Amen. My God bless and keep all of you who serve. May He guide and comfort all of your families in times of separation and loss. Thanks to all of you.
by Erin Whitehead, Marine Corps spouse
Yesterday, many Americans paused to honor those who have served and continue serving in our nation’s military. Flags were flown and prayers were said in civilian homes and backyards around the country.
But because of the nature of our lives, the military spouse community has a special understanding of the meaning behind Memorial Day. For us, it is not simply another day off work, a chance to BBQ, or the opportunity to save big bucks on a mattress or new car. It is about honoring those who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country… a sacrifice that can keep us awake at night with worry.
Sometimes, it feels as though the “civilian” community just does not get what the holiday is really about, which can feel frustrating and make us feel like we are in this alone. But the reality is that many Americans do understand the true meaning of Memorial Day. They do want to support our troops and understand, on some level, the hardships that they and their families have endured over the past 10 years of war.
But unless they’ve actually served or been a member of a military family, it’s really hard to truly “get it.” They want to do something to make sure our troops and families know how much they are appreciated… but how do they help when they don’t know what is needed?
It’s a two-way street. We have to be willing to share in what areas we can use support. We asked our social media community to share what things they think Americans could do to help out or simply show their appreciation for the sacrifices of service members and their families. We hope you will share this list with those civilians who want to show their support…because there really are a lot of them out there.
10 Ways Americans Can Support the Military Family
10) Take the time to learn what our life is really like.
There are many misconceptions about our lifestyle. The list is a mile long. Some of the most frustrating are that our spouses can return home for important events (holidays, births, all family emergencies), that once they return from deployment everything goes back to normal, and that we make a lot of money. But unless you know a family and can ask for their perspective, how do you learn more? There is no shortage of blogs written by military spouses, and they’re easy to find with a simple Google search. There are also many organizations that service military families—again, very easy to find online. And of course, you can visit www.baseguide.com to read our articles, follow us on social media, or subscribe to the magazine.
9) Leave politics out of it.
Our troops serve and put their lives on the line, despite their own personal political beliefs. Support for them should be the same. And please, when you learn that someone is military, or married to a service man or woman… don’t ask us what we think of the war. Don’t ask us who we’re voting for in the upcoming election. And please don’t give us your personal opinion on either topic. Please remember that the President, like him or not, is our spouses’ boss. Hearing an opinion that the wars have been a huge waste of money and lives can really anger a spouse. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have your own personal beliefs on these topics, but unless we are already very close friends or family, we would just rather not talk about it with you.
8) Hire Us
According to The Department of Labor, military spouse unemployment rates are 26%, way above the national average. Many times spouses follow their service member to a duty station where they are either over or under qualified for most available employment. They often do not have the same network of contacts that may help a native of the area find a job, and often times when an employer finds out someone is a military spouse, they are reluctant to hire them. We get it. Who wants to hire someone who will only be here for 2 or 3 years? The thing is, you may only have a military spouse working at your business for a few years… but the skills and life experience we bring to the table are often times outstanding. We have learned to be flexible and make the best of complicated situations, we can handle tasks on our own, and we are used to working with people from all walks of life… just to name a few. Employing the spouse of a service member isn’t just for the benefit of the spouse. Easing the financial burden for a military family reduces the stress for the person serving… making it easier for them to focus on their job. And when our service member retires, or transitions out of the military, hire them too. Military service instills a sense of loyalty, a hard work ethic, and strength of character. Veterans have proven time and time again to be very valuable employees.
7) Offer a military discount.
Sure, a small discount helps out a military family. But it is about more than that. When a business offers that discount, they are saying “thank you” on a daily basis to their military customers, and it makes us feel appreciated. Many times, the entire reason some businesses are able to thrive in a town is because a neighboring military installation brings in thousands of patrons. Besides, it has been my experience that military families are very loyal. I will drive to the other side of town to use a business that offers even a 5% discount to military… because I appreciate them for showing their support, not because I think I am entitled in any way.
6) Don't Forget our Gold Star Families.
A Gold Star Family is a family who has lost a service member. Many times when someone is killed, there is an outpouring of support for the family… at first. But it seems to wane after a while as life moves on for the rest of us. For that Gold Star family, they live with the sacrifice their loved one made every single day. Their kids grow up without either mom or dad. Young widows/widowers try to put the pieces of their lives together again. Mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters are changed forever. They need, and deserve, ongoing support from the very people their husband, daughter, father, or sister made that sacrifice for. There are many great charities that would welcome your help in making sure these families always have the support they need. I will share with you my favorite. Military Spouse Magazines 2010 Army Spouse, Nicki Bunting, started an amazing charity called “Bubba’s Belly Run”. It is in honor of her husband, Capt. Brian “Bubba” Bunting who was killed in Afghanistan shortly after returning from his two-week R&R at home. Not long after receiving his death notification, Nicki learned she was pregnant with their second son. The couple had always wanted a large family. While pregnant with her deceased husband’s child, she started this annual run to raise money for Gold Star families. In the past three years, they have raised over $100,000. To find out more information about how to donate, or to bring Bubba’s Belly Run to a town near you, please visit www.bubbasbellyrun.com. On this site, you can also inquire about sending a note of support to a family who may have lost a loved one several years ago. A note from a grateful American who just wants to offer continued condolences, thoughts or prayers can be of great comfort. Nicki saves every letter she has ever received so that her boys can one day read them and know how much people appreciate the sacrifice their dad made.
5) Admitting you don't know what to say is better than saying the wrong thing.
There are a ton of “Top 10 Things NOT to Say to A Military Spouse” lists floating out there on the Internet. I won’t rehash them all here. I truly believe most civilians mean no ill will when they say things that we may perceive as insensitive. Again, it goes back to simply not understanding because you haven’t had the same experiences that we have. As spouses, we need to learn to be less sensitive and help people understand how we feel. Instead of just getting mad, we can say “I know you didn’t mean that to offend me, but saying that you understand how I feel during deployment because your husband went to a conference in DC last week, minimizes what I am going through,” is perfectly acceptable. And for civilians, it is perfectly fine to say, “I wish I knew the words to say, but I don’t. I am willing to listen though, and try to understand.”
4) Don't offer to help, just help.
Most military members and their families are very proud. We may face some unique challenges, but we like to believe we can tackle any and every thing that comes our way. The reality is that sometimes we could use a helping hand… but you won’t find us asking often. So if you say, “Please let me know what I can do to help” to a spouse who is holding down the home front alone for a year, they will graciously respond with, “Okay. Thank you!” But they will probably never ask for help. If you know a military family living in your neighborhood, there are simple things you can do. If you are mowing your lawn on a Saturday, just pop over next door and mow theirs, too. If you notice the trashcan is still at the curb two days after pick-up, pulling it to the side of the house is a nice gesture. Have enough pizza points for a free pie? Order a pizza to be delivered one night and stick a note on the door saying “Please don’t cook tonight, pizza will be delivered at 6pm.” Know a new mom who is about to come home after delivering her baby while dad is deployed? Leave a bag of essential grocery items at her front door, so she doesn’t have to navigate the store with a brand new baby. If you are friends with the next-door neighbor whose wife is at six weeks of training in the summer, ask “Can Susie please come have a sleepover with our daughter”? If you don’t know a family, Blue Star Families is a national organization that can help you find a way to help military and their families in your area. www.bluestarfam.org
3) Let Congress know that you support our troops.
