The Recovery of Pearl Harbor

Sunken remains of ARIZONA

Between December 10^th and December 20^th, I was in the air with one crew or another for nearly a hundred hours.  We continued to find nothing but empty ocean in all directions from the island.  The weather was, as usual, perfect but the blue sky and sharply-defined horizon were ominous.  Our rage at the Japanese was unabated and we longed for a chance to strike back.  The Japanese, however, had sailed back to their homeland islands.

I got my one day of liberty while I was at Ford Island on Sunday, December 21^st.  It was not very satisfying.  First of all I discovered that I had packed neither my black silk neckerchief nor my good liberty shoes.  I borrowed a neckerchief from Gibson then did the best I could with black Shinola liquid shoe polish on my scuffed work shoes.  At least my one suit of whites and my white hat were crisp and clean right out of the laundry.  It got me by—the JOOD (Junior Officer of the Day) inspecting uniforms on Landing A let me board the liberty boat.

Pearl Harbor was recovering rapidly from the sneak attack.  The waters of the bay were almost clean except for slicks of oil still forming from the blasted and sunken hulk of the ARIZONA and the capsized OKLAHOMA.  Across the East Loch, the wrecked destroyers, CASSIN and DOWNES, had been removed from the dry-dock and the PENNSYLVANIA looked nearly ready for sea.  Cutting torches still flared on the superstructure of the ARIZONA which would be shipped back to the states for use as material.  The slanted bottom of “the Okie” was deserted—the remainder imprisoned were long since dead and would remain entombed until the ship was righted later.  The crew of ARIZONA would stay where they were.  The ship had already been declared a memorial and would remain forever in commission in the United States Navy with her crew aboard (It still is in commission.) [Cannot help but cry about this.]

The whole atmosphere of Hawaii had undergone a radical change after the attack.  The scene was the same—palm trees waving in the soft breezes, cloud-studded blue sky, white surf rolling onto the beaches—but the blue ocean, the sky, and the horizon were ominous.  The Japanese could be out there anywhere, anytime.

There was no Nimitz freeway from Pearl Harbor to Honolulu in those days.  Only a two-lane dusty country road through the kiave trees that was perpetually being worked on by road crews.  The liberty bus slowed as we passed one of those work crews.  They were mostly Japanese laborers.  Their almost-eyed round brown faces stared up at us as we passed.  For a moment I felt a wild urge to smash in those faces.  (It would be years before I lost that animosity for anything Japanese.) [But he did and made friends in Japan, but that was much later.]

Beyond the oriental road crew there was a typical little white-trimmed green Hawaiian house nestled in some scraggly banana trees.  In the red dirt dooryard there were three or four Japanese-Hawaiian small children at play.  They looked up at the sailors on the bus with wide innocent cheerful grins and waved gaily.  I did not wave back at the children, but my bitter thoughts were suddenly replaced by a feeling of shame for having had them.  I closed my eyes and leaned against the window frame.  It’s not those people that caused it, I told myself—it is the fault of those sonsabitches Hitler, Tojo, and Mussolini! I had heard the rumors that on the west coast of the United States Japanese were being rounded up and sent to “relocation camps” away from the coast.  Presumably, the same thing was happening to Japanese-Hawaiians here on Oahu.

When I got off the bus in Honolulu, I crossed Beretania to The Black Cat for a drink.  It was the first liberty weekend for any service personnel since the attack.  The bar was jammed with the white, khaki, and green uniforms of sailors, soldiers, and marines.  I gave up and wandered on down South Hotel Street toward the Honolulu Café.  With early curfew and blackout in effect the many cathouses were doing a daytime land office business.  There were waiting lines of servicemen down the stairs and onto the sidewalk at the Honolulu Rooms and the New Senator Hotel.

It was not for me.  I retraced my steps, went uptown, and caught the Number Seven bus to Waikiki.  Wartime and martial law had changed Waikiki as well.  The lei stands and souvenir shops were open; however, there were more service uniforms on the street than civilian tourists.  The famed beach at Waikiki was deserted and was lined with coils of barbed wire against possible invasion.  The military, having been literally caught sleeping, had over-reacted almost to the point of paranoia.

The Waikiki Tavern was comfortably crowded but I found a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a drink.  I saw no one that I recognized from Kaneohe so I simply sat and ordered one drink after another while I chatted with the bartender and whoever happened to take the stool next to me.  When I realized that the tip of my nose was getting numb—I had learned that was a signal that I had enough—I walked unsteadily down to The Wagon Wheel Restaurant, ate a ham steak with fried bananas (the specialty of the house), caught the city bus back down town, then the Navy bus back to Pearl Harbor.

You Don't Get a Good Conduct Ribbon for being an Angel

I had still not lost my dream of getting into the Naval Academy at Annapolis.  I did not confide in anyone, however—even my brother—because the average enlisted man in the Navy would deride anyone with ambitions to be a “gold braid”.  It would be a kiss of death with many of my new shipmates.

