The realities of war came suddenly and dramatically to my mother as she stood on her back porch watching the explosions at Pearl Harbor, a few miles away. It was breakfast time, 7 December 1941. As she watched, several neighbors joined her, all looking at the horrific spectacle in silence. At length, to break the tension, Mom exclaimed in a confident voice: "This must be Navy bombing practice." The others stared at her in disbelief. As she recalled 50 years later, "At that very moment, from the sky came the most deafening, screaming, siren-like sound, louder and louder—then a huge blast that shook the whole building."
Isabel A. Bartlett was 26, a new mother with her first baby (me), and three years into becoming a lifelong Navy wife. Her husband, Lieutenant (junior grade) Wilson R. "Bill" Bartlett (U.S. Naval Academy class of '35), had received his wings at Pensacola in 1938. In August 1941, after two years of flying with Scouting Squadron 2 on the carrier USS Lexington (CV-2), he had been reassigned to the Chester (CA-27), to command the cruiser's floatplanes. "Sis," as my mother was known among her Navy friends, had come to Honolulu in the spring of 1941, when the Lexington deployed to Pearl Harbor. She loved it.
"We rented a little apartment at the corner of Lewers and Kahio streets, in a quiet neighborhood close to the base and only two blocks from Waikiki. It was not touristy then and, other than Navy personnel, I remember surprisingly few people around. When Bill was not flying, we swam or sat on the beautiful beach, getting to know other young Navy couples."
On Saturday evening, 6 December, Sis and Bill were invited to dinner at Betty and Ben Oakley's, another Navy couple who lived nearby. That afternoon, although Bill's ship did not return to Pearl Harbor as it normally did on weekends, the Oakleys insisted that Sis come for dinner anyway. "It was lovely," she reminisced. "I remember Betty served a most delicious apricot custard pie for dessert. She gave me the recipe which I used for many years. After dinner, Ben, a submarine officer, spoke of the genuine danger of an attack by the Japanese. I said that it just wasn't possible; Bill was scouting the seas around Hawaii every day, and he told me that 'the Japs couldn't get within 500 miles of the islands.' Ben was not at all convinced and felt trouble was imminent, while I felt no danger whatsoever."
Bill Bartlett did not come home that night. The following morning, the 7th, Sis got up to the sound of tremendous noises, which she naively concluded must be war games. "I had a radio, but I never turned it on. The noise got much worse, and I heard planes flying overhead. I fed the baby, made coffee, and stepped out on the back porch to get the Sunday paper. I noticed several people standing together in the alley. The three girls who lived across the hall from us were huddled in their doorway. 'No Sunday paper?' I said. They looked at me with disbelief. 'Don't you know? The Japs are attacking Pearl Harbor!'"
The bomb landed in the alley, just outside the bedroom window where Sis' baby son was sleeping. "Shrapnel sprayed through our apartment; rooms were full of choking dust and plaster, and there was a strong burning smell everywhere. Inside, I could hear [the baby] screaming. Heart pounding, I ran frantically through the smoke. Glass and pieces of hot metal were everywhere. There was a hole about eight inches wide just above the crib, which was untouched. Chunks of plaster and some broken pieces of airplane pictures Bill had framed and hung in the nursery had fallen into the crib, but miraculously, [my baby was] unhurt. Had I not been standing on the back porch, watching the attack, I'm sure I would have been injured or worse."
The reality of the situation left her speechless. Then, standing in the debris, she became aware of people pounding on the front door, shouting: "Are you all right? Open the door!" When she managed to do so, the first face Sis recognized was Betty Oakley's. "She said she was driving Ben to work, when he looked up and saw the Rising Sun on the wings of a plane above them. He told her to stop the car, turn around, get us, and go to stay with friends of theirs in the Nuuanu Valley. We would be safe there. Then he got out and ran the rest of the way to Pearl."
The attack continued. Sis hurriedly packed a few things—baby clothes, some diapers, water, crackers, canned milk, and a blanket—and put them in her baby basket. "Betty took it, I carried [the baby] and we ran to her car. It had two small round holes in it—one in the trunk and, I believe, the other was on the fender. Anyway, the engine worked and we started to drive to her friend's house. We were stopped by a policeman, who said no one was allowed on the streets. But when we explained what had happened and where we were going, he let us pass. 'Go quickly,' he said, 'and don't stop anywhere.' After a tense drive, we arrived at a large older house."
