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.
CHAPTER X
“I Want Three Volunteers: You, You, and You”
HIGH ABOVE PEARL HARBOR, the last raiders wheeled off to the west, vanishing as mysteriously as they had appeared. On the Nevada, Commander Thomas moved off the mud of Hospital Point, and with the aid of tugs backed across the channel to the hard, sandy bottom of Waipio Peninsula. Word was passed releasing the men from battle stations, and Musician C. S. Griffin began groping his way up from the third deck forward. When he finally stepped into the bright morning sun, he glanced at his watch — it said 10:00 A.M.
For the first time men realized what a strain it had been. Boatswain’s Mate K. V. Hendon ran into one of his best friends, who had been working a five-inch gun all morning. The man was so dazed he couldn’t recognize anybody — all he could still see were planes. The men in the antiaircraft gun shack passed cigarettes around, omitting as usual the clean-cut member of the team, who, as far as they knew, didn’t smoke or drink or even take coffee. Shakily he said, “I think I’ll have one of those.”
Ensign John Landreth emerged from the port antiaircraft director, felt a curious numbness. Training and discipline had seen him through, but in the back of his mind the question kept revolving, “What is this really? A dream, perhaps, or is it really me shooting at other men and they shooting at me? What is this really?”
Perhaps indeed it was a dream, thought Pfc. John Fisher, a young MP at Fort Shafter. And when no one was looking, he even pinched himself, hoping he would wake up and find everything was all right. As Staff Sergeant Frank Allo surveyed Hickam’s smoldering wreckage, he felt like a small boy looking at his dog lying in the road after it had been hit by a car: it was simply unbelievable that such a thing could have happened.
But there was little time for reflection. A man had to think fast just to stay alive on the burning, sinking ships. When the Oglala finally rolled over on her port side at ten o’clock, Admiral Furlong slid down toward the low side of her deck. He showed the timing of a trapeze artist, hopping nimbly ashore as the side of the deck rolled flush with the edge of 1010 dock. Officially, it was said the Oglala’s seams had been sprung by the torpedo that holed the Helena; but there are men who still claim the old Fall River boat really “sank from fright.”
Across the channel, it was time to abandon the West Virginia too. Fires raged out of control around the conning tower and foremast, igniting the paint work, trapping Lieutenant Ricketts and the others still on the bridge. Ensign Lombardi got a hose going, and a seaman played it on the little group. Then Ensign Hank Graham tossed up a line, and the men came down hand over hand to the deck. Ensign Delano was cut off from the rest; he finally crawled forward on the searchlight platform and used the turrets as a giant stepladder to reach the deck. He jumped overboard and swam for Ford Island, trying to keep ahead of the oil burning on the water.
“Help! Help! I can’t swim any farther,” called a familiar voice somewhere behind. It was an old chief petty officer, known to be a poor swimmer. Delano was now too weak to do any towing, but at least he could encourage the man. As he turned his head, the old chief thrashed by, arms and legs flying through the water, still yelling that he couldn’t swim any longer. He reached shore five minutes before Delano.
Ensign Jacoby plunged off the West Virginia’s forecastle, still wearing shoes, uniform, and even cap. He swam under the burning oil, emerged beyond it, and headed for a launch from the Solace. But his waterlogged clothes dragged him down, and the burning oil crept after him faster than he could swim. A sailor in the launch dived in to help — apparently forgetting that he couldn’t swim at all. They were rapidly drowning each other when someone else in the launch knotted some sheets together, tossed out the improvised line, and dragged them both in. It was close — as they were hauled aboard, the bow of the launch was already starting to burn.
Ensign Vance Fowler, the West Virginia’s disbursing officer, abandoned ship far more stylishly. He pushed off in a raft and moved swiftly to shore, using his cash ledger as a paddle.
Seaman George Murphy had no use for a paddle, trapped in the dispensary of the overturned Oklahoma. He and some 30 others were in a triangular-shaped air space with about a three-foot ceiling. Carpenter John A. Austin had a flashlight, and they played it around, trying to figure out where they were. None of them yet understood that the ship had turned over … that the tile overhead was really the deck.
For over an hour they didn’t even try to get out. They could cling to a coaming around the tile without constant swimming, and it seemed best just to wait. They all assumed help was on the way — never dreaming they were far below the surface of Pearl Harbor.
Time went on, and they began to wonder. Eventually someone kicked a porthole under the water, and the men took turns ducking down and investigating it. They were still reluctant to dive through, because many of the ship’s portholes led only to void space, and nobody wanted to get trapped that way.
Finally there was no choice. The air grew foul, and it was clear they couldn’t live in the compartment. One by one they began squeezing through. It was a slow process. The porthole hung the wrong way (that’s how they learned the ship was upside down), and every time anybody tried it, one man had to go under wate
r and hold it open for the other to escape.
