The following is the text of a speech that was given today down in Baltimore about a Pearl Harbor survivor, by the brother of a dear friend and long time customer. It is uncanny how I find so many similarities in my own father's life, another survivor of the Pacific theater of WW2. It is a heartfelt and moving speech that I thought many of you might appreciate, so I want to share it with you. It doesn't take long to read, but the investment in time and effort will leave you a much better person.
Pearl Harbor Speech 2015
First, I would like to thank Paul Cora, curator for Historic Ships in Baltimore, for the opportunity to speak today. In 1997, I stood here at the podium and spoke about the Pearl Harbor survivors as a select group of noble patriots, who began the nation’s epic march to victory on December 7, 1941. It was an honor and a privilege to be invited.
Since that time, the ranks of those survivors have been depleted, proving that Father Time is one foe that can never be defeated. While the memory of that Day in Infamy has been seared into the historical DNA of our country, the memory of those who witnessed the Japanese onslaught has faded with time. So today we come to relive their lives and to remember their stories for the simple reason it is our patriotic duty.
Let me share with you my story. If there was ever a poster boy for the Greatest Generation, it would be my dad, Herman J. Travers. Born and raised in the Canton area, my father left high school in the ninth grade at the height of the Great Depression to support his family by working at the packing-houses along the waterfront. A few years later when the next eldest sibling found work, my father was free to follow his dream. Rejected by the navy and marines for bad feet, he joined the army, ironically as an infantryman. He readily admitted that he was an easy mark for the recruiter. Just one look at soldiers in dress uniforms, parading against a background of palm trees and sandy beaches, was enough to seal the deal. Racing home, my father packed a small duffle and headed out the door for an adventure of a lifetime in Hawaii.
In January 1941, the outstanding recruit in basic training found himself proudly posing for pictures against the backdrop of Schofield Barracks. My father had finally found his calling with the 27th Infantry Regiment. The Wolfhounds, renown for their bravery in battle and gentleness in peace, would exemplify my father’s life.
On Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, a few minutes before 8 a.m., my father was sitting down to breakfast in the mess hall when the food trays started rattling as the building shuddered. Running to the window, he stared in disbelief as low-flying Japanese dive-bombers strafed the quadrangle on their way to Pearl Harbor. It was the only time in his military service that he saw and heard “The Call to Arms” being played by a bugler. Later that day, he was assigned to jeep patrol, searching for martial law violators and possible saboteurs, while enforcing blackout orders. That night, his patrol responded to calls from residents who reported that Japanese paratroopers had landed in the hills and were hiding in their attics.
During his first house call, he served as point man for the search party. With a submachine gun cradled under his arm, he slowly climbed a narrow flight of stairs to the attic. In the darkness, with sweat dripping from his face and his hands shaking, he flung open the trap door, shined his flashlight, and instantly breathed a sigh of relief. The attic was empty.
In late 1942, my father was commissioned a second lieutenant after attending Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia. He eventually returned to the Pacific Campaign with the 323rd Regimental Combat Team of the 81st Infantry Division in time for the Battle of Peleliu. There on a remote coral island, often referred to as the Antietam of the Pacific for its bloody skirmishes, his service and sacrifice were put to the ultimate test. On October 17th, 1944, he successfully lead a team of four volunteers to rescue wounded men from the battlefield while enduring deadly enemy mortar fire that killed one of his men and wounded another. Two weeks later on October 30th, while on patrol near Bloody Nose Ridge, he was seriously wounded while directing a counter-attack after being ambushed by enemy machine-gun fire. For his actions during that time period, he received two medals for heroism in combat.
Sent back to the States, my father spent the next three years in and out of military hospitals while doctors attempted to reconstruct his foot. Discharged from Valley Forge Army Hospital in 1947, he retuned home to begin a new life with his wartime sweetheart whom he married in 1945. An outdoorsman, his dream of a career as a state trooper, park policemen, or even a mailman was scuttled by his war injuries. Seeking job security, he worked for 32 years as a window clerk for the U.S. Post Office. As fate would have it, while working at the Hamilton station, he befriended fellow Pearl Harbor survivor Myrtle Watson, Baltimore’s own heroic angel of mercy, who brought him into the fold of the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association. For the remainder of his life, my father, like so many other veterans, lived a live of quiet and stoic virtue that focused on faith and family, very rarely talking about his wartime experience.
While sailing blissfully into the sunset of retirement, my father was called to duty for one last battle. This time Alzheimer’s was the foe, another heartless, ruthless and deadly enemy. On November 17th, 2009, after a four-year battle with the disease, my father, bowed but not broken, feel exhausted on that battlefield. The Old Soldier didn’t die; he just faded away. A humble and compassionate man, my father endured his illness with a spiritual grace that reflected an inner peace and inspired all of those around him. However, during those dark nights of the soul, the ghosts of the battlefield would silently drift across his mind. The nursing staff often heard him barking out orders and shouting out the names of forgotten soldiers. The brutal combat and the death of his men were burdens that my father carried to the grave.
But my father’s death was not the end of his Pearl Harbor story. In fact, it was a rebirth of his Pearl Harbor legacy. As the son of a Pearl Harbor survivor, that legacy provided a source of pride as a child, bragging rights among the neighborhood kids. As a young man, that legacy served as a role model, leading the way to military service in the Marine Corps. Later in life, that legacy served as a rallying cry to keep alive the memories, resulting in a book about Pearl Harbor survivors.
So today I come here to pass the torch of that legacy to you (as part of your patriotic birthright). Today, I stand before you as the son of a Pearl Harbor survivor. Today, we stand together, each and every one of us, as sons and daughters of Pearl Harbor survivors. Together we raise our voices in unison: “Remember Pearl Harbor and Keep America Alert! Lest we forget!” Thank you!