Pacific Alamo Page 18

  As Christmas approached, one topic dominated every discussion on Wake—when would the United States Navy bring reinforcements? The men had an easier time early in the siege, believing that relief would arrive, but as they grew wearier, their mood turned more pessimistic. Construction engineer John R. Burroughs wrote that “as time wore on, one question loomed in the minds of civilians and servicemen alike: ‘Where, in Christ’s name, was the U.S. Navy?’ When would our people send reinforcements?”8

  On December 12 the men thought they had to hold on for only a few days before help arrived. Six days later they faced the possibility they could be left on their own. Burroughs referred to an “ever-increasing apprehension. The feeling of exhilaration arising from our success in the battle of December 11 had worn off.” More and more, Major Devereux acted according to a Marine adage, “Maybe you oughta get more, maybe you will get more, but all you can depend on getting is what you already got.”9

  Superiors in Pearl Harbor could not provide a definite answer about when relief would come. After sailors loaded ammunition and other supplies aboard the seaplane tender and Marines filed onto the Tangier, the relief force remained at anchor pending the arrival of another aircraft carrier, due in any day from California. In the meantime, Wake waited.

  Instead of the welcome news about the Navy rushing to Wake’s aid, Commander Cunningham received routine messages from his superiors asking about conditions on the atoll. The most frustrating one came from an admiral who inquired about the completion date for the dredging operations begun before the war. Cunningham stewed over this transmission before sending a restrained reply that since December 8, he had been quite busy conducting Wake’s defenses. He could not predict any completion date, but mentioned that prospects for its finish would dramatically improve if the Japanese stopped their daily bombing attacks.

  In subsequent communications, Cunningham informed Pearl Harbor that almost every structure on the atoll had been either destroyed or damaged, including the main warehouse, barracks, aviation facilities, and machine shop. Japanese bombs demolished half his heavy equipment and trucks, 80 percent of his diesel oil, and much of his dynamite.

  Cunningham alerted Pearl Harbor that if Wake was to remain in U.S. hands, the civilians had to be speedily evacuated. Most did little but hide in the brush, yet they still had to be fed. Cunningham believed he and Devereux could better focus on defending Wake if they did not have to worry about the civilians.

  Cunningham’s superior, Rear Adm. Claude C. Bloch, responded on December 17 that Cunningham should begin organizing for a possible civilian evacuation, but to retain about 250 skilled laborers who would be needed to complete the construction projects. Bloch hoped that enough civilians would volunteer to remain so the military would not have to force men to stay.

  Time ran short for Wake. An ominous development brewed in the Pacific Ocean on December 16, when two Japanese aircraft carriers, on their way back as part of the assault on Pearl Harbor, detached from the victorious unit and veered southwest toward Wake. When they steamed within air range, 118 fighters and dive-bombers would be able to blast Wake, supplement the daily bombing raids already in progress, and support a landing assault. The Japanese circle surrounding Wake suddenly drew tighter.

  Three days later, Japanese bombers added another alarming factor when they dropped potent thousand-pound bombs in their raids. The 132-pound bombs previously used, terrifying enough in their own right, now had a more destructive weapon as an ally. The monster bombs smacked with such an intimidating violence that they created holes seven feet deep and thirty feet wide. Marines and civilians, already numbed by the week-long aerial barrage, abandoned their dugouts and flopped into foxholes out of fear that the dugouts would collapse under the more powerful explosions. Just when the defenders thought conditions could get no worse, the Japanese fine-tuned their bombings to a new intensity that made wooden crossbeamed, dirt-covered shelters appear a hazardous place in which to reside. The Americans preferred to place their luck with the foxholes that, while resting in the open, proved smaller targets to hit.

  John R. Burroughs recalled the impact made by the more powerful bombs. “It was only a matter of seconds until we realized that this was no ordinary raid: the nerve-shattering roaring of the engines close overhead was exceeded only by the repetitive swish and scream and crashing crescendo of the falling bombs. Each earsplitting detonation shook the timbers in our dugout. There was no surcease, no breathing spell between explosions.”10 In reaction to the disturbing events, Captain Elrod and Lieutenant Kliewer urgently destroyed the squadron’s papers to keep them out of enemy hands.

