The Tennessee, the other inboard battleship, had more trouble. Seaman J. P. Burkholder looked out a porthole on the bridge just as one of the converted 16-inch shells crashed down on No. 2 turret a few feet forward. The porthole cover tore loose, clobbered him on the head, and sent him scurrying through the door. Outside he helped a wounded ensign, but couldn’t help one of his closest friends, who was so far gone he only wanted Burkholder to shoot him.
Another armor-piercing bomb burst through No. 3 turret farther aft. Seaman S. F. Bowen, stationed there as a powder carman, was just dogging the hatch when the bomb hit. It wasn’t a shattering crash at all. Just a ball of fire, about the size of a basketball, appeared overhead and seemed to melt down on everyone. It seemed to run down on his skin and there was no way to stop it. As he crawled down to the deck below, he noticed that his shoestrings were still on fire.
Splinters flew in all directions from the bombs that hit the Tennessee. One hunk ripped the bridge of the West Virginia alongside, cut down Captain Mervyn Bennion as he tried to direct his ship’s defense. He slumped across the sill of the signal bridge door on the starboard side of the machine-gun platform. Soon after he fell, Ensign Delano arrived on the bridge, having finally been sent up from central station. As Delano stepped out onto the platform, Lieutenant (j.g.) F. H. White rushed by, told him about the captain, and asked him to do what he could.
Delano saw right away it was hopeless. Captain Bennion had been hit in the stomach, and it took no medical training to know the wound was fatal. Yet he was perfectly conscious, and at least he might be made more comfortable. Delano opened a first-aid kit and looked for some morphine. No luck. Then he found a can of ether and tried to make the captain pass out. He sat down beside the dying man, holding his head in one hand and the ether in the other. It made the captain drowsy but never unconscious. Occasionally Delano moved the captain’s legs to more comfortable positions, but there was so little he could do.
As they sat there together, Captain Bennion prodded him with questions. He asked how the battle was going, what the West Virginia was doing, whether the ship and men were badly hit. Delano did his best to answer, resorting every now and then to a gentle white lie. Yes, he assured the captain, the ship’s guns were still firing.
Lieutenant Ricketts now turned up and proved a pillar of strength. Other men arrived too — Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Leak … Ensign Jacoby from the flag radio room … Lieutenant Commander Doir Johnson from the forecastle. On his way up, Johnson ran across big Doris Miller, thought the powerful mess steward might come in handy, brought him along to the bridge. Together they tenderly lifted Captain Bennion and carried him to a sheltered spot behind the conning tower. He was still quite conscious and well aware of the flames creeping closer. He kept telling the men to leave him and save themselves.
In her house at Makalapa, Mrs. Mayfield still couldn’t grasp what had happened. She walked numbly to a window and looked at Admiral Kimmel’s house across the street. The Venetian blinds were closed and there was no sign of activity. Somehow this was reassuring … surely there would be some sign of life if it was really true. It didn’t occur to her that this might be one morning when the admiral had no time for Venetian blinds.
By now Captain Mayfield was in his uniform. He took a few swallows of coffee, slopping most of it in the saucer, and dashed for the carport. He roared off as the CINCPAC official car screeched up to the admiral’s house across the street. Admiral Kimmel ran down the steps and jumped in, knotting his tie on the way. Captain Freeland Daubin, commanding a squadron of submarines, leaped on the running board as the car moved off, and Captain Earle’s station wagon shot down the hill after them.
In five minutes Admiral Kimmel was at CINCPAC Headquarters in the sub base. The admiral thought he was there by 8:05; Commander Murphy thought it was more like 8:10. In either case, within a very few minutes of his arrival, the backbone of his fleet was gone or immobile — Arizona, Oklahoma, and West Virginia sunk … California sinking … Maryland and Tennessee bottled up by the wrecked battleships alongside … Pennsylvania squatting in drydock. Only the Nevada was left, and she seemed a forlorn hope with one torpedo and two bombs already in her.
Nor was the picture much brighter elsewhere. On the other side of Ford Island the target ship Utah took a heavy list to port as her engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander S. S. Isquith, pulled his khakis over his pajamas. The alarm bell clanged a few strokes and stopped; the men trooped below to take shelter from bombing. Isquith sensed the ship couldn’t last, and he had the officer of the deck order all hands topside instead.
