by young men in service together, bonds that even the passage of decades and death itself cannot fully sever. I gaze at the first urn placed inside here in March 1984 and pause for a respectful moment of prayer before rising again to the deck. I turn to my right and head for the stern, and there, in water that is only a couple of yards deep, I float on the surface and look down at the empty socket for the jackstaff where Arizona’s flag once flew.
After the blast that split open Arizona and set her ablaze, the crew abandoned ship. Flooded and sunk to the bottom, Arizona rested in the soft mud, which gradually, as the next few days passed, yielded to the weight of the massive ship. Ultimately, the decks disappeared beneath the water. Today, they lie just a few feet below the surface and nearly half the hull is buried in the mud. But on the evening of December 7, even as fires blazed forward, the stern was not touched and the ship’s huge American ensign hung off the jackstaff. One of Arizona’s officers, Lieutenant Kleber S. Master son, was ashore during the attack. He returned to assist with first aid and muster the surviving crew members. “There weren’t many,” he later said. “Out of eight-four men in my fire control division, I think there were only five survivors.”
After being temporarily reassigned to the battleship Maryland, Masterson decided to return to Arizona to take down the flag. “It was the big Sunday ensign flying from the stern, and it was dragging in the water and getting all messed up with oil.” With another Arizona survivor, Ensign Leon Grabowsky, Masterson motored over to the still-burning ship in a launch. Jumping aboard, they found only an eerie silence. “We heard no noises, because there were, of course, no survivors under that little bit of deck we could walk on.” As the sun set, Grabowsky lowered the flag while Masterson gathered up the oily cloth in his arms. They returned to Maryland and handed over the flag to the officer of the deck, who sent it off to be burned. Drifting over the spot where the two officers performed that final ceremonial duty, I think not only of Masterson and Grabowsky but of all the men who died that day.
Backing up, I drop down to look at the fantail. A buoy chained to the wreck here marks the stern to passing boats. The buoy’s mooring chain drags across the steel hull, back and forth, scraping off corrosion and marine growth. The thick steel letters that spell out the name ARIZONA are bright and shiny, polished by the incessant movement of the chain. They reflect some of the sunlight that drifts down through the water, and for brief moments, the name of the ship blazes as if on fire again. It is an awe-inspiring sight, and I hang there listening to the beat of my heart and the air moving through my regulator.
Swimming back to the edge of the deck, we follow it along the starboard side, coming up to an open hatch near the No. 3 turret. I hover over it, looking down into the darkness, my light picking up the tangle of debris that blocks it. Then, to my surprise, I see something rising up to meet me. It is a blob of oil, no bigger than a child’s marble. It passes the edge of the hatch and floats to the surface, where it turns into an iridescent slick. Six seconds later, another globule of oil follows it, and I, like so many others who have watched this phenomenon, am struck by the fact that Arizona still bleeds.
The light-filled warm waters on the shallowly submerged deck give way to darkness as we pass beneath the memorial. I look up through the water and notice visitors staring down, some of them seeing me, others gazing out and a few tossing their offerings of flower leis into the sea. We pause here for a drop over the side, past the empty mount for a 5-inch gun, and drop down to the top of the torpedo blister. The blister, a late addition to the ship’s armored sides, was supposed to protect Arizona from submarine attack by absorbing the impact of a torpedo. The defenses of Pearl Harbor were focused on a submarine attack, not an aerial assault.
The hatches that line the top of the torpedo blister are open, but what we are looking for should be resting atop the blister. In April 1982, the widow of an Arizona survivor who wished to rest with his shipmates dropped his urn from the memorial onto the wreck. With the decision to place urns in the open well of No. 4 turret, the National Park Service has just received her permission to relocate his urn from the blister. I think I see the urn, but it lies inside a corroded section of hull that cuts deep into my thumb when I try to pull it free. We leave the urn there. It is wedged in too deeply, so this is where it will remain.
