LET'S REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR

People of my generation will never forget where they were and what they were doing on December 7, 1941.
Here is my recollection of that infamous date in American history.

LET’S REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR

On Sunday, December 7, 1941, I awoke happy and content. Now fourteen and a high school sophomore, I didn’t have a care in the world. I lived with my parents and brother, Jim, in a tenement building in Hoboken, New Jersey.

After returning from Mass that morning, I curled up in a chair and began to skim the Journal American newspaper headlines, most of them related to the European war, now in its third year. Maps showed where the German and Russian armies were gripped in battle. It seemed a million miles away. The war had seemed much closer the previous summer, when Edward R. Morrow’s radio broadcasts from London during two months of air raids gripped my attention. Now, a year and a half later, my primary interest had turned to girls and dancing to the songs of the big bands.

By this time, the army had already called up my brother-in- law, a former R.O.T.C. Syracuse University graduate and an employee of AT&T, to serve in the Signal Corps at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. This site housed the largest military telephone exchange outside of Washington, DC. Despite his low rank, Second Lieutenant, the army relied heavily upon his knowledge and experience to improve and maintain its long distance phone system, his field of expertise.

   On that fateful day, he and my sister, Helen, had come to Hoboken to enjoy my mother's Sunday afternoon dinner. While they ate, I retreated to a bedroom and turned on the radio to hear the broadcast of the professional football game between the New York Giants (my team) and the Brooklyn Dodgers. I was an avid fan of the game and loved to follow the exploits of stars such as Mel Hein, Tuffy Leemans, and Ken Strong.

   About 2 p.m. the announcer interrupted the play-by-play description to say, "The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel are to report to their home base immediately." The station continued to interrupt and air this message. I tried to comprehend its meaning and significance, but I could not. I knew it was terrible news. Where is Pearl Harbor, I wondered? I could not place it. Finally, the news report identified it as our naval base in Hawaii.

   What should I tell my family? I ambled down the hall at a slow pace, uncertain what to say. I entered the kitchen where my brother-in-law sat finishing off his meal.

   I looked directly at him and said, "The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel must report to their base immediately. That's what the announcer keeps repeating on the radio." He blanched noticeably, reared back from his seat, thunderstruck, dropped his fork and fairly flew out the door, Helen in tow. His reaction left me with the deepest and longest lasting impression I had of the war years that followed.

Although the papers, magazines and newsreels described and showed the ensuing carnage, for the next three years, the war always seemed distant to me. Yes, Hoboken and its piers and shipyards hummed with activity. Strange looking sailors from foreign shores walked the streets. Our military personnel could be seen everywhere. Yet, the war seemed to have no dramatic impact on me. My high school years were fun-filled, a lark. None of my closest friends went into service until quite late in the war and none became a casualty. I have no recollection of food shortages. My crowd ate all the hamburgers, fries, shakes, pizza and soda we desired, and puffed all the cigarettes we wanted. No one in my family owned a car, so gasoline rationing had no effect on our lives. The shortage of silk stockings did not impact my wardrobe requirements.

The country staged air raid rehearsals to make the population aware of the possibility we could be bombed. When sirens sounded, residents turned off their lights and drew blinds across windows. With enough advance warning, these “blackout” nights provided me with an opportunity to attend rampant teen-age parties. No one I knew took these simulated “air raids” seriously.

The war did not deter me from enjoying the movies, dancing, romancing, swimming at the Jersey Shore beaches, playing ball, or just hanging out with my pals. I saw Frank Sinatra perform at the Paramount Theater in 1943 when he first rose to his superstar status. Later, he paid a visit to my high school. He made no mention of the war while teenaged girls swooned at his feet. 

I graduated from high school and turned seventeen in June 1944, shortly after D-Day. I enrolled in college on July 1, managing to complete three semesters by the following June when I turned eighteen. By this time, Germany had been defeated, leaving Japan as the remaining nation still at war with the Allies. Although it stood alone, it remained a formidable foe. The casualties the Japanese inflicted on our ground forces in Okinawa and on our naval forces from kamikaze attacks demonstrated their willingness to die rather than surrender. It appeared we would have to invade Japan to defeat them. The media suggested this would entail horrendous loss of life.

After registering for the draft on my birthday, June 8, the thought crossed my mind that I might actually see combat. This thought was reinforced when I was classified One-A.

My draft notice arrived on August 6, the day we dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. That ended my concern. The army inducted me on September 7, 1945. One week later, the United States declared the war against Japan to be ended, thereby making me an official veteran of WW II, praise the Lord. The Army Air Force discharged me in May 1947 with the rank of Sergeant.

A month later I returned to college. The G. I. Bill covered every penny of my tuition until I graduated three years later. During that time, I also received a monthly living allowance. My parents refused to accept any money from me. When I graduated, I had amassed a nice little nest egg.

My mother shed some tears when I boarded the bus that took me to the induction center in Newark, New Jersey. The Japanese might not kill me, but she feared I would die of starvation, refusing to eat army grub, picky eater that I was in those days. To my great surprise, I ate everything in sight, gained forty pounds and grew about four inches taller before being discharged.      

   I obtained many significant benefits in exchange for my brief stint in the army: A low-interest rate home loan (which I never used), college tuition, and a $10,000 term life insurance policy that continues to return more in dividends than the cost of the premium. My wife and I have been granted the right to be buried in the National Veterans Cemetery in Phoenix.

Nowadays, when I see movies and documentaries about the war, I ask: how did I escape the slaughter? When I attend functions at the Scottsdale American Legion Hall, I feel a sense of embarrassment that I did nothing to earn my status as a veteran of WW II, and wish I had done something worthy of the honor. However, I must admit that I am glad that things worked out for me and my family. After all this time, I still think of the war as surreal.

December 7, 1941 was a bad day in my life. First the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and then my favorite team, the Giants lost a football game, 21-7.  I came to hate the Japanese, almost as much as I detested the Dodgers.

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