The World War II Collection

by Lord, Walter;

  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 woul
dn’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.

  CHAPTER XII

  “We’re Leaving Now — Explode Gloriously!”

  IT WAS JUST SUNSET when Ensign Ed Jacoby trudged ashore after losing the fight against the West Virginia’s fires. As he started toward the Ford Island BOQ for a sandwich, a bugle sounded evening colors. He snapped to attention, and the simple ceremony — taking place as always, despite the day’s disasters — reminded him that the country lived on … that it had survived blows in the past and could do so again.