy practicing. But he had a curious sense of urgency when he boarded the ship at 9:00 A.M. No one told him anything, but he sensed danger in all that noise and smoke. He brought her in fast. They were about at the harbor entrance when bombs began to fall, and columns of water shot up around them. Since Holland was already at war, the Jagersfontein was armed and the Dutch crew knew exactly what to do. They peeled the canvas covers from their guns and began firing back — the first Allies to join the fight.
A scrappy young flyweight boxer named Toy Tamanaha listened to the gunfire as he walked down Fort Street to the Pacific Café for breakfast around 9:30. He didn’t think much of it — there was always shooting going on. Somebody in the café said it was war, but Toy remained unconvinced. Then somebody said all carpenters had been called to their jobs. Toy’s close friend Johnny Kawakami was a carpenter, so Toy advised him to get going, and sauntered off himself to the Cherry Blossom Sweet Shop on Kukui Street for a popsicle. He was just inside when it happened — a blinding blast hurled him right out into the street. Vaguely he heard yells of help. He noticed his left leg was missing. He thought, “Maybe I only lost one leg.” He was wrong — the other was gone too — but just before he blacked out, it was nice to hear someone come up and say, “Toy, you’ll be all right.”
There were explosions all over Honolulu — the Lewers and Cooke Building in the heart of town … the Schuman Carriage Company on Beretania Street … Kuhio Avenue near Waikiki Beach … a Japanese community out McCully Street. Four Navy Yard workers were blown to pieces in their green ’37 Packard at the corner of Judd and Iholena. The same blast killed a 13-year-old Samoan girl sitting on her front porch watching the gunfire.
Many of the people in Honolulu later believed the explosions were bombs. (Some of them still do: in the words of one witness, “As the years pass, the bombs keep dropping closer.”) But careful investigation by ordnance experts revealed that antiaircraft shells caused every one of the 40 explosions in Honolulu, except for one blast near the Hawaiian Electrical Company’s powerhouse.
In their excitement, gunners on the Tennessee, Farragut, and probably other ships forgot to crank in fuses. Other ships like the Phoenix had trouble with bad fuses. Others like the Nevada fired some shells that exploded only on contact. As one Nevada gunner explained, if the shell missed, it still had to come down somewhere.
But even the shells didn’t do a complete job of waking up Honolulu. At Police Headquarters, Sergeant Jimmy Wong’s blotter reflected a good deal of consternation about the explosions — the first was a complaint phoned in at 8:05 by Thomas Fujimoto, 610 E Road, Damon Tract, that a bomb had interrupted his breakfast. But there were also more familiar entries, indicating normalcy far into the morning: “10:50 A.M. A man reported to be drunk and raising trouble at Beretania and Alapai.”
As the uproar increased, Editor Riley Allen of the Star-Bulletin gallantly struggled to get out an extra. He was a fast, if unorthodox, typist. This morning he was at his best—one hand punching madly, the other rooting out the keys that piled up in a hopeless snarl. The papers were on the street by nine-thirty; the headline: WAR! OAHU BOMBARDED BY JAPANESE PLANES.
At her home on Alewa Drive, Mrs. Paul Spangler heard the newsboys shouting “Extra!” She had no ready change and debated whether to raid the money she set aside for church collection. She finally did.
Back at the Star-Bulletin office, Editor Allen got a call from an exasperated policeman. Would he recall his newsboys —they might get hurt. They had gone to Pearl Harbor to sell their papers.
Anyone still in doubt learned by radio. At 8:04 KGMB had interrupted a music program with the first word — a call ordering all Army, Navy, and Marine personnel to report to duty. The call went out again at 8:15 and 8:30. By then KGU was on the air too, calling doctors, nurses, defense workers to report for emergency duty. The first explanation came at 8:40 —“A sporadic air attack has been made on Oahu … enemy airplanes have been shot down … the rising sun has been sighted on the wingtips.” This only confused many listeners, who thought “sporadic” meant “simulated.”
It took time to sink in, even if a person understood “sporadic.” Some people tuned in between bulletins, heard only a gospel service or the incidental music that was used to fill in. Reassured, they turned off their sets again. Others harked back to Orson Welles’ broadcast of the Martian invasion … they weren’t going to bite on this one.
Webley Edwards was at KGMB by now and did his best to gear the station to the crisis. But it was hard to drop some peacetime practices that were done almost by instinct. The records played between the bulletins sometimes seemed hideously incongruous. Once the song was “Three Little Fishes,” a popular melody of the time that began:
“Down in the meadow in the iddy biddy poo.
“Thwam thwee little fishies and a mama fishie too.”
As people continued to phone, continued to ask questions, continued to be doubtful, Edwards grew more and more exasperated. Finally a call came from Allan Davis, a prominent businessman and member of the station’s Board of Directors. When he too asked if it wasn’t really a maneuver, Edwards burst out, “Hell, no, this is the real McCoy!”
Davis sounded really shocked … mumbled “Oh, oh,” and hung up.
The effect was so impressive that Edwards decided to use the same words on the air. That might be the way to get people to really believe the news. Starting about 9:00 A.M., he repeated again and again that the attack was the “real McCoy” — so often that most people who listened to the Honolulu radio that day remember little else.
As they sat by their sets, many of the listeners found themselves paying special attention to the tone in Edwards’ voice. They seemed to be searching for some extra clue that would tell them how serious the situation was. Mrs. Mayfield thought he sounded hoarse with suppressed excitement. Joan Stidham thought he was terse.
Edwards had at least one very disappointed listener. Sitting in the wardroom of the Japanese carrier Akagi, Commander Shin-Ichi Shimizu tuned in the radio to see how the Americans would react to the attack. Soon the announcer began breaking in with orders for different units to report to duty, but his voice was calm, and in between times the station continued to play music. It was a big anticlimax. The announcer wasn’t nearly as excited as Shimizu.