James: First-hand account of Pearl Harbor on the 75th anniversary

Editor’s note: This is Pete James’ first-hand account of the attack on Pearl Harbor. This story was originally published in the Campbell Citizen on the 50th anniversary of the battle. James, who worked for both the Campbell Citizen and the Daily Dunklin Democrat for many years passed away March 25, 2014. May we never forget Dec. 7, 1941, “a date which will live in infamy,” (Franklin D. Roosevelt).

As I sit here reminiscing about that fateful day at Pearl Harbor,many incidents are brought to mind of my experiences aboard the U.S.S. Dobbin which was moored in East Loch, North of Ford Island.

My anger and resentment of the Japanese has long since mellowed as the years passed, even though we lost four sailors aboard ship due to the battle, two of which were my good friends. It was ironic that aboard our ship of 600 men, four were from Clarkton.

At the time I left Clarkton in 1940, the population was around 500, and of course we were all well acquainted, having attended Clarkton schools. Fortunately, none of we four were wounded, but I must say the Japs gave us the true meaning of fear as we watched most of the backbone of the 7th Fleet go to the bottom during the surprise attack which wreaked havoc to so many of the ships anchored and moored around Ford Island which is situated in the middle of Pearl Harbor.

Prior to the attack, the island of Oahu was to me a paradise, with gentle tropical breezes, and the scenery out from downtown Honolulu was something that dreams are made of. Oahu had not been exploited with high-rises and condominiums and the beaches were spectacular.

The Royal Hawaiian Hotel at Waikiki sat in all her pink glory and catered to stateside wealthy.

Frank Grant and I visited the Royal Hawaiian Hotel lobby one day just to say we had been there. We didn’t stay long since we were lowly sailors and they only catered to the rich and the staff were not overly friendly to our presence.

In the summer of 1940, I left San Diego aboard the U.S.S. Summers (371), a destroyer bound for the Hawaiian Islands.

I hadn’t been out of boot camp very long, having joined the Navy in March of 1940, and had hoped to be assigned to this ship. However, upon arriving at Pearl they transferred four of us to the U.S.S. Dobbin, a destroyer tender and repair ship moored north of Ford Island where she has was when the attack came.

During the remainder of 1940 and into 1941 I became fondly attached to the old Dobbin. She was the mother ship to 12 destroyers, taking care of most of their repairs, provisions, spare parts, ammo and torpedoes. We had a complete machine shop, including a blast furnace, which could mold and make many necessary parts for the destroyers. The Dobbin became “home” to the “tin can” crews when they would tie up alongside after days of patrolling at sea.

In the months and days prior to Dec. 7, we had gun drills and even the Air Force made practice bombing runs on the ships anchored at Pearl. There was a certain amount of tension building up aboard since almost daily we heard reports of the Japanese gaining territory in the Pacific as well as Great Britain, who was already at war with Germany, and the possibility of an attack on Pearl Harbor. We felt we would have ample time to repel the Japs if they attacked. Never did we believe it would come as it did -- a complete surprise -- and on a “sleepy” Sunday morning at that.

Saturday night, Dec. 6, Frank Grant and I made the “rounds” of downtown Honolulu, making the hot spots and had our picture made with a hula girl in a grass skirt (cost 25 cents). (Picture at right)

We also bought a couple of 78 records, one of which was the Andrew Sisters singing “I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time.” Someone aboard had a portable phonograph and we planned to play them sometime Sunday, Dec. 7. I don’t recall having the opportunity since the Japs had other plans for us.

Sunday morning, Dec. 7, I had breakfast around 7 a.m. and had gone forward to Boatswain Steve Spainzlair where he had a place of his own since he had charge of my division and was gun captain of a three-inch AA gun of which I was first shellman.

We were all “shooting the breeze” when suddenly the fire and rescue alarm was sounded. I was on this team. We assembled on the quarterdeck with our firefighting equipment and loaded into a 50-foot motor launch. A huge fire was raging on Ford Island and we were getting ready to head for the island when suddenly out of nowhere a plane flew by our ship, scarcely 50 feet above the water. A rear gunner on the plane was firing a machine gun at us. We could see the spurts of water out from our launch and wondered just how realistic the Air Force could get in firing real bullets at our launch.

As the plane passed, we noticed a red ball painted on the fuselage which was all the more puzzling and thought our Air Force was really getting us “tuned up” for war.

