16 Days in West Virginia
from
The Dead Beats
Part 1
It’s late afternoon in Hawaii; a paradisiacal partly cloudy day where midday temperature peak at just over 80°F. There’s a nice breeze coming off the water. Unfortunately the resplendence of this day, December 6th, 1941, does little to portend the horror that’s to come on the following morning. On this day there’s still optimism that America, a neutral country to the conflicts in Europe and Asia, can stay out of the war. Soon enough those hopes will be shattered.
Twenty year old Clifford Olds joins his fellow North Dakotan seamen Jack Miller on patrol of the docks around Battleship Row where the might of the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet, eight battleships, are lined up along the docks. They walk past the USS Arizona. Naval personnel buzz around the harbor as Jack turns toward Cliff and says, “I know these waters are full of those big-old tuna and marlin some of the fellas reel in, but I’ll take a lazy day on Devil’s Lake fishing for northern pike and walleye any-old day.”
Cliff nods. “I prefer those big-old paddlefish in the Missouri.”
“I’ve only ever caught trout in the Missouri.”
“That’s what I usually get too, but every spring those paddlefish run. I find ‘em easier to filet.”
They continue patrol, ambling past the USS Tennessee and then their own dreadnought battleship, the USS West Virginia. Walking parallel to the starboard side of the USS Maryland, Jack turns and mentions, “I’m heading into Pearl City after our shift if you wanna join me Cliff.”
Cliff shakes his head. “I’ve got an early shift on the Wee-Vee.”
“I won’t be out late. Just long enough for a good steak and a few rounds at Monkey Bar. They got a couple of lookers working there. I’m taking one of the M12’s.”
“The M12 has so much more power than the M86. Does it have a sidecar?
“Naw, but you can hop on with me.”
After a moment of internal deliberation Cliff answers, “Yeah, why not. I could go for a decent steak.”
“Aces!”
After shift they go to their cabins in the West Virginia to change into their dress whites, the often caricatured sailor uniform, complete with starched Dixie cup hats and rolled black neckerchiefs – a requirement for going out while on active duty. From Ford Island where the battleships are moored it takes about 15 minutes on the Belgian M12 motorcycle to reach nearby Pearl City. There Jack and Cliff share a nice dinner at a steakhouse packed with sailors. Once a few Camels are smoked and the bill is paid they then drive down Kamehameha Highway to Monkey Bar.
Monkey Bar is hopping with sea dogs, a smattering of broads and a few high jumpers; slang of the day for a woman who enjoys her drink. Glenn Miller’s big band sound booms out of the speakers as Cliff and Jack find a table, sitting on wicker furniture and lighting up Camels before ordering a round of drinks. A sailor approaches and Jack stands up to greet him.
“Frank Kosa, you old swab!”
Frank walks up and they embrace. As they pull away Frank pats Jack on the shoulder, nodding to Cliff and asking, “Hey there Cliff. Mind if I join you fellas?”
“Certainly not Frank. Have yourself a seat.”
The three sailors put down a few drinks, smoking Camels in frequent intervals as the songs of the day play, most popular in the rotation after Glenn Miller being The Ink Spots and The Andrews Sisters; all of which have sappy crooners backed by orchestral sounds. After the waitress brings over a last round of drinks a full-figured blonde barmaid with a pretty face, swinging curls and bright red lipstick approaches their table.
“Can I get a picture of you handsome, able-bodied seamen?” she asks.
Already tipsy Frank chirps, “Sure thing mama! Snap away.”
She leans forward. The men clink their glasses together in a cheers with one hand, each with a Camel burning down to the filter in the other. There’s a wood paneled wall and window as the backdrop behind them.
Click.
The woman stands back upright. “You Joes want a copy?”
“Sure thing little Jane,” Frank answers.
“That’ll be a dollar then, Joe.”
“A whole dollar? Aren’t you a worker?” He shakes his head.
She looks at Jack who shakes his head too. When she looks at Cliff he shrugs, saying, “The last of my suds went to the hooch.”
Disappointedly she walks off. The men exhaust their topics, which include griping about the brass, loose women of Pearl City and their favorite motorcycles. They finish their drinks. Cliff and Jack take their leave of Frank, throttling the M12 all the way back to the West Virginia.
---------------------------------
On the next morning, December 7th, Cliff wakes up groggy for his shift. He along with Seamen Ronald Endicott, 18, and 21-year-old Petty Officer 3rd Class Louis “Buddy” Costin are tasked with maintenance on one of the pumps in the bowels of the forward hull. They toil away scrubbing out filters, everything seemingly normal for an early morning on a December Sunday. After their tasks are completed they discuss attending the naval chaplain’s service.
Part 2
19-year-old Marine bugler Dick Fiske sits at his post on the West Virginia’s quarterdeck enjoying a face full of morning sunlight and a Navy issued Camel. After a few minutes, not much before 8am, the distinct sound of planes coming into range reverberates through the ether. It must be an Air Corps exercise, Dick thinks, but a moment later as a large formation with dozens of Japanese torpedo bombers appear in the sky above he knows that this is no exercise.
Dick sits there stunned until the first bomb drops and strikes the side of the USS Maryland, with more bombs falling in succession through Battleship Row. He drops his cigarette as alarms sound and the murmur of chaos rises to meet the volume of low-pitched bomber engines, the bombs detonating with booms upon impact with the battleships, generating the subsequent hissing of fireballs. Dick runs for help, but the West Virginia takes a hit on the exposed portside, BAM, and then another, BOOM! The ship lists violently, causing those aboard to lose their footing, which slams Dick against the floor and railing. In a flash Pearl Harbor went from a calm Sunday morning to a frenzied blitz of military might.
BOOM! Another torpedo bomb explodes upon impact with the West Virginia, causing a massive fire to break out on the armor deck. As the ship lists, fearfully close to capsizing, Dick picks himself up and scrambles toward the control room. Just then a bomb strikes the Tennessee, sending shrapnel flying. Dick dives to the crooked deck and hugs the railing as fragments pepper the West Virginia with warped and jagged metal.
When Dick reaches the control room he sees the body of Captain Bennion torn apart by shrapnel. Lieutenant Ricketts, the ship’s assistant fire control officer, has frantically taken control.
“Lieutenant! What in the hell is going on?” Dick asks.
“We’re under attack Fiske! They hit the fuel oil. Go help put out the fires before this whole damn ship is engulfed.”
“It won’t matter much Lieutenant. We’re about to tip into the drink.”
“I’m working on it. Now go!”
---------------------------------
WHAM! Another torpedo bomb tears through the armored plates of the hull. Ensign Kelly risks his life to close off as many lower decks as possible before running up the steps to the command bridge where Lieutenant Ricketts scrambles between operational equipment. BOOM! The ship is rocked again. The bombs, the gunfire, the clatter of engines and clamor of fires and violence, it’s encompassing, deafening, manic.
“Lieutenant!” Kelly shouts at the helm. “Flood the lower chambers on the starboard side to keep her upright! We have to set-zed! Set-zed!”
“I don’t know if they’re cleared!”
“They’re gone anyway. We can evacuate the rest during a controlled sink, but one more hit and we’ll turn turtle and lose the lot of ‘em! Set-zed Lieutenant!”
Ricketts yanks urgently at levers.
---------------------------------
Cliff, along with Ron and Buddy toil in the lowest recesses of Wee-Vee when, BOOM! There’s an abrupt jolt, like standing beneath a tree that’s struck by lightning. The battleship jerks brutally, listing as if they’d just hit something, which couldn’t be possible while moored in the harbor.
“What the hell was that?” Ron shouts over the din of pumps, engines and the deafening echo of the bomb strikes. He’s a dimpled young man, so young he’s yet to shed the look of boyhood.