  Had they known what else transpired in the ocean, the two officers might have been more concerned, for twenty-five miles out to sea, three Japanese submarines arrived off Wake to begin patrolling the waters around the island in preparation for the second landing attempt. Their presence indicated that the assault was only days away.

  The news was not all rosy for the Japanese. Unaware that another Japanese submarine plied the same waters—most likely the RO-66, the boat damaged by Lieutenant Kliewer on December 11—one of the newly arrived submarines accidentally rammed and destroyed the RO-66, killing all her crew. When a Japanese admiral learned of the tragedy, he wrote in his diary that Wake was “somewhat of a jinx.”11 The prophetic words contained more truth than the admiral wished to believe.

  “Where’s the Wake Island Hotel?”

  Despite the rash of unfortunate activities, Wake held on. The American public continued its admiration for their defense, even as it grew apprehensive about the garrison’s ultimate fate. Hints appeared that while the men might have been mounting a gallant defense, they faced a better-equipped foe that could send unlimited resources against the atoll while their own dwindled.

  On December 20, the New York Times reported that Wake had been under almost constant enemy attack since December 8, and when a reporter asked President Roosevelt if any relief forces headed to Wake, he declined to answer, leading many to speculate that military leaders had given up the atoll as lost. A handful of papers even added that, without reinforcements, the atoll could probably not hold out much longer. The Washington Post called it a miracle that the defenders had kept the stronger enemy at bay for so long, and cited military experts who claimed they expected to learn of Wake’s demise at any moment.

  On the atoll, men took heart in the exploits of VMF-211, and watched with admiration as aviators, at times down to one Wildcat, plunged directly into antiaircraft fire to pursue Japanese aircraft. Private First Class Himelrick wrote in his diary for December 21 that “30 Jap Dive Bombers cam[e] over. Murph & Me were in the ‘C.P.’ on watch…. I saw one Jap plane come spinning down out of a cloud & explode. Boy that sure looked good.”12

  It took two naïve, brash pilots from Hawaii, Ens. J. J. Murphy and Ens. Howard Ady, to bring in the best news, however. The aviators landed a PBY flying boat on Wake’s lagoon on December 20, hopped out, and asked the first group of Marines they saw, “Where’s the Wake Island Hotel?”13 The haggard Marines did not know whether to laugh or throw the young officers into the lagoon, but instead pointed to a pile of rubbish and explained that was what remained of the hotel.

  Murphy and Ady, symbolic of how little both superiors in Hawaii and the American public knew about the crisis at Wake, stared incredulously at the destruction on all sides. As they walked to Cunningham’s command post, they stumbled through debris and skirted defenses manned by shabby-looking servicemen. Murphy and Ady realized that Wake had been under strain, but neither officer expected this.

  Once with Cunningham, the pair delivered the news they had been ordered to fly into Wake, information so sensitive that Pearl Harbor hesitated to transmit it by airwaves lest the Japanese intercept it. Murphy and Ady explained to Cunningham that a relief force, anchored by an aircraft carrier, at long last steamed toward the atoll with Marines, aircraft, and vital supplies and, barring any unforeseen circumstances, should arrive on Christma
s Eve. They told Cunningham he was to immediately begin preparations to evacuate all but 350 essential civilians, who would remain to further fortify Wake’s defenses.

  The news raced about the atoll and revitalized the tired defenders. “That message was like a shot in the arm for us,”14 mentioned Major Devereux, who now guardedly believed that his superiors had decided to contest Wake. Men near Private First Class Gatewood wondered if they might even be back in Pearl Harbor for Christmas.

  After what seemed like endless days and hours of fighting and waiting, someone finally rushed to their aid. Bolstered by an additional two hundred Marines and another fighter squadron, to say nothing of a carrier task force, the Marines on Wake argued they could repel any Japanese attempt. Men boasted that the enemy had best approach cautiously and talked eagerly of getting another crack at their foe.