The men were amazingly cool —perhaps because they were used to being “bombed” by the Army and Navy everyday. When Machinist’s Mate David Gilmartin reached the main deck, he found the port rail already under water. Twice he crawled up toward the starboard side and slid back. As he did it a third time, he slid by another seaman who suggested he throw away the cigarettes. To Gilmartin’s amazement he had been trying to climb up the slanting deck while holding a carton of cigarettes in one hand. Relieved of his handicap, he made the starboard rail easily.
As the list increased, the big six-by-twelve-inch timbers that covered the Utah’s decks began breaking loose. These timbers were used to cushion the decks against practice bombing and undoubtedly helped fool the Japanese into thinking the ship was a carrier unexpectedly in port. Now they played another lethal role, sliding down on the men trying to climb up.
As she rolled still farther, Commander Isquith made a last check below to find anyone who might still be trapped — and almost got trapped himself. He managed to reach the captain’s cabin where a door led to the forecastle deck. The timbers had jammed the door; so he stumbled into the captain’s bedroom where he knew there was a porthole. It was now almost directly overhead, but he managed to reach it by climbing on the captain’s bed. As he popped his head through the porthole, the bed broke loose and slid out from under him. He fell back, but the radio officer, Lieutenant Commander L. Winser, grabbed his hand just in time and pulled him through. As Isquith got to his feet, he slipped and bumped down the side of the ship into the water. Half dead with exhaustion, harassed by strafers, he was helped by his crew to Ford Island.
Others never left the ship — Fireman John Vaessen in the dynamo room, who kept the power up to the end; Chief Watertender Peter Tomich in the boiler room, who stayed behind to make sure his men got out; Lieutenant (j.g) John Black, the assistant engineer, who jammed his foot in his cabin door; Mess Attendant Smith, who was always so afraid of the water.
Of the other ships on this side of Ford Island, the Tangier and Detroit were still untouched, but the Raleigh sagged heavily to port. Water swirled into No. 1 and 2 firerooms, flooded the forward engine room, contaminated the fuel oil, knocked out her power. In the struggle to keep her afloat, no one even had time to dress. As though they went around that way every day, Captain Simons sported his blue pajamas … Ensign John Beardall worked the port antiaircraft guns in red pajamas… others toiled in a weird assortment of skivvies, aloha shirts, and bathing trunks. Somehow they didn’t seem even odd: as Signalman Jack Foeppel watched Captain Simons in the admiral’s wing on the bridge, he only marveled that any man could be so calm.
Ford Island, where all these ships were moored, was itself in chaos. Japanese strafers were now working the place over, and most of the men were trying to make themselves as small as possible. Storekeeper Jack Rogovsky crouched under a mess hall table nibbling raisins. The men in the air-photo laboratory dived under the steel developing tables. Some of the flight crews plunged into an eight-foot ditch that was being dug for gas lines along the edge of the runway. This is where Ordnanceman Quisdorf’s unit was hiding when he and another airman arrived in the squadron truck. But they didn’t know that — they thought they had been left behind in a general retreat. They decided their only hope was to find a pair of rifles, swim the north channel, and hole up in the hills until liberation.
Nor was there muc
h room for optimism in the Navy Yard. On the ships at the finger piers, the stern gunners had a perfect shot at the torpedo planes gliding down Southeast Loch, but most of them had little to shoot with. The San Francisco was being overhauled; all her guns were in the shops; most of her large ammunition was on shore. The repair ship Rigel was in the same fix. The St. Louis was on “limited availability” while radar was being installed; her topside was littered with scaffolding and cable reels; three of her four five-inch antiaircraft guns were dismantled.
The little Sacramento had just come out of drydock, and in line with drydock regulations most of her ammunition lockers had been emptied. The Swan plugged away with her two three-inch guns, but a new gun earmarked for her top deck was still missing. A pharmacist’s mate stood on the empty emplacement, cursing helplessly. The other ships were having less trouble, although there was little power on the New Orleans, and to Seaman L. A. Morley on the Honolulu just about everything seemed to be “secured for the weekend.”
