“0745—Rig for Church”: A Chaplain at Pearl Harbor

by Captain William A. Maguire, Chaplain Corps, U.S. Navy

Published in 1943

The Japanese raid on the fleet at Pearl Harbor on the morning of December 7, 1941, was the theme of the last chapter of my book Rig for Church. The official censors were indulgent in permitting me to describe, however sketchily, the highlights of that tragedy. That chapter, called “December Seventh,” told how the Japs surprised us a few minutes before eight o’clock in the morning; how my yeoman Joseph Workman and I saw death fall from the sky although at first we thought it was a sham attack by our own Army planes. The first planes we saw were dive-bombers which dove vertically over the ships moored at 10-10 dock. A diagram of the harbor found on the body of a Japanese aviator which I was permitted to see a few weeks later in the austere privacy of an admiral’s office, proved that the enemy thought the fleet flagship, Pennsylvania, was at her usual berth there. She was actually in dry-dock a quarter of a mile away. A few of their bombs struck the “Pennsy” but caused unimportant damage. The Jap’s picture was so accurate, however, it clearly showed that the raid was an “inside job.”

The Sunday work-sheet of the California carried this item: “0745—Rig for Church.” It implied that I was expected to arrive on board a little after eight o’clock, hear confessions in my office until nine, and then offer Holy Mass on the forecastle.

The staff motor-boat came alongside the Officers’ Club landing at the very moment a squadron of torpedo planes dove out of the sun, pulled out when about thirty feet above the bay, dropped their glistening steel killers in the “middle aisle” and struck the side of the Oklahoma. Not until we spied the red “Rising Sun” insignia on the fuselage of the third plane, did we realize they were Japanese. Had we left the dock a few seconds earlier, our boat would have been in their murderous course. But this thought did not come to me until days later. Standing there with my foot on the gunwale of the boat, I felt stunned and strangely sick. The only words that came were: “God help us—we’re in it.” Overhead, there was a sinister pall of smoke, and the explosions of bombs and torpedoes rent the air. The first torpedo which struck the Oklahoma caused a huge geyser to rise as high as the truck of the foremast. This was a bit too realistic for a sham battle.

The first wave of torpedo-planes carried out their mission. Believing there would be a lull, I ordered the coxswain to make the gangway of a destroyer which was moored to a newly built dock about thirty yards from the club landing. The crew of the boat, although mad as hornets, showed splendid self-control. Indignant and without show of fear, the bluejackets said what they thought of the Jap and his treachery. With clenched fists, they cried, “We’ll make you so-and-sos pay for this.”

The engineer of the boat remembered the details of that trip and our final run across the bay to the California. He made a shipmate gesture of kindness a year later when I was on a speaking tour of the Eastern States. It was on account of a song called, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” Written by Frank Loesser of Hollywood, it was a catchy tune, and the lyric caught on immediately. This was due, perhaps, to the fact that it told of a chaplain at Pearl Harbor who, when the Japs came, ran from his altar, manned a gun and exclaimed, “Praise the Lord, etc., etc. I just got one of those so-and-sos.” For some reason or other, they made me the hero of the song. I may tell more about that later on. Maybe I shall tell how the publishers, radio stations and the “gentlemen of the press” took me over the hurdles. It delighted me to get Dick Smith’s letter. It reached me at the Union League Club in New York. My cousin, John P. Maguire, thoughtfully put me up there, for he probably knew that the publicity I was receiving would make living in a hotel rather difficult. The sailor’s address at that time was: U.S.S.P.C.1192, Consolidated Shipbuilding Co., Morris Heights, New York City. Here is the letter:

Dear Captain:

I see, according to the newspapers, that you may be in hot water on account of that popular song. If I may, Sir, I’m sure I can help you out as I was the engineer of the Bat For Staff duty motor boat. As you remember, we, the boat crew, stayed with you until the attack was over. If you need any help, don’t hesitate to let me know. Good luck.

As ever,

Richard Gordon Smith

Machinist’s Mate second class, USN

A few minutes after we boarded a destroyer, which was then under the command of Commander George Angus Sinclair, another squadron of torpedo-planes swooped down close to our port beam. By this time, our gunners on topside were ready for them. They scored a perfect bull’s-eye on one of the enemy planes. It exploded in mid-air; bits of wreckage covered the water near us. With contempt for the menace of falling shrapnel, the sailors in my charge were all for retrieving the pieces for souvenirs to send to the folks at home.

In my original account of the Jap raid, I omitted, for many reasons, a dramatic incident which took place just prior to my leaving the destroyer. The officer-of-the-deck had told me the ship was soon to get underway. Staying on board would have meant being many days at sea. It was evident that I was needed on board the California, for she had been torpedoed. Men were in need of a priest.