There is always legislation affecting our military being discussed in our nation’s capitol. It doesn’t matter what your politics are: Making sure that our service members and veterans are fairly compensated and have services and programs available to them should be a bi-partisan issue. Let your elected officials know that while we all know tough decisions sometimes have to be made in government, Americans are committed to making sure that those who volunteer to defend our freedoms are taken care of if those sacrifices leave them with a lifetime of physical and emotional scars. Our troops are not asking for more than what they have earned, but one of the biggest ways you can support them is to make sure our country keeps good faith with the military. Call your congressional representatives and say, “I support our troops, and it will be reflected in the way I cast my ballot”.
2) Teach your children what a real hero looks like.
The number one way to make sure our troops are appreciated and supported in the future is to teach our kids what it means to serve in the U.S. Military. There are many different kinds of people that kids seem to look up to these days. Some of them are great role models, and some of them are less than perfect examples of what it means to be a responsible, productive citizen. If you are looking for a true hero for your kids to look up to, there is no shortage of them in our Armed Forces. For example, take Sergeant Dakota Meyer, veteran of The U.S. Marine Corps and a Medal of Honor recipient. The story of his bravery in combat is impressive, but so is the way he currently lives his life as a hardworking, upstanding citizen and role model. His twitter feed features a #morningmotivation every day that I enjoy reading. A recent post read “The keys to success: Sincerity, personal integrity, humility, courtesy, wisdom and charity.” You (and your teenagers) can follow him @Dakota_Meyer at www.twitter.com. Another hero to learn more about is Army Staff Sergeant Travis Mills, who during his third tour to Afghanistan was critically injured by an IED. During that explosion he lost portions of both arms and legs and is currently only one of four living quadruple amputees from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. His strength and courage as he recovers from his injuries is inspiring, and his attitude will make you believe that you too can tackle any challenge you face. To learn more about his story and to get links to his You Tube clips, visit his website at www.travismills.org. Your children may not end up one day serving in the military. But by teaching them about the sacrifices made and about some of our nation’s finest, hopefully they will grow up to be appreciative of those who do serve, and will find some way to be in service to their country as well.
1) Say "Thank You", and say it often.
Some of the most touching moments we experience happen when complete strangers stop my husband to say a heartfelt “thank you.” This is perhaps the simplest thing on the list, and one that cannot be overdone. When you see someone in uniform, extend a handshake and a “thank you for your service.” When you see an older gentlemen wearing a VFW hat, ask him when he served and tell him how much you appreciate him. This may seem like a small thing, but many of our service members and vets don’t expect much. To know they are appreciated is validation enough.
When polled, members of our military will tell you over and over again: The reason they signed up was not simply for the GI Bill, health benefits or to see the world. I believe the majority of them say that it was a desire to serve their country. Their families support them unconditionally because they love them, and believe their job is important. Many military families will tell you that they do not need help, and that the only thing they want is to make sure their service member is taken care of. It is true… military families are often times strong, resilient and capable of handling things on their own. To be honest, they really don’t need the help of their fellow Americans.
But that isn’t the point. The fact is that a small percentage of our population has volunteered to serve our nation. When called upon to do so, they will lay down their lives in defense of every single one of us, and sadly too many of them have done just that. Isn’t it the responsibility of all Americans to recognize these brave men and women for their service and to do whatever we can to show our appreciation? Lending a helping hand to a military family isn’t about charity—it is a way to let our service members know that while they are serving, America will take care of their loved ones in their absence. Helping our Gold Star families is a way to say, “We can never understand your loss, but are humbly grateful for the sacrifice your loved one made.”
As a military spouse, I can tell you that I am just as proud and independent as the next person. I choose to continue to support my husband’s career, despite the hardship because I believe in what he does and I love him dearly. I do not feel entitled to any special perks because of my husband’s service, and I don’t expect a handout.
But I will tell you that when civilians take the time to show their appreciation, it makes those lonely nights, the frequent moves, the stress of yet another looming deployment… a little easier to handle. And when my husband, a Marine who has served for 16 years, gets a tear in his eye because of the kindness of a stranger who genuinely appreciates what he does… it gives me a bit of understanding into why he wanted to serve this amazing country in the first place.
Showing posts with label U.S. Navy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label U.S. Navy. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Veteran's Day
To be honest I went back to read my past Veteran's Day post and I can say that in my heart this is still how I feel and hopefully always will. We owe these men and women so much we must try to the little things, at the very least, for them. So I give you my last two Veteran's Day posts.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Veteran's Day
Yes it is their day, not yours and mine, it is a day to thank those that lived to tell the tales of the heroes left on battlefields far away and some from long ago. It is our duty to thank these men and women that have put their lives on the line for Liberty, Freedom, America or so we are told. We know they do it for each other, and that is enough for it is in each other they can trust and it is with each other they can survive. From Lexington and Concord to the Heat of Iraq and the cold mountains of Afghanistan young men and women left the comforts of home for the frightening hell of combat. Where do we find such people, is what some ask. Very simple in the big cities and small towns all across this great country. After all this is The United States of America and we have had the finest humanity has had to offer for the last 232 years. I salute you all and send out a heartfelt thank you.
I ask you, the reader, to please donate to any and all veteran assisting organizations out there. Many of the military blogs to the right will tell you more about these organizations. Those who serve deserve our support even after their tour of duty is over.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Veterans Day
I know many people who have served in our armed forces in both peacetime and war. World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Panama, Gulf War and Iraq and Afghanistan and action less Cold Warriors. Some are friends of mine that I would trust with my life, some are guys I grew up with and have not seen in years. Some were strangers that have become friends, some were friends of my parents and some were friends of friends. They all have one thing in common. They are all better than me. When I say that I mean it and I am someone who thinks very highly of myself. When you look at a veteran you have to look at them differently you have to understand that these are people who have seen things that for some reason we have been spared the sight of. The life for war veterans should be like King said in Platoon "the rest of your life is gravy." In recent years I have made myself more aware of veterans and always ask if someone has served and thanking them if they did, maybe buying coffee if in an airport or near a coffee house. It is not enough, I know, but what else can we do. People always say it is the little things in life that make it great. I hope so, but we should do all we can for our vets. Without them there would be no little things.
These days the main debate of our politicians is government paid health care for everybody. Clearly this is a communist idea and against American principles. But I do solemnly believe that those that have served and were honorably discharged have earned the right, nay the entitlement of free health care forever. I am not talking about some government plan either I am talking top of the line and getting to the front of the line. Are you telling me that some WWII vet with medals out the ass should have to suffer at a government run VA facility while some 4F gets to see world renown doctors because he didn't serve and got rich? Yes it is a tough issue, I know but something must be done for them, all of them, from PTSD patients to Agent Orange cancer sufferers, to those too old to care for themselves. Forget the millions of useless welfare mooches there are people out there that have earned the right to get free health care and a pension. Enough of how the welfare system screws the vets in favor of lazy shiftless turds.