I went to the VP-23 squadron educational officer, a young reserve ensign named Rodney Foss, fresh out of the Naval cadet program, ostensibly for the purpose of getting some reference books to study for my third class petty officer’s examination.  I waited until Ensign Foss was alone in the office then, after swearing him to secrecy, told him what I wanted.  The young officer checked my personnel folder for my high school record and was delighted.  He felt that I had a chance to take the examination for the Annapolis preparatory school.  I was near the age limit (twenty) but Foss thought there would be time.

When I impressed upon ensign Foss the reasons that I wanted my application to be a secret, he promised that he would file the application himself and keep all the records locked in his desk.  If he entrusted it to a yeoman in would no doubt become an item of scuttlebutt and I would be subjected to much derision.  I told Foss that if that happened I would request a transfer and I did not want to do that.

The friendly young ensign swore on his honor as an officer that he would say nothing to anyone.  If my application was turned down, he would destroy all records and that would be the end of it.  He also promised to quietly check into the requirements for the examination and promised to provide me with a list of reference books that I could study.

It would be less than honest if I painted myself in those days as lily white.  As I mentioned before, I did my share of carousing in those early days in Hawaii and I did not always stay out of trouble.  I did receive a Good Conduct ribbon after four years in the Navy, but the reason was that I managed to avoid getting caught.  My troubles were usually personal and resulted from a combination of too much booze and the quick temper that seemed to come with my reddish blond hair.

One such incident occurred one night when I had gone on liberty with a good shipmate, Oscar Hook.  We decided we wanted to go dancing and see if we could pick up some girls.  Hook stated that he knew a coke joint that had live music and a dance floor out in Waikiki near the original Trader Vic’s (I forget the name of the place so I will call it “Jack’s” since that might well have been it).

There had been some problems at Jack’s with some inter-service fights between either sailors and marines or sailors and marines together against Army riff-raff.  Jack had banned booze from the premises.

We, of course, wanted something to spike the cokes (we figured the old saying “candy is dancy, but liquor is quicker” was true).  Hook had an answer as to how to smuggle in some bourbon.  He stopped at a drugstore and bought a douche bag and a bottle of bourbon.  In a filling station head, we cut the nozzle off the douche bag tube and poured the bourbon in the bag.  I was too skinny, but Hook weighed around two hundred pounds with a generous belly and he was wearing a loose regulation jumper.  He tucked the douche bag inside his waistband and it hardly showed.

At Jack’s, Hook remained seated at a table and I carried the cokes and ice from the bar.  Hook would then slip a drink under the red-checkered tablecloth and squirt a shot of bourbon into the coke.

We had gotten a pleasant glow on when two hapa-haole wahines that Hook knew came in and sat with us.  Both were terrific looking.  One was Kay with short black hair, quick happy smile, and laughing eyes.  The other was Lani (short for Leilani, meaning “heavenly flower”).  Lani had black hair down to her waist, the face and body of a beautiful young Polynesian wahine, and a very quiet voice and smile.  Both girls worked as models at a souvenir photo shop in Waikiki.  Lani was, indeed a heavenly flower in my eyes and we were soon on the dance floor.

The trouble began when a very drunken Army private tried to cut in on us and dance with Lani.  She did not want that and resisted.  When the private kept pestering us, my temper flared and I shoved him hard enough that he fell backward.  He came up off the floor sucking and swung a wild roundhouse punch at me.  I retaliated and almost instantly the place was bedlam with sailors and marines coming to my aid and soldiers fighting back.  The girls present were cowering along the palm frond walls.

I had just decked the drunk private when Oscar appeared on one side of the me and a green-clad marine on the other.  The marine yelled over the noise, “Back toward the window.  The shore patrol will be here and we’ll have to bail out!”

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes over the sounds of battle and breaking furniture there were shrill whistles of the shore patrol outside the door.  The marine shoved Nook and me through a side window and dive headfirst after us into the thick shrubbery.  The marine vanished into the darkness in one direction and Hook and I took off in another.  As we went I heard someone yell, “Watch the back!” and a white-clad shore patrol came around the building.

The SP spotted us and gave chase.  We cut over to the next street and ran for our lives with his pounding footsteps a half block behind.  He pursued us down Kalakaua and, as we came to the Wagon Wheel restaurant there were two SP’s coming up the street from the other direction.  Hook yelled, “In here!” and shoved me into the restaurant.

The Wagon Wheel had an open dining patio in the left of the front door.  We cut through there, causing no end of consternation among the diners.  The rear wall of the patio on the alley appeared to be made of woven palm fronds.  Hook, with his two hundred pounds charged the wall like a football guard and hit it with his shoulder.  It was not just palm fronds—behind them was a steel mesh fence!

Oscar bounced back with a curse.  I could hear the SPs approaching the restaurant door.  Using a vacant table by the fence, I boosted Hook over and swung after him.  We sprinted down the alley to the next street then swung off into the tree-lined streets of a quiet residential area.  Two blocks along and getting short of breath, we cut through an alley and discovered a detached garage with the door ajar.  The SPs were not within earshot as we slipped inside the garage.

The garage contained an ancient Model A Ford sedan.  We sat down on the running board to catch our breath, listening for sounds of pursuit that did not come.  When we were breathing normally and still heard no sounds, Hook produced the tube of the douche bag still in his waistband and we each had a shot.  I realized then that we were bareheaded.  I produced my white hat which had been folded and tucked into the back of my waistband.  Oscar felt around, then cursed, “Dang it, I must of left my white hat on the table!  I can’t get back to the base out of uniform—they’ll pick me up for sure!”

