McGoran2

John McGoran

(Continued)

Note: In 1997, at a Pearl Harbor Survivors luncheon in Spengers Restaurant, Berkeley, California, I told a ST LOUIS Survivor of our experience. He said that the reason we were denied permission to board was that he was involved with cutting away the gangway to jettison it overboard. It was considered an obstruction to the movement of her gun turrets.

As we motored toward 1010 dock, we noticed one of the older B-18 bombers in the sky, beyond the Navy Yard. It was climbing from Hickam Field. At about 500 feet, it came under attack by a Japanese fighter plane. The bomber seemed to stall, then stop in mid-air. It appeared it might crash. But it banked to the right, lowered its nose and recovered flying speed and disappeared in the direction of Honolulu. It was an extraordinary maneuver.

At the outer end of 1010 dock, the remaining members of our ammunition party broke up. I started walking from the end of the dock, stopping alongside the ARGONNE.

As I stood there, I watched as a formation of planes which I believed were ours over the Wapio Peninsula on their approach for landing at Ford Island Naval Air Station, a half mile away, across the channel.

The brief security of land under me was suddenly shattered, for as I stood there fixed, I was unaware that directly above me aboard the ARGONNE a large gun was primed to fire. It went off right over my head leaving me stunned. Momentarily I was frozen in place; but I can still see in my mind's eye, one of those airplanes being tossed about by the air pressure of the shell that passed under it.

Full recovery wasn't necessary to stir me into action. I ran without stopping until I could dive under a sea-sled, an apparatus used aboard ships for the recovery of catapult-type seaplanes. A sea-sled is merely a surfboard dragging a rope netting for the seaplane's main-float-hook to snag. It is towed alongside a ship during recovery of aircraft. The pilot "lands" his plane in the "slick" the ship makes while making a turn. Then, the pilot swiftly drives his plane onto the sea-sled's net. When his main pontoon is securely hooked, the pilot shuts down his engine. The plane is then hoisted aboard and replaced on the catapult.

There I stayed, under the sea-sled, looking around, where I discovered I was near the bow of the minelayer, OGLALA, which had keeled over and lay on her side. I forced myself to leave this shelter and wend my way toward the Navy Yard's water tower, which has a signal station on its top. It must be instinctive to want to get back into a familiar environment. But, once I reached the tower I found no additional personnel was allowed to go to the top, because of the possibility that it, too, might become a target.

Leaving the water tower, I happened to walk by a Navy Yard restaurant where someone standing out in front of the building offered me a pint of milk. Gratefully, I accepted it, and as I drank it, I became aware of a person nearby, crying. He was an Oriental man, small in stature. I walked over to him and asked what his trouble was, because whatever it was it seemed to be even greater than mine. In fractured English he told me he was Japanese and that his sorrow was that Japan was to blame for this tragedy. I consoled the old fellow as best I could; then, I left him to his grief.

I headed toward the Navy Yard's Administration Building, for I felt I must report in to someone. I paused only long enough to watch a Japanese plane make an attack into Hickam Field, and, to watch a group of Marines try to shoot it down. Their small 50-caliber machine gun hadn't the range, but I admired their try. Inside the Administration Building, I found other men in the same predicament as mine. Some were asking for handguns to use against the attacking planes. There was a request for a working party and I found myself at the command of a woman, the wife of the WEST VIRGINIA's Gunnery Officer. She assigned another young sailor and me to the Honolulu Y.M.C.A. where we would help women and children who were to be evacuated from the Pearl Harbor Housing Project. Good grief! A civilian in charge of us?

Would I, a sailor, have to say "Sir" when reporting to this neat, completely feminine, officer's wife? It wouldn't matter. By this time everything was chaos. Titles, names, formalities were forgotten. If she needed the aura of military authority to help control the refugee Navy dependents expected from Pearl Harbor, I'd even give her a salute. Perhaps, I thought, such a mass evacuation had been prearranged in the event of attack. Yet, if taking charge was her own idea, she seemed capable of convincing an admiral to spare a few men for her mission.

She drove us the seven miles from the Administration Building to Honolulu. Halfway into Honolulu our car passed a Packard sedan, its occupants lifeless. Almost hidden from view were two bodies sprawled upon the rear seat. The body of the man who had been driving was slumped over the steering wheel. The car was riddled with gaping holes, some at least three inches in diameter. Our lady-in-charge had seen the Japanese planes attacking it on her way to pick us up. (Later, I heard that this had been the only known instance of deliberate attack upon civilians.) This fresh encounter with death shocked us once more into keeping a sharp watch overhead.

When we reached the Y M C A on Hotel Street, we found more confusion. No one seemed sure whether or not there would be a civilian evacuation of Pearl Harbor. Telephone calls brought no further information. As the indecisiveness stretched the nerves of the "Y" people, I decided that I had time to discover, first-hand, the nearby bomb damages about which stories were popping like firecrackers. Nobody would miss me, so I left the "Y" unaware that at 8:35 a.m. the Honolulu police department had ordered all residents to stay indoors. At one eerily deserted street corner an automobile showroom had been knocked out by a blast. Nearby, the body of a Chinese man, disemboweled, lay dead in the street. I stopped long enough to inspect a large crater about eight feet in diameter impacted in the grounds of Iolani Palace.

My brief inspection sortie finished, I walked back toward the "Y" about noon. I couldn't help but wonder at the importance these townspeople placed on bomb holes and broken windows, minuscule scratches compared to the carnage at Pearl Harbor.

Slowly, I began to realize that this was their tragedy. They could comprehend only what they saw. They didn't yet know the extent of the Pearl Harbor catastrophe.

In front of the "Y" the Jitney taxis awaited, their drivers excitedly discussing parachutes observed above the city. (These sightings were more likely anti-aircraft bursts and were mistaken as parachutes). Would such aerial invaders hold any captives as hostages? Could the police cope with such a situation? It was easy to believe all this talk. The puffs of smoke from exploding anti-aircraft shells did look like parachutes and the expectations of meeting the enemy face to face tingled my scalp.

At the front steps of the "Y" a group of people was forming. As I moved in closer, the tingle of excitement now shot down my spine. According to one in the crowd, enemy troopships were just off shore and about to land. Another remembered warnings about saboteurs with red disks, the Rising Sun, as shoulder patches. Again I believed and suggested that we go to the police to ask for their leadership, for weapons, for anything effective to resist an enemy landing.

About twenty of us, including at least one young lady who couldn't have been more that 17 years old, headed for the police station which was near the famous Aloha Tower, on the waterfront. We were a motley crowd marching with the spirit of "76" bent on preserving "our way of life." The fast pace and the bright warm sun which intermittently peeked through the usual scattering of clouds, brought out the perspiration. I was beginning to smell.

The police station at first appeared deserted. Finally an officer appeared. The "invasion", he said, was a rumor and rumors of all kinds were running heavily. He appreciated our offer but added that the military forces had everything under control. As the others dispersed, I walked back toward the "Y". The young lady accompanied me in silence. At the "Y",

there was still no news.

