Nurse Valera Vaubel stood at attention, too, as the flag was lowered at the Navy Hospital. Then she joined some others in a spontaneous cheer. At least this sundown she was still free.
But how much longer no one knew. Certainly not Ensign Cleo Dobson, as he sat on the veranda of the old BOQ, talking over the future with some of the other Enterprise pilots. About all they could decide: they were in a real shooting war and right on the front line. Somebody suggested food, and that seemed a good idea, for they had eaten nothing since leaving the Enterprise at 6:00 A.M. They raided the deserted kitchen and found some steaks in the refrigerator. The salt and utensils had all disappeared, but they cooked the steaks anyhow on the big range and ate them sitting on the veranda. It was dark now, but they could see well enough by the flickering light of the flames on the Arizona.
Farther down Battleship Row, acetylene torches flared on the upturned hull of the Oklahoma, but the rest of the harbor was dark. Within the blacked-out ships, men had their first chance to rest … and worry. On the Raleigh everything had happened so fast during the day that Yeoman Charles Knapp didn’t have a chance to be scared. But now he was off watch, and as he lay on a desk for a few minutes’ rest, his mind flooded with questions. Would he ever see his mother and sister again, or watch a football game or love a girl or drink a beer or drive a car?
Certainly the outlook wasn’t encouraging. Knapp heard that paratroopers were now dropping on Waikiki … that more landings were in progress on the north shore … and as if the Japanese weren’t enough, that Germans were flying the planes. There was no doubt about it — one seaman swore that he had seen one of the captured pilots … a big, blond-headed Prussian … even heard him talking German.
On the gunboat Sacramento, word also spread that one of the pilots was blond, but he was apparently some kind of blond Japanese. Others spoke of huge six-footers, quite different from the Japanese everyone was used to.
Even more terrifying were the stories that the pilots were Hawaiian-born or American-educated. Seaman Frank Lewis of the Dobbin heard that the Japanese who crashed on the Curtiss was wearing a University of Oregon ring. At the Marine Barracks Private E. H. Robison heard that he was a University of Southern California man — Class of ’37 or ’39, people weren’t quite sure which. At Fort Shaffer, Lieutenant William Keogh heard that the pilots were wearing McKinley High School sweaters (they were all apparently letter-men). The cards seemed stacked against the defenders. The men at Fort Shafter could well believe the story that a Japanese admiral boasted he would dine at the Royal Hawaiian next Sunday.
And what was to stop him? Rumors spread that the ships at sea had also suffered. Quartermaster Handler of the Helm heard that the whole Enterprise task force was sunk; on the Tangier, Boatswain’s Mate William Land heard that the Lexington was gone too. Not just the Lexington but the Saratoga as well, according to a story picked up by Signalman Walter Grabanski of the California.
Nor would there be any help from home, judging from another raft of rumors. The Panama Canal was bombed and blocked, someone told Chief Jack Haley of the Nevada, and this of course cut off the Atlantic Fleet. But worst of all, California itself was said to be under attack. On the Helena men heard that San Francisco was bombed … on the Tennessee that an invasion fleet lay off the city … on the Rigel that the city had been taken and a beachhead established. It might even be a two-prong attack, because word reached the Pennsylvania that a Japanese landing force had occupied Long Beach and was working its way toward Los Angeles.
True, there were a few encouraging reports. California seamen heard that the Russians had bombed Tokyo, and among the West Virginia men word spread that the Japanese had so little steel, they had filled some of the bombs with oyster shells. Perhaps the best news of all circulated among men from the Oklahoma: survivors of the attack would get 30 days’ leave.
Also, the Maryland PA system announced that two Japanese carriers had been sunk, and a more lurid version of this story spread through the Navy Hospital: the Pennsylvania had captured two carriers and was towing them back to Pearl. But how could a man believe the good news when even a quick check showed the Pennsylvania still sitting in drydock?
About the best that could be believed was the report, spread on the Nevada, that the Japanese had landed on Oahu, but the Army was holding its own. The men on the ship were told to be doubly alert for any movement in the cane that ran down to the shore where the ship lay beached. No one remembered to tell them that the ship’s own Marine detachment was patrolling the same area. As Private Payton McDaniel crunched through the cane, a man on the ship shouted he saw something move. A spotlight flicked on, and McDaniel froze, praying it wouldn’t find him. Other Marines grasped the situation and passed word to the Nevada gunners to hold their fire. But it was a terrifying moment, for McDaniel knew that this was a night when men were inclined to fire and ask questions later.
