SUNDAY AFTERNOON, PEARL HARBOR was sure of only one thing — wherever the Japanese were, they would be back.
The Pennsylvania, still squatting in Drydock No. 1, trained her big 14-inch guns down the channel mouth. Fireman H. E. Emory of the California teamed up with an officer who had found an old Lewis machine gun. They made a swivel mount from the wheel of an overturned cart and established themselves on a mooring quay. On Ford Island, Seaman James Layman joined a working party filling and loading sandbags. He skinned his knuckles on the burlap, got blisters shoveling the sand; but the situation was desperate and he worked until it was too dark to sec.
At the Navy Yard a Coxey’s Army of servicemen, civilian yard workers, and 100 percent amateurs struggled to get the undamaged ships in condition to fight. An officer of the Pennsylvania asked civilian yard worker Harry Danner to help find extra men to load ammunition. There were a number of yard hands around, but even on December 7 a vestige of protocol remained — the officer didn’t feel he could give orders to a civilian. So the two men went around together, Danner serving as ambassador. They soon had enough volunteers, and a human chain was formed between three loaded whaleboats and the Pennsylvania’s ammunition hoist. They transferred over a thousand bags of powder.
Danner next headed for the Honolulu to help get her engines reassembled. He had banged up a foot and thrown away his shoes, but he hobbled across the Navy Yard as fast as he could with another worker. They might as well have been the Japanese invasion force. Trigger-happy sentries were now stopping anybody not in uniform, and it took a lot of persuading to get through. But the work was finished by 10:30 that night.
At the next pier other yard workers struggled to install the San Francisco’s antiaircraft batteries. James Spagnola clambered around the guns, still sporting the golf shoes he wore when the attack began. It was a job that normally took two weeks, but this time it was done in one day.
Through all the pounding and hammering and the clatter of pneumatic drills, a jukebox blared away at the pier canteen. Most of the time it played “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.”
There was music on the Maryland too — her band tooted bravely on the quarterdeck while her gunners got ready for the next attack. The Tennessee was just as ready, but the rest of Battleship Row — once the core of the fleet’s strength — was now out of the game.
The Arizona sprawled twisted and burning. A small boat eased alongside her fantail; Lieutenant K. S. Masterson climbed aboard and hauled down the torn, oil-stained colors still flying from her stern. He felt they should be saved as a war memento. Quartermaster Edward Vecera replaced the West Virginia’s battle colors with a fresh flag borrowed from another ship. He asked an officer what to do with the dirty, ragged bunting just hauled down. The officer replied that normally all battle colors were sent to Annapolis, where they would be displayed in a glass case, but this time —well, maybe it would be better to burn them. Vecera carried out the suggestion.
On the West Virginia’s quarterdeck a devoted band of officers still fought the fires that raged throughout the ship. Lieutenant Comander Doir Johnson looked at the melted porthole glass and thought of the limp watches painted by Salvador Dali. Against fire that hot, nothing could be done. The group was finally forced off about five o’clock. But men still lived on the West Virginia. Far below decks three sailors sat, hopelessly trapped in the pump room. They clung to life until the day before Christmas Eve.
It was a different story on the upturned Oklahoma. Little knots of men swarmed over her bottom — tracing the steady tapping that came from within … pounding back signals of encouragement … calling for more cutting equipment. Teams from the Maryland, the salvage ship Widgeon, the Rigel, the Solace, the Navy Yard, the Oklahoma herself worked at half a dozen different places along the huge hull.
The job wasn’t just a matter of cutting a hole and pulling somebody out. The tapping echoed and reverberated through the hollow space along the keel until nobody could say where it really came from. The cutters had to make an educated guess and, once inside the hull, search out the source. They had to stumble back and forth through a dark, eerie, upside-down world … tapping and listening for answering taps … until they could pinpoint the right spot. Then more cutting to get finally through to the trapped men.
