My visit to Pearl Harbor with my Grandfather

 My grandfather (who I called Papper) passed in late October of 1995, but it's always this day every year, December 7th, that I miss him most.  You see, Papper was a survivor of the attack on Pearl Harbor.  He was serving in the Navy at the time, but he never talked about it - never mentioned that he was there.  In fact, when we planned our spring break family vacation to Hawaii in 1989 (I was 10 years old at the time), we planned a visit to the Arizona memorial not knowing that it might be an emotionally difficult destination for Papper to visit.

So, on a hot and humid spring day, I boarded the ferry boat like any other tourist ready to head out to yet another boring monument that my history teacher mother somehow thought was important (with age I have come to appreciate all the historical places she dragged me to, but at the time I just wanted to go swimming in the ocean).  Huffy and annoyed, I went to sit near my Grandfather.  He had chosen a seat near the boat skipper, on the opposite end of the boat from the tour guide with the annoying speaker that hurt my ears every time she clicked it on.  I was also hoping that if I sat near him, far away from said tour guide, that she wouldn't try to call on me to answer silly questions and thus I wouldn't have to pay as close attention.

We pulled away from the dock, and as we did, Papper.... got very quiet.  Now, he wasn't the most talkative of men to begin with, but whenever we were visiting some place educational, he always had a tidbit or a factoid about the place to share with me.  This time, he didn't say a word.  When I looked at his face, it was to see that he was pale and his eyes were moist.  I was immediately concerned so I looked over at my grandmother and she gestured to me to scoot over to sit next to him.  When I did, I noticed that his hand was shaking, so I took it in my much smaller ones and asked him with utter innocence, what was wrong.

He didn't answer me at first, just shook his head.  But Grandma patted his other hand and pointed at me which made him look at me.  His eyes had trouble focusing on me, but then he finally realized that it was me who had asked him what was wrong and somehow, because it was his only granddaughter who had asked, he felt the need to actually formulate an answer.  "My ship was over there," he said, and subtly pointed off one side of the boat.  After he pointed, his eyes left me and lost their focus again - staring in the direction he had pointed.  He started talking quietly to me, in hushed tones that couldn't really be heard beyond our little family group, and certainly not over the drone of the tour guide up from with her speaker.

This is the story he told me, as best as I can remember it from all those years ago.

"There was an officer's club up the hill from the base.  One of the higher ranked base officers had asked around if anyone could recommend to him a short gentleman in their crew who he could trust to escort his daughter to a dance that was happening at the Officer's club.  Someone gave him my name.  He met with me a few times and since I was about his daughter's height, and impressed him enough that he trusted I would treat her with respect and look after her, he asked me to escort her to the dance.  It wasn't a request I had the rank to say no to - so I borrowed a buddy's car and took the young lady to the dance.  Someone spiked the punch that night, and the lady got... very drunk.  Too drunk for me to be comfortable taking her home to her high ranked father.  I was certain he would bust me down all the way if I took his daughter back home drunk.  So, I found a side room at the Officer's club where she would be safe for the night and watched over her as she slept it off.  I woke her up early in the morning, put her in the car and took her home.  After I made sure she was home alright, I got back in the car and started to drive down the long hill, hoping against hope that I would make it back in time for my next shift.  As I headed down the hill..... the planes flew over and started to drop the torpedos.  I remember being at a curve in the road on the hill when I saw the first explosion on the water.  I knew the road, I knew no matter how fast I drove that I would never make it back in time to do anything to help.  All I could do was watch as the planes came.... and as the ships sank and the fire spread over the water.  All I could do was watch my friends and bunkmates.... "  he couldn't finish the sentence.  Grandma was crying silently with an amazed look on her face (I'd learn years later that it was the first time he'd talked about that day, even to her).  