At the sub base, one sentry fired so often at his relief that he ended up with the duty all night. In the Navy Yard, a fusillade of shots erased a small spotlight that was snapped on briefly by the men installing the San Francisco’s antiaircraft batteries. Every time such shots were fired, they would set off other guns, until the whole harbor echoed with the shots of men who had no idea what they were shooting at. “You want to get in on this?” yelled a Marine sentry as Pfc. Billy Kerslake dozed off duty in the front seat of a sedan parked near Landing Charley. Kerslake nodded, reached his arm out the window, fired five pistol shots into the air, and fell back to sleep.
The firing quickly spread to nearby Hickam and added to the misery of the B-17 flight crews. It had been a tough day — first the long 14-hour trip from San Francisco … then getting the planes in shape … bivouacking out in the boondocks … fighting mosquitoes … trying to keep dry in the drizzle that began after dark … and now this. But the firing couldn’t be ignored. During one outburst someone shouted, “The Japs are making a landing!” Tired men poured from their cots as the sky blazed with tracers. Sergeant Nick Kahlefent added to the din when he jumped out of bed on some thorns.
It was an equally sleepless night at Wheeler. Everybody had been evacuated from the barracks area, and no one found a very satisfactory alternative. Private Rae Drenner of the base fire department tossed and turned with 20 other men on the floor of the fire chiefs living room. Every time shooting broke out, the men would dash off in their fire truck, dodging the hail of bullets aimed at them by jittery sentries. On the eastern edge of the field the 98th Coast Artillery let go a covering barrage … kept it up until the 97th at Schofield telephoned to complain that the shrapnel was ripping their tents.
Schofield got even when the 27th Infantry took pot shots at the 98th’s guard detail. Two other Schofield units engaged in a pitched battle across a gully — it ended when one of the GIs, nicked by a ricochet, exploded into language which the other side knew could come from no Japanese. Down near the pack-train corral a sentry challenged three times (showing remarkable forbearance for this night), got no answer, and shot one of his own mules.
The guard at Aliamanu Command Post bagged a deer, and Mess Attendant Walter Simmons figures that in the fields around Kaneohe more mongooses died than on any other night in history. About 1:30 A.M. a small flare burst above Kaneohe — no one yet knows where it came from — and men all over the base began shooting at “parachutists.” It made no difference that no one could see them or even hear a plane. A more tangible target was millionaire Chris Holmes’ island in the middle of the bay. The story spread first that paratroopers had landed there; later it was only that the Japanese servants had revolted. In any case, a group of men chugged out in one of the few planes that could still taxi arid sprayed the place with machine guns.
At Ewa a sentry saw a match flicker and almost shot his base commander, Lieutenant Colonel Larkin, who — against his own orders — was absentmindedly lighting a cigarette.
As the shooting crackled all over Oahu, sooner or later someone was bound to get hurt. An el
derly Japanese fisherman, Sutematsu Kida, his son Kiichi, and two others were killed by a patrol plane as their sampan passed Barbers Point, returning with the day’s catch. They had gone out before the attack and probably never knew there was a war. In Pearl Harbor itself, a machine gun on the California accidentally cut down two Utah survivors while they stood on the deck of the Argonne during one of the false alarms.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Fritz Hebel sensed this kind of thing might happen, as he led six Enterprise fighters toward Ford Island around 7:30 P.M. They had been searching for a Japanese carrier, arrived back over the Enterprise when it was too dark to land, were told to go on to Oahu. Now at last they were coming in.
Cautiously Hebel asked Ford Island for landing instructions. He was told to turn his lights on, “come on over the field and break up for landing.” Down in the harbor, Marine Sergeant Joseph Fleck on the New Orleans heard the word passed to hold fire —friendly planes coming in. Ensign Leon Grabowski was told too at his 1.1 gun station on the Maryland; so was Radioman Fred Glaeser on Ford Island. So, probably, were others.