Armistice Day came along to signal the end of "The Great War" or as we call it now World War I, the "war to end all wars." How naive. There is just too much evil lurking in men with power soul's. Every day I respect our veterans more and more. Putting their lives on the line doing their duty. The wars we are fighting today and the constant rotation back to combat is hard on the men and women and families to whom we owe so much. It was the same for Vietnam vets and their 365 and a wake-up and the World War II vets and the points system. Any war any time all veterans and their families deserve our respect, admiration and thanks. Find out what you can do for them and do it; when we needed them they were there, it is the least we can do. So much will go left unsaid in this post so I will end with this: Thank you Veterans, for keeping our enemies at bay, and the sacrifices you have made. Peace to all of you for the rest of your days you have earned it.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Veteran's Day
Yes it is their day, not yours and mine, it is a day to thank those that lived to tell the tales of the heroes left on battlefields far away and some from long ago. It is our duty to thank these men and women that have put their lives on the line for Liberty, Freedom, America or so we are told. We know they do it for each other, and that is enough for it is in each other they can trust and it is with each other they can survive. From Lexington and Concord to the Heat of Iraq and the cold mountains of Afghanistan young men and women left the comforts of home for the frightening hell of combat. Where do we find such people, is what some ask. Very simple in the big cities and small towns all across this great country. After all this is The United States of America and we have had the finest humanity has had to offer for the last 232 years. I salute you all and send out a heartfelt thank you.
I ask you, the reader, to please donate to any and all veteran assisting organizations out there. Many of the military blogs to the right will tell you more about these organizations. Those who serve deserve our support even after their tour of duty is over.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Veterans Day
I know many people who have served in our armed forces in both peacetime and war. World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Panama, Gulf War and Iraq and Afghanistan and action less Cold Warriors. Some are friends of mine that I would trust with my life, some are guys I grew up with and have not seen in years. Some were strangers that have become friends, some were friends of my parents and some were friends of friends. They all have one thing in common. They are all better than me. When I say that I mean it and I am someone who thinks very highly of myself. When you look at a veteran you have to look at them differently you have to understand that these are people who have seen things that for some reason we have been spared the sight of. The life for war veterans should be like King said in Platoon "the rest of your life is gravy." In recent years I have made myself more aware of veterans and always ask if someone has served and thanking them if they did, maybe buying coffee if in an airport or near a coffee house. It is not enough, I know, but what else can we do. People always say it is the little things in life that make it great. I hope so, but we should do all we can for our vets. Without them there would be no little things.
These days the main debate of our politicians is government paid health care for everybody. Clearly this is a communist idea and against American principles. But I do solemnly believe that those that have served and were honorably discharged have earned the right, nay the entitlement of free health care forever. I am not talking about some government plan either I am talking top of the line and getting to the front of the line. Are you telling me that some WWII vet with medals out the ass should have to suffer at a government run VA facility while some 4F gets to see world renown doctors because he didn't serve and got rich? Yes it is a tough issue, I know but something must be done for them, all of them, from PTSD patients to Agent Orange cancer sufferers, to those too old to care for themselves. Forget the millions of useless welfare mooches there are people out there that have earned the right to get free health care and a pension. Enough of how the welfare system screws the vets in favor of lazy shiftless turds.
Armistice Day came along to signal the end of "The Great War" or as we call it now World War I, the "war to end all wars." How naive. There is just too much evil lurking in men with power soul's. Every day I respect our veterans more and more. Putting their lives on the line doing their duty. The wars we are fighting today and the constant rotation back to combat is hard on the men and women and families to whom we owe so much. It was the same for Vietnam vets and their 365 and a wake-up and the World War II vets and the points system. Any war any time all veterans and their families deserve our respect, admiration and thanks. Find out what you can do for them and do it; when we needed them they were there, it is the least we can do. So much will go left unsaid in this post so I will end with this: Thank you Veterans, for keeping our enemies at bay, and the sacrifices you have made. Peace to all of you for the rest of your days you have earned it.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Army-Navy Game and Leadership
Look at last year's post for feelings and what what this game means. This year I am going to talk about things that stood out about this game. First, of course, was the absent Commander-in-Chief but this can only be expected after winning the Nobel peace for prize for 1. being a jerk off liberal and 2. not being George Bush. He had something to do that pertained to himself and had nothing to do with this country. These types of things are only to be expected with this guy which exemplifies what a sad state this country's leadership is in. It would have looked bad for him to be at Army-Navy to his liberal peacenik asshole hippie friends. Now this leadership void is usually filled with those that participate in this game. Our future leaders is how I heard them referred to on the CBS telecast. I disagree, they are present leaders they volunteered in time of war to serve, that is leadership. I saw a ton of that quality in this game; I mean how about the freshman QB from Army, a plebe running the offense that kid is a leader and is going to be a great one just from the experience. Class and age mean everything at these institutions. Also the Army linebacker who moved from outside to inside, when the starter was injured in a previous game, he was way undersized but had fifteen tackles and called the defense and the presnap adjustments. I watched kids from both academies run to the football and hit with good form and fight through pain. I saw running backs that ran hard without regard for themselves refusing to go down without a fight.
I also saw some late hits and extra curricular shots in one form or another but that is to be expected in any rivalry game. I saw way too much "hey look at me celebration" shit, this was not an LSU or "U" game. But the biggest disappointment had to be in the Navy quarterback. I believe this kid is way too self centered to be a great leader. Why are you picking on this kid that volunteered to serve his country? Whoa, chill, I am not the one who put this kid on TV and let him tell his story to the world. He signed a team signed football helmet 5 times that was then presented to Obama, why five times so Obama would remember his name. Maybe you should have impressed him with the content of your character instead of the number of times you could write your name use something with some substance. Son Obama only cares about Obama. He wants to be a politician. Son politician is NOT a career it is a service you serve and move on but liberals do not think this way and look for the easy way out. The reason he went to the Naval Academy is he wanted to go to the dentist, he wanted free health care. Son are you serious, nothing about your character is positive. 1. Hero worship of someone who has done nothing and who hates the military and the country. 2. Want a cushy political job. 3. Part of the I,I,I Me,Me,Me culture that wants everything for nothing. It breaks my heart to write this piece but it needed to be done. I am all for those who serve to get free health care for life, as I have stated here many times, but going in with the attitude that it is owed regardless of service or not is a bad, selfish idea. It is the farthest thing from leadership there is just look at the president.
I also saw some late hits and extra curricular shots in one form or another but that is to be expected in any rivalry game. I saw way too much "hey look at me celebration" shit, this was not an LSU or "U" game. But the biggest disappointment had to be in the Navy quarterback. I believe this kid is way too self centered to be a great leader. Why are you picking on this kid that volunteered to serve his country? Whoa, chill, I am not the one who put this kid on TV and let him tell his story to the world. He signed a team signed football helmet 5 times that was then presented to Obama, why five times so Obama would remember his name. Maybe you should have impressed him with the content of your character instead of the number of times you could write your name use something with some substance. Son Obama only cares about Obama. He wants to be a politician. Son politician is NOT a career it is a service you serve and move on but liberals do not think this way and look for the easy way out. The reason he went to the Naval Academy is he wanted to go to the dentist, he wanted free health care. Son are you serious, nothing about your character is positive. 1. Hero worship of someone who has done nothing and who hates the military and the country. 2. Want a cushy political job. 3. Part of the I,I,I Me,Me,Me culture that wants everything for nothing. It breaks my heart to write this piece but it needed to be done. I am all for those who serve to get free health care for life, as I have stated here many times, but going in with the attitude that it is owed regardless of service or not is a bad, selfish idea. It is the farthest thing from leadership there is just look at the president.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Pearl Harbor, 7 Dec. 1941
A day that shall live in infamy. People today do not remember, most Americans do not care they only care about getting free health care and other government handouts. Those in charge could give a shit less about what happened that fateful morning on that tiny island so far away. They are just looking to get their hands on our money by any means necesary; Cap & Trade or VAT Tax or repealing the Bush tax cuts. Those that survived that horrific ordeal and then survived the war went on to build a better America and in that they built a better world for all of us. Thank you to all the brave souls who were there who fought back and then fought on. There are some of us here who are grateful for your strength and we will learn from it and use it.
