A Day to Honor

A Day to Honor

In his speech, in which he asked the Congress of the United States of America to declare war upon the Empire of Japan, President Roosevelt said, "...a day that will live in infamy" and so tagged it forever.  Walter Lord wrote the book, "Day of Infamy," which I read sometime around 1962.  I was born in 1944, a product of the war, for my parents might never have met had it not been for that war; this was so of many of my generation.  We grew up with the words "Pearl Harbor" even if we did not fully grasp all that they meant.

I enlisted in the navy in 1961 at age seventeen; I had to have my mother's written permission to enlist.  I did my basic training in San Diego at the behemoth Naval Training Center and then I went to Radar "A" School in San Francisco for six months, and then, I was in the navy, the real navy, and by that  I mean on a ship.  I went aboard the USS Point Defiance (LSD-31) on December 28, 1961 when I was still seventeen.  Shortly after the first of the year, 1962, we steamed to Hawaii.  

As a radarman I spent my working day buried in darkness, in a small room, not much bigger than the closet of most girls I had known growing up in Pawhuska, Oklahoma.  It was called the repeater room because it held our two radar repeaters and it was lighted only by the eerie glow emitted by them.  The radar itself was a large box of vacuum tubes, wires, cables and capacitors which sent out a signal, let it bounce back and retrieved it.  A repeater "repeated" the signal as a series of blips which we could see on the monitor.  My world was lights, knobs, sound powered telephones, darkness, blips on the screen and orders from my senior petty officer.  I did not see the outdoors, sunlight, ocean, islands, from my job position.  But, fortunately, when we encountered sufficient land mass, the big radar received too many echoes too rapidly to separate A and became a bright greenish mass on the monitor screen, too difficult to interpret, a condition known as land locked.  

Fortunately, as we entered Pearl Harbor, the radar became landlocked, and our watch officer reported it and asked the Bridge for permission to secure, which was granted.  So, I was given permission to leave my job in CIC and go out on deck and see the world most deck sailors saw routinely.  It was amazing entering Pearl Harbor.  It was late January or early February, winter in my home, and here it was a beautiful, green spring day.  I stood on one side, starboard, I think, and watched as we passed cranes, hangers, dry docks, more ships than you can imagine.  It is a long harbor and takes time to negotiate.  I was a kid, seventeen, and I was in awe of all I saw then.  And then, we were there, Ford Island, tied to the side.  Just in front of us, literally, was a ship I knew of only from books and films, and now, I was standing on the brow of my ship and looking down at the ship in front of us, below the waterline, visible but only in a ghost like view.  The water gave it a greenish pall, perhaps because of the constant oil seepage still going on then.  The year was 1962, barely twenty years after the events of December 7, 1941, and there were so many survivors then who had been somewhere on Hawaii.  Both military and civilian people were affected that day and all of them had memories which could be easily tapped.  Many feelings were still raw and a slight conversation could trigger something and people would talk to you in somber tones, recall someone they knew who died that day.  Everyone suffered.

I was standing alone then, looking down upon the hulk of the USS Arizona (BB-39).  I can recall my feelings then, such a mixture of feelings.  I was in awe of the battle, saddened by the loss of so many good men, ashamed of our failure then, why we had been so badly defeated.  I could not pull my eyes away from the ship beneath the water.  The gun turrets had been removed, which I did not then understand.  The mounts where the gun turrets had been were visible, the mounts upon which giant gears had turned the turrets pointing long barrels towards the targets somewhere out there, for the guns could fire nearly fifteen miles away.  It was a death ship, it was a cemetery, it was a memorial.  The Arizona Memorial had not yet been built and was only planning in the future then.  Until then, everything for me had been history, something I had read in a book, seen in a film, such as "From Here to Eternity" or been told.  Looking down on the Arizona, it was real.  Men had died there.  My sense of the world was changed then.  A friend soon came up and we talked, probably the nonsense of two seventeen year old boys.  We probably smoked a cigarette then as we talked, leaning on the lines that prevented us from falling overboard.  We may have laughed, we may have joked, but we could not shake off the feeling of somberness that overcame us.

