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Editor’s note: More than 2,400 Americans died when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the U.S. naval base near Honolulu, Hawaii, on December 7, 1941, and another 1,000 were wounded. One of the men there had only recently graduated from what is now called Cook County High School. Here is the story of the late Clarence William Ellquist, as told to his daughter, Claudia Ellquist.
It is a day that stands with great clarity, and great detail, in my memory, like no other. I will never forget.
My twin brother, Roger, and I had enlisted in the Navy at age 18, right out of high school, and on July 24, 1940, we were called to duty and left our home in Lutsen, Minnesota, for the Great Lakes Naval Training program. They had just shifted from an eight-week training to a 12-week program, and once it was completed, we were on our way to San Francisco, or, at least, to a town a ferry ride away. From there, we were shipped to Hawaii, on the flagship SS Wright, and from there, to the S.S. Ogalala, and then transferred to the USS Preble, a minelayer, where we were to serve. The Ogalala was one of the ships to be later destroyed in Pearl Harbor.
I was glad to serve with my twin, and my widowed mother was glad that we were together to take care of each other. And we did serve together, through the first part of the war, until the combat death of the Sullivan brothers led to the policy of separating siblings, and we were placed on different ships. But, in any case, on December 7, 1941, it turned out that we were not together. The Preble was in drydocks at Pearl Harbor, undergoing a complete overhaul, so the Navy wisely sent Roger to San Diego for sonar training.
The overhaul of the Preble included inspection and maintenance of the complete ship and some refitting inside, including the sleeping quarters, the heads and the mess. Her steam turbines were laid out on the pier, ready for scrutiny, and the crew was ordered to the barracks along the shore, about an eighth of a mile back, until our ship would be seaworthy again.
I had been out to a Saturday night movie but was up and nearly dressed by 7:30 a.m. that Sunday morning, sitting on my bunk, reading a newspaper I had picked up in town. I heard planes, of course, and bombing noises, but that wasn’t an uncommon thing. We thought they were part of continuing maneuvers for the benefit of the Marines. But I looked up at the window and saw one plane going into a dive, and, in that instant, I could clearly see the red sun emblems on the wings.
I called out, at the top of my lungs, “The Japanese are bombing Ford Island.” And a sleepy voice grumbled back at me, “You’re dreaming, Swede. Got back to bed.”
Grabbing my shoes and socks, I headed down the stairs and for the front door, calling over my shoulder, “Maybe so, but I’m getting out of here.” I sat on the steps, rapidly pulling on shoes, and watched in horror. Three torpedo planes were moving through the sky toward Point Liberty landing, where they would have a straight shot at the battleships. They passed low over me, maybe twenty feet away and ten feet up. If I had had a handful of stones to throw, I could have rattled the metal and distracted the pilots. But there were no stones, and it probably would have just brought our occupied quarters to their attention. Even as I thought this, one of the three exploded in my view. Either an anti-aircraft shell hit it, or the torpedo on board exploded. That plane went down, but the other two proceeded on course and dropped torpedoes on the Battleships Oklahoma and West Virginia.
By now, others were outside, gaping at the spectacle, in excited, tight groups, as people will in such circumstances. The Chief Bosun, from two barracks up, had joined us. He ordered the complete evacuation of the buildings, as they might be a target for bombing and for the men outside to disperse themselves, at arm’s length, to avert being targets for strafing, in a field by the Block Recreation Center, across the highway.
There was nothing else that was clear for us to do, so we stood there, awaiting orders, which, of course, would take time, as those with higher rank assessed a disaster in progress and decided what resources were viable and might make a difference, and got the word out on how to deploy.
So, we stood, witnessing the scene below.
It was probably the best viewing location available to anyone at Pearl Harbor. We couldn’t see the Arizona or the Nevada, although we knew where they were. Everything else was in direct view. The Repair Ship Vestal was alongside the Arizona, and we could see the Battleships California, Oklahoma, West Virginia, Maryland and Tennessee. At Permanent Dry Dock #1 was the Destroyers Casten and Downs, and a bomb, dropped between them, had set them on fire. The Pennsylvania was astern of the two, near the dry docks gate. The Destroyer Shaw, on the floating dry dock, got its bow blown off when a bomb hit its powder magazine.
