Sunday in Hell, page 27
Mahikoa’s disbelief and maneuver explanations disappeared in a flash. He ran to the car, turned on the radio and turned the volume up. They all heard the announcement, which began playing over and over again: “This is the real thing - THIS IS WAR - Pearl Harbor is under attack - several planes have been shot down and they bear the insignia of the rising sun on their wings.”
Over and over came the message, and the full significance began to strike deep in the minds of young men such as Fred Kamaka and Lieutenant Mahikoa, who had minutes earlier been thinking of breakfast, clean-up after breakfast, the beauty of the island, maneuvers, mail boxes, church services, and an afternoon parade competition. Then something far more startling occurred.
As they listened intently to the radio broadcast, and stood transfixed, gazing at all that was happening, a totally unfamiliar sound intruded - similar to the loud whistle of an incoming artillery round heard in the sound system at a war movie. Mahikoa knew the sound instinctively, and shouted, “Hit the ground!” - throwing himself down in his nice, clean-pressed business suit. His cadets instantly followed his example, throwing themselves to the ground. None too soon.
Two expended, friendly antiaircraft rounds slammed into the retaining wall and exploded approximately 100 feet up the road, knocking a large hole in the wall and raining shrapnel over the area. No one was hurt, but other thoughts were now racing through young minds. Thoughts of a parade and a competition rapidly faded, swallowed in the realization that if the Japanese succeeded in capturing these islands, the boys of Kamahameha might never drill again. Within seconds several other rounds fell on the hillside above and below the school, but none came as close as the two that welcomed Kamahameha High School for boys to World War II that fateful morning. Others in Honolulu and surrounding communities wouldn’t be so lucky, and the boys would grow up quickly.13
Inside residences or buildings, where windows afforded the smallest possibility of attention-getting views, and no accompanying, delayed sounds, recognition of the approaching, exploding inferno and life-changing disaster was far more slowly comprehended.
Hans Wiedenhoefer, a member of the San Jose State Spartans’ football team, which left San Francisco on the Lurline Thanksgiving Day, was having breakfast in their hotel with the team. “Nobody knew what was going on. Some of us thought it was maneuvers. Others saw spouts of water in the harbor and a waiter told us he figured somebody was shooting whales. A couple of us took a walk down to the beach and when we saw one of those big bombs hit the water we knew it wasn’t whale shooting and hustled back to the hotel. One of those bombs hit in the water about a hundred yards from the hotel and another one demolished a building a block away.” He said the populace was calm, all went home quietly and there was no confusion. But to distant witnesses there was confusion, abundant confusion.14
Bill Ryne, halfback on the Spartan team, witnessed the same “…big spout of water in the harbor,” and overheard the explanation about whales spouting. “Later we went to the beach but they wouldn’t let us go into the water, and that afternoon we read in the paper of the attack. It was the first we knew of it.” Tom Taylor, college yell leader who accompanied the Spartans said, “I thought the attack was a dress rehearsal for M-day.” The team was preparing to take a bus trip around the island when the attack began, and when the buses didn’t show up, Coach Winkelman investigated. He learned that all buses were being used by the military. This was the first he knew anything was amiss. “It was quite awhile before we realized what was happening,” Star center, Wilbur Wool, said. “Then we only knew the islands had been attacked when someone told us. I don’t know what the others thought then, but my first thought was about how I was going to get home.”15
More than one person posed the same question. How was anyone going to get home? None knew of the orders issued to the 1st, 2d, and 3d Japanese submarine groups. None knew the location of the Japanese fleet devastating the American air and naval forces on Oahu. Where might the ships be to take them home? What Naval vessels would escort ships taking them through a Japanese fleet - wherever it might be - or Japanese submarines lying in wait for them?