December 7 is a day I remember every year.  I wake up thinking about it, about seeing the USS Arizona, the feelings I had that day looking down on her remains.  I take time to honor the day in some way.  I may do something special that I have not done all year such as a special dinner.  I pay for the dinner for the only Pearl Harbor survivor I know.  He eats a small dinner, wears his cap all the time and is greeted by the people who know him.  Each year may be his last one for he has passed 90 years now.  I wish we could do more to honor him for his life here today represents not only his, but all the lives lost that day, the men he knew and with whom he served.  When he comes into the restaurant, we should stand as a group, call attention on deck and render him a full hand salute.  That won't happen, but we owe him.  Perhaps my small annual gesture is something to him; it's not enough, no, but maybe it honors him.  I hope so.

Stephen Joe "Red Boots" Payne 

November 23, 1963

November 23, 1963

Fifty years ago on that day I was aboard the USS Point Defiance (LSD-31) in Hong Kong Harbor.  It was November 23 because we were across the International Date line and the 23rd had arrived for us while the day in Dallas, Texas had been November 22.  Then there was the morning after.  I was a nineteen year old 3rd class radarman, petty officer (E-4) and I was standing the deck watch as Petty Officer of the Watch.  Our watch had an officer, a petty officer and an E-3 messenger.  It was dark and cold.  I was wearing dark blue, what were called undress blue, and I may have had my heavy jacket (a pea coat) on.  

I do not remember who the officer and messenger were that morning.  I remember the radio messenger but not his name today, but I remember his face.  There had been several sequences to begin the day.  First, the LCVP on duty had just left with a full boat of liberty crew.  It was very cold in the boat and to a man, all of them had on the heavy, dark blue pea coats.  I had helped the Officer of the deck in dispatching the liberty crew down the side into the LCVP.

The lead petty officer in the boat that morning was a first class from below decks, a machinist mate I think.  He was a good man, with an outgoing personality, winning smile and a friendly manner.  He had been the last to enter the LCVP and was making some joke as he saluted the ensign to the stern of the ship, barked out "Permission to go ashore, sir" to the officer and disappeared down the side of the ship and into the LCVP.  I stood, watching the wake of the LCVP in the dawning light and listening to the powerful engine as it moved the boat towards the massive neon lighted Mercedes-Benz sign over Hong Kong Harbor, where the liberty pier lay.  I was not thinking of liberty but of my earned sleep.  I had been up and on the deck since before 04:00 hours, I was tired, cold, hungry and ready for my break.

The three of us were talking, drinking coffee, joking, laughing, a typical watch.  I saw the radio messenger walking down from the 02 level towards us, a sailor I knew.  He was a seaman (E-3), radio striker and carrying a metal messenger board, positioning it out in front so that I knew he was bringing a message to the officer.  As petty officer I would see the message first, make the signature for receipt and then pass it on to the officer on deck.  I was trying to talk to the messenger, having fun, making light and I could not shake him.  He seemed so serious, as though the air had gone out of him, more than air, it was as though the light had gone out of him.  The day was still dark and though we had lights on and around the quarterdeck, I had not yet looked up and into his face.  I was talking to him as I signed the message receipt and then I read it, once, then again.  I looked at him then and tears were streaming down his face.  I remember some things of how I felt, of how I suddenly changed from a laughing, joking young man to a somber sailor with duties in front of me.  There was a feeling as though my whole body had been suddenly and violently jerked.  I felt sickness in my stomach that invaded me and traveled all over me.  I read it again and I looked at the messenger.  

"Is this a joke?" I fairly barked out at him.  No answer came but he slowly, sadly shook his head no.  The officer stepped quickly to us and asked, "What is it?"  I could not let go of the onion skin paper I held in my hand, even though by now the officer was holding it too.  Navy messages have a standard form, a lot of time, date, from and to information, and then the message.  They are usually routine. This was not routine.  There was too much detail in that for me to recall, from Comsomething to all US navy ships and personnel, etc.  I'll never forget the message.  It was typed in all capital letters and was simple.  "Lower all flags to half mast in honor of the death of President John F. Kennedy."

"LOWER ALL FLAGS TO HALF MAST IN HONOR OF THE DEATH OF PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY."

The words fairly shouted from the page.

The officer asked, "Is this a joke?"  We couldn't grasp it and each of us kept asking that.  The messenger was a good guy, a tough guy who rarely smiled but he was still a good guy, and he was in such pain.  Then we asked him, "What happened?"  He couldn't speak.  He merely shook his head in the universal "Don't know."  The officer began to think then, "Have you notified the Captain?"  I don't remember the answer but we had duties to perform and I know we must have started them.