The young lady beckoned for me to follow her. As she was so quiet, it was obvious to me that she was not fluent in English. She used gestures rather than words to communicate. I followed her for about a block and a half and north of the Iolani Palace, where she lived. We went into her house, without introducing me to anyone, and walked right on through to a rear bedroom. She pointed to a bed devoid of a mattress ---just bare springs --- and motioned to me that I should rest. I accommodated her by trying out the damned springs, but soon conveyed to her that I really had no need to rest at the time. I left and walked back to the "Y", pondering her kindness and consideration. She was a very sweet, thoughtful young lady.

Word finally reached the "Y" that there would be an evacuation of Pearl Harbor's dependents to the Honolulu "Y."

The "Y" is a three story building, which still stands today, but is no longer a YMCA. I was assigned to supervise a dormitory on the top floor. It was a huge room, the size of a gymnasium. From the lanai at the north end, I could look out toward Pearl Harbor. Collapsible wood frame canvas cots were set up in every available space to accommodate the 200 women and children who arrived in groups during the afternoon hours, so the dormitory became crowded.

Getting settled was difficult. There was a tremendous hustle-bustle over choosing cots. Many switched places to be near late arriving friends. Actually, this worked out very well; it gave them the comfort and security many needed to calm down.

By 5:00 p.m., the dormitory was filled to capacity and the distractions of settling in now gave way to an atmosphere of fear and tears. One woman was particularly unmanageable. She was so distraught with grief that I felt it necessary to gently slap her face, shocking her back to a rational state. Only firmness was needed after that. Later she came to grips with her grief and even proved helpful during the course of the night.

As night fell, we became aware that the city was undergoing a blackout, a precaution against air attacks. It was one more thing for these shaken people to cope with. Some fretted; others were too scared to utter a sound. This was strange to me, too. (At sea, we had often practiced "darken ship." That meant no lights and no smoking on the open air weather decks; but we did have lights in our living quarters.) So I shared in the general discomfort. Then, someone handed me a flashlight and cautioned on its use. I saved it for emergencies, such as helping to locate diapers in women's handbags.

Otherwise, time dragged. The dormitory was hot and stuffy. The odor of babies spitting up filled the room, and I knew it would be a long night. About 8:30 p.m., gunnery activity at Pearl Harbor was heard. I looked out toward Pearl Harbor from a lanai on the north side of the dormitory, and watched tensely as tracer shots flew into the night sky, like sparks. The thought that Pearl Harbor was again under attack distressed the women whose husbands were there.

The shooting kept up. I thought, 'What if tracers should strike this building?' With the safety of these people to consider, my immediate concern was to be prepared in case of fire. At the north end of the dormitory, just inside from the lanai, there was a rack of fire hose, so I laid it out down the center of the dorm.

Hours later, the janitor for the "Y" walked in, saw what I done, and objected to the hose on the floor. "It will get dirty." he said fussily and his thinking seemed ridiculous. He rolled it up and hung it back in place. Later, I laid it out, again, where it stayed in readiness for the remainder of the night. He may have known everything to know about Y.M.C.A., but I had some training in fire fighting on the CALIFORNIA. I intended to be prepared.

Later, word spread of an early evening tragic episode of gunfire. After searching for the Japanese fleet, a squadron of planes from the carrier ENTERPRISE received instructions to land at FORD ISLAND rather than aboard the carrier. Arriving unexpectedly in the darkness over Pearl Harbor, they were mistaken for another wave of attacking Japanese planes by the highly nervous and tired sailors manning the anti-aircraft guns. All six of the squadron were shot out of the sky as they attempted to land on the air strip.

Throughout the night, sporadic bursts of gunfire could be seen in the sky over Pearl Harbor. Later, conditions causing so much shooting were called "trigger-happy", a reaction to fear. To feel it is to see the enemy lurking in every corner of the sky, and the water. The sailors' trigger-happiness kept us at the "Y" awake and fretful.

As the evening wore on, the young wife who earlier had been so distraught, regained her composure. She explained that her husband was at sea, and she had heard that his ship, the aircraft carrier LEXINGTON, had been sunk. I took her eagerness to talk as forgiveness and it erased from my conscience all pangs of guilt for slapping her. Frequently she prodded me with questions to which I made all kinds of reassuring answers, such as: "Very many survive when any ship sinks. You can be sure that he will." (I was repeating what I had been told by Allen, one of our first-class petty officers, on the CALIFORNIA.) Briefly, during the early morning hours, she kept the watch while I rested. It was impossible to sleep, but just stretching out and closing my eyes was a lift. The night was long and taxing, but the sun finally rose.

The night's rest eased the tensions of the wives and children so that everyone awakened in better spirits. The usual womanly chores of hair brushing and caring for the children's needs filled time in the early morning hours. The light aroma of plumaria blossoms drifted in through the open windows. It was an amazing recovery from the rigid fear of yesterday.

About 8:30 in the morning, a tall matronly woman wearing a flowered apron appeared at the entrance of the dormitory. She announced that "chow" was being served in the lobby, an old Navy term familiar to all. The thought of food sent pangs of hunger bouncing off the walls of my stomach and I eagerly walked down stairs with our newly found friend as she returned to the lobby. On the way she introduced herself as Mrs. Black, wife and mother. Mrs. Black went to a large kettle, spooned out a bowl of spaghetti and handed it to me, then chatted while I attempted eating. A moment later she asked me if I was having difficulty eating. I was. I was extremely hungry, but I just could not swallow the food.

"A reaction from the excitement," she said. "Perhaps you will feel more like eating later on." She took back the bowl of spaghetti in a gesture of understanding.

The remainder of the morning I spent talking with acquaintances made during the previous day. Purposely, I complimented the wives on childrens' behavior throughout the night, and reaped smiles of pride in return. All of us engaged in the big guessing game: Would we stay at the "Y" again tonight or would the wives return to their homes, and I to Pearl Harbor?

I began to question my further usefulness here. Everyone seemed to be getting along well enough; supervision no longer appeared necessary. Those we looked to as authority figures, the YMCA personnel, gave us only frail information: "We -- ah -- don't know anything yet." Yet, I knew the "Y" staff was trying, feverishly phoning for a decision from the command at Pearl Harbor.

As the morning wore on, it appeared to us unlikely that the evacuation would continue through another night. We were right. By 11:30 a.m. we received word for evacuees to return to their homes. My obligation, I felt, was now over. So, since I was flat broke, a YMCA person arranged for my transportation back to Pearl Harbor. I crowded into an already filled jitney, a taxi which normally was used to shuttle sailors with shore leave between the Pearl Harbor Naval Base and the YMCA. The jitney driver, a huge man, as many of the pure Hawaiians are, had a wealth of information, and no wonder. He had been driving emergency runs almost constantly since the attack.

