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1 Almost Christmastime † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † It was December, 1941, and Christmas was eighteen days off. —Dorothy Baruch, You, Your Children, and War (1943) Daddy, is this war? —Colonel William C. Farnum’s seven-year-old son, William Jr. December 7, 1941: The Day the Japanese Attacked Pearl Harbor (1988) † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † The first Sunday of December 1941 began slowly in Hawaii, a morning of yellow sand, green fields, and blue ocean covered with a bright, peaceful sky and gentle breezes. The hills rolled, the mountains jagged, and the sea shimmered calmly. In military homes, beach shacks, and Sunday schools, little Hawaiian, Portuguese, Filipino, Chinese, Japanese, and kamainas children eased into a warm, lazy Sunday on the island of Oahu. This “Pacific Paradise” seemed remarkably safe and secure despite the world’s storming war clouds. As one machinist remembered the quality of that morning, it seemed to have “a dream-inducing quietness.” Another military man from Maine described his newfound paradise as “an island of dreams come true.” But dreams do end, sometimes dramatically. And to Pearl Harbor, especially to the keiki (small children), came auwe: sudden surprise.1 The previous evening Japanese pilots had begun preparing for their own possible deaths during “Operation Hawaii.” Plans had been excruciatingly complex and secret, but now in these hours before dawn, all that remained was contemplation and perhaps a little saki. Some of the pilots 8 9 Almost Christmastime wrote farewell letters to their children; one prayed he could watch his baby daughter grow up. Captain Hara reminded the pilots to adhere strictly to the rules of warfare by striking only military objectives. In two waves at 5:30 a.m., 350 Japanese bombers and fighters lifted from their carriers and began flying over 200 miles above a silent ocean for Oahu’s Pearl Harbor, homing in on the soft music of Honolulu’s radio station KGMB. As Lieutenant Heita Muranaka headed for the island early that morning, he remembered hearing a sweet girl’s voice over the radio singing the Japanese children’s song, “Menkoi Kouma” (“Come on a Pony”). “Thinking about what would happen to such lovely children and what a change in their lives would occur only an hour and a half later,” Muranaka recalled, “I couldn’t listen to it any more and turned off the switch.” As another pilot’s plane finally approached the target, Lieutenant Yoshio Shiga distinctly remembered a particular image of Pearl Harbor: “The U.S. Fleet in the harbor looked so beautiful . . . just like toys on a child’s floor—something that should not be attacked at all.”2 Unaware of the approaching danger, the children of Hawaii began various early-morning activities that December day. The fifteen-year-old son of a commanding officer started reading his Superman comic book. A little girl, Roberta, watched her brother playing outside with his friend’s wooden wagon. The three young children of army officer Harold Kay tried to play quietly in the living room as their parents argued once again about the safety of raising a family in Hawaii. Patricia and Eleanor Bellinger, ages fourteen and eleven, simply slept. Also snoozing sweetly in a bassinet was Staff Sergeant Stephen Koran’s week-old baby girl. David Martin , now thirteen, waited while his military father made him a traditional morning cup of cocoa. Ten-year-olds Julia and Frances, twin daughters of General Howard C. Davidson, chased each other around their front lawn. After listening to music on the radio, six-year-old Dorinda Makanaonalani sat down to a family breakfast of Portuguese sausage with rice and eggs. And Charlie Jr., three-year-old son of Captain Charles Kengla, tried to wait patiently for the arrival of his Sunday School bus.3 Jimmy, the twelve-year-old son of Lieutenant Colonel Allen Haynes, stopped to chat with his mother in their kitchen a few minutes before 8 a.m. when terribly loud airplanes suddenly interrupted their conversation. He glanced out the window. “Mother,” Jimmy declared, “those are Japanese planes.” “Nonsense,” she replied, until she too looked out the window to an awful discovery of the first wave of bombers.4 At 7:53, the commander of the naval base muttered when he spotted nine planes making forbidden maneuvers. “Those fools know,” the commander barked, “there is a strict rule against making a right turn!” But his son, suddenly finished with his comic book, stared and pointed: “Look, red [3.137.171.121] Project MUSE (2024-04-24 11:11 GMT...

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