The World War II Collection

by Lord, Walter;

  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.