Running into Honor: The USS Utah

Part 1: The Reading Table
Some of my fondest childhood memories are as a third grade student at Consolidated Elementary School in West Terre Haute, Indiana. My teacher was Mrs. Monts, and amongst so many happy remembrances of her class, the one I seem to go back to most often is of the reading table in the back of her classroom.

I recall a low, round table with those tiny chairs situated around, for perhaps four kids, all small enough to be seated comfortably. Even now, twice a year, I get to sit in near-replicas from my third grade room – each time my wife and I make a visit to our now-fifth grade son’s classroom for a parent-teacher conference. With my butt only about 14 inches off the floor and my knees forced high on a steep angle upward, my am right back Mrs. Monts’ room (except I am pretty sure the chairs fit me better then).

The reading table was a special place for me. The world of books she had for us provided a gateway to adventure and knowledge and other times far beyond our little place in west-central Indiana. There stood a short bookshelf against the east wall behind me; somehow my recollection always puts me in the chair closest to the shelf, my back to it, facing the front of the classroom to the west. I see it full of books, perhaps two or three shelves-worth, three or four feet long and two or three feet high. But of all those books, there was one in particular that stands out in my memory. I don’t remember the exact title of the book, but I can picture it: an illustrated history of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the then-relatively new Arizona Memorial. That year, my third grade year, began in the fall of 1969. The Arizona Memorial was just seven years old, and I was barely eight.

Part 2: Gifts
By the way, it was in this place and reading this book, that I remember so fondly remember a special relationship with Mrs. Monts. To a third grader she was an elderly, giant of a lady; not heavy, but tall. She wore those dresses that seemed so common in my grandmother Yeager’s family – a single slip-over sheet of a small flower pattern, heavy-heeled black shoes, horn-rimmed glasses, and had the finely styled grey, beauty shop hair. Very matronly, she demonstrated a stern dignity but also particular warm interest in me and it was she who introduced the Pearl Harbor book to me, and later gave it to me. In retrospect I have often wondered if she took a special interest in me because my parents had gone through a divorce and as all children do in such circumstances, and without understanding it, I was struggling. It is fascinating now to look back on that time – on the one hand, to remember my third grade experience and mind, and on the other hand, now, to understand it and consider all that was happening from an adult’s – and a parent’s – mind.

Aside of the book and most of all her teaching, she gave me two other gifts. One was an intimate, personal view into her own life – that of her sons. This is where I should restate something I said in a previous essay about my time at Consolidated: I think my memory is faulty, only partially recalling events as they really were, and either forgetting or perhaps embellishing others.

I recall that she had several sons, though I cannot be sure of just how many now. It seems that one served in Vietnam; perhaps he was there at the time; perhaps I am wrong about this altogether. And that one died in a house fire.

The one I do remember best, and by name, was John; in fact, I later knew him quite personally. Just a few years later, as a new Webelo-aged Scout without a Den (I was the only fifth grader in Pack 426 at that time); I was given special permission by the Council to attend meetings and activities of Boy Scout Troop 426. John and several others – all in my mind giants, athletes, true outdoorsmen, larger-than-life Big Brother types, and me – the little kid tagging along. They were all Life and Eagle Scouts and brimming with muscles and experience. They took me along to camp with them at nearby Green Valley; to canoe in Eagle River, Wisconsin, and hike the trails of Bear Wallow in Brown County. I was in constant awe of these guys. It was the best experience a little kid could possibly have.

So this first gift – that of the knowledge of her sons – leads into the second. Sometime during that year she brought to school a hunting knife that had belonged to her son. I have always believed it was from the one who had died, but I do not know this. I realize now that it was in fact not a valuable or collectable knife; it had a simple, cheap, two-piece plastic handle molded to a relatively thin steel blade. It was secured in a riveted leather sheath. But none of these matters now, because it didn’t matter then; I didn’t see it that way then, and even now I see it as one of the most valuable possessions I have ever had. She brought it to school, and in my mind’s eye I see her handing it to me as I sit at my chair at the reading table, she having come in the back door to the classroom, right next to the reading table, saying, “This belonged to my son.” Can you imagine?! A Teacher bringing a Large Sheath Knife to School and Giving it to a Third Grade Kid?! Stunning. And I am thankful for that experience in my life.

(Years later, on a week-long canoe trip down the Wabash River, I lost it in the murky water, having thought I had it well secured in a strap of my glove I was wearing while paddling. It slipped out and with a distinct “plop” went down for good. I remember the desperate moment deciding to – then not to – dive in after it. My new best friend and canoe mate, Chester Bean, paddling in the bow, was witness to my agony and tears. But I soon recovered, moving on with what was, was still able to have a great week, and a good life beyond that week. Still, all these years later, I do not entirely regret having the knife with me that day.)

Now, in my thoughts about Pearl Harbor, the book Mrs. Monts introduced me to and gave me in third grade remains my primary reference point. I still picture, though vaguely now, its watercolor artwork spanning the landscape layout. Then, as a small boy, I had no conception that someday I would see it as it really is.

Part 3: Being There
It all came to me in an entirely new dimension in 1997 when I visited there for the first time, odd though it may seem at first, as an Air Force officer on assignment at Pearl Harbor. I was assigned to the Joint Intelligence Center, Pacific – JICPAC, which is in part located at Hickam Air Force Base, connected to Pearl Harbor, and in part located on Pearl Harbor itself, at an area called Makalapa. During this trip, and once again the subsequent year, I dutifully visited the Pearl Harbor Museum and Memorial on the far side of the harbor, across the road from JICPAC headquarters at Makalapa.