The planes moved in across the south channel and swung toward the mountains. Somewhere a BAR opened up … then two … then just about every ship in Pearl Harbor. Tracers crisscrossed the sky — 30s … 50s … 1.1s … everything that could shoot. On Ford Island an officer desperately ran up and down the sandbags by Utility Squadron One’s position: “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! Those are our planes!”
In the air, Lieutenant Hebel yelled over his radio: “My God, what’s happened?” Ensign James Daniels dived for the floodlights at the southwest edge of the field, hoping to blind the gunners. The stunt worked and he swooped off toward Barbers Point. The others weren’t as quick or lucky. Ensign Herb Menges plunged down out of control, crashing into a Pearl City tavern called the Palm Inn. Ensign Eric Allen fell near Pearl City too; he managed to bail out, but was riddled by gunfire as he floated down. Lieutenant Hebel tried to land his damaged plane at Wheeler, crashed, and was killed. Ensign Gayle Hermann spun his smashed plane 1200 feet down onto Ford Island, survived. Ensign D. R. Flynn bailed out over Barbers Point, was picked up alive days later by the Army.
Daniels hovered alone off Barbers Point. After about ten minutes the firing died down, and he blandly asked the tower for landing instructions. They were different this time — come in as low and as fast as possible, show no lights. Since he couldn’t come in as a friend, he would have to try it like an enemy. He did and landed safely.
On the destroyer tender Whitney, crewman Waldo Rathman felt a good deal better: they really showed the Japanese this time. The gunnery was excellent, and it was a thrill to see those planes fall in flames. It made the drubbing of the morning seem a thing of the past.
Watching from her home near Makalapa, Navy wife Jeanne Gardiner couldn’t judge the gunnery, but she prayed the antiaircraft fire would get the enemy. As Mrs. Mitta Townsend, another Navy wife, looked on from her home on the “Punchbowl,” the moon emerged briefly, bathing Oahu in soft but revealing light. She prayed it would go behind a cloud.
Mrs. Joseph Galloway prayed too, pacing the floor at a friend’s house in Honolulu. She had no idea what had happened since her husband left for his ship in the morning. Her portable radio blared occasional alerts about planes, but most of the time it was dead. In the background a distant station faded on and off with dance music from Salt Lake City.
In their desperate search for news other wives made the mistake of tuning in Japanese stations. Mrs. W. G. Beecher heard that her husband’s destroyer Flusser had been sunk with the entire Lexington task force.
Mrs. Arthur Fahrner, wife of Hickam’s mess supervisor, didn’t need to fish for news. She knew all too well. Someone had told her of the bomb that hit the Hickam mess hall, said no one escaped alive. She took it for granted that Sergeant Fahrner died at his post, and now her job was to get the five children back to the mainland, into school, and find a way to support them.
The Fahrners had been evacuated to the University of Hawaii auditorium, and while the Red Cross performed miracles, there still weren’t enough cots for the scores of families that sprawled on the floor. Sunday night Mrs. Fahrner and three other mothers formed a “hollow square” of adults and dumped their ten children in the middle. This at least kept them in one spot, but it still was a night of whimpering … of restless tossing … of endless trips to the bathroom over and around sleeping people.
Just when everything quieted down, some new disturbance would break out. One little girl lost a kitty with a bell around its neck. Soon it was hard to tell which caused the most commotion — the cat roaming and ringing its bell or the child calling and searching in the dark. The little girl had a way of turning up wherever the kitty had just left.
Slowly the hours dragged by. The children gradually dozed off, but the mothers were wide-eyed all night. Sometimes they talked together; other times they just lay quietly holding one another’s hands, waiting for daylight.
The mothers were busier in the Navy storage tunnel at Red Hill, where other families were evacuated. Clouds of mosquitoes swarmed down the air vents, and the women spent most of the night shooing them off so their children could sleep. Then, an unexpected crisis arose. One young mother forgot to bring any bottles for her month-old baby. Cups were tried, but of course the baby was too young. Someone suggested a sugar shaker, but the spout was too large. Finally Mrs. Alexander Rowell came up with the solution — she soaked a clean rag in milk and let the baby suck on it. That was what the pioneers did, she explained; she had read all about it in Drums Along the Mohawk.
