Pacific Alamo

by John Wukovits

  When Goicoechea landed in San Francisco, he and George Rosandick shared a large suite arranged by Morrison-Knudsen. The company handed each man the same package that every construction worker eventually received—a check to cover immediate expenses and ration coupons to purchase clothes and food. He and Rosandick took time from their fun to visit a local military hospital for amputees, where the brother of one of their friends was being treated for serious wounds suffered at the February 1945 battle of Iwo Jima. Goicoechea had always made the best of every situation in which he found himself, whether as a student in school, a worker on Wake, or a prisoner in camp, but this trip deeply affected him. The young Marines, each one missing an arm or leg, looked at Goicoechea and Rosandick without speaking. The pair left feeling that while they had suffered their own share of hardships, others faced tribulations on a grander scale.

  Clutching a bottle of bourbon to help pass the time, Goicoechea hopped a train in April 1946 for the ride home to Boise. Back in familiar surroundings, he joined Rosandick and Kidd in their usual prewar activities, now usually accompanied by a fair amount of alcohol. For the next few months, the trio made the rounds of bars and nightclubs in the Boise area, three happy-go-lucky young men out to enjoy a life denied them for too long. None was eager to return to work; fun and games dominated the agenda. Murray Kidd claimed that after he returned to Boise and settled in with his parents, “We got our back pay and laid around and drank for two or three months.”7

  Family members guaranteed that the homecomings for the other Idahoans, J. O. Young and Forrest Read, would long be remembered. Young, still unsure of how Pearl Ann might feel after all these years and after leaving in such abrupt fashion, telephoned his family from Hawaii so they could meet him when he arrived in California. As the ship pulled into San Francisco, Young scanned the faces lining the docks for signs of Pearl Ann. Young broke into a wide grin when he saw a little blonde in a red dress. Recognizing Pearl Ann standing beside his mother, Young rushed off the ship.

  As Young barreled through the passengers to reach Pearl Ann, she waited to see whom he would first greet. Pearl Ann concluded that if Young hugged her before his mother, it meant he still loved her, but if he hugged his mother first, that would be a telltale sign that he no longer wanted to marry her. Her heart raced as Young descended the gangway toward them, rushed up, and threw himself into the arms of his fiancée. One month later, the pair married in Salt Lake City, a union that produced nine children, thirty-six grandchildren, and six great grandchildren. The two still live in Idaho, fifty-eight years after their marriage.

  Because of his injuries, Forrest Read did not return until later. He flew into San Francisco and entered a hospital with other wounded men, who peppered him with questions about the fight for Wake and his time in prison camp. Read figured that once he recovered, he could go back home and resume his life, but in the meantime he knew his family would do what it could to travel west and see him. With limited funds, however, he did not expect anything soon.

  One day as he chatted in his room with other patients, four people walked in. Read fell silent as he gazed at his mother, wife, sister, and brother-in-law. Sensing that Read wanted to be alone with his family, the other patients left, at which time the five engaged in a warm welcome. “[It was] the most wonderful day of my life to be back in their arms and knowing I would soon be going back with them to good old Idaho and our home and see my old dad.”8

  Once home, Read feasted on pies, milk shakes, and hamburgers. Within three months, his weight soared from 128 to a more normal 198, in part because of the graciousness of his neighbors. The local newspaper ran a feature story on Read which included a photograph, but since the picture was of Read during his stay in the hospital, he appeared gaunt. A torrent of neighbors and friends came by, mostly to drop off food for Read.

  Unfortunately, not every family celebrated the return of loved ones, since so many men had been killed during the battle or in captivity. Especially devastating was the tragic confusion involving the two McDonald families, both of whom had boys named Joseph on Wake. In 1942 the government notified the Reno, Nevada, family of one Joseph McDonald that their son had been killed in the 1941 battle. The Reno McDonalds held a memorial service for their son, then began the ordeal of coping with the loss of a loved one.

