As Grace Tully typed new reports telephoned to her from Chief of Naval Operations Adm. Harold Stark, presidential aides huddled behind her to read each word as it appeared on the paper. Every sentence contained fresher evidence of the debacle, causing experienced political advisers to tighten their jaws in anger and mutter expletives under their breath. When Tully handed the bulletins to Roosevelt, he repeatedly shook his head in dismay. Tully claimed that the president took the naval catastrophe so hard that to Roosevelt, the loss of each ship was “like the losing of a friend.”1
Hoping to learn fresher information from a firsthand source, Roosevelt contacted Gov. Joseph B. Poindexter in Honolulu. The governor of the Territory of Hawaii was calmly describing the damage caused by the first air raid when he suddenly started shouting. Roosevelt turned to his aides and said, “My God, there’s another wave of Jap planes over Hawaii right this minute.”2 Still reeling from the initial raid, from halfway around the globe Roosevelt now had to listen helplessly as a second attack caused more havoc. He and the other silent men congregating in the White House could only wonder what further devastation lay ahead on this horrific day.
At 8:40 P.M., Cabinet members entered his study to be briefed about the day’s events. Most had been out of town on business and had been quickly called back to Washington by White House operators, so they knew little of the day’s events. When Labor Secretary Frances Perkins arrived, she noticed that the president’s typical warm greeting had been replaced with a perfunctory hello.
Roosevelt started by labeling the meeting the most serious Cabinet session since Abraham Lincoln assembled his advisers in the dark early days of the Civil War. In a subdued voice Roosevelt explained that the only certain information they had was that serious losses had been absorbed and that the Navy had suffered the worst defeat in its history.
“His pride in the Navy was so terrific,” wrote Perkins later, “that he was having actual physical difficulty in getting out the words that put him on record as knowing that the Navy was caught unawares, that bombs dropped on ships that were not in fighting shape and not prepared to move, but were just tied up. I remember that he said twice to [Secretary of the Navy W. Franklin] Knox, ‘Find out, for God’s sake, why those ships were tied up in rows.’”
Perkins later added, “It was obvious to me that Roosevelt was having a dreadful time just accepting the idea that the Navy could be caught unawares.”3
One hour later, congressional leaders, including Majority Leader Alben W. Barkley, House Speaker Sam Rayburn, and the chairmen of important committees, joined the Cabinet. The chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Texas’s Thomas B. Connally, angrily jumped to his feet and banged on the president’s desk. “Hell’s fire, didn’t we do anything!” shouted the irate Connally.
“That’s about it,” replied a sullen Roosevelt.
Turning his glare toward Secretary Knox, Connally asked the question that every American, from the president to the newest citizen, wanted answered, “Didn’t you say last month that we could lick the Japs in two weeks? Didn’t you say that our Navy was so well prepared and located that the Japanese couldn’t hope to hurt us at all?”
When Knox could not offer a reply, Connally continued his tirade, inquiring why all the ships at Pearl Harbor were crowded together, many in neat rows. “I am amazed by the attack by Japan, but I am still more astounded at what happened to our Navy. They were all asleep. Where were our patrols?”4
People in all corners of the nation asked that question and others as the day unfolded. Their faith in the ability of their military to keep them out of harm’s way had been badly shaken, so much so that one of the most respected publications of the country, Time magazine, bluntly stated, “The U.S. Navy was caught with its pants down. Within one tragic hour—before the war had really begun—the U.S. appeared to have suffered greater naval losses than in the whole of World War I.”5 A nationally syndicated journalist wrote that people believed the United States would not hit the Japanese because it could not.
Aggravating the situation was that the losses came at the hands of a nation most Americans had dismissed as backwards and unable to contend with the strength of the United States. If a supposedly second-rate power inflicted such damage on the United States, what other mayhem might it commit? Fear and uncertainty created fertile grounds for rumors that made an already nervous citizenry more susceptible to panic. Reports circulated that a group of Japanese aircraft had flown over San Jose, California. In Hawaii, residents made plans to leave for the mainland because they feared that an inevitable Japanese invasion could not be repelled by the weakened military. Politicians urged the president to consider the West Coast indefensible and to pull back the military to fortified positions in the Rocky Mountains. Roosevelt’s son, Elliott, even called him from Texas to explain that he had heard the Japanese were about to launch an attack from Mexico against Texas or California.
As night fell on Washington, D.C., on December 7, groups of citizens collected outside the White House fence, as if their presence near the nation’s leaders could at the same time breathe wisdom into their proceedings and deliver reassurance to themselves. A hushed crowd silently stared at the presidential mansion, then started singing, “God Bless America.”
After his Cabinet and congressional leaders departed, Roosevelt kept an appointment with renowned newsman Edward R. Murrow, whose radio broadcasts from London had moved a world. The two shared beer and sandwiches while the president discussed the last twenty-four hours. Finally, he erupted in an angry tone that American aircraft had been destroyed “on the ground, by God, on the ground!”6
The next day a more determined president, leaning for support on the arms of his son, Marine Corps Capt. James Roosevelt, shuffled to the rostrum of the House of Representatives to ask Congress to declare war on Japan. Accompanying him were his wife, Eleanor, and Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, whose husband had once appeared before Congress to ask for a similar declaration.
