December 1941 (41 page)

In addition to a flurry of memos about the disposition of the
Sea Cloud,
a yacht that had been requisitioned by the navy and owned by a wealthy individual, Roosevelt also had to put up with Harold Stark, who was a racist and a bootlick. “Dear Mr. President, You are not only the most important man to the United States today, but to the world. If anything should happen to you, it would be a catastrophe. I do not say this to you because of my own personal relationship, but as a cold-blooded fact. I have said if I were Hitler and were timing it, and he probably has timed it, that I would have ready a spectacular raid on the United States—Washington, New York, or somewhere. Please . . . let somebody provide . . . a place where, in case of an air raid or any other disturbance, not only your safety, but the precious hours of sleep which you need and which are probably too few, would be provided for against any disturbance of any kind.”
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The news coming from the Philippines and the entire Pacific was becoming gloomier as the battle for Wake Island raged on, and the Japanese were advancing toward General Douglas MacArthur. The Japanese took the airport on Luzon by parachuting in thousands of troops. “More than 100 bombs were dropped in the first hour of the attack.”
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The Japanese were invading Luzon and inexorably driving towards Manila. Furthermore, Tokyo claimed to have sunk a U.S. battleship and submarine in the area, though neither was identified. Berlin radio reported that the Japanese had sunk an American aircraft carrier, the
Lexington
, which, if true, would have been a devastating blow. But both Tokyo and Berlin were schooled in psychological warfare and, in the days after December 7, flooded the airwaves with disinformation.

It also appeared that the British “Gibraltar of the Far East,” Singapore, was about to fall to Tokyo.
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The great fear among G.I.'s was falling captive into enemy hands. The Japanese believed no man should ever allow himself to be a captive of another man, and in their culture, it was better to die than to live with the shame of being a prisoner of war. Personal suicide had an honored place in the Japanese culture. Trouble was, they imposed this view onto their enemies, and it would shortly become known how monstrously cruel and cold-blooded the Japanese were towards American, British, and Australian POWs. Furthermore, what Americans did not realize how racist many of the Japanese military leadership were. They hated Anglos, Chinese, Koreans—anyone not of the Japanese race and culture.

The bad news kept coming. The Japanese took the American consulate in Hanoi and arrested the U.S. Representative there, O. Edmund Clubb, along with his staff.
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Americans could take some cheer in the sinking of a large 29,000 ton Japanese battleship, believed to be the
Haruna
.
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But in a bombing raid on Manila and Cavite, the Japanese claimed they'd destroyed dozens of parked American planes. Cavite was aflame. Still, a spokesman for MacArthur told reporters, “‘The situation is completely in hand' and that Japanese forces along the coast were being mopped up.”
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Roosevelt had once said of MacArthur, “never underestimate a man who overestimates himself.”
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Roosevelt also once told a crony that Huey Long and MacArthur were the most dangerous men in America.
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There was no doubt, though, that MacArthur was a national hero, an image fostered in part by his aggressive press staff. For example, the week of December 8, there was the
g
eneral, heroically photographed on the cover of
Life
magazine with the caption, “Commander of the Far East.”
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The magazine effusively called him a “stickler for sartorial splendor.” The fawning profile was written by Claire Boothe, wife of
Life
publisher Henry Luce.
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The U.S. Army continued to run print ads asking for recruits, but it was a waste of time. None of the branches could process the incoming deluge of applicants fast enough.

The first member of Congress to be called up was a young and lanky congressman from the Hill Country of Texas. An FDR and New Deal man through and through, Lyndon Baines Johnson, was ordered to report in San Francisco for active duty at the 12th Naval District, with the rank of Lieutenant Commander.
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The day after FDR's address to Congress, Johnson went to see Admiral Chester Nimitz, also from the Hill Country of Texas, and ask Nimitz to sign the paperwork placing him on active duty.
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It wasn't as noble as it appeared. It was really about making himself look good to his constituents. Johnson successfully wheedled and schemed and pulled strings to keep himself out of the war zone and off any ship; ultimately, he only saw the most minimal of duty, sometimes seeming more like a tourist in the Pacific than a fighting man for the Navy. He and his aide, John Connally, found time to tour nightclubs in California and hire a Hollywood photographer to take pictures of them in their Navy dress uniforms.
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After the war, the driven young congressman would prove his relentless ability to get what he wanted as senator and then president.

The sale of defense bonds quickened even as the newspapers were still hawking Christmas gifts. Suggestions for gifts that men could give their wives included diamond rings, going for as much as $29.00,
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and “Barbizon gowns,” elaborately designed slips and lingerie.
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Also being hawked were fur coats from $59.95 up to $325.00 at J. Fred Johnson & Co. in Kingsport, New York.
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Racial stereotypes also filled the newspapers. In the
Evening Star
, the D. L. Bromwell Co. was advertising the “Darkey Hitching Post,” a racial caricature of a black lawn jockey in the form of a small yard statue.
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Haley's Car Service ran an ad with a drawing of a Japanese man in the now-familiar distortion complete with oversized eye glasses, evil-looking eyebrows and a large and mean smile.
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Other popular choices were Old Spice aftershave in an elaborate box set for men, and lingerie for women.