We each had another pull at the douche bag bourbon, (it had developed a slight taste of rubber but we were far enough along to ignore that) and solemnly considered the problem.  I had another shot and the little light bulb came on over my head.  “Tell you what, old buddy,” I pronounced owlishly, “I’ll go get you a white hat.”

“Where an’ how you gonna do that?”

“By now there’ll be a bunch of drunken sailors over at the Waikiki Tavern.  I’ll jist borry you one.”

“Hate to swipe an’ ol’ shipmate’s hat.”

“Aw, I’ll pick me a fireman off a ship.  You sit right here an’ save me a belt and I”ll be back before you know it.  Now don’t you try to go ennywhere—the SPs may still be out there looking for us.”

I straightened my rumpled whites, squared my white hat, listened at the door, then slipped out into the warm darkness walking as steadily as I could.

It went as planned.  I passed a couple of SPs with a careless wave of a hand, made it to the Waikiki Tavern, and as I reckoned the bar was in full swing.  I strolled through the din to the head where I was washing my hands when a very drunk sailor stumbled in headed for a booth.  His white hat was tipped on the back of his head and he never felt it when I lifted the hat as he staggered by.  I flipped it flat and tucked it in my waistband under my blouse as retching sounds came from the booth.

When I arrived back at the garage, I was dismayed to find the running board empty.  Hook had disappeared.  I called his name softly and was answered by a snore form the car.  Oscar was happily asleep in the back seat.  I felt the douche bag—it was flat and empty.

I finally got Oscar out of the car and unsteadily on his feet, straightened his uniform, and clapped the filched white hat on his head.  Hook was a big man and the hat was too small.  It perched precariously atop his mop of unruly black hair.

I considered our options.  There was no way I could get him on the bus to downtown Honolulu, onto the bus for the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard, and into the Ford Island boat without getting picked up.  Even as I thought it over, Hook slowly slid down to a sitting position on the running board.

I investigated my wallet, then checked out Hook’s.  Between the two of us we had enough cash for a taxi to the Navy Yard.  My problem was to find one and get him into it.  Finally I got him on his feet and we unsteadily made it out of the alley and to a corner under a streetlight where I propped the big man against the pole and told him to hang on.

My heart sank when the second car past was a Honolulu police car.  It slowed and backed up to us.  The officer in the passenger seat said, “Got a problem, boys?”

I was now sober enough that my words did not slur.  “No sir.  My buddy here just doesn’t feel so good.  I need a taxi to get back to the base.”

The policeman looked us over carefully, apparently decided we were harmless, and said, “Stay right there.  We’ll send a cab.”  The police car slowly pulled away.

It worked.  In a few minutes, during which Hook slid down to sit on the curb and snored leaning against the pole, a taxi pulled up.  He deposited us at the Navy Yard gate and we had no problem.  The liberty boat coxswain was used to such sights.

During another liberty after we had moved to Kaneohe and I was on mess cooking duty, I was on the other end of such a problem.  I was on Saturday evening liberty with a shipmate—Pickett, I believe it was—and we went into the Honolulu Café on Beretania Street for some supper.  There we ran into two of my Vancouver High School 1939 classmates, George Stonehouse and Frankie Enz.

Turned out that Stonehouse and Enz had gone through boot camp together and both ahd been assigned to the heavy cruiser INDIANAPOLIS.  The “INDY” had just moored at Pearl and they were on their first Honolulu liberty.  We had some drinks after supper, then took them for a tour of the joints in the “tenderloin”.

After considerably more drinks than we needed (I recall the tip of my nose got numb which was the signal I had had enough, but I ignored it and was having a great time) we wound up in a place down on Nuuana Canal.  Later I vaguely recalled that there was a crap game in a corner and I got into a beef with a drunk Marine corporal.  When we started to come to blows the madam ordered us to take it to the alley outside, which we did.

It was a dandy scrap and we each decked the other a couple of times when an SPs’ whistle shrilled down the street.  Pickett hustled me off down the alley, got me back up to Beretania, and we boarded the “Red Peril”.  I slept in the back seat all the way to Kaneohe.  I do not know what happened to Stonehouse and Enz as they were otherwise occupied at the time of the fight and I never saw them again.  (Late in WWII the INDIANAPOLIS was torpedoed, blew up, and sank in minutes with few survivors.)

The next morning when we mess cooks were turned out at 0400, I was on my bunk still in my whites and I was a mess.  I stank of gin, was sick as a dog with a hangover, and there was blood on the front of my blouse.  Checking myself over, I could find no damage to account for it.  I asked Pickett later about it and he just laughed, “Hell, Frieze, you beat up on that Marine.  It was his blood after you broke his nose!”

Like I may have said earlier, you don’t get a Good Conduct ribbon for being an angel—you get it for not getting caught!

You Don't Get a Good Conduct Ribbon for being an Angel

I had still not lost my dream of getting into the Naval Academy at Annapolis.  I did not confide in anyone, however—even my brother—because the average enlisted man in the Navy would deride anyone with ambitions to be a “gold braid”.  It would be a kiss of death with many of my new shipmates.