For some reason, the Ogalala, which I had once been on, capsized and took on water fast. The light cruiser Helena was hit and exploded. The Oklahoma started to roll over on its side.
Nine Japanese planes soared above the harbor, and in the sunlight of the clear day, I could see so clearly that I noted that the torpedoes they dropped were painted white. They hit the Arizona, and there was a terrible explosion, probably a direct hit on the powder room.
Three trucks pulled up and asked for volunteers to form a line to fight fires. Everybody fell into line, and we were driven down to Dry Dock #1. But by the time we got there, those in command had wisely decided to flood instead, to isolate the fire to Casten and the Downs, to keep the Arizona from catching fire, so volunteers were re-routed to the Battleship Pennsylvania, to pass ammunition. While we were aboard, re-arming the ship’s guns, a bomb hit the Pennsylvania at one end, and there were some casualties, but myself, and Preble crewman Burton Albert Hoyt, remained uninjured. We hadn’t seen each other, being transported in different trucks, and only learned afterward that we were both on board. During our time passing munitions, we were given the alert of a possible gas attack. We steeled ourselves, but, fortunately, that did not occur.
Volunteers were then requested to go into the magazine to belt ammunition for machine guns. I had had machine gun training, just a couple of months prior, on the old Utah. The Utah had been used for such training and as a target for bombing practice by our airmen, using bags of flour as bombs. Her main turrets had been removed. The Utah, on this day, would take real bombs and be sunk. Our group was then ordered off the Battleship, as she was to raise her gangplanks and try to get out to sea.
All non-assigned personnel were to return to their ships.
Five battleships were sunk that day, and only three remained sea-worthy.
The Ogalala and the Casten and the Downs were hit, and the Utah. A light cruiser of the WWI type, the Raleigh, was hit on the stern. The Battleship Nevada was the only ship actually to get underway during the bombing, but as it got just before the channel, it was hit by torpedoes, and sunk, the last ship to be hit. The commander wisely decided to run aground so as not to block the harbor. The Pennsylvania, the Maryland and the Tennessee were still seaworthy when the last plane flew away.
The Preble, or course, was not seaworthy that day because it was still dismantled and awaiting inspection. When ordered to return to our own ship, we made for the pier to which she was tied next to the Tracey. The Destroyer Minelayer would see much service throughout the Pacific, but not until the repairs were completed. But going to our ship was more than symbolic– after the two hours of the attack were over and the preparations for a resumed attack, the accounting had to be done, of what and who was still there.
The Oklahoma lay on her side, and men were sent to tap on the hull, listening for survivors and welders cutting holes. Large lifeboats went out to rescue men who were swimming in, or, for as long as they could hold their breath, under, the oil-fired surface of the water. Corpses were retrieved. The roads were crowded with traffic, and people came and went.
We had not eaten since the day before nor thought of food. We were sent to the Recreational Mess Hall for a meal, and I cannot remember it. We slept, if you call it sleeping, in the barracks that night.
And that night, there were three more casualties. The Aircraft Carrier Enterprise had been delivering Marines to Wake Island, and it came home, not knowing. As was the practice, naval planes flew in from the carrier before she made the harbor because they would not have been able to get enough lift to take-off once the ship was in and needed to land on the airstrip. Even though they had their landing lights on, it was dark; someone on the Repair Ship Regal failed to recognize them as ours and fired. And everybody else, hearing the first fire, believed it to be the Japanese returned and continued firing. Seven planes were blown out of the sky, and three pilots lost.
Our officer of the watch had a copy of a catalog of Japanese aircraft, and he passed it around the next few days and lectured us on recognizing Japanese planes.
We were told to contact our parents, who were frantic for news, to let them know we were among the survivors. I wrote a letter to my mother, asking her to let the family know. I wrote a letter to Roger, who, in time, was reunited with the Preble at Pearl Harbor. The United States had been attacked, and we were at war.
Years later, after serving in the Pacific, India, and China, I would return to the U.S. and be demobbed. Then, after a couple of years of civilian life, I would resume a military career, in the army, as part of the occupation army in Japan. In 2007 my daughter and son-in-law took me back to Hawaii to see Pearl Harbor again, visit the monument of the Arizona, remark where the Preble had been and the barracks, shake many hands and remember it all.
It is as clear as yesterday.
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