They stop to listen to the sounds of garbled booms outside, when BAM, the West Virginia takes another portside hit, listing the battleship further and sending a blast of water into the chamber. “It… it can’t be,” Buddy says in awe as water gushes in. “We… we’ve gotta get out of here. Cliff, seal the hatch behind us.”
They make their way past operations and engine rooms in the nadir of the Wee-Vee’s stern, which grows more difficult to traverse as water rushes in, with yet more bombs rocking the lurching battleship. They’re tossed about as they make it to the sheer metal steps to a higher deck, but the steel doors have already been sealed shut. Ron bangs on it and shouts, but no one opens it. Another explosion on the portside hull sends him flying backward, tumbling into Buddy and Cliff, knocking all of them into the surging water.
As they pick themselves up and gather their bearings Buddy turns to Cliff and Ron. “We’ve gotta get to the freshwater pump room. It’s airtight.”
“We’ve gotta get out of here, Petty Officer!” Ron yells.
“Well, we’ve got no way out, Seamen. So let’s go!”
They climb along the walls of the keeling ship through waist deep sea water looking for openings to the upper decks. The resonance of impact and the reverberation of gunfire throws off their equilibrium as they search, but all the doors offering escape are sealed.
They climb and swim their way to the door for the freshwater pump room when something happens – the scuppers and drain plugs on the starboard side of the bilge open, letting in a flood of water. Cliff, at a 45 degree angle, grabs the hand-wheel on the watertight door and spins it with renewed purpose as the antechamber fills. “Hurry!” Ron stresses.
When the seal releases and the door opens the men jump through, then immediately turn and reseal it from the other side. Once finished they step away from the door, catching their breath in the tilted utility room.
“What in the hell is going on out there?” Cliff says between heaving breaths.
They huddle there listening to the muddled sounds of war when suddenly the ship lists back the other way and rights itself. They put out their arms to balance as if they’re surfing. As the water that made it in with them dissipates through a drain the backup power flickers out. Now in total darkness the only thing the three men can sense other than dread is the awful feeling of the West Virginia as it sinks to the bottom of the harbor.
Part 3
For around an hour and 15 minutes the Japanese pound Pearl Harbor with over a hundred bombers and dozens of Zeros, meeting little resistance from the Americans. By the time they withdrew shortly after 9am thousands of servicemen were dead or wounded and 68 civilians were killed. 21 navy ships were sunk, run aground or badly damaged, including five battleships. 169 planes were demolished. Of note, a majority of the fatalities were among junior enlisted personnel, meaning they were all 17 or 18 years old.
Once the attack is over the day had only just begun. Ships were burning and fires raged on. The wounded needed medical treatment. People were trapped, others needed evac. There were rumors of Japanese paratroopers on the ground in Honolulu. For a military that runs on precision, order needed to be restored. Whatever personnel was left spent the day extinguishing fires and searching for the dead or wounded. It was a scene of carnage, the smells of death and scorching metals filling the air along with the billows of dark smoke from oil fires.
Part 1
It’s late afternoon in Hawaii; a paradisiacal partly cloudy day where midday temperature peak at just over 80°F. There’s a nice breeze coming off the water. Unfortunately the resplendence of this day, December 6th, 1941, does little to portend the horror that’s to come on the following morning. On this day there’s still optimism that America, a neutral country to the conflicts in Europe and Asia, can stay out of the war. Soon enough those hopes will be shattered.
Twenty year old Clifford Olds joins his fellow North Dakotan seamen Jack Miller on patrol of the docks around Battleship Row where the might of the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet, eight battleships, are lined up along the docks. They walk past the USS Arizona. Naval personnel buzz around the harbor as Jack turns toward Cliff and says, “I know these waters are full of those big-old tuna and marlin some of the fellas reel in, but I’ll take a lazy day on Devil’s Lake fishing for northern pike and walleye any-old day.”
Cliff nods. “I prefer those big-old paddlefish in the Missouri.”
“I’ve only ever caught trout in the Missouri.”
“That’s what I usually get too, but every spring those paddlefish run. I find ‘em easier to filet.”
They continue patrol, ambling past the USS Tennessee and then their own dreadnought battleship, the USS West Virginia. Walking parallel to the starboard side of the USS Maryland, Jack turns and mentions, “I’m heading into Pearl City after our shift if you wanna join me Cliff.”
Cliff shakes his head. “I’ve got an early shift on the Wee-Vee.”
“I won’t be out late. Just long enough for a good steak and a few rounds at Monkey Bar. They got a couple of lookers working there. I’m taking one of the M12’s.”
“The M12 has so much more power than the M86. Does it have a sidecar?
“Naw, but you can hop on with me.”
After a moment of internal deliberation Cliff answers, “Yeah, why not. I could go for a decent steak.”
“Aces!”
After shift they go to their cabins in the West Virginia to change into their dress whites, the often caricatured sailor uniform, complete with starched Dixie cup hats and rolled black neckerchiefs – a requirement for going out while on active duty. From Ford Island where the battleships are moored it takes about 15 minutes on the Belgian M12 motorcycle to reach nearby Pearl City. There Jack and Cliff share a nice dinner at a steakhouse packed with sailors. Once a few Camels are smoked and the bill is paid they then drive down Kamehameha Highway to Monkey Bar.
Monkey Bar is hopping with sea dogs, a smattering of broads and a few high jumpers; slang of the day for a woman who enjoys her drink. Glenn Miller’s big band sound booms out of the speakers as Cliff and Jack find a table, sitting on wicker furniture and lighting up Camels before ordering a round of drinks. A sailor approaches and Jack stands up to greet him.
“Frank Kosa, you old swab!”
Frank walks up and they embrace. As they pull away Frank pats Jack on the shoulder, nodding to Cliff and asking, “Hey there Cliff. Mind if I join you fellas?”
“Certainly not Frank. Have yourself a seat.”
The three sailors put down a few drinks, smoking Camels in frequent intervals as the songs of the day play, most popular in the rotation after Glenn Miller being The Ink Spots and The Andrews Sisters; all of which have sappy crooners backed by orchestral sounds. After the waitress brings over a last round of drinks a full-figured blonde barmaid with a pretty face, swinging curls and bright red lipstick approaches their table.
“Can I get a picture of you handsome, able-bodied seamen?” she asks.
Already tipsy Frank chirps, “Sure thing mama! Snap away.”
She leans forward. The men clink their glasses together in a cheers with one hand, each with a Camel burning down to the filter in the other. There’s a wood paneled wall and window as the backdrop behind them.
Click.
The woman stands back upright. “You Joes want a copy?”
“Sure thing little Jane,” Frank answers.
“That’ll be a dollar then, Joe.”
“A whole dollar? Aren’t you a worker?” He shakes his head.
She looks at Jack who shakes his head too. When she looks at Cliff he shrugs, saying, “The last of my suds went to the hooch.”
Disappointedly she walks off. The men exhaust their topics, which include griping about the brass, loose women of Pearl City and their favorite motorcycles. They finish their drinks. Cliff and Jack take their leave of Frank, throttling the M12 all the way back to the West Virginia.
---------------------------------
On the next morning, December 7th, Cliff wakes up groggy for his shift. He along with Seamen Ronald Endicott, 18, and 21-year-old Petty Officer 3rd Class Louis “Buddy” Costin are tasked with maintenance on one of the pumps in the bowels of the forward hull. They toil away scrubbing out filters, everything seemingly normal for an early morning on a December Sunday. After their tasks are completed they discuss attending the naval chaplain’s service.