Attack on Pearl Harbor as seen from high on Battleship Pennsylvania's Mainmast
The huge red ball blossoming under the plane's wing filled the porthole on U.S.S. Pennsylvania, as the fighter banked and climbed for altitude. The plane had just completed a strafing run on Ford Island, located in the middle of Pearl Harbor. I didn't need for anyone to remind me that it was an unfriendly, because I recognized it as a Jap Zero.
As the striker for Corporal Thomas N. Barron, Marine Detachment Clerk, I usually caught Sunday morning duty for turning in the detachment's daily report to the ship's office prior to 0800. I had just dropped it off and stopped for a bull session with a deck division friend when the sound of explosions reverberated through the ship. We laughed at a nearby sailor's remark, "That's just like the Army to wait until Sunday to hold gunnery practice." But we rushed to a porthole when another sailor yelled, "The Japs are attacking!"
The pace had been leisurely on the ships in Pearl Harbor, the 7th of December, 1941, because Sunday was the day for rest and relaxation after the usual weekly few days at sea where the crews practiced day and night for war. Some men were still ashore; some of those aboard were still feeling the effects of a night out in Honolulu; and others were writing letters, pressing uniforms, shining shoes, straightening wall-locker gear, or rapping in bull sessions. With the surprise and suddenness of the attack some would die with a shoe still in hand, or with thoughts of how to word the next sentence in a letter, or with mouths open as they began the next sea story -their war had ended before it had officially begun!
I turned from the porthole and raced aft, heading for my battlestation high on the mainmast-I was the pointer on the director controlling the port 5-inch .51-caliber broadside guns. As I dodged others racing to their stations, the expressions on faces registered shocked disbelief, anger and determination, and some had fear stamped indelibly into their paled and drawn features. The mouths of others spewed curses as they damned the Japs in almost a scream.
Though Marines usually didn't take their rifles to shipboard battlestations I instinctively thought of my "best friend." As I sped through the Marine Compartment, I noticed Sgt. Bud Tinker standing near the weapons locker and I slowed to ask whether I could get my rifle. He didn't have a key so I resumed my sprint aft.
I had to climb a ladder up the outside of the most starboard leg of the mainmast's tripod to get to my battlestation. Countless times up and down it in practice had given me the agility and confidence of a monkey. As I sped upward, I rammed my head against the ass of a sailor climbing above me, just below the searchlight platform. I fumed while the clumsy overweight man dragged his bulky body, at what seemed like a snail's pace, the rest of the way to the platform. He spun to face me, "What the hell's the idea of running into me?" he demanded.
"Get your fat ass out of my way!" I retorted. He didn't make a comeback but stepped aside, and I resumed my trip.
After reaching my station, I helped the men already there lower the storm windows into recesses. I uncovered the gun director, donned a soundpower phone headset, and made checks with the captains of the five-port side broadside guns. The 5-inch .51-caliber guns were not designed for use against aircraft so the director and gun crews could do nothing but watch harbor activities. So 2dLt. Leyton M. Rogers, the Marine officer commanding the director station, ordered all phones secured except for one to the ship's gunnery control.
As a 19-year old, I didn't want to miss anything and my eyes darted about the harbor trying to keep tabs on every Jap plane, every bomb and torpedo, and every ship. My attention switched back and forth from Ford Island to Battleship Row, and to Helena and Oglala berthed in the Pennsylvania's regular 10-10 Dock berth, with Oglala outboard of Helena. Pennsy, as Flagship of the Pacific Fleet, usually enjoyed the choice berth because Admiral Husband E. Kimmel wasn't about to ride his barge across channel whenever he wanted to board or debark from his flagship. But now Pennsylvania was in Number-1 Drydock with screws off, just forward of her usual 10-10 berth. Battleship Row was across the channel and I had an unobstructed and relatively closeup view of it by looking across Pennsylvania's starboard quarter.
I didn't think of the dangers caused by strafing Jap planes, or of low-level American small-caliber fire, or of a 5" AA gun's projectile hitting the mast when it was fired at low-flying planes. I was so engrossed in watching events across the channel that I didn't notice when three planes strafed Pennsylvania's port side at about 0805.
The gun director crews were supposed to huddle between the tripod's legs running up through the station during strafing attacks but I leaned out a window for a better view of low-flying planes or flights passing over at higher altitude. Twice, Lieutenant Rogers grasped my belt and pulled me inboard. Even though he reminded me to stay between the legs, I would become engrossed in following the action and ease back to an opening.
With the ship shuddering from the constant concussions caused by the firing of her 5" and 3" guns, and the explosions of bombs and torpedoes in the harbor, I didn't consciously feel, hear, or see the gigantic explosion that demolished Arizona. Only minutes after the attack had begun, the dreadnought turned into a mass of twisted, torn and fire-scorched steel.
I didn't pay much attention to activities around California, or the tanker Neosho directly across the harbor, or Ford Island. My concentration focused on Oklahoma and West Virginia as torpedoes ripped again and again into their bowels.
Oklahoma's masts appeared to be moving closer and I realized she was listing heavily to port. Then I watched in awe as she continued turning-so fast her masts splashed the water-until her keel was exposed to the dimmed light of a smoke-shielded sun. When she rolled I could see men spilling off her decks into the water to port and others frantically scrambling over her hull to starboard.
I was in a quandary as I debated with myself whether I should salute. To me the ship was dying in shame and I didn't feel she rated a salute, but I wanted to pay respects to the many men who were dying with her. By the time I'd firmed my decision, she had capsized so I snapped a quick, but reverent, salute.
As Oklahoma rolled, a float-equipped scout plane slid off the aft-turret catapult and floated into the burning oil at the channel side of the ship. My attention switched to West Virginia and other activities so I didn't watch the plane's final fate but it must have burned and sank.
I watched while torpedo planes continued attacking West Virginia. In what seemed only a matter of seconds after a plane dropped a torpedo, a plume of water spouted at the outboard side of the ship ... she appeared to rise, shudder, and then settle back even lower in the water than she had been before as the explosions tore out her bowels.
How could anything possibly penetrate a battleship's thick armor I had wondered ... that it could be done was being demonstrated to me in a most dramatic and definite way!
The Jap planes were below my height when they dropped low to lay their deadly cargoes into the water, as they made torpedo runs on Helena and Oglala. I could see the cockpit instruments and the expressions on the pilots' faces. The white of their teeth flashed as they grimaced with concentration or grinned in exultation at the success of their missions. Then as the planes banked and climbed for altitude, I was almost eyeball-to-eyeball with the rear gunners as they looked down their gun sights and sprayed deadly bullets over the topsides of the ships. How I wished for my rifle!
My eyes focused on a plane struggling to gain altitude after attacking Ford Island. Flames and smoke streamed out behind it. Then it slipped off to the left and glided to a crash on or near the Navy yard hospital grounds- it was the only plane I saw shot down during the attack!
