Pearl Harbor: Up Close and Very Personal

by John G. Doll

History is nothing more than the telling of stories—stories from the past that are based solely on fact but stories nonetheless. How they are told is simply a function of how skilled the historian might be. I am an amateur historian—simply because I do not hold an advanced degree in the subject—but the following story is some­thing that I participated in and that makes it very personal.

Over the many years since Sunday, 7 December 1941, when the Japanese made a massive surprise attack on United States military and naval units located in and around Pearl Harbor, I have read and studied innumerable official accounts as to what actually took place. Many of these stories have been prepared by highly skilled and academic­ally qualified professional military and naval historians who could easily describe just what it was that they were either doing or were charged with doing. I’m sure that each of these stories were just as accurate as the teller of the tale could make it but none of the stories ever really matched the memories that I have emblazoned in my mind, since I, too, was actually there at the exact time of the attack.

Although I am now old enough to qualify for “senior citizen rates,” I am not as yet what I would consider to be a grizzled old veteran who might have served on a ship in the harbor or in a coast artil­lery battery on shore. At the time, I was nothing more than an extremely young Army brat who was just eight years old. In fact, that very day was my actual eighth birthday!

My father was a Regular Army officer, at that time one of the cadre assigned to the 25th Infantry Division, a result of the reorgan­ization of the old Hawaiian Division. He was a captain, commanding A Company, 1st Battalion, 299th Infantry Regiment, an activated National Guard unit that had been mobilized in early 1940 and which had been augmented by a good many Regular Army officers and NCOs. The regiment was then stationed at Schofield Barracks, just about 18 miles northwest of Honolulu.

He and, of course, all of the rest of the family, had recently been transferred to Hawaii after a tour with the Philippine Scouts in the Philippine Islands. (Thank you, gods of the personnel system!) He, my mother, an English “pre-war” bride (who was then great with child), my younger sister and myself, lived on post in a seven-room cottage on “Officers Row.” Supporting this small family was the usual detail of civilian servants (a cook, a maid, a house boy and a yard boy) all to tend to our every need. This was the real epitome of all pre-war Regular Army housing—if you were an officer.

At the same time (and by absolutely unbelievable coincidence) my uncle, a Regular Navy lieutenant, junior grade, and Dad’s younger brother, was also on duty in Hawaii, assigned aboard the U.S.S. Arizona as a scout plane pilot. (He later went on to be a captain and the pilot of the first helicopter to ever be landed on the lawn of the White House.) There is no way that I could ever try to explain the details of the friendly rivalry that always existed between these two military sons of a German silversmith who had immigrated to the United States in his early years.

As a birthday present that very special year, my uncle had invited me (along with his older brother, my father) to come aboard his ship for breakfast in the wardroom. For my father, I’m sure that the invitation was something he could have easily passed on but for me it was an entirely different world. I could hardly wait!

Since we lived quite a way outside of the area of Pearl Harbor (and Battleship Row), and my uncle actually lived aboard his ship, it was decided that my father and I would join my uncle in Honolulu and then go on to his ship from there.

Keep in mind that a pre-war Army captain (especially one who was a Regular Army company commander) was a rather powerful individual. In fact, Dad even had his own car and driver since in those days, as an officer, it was definitely considered to be “bad form” to be seen driving yourself, no matter what the circumstances might be.

On that fateful Sunday morning, an obviously bored Army private showed up at our home on officer’s row in a khaki-colored sedan to pick us up and then transport us to downtown Honolulu and ultimately to dockside, for transportation to the U.S.S. Arizona.

Since at that time most of the Hawaiian Islands were nothing more than a major support center for all of the many Army and Navy installations located there and to the officers and men assigned to them, seeing an Army sedan with an officer and a small child in the backseat was not a surprising sight to see by anyone, civilian or military.

In 1941, a large and very popular civilian flying club was using some of the facilities of Hickam Field for their regular weekend activities. This included a usual Sunday morning exhibition of what they considered to be acrobatic flying. Since many people thought that this was a great way to spend a Sunday morning, you could always count on a small crowd watching these amateur pilots doing their thing. Because of this, my father and his brother had decided to rendezvous at the control tower and then watch the antics for a while before heading for the pier.

As I recall, we met just in front of the tower which was a typical military building of the time. Fanning out from the front door at about 45 degree angles were two small wing walls that were used to not only try to enhance the appearance of the front of the building but also to hide the drainage ditches that were always a necessary evil in that part of the world. When we got there, my father and his brother went inside the opera­tions center to phone ahead to the ship. My uncle wanted to let the chief steward know that we would be just a little late and to be sure to save some breakfast for us. It sure seemed like the thing to do at the time.