I went to the VP-23 squadron educational officer, a young reserve ensign named Rodney Foss, fresh out of the Naval cadet program, ostensibly for the purpose of getting some reference books to study for my third class petty officer’s examination.  I waited until Ensign Foss was alone in the office then, after swearing him to secrecy, told him what I wanted.  The young officer checked my personnel folder for my high school record and was delighted.  He felt that I had a chance to take the examination for the Annapolis preparatory school.  I was near the age limit (twenty) but Foss thought there would be time.

When I impressed upon ensign Foss the reasons that I wanted my application to be a secret, he promised that he would file the application himself and keep all the records locked in his desk.  If he entrusted it to a yeoman in would no doubt become an item of scuttlebutt and I would be subjected to much derision.  I told Foss that if that happened I would request a transfer and I did not want to do that.

The friendly young ensign swore on his honor as an officer that he would say nothing to anyone.  If my application was turned down, he would destroy all records and that would be the end of it.  He also promised to quietly check into the requirements for the examination and promised to provide me with a list of reference books that I could study.

It would be less than honest if I painted myself in those days as lily white.  As I mentioned before, I did my share of carousing in those early days in Hawaii and I did not always stay out of trouble.  I did receive a Good Conduct ribbon after four years in the Navy, but the reason was that I managed to avoid getting caught.  My troubles were usually personal and resulted from a combination of too much booze and the quick temper that seemed to come with my reddish blond hair.

One such incident occurred one night when I had gone on liberty with a good shipmate, Oscar Hook.  We decided we wanted to go dancing and see if we could pick up some girls.  Hook stated that he knew a coke joint that had live music and a dance floor out in Waikiki near the original Trader Vic’s (I forget the name of the place so I will call it “Jack’s” since that might well have been it).

There had been some problems at Jack’s with some inter-service fights between either sailors and marines or sailors and marines together against Army riff-raff.  Jack had banned booze from the premises.

We, of course, wanted something to spike the cokes (we figured the old saying “candy is dancy, but liquor is quicker” was true).  Hook had an answer as to how to smuggle in some bourbon.  He stopped at a drugstore and bought a douche bag and a bottle of bourbon.  In a filling station head, we cut the nozzle off the douche bag tube and poured the bourbon in the bag.  I was too skinny, but Hook weighed around two hundred pounds with a generous belly and he was wearing a loose regulation jumper.  He tucked the douche bag inside his waistband and it hardly showed.

At Jack’s, Hook remained seated at a table and I carried the cokes and ice from the bar.  Hook would then slip a drink under the red-checkered tablecloth and squirt a shot of bourbon into the coke.

We had gotten a pleasant glow on when two hapa-haole wahines that Hook knew came in and sat with us.  Both were terrific looking.  One was Kay with short black hair, quick happy smile, and laughing eyes.  The other was Lani (short for Leilani, meaning “heavenly flower”).  Lani had black hair down to her waist, the face and body of a beautiful young Polynesian wahine, and a very quiet voice and smile.  Both girls worked as models at a souvenir photo shop in Waikiki.  Lani was, indeed a heavenly flower in my eyes and we were soon on the dance floor.

The trouble began when a very drunken Army private tried to cut in on us and dance with Lani.  She did not want that and resisted.  When the private kept pestering us, my temper flared and I shoved him hard enough that he fell backward.  He came up off the floor sucking and swung a wild roundhouse punch at me.  I retaliated and almost instantly the place was bedlam with sailors and marines coming to my aid and soldiers fighting back.  The girls present were cowering along the palm frond walls.

I had just decked the drunk private when Oscar appeared on one side of the me and a green-clad marine on the other.  The marine yelled over the noise, “Back toward the window.  The shore patrol will be here and we’ll have to bail out!”

Sure enough, in a couple of minutes over the sounds of battle and breaking furniture there were shrill whistles of the shore patrol outside the door.  The marine shoved Nook and me through a side window and dive headfirst after us into the thick shrubbery.  The marine vanished into the darkness in one direction and Hook and I took off in another.  As we went I heard someone yell, “Watch the back!” and a white-clad shore patrol came around the building.

The SP spotted us and gave chase.  We cut over to the next street and ran for our lives with his pounding footsteps a half block behind.  He pursued us down Kalakaua and, as we came to the Wagon Wheel restaurant there were two SP’s coming up the street from the other direction.  Hook yelled, “In here!” and shoved me into the restaurant.

The Wagon Wheel had an open dining patio in the left of the front door.  We cut through there, causing no end of consternation among the diners.  The rear wall of the patio on the alley appeared to be made of woven palm fronds.  Hook, with his two hundred pounds charged the wall like a football guard and hit it with his shoulder.  It was not just palm fronds—behind them was a steel mesh fence!

Oscar bounced back with a curse.  I could hear the SPs approaching the restaurant door.  Using a vacant table by the fence, I boosted Hook over and swung after him.  We sprinted down the alley to the next street then swung off into the tree-lined streets of a quiet residential area.  Two blocks along and getting short of breath, we cut through an alley and discovered a detached garage with the door ajar.  The SPs were not within earshot as we slipped inside the garage.