He gushed excitedly, in variations of "Pidgin English," that the job of fighting traffic back and forth, to and from Pearl Harbor immediately after the attack began was especially difficult. Officers and enlisted men with shore leave were attempting to return to their duties. As we bounced along the old Kamehameha Highway, I knew that danger had not really ended; this heap could fall apart. I often suspected that Hawaiian jitney drivers got their drivers' licenses in dice games.

"Look!" he shouted with an excitement which brought a chill to my neck. My head jerked to the direction he was pointing. A column of smoke billowed into the sky over the north end of Pearl Harbor. "That's from the ARIZONA!" he exclaimed.

It was scarcely believable that the battleship could still be burning. "What's the trouble?" I asked. "Can't they put the fire out?" Perhaps it was a stupid question. But I was soon to realize why. Shortly after 8:00 a.m., the ARIZONA had exploded from a bomb, which was reported to have hit forward of her number one gun turret and penetrated into a magazine.

The day before, about 9:30 in the morning, we in the motor launch came close to the bow of the ARIZONA, while we were picking up the WEST VIRGINIA sailor from the water. I was so rattled at that time, I retained no memory of seeing the ARIZONA, or her awful condition. Now that's not so surprising; there was much happening in our immediate vicinity, noise, confusion, smoke and flames. Perhaps the heavy smoke blotted out her profile; her plight escaped my notice at that time. Now I was getting back to reality.

The jitney driver let us out at the main gate, a short distance from the fleet's liberty-boat landing. I walked to Merry Point where I expected to catch a boat for the CALIFORNIA. I waited and about 20 minutes later one came. As the coxswain skillfully approached the dock, a seaman threw a line, lassoing a cleat on the dock and secured the boat. I moved to get aboard; but the coxswain stopped me.

"Can't take any passengers. Those are my orders," he said. "But I'm in the flag, ComBatFor", I pleaded. It was to no avail. He was not taking any passengers. The cold shocking fact was that my ship, CALIFORNIA, was abandoned. Not only abandoned, this proud battlewagon was resting on the mud of Pearl Harbor. Then I remembered! When I left yesterday morning with Mr. Applegate's work party to search for anti-aircraft ammunition, we had stepped from the quarterdeck into the motor- launch. I must have had a lapse of memory...

What to do now? I had no place to go, so I stood there until an officer confirmed what had happened. He then directed me toward a nearby concrete building pressed into service for survivors from sunken ships. In there, I was assigned a bunk.

I tried the bunk but comfort wasn't my big concern. I found that I had developed a bad case of claustrophobia, a fear of being in an enclosed space. When night came, I couldn't bring myself to the point of sleep in this concrete "trap." There were too many thoughts of Sunday's horror below decks on the CALIFORNIA. I had visions of bombs dropping on this building and it didn't seem secure enough to withstand a hit. I deliberated the alternatives: inside or outside? I chose outside.

For what seemed like hours, I dozed on the grass next to a parking area. When the earth cooled, I became chilled. I found a panel truck parked nearby, and began crawling toward it. In the darkness I could scarcely see. Suddenly, a ZING! a rifle bullet passed close to me, and I winced at its report. I was sure it was meant for me. I finished my crawl to the truck, but from then on I was extremely careful to make no unnecessary movement or noise. I heard spasmodic rifle fire from various directions throughout the night.

Tuesday morning I was up with the sun and walked to my "concrete trap" for a breakfast of the lousiest coffee I had ever tasted. After that bilge-water they really didn't deserve any work from me. However, I was assigned to a five-man work party, hauling bedding from the submarine base, for delivery to the Navy Shipyard. During one trip, we were in a park-like section of the shipyard. As I stood on the running-board, on the passengers' side, holding on, the warm breeze felt good on my face as we traveled along. I was beginning to enjoy the ride. In this relaxed mood, I could hardly have guessed that feelings were running so high against the Japanese. But, suddenly, I was shocked into awareness. The driver accelerated while wheeling back and forth, the truck leaned to the left as it swerved to the right shoulder of the road. I resisted the force throwing me somewhat inside the cab. AKill him! Kill the dirty Jap!" cried a voice from inside. "What's happening?" I wondered; then I felt my body flush with emotion as I glanced ahead...

"Oh! No!" Our driver had taken it upon himself to seek and destroy "the enemy." He was trying to run down an Oriental man, a short, middle- aged fellow who looked the part of a gardener for the area. Some in our group shrieked their support. I was too far from the steering wheel to avert a tragedy, and I couldn't look at the man to be hit. But I must have inadvertently seen him, because I still remember the expression of pain upon his face as he scampered clear of the charging truck. Insane laughter and regrets of failure bellowed from my co-workers, but I was secretly relieved to know that he was spared.

At the Submarine Base, which is a short distance around a finger of Southeast loch and north of Merry Point, our driver backed the truck to a warehouse loading platform. I pitched in with others and the truck was quickly loaded, almost to the point of buckling under the weight of the mattresses. As I came through the huge warehouse doors, I saw Pascal.

Dropping a mattress, I ran toward him, for Pascal and I were old friends and shipmates; together we stood signal watches on the Signal Bridge of the CALIFORNIA. Pascal had a surly manner of speaking and I found him quite funny as well.

"John!" he shouted when he saw me, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "We thought you were dead!" he said, adding, "Come with me; Angelo is right here."

Angelo was Admiral Pye's chief signalman, and the man for whom we worked. He was a short, husky, thirty-year serviceman who ruled the CALIFORNIA's signal bridge crew with an iron hand. He and Pascal had come to the submarine base on "Flag" business with orders to return immediately. We all got into Admiral Pye's barge, a sleek, shiny black hulled motorboat, with a white canopy, for the ride to Ford Island. It took the Japanese air raid to allow me, a seaman second class, the unheard of opportunity to ride in an admiral's barge.

The boat trip from the submarine base skirted the piers of the navy yard, then took us toward Battleship Row. Now came my first full realization of the awful, awesome damage. Off to our right, men worked on the overturned hull of the OKLAHOMA. Pascal said they were trying to rescue those trapped within. It was gallant, desperate work, for the OKLAHOMA had been capsized for many hours. It was also tragically futile work, for some within the hull were still alive, sustaining life in giant air bubbles trapped when the ship rolled over. But, as rescuers cut into the hull, air was released, allowing water to rise, leaving many of the trapped men hopelessly doomed. Thirty-two men were rescued from the hull.

The OKLAHOMA had taken 9 torpedoes. 415 officers and men died in the attack.

There were many stories going the rounds that day. One I shall always remember, and one which the enlisted men cherished, immortalized the NEVADA's Chief Quartermaster. In the absence of the commanding officer, he had mounted the Navigation Bridge and had gotten the ship underway, determined to take her to sea.

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NOTE:

It is interesting to note that history gives Chief Quartermaster, R. Sedberry, only a passing comment. Full credit went to Lieutenant Commander Francis J. Thomas, U.S. Naval Reserve who was acting Commanding Officer during the greater part of the attack.