Willamette University Bearcat’s Coach R.S. “Spec” Keene was with his team eating breakfast in their hotel. “We saw water splashing in the harbor and asked a waiter what it was.” “It’s a whale spouting,” he said. “We all trooped out to watch it, treating it as a joke. We didn’t know until late in the afternoon what had happened.” The team saw planes dropping bombs in the water but thought it was the US army and navy planes practicing “M-Day” maneuvers islanders had been talking about so much. Later, Coach Keene repeated, “No one became particularly excited. We didn’t even know what was going on until almost five hours after the bombing started. Not even after we’d inspected a bomb crater two blocks from our hotel did we realize an attack had been made. We thought it was practice maneuvers by the army and navy air corps.”16
Oregon State Senator McKay, who accompanied the Willamette team to Oahu, later said, “We didn’t know Hawaii had been attacked until we heard the president say so in his Washington, DC broadcast, although we had seen planes dropping bombs and had put aside as ‘wild rumor’ the story brought to the hotel by an eye witness of fire on Pearl Harbor and Japanese planes overhead.” Indeed, a near-hysterical woman had driven from a vantage point nearer the spreading inferno, telling of airplanes, explosions, and fire on the waters in Pearl Harbor. Lorena Jack, “Miss Jack” to people at the university, remarked facetiously, “The Japs must be after us.” She was later shocked to learn her facetious remark was a statement of fact. The rumor was no rumor, though later in the day, fear-breeding rumors ran rampant.17
With the exception of seven members of the San Jose football team who voluntarily stayed behind to help in the defense of the island, the two teams left the island twelve days later, never knowing that the Japanese were not deliberately dropping bombs in the water, or on Honolulu. Spent rounds from American 3-inch antiaircraft defense guns, fired mostly from ships in Pearl Harbor at Japanese aircraft attacking from the east, from the direction of Honolulu, were falling into commercial and residential areas, and exploding - adding to the carnage and heavy damage inflicted on Oahu. The ship, harbor and airfield defenders had no choice. It was war suddenly and violently entered, war brought to them. Fight back with everything at your disposal, kill or be killed.
To the northwest, south, southeast, and just southwest of Pearl Harbor, at Wheeler and Hickam Fields, Ewa - and at NAS Pearl Harbor, while the Japanese were battering ships in the harbor, they were simultaneously executing a classic air superiority attack on Oahu’s Naval aviation and the Hawaiian Air Force. They systematically savaged aircraft caught on the ground, destroyed, badly damaged or set fire to hangars and maintenance buildings, supply depots, barracks, dining halls and tent areas, fuel and ammunition storage areas. The success of their onslaught, as at Kaneohe, and later at Bellows Field, would protect the first and second waves from effective fighter defense and leave Hawaii’s air defense and long range patrol capabilities bloodied and in a shambles - but not completely destroyed. After the Japanese air assault ended, the Army’s radar sites, fixed and mobile antiaircraft gun positions, and the Navy’s antiaircraft guns aboard ships not sunk or badly damaged, remained operational. Casualties were relatively few in the Army’s 24th and 25th Infantry Divisions and their supporting units. Not so on board ships and on Oahu’s military air fields.
A Savaged Fighter Command
Wheeler Field, struck shortly before 0800, was home for the Hawaiian Air Force’s entire pursuit (interceptor) force, which was the 14th Pursuit Wing, composed of the 15th and 18th Pursuit Groups. A successful attack on Wheeler would virtually assure air superiority. The Japanese took Wheeler Field completely by surprise, as they did every other installation on Oahu. No one on the ground sighted the oncoming Val dive bombers until they made their final turn for the attack.
Japanese Navy Type 99 carrier dive bomber (Val) in action during attack. A fearsome sight when viewed from the receiving end of its bomb delivery. NA
Aircraft and maintenance facilities along the flight line were the primary targets. Supply depots, barracks and people anywhere in the vicinity of these targets, were secondary but also received devastating blows. The Japanese pilots were too well trained to waste their bombs and ammunition on insignificant targets. One bomb did land in the front yard of a house, but it was the result of a miss rather then a deliberate attack on the housing area.
Private Wilfred D. Burke, 72nd Pursuit Squadron said, “It was the first time I had ever seen a plunging dive bomber and it was an awesome sight. Nothing in warfare is more frightening. Hurtling down on us was the dive bomber being followed by another, while six or seven more were in echelon awaiting their turn. The leader pulled out right over us in a spectacular climbing bank. We could clearly see the rising sun of Japan on his wings and fuselage.”