Part 2
19-year-old Marine bugler Dick Fiske sits at his post on the West Virginia’s quarterdeck enjoying a face full of morning sunlight and a Navy issued Camel. After a few minutes, not much before 8am, the distinct sound of planes coming into range reverberates through the ether. It must be an Air Corps exercise, Dick thinks, but a moment later as a large formation with dozens of Japanese torpedo bombers appear in the sky above he knows that this is no exercise.
Dick sits there stunned until the first bomb drops and strikes the side of the USS Maryland, with more bombs falling in succession through Battleship Row. He drops his cigarette as alarms sound and the murmur of chaos rises to meet the volume of low-pitched bomber engines, the bombs detonating with booms upon impact with the battleships, generating the subsequent hissing of fireballs. Dick runs for help, but the West Virginia takes a hit on the exposed portside, BAM, and then another, BOOM! The ship lists violently, causing those aboard to lose their footing, which slams Dick against the floor and railing. In a flash Pearl Harbor went from a calm Sunday morning to a frenzied blitz of military might.
BOOM! Another torpedo bomb explodes upon impact with the West Virginia, causing a massive fire to break out on the armor deck. As the ship lists, fearfully close to capsizing, Dick picks himself up and scrambles toward the control room. Just then a bomb strikes the Tennessee, sending shrapnel flying. Dick dives to the crooked deck and hugs the railing as fragments pepper the West Virginia with warped and jagged metal.
When Dick reaches the control room he sees the body of Captain Bennion torn apart by shrapnel. Lieutenant Ricketts, the ship’s assistant fire control officer, has frantically taken control.
“Lieutenant! What in the hell is going on?” Dick asks.
“We’re under attack Fiske! They hit the fuel oil. Go help put out the fires before this whole damn ship is engulfed.”
“It won’t matter much Lieutenant. We’re about to tip into the drink.”
“I’m working on it. Now go!”
---------------------------------
WHAM! Another torpedo bomb tears through the armored plates of the hull. Ensign Kelly risks his life to close off as many lower decks as possible before running up the steps to the command bridge where Lieutenant Ricketts scrambles between operational equipment. BOOM! The ship is rocked again. The bombs, the gunfire, the clatter of engines and clamor of fires and violence, it’s encompassing, deafening, manic.
“Lieutenant!” Kelly shouts at the helm. “Flood the lower chambers on the starboard side to keep her upright! We have to set-zed! Set-zed!”
“I don’t know if they’re cleared!”
“They’re gone anyway. We can evacuate the rest during a controlled sink, but one more hit and we’ll turn turtle and lose the lot of ‘em! Set-zed Lieutenant!”
Ricketts yanks urgently at levers.
---------------------------------
Cliff, along with Ron and Buddy toil in the lowest recesses of Wee-Vee when, BOOM! There’s an abrupt jolt, like standing beneath a tree that’s struck by lightning. The battleship jerks brutally, listing as if they’d just hit something, which couldn’t be possible while moored in the harbor.
“What the hell was that?” Ron shouts over the din of pumps, engines and the deafening echo of the bomb strikes. He’s a dimpled young man, so young he’s yet to shed the look of boyhood.
They stop to listen to the sounds of garbled booms outside, when BAM, the West Virginia takes another portside hit, listing the battleship further and sending a blast of water into the chamber. “It… it can’t be,” Buddy says in awe as water gushes in. “We… we’ve gotta get out of here. Cliff, seal the hatch behind us.”
They make their way past operations and engine rooms in the nadir of the Wee-Vee’s stern, which grows more difficult to traverse as water rushes in, with yet more bombs rocking the lurching battleship. They’re tossed about as they make it to the sheer metal steps to a higher deck, but the steel doors have already been sealed shut. Ron bangs on it and shouts, but no one opens it. Another explosion on the portside hull sends him flying backward, tumbling into Buddy and Cliff, knocking all of them into the surging water.
As they pick themselves up and gather their bearings Buddy turns to Cliff and Ron. “We’ve gotta get to the freshwater pump room. It’s airtight.”
“We’ve gotta get out of here, Petty Officer!” Ron yells.
“Well, we’ve got no way out, Seamen. So let’s go!”
They climb along the walls of the keeling ship through waist deep sea water looking for openings to the upper decks. The resonance of impact and the reverberation of gunfire throws off their equilibrium as they search, but all the doors offering escape are sealed.
They climb and swim their way to the door for the freshwater pump room when something happens – the scuppers and drain plugs on the starboard side of the bilge open, letting in a flood of water. Cliff, at a 45 degree angle, grabs the hand-wheel on the watertight door and spins it with renewed purpose as the antechamber fills. “Hurry!” Ron stresses.
When the seal releases and the door opens the men jump through, then immediately turn and reseal it from the other side. Once finished they step away from the door, catching their breath in the tilted utility room.
“What in the hell is going on out there?” Cliff says between heaving breaths.
They huddle there listening to the muddled sounds of war when suddenly the ship lists back the other way and rights itself. They put out their arms to balance as if they’re surfing. As the water that made it in with them dissipates through a drain the backup power flickers out. Now in total darkness the only thing the three men can sense other than dread is the awful feeling of the West Virginia as it sinks to the bottom of the harbor.
Part 3
For around an hour and 15 minutes the Japanese pound Pearl Harbor with over a hundred bombers and dozens of Zeros, meeting little resistance from the Americans. By the time they withdrew shortly after 9am thousands of servicemen were dead or wounded and 68 civilians were killed. 21 navy ships were sunk, run aground or badly damaged, including five battleships. 169 planes were demolished. Of note, a majority of the fatalities were among junior enlisted personnel, meaning they were all 17 or 18 years old.
Once the attack is over the day had only just begun. Ships were burning and fires raged on. The wounded needed medical treatment. People were trapped, others needed evac. There were rumors of Japanese paratroopers on the ground in Honolulu. For a military that runs on precision, order needed to be restored. Whatever personnel was left spent the day extinguishing fires and searching for the dead or wounded. It was a scene of carnage, the smells of death and scorching metals filling the air along with the billows of dark smoke from oil fires.
As the distressing day crests the sounds of fireboat pumps spraying streams of frothing ocean water onto the USS Arizona and the banging of hammers to perforate the overturned hull of the Oklahoma reverberate through the harbor. But there’s one other noise that can also be heard. There’s a bang, bang sound coming from the depths of the sunken West Virginia.
With Captain Bennion deceased, Lieutenant Commander William White assumes command of the West Virginia. He stands on the shore directing his remaining crew members; those who’d jumped off the West Virginia and swam ashore during the evacuation. He orders the men to various areas of decimation where they could assist. A shell-shocked Dick Fiske stands beside the Lieutenant Commander as Jack Miller walks up.
“Miller, I need you to stand guard with Fiske here,” Lieutenant Commander White directs.
“Yes sir,” Jack replies dutifully. After a pause, with White about to say something else, Jack asks, “Lieutenant Commander, do you hear that banging coming from Wee-Vee?”
The men listen momentarily before he shrugs it off. “It’s probably just loose rigging thudding into the wreckage of the hull.” He pauses to light a cigarette. “I have to go confer with the rest of the brass. Stand guard here, direct the other survivors to help out on the Utah or Oklahoma and wait for me to return. This whole damn day is one big snafu.”
Both Dick and Jack salute as Lieutenant Commander White tramps off. They turn and look at the bay, at the site of the unsubmerged top of the West Virginia, the remnant of a marine machine of military muscle, now covered in the thick smoke of a raging oil fire, sunk and defeated, the occasional bang ringing out of it. Jack lights two cigarettes as they look upon the devastation. When he turns to hand one to Dick, he sees tears cutting through the soot that’s plastered to his filth coated face.
