That Sunday was planned to be a day of rest and
recreation. It was well earned. We had recently
completed task force ship maneuvers and battle
training for navy's "Rainbow Five" plan.
That day began deceptively delightful. Tropical
foliage perfumed calm and balmy air. About half of our
personnel were on shore imbibing the pleasures of
Honolulu. Ensign "Jack" Sperling and I were
alone by the gangplank of U.S.S. PYRO AE-1. Jack and I
were friends who shared the ignomity of being butts of
a lieutenant's bigoted barbs. He had labeled me
"That highyeller nigger mess attendant".
Sperling is a Jew.
By a twist of fate, I was not at this unique time
locked in the brig along with Thomas Crane. My
punishment from our simultaneous court martials was
confinement to the ship for ninety days. The previous
night ended my status as a prisoner-at-large. My first
shore leave should begin in five minutes. I never made
it!
Sperling had the deck. I had on my best dress
whites. He wished me a good time on the beach. I
inquired whether he had discovered any chastity belts
behind those grass skirts.
"Just be sure one of those Wahinees won't
cause you to be AWOL again." His mock sarcasm
started a war! Right then, on cue, all hell broke
loose!!
IT WAS FIVE MINUTES BEFORE EIGHT O'CLOCK, DECEMBER
SEVENTH NINETEEN FORTY-ONE AT PEARL HARBOR.
An awesome explosion occurred. Its concussion shock
wave pressed an invisible demon against us. An
enormous black cloud boiled up, bisecting the blue
sky.
"The NEOSHO must have blown up" I
exclaimed.
Trees obscured our view , preventing the sight of
an airplane approaching and firing its machine gun.
"Oh no! Another drill," groaned Sperling.
A white plane with a red ball on it popped into
sight.
"It's the Japanese," I screamed.
"Drill," insisted Sperling.
"I'm sounding G.Q.," I yelled back,
running toward the ship's bell.
The plane banked away from a hulk swinging on the
bouy where we had unloaded some cargo. The pilot
spotted our location and rapidly reversed his
direction by climbing into an inverted loop. He
flipped the wings and dived. A line of spurting water
sped toward me, and believing I was about to die, my
legs faltered.
The bullets stopped short because the pilot had to
veer away from PYRO'S smokestack and aftermast in
order to pass over. His canopy was racked back; for a
few seconds we looked into each other's face, perhaps
only thirty feet apart.
I agonized, hoping Sperling would shoot his O.D.
pistol. He didn't, and the plane went out of range. I
reached for the bell cord.
"Don't do that! I'll do it," ordered
Sperling.
I waited just long enough to make sure he did; by
the second clang I was already further toward my
battle station at the bottom of the fantail.
IT WAS LOCKED!! From above and outside came sounds
of explosion. No one came soon enough with a key, so I
took off to find one. Racing through the ward room I
heard the pantry phone ringing and grabbed it.
"Who's this?" asked the Captain.
"Cassius, Sir."
"Tell McFeely to get this ship
underway...we're under attack! Get him to the
phone!"
McFeely's state room was only three strides away.
Shaking him and shouting "We're under
attack" stopped his snoring.
"Get the hell out of here!" he demanded,
pulling a pillow over his head.
I yanked the pillow. McFeely looked angry, then
puzzled, by the explosions.
"Captain wants you on the phone."
His eyes darted to where my finger pointed to the
dangling phone. He went to it, dropped it and
barrelassed down the companionway, barefoot and in his
skivvies.
Captain's irate voice boomed through the phone.
"McFeely! McFeely !"
"He's already gone to the engine room, Sir.
But the ammunition hole is locked and I don't know
where to get the key."
"Go back down there. I'll send a key and some
help."
A tormenting while passed before a CPO came with
help. One guy who would be our talker plugged in to
the sound powered phone system connected to topside.
Feverishly, powder and slugs went up the electric
hoist. PYRO shook,quivered, lunged and recoiled each
time the three-inch fired. Thirty and fifty caliber
machine guns rattled a nonstop staccato.
Suddenly, whrrumph, blam-bloom! in quick
succession. PYRO bucked and fishtailed like a rodeo
bronc. Lights went out. A boxed projectile tugged
upward, almost from my grasp; next moment it was ten
times heavier, crushing me against the bulkhead.
Everything and everybody tumbled and mixed in the
vertiginous darkness. Chief was in pain. Water came
rushing in, filling my shoes. My slippery feet were
thrashing for a footing. They came down on someone's
back, then found a place on degaussing cables.