  Much to their shock, in 1945 the government informed them of a terrible mistake in identification. Their son had been found alive in prison camp and was headed home, while the other worker with a similar name, Joseph Thomas McDonald from Cody, Wyoming, was actually the man killed. The Reno McDonalds greeted a son they believed had died long ago, while the Cody McDonalds mourned the loss of someone they assumed had been alive.

  Controversy over Command

  A minor controversy erupted following the war over who should receive credit for guiding the 1941 Wake defense. Every war bulletin issued by the Navy Department during the battle stressed the presence of Major Devereux and the Marines while ignoring Commander Cunningham. Possibly the Navy, embarrassed over its poor showing at Pearl Harbor, did not want a Navy officer associated with what then appeared to be a second defeat in the Pacific. When the garrison surprisingly held on for two weeks and gained the admiration of the nation, the Navy could not then reverse course and credit Cunningham for something for which they did not want to blame him. Possibly the Navy Department, occupied with bringing order out of the chaos that existed after Pearl Harbor, simply either did not know Cunningham had arrived at Wake—he reached the atoll only a few days before the battle—or forgot he had been stationed there.

  From the battle’s earliest days, Major Devereux and the Marines received the lion’s share of praise, in the national publications, from President Roosevelt, and throughout the military. When Lieutenants Kinney and McAlister returned from their successful escape attempt and read the accounts of the battle, they could hardly believe the descriptions. Where, they wondered, was mention of Commander Cunningham? The Marines deserved the praise they received, but so did Cunningham. “Although I certainly did not intend to take any well-deserved credit away from Major Devereux, I remained baffled by the apparent neglect of Cunningham’s role,”9 Kinney wrote in his autobiography. When Kinney asked a group of reporters why that happened, they explained that when they inquired at the Navy Department in 1941 about the identity of the superior commander at Wake, they were told that a navy commander had been assigned, but that they did not know if he had yet arrived. Major Devereux’s name was then mentioned as commander of the defense battalion, and from that time on his name, for lack of any other, occupied top position.

  Even President Roosevelt, who loved the Navy as much as anyone, unwittingly lent credence to the belief that Wake was strictly a Marine show with his presidential unit citation of January 1942. He praised the Marines in general, and Devereux and Putnam specifically, in the proclamation, while never once referring to Commander Cunningham. If ever a president would fight to preserve the honor of the Navy, that man would be President Roosevelt, but his omission produced more adulation for the Marines.

  Hollywood’s production, Wake Island, added more luster to the Marine legend. While the film included a naval commander at Wake, the character played no prominent part in the battle and was wounded in the first air raid, opening the door for the Marine commander to take charge over the entire atoll.

  The controversy heightened with the 1946 publication of Major Devereux’s account of the battle, first in a four-part series in the Saturday Evening Post and then the next year with the appearance of his book. Devereux took credit for running Wake’s defenses, which was accurate, but also downplayed Cunningham’s role. Since Devereux beat everyone else to the market, his version of events registered first with readers, while subsequent volumes, including Cunningham’s own in 1961, had to contend with the rendition already established by Devereux.

  The top civilian leader at Wake, Dan Teters, rushed to Cunningham’s defense. Already angry that Devereux had not given much credi
t to the civilian volunteers in his book, Teters wrote to Cunningham, saying that he knew the naval officer commanded the atoll and he did not understand why Devereux basked in the limelight while Cunningham wallowed in the background.

  Every man who served at Wake, civilian and military, can recite the chain of command—as superior officer Cunningham commanded the atoll, and Major Devereux, his subordinate, handled the defense battalion. As top officer in the defense battalion, however, Devereux called the shots on most military matters, including issuing the December 11 order to hold fire until the Japanese ships had drawn in. The Marines rarely, if ever, saw Cunningham or waited for his orders—they had no need to, for Major Devereux handled their affairs.