When I inquire of the NEVADA's Pearl Harbor Survivors on their feelings of the accuracy of the official report, I am met with a deep bitterness that Sedberry got so little credit for his deed.

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As the admiral's barge closed in on the CALIFORNIA, ahead, I could see the battleship had a marked list to port and there was a tugboat alongside pushing. And, as we rounded the stern, I saw crewmen working heavy cables around the barbettes and leading the cables to the quays, the concrete islands along Battleship Row to which the large ships were tied. These heavy steel "ropes", easily three-inches in diameter, were snapping like mere wrapping string in the CALIFORNIA's slide on the sloping, muddy, bottom of the channel.

These were the disheartening sights I witnessed en route to Ford Island where I was reunited with the crew, and my friends, staying in one of Ford Island's airplane hangars.

One of the first things I was required to do was fill out a form stamped on the back side of a postcard. It had boxes to checks: 1. Not injured, 2. Injured but will recover, etc. This was sent to my parents in Grand Rapids, Michigan, telling them I was safe. Next, I was assigned a cot in the airplane hangar.

Gradually I learned of the deaths of men I knew. "Boots", one of the masters-at-arms, was killed in the explosion at the ship's store, the same blast that tumbled the three of us off the ladder, down on the third deck. Simmons, a friend since boot camp, had died in the ship's brig, where he had been confined for a minor infraction of the ship's rules. One rule or another kept Simmons in trouble and it became a standing joke to call the brig, "Simmons Inn." A Marine sentry failed to release him, as required, whenever General Quarters was sounded. It was no place to visit and it was surely no place to die.

As I walked along the cots, I warmly greeted a friend, Robert Pullen, slapping him on the back. Pullen had an identical twin brother, Roy Alfred Pullen, seaman second class, also serving aboard, and the two were devoted to each other. When you saw one, you knew the other was nearby. They were two of the hardest of workers whenever ordered on a work party. Never a minute did they ever shirk duty. Pullen sat in a pitiful trance, staring fixedly into space. Someone whispered to me, "Knock it off...haven't you heard?" I hadn't, but I guessed, and couldn't bring myself to ask more. Roy Alfred Pullen had been killed.

Although the CALIFORNIA's hull rested insecurely on the sloping bottom of Pearl Harbor, her superstructure leaned helplessly above water. The crew had abandoned her, but a skeleton signal watch had returned and a handful of seamen tended her lines. Later that day it was my turn to stand watch. Three of us left the Ford Island hangar to relieve those aboard. Like a tight rope walker, we dashed across the cables restraining the ship to the quay. It was an electrifying sprint, for these were the very cables that were parting under the tension of holding the ship's slide into the channel. To this day the thought of it is enough to raise the hair on my scalp.

When I set foot on deck the foulest odor I'd ever smelled stung my nostrils. The stench came from a side of beef which the ship's cooks had been cutting up when the attack began. Now an overpowering stench of decaying meat blended with the cloying smell of fuel oil. The oil oozed from ruptured tanks and spread over the water about the ship. It was a nauseous, loathsome encounter and I suspected human bodies added to the awful blend. My body wretched in convulsive vomiting. Not yet finished, I ran up the several flights, to the Signal Bridge, where I gasped for breaths of fresh air. For many years, however, a whiff of oil sent my thoughts back to this moment in time aboard the CALIFORNIA.

The signal bridge was no longer a busy message center. A few hours ago, this was the site of the ship's visual communications system. Signalmen hustling about, sending and receiving messages. Cries of "Two-block!" and "Execute!" of the alphabet flags and numeral pennants being raised and lowered. By day and by night, high powered signal lamps flashed over great distances. Now, all was deathly still and we maintained just a token watch, rarely sighting our call letters, B44, the ship's visual call sign and OF5, the ComBatFor visual call sign. Most importantly, we watched and checked for changes in the inclinometer, an instrument for measuring the ship's list, for no sooner had we taken over the watch than we noticed that the CALIFORNIA was tilting further.

"Signalman! cried an officer, "A message for CINCUS---operational priority!---omit the heading!"

NOTE:(CINCUS, a conspicuous misnomer, was soon changed to CINCPAC)

"CALIFORNIA'S LIST DANGEROUSLY INCREASING, REQUEST ASSISTANCE."

Omitting the heading, the date, the time, and the number of words in the message, considerably expedited the sending.

CINCUS immediately dispatched a large sea-going tugboat from the shipyard to assist. With the big tug's nose against our port beam, she groaned and a river of water poured from behind her.

Imperceptibly, the big battleship inched over in an agonizing tilt. Seamen put out additional lines lashing the barbettes and the quays and replacing those that had parted. For tension-packed hours we checked and rechecked the inclinometer.

At one point it became doubtful whether the slide could be stopped and the officer ordered me to climb down the tubular armored shaft between the bridge and central station at the bottom of the ship. If anyone was still there I was to "Get them out." Closing my mind to the dangers of what could happen while I was down there searching, I fearfully scampered down and checked. With a snappy salute, a thumping heart, and a pang of pride in a job I thought well done, I reported back, "Central station secured, Sir."

The pace toward imminent disaster was deathly slow and nerves tightened. To speak is an emotional outlet. Softly, so as not to annoy and enrage the strained officer, we talked about the three-inch "bullet" holes about the bridge. One had ripped through a flag bag, a large steel container for signal flags. Another, which Pascal saw happen, perforated the steel plate railing on the starboard side of the bridge, only inches from the leg of signalman J. C. "Wings" Magouirk who was sending a semaphore message to Ford Island. ("Wings" acquired his nickname because of his extra large ears.) No one could accept the thought that Japanese planes could shoot such large projectiles. We finally agreed the holes were made by stray three-inch shells fired by the ARGONNE moored across the channel. "Signalmen! Stop your skylarking and read the inclinometer", the Lieutenant bellowed. When the officer shouted, we not only knew that he meant what he said, but we grasped the seriousness of the moment. The CALIFORNIA's fate was now gravely uncertain.

With the danger of rolling over increasing, what was I going to do if it really capsized? I thought out a way of escaping. The increasing list was to port. As she rolled, I would work my way to the opposite side, the starboard side, of the superstructure. And when the bridge touched the water, I would dive in and swim like hell, clear of the ship. But, finally, the inclinometer steadied, even indicated a slight leveling out. The crisis was over, for the moment.

My watch extended into the dark hours of complete blackout. Occasionally we could see a blue glow from Aiea, which were "filtered" headlights of some vehicle, taxi, no doubt, (Vehicle headlights were taped over, allowing only a slit of light) and the brilliance of hot coals in the fire box of the narrow gauge railway engine as it rolled through Aiea, bound from Honolulu to Nanakuli.