The talker switched on a battery powered battle
lamp. The Chief sat stunned in rising water. Blood
flowed across his face, and the top of his head was
gushing red. I put the ammo box down into the water
and began to wipe Chief's eyes with my dress
neckerchief.
A voice shouting down the shaft demanded, "Get
that God-dammed ammo up here!"
The talker yelled back, "Can't do it. Hoist
don't work. Power's knocked out."
I said to the talker, "Tell 'em to form a hand
party. And send a pharmacist; Chief's head is
busted."
By now the chief had pulled himself together-
"Get damage control in here fast; we're shipping
water!"
Damage Control came on the double, bringing good
news. Their good news was... We were not sinking! The
water sloshing about was from broken refrigeration
lines used for chilling the powder magazine at my left
elbow.
A hand party was strung up theee decks to guns on
topside. We operated like a bucket brigade. Never in
my life, before or after that, have I worked so hard.
While I lifted ammunition over my head to hands
reaching down thru the hatch, the noise was like that
in a cowboy movie.
Eventually, things quieted down and standby was
ordered.
Down by the bilges, we caught our breaths and
assessed conditions: One bandaged head caused by the
hoist which had careened down when power was lost. My
busted lip, cracked teeth and sore back compliments a
box of ammo that had tried to get away. All of us in
the hole had sprains and bruises from being thrown
about when the bombs exploded- The area stank of
refrigerant, body odor and gun-powder; our feet were
soggy and slipsliding in bloody water. Everyone was
rubbing tired muscles. And scared, too. We wondered,
had the Japs landed at Kaneohe or the big island? Will
we be captured and executed? WILL they bomb again
soon?
Sure enough, in twenty minutes BACK THEY CAME. This
time it was different. We were waiting and mad! Again
we strained ammo topside, PYRO'S vindictive guns
barked our anger.
By and by, shooting tapered off and quiet returned.
Sweating out another "stand by", we listened
for more bombers. It seemed like forever until we
heard "ALL CLEAR. SECURE."
We dogged the magazine hatches and dragged up two
flights of ladders. Already, a human traffic jam was
at the "head". Everyone dirty, tired, hungry
and bugeyed. Scuttlebutt was thick. "We hit a
bunch of 'em." "Some went down in
flames." "Last bomb almost hit the mast on
the way down; that sure would have been curtains for
all of us. We've got fragments from that one -- made
in the States!"
"Come off it," I admonished.
"See for yourself. Says so, right on it."
I had to see for myself. ..and did! The fragment
read, BALDWIN LOCOMOTIVE WORKS, MARIETTA, GEORGIA
U.S.A.
While rinsing blood from my mouth, William Barnes
advised me, "Better go to the sick bay with
that."
There, the sight was an unreal, hideous caldron of
quiet motion. Serious casualties from the sunken ships
were in a growing line. Some new arrivals were
unrecognizable under a coating of black oil. Some who
looked destined to die stoically waited their turn to
be cleaned, treated,fed and clothed, The scene was
like a grotesque nightmare to be awakened from. Every
face had an expression of human
anguish...pain...fear...bewilderment. I felt foolish
to be complaining about minor wounds, here, among
mutilated men. So after getting swabbed, I left with a
bottle of mouth wash.
A shower helped me climb into my upper bunk and
begin rubbing Charlie Horses where legs had once been.
Then the Chief Gunner's Mate came with very
surprising news: 'You're to guard the ship tonight,
from twentyfour hundred 'til five bells.' He had
surprised the Captain, too, by selecting me for sentry
duty. Gunner had reminded him, "Everybody knows
that Wahoo, the Indian Quartermaster, is the best
pistol shot on board. What they don't know is .
..Cassius is the best rifleman in the fleet."
"Cassius?"
"Yes, Sir. I've seen him rip playing cards,
offhand at twelve feet.'
"Oh, I can hit 'em much further than
that."
"Sir, he doesn't put holes in them; he rips
them turned edgewise!"
Before my courtmartial, Gunner had discovered me
winning money at the Vallejo shooting gallery, and had
coaxed me into doing the sensational card feat.
Scuttlebutt going around about my assignment
generated mixed reactions. Mess Attendant colleagues
were elated that our respected skipper had exercised
emergency option and utilized the opportunity. Thomas
Crane, released from the brig during the attack,
congratulated me. "It was worth the tedious
incarceration," he said.
