The World War II Collection

by Lord, Walter;

  He held out his signal pistol and fired one “black dragon.” The dive-bombers began circling upward to 12,000 feet; the horizontal bombers spiraled down to 3500; the torpedo planes dropped until they barely skimmed the sea, ready for the honor of leading the assault.

  As the planes orbited into position, Fuchida noticed that the fighters weren’t responding at all. He decided that they must have missed his signal, so he reached out and fired another “black dragon.” The fighters saw it this time, but so did the dive-bombers. They decided it was the second “black dragon” of the “Surprise Lost” signal. Hence, they would be the ones to go in first. In a welter of confusion, the High Command’s plan for carefully integrated phases vanished; dive-bombers and torpedo planes eagerly prepared to slam into Pearl Harbor at the same time.

  They could already see it on their left. Lieutenant Shiga was attracted by the unusual color gray of the warships. Commander Itaya was struck by the way the battleships were “strung out and anchored two ships side by side in an orderly manner.” Commander Fuchida was more interested in counting them — two, four, eight. No doubt about it, they were all there.

  CHAPTER VI

  “Joe, This Is One for the Tourist!”

  THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD JAMES B. Mann, Jr., stood with his father, squinting at the planes that circled high above their beach house at Haleiwa on the northwest coast of Oahu. The Manns liked to come to Haleiwa for a restful weekend, but this morning there was no rest at all. First the planes set off their two pug dogs; then the barking woke the family up. Mrs. Mann thought it might be that Lieutenant Underwood from Wheeler Field — he was always buzzing the beach — but Mr. Mann and Junior quickly discovered that it was a much bigger show.

  More than 100 planes were orbiting about, gradually breaking up into smaller groups of three, five, and seven. Soon, several fighters dropped down low enough for Junior to observe, “They’ve changed the color of our planes.” Then the fighters sped off to the east, down the road toward Schofield and Wheeler Field. Now the other groups were flying away too, and by 7:45 A.M. they had all disappeared.

  Twelve miles farther south, another 13-year-old, Tommy Young, was surf casting with his father off Maile Beach. Suddenly Tommy’s attention was attracted by the drone of airplane motors. Looking up, he saw a big formation of silvery planes flying southeast. His father counted 72 of them.

  Fourteen miles to the southeast, two other young fishermen were trying their luck in Pearl Harbor. Thirteen-year-old Jerry Morton and his kid brother Don, 11, sat on the enlisted men’s landing at Pearl City, a peninsula that juts southward into the middle of the anchorage. Like most service children, Jerry and Don regarded Pearl Harbor not as a naval base but as a huge, fascinating play pool. Almost every morning when they weren’t at school, they ran down to the landing — only 200 yards from the house — and let out a ball of string. Occasionally a gullible perch took a chance; rarely anything worthy of the dinner table. But there were always the ships, the planes, the sailors — a wonderful kaleidoscope that never grew dull.

  This morning they set out as usual — barefoot, khaki pants rolled up, T-shirts stuffed in their pockets as soon as their mother wasn’t looking. Little gusts of wind stirred the harbor waters, but the sun poked through the clouds often enough to make the day hot and lazy. It was a typical Sunday morning, except for one thing: incredibly, the fish were biting. By 7:45 the boys had used up all their bait, and Don was dispatched to the house for more. Jerry, the senior partner, lolled in the morning sun.

  Around him, the ships of the Pacific Fleet lay in every direction. To the north and east, little nests of destroyers clustered about their tenders at anchor. To the southeast, most of the cruisers pointed into the Navy Yard piers. Still farther to the south, the cruiser Helena lay at 1010 dock … then the battleship Pennsylvania, sharing Drydock No. 1 with two destroyers. To their west was another destroyer, high in the floating drydock … and finally, completing the circle, more destroyers, the repair ship Medusa, and the aircraft tender Curtiss lay moored offshore.

  Dominating the whole scene — and squarely in the middle of the harbor — was Ford Island, where Don and Jerry’s stepfather, Aviation Ordnanceman Thomas Croft, had duty this Sunday at the seaplane hangars. The Navy PBY patrol planes were based here; also the carrier planes when they were in port. The carriers themselves moored along the northwest side of the island, while the battleships used the southeast side.