There were bitter disappointments. The first two men located were asphyxiated because the acetylene torch ate up all the oxygen. A call went out for pneumatic cutting equipment — slower but perhaps less dangerous. Julio DeCastro, a Navy Yard foreman and expert chipper, took out a crew of 21 yard hands, went to work with drills and air hammers. But a new danger arose —this slower cutting method let the trapped air escape faster than the hole could be made. As the air hissed out, the water would rise, threatening to drown the men before they could be freed. The cutters used rags, handkerchiefs, anything to keep the air from escaping too fast. They weren’t always successful.
The teams lost all track of time. At one point the Maryland sent over some stew, and Fireman John Gobidas of the Rigel paused long enough to grab a bite. There were no spoons or plates; he just dipped his hands —foul with oil and muck — into the stew and spread it on some bread. He thought it tasted very good.
Inside the Oklahoma the trapped men waited. Eight seamen buried in the steering engine room set up a curious democracy. Every move or decision affecting their lives was decided by vote. Their first step was to pool their clothing and their mattresses — the room was where they always slept — and plug an air vent that spouted a steady stream of water. Next, they investigated possible routes of escape, but water gushed through every door they tried, so they voted to sit back and wait. They found some tools and banged the sides of the ship, but most of the time they just sat. They had plenty of chance to meditate, and 17-year-old Seaman Willard Beal thought of all the mean things he had ever done to anyone.
Just forward, in the passageway off the handling room of No. 4 turret, 30 other men were also waiting. They sat in their shorts, covered with oil, with one flashlight between them. The only hope seemed to lie in an escape hatch that led to the top deck, which now, of course, was straight down. Conceivably, a man might hold his breath … pull himself 30 feet down the hatch … cross the deck … and come up into the harbor outside the ship. But it was a very long shot. Several tried and came back, unable to do it. One succeeded — a nonswimmer, nonathlete from Brooklyn named Weisman. He told the rescue crews where to look, and a cutting team was organized.
The men in the handling-room passageway had no way of knowing this. They only knew that the air was growing worse and the water was slowly rising as the air was used up. By late afternoon there were just ten men left, and Seaman Stephen Young bet money they would suffocate before they drowned. His friend Seaman Wilber T. Hinsperger took up the bet.
They had by now lost all hope of ever getting out. Still, no one cracked. Instead, they opened a door into the “Lucy Bag” (the ship’s lost and found locker) … got out pea coats and mattresses … and lay down to await the end.
More hours passed. Then suddenly —incredibly — they heard distant banging and hammering echo down from above. At first it would come and go; then it drew closer. Young picked up a dog wrench and pounded back “SOS.” The banging grew steadier until finally it was right outside. A voice yelled through the bulkhead, asking the men if they could stand a hole being drilled. Everyone shouted back yes, but it was a close thing. The air rushed out, the water surged up, and as the plate was twisted off, the men scrambled out just in time. Grinning Navy and civilian workers boosted them up through the ship’s bottom; and they emerged into the cool, fresh air to find it was — Monday.
Rescuers rushed up with oranges and cigarettes, and a few minutes later Commander Jesse Kenworthy, the Oklahoma’s executive officer, came by to see if they were all right. He had been on the ship’s bottom directing rescue work ever since the attack. He would still be there at 5:30 Monday afternoon when Willard Beal emerged from the steering engine room; in fact, he wouldn’t leave until the last of 32 survivors was pulled from the Oklahoma’s hull some 36 hours after she rolled over into the Pearl Harbor mud.
But all this lay in the future. That Sunday afternoon the survivors were just starting to emerge. Three men were hauled out of a cofferdam, one of them clutching a basketball. He clung to it fiercely, wouldn’t give it up even after reaching the Maryland’s sick bay. Speculation ran wild — some said he had saved it as a reserve supply of oxygen … others that he planned to use it as a lifebuoy … others that he was just a typical basketball player. Ensign Charles Mandell heard that, while waiting for rescue, he had even shot a few baskets through a hole in the cofferdam beam.
Men were also trapped on the listing California. About three o’clock a rescue party cut into a compartment that was flooded with oil, hauled out two hospital corpsmen. They slumped on deck, looking like two bundles of sodden, oil-soaked rags. Pharmacist’s Mate William Lynch walked by, calling the names of men still missing from his unit. One of the bundles suddenly popped up, crying “That’s me!”