There were a few southern crackers among the crew.
"He should be a lot blacker for night
fighting," suggested one.
Utricular cargo nets assiduously discharged
ordnance while preparation was intensified for night
time blackout. Adrenaline leached away my usual
ability to induce sleep at will. It was crucial to be
wide awake and alert on patrol, so I hit the sack
early.
Soon after dark, everyone began running to the
starboard deck. "Looks like the Fourth of July in
Shanghai" offerred a wag. A puzzling barrage of
anti-aircraft fire was going up. Red tracers
crisscrossed, turning the black sky into animated
plaid.
PYRO did not participate in that debacle of
shooting down our own planes that were returning from
patrol. Some smart (and lucky) pilots doused their
landing lights and survived by crash landing in
pineapple or cane fields.
Back in my bunk, I lay on my stomach to spare a
very tired back. There came bittersweet thoughts. A
few hours ago I was a prisoner-at-large on the vessel
I would guard this wartime night. I remembered how my
deferment had arrived in the mail several hours after
I had departed Langston,Oklahoma to report at the
destroyer base at San Diego. Assignment from there was
to the U.S.S. ARD-1, a floating drydock that repaired
smaller vessels like submarines and tugs. Sleep came
during this reverie.
Then Gunner came and handed me a rifle. I checked
the chamber, pushed the safety and fastened on a
cartridge belt.
"Your orders are: "Shoot anyone trying to
come aboard PYRO or trying to go aboard the hulk
swinging on the buoy. Shoot anything that moves on the
dock or among the buildings-"
Gunner gave me supplemental advice. "Wear
dungarees. ..nothing white..black socks and no tee
shirt. Before we step on open deck, put a round in the
chamber and insert a full clip, so you won't make a
give away noise. If you have to shoot, don't say halt
or who goes there. Take the safety off now and stay in
the shadows." With that, Gunner faded into one.
I riveted myself motionless in a shadow that
commanded full view of the dock. Oscillating eyeballs
probed because success depended upon getting off the
first shot. In case of emergency, I would be outgunned
and killed. My obsolete 1903 Springfield required each
round be ejected by bolt action,necessitating new
sighting. A tremendous responsibility for a nineteen
year old! The Captain's trust, Gunner's confidence and
Cranes's expectations were in resolute hands!
The full significance of guarding the ship and
ammunition depot that night occurred to me fifty years
later when the Marine Corps League at Kearny, New
Jersey awarded me a commemorative Pearl Harbor pin. If
a saboteur had been successful that night, the United
States would have lost PYRO, its men, and most of the
ammunition which fought our early battles, including
Midway.
It was spooky quiet the rest of the night, as if
neither ship nor shore dared to startle me. Even
nocturnal creatures spared evidence of their presence.
Hours dragged by in slow motion. Lonely stillness
induced reflection and introspection, also a bit of
self indulged humor. I envisioned Gene Carusi
"passing a brick" when he heard I was
roaming the ship with a rifle! Then I made a vicarious
trip to Washington. Secretary of the Navy, Frank K
Knox sat brooding over his too little, too late plan
to renew opportunity to "Negroes". The
Japanese navy did it in just minutes.
Sight of the gaping bomb crater between the rail
tracks on the dock snapped me back to the realities of
the moment. My eyes kept returning to that compelling
feature of my patrol...like guarding an evil presence.
Finally daylight found its way to West Lock and
PYRO'S cargo booms dipped and swung deadly wares into
boxcars. I was sent to chow and more bad news:
Miniature Japanese submarines were sighted INSIDE
Pearl Harbor!! They came beneath our own ships. All
hands were pressed into unloading cargo on the double,
but I was spared to get some shuteye.
Later, Gunner assigned me to assembling thirty and
fifty caliber machine gun cartridge belts...so many
armour piercing, then a tracer. Repeat. Repeat the
repeat, on and on. These could be needed any minute.
Guns other than PYRO'S needed my production, too.
Hundreds of tons of ammunition went down the day
before on seventeen ships, along with over two
thousand sailors. PYRO received sailing orders to
bring more ammo from Vallejo. There was great
jubilation about going to "The States"(only
forty-eight in those days). A sobering aspect was that
we might encounter sub-marines. WE DID!