---------------------------------
As the day of December 7th progresses Cliff, Ron and Buddy familiarize themselves with the freshwater pump room, from initially fledgling around in darkness to locating some survival essentials, to a complete inventory. In one sense they were fortunate, since the watertight pump room doubles as dry storage. That gave them access to extra flashlights, batteries and emergency rations. From fumbling in the dark to turning on flashlights, they now know that they’re equipped with a supply of rations and drinking water, everything they needed to stay alive, which is fortunate. Yet, on the other hand, they’re still trapped in the bottom of a sunken battleship with no idea about what’s transpired over this transformative day, one that’ll become a flashpoint in world history.
“It had to have been a sneak attack by the Japs or the Krauts,” the baby-faced Ron speculates.
Buddy looks out into the darkness despondently. “It could’ve just as easily been an explosion caused by some mechanical error for all we know.”
“You think those impacts could be caused by what, a fuel tank explosion?” Cliff questions.
“I don’t know what to think. It’s all speculation at this point.”
“Should we keep striking the hull with the pipe?” Ron asks.
“Be quiet for a moment,” Buddy replies. They fall silent, listening through aquatic distortion to mangled rumbling and the misshapen reverberation of pounding in the distance. “It sounds like they’re out there working on getting to us.”
“Which means they probably wouldn’t hear us anyway,” Cliff adds.
“He’s right,” Buddy says. “Once they quit for the night, then we’ll try again. Someone from the night guard will surely hear us once the crews stop working for the day.”
There’s a moment of silence before Ron asks hesitantly, “You think we’re gonna be stuck down here all night?”
---------------------------------
As night sets in the fires continue to burn, although more smoldering now than rampage. With visibility waning the rescue crews, fire brigades and salvage operations come to a close until the first light of morning, when they’ll pick back up again in earnest. Meanwhile the brass scurries to restore order and to get a final tally on who’s deceased, taking role from a makeshift triage for the wounded and displaced. There are so many questions left unanswered as Lieutenant Commander White walks along the shoreline toward the West Virginia. That’s when the hauntingly esthetic resonance of a bugle cuts through the humid air with its first notes; D, D, G…
White takes a few more steps toward where Dick Fiske stands beside the harbor’s edge playing Taps. The next stanza pierces the air, D, G, B… White turns toward the sunken, smoldering West Virginia and salutes. D, G, B – D, G, B – D, G, B… Along the shoreline the guards and seamen stop what they’re doing, looking out upon the wreckage to salute their fallen brethren as well. G, B, D… now the notes swoon into the lower octave; B, G, D… D, D, G… Fiske holds out that final G until it dissipates into nothingness.
Part 4
A skeleton crew patrols the harbor in the eerie quiet of dawn. It’s an odd juxtaposition between the deleteriousness of smoking, disfigured steel and the tranquility of daybreak. That’s when a bang, bang sound echoes out of the forward hull of the sunken West Virginia. Bang, bang; there it goes again.
Once the remaining West Virginia crew report they gather on nearby Ford Island looking to the brass for answers. Bang, bang. Lieutenant Commander White, despite a shave and change of clothes, looks more haggardly than the night before as he addresses them. “We know that some of our fellow seadogs are trapped down there, men.”
“What are we gonna do about it!” they shout. “We’ve gotta get ‘em outta there!”
Lieutenant Commander White listens sympathetically, which makes his next comment all the more stinging. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”
Bang, bang.
“What do you mean?”
“We have to do something!”
The men aren’t questioning his command, they’re merely concerned for their brothers, so White’s tone remains soft and resigned. “Listen, the welders can’t use the torches. There’s too much fuel oil leakage. There’s too much risk that it’ll cause an explosion.”
“Then cut a hole in the damn thing!”
“Yeah, get ‘em outta there!”
“We can’t,” White goes on. “We do that and we flood the whole darn thing and it kills them anyhow.”
“Get tugs to lift her then!”
“The Wee-Vee’s settled into the silt 40 feet down at the bottom of the harbor. No tugs can lift her outta there. It’s gonna take months before we can raise her.”
The men grumble dolefully. Bang, bang. They hear the banging; knowing their fellow swabs are in there, just out of reach. All this death already, all those brothers in arms lost; can’t they salvage just one moment of triumph out of all of this senselessness? Can’t they do something?
“Lieutenant Commander, what can we do?” one of the men asks.
White lights up a cigarette. Bang, bang. He looks toward the ruins of the once formidable West Virginia as he inhales and exhales smoke. He turns back to the men. “Brown, Larson, you two finish with the roster, pronto. I need to know every crew member still unaccounted for. Match them with their assignments for yesterday morning. Let’s see if we can’t figure out who might be trapped down there. The rest of you, get assignments from your commanding officers. I’m going to go talk to Rear Admiral Kimmel to see if we can get an assessment from the divers. Maybe they can figure out another way.”
He takes a draw off his cigarette and walks off.
Bang, bang.
---------------------------------
Lieutenant Commander White weaves through the forested volcanic peaks of Oahu, guiding the Jeep through curving and sloping terrain toward a command station in Wahiawa. Here the officers assemble to listen as Roosevelt addresses a joint session of Congress. Afterward they’ll receive orders for their squadrons from Rear Admiral Kimmel. White’s also hoping to get some advice on how to get his boys out of the West Virginia before it’s too late for them.
The rec room at command buzzes with high brass from DC and Norfolk, with ranks as high as 4-star Admirals on hand. These are old timers compared with the enlisted men, men with graying hairs who’ve graduated to full-bent mahogany pipes, eschewing the standard issue cigarettes. White shrugs and pulls out his Camels. I won’t be getting any stars today, he thinks. He lights up as another officers turns up the speakers.
The sound is tinny through the radio, anamorphic due to the applause that follows FDR being introduced by the Speaker of the House. Then all at once the applause dies away and an authoritative baritone comes through clearly. “Mr. Vice President, and Mr. Speaker, and members of the Senate and House of Representatives: Yesterday, December 7, 1941 – a date which will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan…”
White takes a draw off his cigarette, listening intently along with the other officers as the President lays bare for the nation just what a devastating act was perpetrated upon the country.
“Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger,” he says before a dramatic pause. “With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph, so help us God.”
The Congress claps rigorously, matching the verve of his delivery.
“I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese Empire.”
At his rising volume and tone the Congress rises to their feet, applauding and cheering.
As soon as the radio is turned off pipes around the room light up. The uncertainty is behind them. Now these officers know they’ll play some role in commanding the war effort ahead.
---------------------------------
The freshwater pump room is cool, damp and dark, as it’s been for the nearly 30 hours that Cliff, Ron and Buddy have been trapped inside it. With each hour that they remain, with each banging of a pipe against the hull unanswered, the direness deepens. Little do they know that above them the West Virginia still burns. They have rations and drinking water. They locate a calendar and a notebook with a red pen, which they use to mark off the days and write down a few thoughts, in the event of their untimely deaths. What they don’t have is any solution to their aquatic entombment. All they can do is wait for someone else to execute a plan; that and to occasionally bang that pipe against the hull.
“Where are you from Cliff?” Buddy asks, cutting through the odd clatter from above and the blackness of the clammy room. The three young men sit against the walls and shelving.
“A little place called Stanton, North Dakota, around 60 miles north of Bismarck. It’s so small, heck, I know everybody; a lot of good fishing, and a great place for turkey hunting in spring. How about you, Buddy?”
“I’m from a small Midwest town called Henryville, Indiana, about 20 miles north of Louisville. Unlike northern Indiana, which is nothing but corn, wheat and cow pasture, southern Indiana has beautiful hills; great for camping and fishing. What about you, Ron?”
There’s a long pause before Ron asks, “How are they gonna get us out of here? We’ll get flooded and drown before the divers ever make it to us.”
Buddy drops his head, though no one else can see it. “If you fixate on that thought Ron, you’re gonna crack up before they ever get here.”