  Both Cunningham and Devereux deserve praise for the outstanding performance at Wake, but must bear blame for the miserable manner in which they demeaned the memory of Wake with their postwar bickering. Instead of sharing accolades, each tried to claim the greater portion for himself. Cunningham insisted he thought of drawing in the Japanese on December 11, yet no Marine stationed inside Deverux’s command post remembered Cunningham contacting the Marine. Pfc. James King, who manned the switchboard in Devereux’s command post that day, stated that any communication from Cunningham to Devereux would have come through him, and he never received a call from the naval officer concerning the tactic—Devereux alone handled that responsibility. On the other hand, on December 23, Devereux smoothly attempted to sidestep the question of surrender by nudging Cunningham into issuing the order. The Wake defenders, as well as the families of both officers, deserved better than this.

  “Absolutely Foreign to Me”

  The Wake defenders faced assimilation into a society they had not experienced in four years. Adjustments to postwar conditions, in the nation as well as with their families, took time.

  “I am making every effort to bring myself back to the life that now presents itself before me,” wrote civilian Rodney Kephart to his mother on September 17, 1945, shortly after he had been liberated from camp. “After the three years and nine months of slavery, torture, and starvation one is a little slow of thought and ignorant of the up-to-date things of life. I have found in the last 24 hours, from listening to the radio, many things mentioned that are absolutely foreign to me.”10 New world figures replaced deposed or deceased leaders; new songs, movies, and books occupied spots once held by old familiars; new automobiles and household appliances offered luxuries unheard of in 1941.

  No two men experienced the process in similar fashion. Corporal Marvin could not accept that people could be so nice to him; he half expected someone to suddenly start shouting at him or beating him. Private First Class Sanders realized the country had changed more than he thought when he boarded a bus with a female driver at the helm, a position once the exclusive domain of males. Just before Christmas, Private First Class Gatewood traveled to his brother-in-law’s home for a celebration. As he talked to relatives, a loud series of explosions produced panic in the Marine. “The kids were firing firecrackers, and I was about ready to crawl under every car in town.”11 Gatewood needed almost a year before daily noises, which reminded him of the barrages and bombings at Wake, failed to bother him.

  Corporal Johnson had to become accustomed to again hearing everyone speak English instead of Chinese or Japanese. After years of being fenced in, Johnson also took frequent walks about his old neighborhood, enjoying the freedom of movement as much as the reminiscing the treks caused.

  Many prisoners worried that either they had so changed, or that their nation, occupations, and families had been so altered that they could not successfully readjust to civilian life. In the peacefulness at home, could the former prisoners rapidly shift gears and drop the defenses accumulated during captivity?

  Guilt hounded some men. Though society recognized survivors of Japanese prison camps as heroes, the men themselves often did not. Some ex-prisoners of war hated to admit that they had surrendered to the enemy, even if it had been unavoidable, or suffered remorse that they had survived when other prisoners succumbed.

  Many of the men thus kept their emotions tightly bottled inside. Family and friends could not hope to understand what the men had endured, so the men did not talk much about their ordeal, at least in the early years.

  Even popular books and movies about prison camps, such as Stalag 17, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and The Great Escape, tossed an additional burden at the men. Most cast the American captives as fun-loving, brash soldiers who constantly harassed the enemy and continually tried to escape. While truth existed in this image, it was far from reality. The majority of men had simply tried to remain alive and outlast the war. When people at home asked what camp was like, though, they expected an answer similar to what they read in books or saw at the movies.

  A sizable number showed the symptoms of what is now called posttraumatic stress disorder—frequent nightmares, flashbacks to prison camp, depression, and anger. Government studies indicated that while 25 percent of all veterans suffered from the disorder, almost 90 percent of ex-POWs battled the malady. Wake Island defenders were no exception.

  While government programs assist service personnel today, none existed in 1945. Former prisoners of war were questioned, given food and clothing, and then sent on their way. Instead of sharing their burdens with psychiatrists, World War 11 prisoners had to handle the situation on their own and with the support of loved ones.