Burke, an aircraft armorer, had reluctantly got out of bed around 0700 that morning, in one of the tents on the hangar line. His boss, Sergeant Forest Wills, stirred resentment in Burke when he waked him on the only morning Burke could sleep late. He had promised Wills, a deeply religious man, he would go to church with him. “Deacon” Wills had become a good friend. As Burke put it, he “was sincerely concerned with my spiritual welfare, having observed that I was a worthless fellow given to drinking beer.”
After eating breakfast in an unusually empty mess hall, Burke had some spare time before church and joined a group of men in the open quadrangle in the middle of the 72nd’s tent area between Hangars 2 and 3, “shooting the bull.” As they talked, a flight of planes passed to the west of Wheeler, heading toward Pearl Harbor. Someone said, “It’s the Navy,” but their idle observation soon turned to terror when Japanese airplanes almost directly overhead appeared to be diving toward them.18
Colonel Flood, the base commander, was in front of his quarters talking to some people when the attack began. He saw a bomb hit the Wheeler depot area and first thought someone out on maneuvers accidentally dropped it. Immediately afterward, a group of low flying airplanes sped by, only 50 to 75 feet off the ground. “You could almost hit them with a rock if you had it,” thought Flood. When he saw the insignia of the Japanese rising sun, he knew what had happened and hurried down to the flight line. By then, hangars and aircraft were in flames, and a thick pall of black smoke hung over the area.19
Vals approaching first from the west, parallel to the parking apron, then from the east, then from both directions, releasing their bombs from 500 to 1,000 feet above the ground, delivered deadly explosive force. They released their bombs from one end of the hangar line to the other, scored direct hits on Hangars 1 and 3 and additional buildings in that area, setting fires. One bomb struck the 6th Pursuit Squadron barracks, entering a window on the second floor, where it exploded, caused considerable damage and numerous wounded.
The multi-direction attacks by the bombers and fighters added confusion and chaos to the abject fear and terror of defenseless men scrambling for cover and weapons to defend themselves against an enemy bent on destruction of the field’s mission capability. Observations and recollections of events differed widely among those on the receiving end of the destructive weapons tearing Wheeler Field apart. According to some, the first place hit was the gas storage dump on the southwest corner of the base, where all of Wheeler’s flammables such as gas, turpentine, and lacquer were kept. Most witnesses, however, reported that the first bomb struck Hangar 1, where the base engineering shops were located. The tremendous blast blew out skylights, and clouds of smoke billowed upward, making it appear the entire hangar was lifted off its foundation. The explosion decimated the sheet metal, electrical, and paint shops in the front half of the hangar, but spared the machine and wood shops, and tool room, which were protected by a concrete-block, dividing wall.20
The bomb that hit Hangar 3 had struck the hangar sheltering the central ammunition storage area, where, because of the Hawaiian Department’s Alert One status, the ammunition unloaded from aircraft, including rounds pulled from machine gun belts, had been stored. The hangar’s exploding ammunition, going off like firecrackers in the flames, severely limited the ability to defend Wheeler Field against the continuing air attack.
Planes and hangars burning at Wheeler Army Air Field, Oahu, soon after it was attacked in the morning of 7 December 1941, as seen from a Japanese Navy plane. NHHC
Immediately behind the completed first wave of dive bombing attacks came the bombers, back again joining the fighters in follow-on, low level strafing attacks. The 72nd Pursuit Squadron tent area between Hangars 2 and 3 came under heavy attack.
Burke and his friends, as well as many other Wheeler men, fled from the strafing attacks in the tent and flight line areas, scattering in all directions. Burke headed for the married NCOs’ (noncommissioned officers’) quarters a block away, thinking the attackers were unlikely to waste their ammunition on family homes. As he ran across the street corner nearest his tent, a bomb struck the pavement behind him and killed several men. When he reached the first row of family housing, he placed his back against the wall of a house and looked back toward the hangars.