In measured tones, the president began his speech to the hushed crowd. “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
Roosevelt then listed the places that had been attacked along with Pearl Harbor. “Yesterday the Japanese government also launched an attack against Malaya.
“Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.
“Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.
“Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands.
“Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island.”
He added that “Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and will understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation.”
He warned Japan that the American people, stunned as they were, would never forget such a heinous deed. “With confidence in our armed forces—with the unbounding determination of our people—we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.”7
At a press conference the next day with reporters, Roosevelt continued his efforts to be realistic in his assessments of the situation, yet encouraging to the people. He warned of bad times ahead and asked the country to pull together:
“We are now in this war. We are all in it—all the way. Every single man, woman, and child is a partner in the most tremendous undertaking of our American history. We must share together the bad news and the good news, the defeats and the victories—the changing fortunes of war.
“So far, the news has been all bad. We have suffered a serious setback in Hawaii. Our forces in the Philippines, which include the brave people of that commonwealth, are taking punishment, but are vigorously defending themselves. The reports from Guam and Wake and Midway Islands are still confused, but we must be prepared for the announcement that
all these three outposts have been seized.”8
Amidst the gloom and the demoralizing details, a beacon of hope emerged from the unlikeliest of sources. On desolate Wake, an atoll 7,500 miles southwest of the White House, a handful of Marines, Navy, and Army personnel, buttressed by a few hundred hardy civilians—the first “citizen soldiers” of the war—were poised to mount one of history’s grandest spectacles—a valiant defense against superior forces. From their efforts would reemerge the hope that Pearl Harbor had shattered; from the actions of an ordinary group of Americans a depressed nation would learn how to hold its head high once again and to believe their side could prevail.
“I Wanted to Travel”
They came to Wake from all parts of the country and from all backgrounds, as if drawn by an immense magnet, each bearing his own reason for being on the island when the war started. Some journeyed to the Pacific isle for money, some for adventure. Others headed to Wake because orders sent them there or to escape trouble back home. Yet at the sound of the first bombs, military and civilians alike discarded previous notions about their futures and forged an effective fighting force. In the process, they turned Wake into the nation’s initial victory, gave birth to emotional war slogans, created the first, and possibly the noblest, of World War II’s handful of epic actions, and handed Hollywood the makings for an emotional movie.
As in any gripping drama, unique characters abound, bringing varied experiences and backgrounds to the stage. Most of the Marines eventually landed on Wake for the same reason—they followed orders. Their differences lie in why they joined the Marines in the first place.
Robert M. Hanna would never have been selected as the Marine on the recruiting poster, although he seemed predestined to a military life. His ancestors served in the Revolutionary War and on both sides of the Civil War, and Hanna would be joined in World War II by twenty-five other members of his extended family. An undersize individual born in the desolate countryside of what is now Riverside, Texas, on April 29, 1914, Hanna spent a great deal of time on his own, preferring solitude to the fast-paced activities of school chums. While other boys played sports and fought one another, he loved to sneak into the family country store and grab some candy while no one was looking, or slump into a comfortable chair to read his favorite books—westerns and crime stories. The soft-spoken individual rarely confided in anyone and counted few close friends.
In the early 1930s, Hanna joined the military. Six years in the Army, where the enlisted man saw officers repeatedly treat the men with disdain, disillusioned the young Hanna. One time he received verbal permission from his commanding officer for two days’ leave. While Hanna was away, every man was ordered back to camp for a surprise maneuver, but Hanna never learned of the event. When he returned, the camp commandant confined Hanna to his quarters for being absent without leave. Hanna’s commanding officer, who had forgotten to report Hanna’s absence, failed to back the young man to avoid receiving a reprimand.
Hanna learned from this incident. He believed a leader should not only treat his men with respect, but should also join in their labors and lead by example. Without these ingredients, Hanna felt an officer would never gain the trust of his men.
Hanna’s six years in the Army ended in 1939. Still seeking a military career, he turned to the Marines, where he thought a rigid insistence on loyalty to the unit and Corps offered a better alternative. As a young lieutenant, he tried to remember the lessons about leadership he had observed and formulated while in the Army—to be fair and honest, to take care of all the small details, and to put the men first. For instance, during the post’s dinner celebration every November 10, the birthday of the Marine Corps, Hanna made sure his men passed through the food line before he did.
If a man landed in trouble, Hanna took the time to check his story and interrogate witnesses before passing judgment. In that manner, even if Hanna delivered a harsh punishment, the Marine knew his commanding officer was willing to go the extra mile for him. Hanna hoped that as a result, in a tough situation like combat, his men would be willing to exert more effort for him.