During one of the days we stood watch on the bridge, we became aware of hunger. I remembered the food locker which was located on the main deck, only a few steps through the door off the quarterdeck, port side. Since the ship listed to port, that area was flooded to about a foot deep. Necessity is the mother of invention; we rigged a plank, placing it on the doors' combings, as bridge into the store room. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. Thankfully too, the store room was up-wind, on the opposite side of the ship from the stinking meat locker. Fumbling in the darkness, we located a large carton of raisins and a few oranges. We hauled everything up to the signal bridge, where, we jumped over the forward railing, onto the top of number two turret. There in the fresh air, away from the awful smells permeating the ship, we savored the snack.

As the watch wore on, I thought of the attack. What's going to keep this same thing from happening when we're asleep in the hangar? Again, claustrophobic fear gripped me. I could not yet risk sleeping indoors. Instead, when I was relieved from watch, I searched for a place to rest and found the diggings for a foundation of a new building, next to the ferryboat slip. There I bedded down and fell asleep, waking now and then to spit sand. At least I felt some security. After many years I learned that Radioman Ted Mason, author of ABattleship Sailor@ had the same experience; he had slept nearby. We stood night watches together on number two turret.

The next morning, Wednesday, was a happy one. I was standing at the south end of Ford Island when I saw the light cruiser, DETROIT, my brother's ship, steaming in-bound, in the channel.

Extremely anxious to find out how Bob was, I watched and followed, walking along the shoreline, as the cruiser slowly moved to her berth at F-13, on the northwest side of Ford Island. As soon as she was securely moored, and activities on her bridge assumed a normal in-port calm, I signaled in semaphore with out-stretched arms, "C8...C8," the visual call letters of the DETROIT.

When one of the signalmen spotted me and responded, I asked if he would check on my brother. Although PVTing, the sending of private messages, was strictly forbidden, he said he would accommodate. Bob, he soon reported, was on duty in number-one engine room. When Bob learned I was there on the shore, he came up to the bridge, where the signalman relayed our words back and forth. With great relief, we assured each other we were safe and well.

Then, I walked across the northern end of Ford Island for a look at the ARIZONA. Only a sad, twisted mass of steel remained of what so recently was one of the proudest units of the fleet. I stood there amid the debris of yellow, cylindrical shaped, pieces of unburned explosives, blown clear to where I was standing. Though partly sheltered from torpedoes by the VESTAL alongside, the ARIZONA had been ravaged by Japanese bombers.

Crashing through armored decks, the armor-piercing bombs exploded deep in ARIZONA's bowels. One of many hits blew up her forward magazine---and the broken ship sank in flames. More than one thousand men, three quarters of her crew, burned to death or drowned. I joined friends who had also come to see the ARIZONA, and, depressed by the sight, we returned to the Ford Island hangar.

By Thursday, the tentative figure of deaths aboard the CALIFORNIA had reached several hundred. Later, this figure was revised downward from 305. (The official, final count, including Marines is 102).

I escaped the wretched detail of removing bodies from the compartments that could be reached. For this I am grateful; I doubt if I could have taken it. Months later, when the CALIFORNIA arrived in Bremerton, Washington for repairs, many bodies still remained to be taken off.) Now, some were removed to the enlisted men's swimming pool, across the water from the ARIZONA, in the village of Aiea. I wondered: How many of them are bodies of men I knew?

"John! John!" I knew who this was: Silva, a short wiry Portuguese fellow from Sunnyvale, California. As he came up the ladder to the signal bridge, he was breathless and hard to understand, but I caught the word, "fish." It seemed a ridiculous time to talk about fishing. But, as his meaning became clear, I was appalled. He had just come from the port side of boat-deck where, with a boat-hook, he had pulled out a body floating along in the channel's current.

"Come on," he coaxed, brandishing the boat-hook with evident enthusiasm. "Let's fish for bodies." I could think of only one answer. "To hell with you."

By Friday, I was smelling like bilge-water. It had been days since I had taken a shower, or had a fresh change of clothes. Until now, I hadn't given my sanitary condition much thought, but, now my skin had begun to itch. There was hardly enough fresh water for coffee, so I gave up all thoughts of a bath.

Understandably, I noticed the condition of others; they smelled no better. I remembered, too, the reported condition of a Free French warship that had recently visited in Pearl Harbor. Its crew was in no better sanitary shape than we were, now. And then, there was the British battleship, HMS WARSPITE, which had put in at Pearl Harbor on her way to Mare Island for repairs, after a battle in the Indian Ocean. One of our signalmen was invited to visit the WARSPITE. He was taken aback by the dirty living conditions and the untidy crew.

Since the attack, all attempts at maintaining the uniform-of-the-day were forgotten and any combination of uniform was worn. Most navy men were dressed in dirty whites; much of the clothing was oil soaked. Long whites, short whites, dungarees, simple "T" shirts, even dress blues were matched and mismatched in the motley array. One lucky enlisted sailor proudly sported a clean, naval air pilot's "green" uniform and clearly was loving every minute of it.

Sunday December 14, marked a week since the stunning attack. Now we learned Admiral Pye, commander of the battleships battle force, would relieve Admiral Husband E. Kimmel as CINCUS, Commander in Chief United States Fleet. Consequently, Admiral Pye's flag personnel -- which included me -- would disband and be reassigned to other duties. We were also told that much of the crew of the CALIFORNIA would be reassigned. The thought of parting with shipmates was saddening, for the bond that can form among men aboard ship has the strength of a family.

The reassignment announcement was no sooner made than we started on our way. We made fast rounds of handshakes with a difficult try for cheerfulness. We promised to write. We promised somehow to keep in touch. Then we boarded motor launches at Ford Island's ferryboat slip for the crossing to Merry Point. The propeller churned. The launch slid around the stern of the sunken CALIFORNIA, and my spirits sank. This great battleship had been a strange home, yet home it was, and I felt I was leaving a part of me there in the wreckage. Suddenly I felt more alone than I'd ever felt before.

At Merry Point, I could scarcely believe there were so many homeless sailors. Yet rootless and lost they were. Every undamaged ship in Pearl Harbor would take its share of refugees. Then an inspiration struck and my spirits shot skyward! Why didn't this come to me before? I would ask for duty aboard the cruiser DETROIT, the ship my brother, Bob, was in.

Confidently, I marched up to the same concrete building I'd been in last Monday when I returned from the Honolulu Y.M.C.A.. Approaching an officer seated at a desk, I blurted out my wish. "What's holding you here?" he asked with blunt sarcasm. With a salute, I turned and walked back to the Merry Point boat landing where I anxiously awaited a boat. Under the circumstances, hitch-hiking a ride wasn't easy. It was almost eight o'clock in the evening. Darkness had set in before I found a whaleboat that would take me to the DETROIT. This whaleboat was one from a destroyer nested out in Middle Loch. We cast off our lines and the coxswain leaned into the tiller to swing the boat hard left, making a 180 degree turn to head west, along the shipyard. The darkness was sharply felt, and the coxswain dared not keep the engine running at cruising throttle for long.