Approaching the holiday season, U.S. Agriculture officials assured American households that there was no need to worry about food scarcity, despite gossip going around. “They pointed to America's bulging granaries and well stocked pastures, and confidently seconded President Roosevelt's declaration that ‘there is enough food for us all' and more left over to send abroad. Only in the case of spices . . . and some luxury items imported [from] the Far East is there the possibility of a restricted supply.”
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In California “alien Japanese”-grown vegetables were taken off the market even though there was plenty of demand. “At present, no transactions are being made and none are legal with alien Japanese,” said a produce official. Also, there was fear of poisoned vegetables coming from alien Japanese farms making their way into stores there.
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Housewives were stocking up for the Christmas holidays and would need plenty of sugar for pastries. Sugar was fetching 15 cents for a two-pound bag, two cans of Del Monte Bartlett peaches were 29 cents, and “Flako” pie crust was 11 cents a package.
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A quart of 90-proof rum was going for $1.99, though food prices had skyrocketed in the past year.
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Corn was emerging as a vitally important staple of the diet for civilians and G.I.'s, as well as important feed for livestock. From corn, scientists could extract oil, sugar, and starch along with “a multiplicity of chemicals used in everything from textile and drug manufacture to leather tanning and explosives.”
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Fortunately for the war effort, corn harvests for 1941 had gone through the roof, with billions of bushels generated.

At the McCord radio factory in Detroit, new helmets were being developed for the military. For over twenty years, American G.I.'s had still been using the old “doughboy” helmets of the Great War, which when turned upside down, looked like a chamber pot. The new helmet were stronger, more comfortable, and most importantly, provided more protection to the American soldier.
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The head of the Office of Production Management, William Knudsen, held a press conference in which he not only called for a doubling of the production of four-engine bombers, from 500 to 1,000 per month, but also for a “168-hour, 7-day work week.” Industries that needed to be stepped up, he said, were “guns, planes, tanks, ammunition and shipbuilding.” Plants for the construction of aircraft would be located inland, away from easy enemy air attacks.
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Also in Detroit, the Nash-Kelvinator Company was churning out airplane propellers. A week earlier, Nash-Kelvinator had been making cars and appliances.
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America's peacetime industrial might was rapidly becoming a wartime “Arsenal of Democracy.”

America easily outstripped the Axis powers in the production of steel and in the mining of sulphur, which was needed for gunpowder. Indeed, up until December 7, much of the world's exports of sulphur came from the United States.

The newest casualty lists rolled in from the Pacific, and now death announcements were beginning to appear in local newspapers. War Department letters were arriving at the homes of grief-stricken parents and newly minted widows. In small-town America in 1941, there were few secrets; when someone learned of the loss of a beloved boy, within minutes neighbors knew and would come over to offer condolences. Shortly thereafter, the family minister or priest or rabbi was at the home to help console the suffering parents and forlorn family.

The local newspaper would invariably find out and write up a small story of the boy who'd died, giving his rank and service of record, along with a photo from the family (if possible) and a quote from the boy's high school football coach or scoutmaster. Headlines such as “Two Alabamians Die in fighting around Hawaii”
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or, “Lynn, Hingham Youths Killed at Honolulu”
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appeared in papers around the country.

After the initial gasping shock from the mailman—who painfully knew he was the unwilling messenger of death—came the realization that their son was never coming home again, never bounding into the kitchen again, asking what was for dinner. A boy who had left home, tousle-haired, full of adventure, freckle-faced, toothsome, the light of his parents' life, the joy of his grandparents, the secret love of the girl next door, was now dead. His Christian name had often been an afterthought. He was not John but “Johnny.” He was not Edward but “Eddie.” He was not Thomas but “Tommy.” Or he might have had a nickname—Butch, Dutch, Mick, Duke, or Barney.

Now the boy would never know the love of a good woman or watch his son take his first step or have a catch with that son. He would never see the first time his son would put a razor to his face, watch a daughter go off to the prom, walk her down the aisle, or know the quiet pride of being a good man among the uncommon men of his country.

Grey hair would never be combed. His parents would never hold him again, hug him again, and dry his tears again, even as they could not stop their own. The pain and the feeling of emptiness and helplessness were unbearable for the thousands of inconsolable parents and grandparents and brothers and sisters. Everybody had a sick, wrenching, and wretched feeling in the pits of their stomachs. Some filled theirs with alcohol to deaden the pain. Some mothers' hair went white in a matter of days. Some simply withdrew. None would ever get over the loss of their boy.

It was so final, so useless, so stupid, so heartrending. But it was also as necessary as it was tragic.

Private William T. Anderson of Quantico, Virginia, was first on the new lists of dead soldiers, though the names was not released in alphabetical order. His nearest relative was his now grief-incapacitated father, Herbert C. Anderson.
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This roll call of the dead came from the army and announced eighty-seven more men killed in Hawaii. The list was of three officers and eighty-four enlisted men. Under the heading, “More Victims” a second list of eleven men killed was released, but it was also announced that Private Robert R. Niedzwiecki of Grand Rapids and Private Raymond C. Joiner, of Henderson, North Carolina, who had both been reported as killed, were in fact alive, much to the relief of their families.
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The parents of Wilbur Carr of Franklin, Ohio, were also relieved to find that the reports of their son's death had been premature.
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Another tragic Pearl Harbor death was that of Rear Admiral Isaac Campbell Kidd, fifty-seven, the first flag officer to die in the Pacific. Kidd had reported for duty on Oahu in February of 1940. He was a chief of staff and an aide to the commander of a battleship group in Pearl Harbor, though the War Department did not release the name of the ship on which he lost his life on December 7.
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(It was later learned that Kidd was on the bridge of the
Arizona
where he assumed command, trying vainly to get it up to battle stations. When the ship exploded, he was killed and his remains never recovered. For years, Kidd had warned to deaf ears to watch out for the Japanese and was regarded in the navy as an expert on the emerging enemy. His son, Isaac C. Kidd Jr., was scheduled to graduate the following week from the Naval Academy in Annapolis, just as his father had in 1906. Admiral “Captain Kidd” was later posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.
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