5

The Damage

Dear Lord,

Lest I continue

My complacent way,

Help me to remember that somewhere,

Somehow out there

A man died for me today.

As long as there be war,

I must answer

Am I worth dying for?

Just when it seemed as if the planes were leaving, another wave of Japanese aircraft arrived—carrying fresh bombs, torpedoes, bullets, and pilots, eager to participate in the slaughter. It was like a biblical plague. The first wave came at us relentlessly, fighters raking the decks of our ships with machine guns, other planes dropping almost to sea level, leveling off, flying broadside toward our hulls, dropping their torpedoes into the water, then peeling off before they hit. All the while, other aircraft circled high above the harbor, waiting for their time to kill.

Shortly before 10 A.M., the planes finally left. In less than two hours, they had turned the peace and calm of the harbor into a seething cauldron of smoke and fire. Lying in their wake was the wreckage of what was once the Pacific Fleet. When the smoke cleared and the fires extinguished, the destruction was staggering.

First, the property loss:

•  U.S. Navy aircraft: 31 damaged; 92 destroyed

•  U.S. Army Air Corps aircraft: 128 damaged; 77 destroyed

•  Battleships: 6 damaged; 2 destroyed

•  Cruisers: 3 damaged

•  Destroyers: 3 damaged

•  Auxiliaries: 4 damaged; 1 destroyed

Those figures don’t include the hangars and other buildings that were ruined. In spite of how staggering the losses were, three assets were not claimed. First, our three aircraft carriers were out to sea on maneuvers, and so our airpower in the Pacific was not diminished. Second, the Japanese, inexplicably, did not strike the numerous storage tanks of oil that were there, and so our fuel supply was untouched. And third, of all the buildings the Japanese destroyed, they hadn’t crippled any of the repair facilities, and so we were able to start immediately restoring the fleet.

After the attack was over, the first priority was to rescue survivors. Here is where our men were the most heroic, in my opinion. All of them were exhausted from being fired upon nonstop for almost two hours, but you never would have known it. If our men weren’t in the hospitals or triage areas, they were in boats, fishing out men from the harbor, sailors covered in oil, many of them burned, wounded, in shock. Or they were putting out fires on ships so rescue efforts could be made. Others were trucking the wounded to hospitals.

It is easy to tally property losses, but how do you calculate the personal ones? A plane can be replaced; a person cannot. I’ll at least try.

•  U.S. Navy: 2,008 killed; 710 wounded

•  U.S. Army: 218 killed; 364 wounded

•  U.S. Marine Corps: 109 killed; 69 wounded

•  Total killed: 2,403

•  Total wounded: 1,176.

Laid out like that, in lists, the losses seem like a column on a spreadsheet, debits noted by whole numbers (deaths) and fractions (the wounded). Sometimes what remained approached zero, where there wasn’t even enough left of the man’s personal belongings to send home to the family. Admiral Kidd, for example. All the salvage team found of him was his Naval Academy class ring and a few brass buttons from his uniform. That was all they could return to his widow.

And what about the band? Their battle station was below on the third deck, where they manned the ammunition hoists for the big guns of the No. 2 turret. They were right in the middle of where most of the ship’s gunpowder was stored, a veritable powder keg. The bomb struck a little forward of the starboard side of the No. 2 turret, penetrating four decks before exploding. They were virtually ground zero of the blast.

In one way of doing the math, it was a total loss of twenty-one men. But how do you measure the destruction of all that talent, all those dreams, all those bands that never were, the careers, the joy they might have brought to others, and all the music that, in an instant, was forever silenced?

The loss was incalculable.

All totaled, the number of sailors who died on the Arizona was 1,177. Nearly half of all the Americans who died that day. Gone in a blinding flash of light, an eerie whoosh, and a cascading devastation of explosions. One has only to stand in the shrine room of the USS Arizona Memorial, where all 1,177 names are chiseled onto a white marble wall, stained indelibly with black ink, to get a sense of the enormity of the loss.

Staggering, by any measure.

THE RESCUE WORK was hard but hopeful, and there were amazing stories of survival. The recovery work, on the other hand, well, those were stories you didn’t want to talk about. One man who served on the Arizona for only a short time before the attack volunteered to dive and bring back bodies so they could have a proper burial. One of the remains he recovered was a friend. The body was so bloated the diver barely recognized him, and he had to cut the carcass open in order to extricate him. The ordeal shook the man to the core.