Frequently, he'd idle down the engine to listen for other boats. In Southeast Loch opposite the ship yard, stroboscopic flashes from welders' torches helped to keep us oriented. Ship repairs had to go on regardless of the blackout.

As we proceeded, all of us peered intently into the darkness in search of boats off course, and we soon spotted one bearing down on us waywardly groping for Merry Point. In passing, we gave its crew directions to the landing.

Out in the main channel, our coxswain changed course to northeast, which soon should have placed us abreast of the ARIZONA, in Battleship Row. To our dismay, all we could see seemed to be a solid black wall to our left. It was a strange sensation as we searched for a glimpse of the ARIZONA's superstructure, for once it was sighted we would again change course, left, and head into East Loch, the waters north of Ford Island.

"Boat ahoy!" came a cry from the darkness. A challenge: but from where? It meant Aidentify yourself.@ And this was trigger happy week, and it also meant: "We'll shoot." And shoot they did. Tracers like Fourth-of-July fireworks pierced the night above us.

"Get down! Get down!" shouted the coxswain. He needn't have bothered, for I was already down---right alongside the engine---on my shaking knees, with my head low. He yelled again, giving our identification: "Destroyer Division One!" Throttle opened full, we sped away from whatever we had blundered into. Farther on, we figured out what had happened. Unknowingly, we had closed in alongside of an oil tanker that was underway at the same speed we were making. Its crew, no doubt nervous about two-man submarine rumors, were taking no chances, and none of us could blame them.

When we got ahead of the tanker, we changed course for East Loch and headed for the destroyer tender, WHITNEY. A flashlight guided us to her gangway, a "stairway" which extended to the waterline. Our coxswain momentarily reversed the engine, while a sailor leaped for the gangway's platform and disappeared up the stairs. I was excited at the thought that in a few minutes, I would be aboard the DETROIT, and with my brother.

December 14, 1941: My new home, the USS DETROIT.

We arrived beside the four-stacker light cruiser. The coxswain slid the whaleboat closer to the gangway platform, I jumped for it, ran up the ladder, skipping steps to reach the quarterdeck. After saluting aft, I turned to the Officer-of-the-deck and breathlessly explained: "Reporting for duty, Sir."

"What ship are you from? he inquired.

"CALIFORNIA, Sir."

"Have you eaten lately?"

What a crazy question I thought. Then I suddenly realized Iwas hungry, and what's more I understood why.

"I've had coffee, a grapefruit, and quite a few raisins. That's all, since breakfast last Sunday, Sir." Thoughtfully, he turned to the duty boatswain. "Boats, ask the cook to give this man a meal." I followed the boatswain to a hatch, stepping through the canvas covers, and stepping down the ladder to the lighted main deck, where steam tables stretched the width of the ship. In a matter of minutes the cook sent food. I can't remember the menu, but I'll never forget how his fresh bread tasted; I ate almost half a loaf.

By the time I reported for duty, before me, thirty men from the UTAH had already reported aboard. The UTAH was an old battleship, converted to an auxiliary, for bomber pilots to practice their skills. Heavy planks lined the topside decks to prevent penetrations. When the ship was torpedoed and rolled over, the planking tumbled as the ship rolled, striking and killing many men as they attempted to abandon ship.

Next the boatswain took me to the Chief Master-at-arms for a place to sleep. Since I was in "CL" (Communications Lights) Division on board the CALIFORNIA, the chief thought I would be assigned to a similar Division, here.

Back near the ship's stern, the chief lowered himself, and I followed, through a manhole into the engineer's, or "black gang's" living compartment. In the after bulkhead (wall), I saw a steel watertight door. The chief banged loose the six steel "dogs" securing the door's watertight integrity. It swung open and we stepped through, battening the door behind us.

"This is "C" Division's living quarters; take one of these," he said, patting a tier, which stood three bunks high. I looked hesitantly at the bunks, then looked back at the battened down steel door, and my claustrophobia took over: "This guy expects me to sleep in this tomb? He's out of his mind!" Suddenly my panic was shattered by a commotion.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

General Quarters alarm sounded and I could hear the bugle belt out the familiar tune. Everyone to battle stations! I had no station yet, but like any good fire-horse, I had to act fast. Besides, I had to get out of this compartment, and my anxiety made it seem like hours before the watertight door swung open.

We raced across the engineer's compartment, only to await our turns through the manhole. Anxiety pressed on me heavily but seemingly the crew of the DETROIT was taking all this in stride. They moved with almost

perfect precision, up starboard, down port, with traffic going forward, keeping to the right-hand side of the ship. I was caught up in the starboard traffic and moved within it toward the bow.

Something told me that I belonged on the signal bridge; I would be at home there. I took a ladder to topside, and ran up three more deck landings in the superstructure to reach the bridge, where I looked into the darkness to adjust my eyes.

Someone was explaining why General Quarters had sounded. AThere's a midget submarine in the harbor," one officer was explaining. The submarine's periscope had been reported near the hospital ship SOLACE. I joined in keeping a watch and was soon noticed by Chief Signalman, Furay, whom I found to be a good natured man in his forties. Furay sidled up to me. Quietly, he asked the reason why I was on the bridge. I told him I had just come aboard and that I was a signalman "striker" (apprentice) on the CALIFORNIA before it had sunk last Sunday. I let him know that I had hopes of getting into "C" Division. "We can always use another man up here," he replied enthusiastically, and added that he would arrange for my assignment in the morning.

This was my introduction to the DETROIT, which was to be another "home" for almost four years. It was a curious beginning. The "periscope" near the SOLACE turned out to be a tin can, floating innocently by in the slow moving current of Pearl Harbor.

The word was passed to "Secure from G. Q.,"(General Quarters") a term used for returning battle equipment to its proper place, then releasing all personnel from their battle stations. I was free until the next morning. Now I had to find my brother. Knowing he was an engineer, I went directly to the Ablack gang=s@ compartment. With close to 175 men comprising the black gang, I expected some problem in locating him. But, by asking for "McGoran" of those lounging in their bunks, it wasn't five minutes before I found a friend of Bob's, Fireman Eggers. Ashen faced from months of enduring the shimmering fireroom temperatures, Eggers piped up, "Oh! Mac. He's on duty in the forward engine-room." He remembered me from when I was aboard for a visit with Bob, just two weeks before, when the DETROIT was in the Shipyard's floating drydock. That drydock was the same drydock where the USS SHAW blew up and lost its bow in the attack.

Eggers leading, he escorted me forward through the passageways. Stopping amidships, he said, "Here we are," and undogged a heavy steel door. We stepped through into a small chamber. "Come down this ladder with me," he said, pointing to a square manhole in the deck. Stepping in, I gripped scorching hot handrails. "Ouch!" They were too hot to hold onto for long. I had to repeatedly release my grip to cool my hands.

This was my first visit to an engine-room. Instantly I learned, and never forgot, this technique for descending into that inferno.