A flight of five planes flew over Pennsylvania at high altitude and the ship's AA guns concentrated on them. I fumed with frustration as I saw the shells bursting below the planes or, judging from the volume of fire, not even exploding. The planes continued serenely on their way and disappeared unscathed over the billowing smoke hovering above the harbor. The sight of them added to the frustration of watching torpedo and bomber planes dropping their instruments of destruction, then escaping apparently undamaged into the billowing smoke.
Approximately 30-minutes after the attack began, orders were passed for the director crew to clear the mainmast and go below. I dropped down the tripod leg ladder, grasping the handrails loosely and tightening my grip occasionally to control my speedy descent ... my feet were catching every third or fourth rung! I ran to the boat deck and joined a line of sailors and Marines passing ammunition to a 5" .25-caliber AA gun-I felt better now that I was helping to fight Japs.
As I cradled each projectile against my chest, I prayed that it would knock an enemy plane from the air. Odd thoughts can enter one's mind at unexpected moments: grease from the ammo was smearing my white skivvy shirt and I directed extra curses at the Japs for that!
So many men were lending a hand on the boat deck that they were getting in each other's way. It also exposed more than necessary to strafing planes so all Marines were ordered below. But I didn't want to sit in the Marine Compartment with nothing to do, unable to keep tabs on harbor activity, so I went to Number-7 Casemate. It and -9 were starboard side and the 5" broadside guns in them were manned by Marines, as were Number-8 and -10 on the port side. Again, I had nothing to do but observe-and talk.
Sgt. R. L. Taylor and I were standing in the center of the casemate talking when a Marine sitting in the gun's pointer seat yelled, exultantly, "A battleship is going out!"
I rushed to the casemate opening and saw Nevada emerging almost like a ghost from the thick smoke ... slowing making her way by Battleship Row and heading toward the harbor's entrance.
A swarm of Japanese planes darted through the air above her and bombs were exploding in the water alongside and on her decks. When one exploded in the water just off her starboard bow and near a sailor coiling rope on the fo'c'sle, he dropped the rope and streaked aft. It appeared that his upper body was lagging behind his churning legs, because he ran leaning back and the back of his head appeared to be almost between his shoulder blades. I sensed his desperation and empathized with him but in other circumstances it would have been hilarious!
His timing was poor, however, because when he reached about amidships on the port side, a bomb hit Nevada in that area. Debris spurted high into the air, including a cotton bunk mattress. I envisioned a genie sitting on a Persian rug as the mattress soared high above the ship and then fluttered and yawed as it dropped to the water. I've always wondered whether the sailor was wounded or killed by that bomb.
I felt pride as I watched the gallant old battlewagon slowly, determinedly, and majestically, fighting her way through rising geysers of water, shrugging off multiple bomb hits, with her guns defiantly spitting flames and projectiles at the darting planes swarming like bees above her while striving desperately to stop her. The old ship fighting her way down harbor was the most inspiring sight I saw during the entire war!
I wouldn't learn of Nevada's fate until later, because Pennsylvania's PA system blared: "A strafing attack is coming. Take cover!"
Sergeant Taylor yelled, "Get inboard!" And I ducked into the passageway connecting the two casemates. He joined me by the guns' ammunition hoist and we resumed our conversation.
Then I was fighting for consciousness and it was like trying to climb out of an inky-black abyss. During those moments that I was aware of my surroundings the pile of men on the deck of Number-7 casemate felt like a nest of squirming worms as they struggled to untangle. As I'd gain consciousness for a moment, I could feel the crushing weight from above and the warmth and softness of wriggling bodies beneath me. Suddenly, the weight was gone and I felt someone tugging at the back of my skivvy shirt, pulling me off the pile. He helped me to stand.
At 0906, a bomb had penetrated the deck of the boat deck and had apparently hit the base of the broadside gun in Number-9 Casemate before rolling over on the deck and exploding. The blast had funneled through the connecting passageway hurling men like projectiles against the wall- lockers attached to the forward bulkhead of Number-7.
I glanced toward the casemate opening and saw Sergeant Taylor standing nearby. His face was blackened but he acted uninjured, even though he had been between me and the exploding bomb. "Sickbay! Main deck forward!" he yelled. Feeling woozy and rudderless, I grasped the back of a Marine's skivvy shirt and followed him down the ladder to the Marine Compartment located below the casemates.
After stumbling over a stretcher in the compartment and learning that the man in it, PFC Nelson R. Holman, had a broken leg, my next awareness was of standing just inside the sickbay. My eyes roved over it ... taking in the sparkling white bulkheads, the white bunk coverings and the compartment's clean-as-a-new-pin look. Even the terra-cotta color battleship linoleum covering the deck looked immaculate to me ... except for a huge pool of blood on the deck by the bunk nearest the entrance. But there wasn't any blood on the bunk! Later, someone told me that a close buddy had lain there and his life had flowed out with that pool of red. Shrapnel had taken a huge chunk out of his back and nothing could be done to save him.
I didn't see a single man ... dead or alive. The sickbay was completely empty! It was quiet, peaceful, and a haven from the carnage I had witnessed topside. But I felt deserted because those who could tend to my needs had disappeared. In doubt as to what to do and unable to make a rational decision, I ambled aft to a compartment where mess tables had been setup for morning chow. Dishes, food, tables, and silverware were helter-skelter on the deck. A sailor was standing in the compartment and I asked him if he knew where sickbay had been moved. He didn't know. Another sailor entered the compartment and the sailor with me asked him. He informed us that it had been moved to second deck and forward by Number-1 turret's barbette.
I made my way to it and saw many wounded men laying in bunks lining the passageways and sitting or laying on the deck. I felt very weak and eased myself to the deck and leaned back against the barbette. I didn't see any doctors but several corpsmen were busily attending to wounded men.
After leaning against the barbette for several minutes with my eyes closed, I sensed the approach of a corpsman and opened them. He squatted beside me and inquired about my injuries, then asked, "Can you stand up?"
I didn't realize that my khaki pants were blood soaked. After I pushed myself to my feet, he didn't wait for me to drop my pants but began slitting up the left leg with a scalpel. The higher he slit while searching for the source of the blood, the more worried I became that the worst had happened and vowed: "If they got my nuts, I'll kill everyone of the little bastards!" Fortunately, the shrapnel wound was in my upper thigh, just below the buttock. He hastily bandaged it and moved on to another man.
Remembering a few empty bunks, tiered three high, when I entered the temporary sickbay I headed for a clean-looking center bunk. A young sailor manning a soundpower phone nearby remarked in a reproving tone of voice, "I put clean coverings on just this morning. You'll get them bloody." I stared at him with a "Tough! You just try to keep me out of it" look. As I eased into the bunk he didn't make any more remarks.
A doctor dressed in civilian clothes entered the sickbay, quite some time later, and began checking wounded men. He worked his way around the barbette and upon reaching my bunk, questioned, "Marine, what happened to you?"
"Shrapnel in the leg and a knock on the head, sir," I replied.
He checked the corpsman's bandaging job. Then, without checking my head or asking how I felt, he said, "You can return to your station."
I crawled out of the bunk and started around the barbette. But, after a few steps, I felt vomit beginning to rise and dashed for a tin mop bucket setting nearby on the deck. After I had finished, the doctor ordered me back into the bunk. As I didn't feel up to going any place under my own power, I crawled back into it.