“I know, but I can’t help it.”
“That’s why we’re talking about something else Endicott. So tell us where you’re from.”
“A little town in Washington state called Aberdeen, right where the rivers Dee and Don empty into the east end of Grays Harbor.”
“So you went from one harbor to another, huh,” Buddy says lightheartedly.
“Is that near Seattle?” Cliff asks.
“Around 100 miles away.”
“What’d you do there?”
“I mostly went fishing for salmon as a kid, but the adults all drank and worked at the mills.” He trails off and no one else picks up the conversation from there. Finally after a beat Ron says, “Hey Cliff, turn on a flashlight for me. It’s been an hour. I wanna hit the hull again.”
“Save your energy Ron,” Buddy retorts.
Ron gets to his feet. “Save it for what? The room already reeks from our toilet bucket and we’re gonna run out of rations eventually. We’ve gotta get out of here!”
As Cliff shines a flashlight beam, illuminating the tousled pump room, Ron grabs a long shaft of metal piping and strikes against the hull; bang, bang.
---------------------------------
After lunch Lieutenant Commander White gathers the men of the West Virginia near the access point to Ford Island. They look out at the smoldering wreckage as the fires on the battleships are nearly out. He receives a report from Brown and Larson about who’s accounted for and who’s not. It begs more questions than it answers. White fumes as he reads the number of confirmed casualties and the equally jarring number of unaccounted for.
Bang, bang. The sonorous clang is a painful reminder to all who hear it about what was lost on the previous morning. Some men cringe or recoil.
“Brown, Larson, I need you to keep the roster updated until we can account for every single seamen on the Wee-Vee.”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you locate the assignment log?”
“We just found it before lunch, commander,” Larson answers.
“Good. Start matching up assignments with the names of the unaccounted for. I want to know who’s trapped down there.”
“Yes sir.”
White turns to the rest of the men. “We heard the President this morning as he declared war against those damn Japs, and I have orders from Rear Admiral Kimmel. At least for now I can offer you men one of two choices of assignment. You can either stay here doing salvage work to aid search and recovery, as well as taking shifts on guard, or you can fly out to the USS Lexington, which is already on its way after the Jap fleet in order to rain hellfire down on them before they make it back to their homeland.”
The men murmur amongst themselves as White lights up a cigarette. He continues, “Anyone who wants to give those Japs hell, get in line behind those transport trucks. Larson and Brown, make sure you document who goes, just so I know until special orders are communicated. Everyone else, follow me to our new makeshift command tent to receive your assignments.”
Lieutenant Commander White walks away from them in the direction og the ferry. A small stream of men follows in his wake. Another larger stream heads toward the transports. Dick Fiske follows his commanding officer, still too shell-shocked to think about engaging the enemy, but Jack Miller, he can think of nothing better than a little payback for his lost shipmates. He, he walks toward the trucks.
Bang, bang.
Part 5
In the days that follow the attack on Pearl Harbor the men do what they can to make sense of the wreckage. Salvage crews labor to recover and account for every MIA they can, but many are yet to be found. There’s no telling if they’ll ever get to the Arizona, which sunk so fast that it took over a thousand of its crew with it to the bottom of the harbor.
It’s late morning. Fiske stands close by Lieutenant Commander White as a marine engineering team gives them an updated estimate on the West Virginia. “Those are some massive holes in the portside hull. It was quick thinking by Ensign Kelly to flood the starboard chambers. It was the only thing that saved her from tipping into the drink.”
“How quickly can we raise her?”
“It’s gonna take time to patch the hull, Commander.”
“How long? I have men still alive down there.”
The lead engineer drops his head before delivering, “4 to 6 months, sir.”
“What? For crying out loud!”
“I’m sorry Commander. The dive welders alone will need months. They can only do a small section at a time. Then we’ll have to pump her out chamber by chamber. I’m not sure how long that’ll take, but we’re talking weeks, not days.”
“What about using cranes to hoist her out?”
“If we even had one strong enough it’d take a month just to anchor it in place in the harbor. I’m sorry Commander, but those men are stuck.”
White shakes his head in disbelief. What kind of fate is that? He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one up.
---------------------------------
The painful realization that this is going to be prolonged, and most likely fatal for the trapped men, hasn’t just sunk in with the brass, but in the damp, thick-aired pump room as well. Cliff, Ron and Buddy have already run through most of the cigarettes, batteries, rations and hope in the first few days after the attack, before getting more conservative with them. Now they’re weak and pessimistic, and the room stinks of a rancid tang despite draining off the excreta.
“Damn… I just remembered that Sutter owes me 30 bucks from our last poker game. Now he’s never gonna pay up,” Cliff says into the pitch black void.
There’s a long, empty pause before Ron responds, “I wish we had a deck right now. I’d play you swabs for the rest of those rations.”
“Hell, I’d let you have ‘em for the remaining cigarettes,” Buddy answers.
There’s another long lapse of quiet.
“I guess it won’t really matter in the end.”
Buddy speaks up, “What’d you say Olds?”
“I said it won’t matter, whether you exhaust the tobacco and go quicker or portion out the rations and go later. It might just come down to how many more days we can spend like this.”
Buddy waits before replying, “I guess to a degree… yeah.”
There’s more silence, each man sitting there in the clammy obscurity. They’re lost more in thought than communication now, drifting through worst case scenarios that baring a miracle will soon come true, dreaming of lost potential and memorializing the finer moments of reflection. Yet, every few minutes one of them makes it back to the present.
“Has anyone marked the calendar today?” Ron asks.
Another self-conscious silence before Buddy finally confirms, “I did.”
“How many days is that?”
“Five.”
“Is it night already?”
“Yeah, it should be.”
For a long time there’s only the unusual reverb of aquatic interpretations and their breathing. Five days in dampness and darkness. Five days with no answers, but increasing finality. Five days of unrelenting dread to hold them hostage.
Five minutes later Ron concludes, “I think I’ll try the pipe again.”
He shuffles to his feet. The pipe clangs gently against the floor as Ron gathers it up. Then… bang, bang; he whacks the pipe on the hull. He waits a few moments, then bang, bang, again. On he’ll continue into the night until his arms become too tired to do it any longer, all in the fading hope that the navy has a plan.
---------------------------------
Jack stands on the flight deck of the USS Lexington, which is filled with fighter planes. They’re in the southern Pacific, a 100 nautical miles east of the Johnston Atoll, which is nothing more than a military landing strip paved onto a reef. The sea is choppy and cool. They’ve spent the last few days hunting the Jap convoy, with nothing but rumors and wasted fuel to show for it. All they want is one chance to retaliate before those Japs make it back home.
Jack tucks himself against the empennage of one of the fighters. He places a Camel filter between his lips and strikes a match in front of it. It catches and he takes a few puffs before Frank Cosa walks up.
“Well hell Jack, here we are again.”
“Here to get payback on some Japs and haven’t seen a single one.”
“Figures they’d sneak attack, then run and hide.” The two men look out upon the tempestuous waters for some time before Frank adds, “If I’m gonna toss my cookies this is gonna be the day.”
Jack smiles wryly, then takes a drag off his cigarette. They stand there watching the stirring sea. Frank looks a bit green, but does his best to keep hold of his lunch. He swallows and takes a breath, then says, “Rumor has it that we may encounter some of the Jap force near Wake Island.”
Blowing out smoke Jack replies, “If we make it out that far.”
“If we get a bit closer at least the scout planes can do some intel.”
“If we get a bit closer we could play right into the Jap’s hand. We’re not in a convoy. All the Japs would have to do is turn that force that attacked Pearl Harbor on us and they’d pick us apart in short order.”
Jack looks back out at the sea contemplatively and takes a draw from his cigarette. Frank nods glumly. “Well, if they do, I hope I get a chance to give them hell before I go.”