The dropping of that urn and the decision to allow the interment of other survivors inside the hull of Arizona attest to the ongoing emotional pull of the wreck. I am reminded of that as we drift past the overhanging memorial again and look down at the deck, lit brightly by the sun. Combs, sunglasses and camera lens caps lie where they were dropped accidentally. Coins carpet the deck, so many coins, in fact, that the National Park Service sends in snorkeling rangers to collect these offerings to the sea and donates them to charity. But as we swim along, we spot photographs, some weighted down, others waterlogged and moving loose with the swell. They show women whose hair has gone gray or white, some with younger men and women and babies. I wonder for a second, why these are here, and then it hits me. These are wives and sweethearts, now grown old, sharing children and grandchildren with Arizona’s dead.
We continue on over the remains of the galley. The stubs of the legs of the steam tables, mess tables and the bases of ovens protrude through the mud. Here and there, bright white hexagonal tiles are uncovered as our fins sweep the deck clear of silt. Broken dishes, coffee cups and silverware lie scattered, reminders of a breakfast forever interrupted. The tile on the decks gives way to teak, unblemished and still polished in places. Despite the passage of decades and the onslaught of corrosion, there are places that time has not touched. In addition to the teak decks, we find a porthole with its glass in place, and inside it, the steel blast cover set tight and dogged down in condition “Z” for battle. Between the steel and the glass, the space is only partially flooded with oily water.
Another moment stopped in time lies on Arizona. Snaked-out lines of fire hose show where some of the crew fought not against the attacking enemy but to save their ship. As thick, choking smoke smothered the decks, men dragged out hoses to deal with the fires caused by the several bombs that hit the ship. Those men were wiped clean off the decks by the final blast that sank Arizona. Seven bombs hit the battleship before the last blow, at least three of them massive 1,750-pound, armor-piercing bombs made from 16-inch naval projectiles taken from the magazines of the Japanese battleship Nagato. Flying high above the harbor, Petty Officer Noburo Kanai, in the rear seat of a Nakajima B5N2 bomber from the carrier Soryu, trained his sights on the stricken Arizona. He released his bomb from 9,800 feet and watched as it spiraled down and struck the battleship’s decks. He yelled “Ataramashita!” (It hit!)
The bomb struck Arizona near the No. 2 turret and punched through three decks before exploding deep inside the bowels of the ship, setting off about a thousand pounds of high-explosive black powder stored in a small magazine. The force of the blast smashed through an armored deck and ignited the ship’s forward powder magazines. Each 14-inch gun magazine held 10 tons of powder, and each 5-inch gun magazine held 13 tons. Nine of these magazines, holding altogether 99 tons of powder, erupted in a low, rumbling roar that released heat so intense it softened steel. The blast and the wave of heat bucked the ship out of the water, nearly taking off the bow as it twisted. The decks collapsed as the armored sides of the battleship blew out. The No. 1 turret, engulfed by the inferno, fell forward into the maw of the explosion’s crater. A massive fireball climbed into the sky. Fragments of bodies and debris from the ship fell onto nearby Ford Island, onto the decks of other ships and into the water. A few survivors, most of them badly burned, were hurled through the air and into the water.
Many men never made it out from their battle stations inside the ship. Trapped below, they were either incinerated by fire or drowned as water poured into the ruptured hull. I think of them as we swim past the side of the No. 2 turret, its guns stripped away by U.S. Navy salvagers, and arrive at the top of the No. I turret, whose three 14-inch guns angle down. The U.S. fleet at Pearl Harbor was sent to the bottom by a new force in naval war: aircraft. In a matter of minutes, aerial torpedoes and bombs devastated the American ships at Pearl Harbor. In a heartbeat, Arizona, a mighty battlewagon bristling with huge guns capable of hurtling massive steel shells across the horizon, died, and few of her complement of 1,177 men escaped. Inside this turret, the gun crew, like their ship, sleeps for eternity.
As we drop down into darkness, we see no trace of the fatal wound, the hole punched through the decks by the last bomb, but the destruction of the magazines and the fierce flames that burned for forty-eight hours created a deep depression into which the No. 1 turret has fallen. Moving forward, we reach a twisted mass of metal that looks like a tangle of giant flower petals and ribbon. This is the peeled-back armored deck, once horizontal but now vertical, and its sheared supports. We see more evidence of the force of the blast at each side, with hull plates pushed out as much as 20 feet. I rise along this wall and reach the gaping maw of the hawse pipes, which stand