Other crew members waged a losing fight to keep the California afloat. The tender Swan drew alongside, contributed some pumps, and Radioman Charles Michaels helped drag up mattresses in a futile effort to plug some of the leaks. It was hopeless. A diver from the salvage ship Widgeon reported a hole as big as a house. Someone asked him if a collision mat would help, and he gloomily replied, “I don’t believe they make them that big.”
Later more salvage experts turned up from the Vestal, but even their skill was not enough. Finally it was decided that the ship couldn’t stay afloat but could be kept in an upright position with planned flooding. Gently the California settled to the bottom of the harbor.
The Nevada sat on the bottom too, and in the wreckage of the captain’s quarters a sword lay twisted and burned behind a charred bureau. Later, when Captain Scanland found it there, he held it out in both his hands and turned to CPO Jack Haley, who happened to be standing nearby: “Chief, my Mother and Dad gave me this sword when I graduated from the Naval Academy many years ago.”
Haley could sense all the captain’s pent-up emotion and grief at being away from his ship during the attack. The chief understood perhaps better than most, for the Nevada meant everything to him too — she was his first and only ship, his home for the past 12 years. He couldn’t hold back the tears.
Down in the Nevada’s plotting room, Ensign Merdinger stubbornly stuck to his post. He knew from the water dripping into the room that the deck above was flooded. And he knew from the silent phones that few hands were left below decks. There was no longer any need for an information center; still he hated to leave. At three o’clock a rush of water through the seams of the door left no other choice. He phoned topside and was told to come on up. While the water poured in and swirled around the crew’s feet, they carefully unplugged the phones, neatly coiled the extension lines, and hung them on their usual hooks.
But the casual approach had its limits. As the men scrambled up the shaft to the conning tower, it occurred to Merdinger that normally some of them might have difficulty making the climb; this time there was no trouble at all.
On deck, preparations were being made for a last-ditch stand. Someone handed Marine Private Payton McDaniel a rifle and two rounds of ammunition. Slender rations, but McDaniel later discovered the rifle had no firing pin anyhow. A Marine detail was sent to the beach to dig emplacements for the World War I machine guns and BARs that had been salvaged. The basic defense plan — hold the ship as long as possible, then take to the hills.
At Hickam, Corporal John Sherwood and Master Sergeant Bonnie Neighbors were also preparing for a last stand. They dragged an old C-33 into the boondocks, dug a good position around it, and set up two machine guns. Private J. H. Thompson joined another man from the 50th Reconnaisance Squadron, who had established a machine-gun nest near the ruined Snake Ranch. The man had taken the trouble to stock it with beer and wine salvaged from the wreckage. Some of the bottles were broken, and the bugs had to be strained out, but this was a minor hardship. The two men cheerfully defended the position all afternoon.
“Help yourself” was also the rule at the officers’ club. Everyone expected the Japanese that night, so the food and refreshments might as well be free. At base headquarters Colonel Cheney Bertholf, the post adjutant, carted out his files and burned them. Even Colonel Farthing, the base commander, was sure the Japanese planned to take over Hickam — that was why they didn’t bomb the runways or control tower. Master Sergeant M. D. Mannion felt the place would fall so soon that he might as well pull out and go to Schofield. Up there he might at least be of some service in standing off the enemy.
Actually, Schofield was on the move. Most of the infantry and artillery were now at assigned defense positions around the island — the 98th Coast Artillery at Wheeler … the 28th Infantry at Waikiki … the 27th farther down the shore … other units along the north coast, on the heights above Pearl, and at the bases on the windward side.
As the long column of troops rolled into Kaneohe around 2:30 P.M., Mess Attendant Walter Simmons had only one thought: they had been run out of Schofield. But he too was prepared for a final stand. He now carried an old Springfield rifle and had bandoleers of ammunition strung over his shoulder and around his waist. He felt ready for anything and fancied that he looked just a little like Pancho Villa.
