Memorial Day

My grandfather served in the Navy throughout most of World War II. On the day Pearl Harbor was attacked, he was stationed in California, and was immediately shipped out as part of a convoy from San Diego. He arrived in Hawaii a few weeks after the attack, and forty-five years later he was finally able to write about it.

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As the Harris sailed into the harbor, we stood dumb-founded at the sight that met our eyes. Everywhere we looked there was only destruction and the ravages of the December 7th attack. The water in the bay was covered with thick, black, tarry oil that appeared to be several inches thick, mixed with floating debris resulting from the explosions and fires. Articles of clothing, life jackets, and a lone white sailor’s hat that had somehow remained snowy clean gave mute evidence to the loss of life. Here and there smoke still rose from smoldering wreckage. When we passed what used to be known as Battleship Row, there were gasps of disbelief. We saw nothing but the burned and sunken hulks of our once proud Pacific Fleet. The USS Oklahoma had capsized after having been torpedoed. The Maryland and Tennessee were both heavily damaged. The Nevada, victim of both bomb and torpedo attack, had been beached to prevent her sinking. The California and West Virginia had gone down at their anchorage. Even the aged Utah, an unarmed target vessel, had been destroyed. But worst of all was the USS Arizona. Struck by both heavy bombs and torpedoes, her magazines exploding, the gallant old battlewagon was totally demolished. What had remained had sunk to the bottom of the harbor with over 1,000 members of her crew trapped inside her hull. The only evidence of her ever having existed was her foremast jutting from the murky waters, twisted and burned, albeit with colors and pennant still flying from the masthead.

The entire harbor reeked with the stench of death. We were to later see other damage. The destroyers USS Cassin and Downes were nothing but burnt-out shells in a dry dock they had shared with the battleship Pennsylvania, which miraculously received little damage. The aircraft, building, and equipment losses were still being assessed weeks after the attack. The Pearl Harbor Naval Base was almost completely destroyed.

It was almost dark by the time the Harris dropped anchor. Immediately, we were transferred to the repair ship USS Whitney by whaleboats. We couldn’t see much of her as we made it to her landing stage. There was no illumination other than a few red-colored battle lanterns. We moved up her ladders in a state of uncertainty, trying hard not to stumble. Anyone who might fall into the mucky, polluted waters below, burdened with all his gear, would become a statistic. In spite of the awkwardness of moving around in the dark, our draft did get up to the main deck without losing anyone. Given life jackets with quick instructions in their use, we were told to sack out right there on deck for the night. Somebody would come around later with hot coffee and sandwiches. Considering the turmoil and confusion that existed at the time, it was no surprise that the chow never appeared. We went to sleep hungry that night, but I heard no complaints.

As we arranged our seabags and life jackets along the deck, trying to stay out of the crew’s way, it dawned on us that it was Christmas Eve—for many of us our first Christmas away from home. We were a bunch of teenaged kids, scared to death and trying very hard not to let it show. I doubt if many of us slept that night. There were a lot of whispered prayers, and every now and then you could hear a muffled sob. One of the guys down the line called out softly, “Good night guys, and Merry Christmas.” There were a few more sobs to be heard, and I think one of them might have been mine. Still, despite everything, we did have something to cling to. After all, as our buddy had said, it was Christmas. I guess as we lay there in the darkness on our first wartime Christmas Eve, we were all truly hoping for peace on Earth, and good will toward all men.

The next morning, Christmas morning, we were awakened by the growl of airplane engines as the dawn patrol was preparing for takeoff. Everyone jumped up to line the rail and watch. Several consolidated PBY patrol flying boats were taxiing through the oil-covered waters to finally rise and head out to sea. It didn’t seem likely the Japs would be hanging around for a return engagement, but we were all very new to the business of war, and no chances were being taken.

There was still a holiday dinner of turkey, ham, and all the trimmings, and church services were held for those who wished to attend. Not many guys showed up. I don’t know if it was a lack of faith or just a strong sense of survival. The chapels were all located below deck, and it somehow seemed a lot safer topside. We remained on deck, watching the base as best we could and talking amongst ourselves about what we had seen and what our hopes were for the future. It was not the sort of yuletide we were used to, but one we would get to know well in the years ahead...

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Today is Memorial Day. Let us all share a prayer for our honored dead, and a thank you to all the men and women who have served in the U.S. Armed Forces, or who are currently on active duty.

What Makes a Happy Dog? A Canine Contribution

This is for all you people who love dogs. Have you ever wondered what makes them truly happy? What things are important to them? This bit of verse--supposedly written by a happy dog--tells it all.

Eying hydrants, digging holes,
Drinking from the toilet bowls
Playing games of tug o' war
Putting scratches on your door
Rolling over, playing dead,
Getting dog hair on your bed
Scaring folks who bring the mail
Chasing cars as well as tail
Barking, begging, heeling, howling
And also, on occasion, growling,
Romping through a field of grass,
Sneezing, snoozing, passing gas
Sniffing everything I see
Peeing on the neighbor's tree
Woofing, wagging, chomping, chewing,
These are the thins I sure love doing!

Now am I easier to understand?