Generous people opened up their homes to other evacuees. One Navy commander’s wife at Waipahu took in 20 or 30 women and children, including Don and Jerry Morton and their mother, Mrs. Croft. Everyone made a point of being cheerful, but the rumors were frightening — it was said resistance was weak against the enemy advance from Kaneohe. Some of the mothers talked as though they were already prisoners, but Don and Jerry vowed to take to the hills and fight to the end.
Here and there a few families stubbornly refused to evacuate. Mrs. Arthur Gardiner had no great faith in the construction of the junior officers’ duplex quarters near Makalapa, but it was home, and she wanted to be there when Lieutenant Gardiner returned. She pushed the dining room table against a wall, dragged four mattresses downstairs with the help of five-year-old Keith. She placed them strategically around the shelter and crawled in with Keith and two-year-old Susan. Keith was sick with worry and excitement but tried wonderfully to cooperate; Susan was in open rebellion and went along only when convinced it was part of a new game.
Mrs. Paul Spangler thought it might help to read to her four children as they sat in their blacked-out living room on Alewa Heights. So she rigged her coat over a floor lamp, gathered everybody around her, and picked up a book. Instantly a man was pounding on the door, shouting: “Put out that light!” She gave up and they all went to bed. Navy wife Lorraine Campbell dealt more successfully with the blackout at her home near Pearl Harbor — she turned off all the lights and put a Band-Aid on the radio dial.
Some blackout problems were insurmountable. As Allen Mau, a 12-year-old Hawaiian, tried to make cocoa for the evacuees at his home, he found he couldn’t get the milk out of the refrigerator without turning on the automatic light inside. He could get his hand in all right, but not out with the milk bottle too. Finally he went ahead anyhow … and almost lost his arm when the whole family dived at the door to shut the light off.
In the darkness many turned their thoughts to the men who had rushed off in the morning. Days would pass before most of the families heard of them again. On Tuesday Mrs. Arthur Fahrner learned that a box of chocolate bars had mysteriously appeared at a friend’s house — usually a sure sign that Sergeant Fahrner had been around. Yet she scarcely dared to hope. The following day she found out — the sergeant had been in the bakery getting bread when the Hickam mess hall was hit; he escaped without a scratch. On Wednesday Nurse Monic
a Conter still had no word of Lieutenant Benning, but she was doing her best to carry on. As she walked down the third-floor corridor of the Hickam Hospital, the elevator door opened and there he was in full combat uniform — looking even dirtier than any soldier she had seen in the movies.
It was Thursday morning when Mrs. Joseph Cote heard the chaplain call her name at the university auditorium. She slipped into the ladies’ room and prayed for the strength to bear the bad news. When she emerged, the chaplain told her Chief Cote was fine. Later that day Mrs. W. C. Wallace was back on her civilian job at Pearl Harbor, trying not to look out the window at the charred ships that depressed her so. But a familiar shadow passed the window, and she instinctively looked up — it was her husband, Ensign Wallace, last seen Sunday morning. She threw herself across the desk, halfway through the window and into his arms. Then they slipped into the first-aid shack, where no one could see them, and cried.
It wasn’t until Sunday, December 14, that Don and Jerry Morton learned their stepfather had been killed on the seaplane ramp at Ford Island by one of the first bombs to fall.
But the waiting, the gnawing uncertainty, all lay ahead. This black Sunday night the families on Oahu had other worries. In the eerie darkness, Japanese seemed to lurk behind every bush. Betty and Margo Spangler, two teenage sisters, normally slept out on the lanai, but this night they took over their mother’s bed. Mrs. W. G. Beecher got her children to sleep, lay awake herself, listening uneasily as the palm trees brushed against the side of the house. Navy wife Reiba Wallace took in a frightened single girl who insisted she heard someone on the roof. Mrs. Wallace spied a rifle in the corner, promised to shoot both the girl and herself if the Japanese came in. This was somehow reassuring; the girl calmed down, and Mrs. Wallace kept it to herself that the gun wasn’t loaded. Mrs. Patrick Gillis, a young Army wife, was sure she saw someone skulking outside her apartment house; so did the other five wives who had joined her. The police combed the grounds in vain.
The World War II Collection Page 57