LIVING THE FAITH OF OUR FATHERS. Donald E. Wilson

reign quoted from a New Year poem, "Clouds over the Mountain" to celebrate the occasion and the symbolic of a new day, the Japan Times and Advertiser in a bit of satire stated, “Indeed, Japan soared high above the clouds that day, but from its position at the pinnacle of achievement, all mountains sloped downward." (Quoted in Gordon W. Prange, At Dawn We Slept, (Penguin Books, 1981).

      While I was only ten years old when the startling news of the attack cracked over the air waves on that serene Sunday morning, the news was emblazoned on my mind, unlike any world event since. We had returned from Church, and just finished Sunday dinner, and I was in our living room with my dad listening to the “Old Fashioned Revival Hour,” a regular Sunday activity in our house. At 1:25, the program was interrupted, with word that the Japanese had just attacked the American Fleet at Pearl Harbor. While I did not fully comprehend the meaning of that announcement, the look on Dad’s face let me know that something terrible had happened. He quickly gave me both a geography and history lesson and his solemn mood, I soon learned, was linked to the hardships and sacrifices he knew were coming in the grave days ahead.

      Meanwhile, on Fourth Street, the theater doors had just opened, and patrons were preparing for the half dozen matinee showings of first run movies. The crowd, for the most part consisted of young soldiers from Fort Knox and the Army Air Corps Base at Bowman Field, who had been called to service by the newly established “Selective Service Act,” and were primarily interested in their weekend furloughs, and of course, for the lucky ones with the young lady at their sides, their date for the afternoon. As they exited the theaters they were startled into reality by the newsboy with a special edition of the Louisville Courier Journal under his arm, barking, “Extra Extra! Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor.”

      As the papers were distributed to the crowd, they were quickly purchased by the anxious throng of khaki clad soldiers. They absorbed the content, and a hush came over them. In a matter of a few minutes minds were racing with thoughts and questions. What would this news mean to their future lives? Their uniform suddenly took on a new meaning. They knew that the enemy would have to be punished, and the oath they had taken a few weeks before, “to defend their nation against all foes foreign and domestic,” took on a solemn meaning. Some, were forced to comfort their crying date clinging to their arms, and others rushed to the nearest pay phone to try to contact their military base. By evening many had returned to their military posts to face the uncertainties that awaited them.

      Meanwhile, in Louisville’s West End and my home on Sutcliffe Avenue, as well as Alleen’s home on Taylor Avenue in Camp Taylor, newsboys shouted similar announcements, as did the local radio stations. Any American above the age of eight can tell you of the shock of the moment followed by a quietness as we attempted to absorb the news. Whether in quiet residential neighborhoods or downtown, there were exclamations of disbelief followed by countless questions. Where was Pearl Harbor? What did it all mean? Is this war? How could a small country like Japan, famous for its fireworks or cheap five and ten cent toys, dare to attack the United States, and would our country’s shores be next.

      A reporter for the Courier Journal later described the somber mood of the city and what had been a festive Christmas shopping mood in the hours before the news. “In one unbelievable instant,” he wrote, “those holiday faces were replaced by sober countenances, furrowed brows, tight military smiles, and ducked heads.” He further reflected on the quietness on usually busy Fourth Street, and wrote, “Only the squeak of the streetcar’s brakes and the clicks of women’s high-heeled shoes on the pavement and the echoes of newsboys’ shouts, punctuated the hush.”

      One of the difficulties of attempting to absorb the news, was that our limited access to media coverage, with the exception of the two Louisville daily papers, the four radio stations, and the news-reel coverage as part of virtually every movie, was very limited. The news we did get was exaggerated, or worse, grossly inaccurate. Several newscasts relied on the first reports sent back from the Honolulu Advertiser that there were as many as 400 deaths, and saboteurs had landed on the islands. Other news sources gave us the impression that Japanese troops were on the verge of invading the islands or even the west coast. Men loaded their hunting guns, and along coasts from Hawaii to California, nervous citizens were shooting at waves, in the belief that an invasion was imminent.

      All of these reports could not have been any more wrong, but they did reflect on the misinformation available to the public. In fairness to those limited news sources, editors and reporters were restricted throughout the war as news was “sanitized,” or filtered through military censors. Unlike the Vietnam War in the 1960s and 70s, in which Americans had front row seats to television coverage of battles and combat, we read or saw only what the Washington censorship office wanted us to see. That office believed, and perhaps correctly, that the gruesome details of war could affect morale.

      On Tuesday the 9^th the Associated Press was beginning to provide some accurate information on the extent of our losses. We soon discovered that we literally lost our entire Pacific Fleet, including all of our Battleships, and most of our air force, along with over 2,000 men killed. Fortunately, our three aircraft carriers were out of port on maneuvers, a fact that would be very costly to our enemy in the American counter offensive that would follow the following spring and summer. But in those dark days, there was no question as to the severity of the attack, nor the intense anger of the American people. An incident that same day really brought that anger home to me when I rode a bus down Broadway for an eye appointment in downtown Louisville and noticed a long line of men around the post office. My mother informed me that those were men enlisting in the army or navy; a proud but somber scene to be repeated many times over the following four years.

      The extent of the feelings of the American people and our solidarity, unlike any in our history, was captured in our hearts and minds when President Roosevelt spoke to the nation with an overview of the “dastardly attack.” Every school and most public buildings halted activities to listen to his speech. Even movies and entertainment events were halted to listen; just another example of how Louisville, and indeed all America was poised to follow the Presidents charge and, take on the mantle of war.