Historian Thurston Clarke cites another example of how grisly the recovery efforts were. “Sterling Cale,” he writes, “was placed in charge of a six-man graves registration and burial detail that went aboard the Arizona on December 11. It was grim work. He wore hip waders and long leather gloves up to his elbows to do it. He saw piles of ashes here and there, and thought to himself, My God, these were human beings! He brushed the ashes into sea bags designated for the dead, or what was left of them. He and his team worked every day for a week. He found torsos without heads, and heads without torsos. In the fire control tower there was a three-foot-long mass of charred bodies fused together so tightly he could not make out a single individual sailor. As he tried separating the bodies, a head, or an arm, or a leg, or some other body part came off in his hands, or fell from the mass. Several times he stopped to vomit.”

Up until August 1943, salvage efforts on the Arizona were still ongoing, as crews worked to pump water and oil out of the compartments that were accessible, bringing out any remains they could. One of the divers talked about the experience: “You couldn’t see well with all that oil. I’d just stand still and eventually a skeleton would float by and tap me on the shoulder. Of course, I couldn’t tell who he was, but he was probably someone I had known. Hell, we could have drunk beer together at the Black Cat or somewhere. It was horrible.”

There is no way you can understand what it was like, unless you had been there. I can tell you some of the stories, but here is where we reach the limits of storytelling. Here is the place where there are no words. Perhaps that is as it should be. Maybe some horrors should be left unshared.

I HAVE TRIED my best to express what I could about what I experienced that day. It isn’t enough, though, because it is only one side of the story. The other side lies an ocean away. When you read a statistic, like 2,403 dead, it says so little. A statistical death is only the skeletal remains of a life. Without flesh and blood; its beating heart or its winking eye; its quick wit or its contagious laugh.

What I would like to do is try to breathe some life into one of those statistics. Let’s start with a name: Clyde Williams, a member of the Arizona’s famed band. His instrument? The trumpet. A woman named T. J. Cooper compiled an encyclopedic volume of the 1,177 men of the Arizona who died at Pearl Harbor. Beside Clyde Williams’s name is a black-and-white picture of him. Young and wholesome-looking, he is dressed in his Navy whites, a dark tie crisscrossed loosely over his chest. Handsome. His whole life just waiting for him. Here is the entry.

Williams, Clyde Richard. Musician, Second Class, Serial No: 356 42 55, US Navy. Clyde was born September 25, 1922 in Henryette, Oklahoma, the son of Richard B. Williams, Jr. and Martha Jane (Fretwell) Williams. He enlisted in the US Navy November 27, 1940 and attended the Navy School of Music in Washington, DC graduating on May 23, 1941 as a member of the USS Arizona Band. Clyde reported for duty on the USS Arizona June 17, 1941. His battle station was in the black powder room passing ammunition to the Arizona’s gunners during the attack. He was killed in action on December 7, 1941 at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Clyde was awarded the Purple Heart Medal, American Defense Service Medal, Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal with Bronze Star and World War II Victory Medal posthumously. He remains on duty on the USS Arizona. Clyde is commemorated on the USS Arizona Memorial and the Memorial Tablets of the Missing, National Cemetery of the Pacific, Honolulu, Hawaii. He was survived by his Father, Mr. Richard B. Williams, Jr. 1006 Griffin Street, Okmulgee, Oklahoma.

That is something, certainly, but not enough for us to feel the loss of who he was. Fortunately, he wrote letters home, which his family saved. Here is a postcard he sent that has a picture of the USS Arizona on it. Postmark: June 21, 1941, Long Beach, California.

Dear Folks, This is the ship that our band is on for permanent duty. She is painted battleship grey now. She is a good ship and the officers and crew are all swell. They say that they enjoy our music and want us to play all the time.

I don’t know where we are going, but we’ll get there.

Take care of everything and I might be home this year or next.

Love, Proke [his nickname]

Another postcard, this time to his sister Molly. It has a picture of Hawaii on one side. Postmark: July 11, 1941. Honolulu, Hawaii.

Dear Molly, This is it. Hawaii, I mean. The Isle of Dreams. It is really a wonderful country and lots of beautiful scenery all around.

I may be home around Christmas or sometime next year.

Tell Mate and Pate [mother and father] “hello” and ask Pate if he got the money orders from Long Beach and here. I am still holding on to the stubs. Let me know if anything goes wrong. Love, Proke

When Molly first heard the news about the bombing of Pearl Harbor, she bought a spiral notebook to keep a daily record of her thoughts. She planned to read it to her brother when he came home; she thought they would have a good laugh over how much the family worried about him.