He was on higher ground and could clearly see the carnage and devastation. The dive bombers had regrouped, and with the fighters were methodically strafing planes of the 14th Pursuit Wing, which were lined up by squadron, wingtip to wingtip, in precise rows on the ramp. A thick pall of oily, black smoke from burning planes and hangars stretched over the flight line and hung almost as low as the tent tops that were left standing. The dense smoke screened the 46th Pursuit Squadron’s P-36 fighter aircraft parked in the last row on the west end of the Wheeler flight line, preventing the Japanese from pinpointing them as targets.21
Private Henry C. Woodrum was in the food line at the mess hall when the attack began. After hearing the roar of an airplane passing low overhead, hearing a loud, window-rattling explosion that drew his gaze out the nearest window, he recognized the wing insignia of a climbing, turning Japanese aircraft, a Val dive bomber that had just released a bomb. A newcomer behind him, thinking it was a crash, commented, “Boy, that lieutenant sure hit hard!” “That’s no crash,” Woodrum shouted. “It’s the Japs!” Others crowded around the window to have a look, then tried to rush outside at the same time, jamming the main entrance.
Woodrum took a shortcut by vaulting over a steam table and running through the rear of the kitchen, as a cook screamed obscenities at him. He dashed out the doorway into the loading dock, paused and looked upward. A low-wing monoplane seemed to be diving directly toward him. He froze as a bomb detached itself from the fuselage and arched downward, exploding nearby. The shock wave hurled him from the doorway, back into the building, across the hall, and through the open door of a walk-in storage area. Wet, smelly vegetables spilled on top of him from crates on the shelves. He made his way through the clutter back to the doorway, jumped off the dock, and ran toward the 14th Pursuit Wing Headquarters.
As he dashed up a steep slope leading to a construction site, where foundation trenches had been dug and lumber stacked ready for use, machine gun bullets raked the dirt in front of him. He scrambled behind a high stack of two-by-fours for protection. When the strafing stopped, he raised his head to look around and could smell the odor of burning oil. Across the way, almost every building along the flight line seemed on fire, and the Japanese pilots continued to strafe hangars, aircraft, and fleeing personnel.
The new P-40s were being blown to bits, their burning parts scattering along the ramp in all directions, setting other planes on fire. One P-40 fell in two pieces, its prop pointing almost straight up. A P-36 exploded, hurling flaming debris upon a nearby tent, setting it ablaze. A man ran from the tent, climbed into an old Plymouth, and drove only a short distance before being hit by a strafing aircraft. The car burst into flames, then exploded, but the driver jumped out in time, his clothes smoking, and ran into a building unharmed.
Private First Class Robert R. Shattauck wasn’t as fortunate. A switchboard operator assigned to the 15th Pursuit Group’s communications section, he and his buddies were eating breakfast when the attack began. They hurriedly left the mess hall and ran down to the tents where they lived. The first sergeant was there and told them to get out of the area since it was under heavy attack. Some stayed back to help fight fires, and the rest reported to the communications tent. Shattuck and Private Nelson were heading toward his duty station through the tent area when he was hit by shrapnel. One of his legs was torn off, and he died a short time later.
Back at the construction site, two men joined Henry Woodrum in taking cover behind the lumber pile. One was a young, crewcut lad, about 20 years old, who crawled to the end of the pile with his upper body extending beyond it. Although cautioned to get back before he got hit, he refused. “I can see ‘em coming from out here.” He began to laugh, treating the situation as a joke, but suddenly gasped and rolled halfway over, his body rigid, then quivering, before he flopped back on his belly and died. The rear gunners on the Japanese dive bombers had spotted Woodrum and others hiding among the piles of lumber. They began to take shots at them as the aircraft pulled out of strafing passes.
The men decided to take their chances and dash for the barracks, which was only one hundred feet away. One man reached the top of the embankment but was cut down by a line of machine gun bullets that stitched their way through the moist dirt, sending him tumbling into a motionless heap at the bottom of the slope. Woodrum and the others managed to make it to safety.22
When the brief lull came after the first wave of attacks, Wilfred Burke hurried back toward his tent. Reaching the street corner where the bomb that earlier had hit behind him had exploded, he was horrified to see six or seven bodies lying around. One had been completely denuded by the bomb blast, its head and one arm missing from the torso. When he reached his tent, he went inside to pick up his helmet and found two other men retrieving theirs. The helmets had only recently been issued and were the old World War I “tin hats.” Before putting them on, all three men had to stop and take the time to lace in the helmet linings, indicating how unprepared they were for an attack.
