In
1939, my father, raised in the small town of Chester, South Carolina, joined
the army. During basic training in
Charleston, someone in his chain of command asked if anyone thought they could
pass a mechanics test and qualify for the Army Air Corps. It was from that simple raising of his hand
that he found himself two years later at Hickam Field on December 7, 1941 and a
place in history. But, before telling of
his going to war, it’s important to know the details of a life that led him to
be there.
Dad
spent his high school years building and rebuilding a Model T Ford with his
neighborhood friends. The Model T, or
Tin Lizzie first rolled off the line at the Piquette Ave plant in Detroit in
1908. It would continue to be made until
1927. They were cheap and plentiful.
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| I assure you my Dad's didn't look this good. |
With
little money, but a need for transportation, Dad and his friends picked up a
broken down, rusted hulk and salvaging parts here and there, put together
something barely road worthy, that looked roughly like an engine with four
tires and a steering wheel. You have to
remember in the 1930s when my dad was a teenager, there were few driving rules
beyond “Don’t hurt yourself and don’t hurt anybody else.” Driver’s license? Safety devices? Minimum driving age? Nonsense and balderdash. If you could get
your jalopy to run through the swirling dust on rutted roads, you were doing
exceptionally well and to be commended.
In those days of John Herbert Dillinger, George Baby Face Nelson, Clyde
Barrow and Bonnie Parker, and other bank robbers and murderers, the local
police stayed busy with serious stuff. Local
cops only gave you trouble if you brought it on yourself. With minor vehicle incidents, the
conversation went like this:
“Does
your daddy know you’re out here acting like a maniac?”
“No,
sir.”
“Well,
the next time I see you acting like you own the road, I’m going to tell him!”
“Yes,
sir.” Accompanied by fear and trembling.
Dad
first drove his father’s laundry truck in 1928 at the age of ten. My grandfather had to fasten wooden blocks on
the pedals so my dad’s feet could reach.
He had to sit on cushions so he was high enough to see through the
windshield.
It
was no great surprise that Dad passed the mechanics test. After much training he became a side gunner
on a B-17, Flying Fortress. The Army Air
Corps did things a little differently in those days. When the flight engineer on my dad’s aircraft
had to go back to the states on emergency leave, the aircraft commander, a
Captain Sweeny, ask dad to take over the job.
They were standing inside the aircraft, just behind the cockpit when the
order was given. My father, at that time
being a corporal, and an independent and outspoken young man, piped in with,
“Captain, if you’re going to make me the flight engineer, why don’t you make me
a buck sergeant (one rank higher), too?”
That
was followed by a fist to the chest, which left my dad sprawled on the
floor. “Corporal, when I want your
opinion, I’ll ask for it!”
Many
years later, when he reflected on that moment, Dad just shrugged and said,
“That’s the way it was.”
Life
in the military in Hawaii wasn’t harsh all the time. Dad flew training missions, drank beer, soaked
up the sun on the beach at Waikiki and did all the things young men normally do
with their free time. And in short order
they got used to sleeping in on Sunday mornings, in spite of the Navy, which
often held Sunday cannon drills on the ships anchored at Pearl Harbor. The early morning booms from the powder-only
firings didn’t bother you after a big Saturday night in Honolulu.
Sunday
morning on December 7, 1941 began as any other Sunday morning. My dad was fast asleep when at 0755 the
Japanese attacked. The attack hit not
just Pearl Harbor and the U.S. Navy, but also the airfields at Hickam, where my
dad was, Wheeler, Ford Island, Kaneohe, and Ewa.
“Just
the Navy firing practice rounds,” was my father’s first thought. Then plaster began to rain down on the
bunks. In those days, there were no
private rooms, just open bay barracks, with row after row of bunks. The plaster got everyone’s attention and
sleepy-eyed men in shorts or pajamas, some with undershirts, some bare chested,
blasted out the door with not a clue about what was going on. Thirty seconds later, with Japanese aircraft
bombing and strafing, and explosions going off everywhere they looked, their
first thoughts were to get to their aircraft.