---------------------------------
A couple of Marines patrol through the quietude of the witching hour near the docks at Pearl Harbor a week after the attack.
Bang, bang.
“I can’t do this darn guard duty any longer. I’m gonna crack up if I keep hearing that damn banging. You think the Lieutenant would give me a new assignment?”
“I’d trade any post for this one. I just can’t go by the Wee-Vee anymore.”
Bang, bang.
They recoil each time the banging interrupts the otherwise placid night.
“This is the worst.”
“It’s a lot worse for them.”
They walk on reticently, looping around the docks of Battleship Row. As they near the ferry docks there it goes again: Bang, bang.
One of the sentries on duty, Dick Fiske, approaches the two patrolling Marines, offering up cigarettes.
“Thanks,” one of them says.
“You boys heard any rumors about deployment?” Dick asks.
“I heard we’ll all be divided into new crews and reassigned to other fleets before any forward advance.”
“Makes sense. I wonder how many will have to stay here to do recovery and salvage.”
Bang, bang.
“I’d rather be in the Japs crosshairs than have to listen to that anymore. I can’t take it,” one of the Marines says, then lights his cigarette.
“No one wants to be on guard duty if it means being within earshot of the Wee-Vee,” the other Marine adds.
Dick shakes his head. “I just can’t shake the thought that somebody is still alive down there.”
“A damn fine seadog, no less.”
“It’s a damn shame.”
Bang, bang.
Part 6
The USS Lexington sent out several scout planes and followed up on numerous false reports, but returned to Pearl Harbor on December 14th to refuel and resupply without engaging the enemy, so the volunteer seamen disembark. Jack Miller walks along the docks looking for one of the fellas from the West Virginia when he runs into Larson. “Joe, what’s the news? Anything to report?”
“Nothing but false alerts and snafus since you left, Jack.”
“Anyone else recovered from the Wee-Vee?”
“Not alive.”
“Well, for crying out loud.” Jack pauses. “You wanna smoke Joe?”
“I’ll take one. Thanks Jack.”
Jack pulls out his Camels, handing one to Joe with a book of matches. Joe lights up and hands the matches back to Jack, who also lights up. They stand there smoking for a moment.
“I think we narrowed down who’s stuck in the bottom of the Wee-Vee.”
“Holy Moses. Has there been any movement on getting them outta there?”
“Not even the engineers could think of a way, but those boys are still alive down there.”
“How do you know that Joe?”
“Just wait until the salvage crews stop working for the day. Once there’s quiet above the banging comes from below.”
“They’re still banging on the hull?”
“It’s making the night shifts nutty. They’ve gotta listen all night as those fellas desperately bang against the hull, knowing there’s not a damn thing anyone can do.”
“You say you know who’s in there?”
“Narrowed it down based on who was in the lower decks at the time. There ain’t too many guys it could be.” Larson extends a clipboard with papers clipped to it. “Here you go. I circled the names in red ink.”
Jack takes the clipboard and thumbs through the names. He gets to one and it instantly fills him with a torrent of dismay. “You really think Cliff Olds could be down there?”
“He was on duty in one of the pump rooms scrubbing calcium residue out of the filters. He’s probably one of them, yeah.”
“I’ll be damned. I’ve stood watch with Cliff a number of times. Hell, we went to town together just the night before the attack for steaks. We spent most the night talking about dames and drinking beer.”
“Well, I hope it was a good one, because it was the last good night Cliff’s gonna have.” Joe drops his cigarette and stamps it out. “I’ve gotta get back to work Jack. This war isn’t gonna win itself.”
Joe walks off as Jack stands there. He looks over toward the sunken West Virginia, only the damaged conning towers sticking out of the sea.
---------------------------------
The air feels empty, like even that has abandoned Ron, Cliff and Buddy. The remaining air is thick and rancid, and the men are zapped of their remaining strength. They’ve gone well beyond the initial adrenaline of being trapped, lasting even longer than hope. They’re resigned to their fate, and now after 11 days are simply waiting for the inevitable. They wait for death, but in the back of their minds there remains a glimmer that at any moment someone may still open the door and let them out.
Ron, Cliff and Buddy are running out of time for that dream, however. Beside the fact that the West Virginia has been immobile since settling into the silt at the bottom of the harbor, or that no one on the surface has attempted to make any communication, the food rations are nearly gone. If they eat anything more, that’ll be the end of the food. Their skin is itchy, breaking out in rashes and sores, and their stomachs and heads ache. Physically, their last act will be organ failure. Emotionally, their last act was to write a goodbye note on the back of an inspection checklist with the pen tied to the calendar.
Ron has propped himself up against the door in a sitting position, with Cliff sitting opposite against some shelving. Buddy lies between them in the middle of the floor. Through the pitch black, other than the external aquatic distortions, the only interior sound is shallow breathing and the sporadic creaking of the ship, which goes on for hour after hour. The silence between them has yet to be broken on this 11th day in forced captivity.
At midday Buddy begins to shift, slowly struggling to get to a sitting position. Ron and Cliff can hear the onomatopoeic indicators, but see nothing but blackness. That’s when Buddy’s voice cuts through meekly, saying, “I think I’m nearly done, fellas.” There’s nothing but breathing in response, so Buddy probes again through the penumbra with, “Hey Cliff.”
It takes time, but after clearing his throat Cliff replies, “Yeah Buddy?”
“I wanna make you an offer,” Buddy says tepidly. “And remember, I outrank you so you don’t really have a choice.” He tries to laugh, but it’s halfhearted.
“What’s this offer Costin?”
“I’ll give you the rest of my rations for the rest of your cigarettes.”
There’s a long beat of reticence before Cliff utters, “You made me that offer a week ago.”
“Well, I’m serious this time.”
“We divided up the rations equally. We all need them.”
“You and Ron can share mine. I just want to appreciate a last few smokes before I succumb to this ceaselessness.”
“For all we know they’re getting close to getting us out of here,” Ron interjects.
“What evidence of that do we have?” Buddy retorts.
This casts them back into silence. There’s no good answer to that question because there’s no evidence.
In time Buddy says, “Look, I doubt I make it through the day. I got a damn decent gash on my leg the morning we scrambled in here and I can barely feel it anymore, just a stinging tingle. I imagine that infection must be getting pretty bad by now. This is it for me.”
There’s another drawn out quietude. Cliff shifts around and then declares, “I have seven smokes left. You can have them all Buddy, but good luck getting one of these matches to light.”
“How about we all have a smoke together, since we don’t have any scotch, and then you let me finish the rest of them?”
“I’ve never had a smoke before,” Ron says.
“Well, you’re about to get a nice jag then, Endicott,” Buddy answers. “Come here Cliff.”
Through darkness Cliff listens to the sound of Buddy scooting toward Ron and follows him until the three men are sitting close to one another near the door. Cliff has a few matches left in a waterproof match container with a flint on the underside of the cap. He strikes the first and it flares up and goes out quickly; too quickly for any of them to react. On the second one Buddy puts his face close and sucks on the filter, but only a corner of the tobacco ignites, and not enough to catch. On the third and final match Buddy sticks the end of the cigarette in the ignition and sucks hard, puffing on the cigarette until the tobacco catches. Then Cliff lights his and Ron’s cigarettes off of Buddy’s.
Buddy huffs down his cigarette, letting out moaning exhales of delight. Ron tries to inhale, but after a few tokes he coughs uncontrollably, handing the rest of his cigarette to Buddy to finish, which he does forthwith. With the three of them sitting there Buddy lights one cigarette off the next, occasionally handing it to Cliff for a puff, until he gets to the last one. He smokes it down to the filter until it goes out and the last of the bright red berry of burning tobacco is gone. A solid sheet of blackness returns to the dank pump room.