The garage contained an ancient Model A Ford sedan.  We sat down on the running board to catch our breath, listening for sounds of pursuit that did not come.  When we were breathing normally and still heard no sounds, Hook produced the tube of the douche bag still in his waistband and we each had a shot.  I realized then that we were bareheaded.  I produced my white hat which had been folded and tucked into the back of my waistband.  Oscar felt around, then cursed, “Dang it, I must of left my white hat on the table!  I can’t get back to the base out of uniform—they’ll pick me up for sure!”

We each had another pull at the douche bag bourbon, (it had developed a slight taste of rubber but we were far enough along to ignore that) and solemnly considered the problem.  I had another shot and the little light bulb came on over my head.  “Tell you what, old buddy,” I pronounced owlishly, “I’ll go get you a white hat.”

“Where an’ how you gonna do that?”

“By now there’ll be a bunch of drunken sailors over at the Waikiki Tavern.  I’ll jist borry you one.”

“Hate to swipe an’ ol’ shipmate’s hat.”

“Aw, I’ll pick me a fireman off a ship.  You sit right here an’ save me a belt and I”ll be back before you know it.  Now don’t you try to go ennywhere—the SPs may still be out there looking for us.”

I straightened my rumpled whites, squared my white hat, listened at the door, then slipped out into the warm darkness walking as steadily as I could.

It went as planned.  I passed a couple of SPs with a careless wave of a hand, made it to the Waikiki Tavern, and as I reckoned the bar was in full swing.  I strolled through the din to the head where I was washing my hands when a very drunk sailor stumbled in headed for a booth.  His white hat was tipped on the back of his head and he never felt it when I lifted the hat as he staggered by.  I flipped it flat and tucked it in my waistband under my blouse as retching sounds came from the booth.

When I arrived back at the garage, I was dismayed to find the running board empty.  Hook had disappeared.  I called his name softly and was answered by a snore form the car.  Oscar was happily asleep in the back seat.  I felt the douche bag—it was flat and empty.

I finally got Oscar out of the car and unsteadily on his feet, straightened his uniform, and clapped the filched white hat on his head.  Hook was a big man and the hat was too small.  It perched precariously atop his mop of unruly black hair.

I considered our options.  There was no way I could get him on the bus to downtown Honolulu, onto the bus for the Pearl Harbor Navy Yard, and into the Ford Island boat without getting picked up.  Even as I thought it over, Hook slowly slid down to a sitting position on the running board.

I investigated my wallet, then checked out Hook’s.  Between the two of us we had enough cash for a taxi to the Navy Yard.  My problem was to find one and get him into it.  Finally I got him on his feet and we unsteadily made it out of the alley and to a corner under a streetlight where I propped the big man against the pole and told him to hang on.

My heart sank when the second car past was a Honolulu police car.  It slowed and backed up to us.  The officer in the passenger seat said, “Got a problem, boys?”

I was now sober enough that my words did not slur.  “No sir.  My buddy here just doesn’t feel so good.  I need a taxi to get back to the base.”

The policeman looked us over carefully, apparently decided we were harmless, and said, “Stay right there.  We’ll send a cab.”  The police car slowly pulled away.

It worked.  In a few minutes, during which Hook slid down to sit on the curb and snored leaning against the pole, a taxi pulled up.  He deposited us at the Navy Yard gate and we had no problem.  The liberty boat coxswain was used to such sights.

During another liberty after we had moved to Kaneohe and I was on mess cooking duty, I was on the other end of such a problem.  I was on Saturday evening liberty with a shipmate—Pickett, I believe it was—and we went into the Honolulu Café on Beretania Street for some supper.  There we ran into two of my Vancouver High School 1939 classmates, George Stonehouse and Frankie Enz.

Turned out that Stonehouse and Enz had gone through boot camp together and both ahd been assigned to the heavy cruiser INDIANAPOLIS.  The “INDY” had just moored at Pearl and they were on their first Honolulu liberty.  We had some drinks after supper, then took them for a tour of the joints in the “tenderloin”.

After considerably more drinks than we needed (I recall the tip of my nose got numb which was the signal I had had enough, but I ignored it and was having a great time) we wound up in a place down on Nuuana Canal.  Later I vaguely recalled that there was a crap game in a corner and I got into a beef with a drunk Marine corporal.  When we started to come to blows the madam ordered us to take it to the alley outside, which we did.

It was a dandy scrap and we each decked the other a couple of times when an SPs’ whistle shrilled down the street.  Pickett hustled me off down the alley, got me back up to Beretania, and we boarded the “Red Peril”.  I slept in the back seat all the way to Kaneohe.  I do not know what happened to Stonehouse and Enz as they were otherwise occupied at the time of the fight and I never saw them again.  (Late in WWII the INDIANAPOLIS was torpedoed, blew up, and sank in minutes with few survivors.)

The next morning when we mess cooks were turned out at 0400, I was on my bunk still in my whites and I was a mess.  I stank of gin, was sick as a dog with a hangover, and there was blood on the front of my blouse.  Checking myself over, I could find no damage to account for it.  I asked Pickett later about it and he just laughed, “Hell, Frieze, you beat up on that Marine.  It was his blood after you broke his nose!”