At 8 a.m. they ordered us back on board and at the same time the signalman on the bridge received a message from the tower at the Navy Yard -- “This is not a drill, Pearl Harbor is being attacked by enemy planes.”

The officer of the deck immediately sounded general quarters on the intercom and we dropped all our fire-fighting equipment on the quarter deck. I ran to my AA gun mounted on the forecastle at the bow of the ship. By this time black smoke was billowing and almost covering Ford Island as well as Battleship Row. Explosions were occurring constantly and the air was full of planes.

We had 60 rounds of “ready” ammunition near our gun mount, but it was locked up. One of the gun crew knocked the lock off with a fire ax. The skipper was on the bridge screaming “commence firing” and running from one side of the bridge to the other.

Our fuse setter was at a loss where to set the fuses since planes were flying all over and around us. Consequently, many were not set, but some were set to explode at three to five seconds which was the minimum and started firing. The shells would also explode on impact so the settings weren’t too important. One shell exploded uncomfortably close to the ship and some of the fragments “came back home.”

Our ready ammo hadn’t been changed for a long time and about every fifth or sixth shell wouldn’t fire. The gun captain would kick the dud back into my arms and said “throw it overboard.” Needless to say, I didn’t waste any time in disposing the dud. There was always a danger that a misfire would go off since the shell casing is red hot. I was wearing asbestos gloves for protection from the hot shell casings.

Our ship had two three-inch AA guns, plus four old water-cooled 30 caliber machine guns which comprised our anti-aircraft defense capabilities. The Dobbin was not a “first-line-of-defense” ship. She was primarily a repair ship, so the brass decided when the ship was commissioned in 1923 this armament was sufficient. We did have two five-inch broadside guns which were not suitable against aircraft.

I shall always be thankful that on this disastrous day we had five of our destroyers tied up alongside. They were armed with five-inch AA guns, plus 1.1s and 20 MMs. During the attack all five of the “tin cans” were firing everything they had at the Japs. The noise was almost overwhelming. Black powder smoke from their 5-inchers enveloped our ship and the concussion blasts from their guns knocked out all our light bulbs and all the glass surrounding the bridge was shattered.

The destroyers were lower in the water to our ship, and at times could not fire at the planes because we were in their line of fire. However, some of the 20 MM crews fired through our steel cable riggings, cutting the cables. When they snapped, they would uncoil in every direction plus the 20 MMs would explode when they hit the cables. Small shrapnel and the swirling cables injured several aboard our ship. A small price to pay for the protection they gave us.

I do not know how many rounds of three-inch we fired that morning. We went through 60 rounds and fired many more as the ammo passers were supplying our gun by this time from magazines below deck.

During a short lull in the battle, the gun captain sent me back to the sick bay for cotton to stuff in our ears since we couldn’t hear anything for the explosions. About midship, I came upon a guy I knew who had become hysterical, jumping up and down and screaming like a mad man. One of our master-at-arms had to knock him out to control him and they carried him to the sick bay.

While getting the cotton, they told me my good friend, Nick Carter, took a piece of shrapnel squarely between the eyes, exiting the back of his skull. He died instantly. He was a pointer on our other three-inch AA gun mounted at he stern of the ship. Along with Nick, another friend by the name of Lilliard died from shock as shrapnel cut his leg off just above his knee.

One Jap plane was coming in on our stern and dropped three bombs. One bomb hit our ship and ricocheted off and went off beneath the stern of a destroyer tied next to us. The detonation cut a steel mooring cable from our ship to theirs and wound around the shaft of our destroyer, jamming the screw. Our ship sent down a diver with a torch and cleared the cable so the ship could get underway. At different times during the long day, all five of our destroyers got underway, leaving us alone at our mooring. I sure hated to see them leave.

Back to my gun with the cotton, we discovered we could hear less with it since we were already deaf. A plane was coming toward us on our starboard bow; he was skimming the water and wagging his wings. We started firing almost on the level and suddenly all we saw was a puff of smoke and no plane -- didn’t see anything fall into the water. Whether ours or another gun got him, we never knew.

In the meantime, explosions and concussion was rampant all over the harbor, black fuel oil was thick on the water and much of it burning. We spotted a plane flying near the hills north of us so we started firing at it. We failed to shoot it down only to learn later that it was one of our B-17s flying in from the States and couldn’t find a place to land since all the airfields had been bombed and were full of craters.