The men shoveled out foxholes —Simmons dug his in the unfinished bottom of the officers’ swimming pool — and set up machine guns all over the steep hill in the center of the base. By sundown Kaneohe was prepared for the next attack.
The island’s scattered defenses were now being directed by General Short from Aliamanu Crater, three miles west of Fort Shatter. The command post was established in a deep ordnance storage tunnel — ideal for holding out against the coming assault. The general had moved in during the morning, trailed by the usual retinue of staff and communications men.
Lieutenant Samuel Bradlyn was establishing the link with Hickam, and as he set up his code equipment, he watched General Short, General Martin, and other high-ranking officers huddle together. They looked terribly worried, and for the first time Bradlyn realized that even generals were human beings who didn’t always know what to do and had to pace back and forth while making decisions.
Of one thing they were certain — there had to be martial law. General Short approached old Governor Poindexter on this shortly after noon. The governor dragged his feet — he thought it was probably necessary, yet he hated to do it. He finally said he wanted to check with the White House first, would give Short his answer in an hour. He put through a call to the President at 12:40 P.M., and it didn’t help when the operator — now acting under the Navy censor — kept insisting, “What are you going to talk about?” The governor had been shoved aside already.
The President was properly soothing, agreed that martial law was all for the best. Then Short reappeared to press the point: for all he knew landing parties were on the way … the raid was probably the prelude to all-out attack … he couldn’t afford to take chances. The governor finally signed the Proclamation, and martial law was announced at 4:25 P.M.
The civilians considered themselves in the front lines anyhow. Edgar Rice Burroughs, creator of Tarzan, joined a group of men digging slit trenches along the shore. Others rallied to the Territorial Guard, which was hastily built around the University of Hawaii ROTC unit. As the 2nd Battalion mobilized at Wahiawa, a sergeant drove up in a command car with some welcome news — the Army had sent him over from Schofield to help. He was a godsend: the unit had no equipment, and the sergeant knew how to get everything: blankets, mess gear, guns. He proved an ingenious, tireless worker and ultimately stayed with the outfit a whole month. Then one day he commandeered some whisky from a padlocked liquor store, and that proved his undoing. When the proprietor complained, it turned out the man was no sergeant at all — just a prisoner released from the Schofield stockade during the raid. He had immediately stolen a sergeant’s uniform … then the command car … and had been stealing ever since, filling the home guards’ desperate needs. He was a sort of military Robin Hood.
Nearly every organized group on Oahu staked out something to do. Boy Scouts fought fires, served coffee, ran messages. The American Legion turned out for patrol and sentry duty. One Legionnaire struggled into his 1917 uniform, had a dreadful time remembering how to wind his puttees and put on his insignia. He took it out on his wife, and she told him to leave her alone —go out and fight his old enemy, the Germans. The San Jose College football team, in town from California for a benefit game the following weekend, signed up with the Police Department for guard duty. Seven of them joined the force, and Quarterback Paul Tognetti stayed on for good, ultimately going into the dairy business.
A local committee, called the Major Disaster Council, had spent months preparing for this kind of day; now their foresight was paying off. Forty-five trucks belonging to American Sanitary Laundry, New Fair Dairy, and other local companies sped off to Hickam as converted ambulances. Dr. Forrest Pinkerton dashed to the Hawaii Electric Company’s refrigerator, collected the plasma stored there by the Chamber of Commerce’s Blood Bank. He piled it in the back of his car, distributed it to various hospitals, then rushed on the air, appealing for more donors. Over 500 appeared within an hour, swamping Dr. John Devereux and his three assistants. They took the blood as fast as they could, ran out of containers, used sterilized Coca-Cola bottles.
All kinds of people went through the line. Navy wife Maureen Hayter was shocked when offered a swig of Old Grand Dad afterward — it just didn’t seem right. Another woman was a well-known prostitute. She couldn’t give blood but wanted to do something. Dr. Devereux put her to work cleaning bottles and tubes. She turned out to be his most faithful volunteer.