  This Sunday, of course, the carriers were all at sea, and the moorings opposite Pearl City offered little in the way of excitement — only the old cruisers Detroit and Raleigh … the ex-battleship Utah, now demoted to target ship … the seaplane tender Tangier. But on the far side of the island a thrilling line of masts and funnels sprouted from “Battleship Row” — Nevada, Arizona, Tennessee, West Virginia, Maryland, Oklahoma, and California were all there.

  Other less glamorous craft elbowed their way into the picture. The “honey barge” YG-J7 crawled from ship to ship, collecting garbage. The tanker Neosho squatted toward the southern end of Battleship Row. The cruiser Baltimore — a veteran of Teddy Roosevelt’s Great White Fleet — lingered in rusty retirement, anchored among the sleek destroyers in East Loch. The poky little seaplane tender Swan perched on a marine railway near the cruisers (Radio Operator Charles Michaels estimates she could do 12.6 knots with a clean bottom and all laundry aloft). The old gunboat Sacramento hovered nearby — her tall, thin smokestack looked like something designed by Robert Fulton. The ancient mine layer Oglala lay next to the cruiser Helena at 1010 dock. She had the romantic past of a Fall River liner, but it was all over now. These days she was almost always tied up; once so long that a family of birds built a nest in her funnel.

  The large and the small, the mighty and the meek, they all added up to 96 warships in Pearl Harbor this Sunday morning.

  Assembled together, the U.S. Pacific Fleet was a big family — yet it was a small family too. Most of the men knew everybody else in their line of work, regardless of ship. Walter Simmons, who served a long hitch as mess attendant on the Curtiss, recalls that it was almost impossible for him to board any other ship in the fleet without meeting someone he knew.

  In these prewar days everybody stayed put. Chief Boatswain’s Mate Joseph Nickson had been on the San Francisco nine years; Chief Jack Haley on the Nevada 12 years. Ensign Joseph Taussig, brand-new to the ship, thought that several of the chief petty officers on the Nevada had been there before he was born. These old chiefs played an important part in keeping the family spirit. They were almost like fathers to the young ensigns — taught them beer baseball in the long, dull hours when nothing was happening; called them “Sonny” when no one else was listening. But they were also the first to accept an officer’s authority, and believed implicitly in the Navy chain of command.

  For the officers it was a small world too. Year after year they had come from the same school, taken the same courses, followed the same careers, step by step. They too knew one another’s service records and “signal numbers” by heart. They all shared the same hard work, wardroom Cokes, starched white uniforms, Annapolis traditions. Like all true professionals, they were a proud, sensitive, tightly knit group.

  But signs were beginning to appear that this small, little world might be in for a change. Reservists were now pouring in from the various training programs. They were enthusiastic enough, but they lacked the background of Navy tradition. Where they were involved, sometimes the old way of doing things just wouldn’t work.

  Doris Miller, a huge mess attendant on the West Virginia, was one of the regulars faced with this problem of reconciling the old with the new. Every morning he had the colossal job of waking up Ensign Edmond Jacoby, a young reservist from the University of Wichita. At first Miller used to yank at Jacoby, much like a Pullman porter arousing a passenger. This was fine with Jacoby, but an Annapolis man reminded Miller that an enlisted man must never touch an officer. Faced with the problem of upholding an ensign’s dignity and
still getting Jacoby up, Miller appeared the following morning with a brilliant solution. Standing three inches from Jacoby’s ear, he yelled, “Hey, Jake!” and fled the room.

  This Sunday morning Doris Miller had no problems. Ensign Jacoby was off duty and free to sleep. Miller was working as mess attendant in the junior officers’ wardroom, but there were only two officers on hand and there wasn’t much to do.

  It was just about as easy for the other men on duty. At 1010 dock Coxswain Ralph Haines was touching up the bright work on Admiral William Calhoun’s gig. The admiral, who gloried in the title “COMTRAINRON 8” (Commander, Training Squadron Eight), ran a group of supply ships. He had been scheduled to arrive this morning on the Antares, but for some reason was late.

  On the Nevada, Ensign Taussig was officer of the deck. He whiled away the time trying to think of something useful to do. It occurred to him that one boiler had been carrying the burden all four days the ship had been in port. He ordered another lit off.