From where I stood on the well-deck, I could see dimly through the smoke many men swimming near the damaged Oklahoma, the West Virginia and the Arizona. Some were climbing on rafts; others were being hauled into motor launches, while still others bobbed like corks in the wind-swept waters. I gave general absolution. Knowing that the Maryland’s motor launch was alongside the destroyer, I requested authority of the officer-of-the-deck to organize a rescue party, using the Maryland’s boat because the high free board of the staff boat would be impracticable for the job. Joe Workman, the faithful watchdog of my Mass kit, at a nod from me, automatically sped down the ladder and transferred the kit to the fifty-footer. At that moment, I spied a motor-boat heading through the smoke toward the landing. I made out the abbreviation “Cal” on the bow. Cupping my hands, I yelled with all my strength, “What are your orders, coxswain?” Faintly came the reply, “To pick up the Admiral, Sir.” I had now to make an important decision—and quickly.

Never had I been hung so securely on the horns of a dilemma, or given so little time to decide what it was best to do. High altitude bombers had just destroyed the great Arizona. A fourteen-inch shell used as an aerial bomb had found her magazines, killing hundreds. Smaller planes were still strafing the ships. I prayed God for guidance and made an estimate of the situation: Vice Admiral William S. Pye, my immediate superior, was second in command of the Fleet. He was needed on board his flagship. As a member of his staff, I naturally felt impelled to pick him up with my boat in case anything happened to the other one. Also, I decided that the Maryland’s coxswain was quite capable of taking his launch to the spot where the swimmers were struggling. With the approval of the officer-of-the-deck, I followed that line of reasoning and said, “Let’s go, gang.” Six lads hopped aboard the staff boat and we “made knots” to the club landing.

During the ensuing days, I found no time to check on the work of the Maryland’s boat but I know the crew must have carried out their mission. On the following Wednesday, I was informed that a Mass kit had been washed up near the ramp of a plane hangar on Ford Island. Apparently the launch had run afoul of burning oil on the water. Some thoughtful sailor had tossed the kit over the side. My favorite purple vestments which the children of Chefoo, China, had made, and the altar linens also, were oil-soaked and ruined. But the chalice, crucifix, altar stone and candle-sticks were intact. They had again survived the vicissitudes of my twenty-five years of Navy service.

Our boat arrived first. The moment we made fast to the landing, I saw Admiral Pye and several members of his staff hurrying down the path. In a jiffy, all that we could carry jumped aboard and we sped “four bells and a jingle” over the white-caps to the California, which was moored at a Ford Island quay. Among those who found places in the after section of the boat was Captain A. E. Smith, Battle Force Operations Officer. He was opposite Admiral Pye, who sat on the starboard side, next to me. Where the Admiral was seated, he could view the wrecked battleships. The Oklahoma had turned completely over. The demolished Arizona was burning fiercely. The Admiral kept leaning over the side to catch a better sight of the debacle, which prompted Captain Smith to warn him of falling shrapnel. Smith probably does not remember that while he knelt on the deck near the Admiral discussing the details of a fleet sortie, he tore his handkerchief into bits and stuffed the pieces into his ears. He knew that the roar from the anti-aircraft guns would not be good for his eardrums. His sensible precautions also gave me an idea: there was cotton in the locker of my room.

Four torpedoes had hit the port side of the California, giving the ship a heavy list. The quarterdeck of teak which was normally as clean and white as snow, was now blackened with soot. It was like a huge stage where a strange pageant was unfolding. The actors followed a studied routine; each actor had been rehearsed in precisely what to do; they had not drilled “around the clock” day-after-day at sea in vain. Before going below to my room, I looked up toward the anti-aircraft batteries. They were firing at some planes.

I found cotton in my room and jammed bits of it into my ears. Then I took off the old raincoat which the duty officer asked me to wear to hide the gold shoulder marks and white uniform. He was in dungarees and rather felt that my immaculate “whites” could readily draw the enemy’s fire. I reached up to a rack on the overhang and pulled down a life-jacket. My gas mask was in my room at the Pacific Club. A bluejacket handed me one when I joined a group of men who were at their battle-stations in the port passageway.

The wardroom deck was covered with men. Most of them had been overcome by poisonous fumes that resulted from the exploding torpedoes. I found several more wounded men lying on the deck of the cabin of the Chief of Staff, Captain Harold C. Train. He was at his battle station on the bridge. The men made a grim tableau lying there in the dark. But there was not a whimper from them. When I spoke to them and asked how they were doing, they smiled and invariably replied, “O.K., Sir.” I heard many confessions and later gave general absolution to the ship’s company.