Like I may have said earlier, you don’t get a Good Conduct ribbon for being an angel—you get it for not getting caught!

Getting the Lay of the Land

Chapter 22

Ford Island, Pearl Harbor, Spring 1941

Hawaii was bewitching to an old Midwest country boy even before I set foot on the island of Oahu.  I went to the signal bridge on the boat deck of Tippecanoe and borrowed a pair of binoculars from one of the signalmen.  With them I scanned the shoreline as we rounded Diamond Head and proceeded west northwest toward Pearl Harbor.

It was an enchanting view.  There were no high-rises in either Waikiki or downtown Honolulu.  Beyond the lacy white froth of low breakers and the sand beaches, there was a lush green carpet of coconut palm trees and other tropical shrubs reaching from the beach to the Kaimuki area.  At Waikiki the foliage was broken only by the white block of the Moana Hotel with its Banyan Court and the massive pink pile of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel.  The low-lying bungalows of the Halekalani were not visible from the ocean.

Downtown Honolulu boasted only the Aloha Tower at the waterfront and, beyond, the seven-story Alexander Hotel was the tallest building in town.  One thing struck me about the peacefully sprawling city—there were no chimneys on any of the houses since the temperature never fell below the mid-seventies except up in the hills such as the plush houses in Pacific Heights.

West of Honolulu the one outstanding landmark was the pine-apple-shaped Dole water tank.  Otherwise, there was only stretches of kiave trees and red earth reaching to Hickam Field and Pearl Harbor.  West of Pearl there were vast light green fields of sugar cane out past Eva.  Beyond Pearl Harbor, to the north toward Wahiava, were dark green fields of pineapples.  Behind was the backdrop of the green and brown slopes of the Koolau Mountains topped by the sever-present towering white cumulus clouds and the blue tropical sky.

The sea was flat calm and as blue as the sky when we passed the towed barge to the waiting tug and steamed through the anti-submarine net into Pearl Harbor.  Along the shore there were coconut palms and gardened lawns at the Hickham Officers’ Club and the Naval Hospital.  We were awed by the warships moored in Pearl Harbor.  A double row of grey leviathans in Battleship Row near Ford Island dominated the scene.

Tippecanoe came right into the East Loch and moored at a Naval Base fuel dock.  We airdales had our gear packed, lashed, and on deck.  As soon as the mooring was complete, Sullivan launched the motor whaleboat to take us across the harbor to Landing A on Ford Island where the PBY squadrons were based.

Little Ford Island was crowded in those days.  In addition to four twelve-plane PBY squadrons based in large hangars at the west end of the island where the seaplane ramps were located, most of the island was taken up by a landing field for the fighters, dive bombers, and torpedo planes of the aircraft carriers.  The remaining perimeter space was taken up by officers’ quarters, chief petty officer housing for those who had their families with them, an officers’ club, and a chiefs’ club.  There was no enlisted mans’ club, but beyond the massive main barracks building, there was an open beer garden.

Since the Pacific Fleet home base had been moved to Pearl Harbor more and more naval units and men kept pouring onto Oahu.  We were to find that all military facilities were strained to the limit and when we went into Honolulu on liberty on weekends the streets were thronged by more white Navy uniform, Marine green, and army khaki than by civilians.

We arriving boots stacked our gear in front of the Ford Island Administration Building near Landing A, delivered our orders to the OODs office, then sat on the lashed seabags and waited.  After an hour the Assistant Officer of the Day, a Chief Yeoman, came with our individual assignments.  I was disappointed that, instead of Richard’s squadron, VP-23, both Langford and I were assigned to VP-21.  The seaman that was the duty OOD messenger conducted us, with our gear, to the second deck barracks wing that housed VP-21.

It was mid-afternoon by then and as soon as we had been assigned bunks and lockers and had stowed our gear, I went in search of my brother.  I found the VP-23 barracks area and inquire.  A friendly A friendly AMM3c who said his name was Glover said, “Hey, are you that brother Frieze has been telling us about?”

Five or six other men gathered to meet me and welcome me aboard.  After I explained about being assigned to VP-21 Glover commented, “Hell, don’t sweat it.  All you got to do is request a transfer.  They’ll go along with it and you can move in with us.  We are due for a couple more recruits.  Your brother is over at the parachute loft, I expect.  He has been fooling around over there with our parachute packer, Weaver, after working hours.  Making something, I think.  Just go toward the PBY hangars and watch for the one with the tower for airing parachutes—can’t miss it.”

Dick was, indeed, at the parachute loft and seemed genuinely pleased that I had arrived.  After our greetings and he had introduced me to Weaver, he dug into a bin and produced a paper sack.  “Here—Happy Birthday.  Bet you thought I wouldn’t remember!”

I was inordinately pleased because I had not thought he would remember.  Using the parachute loft heavy sewing machine, Richard had made for me a pair of leather thongs “go-ahead” slippers.  (They were made of top grain cowhide and I used them for nearly twenty years.)  He had also made an over-sized  seabag of good canvas and explained as he gave it to me, “Forget about regulation lashing your hammock and mattress around your seabag.  Just roll it up and stow it in here.  Nobody is hard-nosed aobut baggage in Naval Aviation.”