  On the Arizona, Coxswain James Forbis had a working party on the fantail, rigging the ship for church services. The awning flapped and snapped in the breeze, and standing on the shore waiting to go out, Fleet Chaplain William A. Maguire made a mental note to have an extra windbreak rigged to keep his altar things in place. But the sun was warm, the clouds were high, and all things considered, the day was perfect. Turning to his assistant, Seaman Joseph Workman, Maguire burst out, “Joe, this is one for the tourist!”

  The men off duty seemed to agree. On ship after ship they were getting ready to go ashore. Some, like Seamen Donald Marman of the cruiser Honolulu, were preparing for Catholic mass at the base arena. Others, like Signalman John Blanken on the San Francisco, were headed for swimming at Waikiki. Ensign Thomas Taylor on the Nevada hoped to get in some tennis. The Helena marine detachment was warming up for softball. Ensign William Brown had a very special project in mind as he stood on the deck of his PT boat, which was loaded on the tanker Ramapo for shipment to the Philippines. His wife was coming over in two weeks, and he had just rented a little house in town. This would be the perfect day to fix the place up.

  The less ambitious loafed about the decks. On the St. Louis, Seaman Robert McMurray watched his mates playing checkers. Pharmacist’s Mate William Lynch on the California remembered this was his sister’s birthday, and began planning a letter to her. Machinist’s Mate R. L. Hooton sat on a bucket in front of his locker on the West Virginia, enjoying some snapshots just received from his wife. They were of his eight-month-old son whom he had never seen.

  Storekeeper Felder Crawford sat on his desk in the Maryland’s supply room, absorbed in that great American institution, the Sunday comics: Dagwood was having his usual troubles with Mr. Dithers … Daddy Warbucks’ private plane made a forced landing, leading the Asp to observe, “I have never trusted the air” … Navy Bob Steele successfully deflected a surprise air attack on his destroyer by an unidentified navy.

  A number of the men turned their thoughts to Christmas —there were only 15 more shopping days left. Yeoman Durrell Conner sat in the flag communications office of the California wrapping presents. Seaman Leslie Short climbed up to one of the Maryland’s machine-gun stations, where he wasn’t likely to be disturbed, and addressed his Christmas cards.

  On every ship there were men still at breakfast. Captain Bentham Simons of the Raleigh lounged in a pair of blue pajamas, sipping coffee in his cabin. On the Oklahoma, Ensign Bill Ingram, son of Navy’s great football coach, ordered poached eggs. Quartermaster Jim Varner took a large bunch of grapes from the serving line on the repair ship Rigel, then retired below to enjoy them properly. He hung them from the springs of an empty upper bunk and climbed into the lower, lay there happily plucking the grapes and wondering what to do the rest of the day.

  The shoreside breakfasts offered more variety, fewer restrictions. At the target repair base, Seaman Marlin Ayotte’s meal showed real faith in his cooking — four eggs, bacon, two bowls of cereal, fruit, toast, three cups of coffee. At the civilian workers’ cantonment — affectionately known to the residents as “Boystown” — Ben Rottach entertained a couple of friends from the Raleigh at a breakfast of ham and eggs with whisky chasers.

  In the repair shops and at Drydock No. 1, a few luckless souls had duty. Civilian yard worker Harry Danner struggled to align the boring bars on the Pennsylvania’s starboard propeller shafts. But there was a Sunday spirit even about the men at work. At the main Pearl Harbor gate, for instance, the Marine guard was getting ready to have its picture taken by Tai Sing Loe, who seemed to be the whole Navy’s unofficial photographer. He was a wonderfully colorful Chinese, who stalked his prey wearing a huge elephant hunter’s hat.

  Just down the road from the Pearl Harbor gate — a few hundred yards closer to Honolulu — lay the main entrance to Hickam Field, where the Army bombers were based. Normally there was a good deal of practice flying here, including some friendly buzzing of the Navy next door. The carrier planes, in turn, would occasionally stage mock raids on Hickam. But this morning all was quiet. The carriers were at sea, and the bombers were lined up in neat rows beside the main concrete runway.

  General Short’s sabotage alert was in full force, and obviously the best way to guard the planes was to group them together, out in the open. So there they all were — or at least all that mattered, for only six of the B-17s could fly … only six of the 12 A-20s… and only 17 of the 33 outmoded B-18s.