The men sit there for almost an hour, too weak and defeated to move or speak. Then Buddy clambers to turn and face the men, who can only sense this through auditory indicators. “It’s been an honor to serve with you fellas. Let’s hope that stuff they told us about God giving his only son for us to have eternal life isn’t just fiddle-faddle. Godspeed, seadogs.”
Buddy lies down, rolling over and tucking himself against the hull in a fetal position.
“You can’t see it, but I’m saluting you Petty Officer Costin,” Cliff says.
“Me too,” adds Ron.
After a beat of stillness Buddy limply replies, “At ease.”
Over the next few hours Louis “Buddy” Coston, 21, his breathing become shallower and shallower, until there’s no breath at all.
---------------------------------
It’s evening time. Jack Miller stands on the docks near the sunken West Virginia praying.
Bang, bang.
That banging transitioned fast from initially being uplifting just after the attack, to now distressing. The helplessness the men down there must be feeling, is by proxy being felt by the men on land around them.
Bang, bang.
“It’s a damn disturbing sound, isn’t it?”
Jack opens his eyes to see Dick Fiske standing beside him. He responds, “It’s a damn shame, is what it is.”
As is standard for engaging in conversation among sailors in 1941, the two men light up Camels.
“Brown and Larson whittled the roster down to a short-list of who it could be,” Dick says.
“Yeah, I spoke to Joe. I’ve got a sinking feeling Cliff Olds is one of them.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he used to bring me down to that forward starboard pump station for bull sessions.”
“Why would he choose to take you there?”
“Because it’s air-tight. Hell, if you closed that hatch you could curse wildly inside and nobody else could hear you.”
Bang, bang.
“We sure hear them now.”
Dick and Jack take puffs off their cigarettes, looking at the broken conning towers of the West Virginia sticking out of the sea.
“Those poor leatherneck’s days are numbered,” Jack says. “And I’m afraid it’s gonna be a lingering death.”
“I just wish there was something we could do.”
Jack turns to look at Dick as those he’s suddenly struck with a poignant thought. He takes a last drag off his cigarette and stamps it out under his boot. “I’ve gotta run into town. I’ll see you later Dick.”
Dick nods and Jack walks off.
Bang, bang.
Jack grabs one of the M12 motorcycles from the naval transport facility on the mainland. He drives it into Pearl City, eschewing the steakhouse for Monkey Bar, but not for a drink, but for a keepsake. He walks up to the bar, ordering a scotch as he scans the patrons and staff looking for the barmaid he came to find.
Midway through his scotch the barmaid walks out from a room in the back. She has a strap around her neck that holds a camera to her chest.
As she approaches the bar Jack gets off his stool and stands. “Excuse me doll, but could I ask you something?”
“What do you need, sugar?”
“I’m not sure if you remember me, but I came in here on the 6th with one of my shipmates, a swab by the name of Cliff Olds, and you took our picture, along with another of our mates.”
“I snap a lot of photos, Joe.”
“Well, that picture is the last one that’ll ever be taken of Cliff, who was lost in the attack, and it’d really mean a lot to me if I could get a copy of it. He was one of my truly good friends. I’ll pay you whatever you need for it.”
She stares at him evenly for a moment before saying, “Give me a sec, hon.”
She leaves, heading into the back room. Jack lights a cigarette as he waits. A few minutes later she returns, handing Jack an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“The negative is inside, Joe.”
“Oh, thank you so much. What do I owe you?”
“Just take it. It’s a real shame to hear about your friend.”
Jack looks down at the envelope in his hand and tears up. The barmaid puts her hand on his shoulder and pats him. She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “I’m real sorry, hon. I really am.”
From L to R: Jack Miller, Frank Kosa & Cliff Olds
Part 7
It’s the evening of December 23rd, 1941, sixteen days since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The fires have all been put out and damage reports submitted to superiors. Most Naval personnel are now focused on the campaign ahead, but one glaring reminder of the attack remains, one more painful than the numbers of confirmed deceased or the mangled metal of bombed ships can generate; it’s the banging that continues to echo out from the bowels of the West Virginia night after agonizing night.
Little does Ron Endicott know the affect he’s having on his fellow seamen above; he knows only of the desperate that’s left. The fetor of the room has shifted from the foul pong of excrement to one of decomposition. They’ve been out of rations for days and are low on time.
Meekly Ron grunts, “Cliff.” There’s no response. “Cliff,” he musters the energy to say louder, but again there’s no reply.
Ron crawls over toward Cliff through the dark, gently shaking his arm. “Cliff… Cliff… wake up.”
There’s no acknowledgement. Ron checks for a pulse, but it isn’t necessary. Cliff’s body is cold to the touch. Ron holds the dead body of his friend and shipmate, crying for some time.
After a few lachrymose minutes Ron ceases weeping and takes Cliff’s flashlight. He clicks it on, but the light is faint – the battery, like Ron, is dying. He climbs over near the hatch, taking the calendar and squinting at it under the dim beam. In the faint ray he sees the previous 15 days marked off. He marks off one more day, December 23rd. That’s sixteen days they’ve been trapped in this pump room. No, no longer trapped, entombed. And wouldn’t you know it, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’m gonna miss quite a feast, he jests internally.
Seamen Ronald Endicott, 18, still just a boy, he musters everything he has left, grabbing the metal pipe and hoisting himself up to his feet. He rears back for one final try.
Bang, bang.
---------------------------------
Christmas Eve at Pearl Harbor is a subdued affair. The sailors are treated to a feast with all of the fixings, but no one is in the mood for caroling or merriment. It isn’t simply the fact that two and a half weeks before thousands of young American lives were lost, it’s the fact that for the first time in 17 days there’s no more banging emanating from the portside hull of the West Virginia, and everyone understands what that means.
It’s a final insult levied from that historic attack. Those men, who spent a harrowing 16 days trapped below, have finally succumbed. Rising from the sorrowful Christmas Eve for the survivors, men hagridden by that banging for 16 straight days, comes the resolve to make sure that those Japs pay dearly for what they did.
---------------------------------
Sixty years have passed. By the time it’s the summer of 2001 the whole world has undergone a transformation since 1941, not just technologically, but socially and philosophically. Little are the vacationers and local visitors to Pearl Harbor aware that only three months later will come another attack on American soil, 9/11, one that will rock the nation and lead to another war; one often viewed in historic comparison to the impact of Pearl Harbor, whose 60th anniversary is to be commemorated in another six months’ time.
Pearl Harbor is now a memorial, and with nearly 1.8 million annual visitors, it’s the most popular tourist attraction of the Hawaiian Islands. There are only two ships left sunken there, the USS Arizona and Utah, with many mariners interred within them.
It’s early in the evening. In front of the visitor’s center an old timer ambles about. He must be 80 years old, with a thick white moustache and a naval garrison cap on. He stands off to the side of the entrance. His collared shirt, white with a green stencil patterns, is adorned with patches sewn onto it, just like his cap.
A young man in his late teens approaches this man. “Excuse me sir, but are you a Pearl Harbor survivor?”
“I am,” he replies. “I was aboard the USS West Virginia at the time of the attack. The name’s Dick Fiske. What’s your name son?”
“John Jenkins, sir. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions about that day?”
“Why, sure.”
“My granddad was a survivor of the West Virginia.”
“Is that right? What’s his name?”
“Basil Jenkins. Did you know him?”
“I don’t recall the name, but I must’ve known him at least in passing. Is he here with you?”
“He passed away a few years ago from a heart problem.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” John says before pausing to pivot the conversation. “When I asked my granddad what was the worst part about the war he used to tell me a story about some guys who got stuck, like I guess they survived the attack but were trapped in the West Virginia and kept banging on the hull, but there was nothing anyone could do to save them. Is that really a true story?”