Hanna was not all business. Though he rarely frequented local bars or chased women like some men, he did enjoy himself on occasion. On January 7, 1937, in exchange for the use of Hanna’s car, a fellow officer set him up on a blind date with Vera Edith Bryant, an attractive, serene brunette. The two seemed made for each other—they both loved quiet pastimes and avoided loudmouthed individuals—but two months passed before the shy officer called and asked for a second date. After that the two were almost inseparable, often driving around the countryside in Hanna’s car, talking to each other and enjoying nature.
The couple wed on Christmas Day 1938, in Fort Worth, Texas. Unlike many men, who seem to forget the romantic element once marriage happens, Hanna delivered almost-daily reminders to Vera of his love for her. On the way home from the base he would purchase a single rose or some other small gift to let her know she was never out of his thoughts. For her part, Vera always cooked the meals that her husband most loved.
By March 1941, Hanna—after training in Quantico, Virginia, and San Diego, California—received new orders. With other members of a freshly formed unit called the First Marine Defense Battalion, Hanna boarded a troop transport and headed to the Pacific. Final destination—Wake Island.
All his life, Ralph Holewinski has called Gaylord, Michigan, his home. Nestled in the luscious forests and pine trees of northern Michigan, Gaylord offered year-round activities—hunting and golf in the summer and skiing and skating in the winter. While Holewinski enjoyed those hobbies, he spent most of his time on the family farm, where his parents needed his help in harvesting the crops that brought the family through the Depression.
Holewinski’s educational training at Saint Mary’s Catholic School in Gaylord fashioned a firm foundation, both educational and religious. The Dominican nuns that taught classes instilled basic values in Holewinski, such as loyalty and devotion. He especially recalled one mathematics teacher, a nun who ran her class in military style and demanded strict attention, who warned the students in the 1930s that the world was headed toward a general war in the 1940s.
Two years after graduating from high school, Holewinski enlisted in the Marine Corps, drawn by the lure of a steady job and travel to distant places. He immediately headed to San Diego for boot camp and training on a .30-caliber machine gun. Like Hanna, he was assigned to the First Defense Battalion and ordered to a place about which he knew nothing—Wake Island.
Twenty-year-old Corp. Franklin Gross, the tenth of twelve children born in Dewitt, Missouri, experienced early wanderlust, and as a teenager often hopped freight trains to travel about the western portion of the nation.
“In the 1930s, the Depression years, I don’t care what freight train went by, it had dozens and dozens of hoboes. Nobody had work.” Gross headed from Dewitt to Kansas City, swung north to Minnesota to harvest wheat, and then traveled to South Dakota for a brief stint working for the railroad. He later hitchhiked to Wyoming, where he hopped another train going to California.
Gross enlisted with the Marines in January 1939, before friction with the Japanese grabbed so many headlines. As for most Wake Marines, a possible Pacific war was not a factor in Gross’s decision. He said he joined because “I wanted to travel”9 and to see other parts of the world.
While Gross journeyed about the country, another Missouri native, eighteen-year-old Ewing E. Laporte, bounced around the Midwest. Because of the Depression, he and his father moved to wherever their carpentry skills were needed. In the harsh economic conditions, Laporte—like many other healthy young men—eventually looked to the military to solve his employment difficulties. He joined the Marines because he saw an opportunity to better his condition, not because he felt a sense of duty in the face of distant war rumblings.
“The lack of work knocked out any ambition for civilian life. I joined the Marines on December 7, 1940, one year to the day before Pearl Harbor.”10<
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“We Were All Hell-raisers Then”
Marines and civilian construction workers on Wake should have forged a firm friendship, since the men shared common backgrounds. The rough-hewn, hard-living construction workers, Depression-era sons just like Gross and Laporte, feared few challenges, at least in construction. Many had worked on the massive Grand Coulee and Boulder Dam projects, but unlike the Marines, they had willingly traveled to Wake for an opportunity to earn fantastic amounts of money. The men ranged in age from seventeen to seventy-two, and they included a handful of father-and-son combinations. Forerunners of the citizen-soldier armies that would so ably augment the regular armed forces and fuel the American military to victory in World War II, the civilian construction workers played a key role in the Wake story.
While the Hannas embarked on their new lives together, and Holewinski, Gross, and Laporte started on their paths to Wake, the fun-loving trio of Joe Goicoechea, Murray Kidd, and George Rosandick enjoyed life to the fullest in Boise, Idaho. The teenagers had been friends since grade school, and as they advanced through their senior year at Boise High and beyond, they became almost inseparable. Everyone knew of their reputation—if you wanted to laugh and have a good time, hook up with Joe, Murray, and George. The three, sometimes joined by Murray’s girlfriend, Lena, pocketed what little change they had and headed to the movies at the Ada Theater or grabbed milk shakes at the local hamburger joint after Friday-night high school football games. After all, the Depression’s effects lingered, so they could not waste money, but they were young, single, and ready for everything life had to offer—except marriage. “Hell, we couldn’t take care of ourselves let alone having someone else around,”11 said Goicoechea.
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