Nothing could help the man who first found the porthole. He was simply too big for the 14-inch opening. He bobbed back up, completely broken. Several others began shouting and calling out prayers.
Seaman Murphy barely made it. He had to try three times before he finally squeezed through and kicked out from the ship. He popped to the surface and was picked up by a launch from the Dobbin shortly after ten o’clock. The thing that really amazed him was not his escape but the scene in the harbor. The men in the compartment had all assumed that the Oklahoma was the only ship damaged.
There was no problem abandoning the California. As the burning oil drifted down the harbor, engulfing her stern, Captain Bunkley gave the order at 10:02 A.M. and the men swarmed ashore. But the wind blew the burning oil clear, and by 10:15 Captain Bunkley was trying to get everybody on board again to fight the fires. Yeoman Durrell Conner abandoned his efforts to evacuate some files, and watched an officer appeal to the men on shore. He gave quite a pep talk, saying that the California was a good ship, and if they would all come back and fight the fire, he thought they could save her.
The men seemed a little slow, and Conner had an inspiration. Noting the flag had not been raised, he grabbed a seaman and together they hoisted the colors on the fantail. A big cheer went up, and men began streaming back.
The upturned Utah was of course beyond hope, but the banging within her hull told Commander Isquith that he might at least save someone trapped inside. So he worked away with Machinist Szymanski, who knew all about welding … Watertender H. G. Nugent, who knew the structure of the ship’s hull … and Chief Motor Machinist Terrance MacSelwiney, who wanted so much to help. Strafers bothered them at first, but then the raid died down, and cutting outfits arrived from the Raleigh and Tangier. They traced the noise to the dynamo room and went to work. After an hour they had an 18-inch hole and yelled to whoever was inside to stand clear so they could pound the plating in. When they finished, out popped Fireman John Vaessen, who had kept the lights going until it was too late to get out.
Unlike the men in the Oklahoma dispensary, Vaessen knew right away that the ship was upside down. He set out for the bottom with a flashlight and an open-end wrench for tapping signals. When he reached the double bottom, he had to undo 20 bolts to get through to the outer skin of the ship. Here he enjoyed a stroke of the incredible luck that sometimes helps a brave man in danger. His wrench just happened to fit the bolts.
Down in the plotting room of the Nevada, Ensign Merdinger wasn’t yet trapped, but his agile mind began thinking along those lines. The room was five decks down. The regular lights were out, and the emergency system cast a weird green glow. The ventilation was gone, and to save their breath, the men lay down, phones strapped to their heads. Some were stripped to the waist; others still wore their shirts. Merdinger noted the beads of sweat glistening in the pale green light and thought what a dramatic movie it would make of men trapped in a submarine.
His thoughts passed through various phases, taking the form of silent prayers. At first he hoped he wouldn’t be wounded. As things grew worse, he hoped that, if wounded, he at least wouldn’t be permanently crippled. Finally, he reached the point where he was completely prepared to give his life. He prayed only that he might die — and he knew he was guilty of a cliché — like an officer and a gentleman, an inspiration to his men.
Certainly there was nothing to encourage him in the reports drifting down from above. The plotting room was a sort of clearinghouse for information, and all the news seemed bad. He heard about the Oklahoma — and the Nevada started to list. The Arizona blew up — and fire spread close to the Nevada’s magazines. Every disaster on the other ships seemed to stalk his own. And now, to top it off, the bridge was calling for anyone who could speak Japanese. That suggested even more unpleasant possibilities.
Topside, Ensign John Landreth heard the radio say the Japanese were landing on Diamond Head. Radioman Peter La Fata of the Swan picked up even worse news: they had taken Waikiki.
The danger lay not to the east but to the west, according to rumors heard by the Arizona survivors at the Navy receiving station — in fact, 40 Japanese transports were off Barbers Point. It was worse than that; they were already landing men at Waianae Beach, someone told Gunner’s Mate Ralph Carl on the Tennessee.
Others claimed the Japanese were really landing to the north. At the Navy Yard, civilian worker James Spagnola heard that the entire north shore was lost. At Schofield, Lieutenant Roy Foster got word that a major assault would be launched on Schofield and Wheeler within 30 minutes to an hour. Marine Sergeant Burdette Odekirk heard that Schofield had fallen.
As if seaborne invasion wasn’t enough, other reports spread that Japanese paratroopers were raining down from the skies — at Nanakuli Beach to the northwest … in the sugarcane fields southwest of Ford Island … in the Manoa Valley, northwest of Honolulu. A man could spot them by the rising sun sewed on their backs … or by the red patch on the left breast pocket … or by the rising sun shoulder patch. In any case, they were wearing blue coveralls.