This record is indicative of what 2,403 families were going through at the time, not hearing anything definite about their sons. It shows the various emotions they experienced, from denial to anxiety to fear to anger to some place of resignation, and finally to a place of resolve. The main emotion she and her whole family went through was denial. How could God allow something this bad to happen to such good people? His people?

Sunday, December 7, 1941—I stayed all Saturday night with Kay and Margaret Mary. They got up early and went to Tulsa. Everyone was in the best of spirits.

I was at Mary’s when the announcement came that Japan was bombing Pearl Harbor and Manila. My brother is in the Harbor, in the U.S. Navy on board the USS Arizona. When I heard the announcement, I grabbed my coat and ran all the way home.

All afternoon we stayed by the radio. We had a radio in the front room, kitchen, and bedroom, each on a different station. We heard the USS West Virginia was sunk, and I know two sailors on that ship.

Japan had attacked us with no warning, and later in the afternoon she declared war on the U.S. The president will meet with the House and Senate tomorrow.

I had a date tonight with Vinny, but no one felt much like having fun. We all feel nothing but hatred for Japan. Everyone is worried about his or her son.

People have been very nice to us, calling to see if we have heard anything about Clyde. All we know is that Pearl Harbor is greatly damaged and Hickam Field (an Army air field in Hawaii) reports 350 boys killed in one barracks.

All we can do is wait.

Monday, December 8, 1941—So many false reports are coming through that we are beginning to believe only official reports. The president asked Congress to declare war, and a few hours later, both House and Senate declared war on Japan. Only one vote was cast against war, by Jeannette Rankin of Montana, in the House. Public opinion is very marked against her, because our nation is certainly not going to stand by and let Japan or any country do such a dirty trick to us!

Germany will probably declare war on us, but we expected that.

The nations are all lining up. They predict that all nations will be in before long.

We still have no word from Clyde. Mother heard that all families have been notified if their sons were killed, so she feels a little better.

Tuesday, December 9, 1941—Still no word about Clyde. They tell us that “no news is good news,” so we try to keep cheerful. Some families are acting so silly! They try to call, cable, or wire their sons, but no messages are being put through. My goodness, if everyone did that, the official messages couldn’t get through.

New York City had an air raid practice today, and California had one last night. They prepared to black out the White House today.

Had a date with J.B. tonight, and we listened to the president’s speech in the kitchen of a honky-tonk. He said he feels great concern about the families of the boys, and we will be notified as soon as possible.

There is still no report of the USS West Virginia.

Mother spent all day Sunday and Monday crying and Daddy spent it cussing!

Wednesday, December 10, 1941—The Japs claimed today to have sunk the USS Enterprise. Two of our Okmulgee boys are on it. The report on it and on the West Virginia are still unofficial.

We still haven’t heard from Clyde.

All the cities on the West Coast are blacked out tonight. A Japanese air raid is expected in twelve hours. Enemy planes are hovering near the coastline.

These are awful times for all of us.

Thursday, December 11, 1941—Germany and Italy declared war on us today, and we returned the compliment. Still no news from Clyde.

Friday, December 12, 1941—Still no news from Clyde! I think I could break down and cry for about an hour, and have hysterics and scream, I’d feel better. I haven’t cried yet. After all, I have faith in God and I know he will bring Clyde safely through.

A little boy about ten years old went to the recruiting office somewhere today, and told the officer he wanted to enlist. The officer asked him if he thought he could whip the Japs. The boy said, “No, you have enough big guys to do that. But those Japs have little boys, and I can whip all the little Japs.”

That shows how we Americans feel!

Saturday, December 13, 1941—Daddy goes to work every morning at five o’clock, and at five-thirty Mother woke me up crying and practically having hysterics! I rushed into her bedroom, and they had just announced that the Japs claim to have sunk the Arizona, the ship Clyde is on. They kept saying the report was not confirmed at Washington, so I finally convinced her that it was probably just a scheme to find out where the Arizona was, as it is the flagship of the fleet.

Sunday, December 14, 1941—Went to church and then came home. Pate [father] told me the radio had announced that the War Department had neither confirmed or denied that the Arizona had sunk.