Copyright 2000, 2008

Lonely Hours—Section 8

My service years were spent in the U.S. Navy, and you can believe me when I tell you that even during a war, time hangs heavy for a sailor. You don't spend much time actually fighting. Instead, your days and nights are taken up with watch standing, studying for promotion, writing letters, or taking part in never-ending drills. Still, in between, there are a lot of hours with nothing much to do. Some guys take up a hobby, but they don't seem to last very long. Just sitting there looking out over the rolling sea not only makes you seasick, but it gets a man to thinking of all the things he left behind when he pulled on those bell bottom trousers. And a sailor gets lonely. Oh, sure, he has the companionship of his shipmates who literally live in his pocket; the crew is so tightly packed aboard ship. It's surprising how you can live in a compartment with 25 or 30 other seamen and still get the feeling of being so isolated, abandoned by the rest of the world. Your existence is pretty well restricted by the physical limitations of the ship, and privacy is almost non-existent. Even taking a shower or something as personal as relieving yourself is done in the company of your buddies.

If the days seem long, the nights are without end. As you lay in your bunk, trying to catch a couple of hours of sleep before relieving the watch, the dark compartment is filled with the clicking of dice from a crap game under a battle lantern, and the slap of cards in the power game at the mess table—always accompanied by the steady flow of Navy profanity. When things do quiet down and everybody hits the sack, the gloom is made heavier by the rumble of snoring sleepers, and the resounding passage of gas, and the occasional sobbing of the new kid who is still having trouble accepting his new way of life. You find yourself wide awake, wishing you had someone to talk to.

After a while, giving up any idea of sleep, you roll out of your bunk to make your way up to the gun deck where the duty crew is engaged in the age-old sailor's pastime of "shooting the breeze."

I guess it's much the same in all branches of the military. Particularly when members of different services get together over coffee, or that familiar cold brew. Looking back many years later, the best memories are usually those of the bull sessions where you were not only entertained, but frequently educated as well. You learned about things you may otherwise never have known existed. Things that were never mentioned over the dinner table back home. But whatever you talked about, those group discussions were often all that stood between a guy and a section eight.

N.B. A section eight was a medical discharge for reasons of mental unbalance.

Originally published in Now Listen Up! An Anthology of G.I. Memories.
Copyright 1996, 2007

The Flying Dutchman

I joined the Navy in early 1941, before the war began, when the backbone of the fleet was the old-time sailors with thirty or more years of service. Guys who had been everywhere, seen and done everything. That was a time when tradition was all important, when superstition and ancient beliefs still governed a sailor's life to a large degree, even though he might not realize it. A time when the oldtimers would gather over a steaming mug of Navy Joe to tell sea stories the like of which newcomers couldn't imagine.

One such salty old duffer was Jack Ryan, Chief Bo's'n Mate, USS Trever. Ryan had his thirty years of service behind him when I reported aboard. Admittedly, I stood in awe of this crusty old seaman with his rough ways, his tattoos, and the endless sea stories he was ready to tell to those who deferred to his age, experience, knowledge of the sea, and, of course, who were willing to believe every word of the tales he told. Like his version of the ageless legend of the Flying Dutchman.

The Flying Dutchman (according to the Bo's'n) was a square rigged schooner of Dutch registry, homeward bound and heavily laden with looted treasures of the West Indies. Sailing around the Cape of Good Hope, long known for its fierce storms and rough seas, the captain met with gale winds, much stronger than expected, and he was forced to take his ship around the point. Day after day the Flying Dutchman tacked agained the calamitous blasts, but with no success. The storm worsened, threatening to tear away all canvas, and the crew begged the skipper to turn and run with the wind to calmer waters. He refused, swearing he would round the Cape against the winds, if it took until Doom's Day.

Sails began to shred from the force of the blow, and when the captain ordered men aloft to make replacement, they rebelled. In fear and anger, the crew mutinied, and, taking their maddened captain prisoner, they sought to murder him. He was shot with his own pistol, and his body hauled to the starboard yardarm of the mainmast as an offering to the sea gods.

As his almost-lifeless body swung in the force of the gale, his blood pouring from the mortal wound in his chest, the captain found the strength to cry out to the mutineers below: "As I die, so do I curse this ship and all who sail in her. You shall roam the seas forever, never to touch port, to see your homes no more, always to sail the latitudes, never knowing rest or fair weather. You shall become a specter ship, cleaving the main for all eternity, unblest by God or man!"

Jack went on to tell me the Dutchman sails on to this very day. Seen all over the world, her once snow-white oaken sides are yellow with age, the cadaverous color of quarantine. Her once brightly polished brass, now green with corrosion; her smartly pained cabin decks flaking away, festooned with slimy seaweed. A portent of violent storms, death, or madness, she is usually sighted in the gloom of dusk, or at the height of a gale. Known as the unspeakable Sea Rover, or the Scourge of the Seven Seas, the ghost of the captain is said to be seen high on his poop deck, dirty white beard streaming in the wind, his face a black mask of malevolence, eyes glowing red and teeth tightly clenched in a snarl of hatred as he shakes his fist at the heavens.

Not a particularly well-educated man, the Bo's'n of the Trever was prone to accept the age-old story as gospel truth. He became almost poetic, however, as he spoke of the Dutchman, reciting the story as it had been told to him. He ended his tale with a bit of verse, almost whispering:

She is manned by a crew of rebellious lads,
As ever a ship's deck have trod,
Cursed to sail the seas for evermore,
Their fate known to none but God.

Copyright 1996, 2007