A short time later, sailors dashed into the compartment and grabbed all of the fire extinguishers. Their actions caused PFC Tommie J. Dale, in a bunk across the passageway, and I to worry that Pennsylvania was afire. We began discussing the best and fastest way to abandon ship.
Two destroyers, Cassin and Downes, were in the drydock with Pennsylvania. They were beam-to-beam forward of the battleship. Private First Class Dale and I didn't know that the destroyers had been hit by bombs and were burning. The heat from their fires was bubbling the paint inside Pennsylvania's bow.
Some time later, the ship's crew began transferring men from the sickbay to the nearby naval hospital. A bullet had torn off part of Dale's heel and he was suffering severely. When men started to take me out first I requested that they take him because of his pain. At that time my head and the shrapnel wound were not hurting.
Later, two very-young sailors brought a stretcher to my bunk. They stood by it discussing how they could manage to get me out of the bunk and onto the stretcher. I'd remember it with amusement later, because I solved their problem. I told them to wait a minute and crawled out of the bunk and lay down on the stretcher.
They carried me aft but stopped when they reached the first ladder going up to the main deck. They set the stretcher on the deck, and for several minutes discussed how to get me up the ladder. Again, I suggested they wait a minute and got off the stretcher, climbed the ladder, and they folded the stretcher and brought it up. I laid back down on it and they carried me to the quarterdeck.
As we neared the head of the gangway to 10-10 Dock, the ship's PA system blared: "A stretcher is needed for a severely wounded man!" and gave the location.
"Leave me here and go get him," I suggested to the sailors. "I'll be okay." They stopped. I got off the stretcher and sat on a nearby bit.
While I sat in the warm sun waiting for the sailors to return, I wasn't conscious of any guns firing. Number-3 and -4 turrets blocked my view of Battleship Row, but I noticed that Helena was still afloat at 10-10 Dock. I also noticed a navy officer, a sailor, and Marine were standing at the head of the gangway.
Though my head felt like it was detached and floating several feet above the deck watching what went on below, I still was mentally alert enough to know that the Japs had made a shambles of Pearl Harbor. I wondered how much damage had been done to Pennsylvania. But I was too dazed to give much thought to future happenings. Feeling very tired I considered laying down on the teakwood deck but resisted the urge.
Floating in and out of awareness I didn't know whether the severely wounded man was carried off via way of the quarterdeck gangway. Curious about him I wondered if another gangway had been put in place forward. After awhile, I began to worry that the sailors had forgotten me. But, eventually, they returned and carried me to the dock.
They laid me on a cotton mattress in the bed of a civilian pickup truck. The driver headed for the hospital at breakneck speed. When the truck hit a bump in the road it bounced me into the air above the mattress. The pickup had a 2 x 6 board bolted across the top of its bed. Mesmerized, I stared fixedly at the board and began worrying that a large bump would throw me into it. The driver apparently didn't realize that the rough ride could do more damage than lack of speed in getting me to the hospital. Even though I was still woozy from the bomb blast, it was an unforgettable ride.
Upon arriving at the hospital, the attendants moved me to another mattress, laying on the deck just inside the entrance. Private First Class Dale was on one of the nearby mattresses. Once more, the stretcher bearers started to give me priority and I again suggested that they take him first. He thanked me and they took him away. It was the last time I'd ever see him.
Eventually I was taken into a ward and put to bed. After a quick check by ward medical personnel and a morphine shot, I drifted into an untroubled sleep.
I awakened after dark to the sound of guns firing in the harbor area. Later, I learned that a flight of six Enterprise planes had been coming in for a landing on Ford Island and four were shot down by friendly forces.
After the guns quit firing, the only sounds to be heard in the darkness were the muted voices of medical personnel and the moans of the wounded.
Pennsylvania Pearl Harbor Action Report
The Quack Corps–a Marine's War Pearl Harbor to Okinawa
Attack on Pearl Harbor as seen from high on Battleship Pennsylvania's Mainmast
The huge red ball blossoming under the plane's wing filled the porthole on U.S.S. Pennsylvania, as the fighter banked and climbed for altitude. The plane had just completed a strafing run on Ford Island, located in the middle of Pearl Harbor. I didn't need for anyone to remind me that it was an unfriendly, because I recognized it as a Jap Zero.
As the striker for Corporal Thomas N. Barron, Marine Detachment Clerk, I usually caught Sunday morning duty for turning in the detachment's daily report to the ship's office prior to 0800. I had just dropped it off and stopped for a bull session with a deck division friend when the sound of explosions reverberated through the ship. We laughed at a nearby sailor's remark, "That's just like the Army to wait until Sunday to hold gunnery practice." But we rushed to a porthole when another sailor yelled, "The Japs are attacking!"
The pace had been leisurely on the ships in Pearl Harbor, the 7th of December, 1941, because Sunday was the day for rest and relaxation after the usual weekly few days at sea where the crews practiced day and night for war. Some men were still ashore; some of those aboard were still feeling the effects of a night out in Honolulu; and others were writing letters, pressing uniforms, shining shoes, straightening wall-locker gear, or rapping in bull sessions. With the surprise and suddenness of the attack some would die with a shoe still in hand, or with thoughts of how to word the next sentence in a letter, or with mouths open as they began the next sea story -their war had ended before it had officially begun!
I turned from the porthole and raced aft, heading for my battlestation high on the mainmast-I was the pointer on the director controlling the port 5-inch .51-caliber broadside guns. As I dodged others racing to their stations, the expressions on faces registered shocked disbelief, anger and determination, and some had fear stamped indelibly into their paled and drawn features. The mouths of others spewed curses as they damned the Japs in almost a scream.
Though Marines usually didn't take their rifles to shipboard battlestations I instinctively thought of my "best friend." As I sped through the Marine Compartment, I noticed Sgt. Bud Tinker standing near the weapons locker and I slowed to ask whether I could get my rifle. He didn't have a key so I resumed my sprint aft.
I had to climb a ladder up the outside of the most starboard leg of the mainmast's tripod to get to my battlestation. Countless times up and down it in practice had given me the agility and confidence of a monkey. As I sped upward, I rammed my head against the ass of a sailor climbing above me, just below the searchlight platform. I fumed while the clumsy overweight man dragged his bulky body, at what seemed like a snail's pace, the rest of the way to the platform. He spun to face me, "What the hell's the idea of running into me?" he demanded.
"Get your fat ass out of my way!" I retorted. He didn't make a comeback but stepped aside, and I resumed my trip.
After reaching my station, I helped the men already there lower the storm windows into recesses. I uncovered the gun director, donned a soundpower phone headset, and made checks with the captains of the five-port side broadside guns. The 5-inch .51-caliber guns were not designed for use against aircraft so the director and gun crews could do nothing but watch harbor activities. So 2dLt. Leyton M. Rogers, the Marine officer commanding the director station, ordered all phones secured except for one to the ship's gunnery control.