Monday, December 15, 1941—The first half of today was very peaceful. We heard that Sec. Knox had arrived in Washington this morning. Then—! Aunt Sarah called from Tulsa to say that Knox had released his report and the Arizona and four destroyers were sunk. There were 2,684 killed, ninety-one officers killed and 678 wounded.

We still haven’t heard from Clyde.

There are nearly fifty missing. Of course, if they are dead, the parents have probably been notified, so we are sure he is alive. But there is no way of knowing if he is wounded. He must be, ’cause he hasn’t written us. This has been the longest day I have ever lived through!

Our relatives have been so kind, to say nothing of our friends. Our aunts and uncles have telegramed [sic], called long-distance, and written to see if we have heard anything. The phone has been hot all evening!

I’m afraid we won’t have a very Merry Christmas this year.

Tuesday, December 16, 1941—Still no news from Clyde. People have been calling all day to encourage us. This book helps a lot to unburden myself.

Wednesday, December 17, 1941—Now I know how it feels to have a broken heart! Pate told me tonight that I had better prepare for the worst. He said he gave up yesterday and fully expects to get bad news tonight or tomorrow. The ship went so fast that there is no way that we can see for any of them to get off.

The Nesbitt boy’s parents received word today that their son is missing.

I don’t think I can stand this!

Thursday, December 18, 1941—We still haven’t heard, so our hopes are getting up a little. We figure the government would have let us know by now.

This suspense is terrible!

Friday, December 19, 1941—Still no word! The rumor about the Nesbitt boy is false—he is okay.

Saturday, December 20, 1941—Pate got the telegram at eight-thirty, and told us at nine o’clock.

Clyde is dead!

The telegram lists him as missing, because he went down with the ship and his body was not recovered.

I don’t think I can stand it!

The telegram:

KM108 71 GOVT=WASHINGTON DC 20 651P

[The date of receipt, 1941 Dec 20 PM 7 23, was stamped in the upper-right-hand corner. The Xs stand for periods.]

RICHARD B WILLIAMS JR=

1006 GRIFFIN ST

THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON CLYDE RICHARD WILLIAMS MUSICIAN SECOND CLASS US NAVY IS MISSING FOLLOWING ACTION IN THE PERFORMACE [sic] OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTY [sic] X THE DEPARTMENT APPRECIATES YOUR GREAT ANXIETY AND WILL FURNISH YOU WITH FURTHER INFORMATION PROMPTLY WHEN RECEIVED X TO PREVENT POSSIBLE AID TO OUR ENEMIES PLEASE DO NOT DIVULGE THE NAME OF HIS SHIP OR STATION=

REAR ADMIRAL RANDALL JACOBS CHIEF OF THE BUREAU OF NAVIGATION

The house was full of friends until midnight, and Aunt Lola, Uncle Sylvester, Grandma and Grandpa, and Aunt Hazel are on their way [from Texas].

We will never get over this!

The next day, Molly’s dad wrote a letter to the editor of their local newspaper.

Mr. Joe Croom, Editor

The Okmulgee Times

Dear Mr. Croom,

We received a message last Saturday night, Dec. 20, from the United States Navy, stating that our son and brother, Clyde Richard Williams, is missing following action in the performance of his duty and in the service of his country.

That can mean only one thing in this particular case—Clyde went down with his ship and his body was not recovered.

To us that was a terrific blow—a blow from which we all will never completely recover—a blow that has us, for the moment, floored.

But, with the help of God and the hundreds of friends here in Okmulgee, we will not stay down for the count. We can’t stay down because we, like every other citizen of Okmulgee, have a job to do.

One very important thing for all of us here in Okmulgee is to have courage. If we do not have courage, how can we expect our servicemen to have courage? And without courage a serviceman is worthless. Yes, above all, we must have courage and faith.

Another job we have to do is to help our government furnish our servicemen with arms, ammunition, clothing, and food, without which they can never win the war. This we will do by buying all the defense stamps and bonds we can. We know that if Clyde could speak to all of his friends today, he would say, “This do in remembrance of me.”

So let us all put our shoulder to the wheel and push a little harder, and win this war so Clyde’s death will not have been in vain.

To our many friends who are standing by, ready and willing to assist us in any way we may need assistance, we are indeed grateful.

Sincerely,

JANE, DICK, AND RUTH MAE WILLIAMS.

Clyde Williams. Now you know something of the man behind the name. Now you appreciate what his loss meant to so many who loved him. Behind every name on that marble wall at the USS Arizona Memorial is a person who meant something to someone, who meant the world to someone. Several someones, in all likelihood. When he died, their worlds collapsed. And though in time their wounds would be healed, they would never again be whole.

