Pacific Alamo

by John Wukovits

  The remarkable woman, who collected quite an audience when she headed to the lagoon in her enticing swimsuit for her daily swim, reveled in the attention the men gave her. In return, she adopted them as her boys. She helped arrange baseball games and boxing matches among the civilians and military, and after some of the Navy personnel designed an elaborate barbecue for her use, she hosted parties for the young naval officers.

  Florence Teters’s stunning looks gained men’s initial attention, but when they got to know her better, they were even more impressed with her toughness. Her husband used a small room in which he confined men who committed minor offenses. When some workers complained about the unfairness of being placed in such a tiny room in Wake’s heat and humidity, Mrs. Teters locked herself in for an entire day to prove she could take it. No man, especially a hardy construction worker, could object from then on.

  While the civilians and Marines settled into their lives on Wake, events in the distant western Pacific threatened to disturb the region’s stability. The first occurred when President Roosevelt learned of Japan’s advance into French Indochina, south of China. Since Hitler had defeated France and the Netherlands, and appeared ready to knock Great Britain out of the war, Japan saw an opportunity to seize European possessions in the Pacific and gain control of their valuable resources. In September 1940, the Japanese signed the Tripartite Pact with Germany and Italy. The agreement bound each party to declare war on any nation that joined the war against one of the three. The three hoped this alliance would deter the United States from entering the conflict.

  Japan then applied pressure on a weakened France into allowing it to place troops in Indochina. While the Japanese claimed that the forces were necessary to protect their southern flank in China, Japan was actually more interested in obtaining Indochina’s vast natural resources and possessing a base from which to push southward against British-held Burma and Malaya.

  From the White House, President Roosevelt viewed these movements with alarm. When Japanese troops moved into Indochina in July 1941, President Roosevelt cut off all trade with Japan, including the crucial flow of oil that kept the Japanese military machine in motion. He promised to maintain the embargo until Japan withdrew from both China and Indochina and renounced the Tripartite Pact.

  In light of Roosevelt’s orders curtailing the oil, Japanese leaders could follow one of two paths. They could reach a settlement with the United States and reopen the supply line from that nation, or they could continue their present policy of overseas expansion and risk war with the United States. The leaders had to determine which course to adopt and how best to implement it.

  As the Japanese continued to threaten the peace, Roosevelt tried to better prepare his forces. Among the steps was one possibility that no one liked to consider, but it had to be confronted because of the serious manpower shortage at Wake. On August 26, 1941, shortly after the arrival of Hohn’s group of Marines, the commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, Adm. Husband E. Kimmel, wrote to Secretary Stark of his relief that at last, a military presence had been established at Wake. Recognizing the meagerness of this force, however, Kimmel suggested that should the need for more men arise due to a Japanese attack, Hohn might consider using the civilian workers, whose roster included a number of ex–service men.

  Four months before war opened, the shorthanded military had already started including the unaware civilians in their plans. Goicoechea, Kidd, Rosandick, and the Marines had little time remaining to enjoy peacetime life.

  “All Hell Broke Loose!”

  A jarring notice that conditions in the Pacific had changed occurred on October 9, 1941, when thirty-eight-year-old Maj. James P. S. Devereux stepped onto the island as the new Marine commanding officer to replace the departing Hohn. With him came a disturbing sense of urgency.

  Devereux traced his roots back to the Norman Conquest of England, when his French ancestors fought for the conquering Norman side. After being attracted to the Marine Corps by its flashy uniforms, Devereux enlisted as a private in 1923. Because he exhibited command potential during boot camp, Devereux entered officer candidate’s school and earned a commission as second lieutenant on February 19, 1925. Stints in Nicaragua, Cuba, and China alternated with domestic assignments and gave Devereux superb training in command.

  Before leaving Pearl Harbor to take up his post at Wake, Devereux talked with Lt. Col. Omar T. Pfeiffer, Assistant Operations Officer on Adm. Husband E. Kimmel’s staff, and Col. Harry Pickett, coordinator of the defense battalions being posted to the Pacific. The discussion bothered Devereux, for it suggested that Wake would be seriously undermanned and short of essential equipment for the immediate future. The staff officers admitted that the men on Wake were not strong enough to repel any significant invasion attempt, but they also disclosed that apart from a few more Marines and some extra supplies, Devereux should expect little additional help for a few months. When Devereux asked what he was supposed to do with inadequate men and supplies should a Japanese assault force suddenly appear, Pfeiffer and Pickett answered that he and his men “were expected to do the best we could.”12

  Sent off with those discomforting words, Devereux recalled the last conversation he had with his brother, Ashton, before heading to the Pacific. When Ashton asked what might happen to Devereux, the officer replied, “Your guess is as good as mine—but I’ll probably wind up eating fish and rice.”13

  Devereux’s apprehensions deepened when he landed at Wake and saw how poorly his men and the gun positions were prepared for war. Few of the 3-inch or 5-inch guns had been completely emplaced, and he had barely one machine gun with which to defend each quarter mile of beach. Even worse, until additional Marines poured in from Hawaii, he could not even man every gun. Finally, he exploded when he learned that because his Marines had to unload ships and take fuel to Army bombers, they had no time to practice on their guns. “Frankly, it did not make sense to me,” he wrote in his memoirs. “None of my men was ground crew personnel. We were artillerymen—that was why we were on Wake Island—but the gasoline business did not leave us much time to work at our trade.”14

  The major, racing the clock to finish his island defenses before the Japanese attacked, quickly altered life for his Marines. Where the construction workers had Teters, the Marines turned to Devereux. The wiry major, who so meticulously planned details that a fellow officer said, “He’s the kind of guy who would put all the mechanized aircraft detectors into operation and then station a man with a spyglass in a tall tree”15 in case the detectors failed, quickly had his men laboring twelve-hour days, seven days a week to complete the defenses on Wake.

