History Lesson, Part 2

     "Yesterday, December 7, 1941---a date which will live in infamy---the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."

     I've listened often enough to a recording of President Roosevelt's December 8, 1941 Declaration of War speech, that I can say it perfectly, with identical pauses and voice inflection.   I wouldn't be born for another 4 1/2 years, but even today, over seven decades later, I really don't know how close I and all of my descendants came to not receiving the gift of life.

    My Dad, Raymond E. Smith, was aboard the USS West Virginia on that beautiful Sunday morning in the paradise of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.   He was there because he had decided to delay his plans to attend college, forgoing football scholarships to Capitol and Ohio Universities. Instead, he joined the Navy shortly after graduating from high school in January, 1941.  Now, 11 months later, at a time when his Mom and Dad and one brother and four sisters were contemplating Christmas without him  and battling snowy weather, he and his shipmates found themselves battling deadly torpedoes, bombs, and machine gun fire.

     I was within him that day, and I was part of his hopes and dreams, but if I was ever to be born and call him Dad, he had to survive this surprise attack.  There were many dreams that died that day.  2,335 servicemen were killed on this Day of Infamy.  But I can't help but think about how many marriages would never happen and how many children would never be born, because of the destruction on that day.  I said earlier that I'll never really know for sure how near I came to never being born.  That's because my Dad would never really explain to us the events of the day.  All we knew was that he had seen shipmates die and swam through burning waters to nearby Ford Island. My Mom told us that he had nightmares and night sweats for some years afterwards.  I'm told that this reticence to share the horrors of personal war experiences was typical of this generation.  But as I explained in my last writing, I have this desire to know of historical events like this as if I were there.  But my desire and his willingness never met on reliving the events at Pearl.

     Ironically, he was initially among those reported killed in action. Somehow, in the confusion,
the Navy Department notified my Grandparents that he was among those killed on the USS West Virginia.
     The Columbus city newspapers published his picture and honored him as the first Columbus serviceman killed in action in World War II.    The news could not have been more devastating.   To lose an oldest son,  so far from home.  But as they grieved and began to accept the fact that he was gone, an unbelievably special package arrived at the door on 870 South Wayne Avenue on Christmas Eve, 17 days after the attack.   A telegram arrived from the Navy Department, saying his reported KIA status was a mistake.....that he was alive and well and had been reassigned to another ship, which turned out to be the destroyer,  USS Mahan.  That ship would be sunk, ironically, on December 7, 1944, as a result of Japanese kamikaze attacks, but he would survive that as well,  and I would be privileged to know him for 53 more Christmases, beginning in 1946.

My Dad with Grandma Jesse and Grandpa Delbert

An aging clipping from the Columbus, Ohio newspaper

Merry Christmas

Dayton National Cemetery



We honor your legacy:
Mother

Roger & Nancy

Jon & Wendy

 Abby

 Anna

Scott & Heather

 Brady

 Avery

Nora

Eric & Brittany

Jack

 Audrey

 William

Steve & Nita

           Jason & Maggie

 Violet

 Rhett

Josh & Katie

Travis & Carly

 Finn

 Annie

                                       Fred & Linda                                                

 Mike & Traci

  Jonah

  Lydia

 Troy & Ashley

 Calais

Salem

                                                                                              

                       

       Over 100 men of the USS West Virginia were killed that day.  I can't help but feel a certain closeness to them, because they were my Dad's shipmates.  I'm grieved that their dreams ended there,  and they weren't able to go on to realize the benefits of the freedoms for which they died.   But I thank them for anything they might have done to help my Dad stay alive that day.   And he did more than just survive.   He made the most of the blessing of coming home,  after over  3 years of fighting the enemy on the open seas.  He left a legacy of hard work,  excellent effort,  honesty,  forgiveness, loving his family, trusting God and the blood of Christ, and courage, especially in the face of debilitating disease in his final days.

   


 Those living in our family now who are old enough to understand, know most of the details of this story which I've related.   But I write this mainly in an effort to pass it along to the very young and to those not yet born, so that they may make a personal connection with their heritage.