Civilian doctors and nurses converged on the Army’s Tripler Hospital. Among them went Dr. John J. Moorhead, a distinguished New York surgeon who happened to be in Honolulu delivering a series of lectures. Some 300 doctors had attended his first talk Thursday morning, half of them Army and Navy men. Dr. Moorhead had been an Army surgeon in World War I, loved the service, and took great pains to see they were invited. The service doctors accepted with enthusiasm —Dr. Moorhead was a world-famous specialist and, unlike almost everyone else, he could speak from actual battle experience.
On Friday night the doctor was slated to speak on “Back Injuries” but at the last minute the schedule was juggled and he spoke instead on “The Treatment of Wounds.” If the Program Committee had known the attack was coming, it couldn’t have lined up a better subject.
Dr. Moorhead had Saturday off, but he was to speak on “Burns” at 9:00 A.M. Sunday. As he ate his breakfast, guns boomed in the distance. Walking through the hotel lobby, he heard that Pearl Harbor was under attack. He told Dr. Hill, who was driving him to the lecture, but the local doctor was unimpressed: “Oh, you hear all kinds of stories around this place.”
They turned on the car radio and picked up the 8:40 bulletin. That convinced them and they dropped by Dr. Hill’s house while he told his wife and children to take shelter. Then they drove on to the Mabel L. Smyth Auditorium so that Dr. Moorhead could give his talk. The two doctors were having the same trouble as everyone else making the lightning adjustment to war … realizing that it also affected their own day.
The lecture hall was almost empty —only 50 doctors instead of the usual 300, and no Army or Navy men. As Dr. Moorhead reached the platform shells began landing outside. He cheerily told the audience that the noise reminded him of Chateau-Thierry. Then he pointed out that this was Sunday, so he would give a sermon with an appropriate text: “Be ye also ready, for in the hour that ye know not …”
At this point Dr. Jesse Smith, a local physician, burst into the hall shouting that 12 surgeons were needed at Tripler right away. That did it — speaker and audience bolted from the room together.
Dr. Moorhead and his pickup team of civilian surgeons spent the next 11 hours operating with hardly any break. Once during the afternoon he dropped down to the mess hall for a bite, ran into Colonel Miller, the hospital commandant. The doctor suggested — perhaps a little wistfully — that maybe he should go on active duty. Miller said he would see what he could do, and a little later poked his head into the operating room: “You’re in the Army now!” To Dr. Moorhead, this wonderful service was even more wonderful — no forms, questionnaires, or fingerprints; yet he had become a full colonel in two hours.
As he worked away, Colonel Moorhead displayed a mixture of competence and optimism that did wonders for the wounded. “Son,” he told one boy, “you’ve been through a lot of hell, and you’re going into some more. This foot has to come off. But there’s been many a good pirate with only one leg!”
The wounded needed this kind of cheerfulness. Without it another boy who had lost a leg wanted only to die — he was sure his girl would no longer have him. Private Edward Oveka had a shattered leg too; and after he came out of ether, he was afraid to see if he still had his foot. He finally worked up his courage and took a look — it was still there.
Whatever their feelings, the men were incredibly quiet and uncomplaining. At Queens Hospital, one man lay riddled with shrapnel. When Dr. Forrest Pinkerton began explaining that he would have to delay treating the less serious wounds, the man calmly broke in, “Just do what you can, I know there are other people waiting.”
Occasionally the mildest of disagreements would arise. At Hickam, Captain Carl Hoffman thought a drink might buck up a badly wounded major. He was telling someone to measure a shot when the major interrupted, “Don’t tell him how much to put in the glass — fill it up.” At the Navy Hospital, a seaman with a bad stomach wound wanted orange juice, but the doctor thought this would be fatal and ordered water instead. When the man objected, the doctor finally whispered to the nurse to get the juice — he would probably die anyway. “I heard you, Doctor,” called the seaman, “and I still want orange juice.” Perhaps due to this sort of determination, a week later the man was doing fine.