Dick sighs and scratches his temple. “It’s true. Three of our shipmates got stuck down there. They banged on that hull for 16 days before they passed on. It was just God awful to hear that banging and know we were helpless to get them out of there.”
“When were they finally pulled out?”
“In the late spring of 1942. A Navy salvage team finally pumped enough water out to partially float the Wee-Vee across the harbor into dry-dock. That’s when they found them. It was them medical boys who identified the remains and saw the horror of what the three men, Ron Endicott, Cliff Olds and Buddy Costin, had to live through for those 16 days. That had to be the most gruesome and drawn out of all the deaths from the attack.”
“Did you know them?”
“Oh sure, I was regular chums with Cliff. We’d play cards and have regular bull sessions. I went fishing once with Buddy and some of his friends. Here we are sixty years later and it’s still a damn shame whenever I think of it.”
They stop talking and bow their heads.
---------------------------------
It’s just after dusk. The Pearl Harbor visitor’s center is now closed and the tourists have cleared away, but one man remains, the elderly Dick Fiske, something inside him stirred by the boy’s inquiry. Here he is staring down 80, having lived a full and fulfilling life, while many of his fellow seamen were never given that chance. They never even made it out of their teens or early twenties thanks to that damn war; certainly not Ron, Cliff or Buddy. They’re now known for their horrific deaths, but what about their lives? What if they’d made it to 80? What could they have done with the same longevity the Lord had granted him, Dick wonders?
Dick walks over to the spot where the West Virginia was moored on that fateful day. He can still hear the banging on the hull like it was yesterday; a sound that’ll never escape his memory. He decides to mourn those men the same way he had on the night of the attack, standing in the very same place. That’s when the hauntingly esthetic resonance of Dick’s bugle cuts through the humid air with the first notes of Taps; D, D, G…
It’s the evening of December 23rd, 1941, sixteen days since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. The fires have all been put out and damage reports submitted to superiors. Most Naval personnel are now focused on the campaign ahead, but one glaring reminder of the attack remains, one more painful than the numbers of confirmed deceased or the mangled metal of bombed ships can generate; it’s the banging that continues to echo out from the bowels of the West Virginia night after agonizing night.
Little does Ron Endicott know the affect he’s having on his fellow seamen above; he knows only of the desperate that’s left. The fetor of the room has shifted from the foul pong of excrement to one of decomposition. They’ve been out of rations for days and are low on time.
Meekly Ron grunts, “Cliff.” There’s no response. “Cliff,” he musters the energy to say louder, but again there’s no reply.
Ron crawls over toward Cliff through the dark, gently shaking his arm. “Cliff… Cliff… wake up.”
There’s no acknowledgement. Ron checks for a pulse, but it isn’t necessary. Cliff’s body is cold to the touch. Ron holds the dead body of his friend and shipmate, crying for some time.
After a few lachrymose minutes Ron ceases weeping and takes Cliff’s flashlight. He clicks it on, but the light is faint – the battery, like Ron, is dying. He climbs over near the hatch, taking the calendar and squinting at it under the dim beam. In the faint ray he sees the previous 15 days marked off. He marks off one more day, December 23rd. That’s sixteen days they’ve been trapped in this pump room. No, no longer trapped, entombed. And wouldn’t you know it, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’m gonna miss quite a feast, he jests internally.
Seamen Ronald Endicott, 18, still just a boy, he musters everything he has left, grabbing the metal pipe and hoisting himself up to his feet. He rears back for one final try.
Bang, bang.
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Christmas Eve at Pearl Harbor is a subdued affair. The sailors are treated to a feast with all of the fixings, but no one is in the mood for caroling or merriment. It isn’t simply the fact that two and a half weeks before thousands of young American lives were lost, it’s the fact that for the first time in 17 days there’s no more banging emanating from the portside hull of the West Virginia, and everyone understands what that means.
It’s a final insult levied from that historic attack. Those men, who spent a harrowing 16 days trapped below, have finally succumbed. Rising from the sorrowful Christmas Eve for the survivors, men hagridden by that banging for 16 straight days, comes the resolve to make sure that those Japs pay dearly for what they did.
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Sixty years have passed. By the time it’s the summer of 2001 the whole world has undergone a transformation since 1941, not just technologically, but socially and philosophically. Little are the vacationers and local visitors to Pearl Harbor aware that only three months later will come another attack on American soil, 9/11, one that will rock the nation and lead to another war; one often viewed in historic comparison to the impact of Pearl Harbor, whose 60th anniversary is to be commemorated in another six months’ time.
Pearl Harbor is now a memorial, and with nearly 1.8 million annual visitors, it’s the most popular tourist attraction of the Hawaiian Islands. There are only two ships left sunken there, the USS Arizona and Utah, with many mariners interred within them.
It’s early in the evening. In front of the visitor’s center an old timer ambles about. He must be 80 years old, with a thick white moustache and a naval garrison cap on. He stands off to the side of the entrance. His collared shirt, white with a green stencil patterns, is adorned with patches sewn onto it, just like his cap.
A young man in his late teens approaches this man. “Excuse me sir, but are you a Pearl Harbor survivor?”
“I am,” he replies. “I was aboard the USS West Virginia at the time of the attack. The name’s Dick Fiske. What’s your name son?”
“John Jenkins, sir. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions about that day?”
“Why, sure.”
“My granddad was a survivor of the West Virginia.”
“Is that right? What’s his name?”
“Basil Jenkins. Did you know him?”
“I don’t recall the name, but I must’ve known him at least in passing. Is he here with you?”
“He passed away a few years ago from a heart problem.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” John says before pausing to pivot the conversation. “When I asked my granddad what was the worst part about the war he used to tell me a story about some guys who got stuck, like I guess they survived the attack but were trapped in the West Virginia and kept banging on the hull, but there was nothing anyone could do to save them. Is that really a true story?”
Dick sighs and scratches his temple. “It’s true. Three of our shipmates got stuck down there. They banged on that hull for 16 days before they passed on. It was just God awful to hear that banging and know we were helpless to get them out of there.”
“When were they finally pulled out?”
“In the late spring of 1942. A Navy salvage team finally pumped enough water out to partially float the Wee-Vee across the harbor into dry-dock. That’s when they found them. It was them medical boys who identified the remains and saw the horror of what the three men, Ron Endicott, Cliff Olds and Buddy Costin, had to live through for those 16 days. That had to be the most gruesome and drawn out of all the deaths from the attack.”
“Did you know them?”
“Oh sure, I was regular chums with Cliff. We’d play cards and have regular bull sessions. I went fishing once with Buddy and some of his friends. Here we are sixty years later and it’s still a damn shame whenever I think of it.”
They stop talking and bow their heads.
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It’s just after dusk. The Pearl Harbor visitor’s center is now closed and the tourists have cleared away, but one man remains, the elderly Dick Fiske, something inside him stirred by the boy’s inquiry. Here he is staring down 80, having lived a full and fulfilling life, while many of his fellow seamen were never given that chance. They never even made it out of their teens or early twenties thanks to that damn war; certainly not Ron, Cliff or Buddy. They’re now known for their horrific deaths, but what about their lives? What if they’d made it to 80? What could they have done with the same longevity the Lord had granted him, Dick wonders?
Dick walks over to the spot where the West Virginia was moored on that fateful day. He can still hear the banging on the hull like it was yesterday; a sound that’ll never escape his memory. He decides to mourn those men the same way he had on the night of the attack, standing in the very same place. That’s when the hauntingly esthetic resonance of Dick’s bugle cuts through the humid air with the first notes of Taps; D, D, G…