Once clear of the manhole, I realized I was high above huge machinery. Giant generators, turbines and evaporators filled the cavernous hold, and the heat blazed against my face. The turbine whine was unnerving, overwhelming me with a frightful urge to flee, almost terrified that something might explode. Slowly, however, I climbed down onto catwalks of narrow steel grating that were suspended over the tops of the machinery, and which extended above asbestos-bound pipes.

At the bottom of the ship, I noticed dials mounted in the "Christmas Tree," a panel of instruments for indicating pressures and temperatures inside of the powerful engines. As yet, Bob hadn't noticed me, but I saw him. He was walking back and forth near the bottom of the ladder. At the right moment, I jumped upon him from the third step, toppling him to the deck.

"What in hell do you think you're doing!" he shouted in rage. I didn't answer but hung on, a half-nelson locked around his neck. Reflexively, he swung. A well placed elbow caught me in my mid-section. "Oaf! I quit," I yelled. Surprised at seeing me, he stammered, "John! What are you doing here?"

"Well, " I said, "I'll have you know that I am now a member of the crew. That's what I'm doing here."

Pleased by it all, he grasped a mug from a nearby bench to offer me a "shot" of engine-room coffee, the first of hundreds during the next four years. It had been brewed in a contraption called a "steam coil pot" which resembled a contrivance once used to distill homemade whiskey.

We drank the coffee and stayed awake until well after midnight, talking about experiences during the attack and the days that followed.

On that fateful Sunday, a week before, Bob was sitting at "Civic Center," passing the time talking with friends. "Civic Center" is a section of the weather deck, located midship, just aft of number four smoke stack. On each side of the ship there was an aircraft catapult, one for each of the DETROIT's two observation planes. It was here that he saw planes flying toward the DETROIT, close to the water. In one of them, he could clearly see the pilot sitting in the cockpit. Someone else noticed there were "red balls" on the wings. Curiously they watched. Then, suddenly, one of the planes dropped a "fish" (torpedo). Bob dove for protection under a cantilever section of the catapult to await the detonation, but to his astonishment, he heard none. The torpedo had gone completely under the DETROIT's hull and ran up onto the beach of Ford Island.

General Quarters sounded. Bob ran to his battle station, in the engine-room. There, crewmen reported in on arrival and immediately "turned to"(commenced work). Feverishly they prepared for getting underway, while the officer in charge urged the fire-rooms to build the Ahead-of-steam@, the 600 pounds required to spin the turbines.

An hour and a half later, at 9:30 a.m., the DETROIT's commanding officer, Captain Wiltse, arrived on board from his home in Honolulu and immediately gave the orders: "Cast off all lines." The DETROIT got underway.

Down in the engine-room, the men stood in anguish when their orders came for only twenty-five RPM---hardly enough to drift.

"Why so slow," someone asked in amazement. Surely this was

no time to dawdle. Then suddenly confusion mounted.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!" The engine-room=s engine-order-telegraph flip-flopped violently. The port side indicator ordered full ahead of the two port propellers. Then the starboard indicator rang for full astern for those two screws. The throttle-men's lot is not to reason why, but to respond to the demands of the dials.

Soon, the old four-stack cruiser was shuddering and groaning. Her huge propellers churned the channel water into contrary currents, forcing the ship to spin right, 180 degrees, coming to the course that was shortest to reach the sea. With this skillfully executed maneuver, the captain's prestige among the crew shot to an all-time high.

However, the DETROIT received orders not to proceed out the channel, but to remain at berth Fox-13. The ship moored again, port side to the quays.

At 12:20 p.m., the DETROIT received further orders, and this time the ship got underway for sea. The ship maneuvered by the RALEIGH, the DETROIT=s sister ship, which was moored next in line. Earlier in the morning the RALEIGH had been hit by a torpedo. She was resting on the bottom of the channel, in an upright position, listing to port. Next, the ship steamed by the UTAH. The UTAH was struck by at least two torpedoes and had capsized, bottom up. By the time the ship was passing the TANGIER, it were making much better headway.

The DETROIT proceeded up channel with the destroyer MUGFORD following. Now, in the engine room, the urge to go faster was overpowering. When the bridge asked for eight knots; they gave a little more. It was claimed with pride that the DETROIT's high speed dash forced water over the channel's banks. Once clear of the channel, the steam safety valves were "tied down" to allow unrestrained power as they passed through a critical area (where it was later learned, as many as 12 Japanese submarines were lying in wait) between the mouth of the channel and the relative safety of the high seas, over the horizon.(Twenty-eight Japanese submarines were positioned around the Hawaiian Islands for and during the attack.)

The DETROIT steamed to join forces with other ships emerging from Pearl Harbor. Eventually, the DETROIT rendezvoused with Admiral Halsey's task group. Destroyer AYLWIN was already on station about 600 yards off DETROIT's starboard flank.

The destroyer's crew saw two torpedo wakes travel through the water toward the cruiser, but they passed astern. A short time later, two explosions occurred on the horizon, which the crew surmised were the torpedoes' end-of-run, self-destruction.

Admiral Draemel, whose flag was aboard the DETROIT, quickly took charge of the ships present, the cruiser ST LOUIS, PHOENIX, and a dozen destroyers.

When radios crackled with a report that the enemy had been sighted off Nanakuli Beach on the southwestern coast of Oahu, he ordered a flag signal: "Concentrate and attack."

The newly formed task force named, Task Force One, courageously plowed the sea to the spot, but nothing materialized. One hundred and twenty-five miles to the west, the aircraft carrier ENTERPRISE, with Admiral William "Bull" Halsey on board, was returning from a mission to Wake Island. The small task force steamed to join the great carrier whose scouting air patrol at first identified them as "the enemy." Together they searched the seas to the south of the island of Kauai, desperately trying to sight the Japanese fleet. For three days and nights they searched. On Wednesday they finally gave up, and returned to Pearl Harbor.

While Bob talked, I fell asleep, lying on a little-used section of a catwalk, in a far corner of the engine room. Hours later, I was jarred back to my senses by noise and discomfort, reinforced by the intense heat.

By now breakfast was being served at the ship's steam tables, on the deck above. I was relieved to be unfettered, for a while a least, by the , gruesome events of the past week and once again able to look forward to a good meal. After breakfast I sought out Bob again to borrow money for socks and underwear. Ironically, I had purchased thirty-five dollars worth on December 6th while I had been in Honolulu on liberty, but they now they were stacked in my locker, deep within the wreckage of the CALIFORNIA. Since I earned only thirty-six dollars a month as seaman second class, I would have to replace every item, when I could afford it, piece by piece, until my seabag was restored.

The next day, though, brought good news. The Navy Department issued orders to give each of us who lost clothing, $100.00 for replacements. Even more exciting was the news that I was advanced to seaman first class, which raised my pay to $54.00 a month. Now, I was sitting on top of the world! I had studied diligently for six months, taking the examination in the crew's recreation room on the CALIFORNIA just a few days before the attack, competing against scores of men for a rate in which there were only five openings in our entire battleship division.