  Devereux turned to his task with a fury, intending to transform this first line of defense in the Pacific into a bastion that could punish any approaching force. “When Devereux came out there, all hell broke loose!” mentioned Corporal Gross. “He evidently had orders to get those guns in, so we worked seven days a week. Before that, I’m not sure we even worked on Saturday.”16

  His style alienated many Marines. Corporal Holewinski encountered Devereux back in San Diego. The major spotted Holewinski and another Marine walking along without their hats. Normally the infraction would not bother anyone, but Devereux was not one to let a small detail escape notice. He stopped the pair and ordered them to put their hats on.

  More than a few recalled Devereux’s tendency in previous posts to use a white glove during Saturday morning inspections to search for dust on top of their lockers, or his attempts to catch men gambling. He believed parades and other military traditions built discipline, while his men contended it created animosity. Devereux could be so stringent on military conformity that the Marines contended that his initials—JPS—stood for “Just Plain Shit.”

  But the man could run an outfit. He might be detested by his men, but their hatred was tinged with reluctant admiration that Devereux commanded things the way an officer was supposed to. Corporal Gross claimed Devereux was “a good leader. He was s
trict, he kept us in line, and he wasn’t going to let any guys resort to anything below being a Marine. He ran a tight ship.”17

  Intentions are noble, but they must be backed with men, weapons, and supplies, and here Devereux suffered. In addition to lacking enough men and equipment, bomb shelters to protect promised aircraft lay incomplete, and Wake’s airstrip, meant to house a squadron of Marine fighters, stood empty. Instead of radar to give the defenders advance warning of attack, the island’s early-warning system consisted of a man with a pair of binoculars standing on an observation post atop a water tower. World War I–vintage communications wires connected the different outposts, and no one knew how long the frayed and outdated material would last. Usually, when all else failed in the Marines, the men could always count on using their rifles. Not at Wake. At least seventy-five men lacked weapons because the military had yet to ship enough to the outpost.

  The situation improved a bit by the end of October, when another contingent of 203 Marines, under Maj. George H. Potter Jr., joined their cohorts on Wake. Shortly after that, six Army enlisted personnel under Sgt. Ernest G. Rogers arrived to man a radio station to help guide the B-17 bombers flying in.

  Though the men on Wake did not realize it, they were running out of time. Tension between Japan and the United States heightened on October 15, when a cabinet led by Gen. Hideki Tojo replaced the more moderate government of Prince Fumimaro Konoye. With a more militaristic group of men in Tokyo, Roosevelt knew his chances of avoiding war had sharply diminished.

  Two days later Rear Admiral Claude C. Bloch, the military officer supervising the construction on Wake, fired off a message stating that because of the serious international situation with Japan, the island should go on alert status. Devereux contacted Teters about the procedure they would follow in the event of war, and the two agreed that the civilians would handle transportation and feeding of the military to free every possible member of the military for defense tasks.

  Japanese military leaders wasted little time. They agreed that if diplomats could not convince President Roosevelt to lift the embargo on oil and other products by the first week in November, they would start their operations against the United States and the European powers. They had only enough oil reserves to last about one year, and poorer weather after December would impede proposed landings on the Malay Peninsula and in the Philippines. While negotiations continued through the month of November, the military would quietly prepare for war.

  Japanese diplomats informed their American counterparts that if Roosevelt resumed oil shipments to Japan, the nation would halt her military action in Indochina. Alerted by decoded intercepts that Japanese troops were already embarking on transports for shipment to the Dutch East Indies and Southeast Asia, Roosevelt spurned the proposal. In late November, Secretary of State Cordell Hull informed Roosevelt and his cabinet that diplomacy could not settle the issue and that military action would probably be required.

  With their attempt to negotiate failing, the Japanese turned to their military as the only way to seize the needed resources and avoid being economically strangled.

  Back on Wake, Devereux instituted more steps to strengthen Wake. He ordered ammunition sent to every gun position and had two cases of rifle ammunition placed in each tent in case his men had to fight their way out to their positions.