The LCVP we had dispatched was now returning, an LCVP which would normally have been empty save for the coxswain (boat driver) and assistant.  As it gained on our ship, we saw it full of dark uniforms with pea coats and white hats.  Not a single sailor had stayed behind on the beach and we wondered with new dread.  The first class petty officer who had been the last to leave the ship, with his masterful salute and booming "Permission to go ashore sir" was the first to top the ladder and face us.  This time he did not turn aft to face the ensign, he did not salute, he did not speak.  This strong man, with his natural leadership only turned to face us, holding an English Hong Kong newspaper with the massive black headline, "JFK Assassinated".  Now we knew how our President had died, ending the speculation we had moments before been expressing.  Now all of it set in:  the shock, the pain, the disbelief, the sadness, and then the anger.

Where were you on November 22, 1963?  The question echoes down for fifty years and everyone says that they remember, that they can't forget where they were and what they were doing on November 22, 1963.  I remember nothing about November 22 but I will remember November 23 for all my life, as I have done.  

Today, as fifty years of remembrance approaches, I can still feel the shock, the numbness, the pain, the disbelief and eventually the anger.  We were some 300 aboard the USS Point Defiance, my home for over three years, men whom I knew from our time together, from what was common to us.  We shared the uniform, the mess hall, the open decks, the time at sea, old salts we were called then, men who had been across oceans, some of us still remembering the Cuban Missile Crisis, our mission to Bangkok in 1962, the Thresher recovery mission and our journey to Viet Nam.  In a word, veterans; we thought we had done it all except for actual combat, for shots fired.  We were tough, experienced, world travelers and nothing could faze us.  We had been across the equator twice and each of us carried his Shellback card as proof, so that we would never have to experience that initiation again.  

What was common that day was a feeling shared.  Most of what we did, we did in silence.  I know I was hungry but did I go the mess and have breakfast?  I don't remember, but I know that if I did, I ate in silence.  I, a talkative and excited young man who loved to share experiences and opinions; I had nothing to say then.  I couldn't even talk about how I had learned, how the messenger had come to us on the quarterdeck with the news.  Not yet.  Later, I would talk about it and share my feelings and relive that moment.  Fifty years later I still have some of the same feelings.  I still feel disbelief.  I feel a sense of failure, as though it had been our job to protect the President and we had failed in it.  He was more than a man, as the flag is more than a dyed piece of cloth.  He was the symbol for everything that was the United States of America and that was our sworn oath, to protect the Constitution of the United States of America, the nation, our home and our President.  It was implied, and we had failed. It was the most helpless feeling, made more so as we began to get the news and learn that one man had done so much damage.  Anger came later and lots of it.  I wanted to personally strike the man who had shot the President.  

Every generation has a moment when we lose our innocence and learn that the world isn't really what we thought it was a short time before.  But I don't think we have ever had such a universal and tragic sense of loss for the world.  The entire world felt it, the world sympathized with us.  For a moment we were all Americans, everyone, everywhere.  The world stopped that day.  And I never believed it would stop again in that same way for me but then, again on September 11, 2001, I saw the world stop once again.

But I was older then, in 2001, by many years, and I had had many life experiences, good and bad; still, nothing prepared me for what I saw with the towers.  But back then, in 1963, the world seemed so much more simple and innocent.  The truth was probably not that simple for we lived in a world that was censured and hidden from us.  Much of our lives were hidden from view and controlled in so many ways and except for dark, hidden, underground press, all we got as news was spoon fed to us.

The date per se doesn't matter, but the question persists.  Where were you when you learned Kennedy had been killed?  What were you doing?  Like millions of citizens of the world, I remember, I will remember, and I will always feel sadness and today the sadness, the loss, persists more than the anger.  But I resent that one man stole so much from us, from all of us.

That's where I was, Hong Kong Harbor, a day in November of 1963, and that's what I was doing, standing the quarterdeck watch with an officer I liked and admired.  One minute, we were having fun; the next, our lives were lost and confused, and no matter what has happened since then, part of that loss and confusion remains.  It will always be with me.

Stephen