As a 19-year old, I didn't want to miss anything and my eyes darted about the harbor trying to keep tabs on every Jap plane, every bomb and torpedo, and every ship. My attention switched back and forth from Ford Island to Battleship Row, and to Helena and Oglala berthed in the Pennsylvania's regular 10-10 Dock berth, with Oglala outboard of Helena. Pennsy, as Flagship of the Pacific Fleet, usually enjoyed the choice berth because Admiral Husband E. Kimmel wasn't about to ride his barge across channel whenever he wanted to board or debark from his flagship. But now Pennsylvania was in Number-1 Drydock with screws off, just forward of her usual 10-10 berth. Battleship Row was across the channel and I had an unobstructed and relatively closeup view of it by looking across Pennsylvania's starboard quarter.
I didn't think of the dangers caused by strafing Jap planes, or of low-level American small-caliber fire, or of a 5" AA gun's projectile hitting the mast when it was fired at low-flying planes. I was so engrossed in watching events across the channel that I didn't notice when three planes strafed Pennsylvania's port side at about 0805.
The gun director crews were supposed to huddle between the tripod's legs running up through the station during strafing attacks but I leaned out a window for a better view of low-flying planes or flights passing over at higher altitude. Twice, Lieutenant Rogers grasped my belt and pulled me inboard. Even though he reminded me to stay between the legs, I would become engrossed in following the action and ease back to an opening.
With the ship shuddering from the constant concussions caused by the firing of her 5" and 3" guns, and the explosions of bombs and torpedoes in the harbor, I didn't consciously feel, hear, or see the gigantic explosion that demolished Arizona. Only minutes after the attack had begun, the dreadnought turned into a mass of twisted, torn and fire-scorched steel.
I didn't pay much attention to activities around California, or the tanker Neosho directly across the harbor, or Ford Island. My concentration focused on Oklahoma and West Virginia as torpedoes ripped again and again into their bowels.
Oklahoma's masts appeared to be moving closer and I realized she was listing heavily to port. Then I watched in awe as she continued turning-so fast her masts splashed the water-until her keel was exposed to the dimmed light of a smoke-shielded sun. When she rolled I could see men spilling off her decks into the water to port and others frantically scrambling over her hull to starboard.
I was in a quandary as I debated with myself whether I should salute. To me the ship was dying in shame and I didn't feel she rated a salute, but I wanted to pay respects to the many men who were dying with her. By the time I'd firmed my decision, she had capsized so I snapped a quick, but reverent, salute.
As Oklahoma rolled, a float-equipped scout plane slid off the aft-turret catapult and floated into the burning oil at the channel side of the ship. My attention switched to West Virginia and other activities so I didn't watch the plane's final fate but it must have burned and sank.
I watched while torpedo planes continued attacking West Virginia. In what seemed only a matter of seconds after a plane dropped a torpedo, a plume of water spouted at the outboard side of the ship ... she appeared to rise, shudder, and then settle back even lower in the water than she had been before as the explosions tore out her bowels.
How could anything possibly penetrate a battleship's thick armor I had wondered ... that it could be done was being demonstrated to me in a most dramatic and definite way!
The Jap planes were below my height when they dropped low to lay their deadly cargoes into the water, as they made torpedo runs on Helena and Oglala. I could see the cockpit instruments and the expressions on the pilots' faces. The white of their teeth flashed as they grimaced with concentration or grinned in exultation at the success of their missions. Then as the planes banked and climbed for altitude, I was almost eyeball-to-eyeball with the rear gunners as they looked down their gun sights and sprayed deadly bullets over the topsides of the ships. How I wished for my rifle!
My eyes focused on a plane struggling to gain altitude after attacking Ford Island. Flames and smoke streamed out behind it. Then it slipped off to the left and glided to a crash on or near the Navy yard hospital grounds- it was the only plane I saw shot down during the attack!
A flight of five planes flew over Pennsylvania at high altitude and the ship's AA guns concentrated on them. I fumed with frustration as I saw the shells bursting below the planes or, judging from the volume of fire, not even exploding. The planes continued serenely on their way and disappeared unscathed over the billowing smoke hovering above the harbor. The sight of them added to the frustration of watching torpedo and bomber planes dropping their instruments of destruction, then escaping apparently undamaged into the billowing smoke.
Approximately 30-minutes after the attack began, orders were passed for the director crew to clear the mainmast and go below. I dropped down the tripod leg ladder, grasping the handrails loosely and tightening my grip occasionally to control my speedy descent ... my feet were catching every third or fourth rung! I ran to the boat deck and joined a line of sailors and Marines passing ammunition to a 5" .25-caliber AA gun-I felt better now that I was helping to fight Japs.
As I cradled each projectile against my chest, I prayed that it would knock an enemy plane from the air. Odd thoughts can enter one's mind at unexpected moments: grease from the ammo was smearing my white skivvy shirt and I directed extra curses at the Japs for that!
So many men were lending a hand on the boat deck that they were getting in each other's way. It also exposed more than necessary to strafing planes so all Marines were ordered below. But I didn't want to sit in the Marine Compartment with nothing to do, unable to keep tabs on harbor activity, so I went to Number-7 Casemate. It and -9 were starboard side and the 5" broadside guns in them were manned by Marines, as were Number-8 and -10 on the port side. Again, I had nothing to do but observe-and talk.
Sgt. R. L. Taylor and I were standing in the center of the casemate talking when a Marine sitting in the gun's pointer seat yelled, exultantly, "A battleship is going out!"
I rushed to the casemate opening and saw Nevada emerging almost like a ghost from the thick smoke ... slowing making her way by Battleship Row and heading toward the harbor's entrance.
A swarm of Japanese planes darted through the air above her and bombs were exploding in the water alongside and on her decks. When one exploded in the water just off her starboard bow and near a sailor coiling rope on the fo'c'sle, he dropped the rope and streaked aft. It appeared that his upper body was lagging behind his churning legs, because he ran leaning back and the back of his head appeared to be almost between his shoulder blades. I sensed his desperation and empathized with him but in other circumstances it would have been hilarious!
His timing was poor, however, because when he reached about amidships on the port side, a bomb hit Nevada in that area. Debris spurted high into the air, including a cotton bunk mattress. I envisioned a genie sitting on a Persian rug as the mattress soared high above the ship and then fluttered and yawed as it dropped to the water. I've always wondered whether the sailor was wounded or killed by that bomb.
I felt pride as I watched the gallant old battlewagon slowly, determinedly, and majestically, fighting her way through rising geysers of water, shrugging off multiple bomb hits, with her guns defiantly spitting flames and projectiles at the darting planes swarming like bees above her while striving desperately to stop her. The old ship fighting her way down harbor was the most inspiring sight I saw during the entire war!
I wouldn't learn of Nevada's fate until later, because Pennsylvania's PA system blared: "A strafing attack is coming. Take cover!"
Sergeant Taylor yelled, "Get inboard!" And I ducked into the passageway connecting the two casemates. He joined me by the guns' ammunition hoist and we resumed our conversation.
Then I was fighting for consciousness and it was like trying to climb out of an inky-black abyss. During those moments that I was aware of my surroundings the pile of men on the deck of Number-7 casemate felt like a nest of squirming worms as they struggled to untangle. As I'd gain consciousness for a moment, I could feel the crushing weight from above and the warmth and softness of wriggling bodies beneath me. Suddenly, the weight was gone and I felt someone tugging at the back of my skivvy shirt, pulling me off the pile. He helped me to stand.
At 0906, a bomb had penetrated the deck of the boat deck and had apparently hit the base of the broadside gun in Number-9 Casemate before rolling over on the deck and exploding. The blast had funneled through the connecting passageway hurling men like projectiles against the wall- lockers attached to the forward bulkhead of Number-7.