We went back to the barracks to get ready for evening chow and I met more of the men who were to become my shipmates.  Some of them would be life-long friends.  Besides Glover, there was Joe Brooks who had gone through boot camp with Dick.  Joe was an aviation ordnanceman.  Some of the others were skinny little Dave Davenport, John Hoke, a tall thin individual named McFall, a sandy haired freckled face slow-moving one who was introduced as “Rigor Mortis” Ballou and offered only a grind when he was called the laziest man in the U.S. Navy, and many others.  Counting about 40 officer pilots, sevreral enlisted pilots (NAPs), CPOs, aviation machinist mates, radiomen, ordnance men, and yeomen there were approximately 250 men in each PBY squadron.

A Storm and a Disappearnce

The trip was not all monotony.  Three days out of San Francisco we ran into a gale that we later found was one of the worst in that area in three or four years.  That was when I learned to like coffee.

The third evening out the sky was leaden at sunset and the ocean was dark grey with a froth of whitecaps and spume fro a wind that came off the port bow.  The horizon was indistinct.  The dark grey of the clouds simply merged somewhere into the darker grey of the angry ocean.  Neither was there a sunset glow to fit the old saying, “Red sky at night—sailor’s delight—red sky at moring—sailor take warning”.  There must have been a blazing red sky that mornig as the wind was rising rapidly to gale force.  Even with the stabilizing influence of the tow, the ship was rolling and pitching so that we had to sleep with a grip on the bunk rails and our toes hooked on the bottom rail.

I had barely gotten to sleep when the watch petty officer woke me—I had the twelve to two watch on the port wing of the bridge.  The watch PO warned me to wear my peacoat and watch cap as it was cold and wet up there.

When I emerged from the foc’sul hatch I found the watch petty officer was right.  It was raining and the wind buffeted me as I struggled through the blackness along the catwalk above the main deck over which green water was breaking.  Rain drops and salt spray stung my face in the fifty=knot wind.  The whitecaps towered well above my head from the catwalk level as the heavily laden Tippecanoe slugged her way through the mountainous waves.

I reached the bridge at twenty-three-fifty, ten minutes before eight bells when the watch would change so I ducked into the dimly-lit bridge before relieving my man on the exposed port bridge wing.  I looked at the chart spread on the navigator’s table at the rear of the bridge and was impressed by the ferocity of the wind—the line of our course made good was actually going backward.  With the drag of the towed barge, we lost ground for six or eight hours.

I reported to the watch officer who was a grey-haired and spectacled elderly “re-tread” reserve lieutenant from the World War.  He was a mild-mannered little man and was the ship’s executive officer.  (I do not recall that I ever saw the captain of the Tippecanoe.)

The two hours of my watch were interminable and miserable.  In the wind-whipped blackness I was pelted by rain and spray from the waves that broke level with the bridge—and the bridge was forty feet above the waterline.  Other than the red running light, I could see nothing but blackness abeam and could barely make out the bow of the ship.  Every thirty minutes, as required by regulations and custom, I reported to the watch officer, “Nothing in sight—port running light burning bright, sir.”

Sometime during the first hour of my watch I was a dim figure moving along the catwalk.  The individual was wearing the hat of a CPO with the visor strap under his chin against the wind.  It was apparently Larzenarski on a round of inspection of the decks but he did not come to the bridge and I could not be sure.  The figure went out of sight in the darkness toward the stern.  I thought for a minute that I saw someone else move back there, but in the rain and spray it could well have been an illusion.

By the time I was relieved at 0200 hours I was wet and chilled to the bone.  I needed something hot to drink and knew that the cooks left an urn of coffee in the gangway outside the galley each night for watch standers.  With difficulty and clinging to the lifelines, I made my way aft.

I had tried coffee at home prepared just the way my father did with cream and sugar, but I never liked the taste of the stuff.  This night I was desperate and cold enough to try it again.  There was hot coffee in the urn; however, I found that the condensed milk can left out was empty and so was the sugar bowl.  Shrugging, I tried it black and, to my delight, found that it tasted delicious.  I sat at the mess table and enjoyed a warming cup before I braved the blow back to the forecastle.

The next morning the weather had cleared a bit, but the wind was still at gale force.  Green water was still breaking over the main deck and, periodically, over the fantail that was held down by the tow hawser to the heavy barge.  The deck division was told to stand by for muster in the mess compartment instead of on deck.

Chief Larzenarski did not show for muster.  It was held by Sullivan.  Afterward, scuttlebutt (rumor) was that Larzenarski was missing.  A search of the entire pitching and rolling ship was made and no trace of the abrasive CPO was found.  I found myself remembering the figure in a chief’s hat that I had seen on the catwalk during my watch and presumed that he had gone down to the fantail to check the tow cable and was swept overboard.

I was still wondering if I should report what I had seen when our stern and very disliked division officer Lt. Williams, appeared in the mess compartment.  We came to attention and, after he had told us to stand easy, he said, “Men, the tow cable is chafing and needs to be lengthened.  I need four volunteers to go to the fantail with me and do the job.”

