 Navy departments present December 7th. On a hilltop, Uncle Sam lay fast looking across the oceans from without, warned of the dangers that were threatening from within, tired from wrangling with his conscience and fatigued after a long dark night full of disturbing events, as indeed the year 1941 was. He slept in the early Sabbath calm, safe and secure behind its military and naval ramparts. The city of Honolulu, like many another unsuspecting American community, was also asleep. At all the army and Navy establishments on the island, after repeated warnings from the war and Navy departments, a number one alert had secretly been in effect for 11 days. This alert provided suitable defense against possible acts of sabotage and uprisings within the island itself, but made no provision against attack or invasion. At Hickam Field, the Army's bomber base, precautions were taken to safeguard the equipment against sabotage. Hence on this Sunday morning, the planes were concentrated in hangars or lined up row by row on the open field. Immediately adjacent to Hickam Field is Pearl Harbor, the Navy's hundred million dollar fist. Here on this morning of a tragic day of reckoning, capital ships, heavy and light cruisers lay at anchor. At anchor two lay several destroyers, tenders, minesweepers, and repair ships, 86 vessels in all. By seven o'clock, the city began to stir. For the most part, the atmosphere was serene and quiet. As Hickam Field ground crews were at work, on a dock in Pearl Harbor, a few blue jackets idled away a few minutes. At Kaniori, a fieldman was being held. Today is the third Sunday of Advent, the 7th of December, which means that Christmas is not far ahead. I don't have to remind you, fellows, that the old earling is about to shove off, carrying Christmas gifts and letters to the home side. Why not buy them a few presents? Or get Mother of the Kaki Lay, or Little Sister of Who's skirt? I think they'd rather have something for Little Johnny out here in Kauai. This is the time when you're going to be missed, so send them a present for Christmas. But that letter is so important, however. Don't put that off. A few minutes past seven, an incident occurred at a temporary Army aircraft warning station. The station, as indeed the entire aircraft warning system, had officially closed at seven. But Private Joseph Loughart, who had been receiving training here, was granted permission to remain at the station. While listening, he discovered something coming over the detector that alarmed him. He listened intently. Then, certain of his findings, he called the Central Information Center. An inexperienced lieutenant answered the phone. Excuse me, sir, this is Private Loughart. I believe a large flight of planes are approaching slightly east of north of Kauai, who at a distance of about 130 miles. It must be our own. We're expecting to be seven days from the mainland. Thank you, sir. This incident, worth acted upon, would have given our forces brief but precious time for defense action, and may have considerably affected the events of this fateful day. Regrettably, Private Loughart's warning went unheeded. It was 7.50 a.m. by the clock on the Aloha Tower when the drone of planes was faintly heard. In the Pacific skies, they swarmed in from the sea. Sunday afternoon in Washington, with talking, grinning envoys, Nomura and Kurosu were blandly delivering to Mr. Hull a lengthy protestation of Japan's peace intentions. Yes, at this very deceitful moment, about 200 of Japan's messengers of death swooped in over our Pacific paradise. On they came, wave after wave, little to fear. They knew that our task forces were at sea, and they knew their disposition. They knew that no long distance airplane reconnaissance, no inshore airplane patrol was being maintained. They knew from detailed maps they carried with them the exact location of vital airfields, hangars, and other structures. Each was given a specific objective, and straight toward that objective he came to his mind. I can think it is an attack by Japan. But you must have seen the Japanese planes. No, I did not. What about the bombing and gunfire? I thought the Ironman Navy were having maneuvers. Look, Mr. Kita, you know that I know that you know that this is an attack by Japan. I have nothing to say. And judging by the smoke pouring out of your chimney, there will be nothing left to show. I have nothing to say. Overwhelming odds, heroically and magnificently gave notice to the world that we had only begun to fight. When they sneaked in, they were about 200 strong. Only about 150 when they departed. Behind them they left about 50 of their planes. Most of them were scattered on the airfields in charred, twisted and mangled wreckage. A few had crashed into the sea and were washed up on the shore. Some were shot out of the sky and plunged headlong into the harbor. Grim tell tale evidence that the list of dead Japs might have been larger, and the list of our casualties smaller, had we been sufficiently on the alert. These two manned submarines, three of which were accounted for, were especially built to operate in shallow waters such as are found in and around Pearl Harbor. This piece of underwater perfidy won't be forgotten. It was conceived and aimed toward achieving one objective and one objective only. To catch us off guard, smash our fleet, cripple our standing as a sea power, and put us out of business. In this it failed. The tragic and terrible was the scene of destruction. Heart breaking, the sight of ships built to fight and die proudly, now left burning in shallow graves. Painful and lamentable the scenes that take them. Wheeler, Connolly, with barracks, hangers and equipment, a mass of battered debris. Always said President Roosevelt, always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. Those also were President Roosevelt's words, bitter, grievous, mortifying sorrow. For on this Sabbath day, 2,343 officers and enlisted men of our army, Navy and Marine Corps, gave their young lives in the service of our country. Who were these young Americans? Let us pause for a few minutes at their hallowed graves and ask a few of them to make themselves known. Who are you boys? Come on, speak up some of you. I am Robert R. Kelly, United States Army. I came from Finlay, Ohio. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. James E. Kelly. I'm Alfred Aaron Rosenthal, United States Navy. I lived in Brooklyn, New York. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. Henry L. Rosenthal. I am Theodore Stephen Zabel, United States Marine Corps. My hometown is Castelia, Iowa. Those are my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Zabel. I am Moses Anderson Allen, United States Navy. I lived on a farm in cold North Carolina. My mother is Mrs. Abby Allen. I am James Webster Leight, United States Navy. I'm from Huntington Park, California. My folks are Mr. and Mrs. William J. Leight. I am Antonio S. Tafoya, United States Army. I live just outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico. My father and mother are Mr. and Mrs. Jesus A. Tafoya. I am Lieutenant William R. Schick, United States Army Medical Corps. My home was Chicago, Illinois. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. William H. Schick. My wife's name is Lois. You have a baby now, Lieutenant. He was born three months after Pearl Harbor. He's named after you, Billy. And you may be pleased to know he was born on your birthday. Oh, that's swell. Thanks. But tell me one thing, Lieutenant. How does it happen that all of you sound and talk alike? We are all alike. We are all Americans. Don't partnership, Arizona! Regrettably, that's correct, Mr. Tojo. The aircraft carrier capsized and lost. Incorrect. That's the old target ship, Utah. The battleship, Oklahoma. Capsized but not lost. Plans are underway for writing her. The battleships, when are they damaged beyond repair? Temporarily damaged. But just a minute, Mr. Tojo, before you go any further with your facts, Meet Captain H.N. Walin of Iron Age. He is the Bureau of Ships expert on salvage and repair. Together with hundreds of civilian technicians, machinists, welders, mechanics, engineers, many of whom were recruited from the mainland and working in complete harmony with Navy personnel, he began a 24-hour, around-the-clock job of salvage and repair that will stand forever as one of the great achievements in maritime history. From the water's surface, this epic of masterful engineering went on. Captain Walin has proved you a mighty tall storyteller, Mr. Tojo. He calls your facts by a rich Navy word, scuttlebutt. And from the very moment the attack was over, he set out to scuttle your kind of scuttlebutt. One affectionately twirled blue jackets as the prune barge, with her ugly wounds temporarily bound, was refloated and towed to Dry-Doc. Similar attention was given to the 28-year-old Nevada and the 21-year-old West Virginia. Here in Dry-Doc, in record-breaking time, they were overhauled and improved, from stem to stern, from hull to peak. Now dressed in their up-to-the-minute fighting garb and rare and to go, these mighty warriors and their proud crews stand out to see. Godspeed. This saucy little gal, Captain Walin. Hi, George, it looks like this. Yes, it is. The mine layer, or glala. A 4,000-ton surprise package. Given up and reported as lost, this former Fall River Line passenger ship was rited and refloated. Taken to Dry-Doc, this small, dauntless craft was refitted and repaired. Now spanking new, a symbol of the fighting spirit of our men who build and man our ships. This veteran of World War I again takes up her battle station. Godspeed, old girl. Mr. Tojo, how poorly your facts stand up. Sorry to have interrupted. That which is left of the preceded fleet is now in the soldiery flight seeking shelter in the Panama Canal. Before you were lying. Now you're fishing. Oh, shipping. And now you're wishing. Tojo, but a huge convoy from the mainland. Three dozen ships, quite a number for blockade runners. And they're loaded to the gunnels with reinforcements and supplies. And here's a tip, Mr. Tojo. More of these convoys are on the way. Yes, convoy after convoy. Men in ever-increasing numbers. Supplies in ever-increasing quantity. For thanks to Washington's Farsighted Program, we did manage before December 7, despite many internal difficulties and disagreements, to build up the strength of our armed forces and start our factories humming. So that today, behind a heavy curtain of military censorship, Hawaii stands the greatest military and naval fortress in the world. Yes, virtually overnight, the island scene changed. War had come to America's tropical suburb. The Axis brand of a war. A stab in the back Sunday morning. The din of the last bomb had barely faded when Governor Poindexter proclaimed martial law for the civilian population. Windows were taped in order to reduce the dangers from flying glass. Vital installations were camouflaged and protected by sandbags and barbed wire. Barbed wire, mountains of it. Strong along every foot of Oahu's colorful coasts. Strong across its highways, around its schools and its public buildings. Everywhere the earth was tunneled, it provides shelter from shrapnels and strafing. Public squares, parks and playgrounds were uprooted. Sturdy concrete shelters were built and distributed throughout the city. An efficient air raid warning system was put into operation, for the first time in history, American school children were brought face to face with the grim reality of war. Even tiny little tots, confused and bewildered, were taught to march into zigzag trenches. How difficult to convey to them the why or wherefore of this strange game. Still more difficult to explain the need for these monstrous looking things. But the fathers and mothers of Hawaii did. For this war is a war of survival. A people's war. Even a little people's war. Yes, your bombs, Mr. Tojo, brought many changes. And in no small measure served to further complicate the already complex life of the Japanese in Hawaii. As though to permanently erase their relationship with the homeland, they wiped out or removed every vestige of the written Japanese word. Closed are the language schools. Empty and boarded up the Shinto temples. Gone the flag of the rising sun. This young American Japanese gave the best illustration that over Hawaii the rising sun had begun to set. Thus war came to Hawaii, USA. The Aloha Tower, once the symbol of welcome and hospitality, now stands clad in weird war paint. No longer do luxurious liners bring vacation-bent tourists to these once-happy aisles. The liners, too, have gone to war. No longer is Waikiki Beach the sun-kissed playground of the Pacific. Barbed wire has changed its face, too. Now, at twilight, the city streets are empty and deserted. Blackouts start each day promptly at dusk. Till you make chrome, Mr. Tojo, you've done a good job of stabbing in the back. You've darkened our cities. You've destroyed our property. You've spilled our blood. Our faith tells us that to all this treachery there can be but one answer, a time-honored answer. Say that take the sword shall perish with the sword.