Everyone did his best to make the wounded comfortable. Morphine did its work too, and many drifted off to fitful sleep. Radioman Glenn Lane awoke long enough on the hospital ship Solace to see an attendant bending over him with some soup. The man was Filipino, and Lane started with fright — he was sure he had been captured by the Japanese.
A man didn’t need narcotics to see himself in enemy hands. Dark, dreary thoughts ran through the minds of many still able to fight. Chief Peter Chang saw himself pulling a rickshaw. Fireman John Gobidas expected to be a corpse or a prisoner, but he prayed that Chief Metalsmith Burl W. Brookshire would somehow survive, to inspire others with the courage he had given the men on the Rigel. Electrician’s Mate James Power thought about those oriental brain tortures, then remembered he was a Texan and decided to make this another Alamo.
Actually, the only Japanese invasion of the Hawaiian Islands was by now well under way. It was just about church time when it all began on Niihau, westernmost island of the Hawaiian chain. Niihau was privately owned by the Robinson family, who operated the island mainly as a sheep and cattle ranch and lovingly preserved it as a pure Polynesian paradise — no visitors, no modern conveniences, no Western gadgets like guns, telephones, or radios. Once a week a boat came over from Kauai, 20 miles away, and left supplies at Kii Landing on the island’s northern tip. There was no other communication with the outside world. In case of serious trouble, it was arranged that a signal fire would be built on a mountain in sight of Kauai. Otherwise, it was just assumed that everything was all right.
And this Sunday everything was all right, as the islanders flocked to the little church in Puuwai, about 15 miles down the west shore from Kii Landing. Puuwai was the only village on the island — a collection of small houses scattered among the rocks, cactus, and keawa trees. Everybody lived there except the Robinsons, who had a homestead at Kie Kie, two miles away.
But just as everyone was entering the church, two planes flew overhead. The islanders all noticed that one plane was sputtering and smoking; they all saw red circles under the wings. And even though they were just ranch hands and cowboys, carefully protected from the problems of the world, many of them sensed trouble far more quickly than their sophisticated neighbors on Oahu. Most recognized the Japanese insignia; some even guessed an attack on Pearl Harbor.
About two o’clock one of the planes reappeared, circling low over the pastures and hedges. The pilot picked out a spot and bounced to a heavy landing. He bumped over some rocks, through a fence, and stopped near the house of Hawila Kaleohano.
There was trouble right away. Hawila ran up and yanked open the canopy; the pilot reached for a pistol; Hawila grabbed it first and pulled the aviator from the plane. Then the pilot began searching inside his shirt; Hawila tore it open and snatched out some papers and a map.
By now the whole island was crowding around. The villagers were shouting questions, and the pilot was shaking his head, trying to show that he didn’t understand English … he could only speak Japanese.
There was just one thing to do — send for Harada, one of the two Japanese on Niihau. He was a 30-year-old Nisei who had come to the island a year ago as a housekeeper, now worked as both the Robinsons’ caretaker and an assistant beekeeper. The head beekeeper was the other Japanese, an old man named Sintani, who had lived on Niihau for many years.
Even with Harada’s help, no one got much out of the pilot. He said he flew over from Honolulu; he denied any raid; he was vague about the reason for his trip and all those bullet holes in the plane. Finally the islanders decided to hold him for Mr. Aylmer Robinson himself, who was due in Monday on the weekly boat from Kauai. He would know what to do.
Monday morning they escorted the pilot to Kii Landing and guarded him there all day. But the boat never came.
Tuesday they tried again. Still no boat.
Wednesday and Thursday passed, and by now the islanders were thoroughly alarmed. Harada came up with a bright idea: Wouldn’t it help to move the pilot from Puuwai to his place at Kie Kie; this might calm down the village. Everyone agreed, and it was done.
By Friday it was high time for a signal fire. A group of men went off to build it, and everyone else settled down for another tense day of waiting. At Kie Kie a lone Hawaiian, named Haniki, watched the pilot. In the last day or so the Japanese had opened up a good deal. At first he admitted that he could read and write English, even if he couldn’t speak it … later that there had indeed been a raid on Pearl Harbor. But, he said, he liked it here and hoped to settle down on Niihau after the war was over. He apparently wasn’t such a bad fellow after all.