Twenty-twenty hindsight indicates mediocre logic
selected the time for weighing anchor. Steel nets
which sealed the harbor entrance were pulled aside,
late in the afternoon. McFeely's engines were giving
their all. The exit was picture perfect with us mess
attendants in the upper guntubs as lookouts for planes
and submarines. Overhead a Catalina flying boat banked
around pylon-eights looking for telltale shadows
beneath the surface- A "Tincan" fanned our
bow, its sonar harkening for submarine sounds.
But after sundown, things turned grim. Good buddy
PBY Catalina and Semper Fidelis tincan hightailed it
back to Pearl Harbor (and safety...and beer and all).
The darkened sea made it difficult to see a periscope,
but the sky was still light enough to silhouette our
ship, thus aiding crepuscular predators.
Total darkenss came, evening the odds a bit- We
were totally blacked out, and the moonless night had
eyes for no one. For some of us standing watch in the
gun tub, utter fatigue had pushed us beyond endurance.
A considerate person sent up mugs from a lOO-proof Joe
Pot. It had the consistency of threefinger poi, barely
too loose to be coffee cake. It did miracles for the
innards, but the eyelids wouldn't open another f:stop.
"I can't stay awake," complained the guy
on the right.
"Me, either," came from the left.
I ventured a solution. "One of you catch a 15
minute nap; I'll make sure no one climbs the ladder
and catches us. We'll take turns."
"Man, they can shoot you for that!"
"Might as well get shot . ..gonna fall over
pretty soon and bust my head on the weapon. I couldn't
see ten subs out there, anyway.'
"You do it first, then I will," proposed
one of them.
"Me, too, agreed the other."
I balled up into a knot below the flak shield
Someone punched me awake. "We're under
attack!"
BOOM went the five-inch from the fantail. BAM BAM
from the three-inch in our tub.
The sub was already diving. Too savvy to risk a
surface cannon duel.
PYRO squirmed away, making a jagged wake...ziggetty
zag zig! We presented as small and unpredictable
target as possible. Adrenalin had pumped out all sleep
for the rest of the night. It was frightening to
realize how vulnerable we were. That sub had such
disdain for a lone transport, even an armed one, that
it had surfaced in the dark to make sure of its kill.
Fortunately, their tin fish had the correct vector but
the wrong depth. They went under us because we were
empty and riding on a high swell. The noise and the
muzzle flashes of our guns were mistaken for torpedo
hits. We learned much later that our navy had broken
the Japanese secret code. Pearl Harbor decoded a JN-25
report to Tokyo: Ammunition ship PYRO sunk."
Our ship maintained radio silence. No plane or
tincan came to look for survivors.
Twenty-twenty hindsight suggests a daybreak
departure would have afforded a longer duration of
escort under optimum observation conditions. On the
other hand, it was crucial that we get through.
Perhaps, blacked out at night was our best bet, since
the water around Pearl Harbor was saturated with
submarines. No full trip escort would return with us,
either. That trip would be a blast, almost!
Our course traced an erratic arc until we stood off
the Barbary Coast. Trouble was sure to happen now. The
vicinity of harbors are the best places for submarines
to locate and sink their prey.
The sun reflected briefly off a speck in the sky,
dead ahead. Radar had not yet been installed on PYRO
but eyeballs knew that was a plane. Got to be one of
ours, we prayed. Our arrival was not anticipated and
we didn't want a hassle with our plane. Blinker lights
flashed and semaphore flags popped on PYROÔS bridge.
Word was passed for look-outs to keep a sharp watch
for subs and gunners not to point any muzzles at that
plane. Everyone else, wave your white hats. The
"Old Man" wanted us to be recognized as
friends.
Old Glory was the best thing going for US. A stiff
breeze had it standing out from the mast like an
erection. The plane locked onto our squiggly
anti-submarine track and became as big as a
"Goony Bird". Still no acknowledgment. It
was large as a turkey before it rocked wings in
salute. Our collective sigh sounded like a cheer! Now
we had eyes in the air on patrol. Later, guys with
binoculars reported traffic at a standstill on the
Golden Gate Bridge.
As we glided beneath, motorists walked over to the
railing to wave and take pictures. Some cars raced
ahead and spread the news which electrified the Bay
area.
Sperling was somewhere forward. I eased into his
stateroom and used his glasses. People waved from
shore. Three girls doing a can-can did an about face
and raised hems...??@@@+; the unmentionables supposed
only to be glimpsed were waved overhead! If PYRO had
dropped anchor, San Francisco would have revised the
Richter scale. Mindful of it's duty the ship steamed
upstream to Vallejo and further misadventures.
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Europe-Africa-Middle East Campaign