I glanced toward the casemate opening and saw Sergeant Taylor standing nearby. His face was blackened but he acted uninjured, even though he had been between me and the exploding bomb. "Sickbay! Main deck forward!" he yelled. Feeling woozy and rudderless, I grasped the back of a Marine's skivvy shirt and followed him down the ladder to the Marine Compartment located below the casemates.
After stumbling over a stretcher in the compartment and learning that the man in it, PFC Nelson R. Holman, had a broken leg, my next awareness was of standing just inside the sickbay. My eyes roved over it ... taking in the sparkling white bulkheads, the white bunk coverings and the compartment's clean-as-a-new-pin look. Even the terra-cotta color battleship linoleum covering the deck looked immaculate to me ... except for a huge pool of blood on the deck by the bunk nearest the entrance. But there wasn't any blood on the bunk! Later, someone told me that a close buddy had lain there and his life had flowed out with that pool of red. Shrapnel had taken a huge chunk out of his back and nothing could be done to save him.
I didn't see a single man ... dead or alive. The sickbay was completely empty! It was quiet, peaceful, and a haven from the carnage I had witnessed topside. But I felt deserted because those who could tend to my needs had disappeared. In doubt as to what to do and unable to make a rational decision, I ambled aft to a compartment where mess tables had been setup for morning chow. Dishes, food, tables, and silverware were helter-skelter on the deck. A sailor was standing in the compartment and I asked him if he knew where sickbay had been moved. He didn't know. Another sailor entered the compartment and the sailor with me asked him. He informed us that it had been moved to second deck and forward by Number-1 turret's barbette.
I made my way to it and saw many wounded men laying in bunks lining the passageways and sitting or laying on the deck. I felt very weak and eased myself to the deck and leaned back against the barbette. I didn't see any doctors but several corpsmen were busily attending to wounded men.
After leaning against the barbette for several minutes with my eyes closed, I sensed the approach of a corpsman and opened them. He squatted beside me and inquired about my injuries, then asked, "Can you stand up?"
I didn't realize that my khaki pants were blood soaked. After I pushed myself to my feet, he didn't wait for me to drop my pants but began slitting up the left leg with a scalpel. The higher he slit while searching for the source of the blood, the more worried I became that the worst had happened and vowed: "If they got my nuts, I'll kill everyone of the little bastards!" Fortunately, the shrapnel wound was in my upper thigh, just below the buttock. He hastily bandaged it and moved on to another man.
Remembering a few empty bunks, tiered three high, when I entered the temporary sickbay I headed for a clean-looking center bunk. A young sailor manning a soundpower phone nearby remarked in a reproving tone of voice, "I put clean coverings on just this morning. You'll get them bloody." I stared at him with a "Tough! You just try to keep me out of it" look. As I eased into the bunk he didn't make any more remarks.
A doctor dressed in civilian clothes entered the sickbay, quite some time later, and began checking wounded men. He worked his way around the barbette and upon reaching my bunk, questioned, "Marine, what happened to you?"
"Shrapnel in the leg and a knock on the head, sir," I replied.
He checked the corpsman's bandaging job. Then, without checking my head or asking how I felt, he said, "You can return to your station."
I crawled out of the bunk and started around the barbette. But, after a few steps, I felt vomit beginning to rise and dashed for a tin mop bucket setting nearby on the deck. After I had finished, the doctor ordered me back into the bunk. As I didn't feel up to going any place under my own power, I crawled back into it.
A short time later, sailors dashed into the compartment and grabbed all of the fire extinguishers. Their actions caused PFC Tommie J. Dale, in a bunk across the passageway, and I to worry that Pennsylvania was afire. We began discussing the best and fastest way to abandon ship.
Two destroyers, Cassin and Downes, were in the drydock with Pennsylvania. They were beam-to-beam forward of the battleship. Private First Class Dale and I didn't know that the destroyers had been hit by bombs and were burning. The heat from their fires was bubbling the paint inside Pennsylvania's bow.
Some time later, the ship's crew began transferring men from the sickbay to the nearby naval hospital. A bullet had torn off part of Dale's heel and he was suffering severely. When men started to take me out first I requested that they take him because of his pain. At that time my head and the shrapnel wound were not hurting.
Later, two very-young sailors brought a stretcher to my bunk. They stood by it discussing how they could manage to get me out of the bunk and onto the stretcher. I'd remember it with amusement later, because I solved their problem. I told them to wait a minute and crawled out of the bunk and lay down on the stretcher.
They carried me aft but stopped when they reached the first ladder going up to the main deck. They set the stretcher on the deck, and for several minutes discussed how to get me up the ladder. Again, I suggested they wait a minute and got off the stretcher, climbed the ladder, and they folded the stretcher and brought it up. I laid back down on it and they carried me to the quarterdeck.
As we neared the head of the gangway to 10-10 Dock, the ship's PA system blared: "A stretcher is needed for a severely wounded man!" and gave the location.
"Leave me here and go get him," I suggested to the sailors. "I'll be okay." They stopped. I got off the stretcher and sat on a nearby bit.
While I sat in the warm sun waiting for the sailors to return, I wasn't conscious of any guns firing. Number-3 and -4 turrets blocked my view of Battleship Row, but I noticed that Helena was still afloat at 10-10 Dock. I also noticed a navy officer, a sailor, and Marine were standing at the head of the gangway.
Though my head felt like it was detached and floating several feet above the deck watching what went on below, I still was mentally alert enough to know that the Japs had made a shambles of Pearl Harbor. I wondered how much damage had been done to Pennsylvania. But I was too dazed to give much thought to future happenings. Feeling very tired I considered laying down on the teakwood deck but resisted the urge.
Floating in and out of awareness I didn't know whether the severely wounded man was carried off via way of the quarterdeck gangway. Curious about him I wondered if another gangway had been put in place forward. After awhile, I began to worry that the sailors had forgotten me. But, eventually, they returned and carried me to the dock.
They laid me on a cotton mattress in the bed of a civilian pickup truck. The driver headed for the hospital at breakneck speed. When the truck hit a bump in the road it bounced me into the air above the mattress. The pickup had a 2 x 6 board bolted across the top of its bed. Mesmerized, I stared fixedly at the board and began worrying that a large bump would throw me into it. The driver apparently didn't realize that the rough ride could do more damage than lack of speed in getting me to the hospital. Even though I was still woozy from the bomb blast, it was an unforgettable ride.
Upon arriving at the hospital, the attendants moved me to another mattress, laying on the deck just inside the entrance. Private First Class Dale was on one of the nearby mattresses. Once more, the stretcher bearers started to give me priority and I again suggested that they take him first. He thanked me and they took him away. It was the last time I'd ever see him.
Eventually I was taken into a ward and put to bed. After a quick check by ward medical personnel and a morphine shot, I drifted into an untroubled sleep.
I awakened after dark to the sound of guns firing in the harbor area. Later, I learned that a flight of six Enterprise planes had been coming in for a landing on Ford Island and four were shot down by friendly forces.
After the guns quit firing, the only sounds to be heard in the darkness were the muted voices of medical personnel and the moans of the wounded.
Pennsylvania Pearl Harbor Action Report
The Quack Corps–a Marine's War Pearl Harbor to Okinawa
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