A quiet voice from next to my Grandmother asked "which ship were you on?"  Papper answered, and the boat skipper nodded and turned the wheel hard in the direction he had pointed before telling me his story.  I remember that some of the folk on the boat yelped a little in surprise at the sharp direction change, including the tour guide over her mic and crackling speaker.  It hurt my ears and made me stare at her.  The boat skipper must have given her a hand signal of some kind because I saw her eyes go WIDE before her voice dropped out of that perky tour guide tone into a softer and more reverent tone.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," she said "we ask your patience as we take the boat off the regular route so that a survivor of the USS Utah on board can have the opportunity to visit his boat.  While we do so, we ask that you keep your voices down.  We will return to the regular route and make our way to the Arizona memorial after they have had a chance to pay their respects."

Papper's hand squeezed mine so tight after that announcement.  He stopped talking altogether, pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.  The skipper took us what seemed like such a long way to the wreck of his boat and sat our ferry a distance away from the wreck that the tour guide quietly told us most of the public never gets to see.  The others in the boat were looking at all their fellow passengers, trying to figure out who it was that was the veteran, but Papper kept his face stoic and didn't give them any clues.  After a minute or two of floating near the wreck, the skipper slowly turned the boat back towards the Arizona memorial, and the other passengers stopped trying to figure out the mystery and went back to paying attention to the tour guide who took up her banter again.  Only after they were all looking at her did Papper stand up and salute towards the wreck that was then behind us.  He gave a nod of thanks to the skipper who just silently nodded back.

As we stood to get off the boat at the Arizona memorial, the skipper quietly told us "Take your time.  You don't need to go back on our boat.  There will be another coming after me soon - you and your family take all the time you need and come back on whichever boat you want."  We walked the quiet hall of the Arizona memorial and Papper took the skipper up on his offer.  When all the other passengers got back on the boat, he kept the family back.  Without an audience that wasn't family, he was more willing to talk.  He pointed at names on the wall saying things like "This guy played the drum in the band I was in," and "this guy played volleyball with me every tuesday at the base."  He pointed out each and every name that he had known, which was more than a few.  He had to dab at his eyes more than a few times too.  We went back on the next boat and he never talked about it again.  Still, I'll always remember what the last thing was that he said before we got back on the boat.  He said it in a tone that made me wonder if he even knew he was talking out loud.  He said, "I lived because I'm short.  Because I was the right height to be some girl's dance partner.  No other reason.  They all died, and I lived.... because I'm short."

It was the only day I ever saw my Grandfather cry.  My Grandmother told me years later, after he had passed, that she was so thankful I had kept him talking - that I had let him finally get it all out.  So, today of all days, every year, I think about him.  I think about how I wouldn't have ever been born if my grandfather hadn't had the reputation of being a gentleman, or if he had been just a few inches taller, or if someone hadn't spiked the punch that night at the Officer's Club, or if he hadn't stayed the night at the club to let the young lady sleep it off.  So many little, insignificant, choices and things he didn't even have any say in - but without them, my father wouldn't have been conceived and thus I wouldn't be here either.

I was only 10 years old when I visited Pearl Harbor with my Grandfather, but the memory is so vivid.  It's one of the strongest, and most distinct memories I have of my Grandfather.  I hadn't even known before that day that he had served in the Navy, let alone that he was a WWII Vet.  He was so much more than that one moment.  He was kind, and smart, and he loved our family so much.  He was funny, and caring..  He was selfless in so many ways - but in ways that he kept so quiet that most people didn't even know about them.  He owned his own business, played the violin, married the love of his life, and got more enjoyment than I will ever understand out of watching golf on tv.  He was born in November and died in October.... but because of that one spring day when I was 10 years old, because he let me witness his courageous act of showing his pain and vulnerability, because he shared with me his guilt and his confusion over how randomly the world and life can sort things out.... because of all that, it's on December 7th every year that I miss him most.

80 years ago today, the bombs fell on Pearl Harbor - and whenever survivors today are interviewed inevitably one of them makes some comment about how they don't understand why they survived when so many others didn't.  I know why my grandfather survived.  He survived because he was short.