On all these ships the men had more time for reflection than their mates along Battleship Row. On the New Orleans the ship’s gambler and “big operator” sat at his station, reading the New Testament. (Later he canceled his debts and loans; threw away his dice.) A young engineer on the San Francisco — with nothing to do because her boilers were dismantled — appeared topside, wistfully told Ensign John E. Parrott, “Thought I’d come up and die with you.” Machinist’s Mate Henry Johnson on the Rigel remarked that now he knew how a rabbit felt and he’d never hunt one again. A few minutes later he lay mortally wounded on the deck.
Their very helplessness turned many of the men from fear to fury. Commander Duncan Curry, strictly an old Navy type, stood on the bridge of the Ramapo firing a .45 pistol as the tears streamed down his face. On the New Orleans a veteran master at arms fired away with another .45, daring them to come back and fight. A man stood near the sub base, banging away with a double-barreled shotgun.
A young Marine on 1010 dock used his rifle on the planes, while a Japanese-American boy about seven years old lit a cigarette for him. The butt of his old cigarette was burning his lips, but he never even noticed it. As he fired away, he remarked aloud, “If my mother could see me now.”
Ten-ten dock itself was a mess, littered with debris from the Helena and Oglala alongside. In the after engine room of the torpedoed Helena, Chief Machinist’s Mate Paul Weisenberger fought to check the water that poured aft through the ship’s drain system. The hit had also set off the ship’s gas alarm; its steady blast added to the uproar. Marine Second Lieutenant Bernard Kelly struggled to get ammunition to the guns. In keeping a steady supply flowing, it was a toss-up whether he had more trouble with the damage or with conscientious damage control men, who kept shutting the doors.
Topside was a shambles. The Helena’s forecastle, which had been rigged for church, looked as if a cyclone had passed. The Oglala, to starboard, listed heavily; her signal flags drooped over the Helena’s bridge. Across the channel, Battleship Row was a mass of flames and smoke. Above the whole scene, a beautiful rainbow arched over Ford Island.
Just below 1010 dock, the Pennsylvania and destroyers Cassin and Downes sat ominously unmolested in Drydock No. 1. Likewise the destroyer Shaw in the floating drydock, which was a few hundred yards to the west. Aboard the Pennsylvania the men waited tensely. Lieutenant Commander James Craig, the ship’s first lieutenant, checked here and there, making sure they would be ready when the blow came — or at least as ready as a ship out of water could be. He told Boatswain’s Mate Robert Jones and his damage control party to lie facedown on the deck. He warned them that their work was cut out, and to be prepared for the worst.
On deck, the gunners were getting in a few licks in advance. For Gunner’s Mate Alvin Gerth, captain of one antiaircraft gun crew, it was already hard, dangerous work. The electrical system had gone haywire, and he could fire by percussion only. On top of that, the ammunition was so old, he had a lot of misfires. Normally he could throw them over the side, but the ship was in drydock, so that was out of the question. He piled them on deck behind the mount, gradually transferring the area into a little arsenal wide open to the sky. Not very safe to do, but he figured his time was up anyhow.
It was much the same on the ships anchored in the harbor. Radioman Leonard Stagich sat by his set on the destroyer Montgomery writing prayers on a little pad. In the transmitter room of the aircraft tender Curtiss, Radioman James Raines sat with three other men listening to the steady booming outside. No orders, so they just waited. With the doors and portholes dogged down and the ventilators off, it grew hotter and hotter. They removed their shirts and took turns wearing the heavy headphones. Still no orders. They kept moving about the room, squatting in different places, always wondering what was going on outside. From time to time the PA system squawked meaningless commands to others on the ship, which only made them wonder more. Still no orders.
But the most exasperating thing to those at anchor was just sitting there. It took time to build up enough steam to move — an hour for a destroyer, two hours for a larger ship. Meanwhile, they could only fire their guns manually, dodge the strafers, and watch (to use their favorite phrase) “all hell break loose.”
