Attack on Pearl Harbor

“December 7th, a day which will live in infamy.” President Franklin D. Roosevelt

It was a beautiful Hawaiian morning in 1941. I’m sure the skies were blue and the scent of exotic native flowers filled the air.

Until 7:48 a.m. when the naval base at Pearl Harbor was attacked by 353 fighter planes, bombers and torpedo planes from the Imperial Japanese Navy.

Eight of our country’s battleships were damaged. Four were sunk. Three cruisers, three destroyers, an anti-aircraft training ship and a minelayer were sent to the bottom of the harbor. One hundred eighty-eight aircraft were destroyed.

America lost 2,403 of our countrymen and 1,178 others were wounded.

As a kid learning about Pearl Harbor, I often wondered how in the world we lost so many ships at one time.

A trip to Hawaii in 1981 answered that question for me. I had no idea, until my mother and I took the Pearl Harbor tour, just how narrow that harbor is.

You know, growing up in a land-locked state I had no real conception about how vast the ocean is nor how narrow Battleship Row was.

We took dozens of photos while in Pearl Harbor of ships that were anchored and even had the treat of seeing a submarine coming in to dock, all the sailors sitting on top, getting a taste of the first sunshine they’d probably seen in months. Smiling faces, waving at the tourists on the little boat.

It wasn’t until I got home and had all those photos printed that the horror of Pearl Harbor really came home for me.

You see my uncle, Morris Nesmith, had been at Pearl Harbor that fateful morning. He had never spoken to any of us about it. The photos, however, brought it all rushing back to him in a way I’d never seen before.

As he sat silently looking through our Hawaiian vacation pictures, he came across the submarine photos. He had been a submariner.

And the story began.

He and the rest of his crew were sleeping soundly in one of the barracks buildings when the alarm was sounded. They rolled from their bunks and headed for the ship.

Uncle Morris and his best buddy were sprinting across the grass, dodging between coconut trees to avoid the strafing of the Japanese planes. Luckily, he was a small, thin man, and could hide fairly effortlessly behind the trunk of each tree.

He made it safely back to his sub – his buddy, unfortunately, did not.

Tears fell as he told us about watching his friend cut down in front of him, not quite making it to the next tree.

That was the only time I ever heard him speak of his time at Pearl Harbor, but it explained some whispered stories I’d heard between the rest of the family. You know the ones, those “skeletons” in the closet kind.

When he got out of the Navy, uncle Morris returned to his small Texas hometown. The horrors of Pearl Harbor followed him.

Many nights he would be found running down the middle of the street in his nightshirt, screaming at the top of his lungs. It became so common the police would simply load him in the cruiser and take him home.

They called it shell shock.

Now they call it PTSD.

A day which will live in infamy – in the minds of those who came home.