  Commander Cunningham assumed that the Japanese needed time to regroup after December 11 and would not arrive for at least a few more weeks, which meant he could organize the expected reinforcements and rebuild positions. Delighted that his men’s faith in their nation had been justified by the news, Cunningham also looked forward to embarking one thousand civilians for a journey out.

  Major Devereux’s enthusiasm dampened after he visited with the ensigns and learned how badly the naval base in Hawaii had been mauled. Suddenly, he doubted the Navy possessed the capability to spare ships and men for Wake, and he certainly questioned the Navy’s willingness to sacrifice their few remaining vessels.

  Dan Teters compiled the list of civilians who would have to stay. Some volunteered, such as Joe Goicoechea and the entire sixteen-man civilian crew helping out Sgt. Johnalson Wright at Battery D on Peale Island. Teters deemed others so vital that he gave them no choice. Dr. Shank and five nurses assisting him at the hospital made his task easier by refusing to leave their posts.

  In the meantime, officers compiled reports for Murphy and Ady to carry to Pearl Harbor on their return flight the next day. Taken together, the reports would give officials at Pearl Harbor their first accurate glimpse of the conditions at Wake. For instance, in his report, Commander Cunningham mentioned two factors as preventing more serious damage to Wake—effective Marine antiaircraft fire and Putnam’s aviators, who attacked air and surface targets with disregard for personal safety. Major Putnam described the daily operations of his aviators, then stated that Kinney and Hamilton, assisted by Aviation Machinist’s Mate First Class Hesson and a group of civilian volunteers, kept VMF-211 flying with their tireless work and hasty improvisations. Major Putnam included a glimpse of the human cost involved by sending a list of the horrendous losses suffered by VMF-211—four of twelve officers and thirty of forty-nine enlisted had already perished in the fighting.

  “Keep the Old Chin Up, Girl”

  Those reports paled in impact to the letters written home by a handful of Marines the night of December 20. One officer who had been on Wake since the battle’s opening, Maj. Walter L. J. Bayler, had been ordered to accompany Murphy and Ady out of Wake so he could construct a radio network on Midway Island. The Marine officer, surely the envy of every other serviceman on the atoll, agreed to forward any letter given to him.

  The Marines, who had not allowed themselves to think of home and loved ones during the fighting and siege, took a brief respite from their labors, picked up paper and pencil, and scribbled a few sentences to wife or family. As far as they knew, this could be their last contact with home in a long time—or ever.

  Lieutenant Hanna did not write a lengthy letter, for as commander of the machine guns he had much to do, but in his brief note he attempted to maintain a positive outlook for Vera and Erlyne. “I didn’t want to upset her,” he said. “You got to make the best of it, and you tried to keep from upsetting them too much, but at the same time you try to put on paper how you feel. That’s never easy.”15 As Lieutenant Hanna finished his letter, he noticed that some of the men near him wrote notes while others, mainly the single Marines, declined. Later that evening the truck delivering food picked up Hanna’s letter and started it on its way home to Vera and Erlyne.

  On Wilkes, Corporal Johnson also kept his note short and simple—he hoped that everyone was well and that he would soon see them. Major Devereux struggled to write words that conveyed his thoughts, including advice for his young son Paddy, but tore up the paper after nothing appropriate came to mind. At his position, Private Laporte chose not to send a letter. “I don’t think anybody wrote a letter. I think a lot of us didn’t know what to say.”16

  On the other hand, Lieutenant Kinney and others tried to infuse optimism at home by mentioning some of their recent feats. Kinney claimed he was “getting some good gunnery practice although the targets shot back,” then added information that may have been more than his family wanted to read. “Had my goggles shot off last week when I went in on eight bombers—seven got away.” Navy Lt. Comdr. E. B. Greey wrote to his wife that “Heroes have been made hourly and many will go unsung but the Stars and Stripes are still at the top of the mast. Too much praise cannot be given to the Marines, and those damned Japs know what our steel feels like.”17

  Dan Teters sent thoughts of his wife, Florence, along in a letter he wrote to his construction boss, George Ferris. He added that many of his civilians had offered valuable assistance to the military to that point, but many others suffered from the effects of the battle. “I strongly recommend getting them off here before I have more mental and shell shock cases on my hands than I have now.”18

  Other Marines poured out their hearts to their families in emotional letters that openly proclaimed their love. Major Putnam’s note to his wife, Virginia, as cited by historian Robert Cressman, illustrated what many of the men felt but were unable to so movingly convey.

