You normally don’t hear the sound of the water as it glides along the sides of a submarine. You’re either safely inside, hatches tightened and humming machinery all around, or scurrying topside as the sub is pulling in or out of port, orders barked right and left over the revving tug engines. It’s never, ever quiet, until you’re all tied up on a pier, topside, late at night…

The Attack on Pearl Harbor

On this day in 1941, Japan launched Operation Z, to attack an idle American Pacific fleet and render it incapable of coming to the aid of our allies in Europe and Asia. Two devastating waves of airborne attacks decimated 8 battleships, 3 cruisers, 3 destroyers, 1 mine layer, almost 190 planes, and killed or wounded over 3,600 men and women. To many in the Navy, it would seem that the war in the Pacific was over just as it was beginning…

The Sunday morning destruction was particular painful for Americans, because it caught us embarrassingly off-guard. Thousands of sailors were at home or in town, sleeping off the effects of a good Saturday night. Many men bear to this day the pain of not being there to help their comrades as they battled off over 350 airplanes filled with bombs and bullets, because they were not there to help get the ships underway and out of harm’s way.

BB-36, The U.S.S. Nevada

Only one battleship did indeed get underway in the thick of battle, and only through the heroic efforts of the skeleton crew of men onboard. The Nevada, BB-36, the oldest battleship in Pearl Harbor that day, was almost immediately hit by a plane-dropped torpedo while tethered to the pier. An enormous hole was torn into her port side, and she began to take on water.

Over the course of a half an hour later (a fraction of the time typically taken to get a boiler room to the point of issuing steam to the propellors,) Machinist Mate Donald Kirby Ross took it upon himself to get the engine room running, almost single-handedly. Running between the numerous stations, he was overcome by smoke inhalation twice, resuscitated and continued on, staying there until ordered away. The Nevada cast off her lines and steamed out into the channel surrounding Ford Island. Another hero that day was Chief Boatswain Edwin Joseph Hill, who led a band of men off the ship to the pier, where they single-handedly threw off the enormously heavy rope lines for the great ship. Tired and dodging bullets, Boatswain Hill then lept into the waters and swam for the now-free ship.

SSBN-733, The U.S.S. Nevada

It was my first patrol, and we had been out to sea roughly 3 weeks, when I was told that I was chosen to be in charge of sound-powered phone communications topside for my very first port call, in Oahu, Island. I was given some brief information as to my duties, and I took them very seriously. Pass along all communications heard to those in charge topside. Repeat everything back so the people in the Control Room would know I understood. Report all lines coming on or being cast off, and anything out of the ordinary.

As a newbie onboard the Ohio Class ballistic missile submarine Nevada, I had read the history of our namesake, BB-36. To me it was a proud and storied history, and I thought about the horrible attacks on Dec. 7th, 1941, as we slowly began to pull into the channels near Pearl Harbor. I was told that most ships pulled into the very accessible ports of Pearl Harbor itself, but because of the security concerns with carrying 24 nuclear missiles, we would be separated, tied off on Ford Island.

We passed a few gentle bends, as men scurried topside putting up railings, coiling lines, shouting to each other catcalls about how they planned to spend their days off at Waikiki. I kept a careful eye on all of them. It was a cool, bright morning, and seeing for the first time the lush greenery of Oahu caused what felt like a literal ear-to-ear smile. And then the words came across from the Control Room, into my ears…. “Prepare to render honors.”

“Prepare to render honors,” I replied confusedly into the phone, and then shouted this out for all to hear. The Lieutenant in charge topside shouted it back to me in reply to make sure I knew he had heard, then he called to everyone to stop what they were doing, line up on the starboard side of the submarine, and stand ready to render honors. I was told to remain where I was, and keep an eye on the proceedings….

The Miracles and Tragedies of BB-36

As BB-36 began to moved out into the channel, the Nevada drew a lot of attention from the Japanese planes, who dive-bombed her, blowing open her forward end and causing fires throughout the giant ship. Water was coming in all over the old ship, as bulkheads creased open under the unusual stresses around them. The few sailors onboard the Nevada fought heroically against the fires as explosions rocked the ship. Among those that perished when the forecastle deck was destroyed was Boatswain Hill (right,) killed while trying to discharge the Nevada’s anchors.

