The Pearl Harbor Murders

Morton boys-Don, eleven, and Jerry, thirteen-did not brandish poles: instead, they unfurled a simple ball of string out into the water.

The boys were old hands at this, though they were resigned to slim pickings, even if on occasion they had managed to snag a hapless perch; and while the morning's fishing would certainly be on the dull side, Don and Jerry would no doubt be entertained by the harbor's always interesting parade of ships and sailors, planes and pilots….

Puffs of wind gently stirred the glassy surface of the water, and the sun peeked from behind cotton-candy clouds, promising a hot, lazy day-a typical Sunday for the two boys, although the fish did seem to be biting, for a change.

Seeking more bait, Don scrambled up to their house, only two hundred yards from the landing, while Jerry lounged in the golden sunlight, squinting as he took in a view any kid might relish, the ships of the Pacific Fleet strewn before him like so many toys in his tub. Groupings of destroyers convened about their tenders, to the north and east; and cruisers faced into the Navy Yard piers, at the southeast. Farther south lay the cruiser Helena, and-in dry dock with two destroyers-the battleship Pennsylvania. To the west were more destroyers, in and out of dry dock.

Lording over it all, in the middle of the harbor, sat Ford Island, where even now the boys' stepfather was on duty at the seaplane hangars. Patrol planes and carriers were stationed there, carriers moored on the northwest side, battleships on the southeast. Only today, Jerry noted, the carriers were all out at sea.

But there was still plenty for a kid to look at-the Utah, a battleship turned target ship; the seaplane tenders Swan and Tangier; the mine layer Ogala; cruisers like the Raleigh, Helena and Detroit; the old gunboat Sacramento with its thin, old- fashioned smokestack; and-on the far side of Ford Island-an exciting lineup of funnels and masts, the 'trees' of Battleship Row, the Arizona, California, Maryland, Nevada, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and West Virginia. What other kid's bathtub armada could compare to that?

Still, all of this was old news to Jerry, who was glad the fish were biting. Otherwise, this had the makings of another really dull Sunday-that must have been why somebody was playing with firecrackers, off in the distance someplace.

Twenty miles east of where Jerry and Don were fishing, on the windward coast of the island, Japanese fighter planes and dive-bombers were swooping down on Kaneohe Naval Air Station.

One moment all was quiet, the next men were running after guns and ammunition, shouting, cursing, as the enemy planes made scrap metal out of the big PBY patrol planes at the station, moored to buoys in the bay and sitting unmanned on ramps.

Thirty-three Army planes were either damaged or destroyed.

All were in flames.

Don Morton was halfway down to the pier from the house, bringing more bait, when an explosion pitched him onto his face. The eleven-year-old covered his ears, his head, as three more blasts rocked the world over and around him.

Then, scared spitless, he scurried back up the slope and ran inside the house, just as his mother was coming out, her face white, her eyes wide.

Standing there in the doorway, she leaned down, putting her hands on his shoulders. 'Go down and fetch your brother-now! Hurry!'

Don did as he was told, even as planes were gliding by overhead, housetop level. The boy heard gunfire and realized it was coming from above, and the dirt road nearby puffed up, making little dust clouds, as the pilot strafed the area.

As dust danced on the road, Don-momentarily frozen-yelled, 'Jerry!'

And then the boy turned and ran back to the house, and his mommy. When he got there, Don saw their next-door neighbor, a Navy lieutenant, in his p.j.'s., out on his own front yard.

The funny thing was, the grown man was crying too, crying for his mommy.

FBI agent Sterling was at the wheel of the black Ford with Burroughs in front, and Hully was in the backseat, sitting forward, like a kid.

As they headed for the Japanese Consulate, downtown, Burroughs was dismayed to see civilians failing to take cover, standing out in their yards and on the sidewalks, staring skyward, pointing at the plumes of black smoke, some laughing, convinced they were watching the military training exercise to end all such exercises.

Perhaps they were, he thought.

At first the traffic was nonexistent, the streets vacant, spookily, ominously so; and as the spectators began to get the point-as radios around the city informed them this was 'the real McCoy!' — the citizens of Honolulu scrambled inside, leaving the sidewalks and front yards empty, as well.

For several blocks, the emptiness-punctuated by the muffled sound of explosions-was eerie, almost as if the world had ended, leaving behind only brick and concrete.

Suddenly, vehicles were everywhere, speeding, careening, civilian autos and taxicabs packed with sailors and soldiers desperate to get back to their ships and posts, delivery vans and ambulances and fire trucks, sirens screaming….

Soon the FBI agent's Ford was snarled in traffic.

Sterling, pounding the wheel impatiently, turned to Burroughs. 'You really think Yoshikawa alias Mori-mura knew today was the day?'

Burroughs shrugged, sighed; the German's little automatic was in his hand. 'Maybe not. Maybe he just knew that some Sunday soon, Oahu would be the target.'

Sterling's smile was bitter; he shook his head. 'All I keep thinking is 'poinsettias and hibiscus.' '

From the back, Hully said, 'That radiophone call?'

'Code,' Burroughs said.

Sterling nodded. 'Code, all right-for certain kinds of ships.'

Burroughs glanced at his son. 'Maybe that bastard did know-our esteemed vice consul.'

Traffic began to move again-as sirens wailed, and the sky roared.

'If we can ever get to the Consulate,' Sterling said, through tight teeth, 'we'll just ask the son of a bitch.'

On a windy plain ten miles north of Pearl Harbor lay Wheeler Field, the Pacific's largest American fighter base. U-shaped barricades had been constructed to protect Wheeler's nearly one hundred fighter planes, Army Air Force P-40s and P-36s; this morning, however, the planes were clustered on the runways, wingtip to wing-tip- playing out General Short's antisabotage strategy, a policy the other Oahu bases were following, as well. Japanese planes pounced on the sitting ducks, dropping bombs, unleashing cannon fire and machine-gun blasts, chewing up the rows of parked fighters, fuel tanks igniting, leaving the hangars, enlisted men's barracks and PX in flames.

Dive-bombers swooped so low, inflicting their damage, that phone lines got snagged, and men on the ground could see the gold teeth in the grins of Jap pilots as they flashed by. No time to fight back, unarmed airmen died in their beds, or running for their planes, or for safety, though the base had no air-raid shelters. Their ammunition- locked away to keep local saboteurs from getting it, courtesy of General Short-was out of reach, stored in one of the burning hangars, bullets popping like popcorn in the conflagration.

Then the planes soared away, leaving thirty-nine men dead, and many more wounded.

Just north of Wheeler, at the suburban sprawl that was Schofield Barracks, sounds resembling explosions roused the interest of soldiers, who-upon glancing outside the mess hall-saw a plane with a black canopy and fuselage marked with a red spot, circling the roof of the building housing HQ. Breakfast trays in hand, several soldiers were arguing over whether this was a Jap plane or some strange Navy craft, when buglers trumpeted an alert. The men tossed their trays and ran from the mess hall into the quadrangle; others sought out rifles, and two artillerymen ran to the rooftop and fired at planes with Browning Automatic Rifles, emptying clips at the dive- bombers.

One of the Jap planes crashed.

Cheers went up.

Then a new topic of conversation took over among the frightened young soldiers: how much would it hurt to be shot by a Jap bullet? Was it true the Nips only used.25 caliber ammo?