While attending the wounded in the wardroom there was a foot of water in the officer’s rooms on portside. Now and then I heard and felt an ominous c-r-u-n-c-h and thought the good ship would turn turtle as the Oklahoma had done a little while before. From time to time, believing there might be wounded up there in need of me, I climbed a ladder to the quarterdeck. It was difficult finding a place on the ladder, for a steady stream of men, each carrying a box of ammunition, climbed the steep ladder and then up another one to the guns on the boatdeck. Their faces, under a coat of oil and grease, were impassioned and stern. On reaching topside on one of these trips, I discovered that a ship’s airplane had caught fire. It stood in its cradle aft on the port side. In the din of our roaring anti-aircraft batteries, I managed to attract the attention of the boatswain. He quickly assembled a working party of available sailors. But the ship’s fire main had been destroyed by the torpedo hits. He thereupon ordered the men to push the big plane over the side.

While this “side-show” was being staged, I turned around as though someone had hailed me, and my eyes fell upon a seaman who was crouching beneath the platform of a three-inch sky-gun which was mounted near the starboard gangway. The lad frantically beckoned me to his side and I crouched near him on my knees. He yelled, “Hey, Father, how’s to hear my confession?” He was not scared; an officer had ordered him to seek cover from falling shrapnel, for his gun at that moment was not being manned. The thought came to me then, although I tried to fight it off, “What will my other shipmates think—those passing by carrying ammunition boxes—seeing me on my knees. Will they think that I am pleading with the young sailor, ‘Ease over, son, and give me a break.’ ” I said, “Of course, lad, but make it snappy, I’ve come without my tin hat.” After giving the young fellow absolution, he thanked me and there was a smile on his Irish face. Then with a gleam in his blue eyes, he spat on his hands and exclaimed, “Now bring on them blasted Japs!”

I told that anecdote to Harvey Campbell, Executive Secretary of the Detroit Board of Commerce, in the fall of 1942, having been ordered to Detroit to give the principal Navy Day address. It impressed him. He said, with emotion, that it had not occurred to him till then that a chaplain under fire could give so much to the men with respect to mental freedom and fitness to fight. He visualized that boy spitting on his hands as having nothing on his conscience to worry about; he was certain his receiving the Sacrament had placed him on friendly terms with God. The lad was now free to carry on as a fighter for a sacred cause. Without doubt, this is the highest form of morale. It is fostering morale of this sort that keeps the Navy priest busy hearing confessions and giving Holy Communion to young men on the threshold of death.

This incident, so important in the life of that young bluejacket, exemplified the true mission of the chaplain in battle. In a radio broadcast I gave in New York last November on the Columbia System’s “Church of the Air,” I said, “The chaplain has but one weapon. He does not, he may not, man a gun. His fight is against the powers of darkness; his weapon is gold-embroidered on his sleeve or his shoulder marks. It is the saving cross of Jesus Christ.”

Leaving the wardroom after a visit to the wounded, I heard a young officer sharply give the fateful order, “Abandon ship.” His eyes gleamed. I felt then that there must be real danger of the ship’s capsizing. I felt another c-r-u-n-c-h and a further list to port. Those of us who were free and able to do so, helped the wounded up the ladders to topside. The gallery-deck was ablaze. Ship’s boats were alongside the quay to which the ship was moored and seemed to tug at the leash, aiming to get underway for the trip to the air station dispensary about a quarter of a mile away. The ship’s first lieutenant, Commander Little, suggested that I take charge of one of the boats. It was a motor whaleboat and was about to shove off when I got aboard. Hundreds of men were on the quay and lowering themselves into the water for a swim to the beach. It was our own “little Dunkirk.” The water in the bay was now covered with black, thick oil. Jap planes were still operating over Pearl Harbor, and I felt as I stood in the stern near the coxswain that this was a routine that any Hollywood director would have been proud to handle.

On our return to the ship, we made a path slowly through a great swarm of swimming men. Some in lifejackets waved to us as they leisurely swam past. Others, making headway without artificial aid, yelled, “This is duck soup.” Maybe that was a sly reference to the thick oil on the water. We picked up another load at the quay and sped to the dock near the dispensary. On our third return, we ran into a barrier of burning oil and we discreetly made a left turn and escaped by beaching the boat. I waded through the muck and stood on the shore for a moment trying to figure out what to do next. From there, it appeared to me that all the wounded had been evacuated. A large group of men, who had swum from the ship, stood near me. They were blackened with oil. Some, with slight burns, were in pain. A Marine officer, driving a station wagon, came up and offered to take the wounded to the dispensary. He made several trips, and each time he came to the dock I realized how much I was needed there.

William A. Maguire, Captain (Ch C), USN.

 

Chaplain William A. Maguire, retired captain of the Navy Chaplain Corps., speaker at the Woodland Hills Men's Club meeting held at the Woodland Hills Community Center. Photograph dated January 20, 1950. Los Angeles Public Library Photo Collection 00134298.

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.