Moloka'i (44 page)
At 8:30 A.M. half of Kalaupapa was still asleep as the other half readied for church. As Rachel skirted the stony garland of cemeteries north of town she heard from somewhere up ahead—the Church of Latter-Day Saints was the closest structure—the tinny music of a radio broadcast, a chorus of angelic voices raised in song.
“
Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake,
And soon we’ll have this tale to tell,
All is well! All is well!”
The voices, she would later learn, were those of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, recorded in Salt Lake City and now being broadcast on KGMB in Honolulu. But even as she passed the church—its parishioners gathering in anticipation of the 9:00 service—the chorus was suddenly choked off, silenced by a burst of static, followed by the urgent voice of an announcer.
“
This is Webley Edwards in Honolulu. A sporadic air attack has been made on O'ahu. Enemy planes have been shot down, and the Rising Sun sighted on the wingtips!
”
All conversation among the parishioners ceased.
“This is no maneuver!”
the announcer barked out. Rachel had never before heard such emotion in a voice coming over the airwaves.
“This is the real McCoy!”
The congregation, joined now by Rachel and H
ku, clustered around the radio in disbelief. A church deacon, perhaps fearing he was being taken in by some sort of dramatic program, flipped the dial over to Honolulu’s other radio station, KGU, but there too he heard,
“Repeat, we are under attack! Do not use the phone, stay off the streets! Keep calm, the situation is under control!”
Even more disturbing than the rush of words from the none-too-calm announcer were the muffled echoes of what sounded like explosions in the background.
“My God,” someone said. “My God.”
Rachel hurried home with Hku, woke Kenji, and turned on their own radio set in time to hear,
“All Army, Navy, and Marine personnel report to duty!”
All over Kalaupapa the rasp of distant men urged calm and discouraged panic, but the anxiety in their voices belied their message.
“Get off the roads and stay off!”
“Don’t block traffic!”
“Stay at home!”
David Kamakau hurried to the house, breathless from more than just exertion. “Jesus Christ,” he said, rushing up the porch steps and through their open door. “What the hell is it? Are we being invaded?”
“Either that,” Rachel said, “or Orson Welles is at it again.” Within minutes other friends and neighbors—Hokea, Ehu, even Gabe Crossen and Felicia—had joined them, listening in stunned silence to the news from Honolulu.
“Here is a warning to all people through the Territory of Hawai'i and especially on the island of O'ahu. In the event of an air raid, stay under cover. Many of the wounded have been hurt by falling shrapnel from anti-aircraft guns. If an air raid should begin, do not go out of doors. Stay under cover. You may be seriously injured or instantly killed by shrapnel falling from anti-aircraft shells!”
Felicia asked, “But who’s attacking? Whose planes?”
Crossen spat out, “Who else? The goddamn Japs.”
Kenji kept his gaze fixed on the radio as he switched back and forth between channels.
“Anyone owning a truck or a motorcycle is asked to drive it at once to your local first aid station!”
“All Army, Navy, and Marine personnel report to duty!”
“United States Army intelligence has ordered that all civilians stay off the streets. Get your car off the street. Drive it onto the lawn if necessary, but get it off the street! Do not use your telephone—”
“All doctors, nurses, and volunteer personnel report at once to Queens Hospital!”
“Fill all buckets and tubs with water, to be ready for a possible fire. Attach your garden hoses. Keep your radio turned on for further news. . . .”
What became apparent was this: Japanese bombers were laying siege to Pearl Harbor, K
ne'ohe Naval Air Station, Hickam Field, and 'Ewa Marine Air Corps Station. In addition, it seemed that Honolulu itself was taking some direct hits, though it wasn’t clear how much of that was the result of enemy bombs and how much due to the anti-aircraft shrapnel the stations were so urgently warning of.
Hokea said, “This is crazy. Since when we been at war with Japan?”
Most of the listeners’ faces were drained of color, but Gabe Crossen’s was flush with rage.
“It’s a sneak attack,” he said coldly. “Goddamn Jap cowards didn’t even bother to declare war!”
No one was inclined to dispute the point.
For the next hour and a half they listened to the sporadic reports coming out of Honolulu; in between announcements church music played, as in the background could be heard a rumble that was not thunder and the frantic shuffling of furniture as radio staff presumably secured windows and doors.
At 11:15 A.M., Governor Joseph Poindexter came on the air on KGU to declare a state of emergency.
His voice trembling, the seventy-two-year-old governor repeated admonitions to stay calm, to stay home, to not use the telephone. As he was finishing up he stopped in mid-sentence, then said,
“I’ve just been handed a message . . . General Short is ordering Hawaii’s radio stations to shut down immediately, for fear the Japanese will home in on our broadcast.”
To the astonishment of all listening the governor began to weep.
“We are going off the air for the first time,”
he said, clearly a man under great strain.
“We have been under attack and the sign of the Rising Sun has been plainly seen on the underside of the planes.”
The governor was hurried off the air and at exactly 11:41 A.M. the radio fell silent.
That silence was more frightening than the panicky voices and muted explosions. “Try the police channels,” David suggested, but as Kenji adjusted the short-wave set the flashes that came in were hardly reassuring:
“Investigate Japanese at 781 Sunset Avenue”
“Proceed to St. Louis Heights, parachutists supposed to have landed”
“Arrest that man! Bring him down here—he’s an impostor”
Also faintly heard through static and space were even more alarming, and confusing, bursts from military radios:
“Enemy transports reported four miles off Barber’s Point”
“Parachute troops landing on North Shore”
“Enemy sampan about to land at Naval ammunition depot”
“Enemy landing party offshore N
nkuli—friendly planes firing on them”
None of these reports turned out to have merit, but the people of Kalaupapa had no way of knowing that just now. Fed up with the conflicting, chaotic broadcasts, Rachel announced, “Damn it! I’m gonna see for myself,” and to general bafflement hurried out of the house.
“Where in the hell are you going?” David asked.
“Kauhak,” she called back. Everyone understood at once—those who couldn’t squeeze into Kenji and Rachel’s Packard found other transportation, and followed her up Damien Road.
Leaving their autos at the foot of the Kauhaktrail, they followed her along the barely-visible path now completely overgrown with lantana scrub. Despite their various handicaps they all managed to climb up onto the crater lip, standing at the summit of this highest point on the peninsula—and looked out across the sea, looked north.