  Their hangars stood silent and empty along the Pearl Harbor side of the field (there were only boondocks on the Honolulu side); but the control tower, near the left end of the hangar line, hummed with excitement. Captain Gordon Blake, the tall, young base operations officer, had been in his office since seven. Next, his friend, Major Roger Ramey, arrived. Then Colonel Cheney Bertholf, adjutant general of the Hawaiian Air Force. Finally, even the base commandant, Colonel William Farthing, steamed up. Everybody who was in the know wanted to see the B-17s arrive from the mainland. They were new, fabulous planes; to have 12 of them come at once was a big event indeed. Down on the field, Captain Andre d’Alfonso, medical officer of the day, prepared his own special welcome. As soon as they arrived, his job was to spray them with Flit guns.

  Elsewhere hardly anything was going on. Sergeant Robert Hey began dressing for a rifle match with Captain J. W. Chappelman. Captain Levi Erdmann mulled over the base tennis tournament. Nurse Monica Conter — in between dates with Lieutenant Benning — took pulses and temperatures at the new base hospital. Private Mark Layton squeezed under the 7:45 breakfast deadline, but most of the men didn’t even try. At the big new consolidated barracks, Staff Sergeant Charles Judd lay in bed, reading an article debunking Japanese air power in the September issue of Aviation magazine.

  It was the same story at Wheeler Field — the Army fighter base in the center of the island. Here, too, the planes were lined up in neat rows — 62 of the Army’s brand-new P-40s. Here, too, most people were still in bed. Two exceptions — Lieutenants George Welch and Ken Taylor, a couple of pilots stationed at the small Haleiwa airstrip on the west coast of the island. Welch and Taylor had come over for the weekly Saturday dance. Then they got involved in an all-night poker game. Now Welch was arguing that they should forget all about bed and drive back to Haleiwa for an early-morning swim. This debate was perhaps the liveliest thing happening at Wheeler.

  Just to the north, the five big quadrangles of Schofield Barracks were equally quiet. Many of the men in the 24th and 25th Divisions were on weekend pass to Honolulu; others had straggled home in the early hours and were dead to the world. A few, like Sergeant Valentine Lemanski, were in the washroom fumbling with toothpaste, towels, and shaving kits. There never seemed enough space on the washbowl shelves. But in the nearby officers’ housing area, Colonel Virgil Miller’s little girl Julia was up, fed, and dressed in her Sunday best. Now she was about to enter the family car on her way to church with her mother and brother.

  It was also time for church at Fort Shatter, t
he Army’s administrative center near Honolulu. Pfc. William McCarthy joined a group approaching the Catholic chapel. But many of the men stayed in bed or lolled in the morning sunshine. Colonel Fielder, feeling fresh and rested after his early evening with General Short, had pulled on blue slacks and a blue sport shirt. He was about to drive over to the windward side of the island for a picnic at Bellows Field.

  Bellows was a small Army fighter base near the eastern end of Oahu. It had only two small squadrons, and only 12 of the planes were modern P-40s, but all of them were lined up just as neatly as the planes at Hickam and Wheeler. The men were all taking it easy or planning the usual Sunday projects.

  Five miles farther up the coast lay the Kaneohe Naval Air Station, the only other post on the windward side of Oahu. Thirty-three of the Navy’s new PBYs operated out of here. This morning three of them were out on patrol. The others were in the hangars or riding at anchor in the choppy blue water of Kaneohe Bay.

  At 7:45 this lazy Sunday morning Kaneohe looked as serene as any of the Army airfields. Mess Attendant Walter Simmons was setting the table in the officers’ wardroom, but nobody had turned up to eat. Lieutenant Commander H. P. McCrimmon, the post medical officer, was sitting in his office with his feet on his desk, wondering why the Sunday paper was late.

  That was what the people in Honolulu were wondering, too. Normally they counted on the Advertiser as an indispensable part of Sunday breakfast, but this morning the presses had broken down after running off only 2000 copies. The papers already printed had gone to Pearl Harbor for distribution among the ships. Everyone else was simply out of luck. Getting something repaired on Sunday in Honolulu was a tall order, although Editor Ray Coll worked hard at the problem.