From my vantage point, I could see the Arizona and Nevada and some of the tall masts of the other battleships across Ford Island. During this Sunday morning, there had been a light shower and a few clouds were around. Suddenly, coming out of a cloud in a steep dive, a plane came bearing down on the Arizona.

As he dived closer we wondered whether or not he could pull out. It appeared he leveled off just above the tri-pod masts of the ship. The plane got a direct hit on the ships magazine and we were amazed to see the mighty ship rise in the water, her masts collapsing, followed by an explosion that was literally out of this world. Debris, smoke and a fireball went up into the sky and the ensuing concussion from the blast flattened several of our ammo carriers onto the deck. I was holding a shell and suddenly I was lifted straight up and came to rest in the gun captain’s arms. He looked at me and exclaimed, “What in the hell are you doing up here?” and he dropped me like a potato to the deck.

Sadly, we knew the mighty Arizona was gone. Word was coming back from our small boat crews of the devastation along Battleship Row. It was a sick feeling and very disheartening to learn that the backbone of our fleet was sunk or sinking.

We watched the battleship Nevada slowing inching her way past Battleship Row, trying to get out of the harbor. She had enough steam in her boilers to get underway, but the Japs also saw her and unleashed everything they had trying to sink her and bottle up the narrow harbor. Finally, at the southwest side of the harbor, the skipper realized he couldn’t make it as the ship was blazing fiercely and in danger of sinking. He beached her in the soft mud of the channel at the edge of a cane field. Many brave crewmen aboard died during this magnificent effort.

At this point of time, high altitude bombers began unloading on the remnants of Battleship Row. We wondered and prayed for our fighter planes to appear, little knowing they were destroyed early in the fray.

At about 9:15 a.m., while the bombers and fighters were flying at will in a mopping up operation, one of our small boats came up to the gangway carrying a severely wounded Jap pilot they picked up in the harbor. He was covered with black fuel oil and blood. His leg was severed and he was literally bleeding to death.

The Coxswain asked the officer of the deck permission to bring him aboard our sick bay. Our captain shouted from the bridge to unload him somewhere else, so the boat reluctantly pulled away. Perhaps the captain was wondering about a possible “blood bath” aboard our ship which would have overwhelmed our sickbay.

As I looked down from the bow of our ship, I could not but have a feeling of compassion for this pilot even though he was most likely responsible for the deaths of many sailors and other military personnel on the island of Oahu. Later the Coxswain of the boat told me they finally unloaded him on the dock at the Naval hospital situated on the southeast side of the harbor. He thought he was dead as the hospital corpsmen carried him away.

It was 9:30 a.m. and all our small boats plus all available boats from other ships were carrying the dead and wounded from all over the harbor to the Naval hospital. Frank Grant was the engineerman in a 50-foot launch and they were dispatched to Battleship Row, picking up the dead and wounded. Fires were raging on the fuel-covered water, and Frank’s crew had several fire extinguishers to fight the blaze as their launch kept catching afire.

Naval headquarters designated a landing at Aiea, about one mile northeast of our ship, as a place to unload the dead. A team of doctors and corpsmen were dispatched there to identify the remains and try to determine from which ship they belonged. Frank related to me later that it was a pitiful and unreal sight, one which I’m sure he never forgot.

At about 9:45 a.m. the attack seemed over, just an occasional plane flying north to join the Japanese striking force some 200 miles north of Oahu. However, we remained at our guns, fully expecting the Japs to land troops and capture the island, which they might have been successful had they have fully comprehended the damage they had wrought.

As we surveyed our damage it seemed overwhelming. Spent brass shell casings were “knee deep” all over the main deck, steel cables wrapped around the mast, broken glass everywhere, plus sporadic AA fire still going on all over the harbor.

Around noon we were served cold cuts, cheese and coffee at our gun station. Serving chow in the mess compartment was out of the question. Our skipper received an order from Naval Command that we would have to move from our mooring since they believed one of the four or five midget Jap subs was hiding beneath our ship.

The subs came into Pearl during the attack but caused no damage. One of our destroyers, while leaving the harbor at “flank” speed at the height of battle, spotted one of the subs and rammed it, cutting it in half. Just recently I learned that the ship was the destroyer Monaghan and aboard was Lindell Baston who lives in Campbell.

Later in the afternoon, our ship moved to another mooring. Small fast boats rigged with two 300-pound depth chargers were dropping their charges where they would sound out an object. After about a week all the subs were destroyed.