At Kaneohe, Mess Attendant Walter Simmons lost no time taking off his own blue dungarees. Orders were to change to khakis, but Simmons and most of the others had none. So they boiled vats of strong coffee, dipped in their whites, made khakis that way. Next report — the Imperial Marines landing on the west shore were in khaki. All hands change to whites. Later, the force landing to the east was in white. Back to blues.
These were not men who had lost their heads — they were acting on the best information available. An official Army circuit monitored at Kaneohe reported sampans landing troops at the Navy Ammunition Depot … transports to the north … eight enemy battleships 70 miles away. The Navy’s harbor circuit was just as active. On the Vestal Radioman John Murphy logged in messages that Japanese troops were landing on Barbers Point … paratroopers dropping in Nuuanu Valley … Honolulu’s water supply had been poisoned.
Later, some radiomen felt the Japanese must have used Army and Navy frequencies, filling the air with false reports. But the outgoing logs of the various official message centers show that most, if not all, of the traffic was authentic:
1146. From Patwing. Enemy troops landing on north shore. Blue coveralls, red emblems.
1150 COM14 to CINCPAC. Parachutists landing at Barbers Point.
In the present frame of mind, small incidents were easily misinterpreted and then exaggerated. The Helm firing at the midget quickly became a Japanese task force bombarding the shore. When Fort Kamehameha, under the same illusion, began firing at the Helm, that just proved it.
It was the same with the paratroopers. Lieutenant Dickinson and Ensign McCarthy bailing out of their flaming planes were quickly spotted as two … 20 … 200 enemy soldiers. And once the idea was planted, the power of suggestion did the rest. Honolulu Police Headquarters got a frantic call that parachutists were landing on St. Louis Heights. Sergeant Jimmy Wong called for a National Guard Company and sent up Patrolman Albert Won. The Guard never arrived, but Won got there, armed with a .38. Luckily, all he found was a kite dangling from a tree.
Even more frightening reports were now pouring in. The local Japanese were rising, it was said, and Fifth Columnists were on the loose. Sergeant Wong got a call at 10:08 A.M. that two Japanese with a camera were on Wilhelmina Rise. He sent a squad car, found only a couple out walking. McKinley High School reported saboteurs — two pedestrians happened to be passing the ROTC building. But the stories spread faster than they could possibly be disproved or checked.
On the seaplane tender Swan, Radioman Peter La Fata heard that Japanese drivers were making milk deliveries at Pearl Harbor with radio transmitters concealed in the cans to beam in the raiding planes. Mrs. McCrimmon heard that it happened at Kaneohe. Private Sydney Davis heard that it was Hickam where the milk trucks went, and that they drove up and down the hangar line knocking the tails off planes. Lieutenant George Newton also heard it was Hickam,
and that a warrant officer shot the milkman when he boasted, “Well, I guess we Japanese showed you.” Radioman Douglas Eaker heard that the sides of the truck dropped down and Japanese machine gunners sprayed the field.
Other rumors described how the local Japanese had ringed Oahu with white sampans — presumably to show the pilots that they had the right island. Additional reports told of arrows cut in the cane fields, helpfully pointing out the last 20 miles to Pearl Harbor. Under the circumstances, Corporal Maurice Herman wasn’t surprised when all communications failed at his infantry outfit’s command post. Along with everybody else, he supposed Japanese saboteurs had cut the wires. A careful check uncovered the break right next to the command post itself. A soldier pitching a pup tent had needed a piece of line and cut it out of the unit’s radio coil.
Worst of all was the report that Fifth Columnists were poisoning the water. At Ewa the post dentist spread a canvas cover over the base water tower, hoping to frustrate the saboteurs. Others heard that it was too late for preventive measures — the water was already contaminated. Mrs. Arthur Gardiner, a Navy wife, tried in vain to find a way of explaining the development to her thirsty two-year-old. Fifteen-year-old Jackie Bennett ordinarily didn’t drink much water — now she was never thirstier. Storekeeper H. W. Smith heard the rumor after he had already quenched his thirst. He became violently ill and thought what an inglorious way to die for his country. They were quite clinical at the Hickam dispensary. Lieutenant Colonel Frank Lane had Saliva, the hospital’s mascot dog, nailed up in a crate, then gave him a pan of water to see what would happen. The experiment failed when Saliva wouldn’t drink. As the day wore on, people grew too thirsty to care … drank the water anyhow and, of course, with no aftereffects.
In all the excitement over spies and Fifth Columnists, almost everybody forgot about Japanese Consul General Kita. Soon after the attack started, Reporter Lawrence Nakatsuka of the Star-Bulletin went up to the consulate to get Mr. Kita’s comments, but had little luck. The consul simply said he didn’t believe there was an attack. Nakatsuka returned to the office, and as soon as the Star-Bulletin’s extra was run off, he went back to the consulate with a copy. If it wasn’t adequate evidence, it might at least be a conversation piece.
The World War II Collection Page 53