One of my first nights aboard the DETROIT, I was again struck with an attack of claustrophobia, a malady tending to ease with time. During working hours I had overheard Rear Admiral Milo Draemel planning to spend the night ashore. Considering he had a large stateroom in the superstructure, just off the quarterdeck and a smaller sea-cabin up in the superstructure, just below the signal bridge, I decided to make use of his sea-cabin. Respecting the privacy of his bed, of course, I curled up in a deep pile rug to sleep on the deck.

Suddenly awakened from a dream by a door opening, I tried to brush the cobwebs away to collect my wits, when I was stumbled upon.

"What in hell are you doing in here?", a stern voice demanded. Without a word and taking full tactical advantage of the darkness, I slithered out and down a ladder to the safety of the decks below, leaving Admiral Draemel sputtering to himself, for if I had been recognized, it well could have been almost as much of a personal disaster as the attack on Pearl Harbor.

I was now standing regular signal watches on the bridge of the DETROIT and rapidly falling into a routine of four hours on and eight off. The night watches could have been drudgery had we not had good weather. I was assigned to lookout duty on the port side which covered Pearl City, an area unlikely for me to notice anyone using our visual call sign, C8, during daylight much less during the enforced "darken ship". But action doesn't always show itself in the form of signals.

During one of my first night watches, almost imperceptibly, I heard the sound of aircraft engines in the distance. I froze and listened intently. Were they Japanese, I thought? They shouldn't be ours; lights were not allowed; how could they land in the darkness without lights? The engines droned nearer, much nearer, almost drowning out my thoughts. Edging to the railing of the bridge, I strained my eyes looking into the night sky. Suddenly, there it was; swishing toward me in a glide; emerging to giant proportions, it came too close to see anything more than a wing float as the plane barely missed the DETROIT's superstructure. I recognized it as a PBY (Catalina), one of the Navy's twin-engine flying boats used for reconnaissance. Apparently blinded by the darkness, the pilot was attempting to grope his way to the landing area of the channel. My shipmates on the bridge also heard it and came on the run to my side of the bridge just in time to hear the thunderous crash. We immediately called the Officer-of-the-deck, and asked for permission to illuminate the area.

"Permission not granted," he responded. But, finally, after more than a half-hour of anguish, the word came to illuminate the area. We quickly trained high candle-powered arc lamps into the area where the PBY had crashed, assisting crash-boat crews which were dispatched from Ford Island. For hours, the rescuers worked, but it was too late---ten men had perished.

During our next watch, we looked on as a wrecking crane raised the PBY from the bottom of Pearl Harbor, about a hundred yards out from the capsized UTAH.

The captain felt a centralized communications force was not a desirable situation in the event of an attack on the DETROIT. So, he split-up our sleeping quarters to various parts of the ship. I drew a port side, main-deck bunk, near the door to number four fireroom.

Next to my new location was a bunk occupied by another USS CALIFORNIA survivor. Pleased at the prospects of sharing experiences, I quickly introduced myself. "Hi fella!" I tried enthusiastically. "My name is John McGoran. I hear you were also on the CALIFORNIA." I got no reply. A rebuff had not entered my mind and I tried again. The sailor, in his early thirties and balding, only stared blankly at me.

"When did you arrive on the DETROIT?" I persisted. Still no reply, but, I began to detect a strange nervousness, a twitch in his eyebrows, and a sightless stare as he rolled his head, negatively, from side to side. Finally he swung his legs out and got to his feet. I moved back, half expecting a poke in the nose for my friendliness. But he just sat down on the edge of the lower bunk, where he looked for his shoes. He put them on and laced them. Then, as strangely as before, he unlaced the shoes, removed them, and crawled back into bed. His eyes could have penetrated steel; yet they seemed to see nothing at all.

When I told some shipmates about it, they told me they had had similar experiences, but they were quick to defend him. The reason was, the fellow was still in a state of shock from five days trapped in the sunken hull of the CALIFORNIA. No one knew the details and he could not bring himself to talk about his experience.

The DETROIT had been in Pearl Harbor for several days now. Meanwhile, in Honolulu Harbor next to the Aloha Tower, the large passenger liners, SS PRESIDENT COOLIDGE and USAT (U.S. Army Transport) HUGH L. SCOTT were being readied for a mainland trip. December 19, 1941 the DETROIT and the detroyer CUMMINGS, received orders from CINCUS to rendezvous with the COOLIDGE and SCOTT off Diamond Head and convoy them to the West Coast.

The USAT HUGH L. SCOTT had been in Manila during the latter part of November. On board were people fleeing from China. The ship was about a third of the way across the Pacific, homeward bound, in the company of the PRESIDENT COOLIDGE and cruiser LOUISVILLE at the time of the Pearl Harbor raid. Both ships stopped at Honolulu where they embarked some civilian evacuees and many military personnel seriously wounded in the Japanese attack.

The PRESIDENT PIERCE was formerly used by American President Line in trans-Pacific service, and become the USAT HUGH L. SCOTT in 1941. In 1942, it was turned over to the navy.

Getting underway, we steamed out through the channel into the beautiful emerald green waters skirting the shores at the entrance. Sighting the great white liners as they emerged from Honolulu, we felt a curious tie of sympathy, for on board the ships were the first of Pearl Harbor's wounded, returning home.

It was a high-speed run, making twenty-two knots most of the five day journey. We passed under the Golden Gate Bridge, December 25th, Christmas Day. The weather seemed to cast a gloom on what should have been a joyous Christmas morning. The COOLIDGE and SCOTT left us to dock and disembark the wounded at San Francisco's Embarcadero, and we steamed on to an anchorage off Yerba Buena Island, south of the suspension section of the Bay Bridge. Our mission was over, but a great day was not.

At first I resisted all invitations to visit San Francisco. My dress uniforms were still on the CALIFORNIA. However, finally, I accepted the offer of a loaned uniform, which turned out to make me look like a monstrosity. The trousers were far too short to cover my hairy legs. And, the waist size was far too large. The jumper hung scare-crowishly from my shoulders. But off we went for a choppy, wet ride, to the Fleet Landing across from the Embarcadero's YMCA. Piling out of the liberty launch, we headed up Market Street. To our surprise, store-front radio speakers blared out onto the sidewalks with the news that Pearl Harbor's wounded had just arrived. No sooner had we walked a block when we were bombarded with questions. Some people stopped just to listen as the more curious asked if we were from: 'the ship that brought in the wounded. Offers for Christmas Day dinners came from strangers. They made us feel like heroes and that this day was to be a great day.

The same warmth of spirit and goodwill went with us as we returned aboard the DETROIT, again made ready for sea. Our assignment this time was already formed---to convoy a collection of dilapidated merchant vessels, the first of many wartime convoys to head out across the Pacific. Our destination, Hawaii.