Other Navy wives and children were already there. "I clearly remember that first evening. I shared a bedroom with a window facing Pearl Harbor, still burning with columns of fire and smoke. Betty and I watched a very long time, wondering what was happening, not knowing if our husbands were dead or alive. After dark we heard the sound of planes (ours, we were told) and more shooting. Red flares floated down in the night. Later, we heard that the planes could not identify themselves properly and were shot down. It was tragic; we killed many of our own aviators."
A few days later, Sis was invited to stay with a close Navy friend, Phyllis Karaberis, who, with her husband Connie, lived in a large, uncrowded apartment farther up the Nuuanu Valley. Along with another Navy wife, Betty Wampler, Sis lived at the Karaberis' for the rest of the time she was in Hawaii.
Wilbur Wright's retelling of events at Pearl Harbor
in the Naval Institute's Americans at War Series
The weeks after the attack brought many changes that affected the lives of Sis and her friends. A 6 p.m. curfew was implemented, and no one was allowed on the streets after dark. There was a total blackout every night. The bathroom was the only room where a light couldn't be seen from the outside, so the three women set up a card table, along with some chairs, a radio, and salt and pepper, and "that's where we ate. We would prepare dinner just before dark, then carry our plates into the bathroom, close the door, turn on the light, eat, and listen to the news. Sometimes we would listen to 'The Shadow Knows,' which was very scary. We also listened to Tokyo Rose, who came on after 'The Shadow.' How we hated her and all her bad propaganda about our Navy! One night while listening to 'The Shadow,' we were scared silly when Phyllis thought she heard a noise in the living room. We turned out the light and listened. Then it came again—a knock at the front door. Phyllis felt her way through the dark into the living room and asked who it was. It turned out to be the night watchman, who said that somebody had reported seeing a light shining through the keyhole of our front door! We immediately covered it."
In the days and weeks after the attack, rumors abounded. In Sis' words, "There were constant reports that the Japanese were going to return and we would all be prisoners. Once, the neighborhood watchman knocked on the door and said he'd been told that Japanese agents had poisoned the water supply: We should quickly fill pans of water before everything was contaminated. Another time, a knock on the door brought news that the Japanese had surrounded the island and every able-bodied man was to get a gun and go to the beaches. We were also told at one point that there was a spy in the hills above us who kept changing his location and couldn't be found. I believe this was the only rumor that may have had some truth to it."
A significant problem was money, which, because the attack disrupted mail and paychecks, was soon in short supply. Eventually, word was received that the chaplain at Pearl Harbor had organized an emergency allotment fund and had set up a temporary pay office for dependents on the base. But walking through the base was a deeply disturbing experience for Sis. "The bombed ships and destruction there was overwhelming—I couldn't believe it." As the women passed one sunken ship they were told that men had been trapped inside and suffocated. "I was sick inside as we walked along, trying to get by as quickly as possible. I remember asking if there was some other way to return."
And, of course, Sis' concerns for the safety of her husband magnified as the weeks passed. "I did not hear from [Bill] for two weeks after December 7th. At least once, he had flown into Pearl and been shot at by our own gunners. He had tried to locate us, but was unsuccessful and had to return immediately to the Chester. He had time to buy a newspaper, however, which stated that a bomb had hit a house at the corner of Lewers and Kahio. After that, he did not know if we were dead or alive. Finally, we got to see each other at the base for an hour, maybe longer. We were so happy and grateful to be temporarily safe and together again. At least the initial uncertainties were over. It seemed like there was only time for a hug and a kiss before he was skimming across the harbor in his little plane, heading back to his ship."
Sis never forgot that first wartime Christmas of 1941 in Hawaii—no colorful lights, outside decorations, or presents. Mail had not been received since before the attack, but the local postman said he would try to locate and deliver one package for each of them to open on Christmas. "Betty Wampler had a tiny silver-colored tree about two-and-a-half feet high, so we placed it on the table in the bathroom and put the three presents that the postman delivered next to the tree. Phyllis received a record that she had wanted. Betty already knew that her present was—a pink silk nightgown from her mother.