  One prisoner recalled, “Nobody helped us with our transition to civilian life. The U.S. Army retrained its guard dogs, but there were no programs for us POWs. I guess your family was supposed to be your psychiatrist.”12

  Rather than offer support, the government adopted a hard stance. Most ex-POWs, especially those from Japanese camps, suffered from heart and liver problems, diminished eyesight, and nervous disorders, but the Veterans Administration (VA) would not pay for treatment unless the men could prove a service-related connection. Since no records existed from prison camp, the men faced a difficult task.

  Gradually, assistance trickled in. By 1949, the government agreed to pay ex-POWs two dollars for each day of confinement in prison camps. After the Vietnam War, when many POWs wrote accounts and spoke out about their suffering, the government’s views softened. In 1985, Congress created the Prisoner of War Medal to honor that forgotten group.

  While the assistance that the military and civilians received from their government proved erratic, the help they gained from one another more than compensated. They formed an organization, the Defenders of Wake Island, which holds annual reunions and publishes a newsletter, the Wake Island Wig-Wag. At the reunions, the veterans, accompanied by family and friends, share war stories, laughs, and a few drinks, and in the process help make a traumatic experience bearable. Some at first scoffed at the notion that they might have been affected by the war, but they came to the reunions and gradually learned that every man had, in some way, been changed.

  Lieutenant Hanna, subsequently promoted to colonel, wanted to forget all about the war and move on with his life. He did not start talking about the era until he attended his first reunion of the Wake Island Marines in the 1970s. There, again amidst fellow soldiers who endured the same tribulations and thus could empathize with him, Hanna opened up. “After talking to the boys who had been in prison with me, that did more good than anything else. Eventually I told my family everything.”13

  Joe Goicoechea mentioned little to his family, but attended reunions of the civilians for the comradeship and feelings of solidarity. Reunions helped John Rogge discuss his experiences because he knew “that they understood you. I have talked to neighbors and my children, but I’m wasting my breath”14 because they cannot possibly understand his ordeal.

  Corporal Marvin remained silent until his children entered high school, when they started asking him about World War II, and for many years Private First Class Gatewood shared his thoughts only with his brother. He agreed to talk to the rest of his family only after his youngest son viewed
the Steven Spielberg movie, Saving Private Ryan, and told his father, “I know that you went through more than Private Ryan did.”15 Father and son started chatting, and gradually Gatewood related the entire story.

  After viewing the same movie, one of Murray Kidd’s grandchildren called him and cried, “Oh, Papa, you were in that kind of war!” When another of Kidd’s grandchildren celebrated his eighteenth birthday, Kidd’s daughter mentioned to Mrs. Kidd that the grandson was the same age as her father when he traveled to Wake. “It makes you think of what Murray experienced at such a young age,” said Mrs. Kidd. “They were young kids.”16

  While Murray Kidd discussed the Wake story with few family members, he realized the impact the Japanese had had on his family, both good and bad. He lost some of the finest years in his life; he tolerated hunger and illness and pain; he watched fellow Americans die. Yet he also saw how the nobler side, in this case from an enemy soldier named Tada who warned Kidd to leave Wake, allowed him to return and start his family. “Tada saved my life. Because he did that,” Kidd asserted as he swept his hand in the direction of photos adorning his family room, “all these pictures are here.”17 A small friendship struck in hard times led to images of five grandchildren and three great-grandchildren adorning an Idaho wall.

  Many family and friends assumed they already knew some of what their relative had experienced, for they had seen Hollywood’s popular wartime movie about Wake a few years previous. When Wake Island veterans attended screenings of the film, though, they did not know whether to laugh about the movie’s absurdities or cry over its inaccuracies. Lieutenant Hanna felt it had no bearing with reality, and Private Laporte saw so many discrepancies in the uniforms, vehicles, and actions that he branded the version “far out in left field.” Major Devereux believed the movie cast Dan Teters in a poor manner by having his character feud with the Marines, something he never did on Wake, and Corporal Holewinski thought the film was “far-fetched and far from the truth.”18