  Sweetheart: War sure is hell—I’ve grown a beard! But don’t worry, I will shave it off before you get a chance to complain about it in person. Everything not OK, of course, but getting along as well as might be expected. Got a small knick [sic] in the back, but just a knick and it is doing fine—didn’t miss a day of work. Not much squadron left, but what there is, is still in there swinging at ’em. Like the Limeys, we may be dumb and slow, but we sure can come up grinning and asking for more. Keep the old chin up, girl. Don’t know just when I can get home to see you all, but I surely will get there. Give all my little gals a great big piece of my love, but keep a piece as big [as] all of them for yourself. Take great big pieces—there’s plenty of it. Your Paul.19

  Commander Cunningham was less romantic to his wife, Louise, but offered the insight that even though fighting and dying were constants, many men still thought of more gentle items.

  We are having a jolly time here and everything is in good shape. I am well and propose to stay that way. Hope you are both in the pink and having a good holiday season. Trust you haven’t worried about me, for you know I always land on my feet….

  Cunningham purposely painted an optimistic picture in an effort to ease his wife’s concern for her husband.

  The situation is good and getting better. Before long you won’t hear of a Japanese east of Tokyo. The climate is good, the food isn’t bad, and I only have to wash my face once a day. Baths even scarcer, though we work in a swim now and then.

  You know I am waiting only for the time of our joining. Circumstances may delay it a little longer, but it will surely come.20

  Finally Captain Elrod, who had already gained distinction with his accomplishments in the air, crafted two letters to his wife, Elizabeth. In a hasty note he scribbled before heading to the airfield, Elrod mentioned,

  We are still clinging grimly on to what little that we can still call our own. Everything is very secret to everyone except the Japs who seem to know it all before the rest of us.

  Later, when he had the chance to add a second note, Elrod slowed down, realizing that he had rushed with his first letter. This time, emotion and love shone from every word.

  I am missing you terribly and am undergoing a few ne
w experiences but also is everyone else.

  He added that

  I am writing this in something of a hurry and under somewhat difficult circumstances. I’ll think of a million things that I should have said after I have gone to bed tonight. But now I am going to say that I love you and you alone always and always and repeat it a million times or so. Give my love to Mary also. Between the two of you, you have it all—There isn’t any for anyone else. I know that you are praying for me and I have nothing more to ask then [sic] that your prayers be answered.

  Capt. Elrod signed the letter, “Your devoted and loving—Talmage.”21

  Unfortunately, not every serviceman had the opportunity to send a letter. Many never learned of Bayler’s offer, especially those on duty some distance from the airfield. Corporal Marvin did not know of the incident until after Bayler departed, and Private First Class Gatewood heard of it shortly before Bayler left. Gatewood admitted he would have loved to send a letter home “because I wanted them to know I was still living.”22

  That night Bayler visited the wounded in the two hospitals to collect any letters from them. The men appreciated Bayler’s efforts in their behalf, but they were also somewhat jealous that he would soon leave the beleaguered atoll. What no one, including Bayler, added was that he first had to safely wind his way through the skies, still largely dominated by Japanese aircraft.

  Close to 7:00 the next morning, Ensigns Murphy and Ady climbed into their PBY to prepare for takeoff. Major Bayler, complete with a stack of letters, stepped aboard, but Herman Hevenor, once more scheduled to leave Wake, was absent. The budget inspector who had barely missed flying out on the Clipper on December 8, once again fell victim to a cruel fate. Murphy and Ady appeared to be his second chance for a ride home, but Navy regulations stipulated that anyone traveling on a PBY had to have both a parachute and a life jacket or he could not fly. Since the PBY’s only spare set went to Bayler, whose mission held priority over Hevenor’s safety, the civilian auditor watched forlornly as another aircraft, and with it his best opportunity for survival, disappeared over the horizon.