Officers and non-commissioned officers were everywhere in the bedlam, waving
arms, shouting orders over the din of roaring aircraft, bomb blasts and through
clouds of gray, white, and black smoke.
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| Destruction of my dad's barracks |
“Over
there!” someone shouted to Dad, pointing toward the parade ground where one
lone anti-aircraft gun spewed bullets at the sky and a line of men waited in
the open to take their turn when those in front of them were strafed and fell
to the ground.
Seeing
this as a poor option, my dad sprinted for the flight line. Chaos reigned. Japanese planes owned the sky. Aircraft hangers blazed into crumpled piles
of twisted metal, pouring black smoke.
The long concrete parking spots, once featuring placid rows of shiny
aluminum aircraft, were now disordered hunks of smudged and burning wreckage. Like swarms of angry wasps, Japanese planes,
with the big red ‘meatball’ makings on the fuselage and wings, dived toward
buildings and aircraft again and again, their roaring engines signaling the
coming of more death and destruction.
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| Kate type 97 |
Scrambling,
stopping, taking cover and sprinting to his aircraft, my dad saw a guy kneel
down beside a truck and hide behind one of the tires, his knees drawn up, his
hands on the back of his neck. Meanwhile
others jumped in the truck and drove away, leaving the kneeling guy out in the
open, but probably safer, my dad thought, than kneeling next to a truck, which
had to be a prime target.
Dad
ran on. He saw another guy leap into a
ditch and lay down flat, using the ditch for cover. Just then a Japanese fighter came in low,
guns blazing, hitting the guy on his ass and immediately flipping him into the
air. Seemingly unfazed, the guy landed on his feet, held onto his damaged posterior and ran off in another direction.
Medics? At that point there was nothing more than dying or not dying,
running for cover, or just running. The
men must have felt they had been pushed through the fiery gates of hell.
Seeing
there was nothing left of his aircraft, dad joined a big group of guys moving
en masse toward the armory. Getting
there and finding the doors locked, they demanded the Sergeant on guard duty
open up and pass out weapons. In the
loud voice of authority, he declined and was immediately and roughly shoved
aside and the doors broken down. Arms
for the multitudes! Like all the others,
Dad grabbed a gun, but forgot to grab bullets.
All around him, sporadic gunfire broke out, apparently without
effect. Ever tried to hit a bird on the
wing with a rifle? Try hitting a
maneuvering aircraft going over two hundred miles an hour!
Attacks
across the island lasted for two hours and twenty minutes. In that time, more than 2400 Americans were
killed and another 1200 were wounded.
Eighteen ships were sunk and more than three hundred aircraft damaged or
destroyed.
This
unprovoked attack was indeed a day that will live in infamy.
After
Pearl Harbor, the Army Air Corps was hungry for pilots. My father got into the Aviation Cadet Program
and earned his wings flying PT-17s and T-6s. After graduation he trained in the
B-24 Liberator. In 1943, he was given a
free trip to the garden spot of New Guinea in the south Pacific. There he flew missions for the best part of a
year and after postings around the world, including Japan, he retired in 1963
as a major. His decorations included the
Silver Star, the Distinguished Flying Cross, and the Air Medal. In those days, the Silver Star ranked just
below the Medal of Honor.
I
found it strange, that while he, my mom, my brother, and I were living in
Japan, I never once heard either of my parents say one derogatory word about
the Japanese people. In fact, they praised their work ethic, their
friendliness, and their determination to pull themselves back onto their
feet. On my dad’s part, it went deeper
than ‘forgive and forget.’ Although
having no advanced, formal schooling outside the military and with only a high
school diploma, I think he knew in his heart, mind and having been to war, how
little control the common soldier, sailor, marine, or airman has over the
swirling winds of conflict. In short, he
saw people who shot at him and bombed him as wartime enemies. When the war was over, those who had once
been enemies reverted to their roles as fathers and sons who worked hard to put
bread on the table and keep their families safe. My father bore the Japanese people no ill
will. He understood very well what it
was to be tossed powerlessly into that uncertain fate called war.
