Last Living Pearl Harbor Survivors: Their Stories Before They Fade Into History
Questions about that day come year-round, but nothing like November and December. The answers have grown into stories, now briefer than before but still mostly complete. Details sometimes get jumbled, but no one complains. For 100, everyone says, Bob Fernandez is doing great.
A Sailor's Remembrance
On Dec. 7, 1941, Bob Fernandez, then a sailor, stood at a pivot point of history, a moment never to forget when sudden and extreme violence rendered the past irrelevant and the future an open book hinging on the outcome of war. He was doing his job, just like thousands of others, except he survived when 2,400 service members didn't. Today, he knows he stands for those who can’t — in a brotherhood made more special the smaller it has become. He was 17, living at home in San Jose. His father was disabled, a leg lost in a train accident, and he took solace in drinking. Fernandez’s mother bore the brunt of his unhappiness. Then there was a girl, a little older than Fernandez and pregnant with his child. Three days after his son was born, he signed up.
His dad had suggested the Marines, but he was too young. Only the Navy would take him, $21 a month. He trained in San Diego — to fire a machine gun, position a gas mask, prove he could swim — and shipped out to Hawaii. No sooner had he found his bunk than the Curtiss put to sea, joining a supply convoy to Wake Island, then to Midway. Fernandez recalls the monotony of swabbing decks before getting a job in the mess. On Dec. 6, the ship returned to Pearl Harbor.
He was serving the officers about a quarter to 8 when he heard the first explosion. The first explosion came from the direction of Ford Island, but before Fernandez could look, the ship’s alarm started to blare. “Battle stations, this is no drill!” The distant drone of planes drew near. Suddenly everyone was running like hell, Fernandez says, and as he raced to his post — across the ship and below deck — he saw a low-flying plane with a large red circle on the fuselage so close that he made out the pilot. “And he didn’t even look at me,” he says. “He just kept on going.” Then came the concussive tat-tat-tat of the ship being strafed. More explosions. Across the channel, the Utah and Raleigh were hit. Heavy black smoke gushed from the oily infernos.
Once at his post — the magazine room, midships, three decks down — Fernandez and his crewmates got to work, passing one to another the shells for the .50-caliber machine guns and 5-inch cannons above them. By now the firing was continuous, the Curtiss convulsing with each blast. “We’re at war,” Fernandez heard someone saying in the confines where they stood. He saw some of his crewmates overcome with fear, knowing that any moment a bomb could slice through metal and reach them, lights out. Muscles aching from the weight of each 55-pound projectile, the repetition, the heat, Fernandez lost track of himself, too busy to think, too scared to stop, not unlike his time in the ring up against any another flyweight. “I just did the work I had to do,” he says, “and the good Lord — the good Lord — kept me safe.”
While the Curtiss tried to get underway, the ship never made it out of port. A submarine surfaced 700 yards away. The Curtiss’ 5-inch guns fired on it, and a passing destroyer took it out with depth charges. Then there was a plane, armed with torpedoes, pulling out of its dive over Ford Island. Gunners on the Curtiss fired. Boom! Boom! A hit, and its pilot crashed into the ship; the plane’s fuel spread fire across the deck. The attack was intensifying. Farther astern from where Fernandez stood, a 500-pound bomb landed, piercing three decks and detonating another magazine. The blast killed 18 sailors and punctured the hull. The Curtiss started to take on water. The damage would have been worse if the fuel tanks had been refilled after the ship’s recent mission.
Fernandez doesn’t remember how long he stayed at his station or whether he was enlisted to fight the fires. His memory of that day jumps ahead to night when, exhausted from the battle, he found an empty corner on deck to sleep. When he awoke, he found himself joined by the corpses of crewmates, draped in white linen, beside him. Someone, he thought, must have believed he was dead as well. Two weeks later, the Curtiss’ commanding officer listed 20 dead, 54 injured and one missing. Of the ruin of Pearl Harbor, Fernandez says nothing: nothing of the tar-black smoke rising into the blue sky, the giant ships listing at ungodly angles, the Utah capsized not far away, the fireboats streaming water onto the flames, the bodies in the water, the feelings of shock, of rage, the cries for vengeance. Of the Japanese attack, his sentiment is simple. “I wish that they never would have come.”
The Legacy of Remembrance
No one knows how many Pearl Harbor survivors are still alive. Some say fewer than 20. Others say the number is incalculable if civilians are considered. But no matter; soon there will be none, and the memories will recede to the pages of books, entries on the internet and museum exhibits. Like the Civil War, like the Kennedy assassination and, one day, 9/11, tragedies once indelible in the minds of all Americans are destined to become one day less so. Fernandez stayed with the Curtiss after the attack. The ship, quickly repaired in San Diego, returned to the Pacific theater and was present at Midway in 1942, Guadalcanal and the Solomon operations in 1943, and the battles of Tarawa, Kwajalein, Eniwetok, Saipan and Guam. But Fernandez stays quiet about those years. His service record shows that in November 1944, he was assigned to the naval air station in San Francisco. When the war ended, he extended his enlistment, got married, had a daughter, divorced, was promoted to piloting small boats, served in the Philippines, and in 1947 was discharged. Two years later, he met Mary, and they married and had two children. He worked as a forklift driver in the East Bay, retired and moved to Stockton. He used to think of Pearl Harbor at least once a day, but not so much anymore.
A Century of Life and Reflection
Fernandez’s story, while deeply personal, encapsulates the experiences of thousands who served during that conflict. His quiet heroism, his resilience, and his enduring memory of that fateful day serve as a potent reminder of the sacrifices made during World War II. The dwindling number of Pearl Harbor survivors underscores the urgent need to preserve their stories and honor their contributions to American history. Their stories should be shared to ensure the events of that day are never forgotten. The events of that day remain etched in our collective memory and are a vital lesson for future generations to learn from. These brave men and women ensured freedom and justice for all.