Around 6 p.m. we were finally relieved from our gun by another crew. Again we were served cold cuts and some soup, but were ordered to remain on the ready in anticipation of another attack.

I went to find out more about my friend Nick Carter, and the corpsmen told me he was in the sailmaker’s compartment being prepared for burial. The doctors and the corpsmen had cleaned and embalmed him. Sirkosky, the sailmaker who was also a friend of Nick and I, had been in the Navy for about 30 years. He was a professional canvas man, making gun covers for all our destroyers as well as our own.

Sirkosky had Nick layed out on a large sewing table and was sewing him up in a shroud using his best white canvas. As I stood there, I observed how peaceful Nick looked and wondered about his family back in Colorado Springs, Colo. It was ironic that Nick was waiting transportation back to the States as his enlistment was finished and was due to be discharged.

The other three dead had been previously taken to Aiea Landing. Our skipper ordered that Nick be sewed up in canvas as was the official designation for burial at sea. Why Nick was sewed up in canvas and the other three were not, I do not know.

The next day, Dec. 8, Nick was gently lowered into a 50-foot launch and his remains were draped with “Old Glory.” They carried him to Aiea Landing and he was buried with full military honors along with the other three in a new cemetery overlooking Honolulu. This cemetery is designated as a National Cemetery.

The night blackout was being strictly observed, but the fires were still raging on some of the battleships. The fires on the water cast an eerie glow. Sporadic ammunition explosions were still occurring and it all seemed like Dante’s Hell brought to reality.

I went below to my quarters to get something from my locker only to find the compartment filled with strange faces. We had taken some of the survivors of the battleship Utah which was torpedoed and sunk during the attack. I was amazed to see a sailor I knew form St. Francis, J.T. Samuels, who was aboard the Utah. He related to me his harrowing ordeal of how when the ship rolled over, he swam to Ford Island, about 50-yards away. He escaped unscathed.

Our boat crews intermittently came aboard for food and change of clothing. They were a sorry looking lot, covered with black fuel oil and completely exhausted. Few of our crew slept in their bunks that night. Our gun crew slept (I say this with tongue-in-cheek) on life preservers on the main deck near our gun. It proved to be a wild and harrowing night.

One of our Navy PBYs, a patrol plane, had somehow managed to escape destruction and was in the air patrolling the outer reaches of Oahu. When he came into Ford Island trying to land, every gun in the harbor opened up on him.

He crashed into a hotel at Pearl City, north of the harbor. The crew died in the crash and the hotel burned down. Either he did not give the correct signal on approach or none at all. I have never seen such a spectacular fireworks display, before or after. The sky was completely illuminated with tracer fire. It was logical that all the gun crews were “trigger happy” and would have fired at anything that crept or crawled.

As cleanup and repairs were going ahead at full speed, we moved to the Navy yard where they installed new 20 MM guns on board and built steel plated tubs around our three-inch guns and added new equipment.

The next three weeks we worked around the clock. We loaded the old Dobbin with tons of ammunition, fuel oil and supplies, plus some bombs for the U.S.S. Lexington in the South Pacific. At this time we realized where we were bound. In about six weeks we sailed from Pearl, heading south into the unknown. Two destroyers escorted us which was a comforting feeling.

Over the years I have fantasized on “what if” -- What if the four of we Clarkton sailors had been billted aboard the Arizona? The Oklahoma? The Utah? The West Virginia? Or one of the other sunk or severely damaged ships? Was it fate that the Dobbin was shorthanded at the time we landed at Pearl Harbor and we were transferred to her as part of the ship’s crew? I can only conclude that there are no answers to “what if.”

At last, the four of us from Clarkton were home. Now, sadly two have passed away. My good friend Frank Grant died in 1990 and Joe Provance a year earlier. Junior Hungerford resides in California. And I, by the grace of God and five destroyers am in reasonably good health and have made Campbell my home since 1946.

A final note on the U.S.S. Dobbin. She stayed in the South Pacific for about two more years after I left her in 1944. Finally she sailed home to San Diego where the Navy stripped her of all guns and salvageable parts.

Then she was towed to Bremerton, Wash., where she was sold for scrap iron. A sad ending for a gallant and great ship.

“No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory. I believe that I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost but will make it very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us.

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger.

With confidence in our armed forces- with the unbounding determination of our people- we will gain the inevitable triumph- so help us God” (FDR before a joint session of Congress, Dec. 8, 1941).