"When Betty handed me my package she said, 'Now it's your turn, Sis. What do you think it is?' 'It feels like a coat hanger,' I replied, and we all laughed. It was a coat hanger! A blue plastic coat hanger—from elderly Aunt Martha, my favorite aunt! I loved her dearly, but we couldn't stop laughing. I kept it for years until it was finally lost during one of our many moves around the world."
Christmas dinner consisted of a can of chili and a box of crackers. "We looked at each other, then burst out laughing as we simultaneously said, 'Merry Christmas.' In later years, the Christmas of '41 brought back many difficult memories, but thanks to that little tree and the blue plastic coat hanger, what could have been a rather sad holiday turned out to be quite fun."
After Christmas, Sis stayed close to home with her baby. Every few weeks somebody's husband would get home for a couple of hours or maybe overnight. The news they brought about the war was not good. "It was several months before I saw Bill again. Later, I learned that the Chester had been bombed during a raid on the Marshall and Gilbert islands, and that in the battle, he had somehow managed to fight off nine different attacks by Japanese planes and fly his slow, bullet-riddled floatplane back to his ship."
Finally, she got word that he was back. "I put you in your carriage and we went to meet him at the bus stop. We waited a long time. I could see the bus coming up the hill, but it was empty. My heart sank. Then it swung to the curb: Your father, dressed in his uniform and grinning from ear to ear, was driving the bus. I couldn't believe my eyes! He got out and the Hawaiian driver, laughing loudly, slid back into his seat. They were both so pleased with themselves! Apparently, when the bus got to the valley, he was the only passenger, so he asked the driver if he could take the wheel a couple of blocks before his stop—to surprise his wife—and the driver agreed. It became one of our special memories. After a few days, he was gone again."
Shortly thereafter, Sis and her friends were abruptly informed that they were to leave Hawaii. "One morning without any warning, Phyllis and I received a notice from the Navy that we were to be evacuated by ship from Oahu on Easter Sunday, 1942. We were to be at the dock at 8 a.m., and had only 48 hours to get ready. We were told to wear slacks because on the voyage, we would have to wear Navy-issue lifejackets at all times. Unfortunately, the Navy didn't have any lifejackets for infants and I didn't have any slacks, so I immediately went shopping. I managed to buy a slack suit for myself and a tiny red lifejacket.
"On Easter Sunday we said goodbyes and left the Nuuanu Valley. I took [the baby], emergency bag and the stroller, and my suitcase (which was never put on the ship by the Navy and subsequently lost). When we arrived at the docks it was total confusion. There were hundreds of wives and children. Someone gave me a gorgeous orchid lei. When the ship sailed, Phyllis and the others threw theirs overboard, but I kept mine."
The trip to San Francisco on the S.S. Matsonia was a nightmare. Sis was seasick the whole time. The ship had been converted into a troop transport, and Sis' cabin, located below the waterline, had nine canvas bunks—"each laced with rope. Every morning I went to the steam room, where mothers made baby formulas. It was horribly crowded and hot. Fortunately, Phyllis was a great help. One night we heard guns, and they told us an enemy submarine had been seen. When we were in sight of land, I saw a huge blimp circling overhead. Soon the Golden Gate Bridge came into view—it was very reassuring. At the dock the Navy had many volunteers to meet us and help with transportation to a hotel. Phyllis and I shared a room that night, but she left the next morning for Coronado to see a doctor; she had a lump in her breast. Phyllis Karaberis died of cancer two years later, while her husband was fighting in the Pacific."
As the war continued, its agonies were never far away. "Our friends Jack Crutchfield and Ben Oakley were lost when their submarines were sunk. Sam Adams was shot down and killed in the Battle of Midway. Fortunately, Bill was not there; he had been promoted and was in California, forming a new squadron of torpedo bombers. . . . Many other close friends were killed—fine young men with wonderful wives. I am so grateful to all of them. I cannot thank them enough for their friendship and help in those bleak times."
An ApologyThe war was so awful, so prejudiced. In California, our government was putting Japanese-American citizens into detention camps. They lost everything and must have suffered so much. It was no fault of theirs, they simply looked Japanese. It was terribly unjust, plain wrong. I apologize to all of them and to the many wonderful Japanese Americans in Honolulu for my using the term "Japs." I didn't like it then or now, but I was young, the war was going on, and it was an expression used at that time. I ask their forgiveness.Isabel A. "Sis" Bartlett |