The pilot asked if he could see Harada, and Haniki took him over to the honey house. The two Japanese talked together for a few minutes, then all three men strolled into an adjoining storehouse, where the nets and hives were kept.
Haniki suddenly found himself facing two guns. Harada had stolen a revolver and shotgun from the Robinson house … hidden them in the storehouse until the right moment … and now the battle for Niihau was on.
The two Japanese locked up Haniki in the storehouse and dashed through the underbrush to the road. They held up a passing sulky, forcing out a Hawaiian woman and seven children. Then they jumped in, pointed the gun at a young girl on the horse, made her drive them to Puuwai as fast as she could. As they neared the village, they jumped off and raced for Hawila’s house to get the pilot’s papers. Hawila saw them coming and bolted for the fields.
Harada and the airman searched the house but found nothing. After an unsuccessful attempt to recruit Sintani, Niihau’s other Japanese, the two men started searching through all the houses in the village. Again and again they shouted for Hawila, threatened to shoot everyone unless he was immediately produced. But this was an empty threat because almost all the villagers were now hiding in the fields. They did find an ancient woman, Mrs. Huluoulani, who stayed behind reading her Bible. She ignored their threats, and not knowing quite how to handle her, they left her.
They had a better idea anyhow. They stripped the Japanese plane of its machine guns and once again walked among the houses. This time they yelled that they would shoot up the whole place unless they found Hawila. As it grew dark, they began ransacking the homes in earnest. They ripped apart Hawila’s house and finally discovered the pilot’s pistol and map — but still no sign of his papers. They worked on through the night, turned the houses inside out, one after the other. Toward dawn on Saturday the thirteenth, they were back at Hawila’s house, for one last search. Again no luck. So they burned the place down, hoping to destroy the papers too.
All this time, except for a brief period around 3:00 A.M., curious eyes peeked at the two Japanese from the bushes and weeds that grew in the rocky fields. The islanders had by no means accepted the capture of Puuwai, but after all, the Japanese had the only guns on Niihau. At a strategy meeting in the cactus grove behind the village it was decided to send the women and children to some caves in the hills, then return after dark and try to capture the two men. Somehow this plan fell through, but Beni Kanahali and another Hawaiian did manage to steal all the machine-gun ammunition, and that was a big step forward.
Meanwhile Hawila had hurried up the mountain to tell the men to get the signal fire going. But when they heard the news, they decided the fire wouldn’t tell enough of the story. They must go themselves. So six of the men ran to Kii Landing, jumped in a whaleboat, rowed off for help.
After sixteen hours of steady rowing, they reached Kauai at three o’clock Saturday afternoon. They found Aylmer Robinson; he found the military authorities; and a detachment of soldiers, the six Hawaiians, and Mr. Robinson himself were soon racing back to the rescue in the lighthouse tender Kukui.
Long before they got there the invasion had reached its climax. About 7:00 A.M. Beni Kanahali, having succeeded in stealing the ammunition during the night, tried his luck again. He sneaked back to the village to see what was going on. His wife came with him, and they both were promptly captured. There were the usual demands for Hawila, but Beni was now tired of the whole thing. He told Harada to take the gun away from the pilot before he hurt somebody. Harada said he couldn’t, so Beni jumped the man himself. Then his wife piled in, then Harada on top of her, and for a few seconds the four of them scuffled about.
Harada pulled the woman away. She kicked and clawed as hard as she could. Beni yelled to leave her alone — or it would be Harada’s turn next. The pilot jerked his arm free and shot Beni three times — groin, stomach, and upper leg.
According to legend, at this point Beni got mad. As a matter of fact, he was mad already. But he did now think he might die, and he decided to kill the pilot before he could hurt anyone else. With a great heave he picked the man up by his neck and one leg — he had often done it to a sheep — and smashed his head against a stone wall. Harada took one look, let Beni’s wife go, pointed the shotgun at himself, and pulled the trigger.