  To help ease their manpower shortage, the military turned to the civilian workforce. Rear Adm. Claude C. Bloch, commandant of the Fourteenth Naval District out of Pearl Harbor, had earlier sent Major Hohn a notice that, “If we should be so unfortunate as to become involved in hostilities and your island is attacked, it will call for the combined efforts of everybody to beat off the attack.”18

  This thinly veiled suggestion that the undermanned Marines might have to rely on the untrained civilians made an impression on Hohn, who posted a bulletin in Camp 2 asking for volunteers to train with the Marines. When 165 men gathered, including Joe Goicoechea and George Rosandick, Platoon Sergeant Wright and Gunner Hamas showed the men how to fire .30-caliber machine guns, belt ammunition, and other basic military tasks. Most civilians treated the experience as a pleasant diversion from their construction work and as an opportunity to obtain some precious Marine beer. Few, if any, believed they would ever have to use the skills in actual combat.

  “We had fun learning how to use the weapons,” stated Goicoechea. “Corporal Gross, who taught us how to use a machine gun, kept saying he hoped he had a chance to use it on the Japanese soon. I reminded him of that later on.”19

  Devereux continued the practice when he assumed command. In November, more than two hundred civilians appeared for the training, an increase that pleased the major but hardly reassured him of the value of their contribution should fighting erupt. The volunteers committed the mistakes any neophyte could be expected to make, and those occurred in calm conditions without an enemy rushing toward them. How would they react in actual combat? He was concerned, too, that only 17 percent of the civilians bothered to volunteer. Why didn’t more show up?

  After another alert in November, Devereux inquired whether he should immediately institute the plan he and Teters developed. He waited for two days before hearing from Bloch that he need not put any civilians into defensive positions. This response, plus the slowness with which he received it, convinced Devereux war was not likely to break out anytime soon.

  The pace of events quickened as the days went by. In the second week of November, Devereux hosted special Japanese envoy Saburo Kurusu, then on his way to Washington to meet with Roosevelt over the current situation. The Wake Wig Wag reported that Kurusu’s mission might determine whether they soon went to war or enjoyed more peaceful days on Wake.

  The envoy agreed with that declaration. Before boarding the Clipper to fly across the Pacific, he told his son that should he not return from the mission, he was to take over family affairs.

  When Kurusu arrived and met Devereux, he wondered if he had to remain in the Pan Am hotel to maintain secrecy of the military facilities. A properly formal Devereux responded, “No, sir, but you understand how these things are. None of the passengers may leave the vicinity of the hotel without special permission.”20

  They then adjourned to the hotel, where Kurusu shared drinks for over an hour with Devereux and other military officers. The envoy paid for every drink and told Devereux that he intended to do what he could to prevent a war. The Americans gradually warmed to the Japanese envoy, who was married to an American, and hoped he could achieve success in Washington.

  Should Kurusu fail, the Japanese military intended to be ready. On November 17, as Kurusu winged his way across the Pacific to Washington, Japanese carriers weighed anchor and headed toward a secret rendezvous. Actions had been set in motion for the start of war, both in Hawaii and on Wake.

  As hostilities drew closer, the military and construction workers lived in blissful ignorance of what awaited them. Many believed the Japanese would not dare come so far eastward. Others boasted that the U.S. Navy would sink any Japanese ship that left Japanese waters. Most, however, shrugged and went about their daily schedules.

  Both civilians and military received an unsettling indication in November, when Secretary of the Navy Knox ordered Mrs. Teters to leave Wake. Dan Teters tried to convince Devereux that his wife should remain on the atoll, but the Marine officer agreed with Knox that the situation demanded her removal. In the middle of November, Mrs. Teters kissed her husband good-bye, stepped aboard the Clipper, and departed for Hawaii.

  For the Wake personnel watching from a distance, the sight of the comely blonde disappearing into the airplane was comparable to a thirsty man seeing his final drops of water evaporate. Not only was their sole connection to beauty and womanhood now gone, but the reality of war loomed larger, as well. Dan Teters, who had always gone out of his way to help make life bearable on Wake for the construction workers, would never allow his wife to remain if she were imperiled, and here she was, leaving Wake. Mrs. Teters later s
aid, “I think they realized then that they were in for it. They figured that as long as I was allowed to stay on the island things couldn’t be so bad.”21

  Back in Pearl Harbor, another man prepared to take his post at Wake Island. Since Wake’s primary function was to provide a seaplane base and a naval airfield, as soon as enough facilities had been built, a naval commander was to be placed in charge. Comdr. Winfield S. Cunningham, a graduate of the Naval Academy Class of 1921 and an aviator, received orders to take over on Wake, with Major Devereux reverting to handling the Marines.

  The orders surprised Cunningham, who had been previously told he was headed for another Pacific outpost, Johnston Island. He told a friend he did not mind the move, because “It beats Johnston. Wake has trees.” The friend agreed, but reminded Cunningham “it’s also about fifteen hundred miles closer to Japan.”22 Even so, his discussions with superiors in Pearl Harbor went so routinely—the possibility of war was never even mentioned—that Cunningham packed his golf clubs in case he could squeeze in some practice.

  The modest man arrived so quietly on Wake on November 28 that many Marines had no idea he was there. Cunningham met with Devereux and Navy Lt. Comdr. Elmer B. Greey, the officer in charge of military construction, then unpacked in one of the three cottages for officers and dignitaries that stood near the beach at Camp 2. Afterwards, he intended to make an inspection of the island’s defenses.