Fearing that the Nevada would be sunk right in the middle of the channel, causing a permanent blockage to future ships needing to get through, the Nevada’s captain ordered the ship run aground. The ship was steered and steamed as quickly as possible, tugs joining in on the effort, pushing the Nevada slowly toward the shore. The U.S.S. Nevada wound up slammed into the shoreline of Hospital Point, incredibly damaged for her efforts, but at least now rendered unsinkable. Doctors and nurses furiously working on the hundreds of wounded arriving at the small hospital there were shocked to see and feel the enormous ship ground just beyond the backyard of the operating rooms….

Rendering Honors

As we passed Hospital Point, I was told that the designated ship’s Boatswain would blow a series of whistle calls, and what to do during them. As we approached Hospital Point, I heard “Attention to Starboard,” and passed this on. One whistle blast pierced the air, and everyone topside stood at attention. I turned from where I was and did so as well.

A single blast sounded out again, and we all saluted the little hospital, still standing to this day, on the rough shoreline. That is when I saw the little, old woman, a red knit shawl wrapped around her thin body, staring at the submarine as it passed by.

She was by a memorial set in the back behind the little, old hospital. She stood quietly and attentively, hands together in front of her, facing us while the winds carried her blonde-gray hair across her gaze.

It was at this point, staring at that woman, who must’ve been filled with so many memories of that fateful day, that I could hear the water as it slid past the submarine; a slow, hushed whisper of water welcoming us home. There was such an incredible silence at that moment, as I and the woman rendered honors to each other, sharing an eternal bond….

The Fate of BB-36

The U.S.S. Nevada was towed to Puget Sound, Washington, where it was fully repaired and upgraded for the full-on war effort soon after Pearl Harbor’s smoke cleared. She served as a convoy vessel in the Atlantic, and provided bomb coverage for the invasions on Normandy, Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Following World War II, she was anchored off of the Bikini Atoll for Atomic bomb testing, improbably surviving two indirect blasts. The U.S.S. Nevada was ultimately sunk during gunfire practice in 1948.

The Woman at Hospital Point

Three whistle blasts broke me free from my gaze at the woman, as we lowered our salutes and got back to our duties topside. We pulled in to Ford Island, were tugged over to the pier and tied up the lines. I was excited to leave the Nevada and see Waikiki too, but would have to wait a day, as I would have to stand watch that evening.

After going below and dressing for in-port, I was told by our Chief that the woman standing by the hospital was a surviving widow of one of the men that had served onboard BB-36, and had been invited to see our submarine pass by. I felt a rush of pride at that moment, for us having taken the time to render honors at that site, at that time, and to have her see the respect we have for her husband’s service. Nothing could replace the man she loved, could assuage the pain of the loss, but it is through shared memory that we can at least provide some sense of reason.

In Remembrance of My Father

My father, Raymond James Woods, succumbed to Lymphoma on this day in 1998, his body too weak to take the effects of his chemotherapy any longer. Four hours after he passed, his father-in-law died from a massive stroke in response to the incredible anguish he saw his daughter and family going through. Two waves of losses, two devastating tragedies.

Just five months earlier, I had finished my Navy enlistment, and had returned home to the San Joaquin Valley to be around my family. I had looked forward to spending time fishing with my father and recounting all of my Navy stories. When he informed me of the rapid pace of his illness, and that he would not be around for much longer, it broke me deep inside.

My father was buried with full military honors, and I cried openly, my body wracked with sobs with each shot of the salute. It was difficult to let him go, to feel my father being wrenched from me, leaving me with memories. But his loss has taught me to value the memory of others, to render honor to those that sacrificed so much to everyone else, even to strangers. To remember and honor men and women like Kirby Ross and Edwin Hill, and my father, who served in Vietnam and Korea.

I will never forget the woman on Hospital Point, and the stillness of the water, of her soul. In her eyes I see my own gaze, looking at a life of service, of loss, of acceptance and fond remembrance. I hope that I lead a life that prompts, from time to time, a few still moments in fond memory…