There was a prolonged silence.  The men of the regular ship’s company simply looked down at their hands.  I noted that the officer was wearing dungarees and he had said “go down to the fantail with me”.  Even though the word always was, ”never volunteer for anything”, I suddenly blurted out, “I’ll go, sir.”

Langford then volunteered and, apparently not to be outdone by Airedales, two of the ship’s company rose.  I was surprised that one of them was Sullivan.  I kicked off my shoes and stripped of my socks because I felt that I would have better traction barefoot.  The lieutenant led us out onto the wave-washed fantail.

The fantail was clear except that every fifth or sixth wave was large enough to crash green water over the deck.  When the big waves came all we could do was hang on with both hands until the water subsided.  I found myself next to the officer was we struggled with the heavy wire cable.

The lieutenant loosened the stoppers on the tow cable and we inched out several yards.  He had just re-secured the stopper when the great-granddaddy of the waves buried us under solid green water.  I barely had time to get an arm securely around the tow cable.

When the water subsided I realized that the lieutenant was no longer beside me.  He had lost his hold on the cable and was haing half over the scuppers holding the bottom chain of the lifelines with one hand.  It was apparent that another wave could take him over the side.  I let go of the tow cable and liunged for the lifelines.  I caught the upper cable with my left hand and held out my right to the officer.  He seized it with his free hand and, as the ship rolled back to port, dragged himself back aboard.

Without a word the lieutenant checked that the able stopper was secure and led us back to the shelter of the mess compartment.  There he said, “Well done, men.”  Then turning to me he said, “Get some dry clothes, Frieze, and see me in the wardroom in fifteen minutes.”

When Lt. Williams had gone, Sullivan said to me in a low voice, “Goddamn Airedale, whyn’t you let that bastard go—we’d have been rid of him and Larzenarski both!”

Officers’ country was strange to me so I rather timorously made my way to the wardroom amidships after getting some dry dungarees and a clean white hat.  The wardroom was not plush but had a sliver coffee service, curtains at the portholes, and mess tables with green baize overings and chairs instead of benches.  The lieutenant, hair still wet and a towel about his neck, was sitting alone at one of the tables.

The officer said, “Help yourself to a cup of coffee, sailor.  You earned it.  And sit down a minute.”

It sounded more like an order than an offer.  I drew coffee into a china cup with a blue Navy emblem and sat on the edge of the chair opposite the lieutenant.  He eyed me for a minute.

“Just wanted to say thank you, Frieze.  There are probably men on this ship that would not have offered me a hand.  I am fully aware that many of the men think I am a mean s.o.b.”

I was embarrassed and could feel my ears and face getting red.  “Wasn’t anything, sir.  I reckon you could have made it by yourself.”

“Probably so, but you did offer me a hand without waiting to see.”

I recall being totally at a loss.  I believe I may have stammered, “Well—uh—I didn’t know how soon the next big wave might come along.  Ain’t as if I saved your life or something.”

“Right,” he said briskly, “and you’re not going to get a medal or anything, but I will see that there is a note of commendation in your service record.”

He looked down at a paper on the table that was the watch list from the previous night and changed the subject, “You had the twelve to two on the wing of the bridge last night.”

“Yessir.”

“You know that Chief Larzenarski is missing, apparently overboard during the storm.  Did you see anything on deck during your watch?”

A short montage flashed into my mind—the dim figure in a chief’s hat on the catwalk going aft, what could have been the shadow of another man back there, and the gleam in Sullivan’s eyes when he told us at muster that the hated CPO was missing.  I also recalled THE WAY Sullivan had cursed the CPO the first day we were aboard.  I knew, however, that I should not attest to anything of which I was not totally sure.

“Well, sir, yes.  Sometime around oh one hundred or thereabouts, I saw someone, who I thin was wearing a chief’s hat, going along the catwalk from the bridge aft toward the stern.  That’s all I saw.  It was dang dark out there.  I figured it was the chief checking the decks.”

“No one else?”

“Not that I could swear to—too dark and too many shadows.  Couldn’t see good through the rain and spray.”

The lieutenant dismissed me then and the ship’s log recorded that chief Boatswain’s Mate Larzenarski was apparently lost overboard while carrying out his duties on the ship.  For fifty years I have wondered about Coxswain Sullivan and his knife.  After Larzenarski’s disappearance, Sullivan’s first class rate was restored and, being the ranking petty officer in the deck division, he was made acting CPO for the balance of the voyage.

Scraping, painting, and holystoning seemed to go on interminably; however, his temporary promotion made Sullivan much more human and he did not make our lives as miserable as the Polish CPO had done.  Two or three days after the storm we sailed into calm waters and within the week were under blue skies and a tropical sun.

Before sunset on March 2^nd, we sighted the island of Molokai on the far horizon.  By muster at 0700 the next morning we were sailing past Diamond Head and Waikiki on Oahu.  A grey Navy tug met us when we had downtown Honolulu broad on the starboard beam and relieved us of the barge we had towed.  Just after noon chow Tippecanoe steamed through the anti-submarine net and up the entrance to Pearl Harbor.  We arrived in the Territory of Hawaii on my 19^th birthday, 3 March 1941.

[My father had sailed into his second paradise, Washington State being the first.]