For me, left sitting on one of the walls outside, dangling my feet and watching the civilian planes flying overhead was a great way to spend a birthday. Since my father’s driver (probably about eighteen or nineteen years old but more than an adult in my mind) was with me, and since all he had to do was sit there and enjoy a cigarette or two, I’m sure that he must have felt almost the same way.

There we were, just the two of us, a very young Army private and an even younger kid, both sitting on the cement wall, and gawking up into the sky, watching a bunch of what were obviously very wealthy civilians playing games with their very expensive toys. But this idyllic scene came quickly to a sudden and screeching halt.

I heard what sounded like many sirens all going off at the same time, but at that time they were sounds that were rather normal for any Navy base since, as far as I was concerned, they were always doing strange things like that. I looked around to see what might be happening and saw my father and my uncle come racing out of the screened door of the control tower. Even at that young age, all I could think of was, “What the hell are they both doing?”

Dad came running right at me, just like the former football player that he was, stiff-armed his driver so that he fell backwards over the wall on which we were sitting, grabbed me under his other arm and leaped over the wall and into the drainage ditch after his driver. Just as I was going over the wall (backward, of course), I saw a very large gas storage tank at the far end of the runway explode! From then on, normal life went downhill to hell at an unbelievable breakneck speed and in a very cheap hand basket.

I still don’t remember very much about what happened for the next few minutes other than my father was lying on top of me (something that I couldn’t understand) and screaming at his brother and driver to keep their damn heads down. Finally, after what certainly seemed to me to be an eternity, he dragged me up to the very edge of the wing wall, paused just long enough to check out the surrounding area, and then—with me still tucked securely under his arm—took off for what was the secure rear of the control tower where his military vehicle was still located. Right behind him came his driver. Obviously, they were both more than a little anxious to get back to their unit.

Right behind us and running just as fast and with just as much per­sonal effort was his brother. He, too, was just as equally anxious to get back to his ship. Such were the efforts of just about every professional military man then stationed in Hawaii—they had to get to their duty stations. After that moment, everything seemed to have the speed of the current and ever popular “fast forward.”

I really can’t remember everything that really happened next but my uncle just seemed to disappear. Actually, he had grabbed a ride on the back of a motorcycle being driven by a young sailor who was also trying to get back to the dock area of Battleship Row. Meanwhile, the Army sedan in which Dad and I were then riding, seemed to take wings and made the trip back to Schofield at the speed of light. It was one hell of a ride especially since the Japanese planes still in the area were then strafing anything that was moving. More than once, I was thrown on the floor and ordered to cover my head with my hands—a lot of good that would have done.

Also, I noticed more than one very large hole in our car before we finally got back to our house, holes that were not there at the start of the morning. These just could not have happened by pure accident—such as hitting a tree limb. However, I do remember hearing some very strange noises at various times as we raced back to our quarters—sounds that I have since heard again as rounds came racing through the skin of a helicopter. Nothing ever seems to change.

I do remember us racing through the main gate of the fort without even stopping for the MPs on duty—something that was certainly another major first.

The actual first stop that the car made, and the one at which I was certainly and very unceremoniously “dumped,” was at our home, the quarters where my mother had already proved that she was a true pro­fessional Army wife.

When we rushed into the cottage, our old and very heavy oak dining room table had already been converted into a makeshift bomb shelter simply by covering it with every mattress in the house. [As an aside, this table, now cut-down to coffee table height, is still in the family.] Also by then, every possible container in the house was filled with fresh water. Huddled under the table were a multi­tude of people including my mother, my sister, and several of our female military dependent neighbors, all of whom were just waiting to see what would happen next.

I was quickly added to that detail and my father, still in his class A uniform (complete to Sam Brown belt), left to get back to the men in his company. It was the last time we saw him until several weeks after the start of the new year.

Those of us who had no such strict military duties that were either demanding our full attention or just waiting in the wings to do so, quickly adjusted to the total military curfew that was slapped on the islands. Everyone with any sense of what might possibly happen next certainly anticipated a large and very violent Japanese ground invasion force to be soon sighted, sailing into Pearl Harbor—and at just about any moment.

All of the professional military families quickly gathered the most vital of survival items—passports, minimum clothes, some food and any money that could be attached to or hidden on the human body. We had been the same route before and, even as an inconsequential minor, by then I could sense the necessity of making up the biggest of packages in the smallest of bundles. Especially since I knew that whatever it turned out to be, I would be the one to have to carry it.

So there we all sat, my mother (about six months pregnant), my younger sister, three young wives of officers in Dad’s company, two of their children, and me. What a handful. And sit we did because keep in mind that by then it was probably between 10 and 11 in the morning. The day had hardly begun when we were at total war.

