Now that it was all over, many of the pilots felt a curious letdown. Some begged for another chance because they missed their assigned targets. Others said they were dissatisfied because they had only “near-misses.” Commander Amagai, flight deck officer of the Hiryu, tried to cheer them up. He assured them that a near-miss was often an effective blow. Then he had an even brighter idea for lifting their spirits: “We’re not returning to Tokyo; now we’re going to head for San Francisco.”
At the very least, they expected another crack at Oahu. Even while Commander Amagai was cheering up the pilots, he was rearming and refueling the planes for a new attack. When Lieutenant Hashimoto told his men they would probably be going back, he thought he detected a few pale faces; but, on the whole, everyone was enthusiastic. On the Akagi, the planes were being lined up for another take-off as Commander Fuchida landed at 1:00 P.M. — the last plane in.
When Fuchida reported to the bridge, a heated discussion was going on. It turned out another attack wasn’t so certain after all. For a moment they postponed any decision, to hear Fuchida’s account. After he finished, Admiral Nagumo announced somewhat ponderously, “We may then conclude that anticipated results have been achieved.”
The statement had a touch of finality that showed the way the admiral’s mind was working. He had always been against the operation, but had been overruled. So he had given it his very best and accomplished everything they asked of him. He had gotten away with it, but he certainly wasn’t going to stretch his luck.
Commander Fuchida argued hard: there were still many attractive targets; there was virtually no defense left. Best of all, another raid might draw the carriers in. Then, if the Japanese returned by way of the Marshalls instead of going north, they might catch the carriers from behind. Somebody pointed out that this was impossible — the tankers had been sent north to meet the fleet and couldn’t be redirected south in time. Fuchida wasn’t at all deterred; well, they ought to attack Oahu again anyhow.
It was Admiral Kusaka who ended the discussion. Just before 1:30 P.M. the chief of staff turned to Nagumo and announced what he planned to do, subject to the commander’s approval: “The attack is terminated. We are withdrawing.”
“Please do,” Nagumo replied.
In the home port at Kure, Admiral Yamamoto sensed it would happen. He sat impassively in the Nagato’s operations room while the staff buzzed with anticipation. The first attack was such a success everyone agreed there should be a second. Only the admiral remained noncommittal. He knew all too well the man in charge. Suddenly he muttered in almost a whisper: “Admiral Nagumo is going to withdraw.”
Minutes later the news came through just as Yamamoto predicted. Far out in the Pacific the signal flags ran up on the Akagi’s yardarm, ordering a change in course. At 1:30 P.M. the great fleet swung about and headed back home across the northern Pacific.
South of Oahu, Ensign Sakamaki was still trying. But despite all the vows he exchanged with Seaman Inagaki their midget sub was no nearer Pearl Harbor. A brief encounter with a reef had damaged one torpedo tube beyond repair. About noon they ran on another reef and smashed the other tube. They worked clear again, but now they had no weapon left.
“What are we going to do, sir?” asked Seaman Inagaki.
“We’re going to plunge into an enemy battleship, preferably the Pennsylvania. We’re going to crash against the ship and if we’re still alive, we’re going to kill as many as we can.”
To Sakamaki’s surprise, Inagaki bought the idea. He tightened his grip on the wheel and shouted, “Full speed ahead!” But it was no use. The afternoon turned into a jumbled series of frustrations. Sakamaki was dimly aware of trying and trying but just not getting anywhere. The sub wouldn’t steer … the air pressure was more than 40 pounds … the hull reeked with the smell of bitter acid. He choked for air; his eyes were smarting; he was only half-conscious. Occasionally he could hear Inagaki sobbing in the dark, and he was crying too.
“Let’s make one more try,” he gasped, but the next thing he knew he saw Diamond Head off to port. It was dusk and he had wandered a good ten miles from Pearl Harbor. He was beaten and he knew it. With his last strength he set his course for the rendezvous point off Lanai Island, where he was to meet the mother sub I-24. Then he passed out.
CHAPTER XI
“Chief, My Mother and Dad Gave Me This Sword”
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 encoura
gement … 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 World War II Collection Page 55