Only someone who has lost a child or had a loved one taken too soon knows what that is like.

THE FINAL COMPETITION for the 1941 Battle of Music was never held. Because of that, Fleet Recreation asked all the bands still in Hawaii to vote for the band they thought was the best for that year.

The outcome was unanimous—the USS Arizona band.

Sometime later, the band members’ families were notified that the trophy for the contest had been named after their band. Shortly after that, on April 2, 1942, the Navy released the following story, which was carried in newspapers from coast to coast.

What became of the boys in the band when the guns began to roar?

Many a civilian has asked that question. Blowing a horn or beating a drum is not firing a gun. What becomes of the ship’s musicians when the battle rages?

The most dramatic answer to that question has been furnished by the incident of the ship’s band of the battleship Arizona.

On December 7 they went to their battle station, one of the most hazardous on the ship—down below, passing ammunition to the guns above.

To a man, the Arizona’s band was killed when the battleship’s magazine exploded.

Great interest in the trophy has been expressed by the U.S. Navy School of Music at Washington, and in response to its request, a picture of the trophy was painted by Alfred DuPont, illustrator at the fleet recreation office, and sent to the national capital to be placed on permanent exhibit there.

Henceforth the trophy will be known as the Arizona trophy.

After the war, it will be put up again to be challenged, when the Battle of Music will be resumed.

All the families were sent a picture of the trophy. I’ll take a shot at describing it. It has the Statue of Liberty holding a blazing torch and standing on a bronze base, which bears the following inscription: “Grand Prize, Battle of Music, United States Navy 1941.” Two eagles flank the inscription, their wings outstretched. A bronze plate is attached to the base of the trophy. It reads: “1941 Winning Orchestra 1941. USS Arizona. Sic Itur Ad Astra. F. W. Kinney, Bandmaster.” The Latin phrase—Sic Itur Ad Astra—literally means: “Such is the way to the stars.” It is an ancient way of saying, “the way to immortality.” Below the name of the bandmaster are the twenty names of the Arizona’s band.

Gallant men, every one of them.

ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, WIFE of the president, carried a wallet that now resides in the Roosevelt Presidential Library. It may seem hard to imagine why an insignificant accessory like that would have been deemed significant enough to be put on display so future generations could see it.

What was so special about it?

A wallet was a fairly common accessory for women in that time period, so it’s not a rare item by any means. Nothing in its external appearance stands out. It wasn’t made by a famous designer. In fact, it’s quite plain—rectangular in shape, red in color, made out of leather.

Inside Eleanor’s wallet there is a folded-up piece of paper, yellowed with age, its creases well worn, as if it had been unfolded often, then refolded and placed back in the wallet.

On the paper is a poem, the same one that opens this chapter. It ends:

Somehow out there

A man died for me today.

As long as there be war,

I must answer

Am I worth dying for?

Eleanor put it in her wallet after December 7, and she was determined to carry it with her until the war ended. As it turned out, she kept it in that wallet for the rest of her life. The poem is displayed near the Arizona Memorial, inscribed on a metal plaque that is embedded in a low, rectangular stone along a path that looks out to the sunken ship.

If you were there on that path, looking out to the sunken remains of what was once the pride of the Pacific Fleet, it would be hard not to pray, not to realize how complacently we live our day-to-day lives, hard not to ask God for forgiveness for our forgetfulness. We have forgotten so much, not just individually but as a nation.

A man died for me today.

That sailor, soldier, or Marine was someone’s son, brother, husband, perhaps, or someone’s father, nephew, cousin, friend.

A man died for me today.

Two thousand, four hundred and three men perished at Pearl Harbor, 1,177 from the Arizona alone. Each of those individuals had a name, all of which are on display in the solemn shrine that stands above that ship.

A man died for me today.

He was there, on that ship, scrubbing the decks, painting the steel, running the drills, and learning the skills to defend us, you and me. This is what freedom costs. And these are the men who helped pay for it. Giving up their dreams, so we could have a future. Sacrificing their lives, so we could live.

Of all the questions we could ask of God in times of war—from the protection we ask for our loved ones to the clarification we ask as to the why of it all—there is one we should not direct to Him but to ourselves.

Am I worth dying for?

Am I worth the sacrifice of who they were or someday would become? I’ve reflected on this question every day since December 7, 1941.

Am I?