Within an hour or two, enlisted military runners were banging on the doors of all of the officers’ quarters to inform all of the depen­dents as to just what was now officially expected of them. For our family, we were simply told to sit tight, not to show any lights at night, and just wait until the command structure could finally come up with enough time to try to figure out what to do with us.

Because of more than a few past experiences, my mother always main­tained a large closet that she kept full of canned food and bottled water so we knew that we would not go hungry. In fact, she had more than enough to not only feed all of us but also all of the young wives and children of the other officers in my father’s company who were all looking to her for guidance.

Very quickly this messing arrangement grew to include several other families who were not as well organized but who were also quartered in the same area. This has always been a big thing with her because she felt that being about six years older than any of the others, it was her responsibility to take charge. Also, after having been “in the Army” for all of ten years by then, she felt that she was senior and it was the proper thing to do.

By the end of that first week, we had all had more than our fill of Spam and beans. Also, all of the children in the area were getting just a little bit of cabin fever. The adults that I can remember were all more than supportive of us but—as with anything—nerves and tempers were starting to wear very thin. If this was war, where was all of the activity that should have been a part of it?

After a little over twenty-four hours of this forced “camping out,” myself and two other young boys then taking shelter in our home grew more than rather restless.

Sitting around, doing nothing and just waiting for something to happen was not very interesting or entertaining. Before the second day was over, the three of us were wandering around the fort, dodging the many trucks that were still moving off post to the many sites where the troops were then manning defensive positions. Sometimes, as we walked in areas that were very familiar to us, we were chased off, first by the soldiers who were working there and then by members of the Military Police.

Despite that, on that first day on the loose, we ran around for a few hours before we finally returned to my house. For the next few days this was our routine. We would individually sneak out of the house and meet in the bushes behind our garden shed. From there, we would first make a pass by the company area, visiting first the orderly room to see if there were any news, and then move across the corridor to the mess hall where there was always someone on duty and from whom we could always beg a breakfast or a snack, especially since my father was the company commander. From there we would wander around the barracks quadrangle, looking at the scars on the buildings that had been caused by bullets from the Japanese Zeros that had strafed the area on 7 December.

By that time, many sand-bagged anti-aircraft gun positions were spread throughout the area. Also, there were many of them sited on the roofs of the barracks. Although we made many attempts to get up there, we were never successful in getting up the last ladder that led to the roof and the gun sites.

We were, however, able to collect many pockets full of expended brass shells that were still laying around on the ground. These were the results of the small amount of defensive firing that had taken place on the decisive Sunday morning.

Finally, at about 1000 hours on Sunday 14 December, one of the married platoon leaders in Dad’s company showed up at our home. He had been ordered by my father to come back up the hill to Schofield to let everyone know what was happening—especially his wife. He arrived at our doorstep, made the official three-knock rap, saluted and then actually reported in to my mother. Such was the chain of command at the time.

She immediately sent me and two other boys to round up as many families in the company (both officer and enlisted) as possible. She wanted everyone to hear the same thing at the same time. How’s that for standard military organization?

The “briefing” was conducted from our side porch with all of the dependents sitting on the grass in our yard. I do remember that the lieutenant told us that the company was well dug-in, someplace overlooking a beach (I can’t remember where), was equally well supplied and in very good spirits. This was really the turning point in what we all went through. From then on, the problems of all of the mili­tary dependents got considerably better, with most of us being rapidly and certainly unceremoniously ordered to prepare to be shipped out back to the States. However, that did take more than a decent interval to actually happen.

My father finally trudged into our quarters more than three weeks after the war started. He was very dirty, very tired, and more than just a little bit concerned for all of us. He had just a few hours and then had to rush back to where his company was located. How­ever, he did have time to take a shower, change his uniform, pack some clean clothes to take with him and eat some eggs and Spam.

A few days later, things started to take on a degree of normalcy since some of the support sections of the company, the battalion and the division returned to Schofield. Dad’s first sergeant then became the contact between all of the families and the men. Within a week or so after that, the platoons began a rotation routine be­tween where they were and the permanent barracks at Schofield. It was almost as if they were all on a prolonged field exercise, some­thing that all of us were more than well used to.

So that’s the story of 7 December 1941, the attack on Pearl Harbor, and the start of World War II, from at least one young (certainly at that time) civilian’s memory.

Life never got any easier for all of us who were waiting for orders shipping us out but at least we knew what was happening in our small world. From then on we all went through a maze of red tape as part of the overall process of getting out of the way of the troops that were then just trying to do what they were paid to do—defend our nation.

But what happened to us then? Well, that’s another story and must certainly wait for another occasion.