The museum, and in particular the short film presented immediately prior to boarding a shuttle boat out to the USS Arizona Memorial, were a powerful experience. To go onto the memorial itself, and to stand above the sunken remains of the Arizona, and to see the slightest appearance of the Arizona’s oil rise from the shallow depths and spread its rainbow sheen across the surface, then finally stand before the massive marble wall of names of men sacrificed there – is an overwhelming experience.

Now, as I try to recall the details of my first two of many trips there for the Air Force, I do not think I was aware of the USS Utah or the memorial to her crew. The Arizona is what everyone knows of and everyone goes to see. But in fact, there are dozens of sites across Pearl Harbor, and in fact, all across the island of O’ahu. Even on Hickam, where I also worked for a time, evidence of the attack on December 7, 1941 is easily found. The Pacific Air Force (PACAF) Headquarters building, a substantial concrete structure, still bears the scars of Japanese fighter plane’s bullets, left in the wakes of their strafing runs; a visible testament to the strength, resistance, and resilience of a great nation “awakened”, as Admiral Yamamoto, Japanese naval commander and mastermind of the attack, lamented not long after.

Battleship Row was the secondary target of the multi-wave attack on December 7th. It was actually the United States aircraft carriers the Japanese wanted most to destroy. But they were at sea, thankfully, and much to Japan’s chagrin. So Battleship Row instead absorbed their fury. But it was directly across Ford Island that another ship was sunk. The USS Utah, a training ship, was struck and subsequently capsized by two torpedoes. Roughly 58 men lost their lives aboard her, perhaps more.

During my first trip to Pearl, I went to Ford Island with my wife by ferry (she had come out to spend my second week of duty with me, arriving on the weekend). It was early evening when we boarded and crossed the harbor. When we arrived it seemed by all accounts the island was deserted or nearly so. We walked from the dock to a small convenience store that remained open, though, and later discovered that among others things on Ford island, there was a quaint and historic residential section; small bungalows arranged neatly along the south side facing the water. And just a bit further, on the edge of the water was the USS Utah memorial. We didn’t visit it then; it was nearly dark by now, and frankly, in the low light, and after having walked across the vast expanse of what seemed to be an abandoned dirt runway in the middle of the island, what little we did see of the memorial didn’t seem like much, and not wanting to miss the ferry returning to Makalapa, we turned and headed back.

Part 4: Discovery
A year later I returned for another two-week stint at Makalapa. I found that in the course of the past year a bridge had been built across the harbor to the northwest end of Ford Island. As I was a runner, and as the idea of wandering around the island intrigued me, I took off after work on day for the bridge, and at about half-way across I approached a security checkpoint where a Navy security officer checked my identification and saluted me on. (In subsequent years I found this was no longer possible, as access was generally restricted to personnel who either worked or lived on the island.) When I reached the island-end of the bridge, I hung a right and slightly crossing a portion of the golf course, I ran along the shoreline, wanting to hug it and stay off the course. I aimed for the Utah memorial, just a couple of hundred yards further along the northwest shore.

I arrived ready for a breather, so slowed to a walk and headed onto the white concrete walkway which extends out into the water, as if reaching out to touch the hulking remains of the ship then stopping abruptly to maintain a respectful distance. I read the plaque, looked up at the proud flag waving in the saltwater breeze, stared at the rusted disappearing steel and rotting wood, then turned to walk back. As I did, a white navy van pulled into the adjacent parking area. As I noticed the small group of sailors in their utility blue dungarees and denim shirts climb out, my first thought was they were simply coming to do what I was doing, having just gotten off duty for the day. But as they moved toward the long walkway as a group, they adjusted and formed a perfectly straight line, four abreast, upon reaching the beginning of the walk. I was twenty yards away now, standing at the huge rocks that held the water and shoreline in harmony. I had turned to face them and watch.

They began a slow, solemn march forward all the way along the concrete corridor until they reached the flag pole. Then, as if by some unseen command, they stopped and waited. A minute later, as two of the sailors rendered the most deliberate and artful salutes I had probably ever seen, the other two men retired the colors with the same solemnity. They detached the flag and folded it as if they were the focus of attention at a military funeral. After completing the folding so that the flag was now just a dark blue triangle under the arm of one of the men with only [presumably] 13 bright white stars showing, the four sailors retraced their slow march to the end of the walk, froze momentarily, then relaxed. They climbed back into the van and within a few more moments they were gone. Only a slight cloud of dust from the tires turning out of the parking area remained. I noted the time was just a few minutes after seven o’clock.

I was floored. I was touched. And my sense of profound appreciation for what they had just done was palpable. I remember a rush of emotion – pride and gratitude, I think. Perhaps other things too. It’s hard to articulate.
I knew at that moment I had to go back the next day.

I did, and this time I took my camera. A little bulky to take on a run, but I saw this as a unique and powerful opportunity I wanted to capture somehow. I was able to shoot a good number of pictures that next day, and as I did so, it all clicked with me.

While virtually all Pearl Harbor visitors go to the Arizona Memorial, and rightly so, it seems that no one knows about this solemn and extraordinary honor rendered to the men of the Utah that is demonstrated twice every day, year round, without fail. There are no crowds, no announcements; there is no flourishing pomp and circumstance. Just the absolute commitment to remember and honor their follow sailors – the promise to be there every day, no matter what; the commitment of one brother to another, spanning the decades and into perpetuity.

It seemed to me to be every bit the equivalent of giving in secret, not seeking the attention of anyone but God; earnest prayers spoken in secret, humbly and confidently offered to the only one who can really answer them.

(Photos courtesy AFP/Getty Images, Wesley Fryer, US Navy, respectively)

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