Dean S. McNulty US Navy USS Phoenix |
December 7, 1941 started out much like most days in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, with the beautiful sunrise appearing over the mountains in the East. By 0600 hours the temperature was 80 degrees and rising. Ditto the humidity. Reveille had sounded at the standard hour of 0600, even though it was Sunday. The Reveille P.O. (petty officer) however was not quite as emphatic as on weekdays about "rising and shining." Everyone arose from his bunk or hammock quite quickly though, since we were so accustomed to doing so, having either experienced or witnessed the consequences of trying to get a few extra winks after reveille. I had embarked on the good ship Phoenix (Cl-46), a sleek light cruiser of the Brooklyn class, as an apprentice seaman at Mare Island Naval Shipyard in November of 1940. My experiences were enhanced by the wonder of having seen neither an ocean no mountains, nor even a city bigger than Lincoln, Nebraska, in my young life and Lincoln only once prior to joining the Navy in September of 1940. By December 7, 1941, I had been on the Phoenix 13 months. We had made a trip to the Philippines where we visited Manila, Zamboanga, Iloilo and Cebu, all of which we helped to recapture from the Japanese, subsequently, by beachhead bombardment prior to amphibious landing. We also had ridden out a three-day typhoon en route back to Pearl Harbor from the Philippines. By now, I had made 1st Class Seaman, and felt myself something of a "salt". After a leisurely breakfast this beautiful day, only wishing the menu had been repeated from yesterday's one of boiled beans, hot sweet rolls and green figs, my shipmates and I were, as usual, lounging in our living compartment "batting the breeze" when the general alarm sounded at just a few minutes before 0800 hours. From every mouth within earshot came the same unprintable oath, "don't those --- get enough of this during the week at sea without disturbing us while we're in port and half the crew ashore on liberty?" On the usual workdays, we double-timed to our battle stations when the general alarm sounded for drills, but now we were all so provoked at having the drill on a beautiful Sunday morning that we moved very slowly to our stations. I was passing over the weather deck en route to my battle station when planes could be seen swooping in low over the dock area on Ford Island on the south side of which was Battleship Row. It took a few bewildering minutes to realize that this was not a drill! Then complete chaos! The leading petty officer in "my" part of the ship finally took over, and told everyone within earshot what to do. We were to prepare the ship for getting under way, and not man our battle stations. This was due to the fact that the main battery I the ship, the 6" 47 caliber turrets, were designed for surface targets only and could not elevate more than 45 degrees above the horizontal. So, while those assigned to the five turrets in the ship, and the engineering force in the engine and fire rooms prepared the ship for getting under way, the anti-aircraft batter of eight 5" 25 caliber guns fired away at friend and foe alike. Some of the guns, which at that time required a fuse on the leading end of the projectile to be set by placing it in the fuse setter prior to loading it into the gun, were being fired without setting the fuse, and we learned later that they landed as duds in Honolulu, causing some damage there. Wave after wave of torpedo planes and dive bombers were devastating the battleships, as well as all the ships in or near the pier area. Medium altitude bombers were also flying over, which caused all topside personnel to seek cover on some "in charge" person's order. My cover was the overhang of turret five, which was an area about 20 feet by 10 feet about 30 inches above the deck. We crowded in three-deep until those in the middle were screaming for air. On one of these occasions of "seeking cover", I could not make it all the way under this turret due to the dense mass of humanity, so I lay pressed as far under the turret as I could with my head looking straight up into a formation of Japanese bombers. A piece of shrapnel hit the deck about three feet from my head, and bounced over the side causing mass consternation! But we on the Phoenix had been lucky this particular time in port to be moored to mooring buoys, bow and stern, by ourselves away from other ships. Usually, we would "nest" with other cruisers. At times as many as five would all be attached to the same buoys. Had we been so grouped, we would have presented a beautiful target for the Japanese, but since we were alone we looked small and insignificant compared to the larger battleships on "battleship row," and the piers and ships at, or close together, near pierside. When the battleship Arizona exploded, the sound was so deafening it could not be heard, only the tremendous movement of air, and the motion in the ship, as if a bomb had made a near miss. The black smoke boiled from the Arizona and most of the other ships in the prime target region. The water was filled with sailors who had been ashore, trying to get back to their ships, empty ammo cases, dead bodies, fuel oil and sailors who were trying to rescue their shipmates. The preparation for getting underway had, mainly for me, involved removing awnings, which spread from the deck houses and turrets to the lifelines to protect all personnel from the severe and penetrating sun. Many of these awnings made of heavy canvas were cut down and thrown over the side. Those responsible for this bit of folly, never thinking ahead, did not realize the navigational hazard they caused. My daily working station in the Phoenix was the powder charge catapults on both port and starboard at the stern. At one stage of our getting under way preparation, a shipmate named Nelson (I do not recall his first name) and I went to make sure the catapults were secured and ready for sea. While we were there, a wave of planes passed high overheadNelson, who was built like the bottom end of an hourglass, managed to stick his head through the outside structure of the catapult. In my minds eye, I see that bull's eye yet! At about 1100, the attacks had subsided and we unmoored from our buoys and got under way on our own power. Usually, we get assistance from at least two tug boats. Although Pearl Harbor looked fairly large, much of it at that time was too shallow to navigate. As we started out the one ship channel leading to the harbor exit we saw the Battleship Nevada moving from the Battleship Row side of Ford Island into the exit channel just ahead of us. She was, obviously, in trouble due to battle damage, and already had a greatly reduced freeboard (the distance from main deck to the water line). We had to back down to keep from colliding with her, which put us in jeopardy of going aground, or ramming other stationary ships or craft, since large ships are most difficult to control in confined waters without good headway. As our skipper was maneuvering out of the situation, the Battleship Nevada, with a chief quartermaster at the helm and in charge (we learned later) backed down, out of the channel, and sank to the bottom, leaving about three feet of freeboard where she usually had 25! A chill still engulfs my whole body as I think of the sailors on the deck of the Nevada as we passed her heading for the open sea. As their only defense, they held rifles in their hands as their "last ditch stand." We could see that their main deck had been cratered with multiple bomb hits, and the hull below the water had taken many torpedoes. We had a maximum head of steam, and as we approached the channel opening we were at flank speed. As the story was embellished through the war years ahead, we were approaching 40 knots when we hit the open sea (we were listed at 31 max). We hit the open sea on a zig-zag course designed to foil any torpedoes heading our way from Japanese midget submarines, which had been reported as guarding the mouth of the harbor. As we got to the open sea, we manned all battle stations, and stayed that way for two days, eating on station, looking for the Japanese fleet that had pulled this heinous "surprise." We were joined by a second cruiser, either the Detroit or Concord, and three destroyers. (Thank God we didn't find the Japanese fleet!) On Wednesday, December 11, 1941, we returned to Pearl, took many of the Nevada crew aboard, and started from there on the road back from disaster. The Nevada survived to fight again. The Phoenix was considered the luckiest ship of the fleet, having participated in the bulk of the Pacific engagements, to retire unscathed in January 1946. Subsequently, she was given to Argentina where she served as the "General Belgrano", and was sunk in the Falkland Islands war. That was a sad day for this ex-sailor. Information provided by Dean McNulty. |