The destroyer Monaghan had a slight edge on the others. As the ready-duty destroyer, her fires were already lit; and then of course she had been getting up steam since 7:50 to go out and contact the Ward. Commander Bill Burford would be able to take her out in a few minutes now, but at a time like this, that seemed forever.
At the moment the destroyer Helm was still the only ship under way. Twenty minutes had passed since Quartermaster Frank Handler genially waved at that aviator flying low up the channel. After the first explosion Commander Carroll quickly sounded general quarters … swung her around from West Loch … caught Admiral Furlong’s sortie signal … and was now ready to get up and go. Turning to Handler, he said, “Take her out. I’ll direct the battery.”
Handler had never taken the ship out alone. The channel was tricky — speed limit 14 knots — and the job was always left to the most experienced hands. He took the wheel and rang the engine room to step her up to 400 rpm. The engine room queried the order and he repeated it. The ship leaped forward and raced down the channel at 27 knots. To complicate matters, there wasn’t a single compass on board; everything had to be done by seaman eye. But Handler had one break in his favor — the torpedo net was still wide open. So the Helm rushed on, proudly guided by a novice without a compass breaking every speed law in the book.
By this time Handler was game for anything; so he took it in his stride when at 8:17 he came face to face with a Japanese midget sub. He saw it as the Helm burst out of the harbor entrance — first the periscope, then the conning tower. It lay about 1000 yards off the starboard bow, bouncing up and down on the coral near the buoys. The Helm’s guns roared, but somehow they never could hit the sub. Finally it slid off the coral and disappeared. The Helm flashed the news to headquarters: “Small Jap sub trying to penetrate channel.”
Signal flags fluttered up all over Pearl Harbor, telling the ships of the fleet. From the bridge of the burning West Virginia, Ensign Delano read the warning and sighed to himself, “Oh, my God — that too!”
As the Helm began patrolling off the harbor entrance, Quartermaster Handler noticed several big Army bombers circling Hickam Field, trying to land. Japanese planes nipped at them from all sides — Handler could see the bullets ripping off big chunks of metal — but the pilots went about their business as though it happened every day.
The B-17s were coming in from the mainland — 12 planes in the 38th and 88th Reconnaissance Squadrons under Major Truman Landon. It was a long flight for those days — 14 hours’ flying time. To save gas, the planes were flying separately instead of in formation. They also were stripped down — no armor or ammunition, their guns in cosmoline.
Even so, some of the B-17s barely made Oahu. On Lieutenant Karl Barthelmes’ plane one of the crew accidentally
flicked a switch, which threw the plane north of its course, and by the time they figured out why, the gas needle wobbled at zero. Barthelmes turned hard south, and as he approached Oahu around 8:00 A.M., he was suddenly overtaken by 12 to 15 light planes marked with large red circles. They flew above, under, and alongside the B-17, apparently escorting the big plane in. The bomber’s crew sighed with relief, removed the lifebelts they had put on while the plane was off course. They waved their thanks, but the pilots of the other planes were apparently too preoccupied to respond.
About the same time Major Landon was also flying in from the north. He had let one of his crew practice navigation most of the way, and they were heading west 150 miles north of Oahu when Landon finally took over. As he turned southward and approached the island, a flight of nine planes came straight at him, flying north. For an instant he too thought it was a reception committee. Then a burst of gunfire, a quick glimpse of the red circles told him the truth. He pulled up into the clouds and shook off any pursuit.
Most of the B-17s had no advance notice. Major Richard Carmichael flew in over Diamond Head, pointing out the sights to his West Point classmate Colonel Twaddell, the weather officer. As they passed along Waikiki Beach, they could see the smoke over Pearl, but assumed the Navy was practicing. Other pilots saw the smoke too — Lieutenant Bruce Allen thought there was an unusual amount of cane burning … Lieutenant Robert Ramsey thought it was some sort of big celebration.
They drew closer, and the devastation spread below them. Sergeant Albert Brawley gazed at the blazing rows of planes at Hickam and wondered whether some hot fighter pilot had crashed, setting them all on fire. Lieutenant Charles Bergdoll still thought it was a drill, complete with smoke pots and mock bombing, until he saw the remains of a smashed B-24 burning beside the runway. He knew the Army would never wreck anything so expensive.