Harry W. Seibert, 32°, K.C.C.H.
7630 Sandy Creek Court, Pensacola, Florida 32506–5996

As the coxswain maneuvered the launch next to the buoyed destroyer's Jacob's ladder, those of us assigned to the USS Helm climbed to her main deck. I could see that the sun had now begun to flood its light more brilliantly, making clear a panoramic view of the island. Suddenly, the droning sound of the launch was replaced by an unfamiliar buzzing. Looking toward the sound, I could see formations of tiny specks streaming over the Waianie Mountain Range; as they grew larger, and more distinguishable, they began to swoop down toward the harbor filled with ships.

Chaos Erupts
My shipmates began to gather and direct their attention to what were clearly hundreds of small planes. As the planes got closer, they dropped lower and continued directly toward us, Pearl Harbor, and almost half of the Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy.
Flashes began to appear from the leading edges of their wings, and I cold hear and see incoming rounds biting at the water, making trails toward their unsuspecting targets. The sound of ripping metal and the horrible cries of sudden death pierced our ears. Chaos erupted as it became inevitable that this was not a drill but that we were under attack by aircraft with large red meatball insignias on the fuselage. As the reality of the attack sank in, the ship came alive, the crew reacting to General Quarters being shouted and piped over the 1MC.

Our .50-caliber machine guns began to respond, manned by the most unusual of gunnery crews. I recognized our leading chief feeding belts of ammo to a chattering gun being aimed wildly by a messman from the galley. Soon the larger 30 mm deck guns streamed across the deck and trained their sights at the attackers. The noise of the aircraft became deafening as they twisted and turned within scant feet of the ship. Metal the thickness of a pack of cigarettes was penetrated, leaving holes the size of a half-dollar with jagged edges.

The small ship shuddered, and the forward deck gun was silenced and burning after taking a direct bomb hit; the crew lay strewn about the deck, wounded and dying. The ship's chaplain knelt next to one of the more seriously wounded, giving comfort as a corpsman placed bandages over gaping wounds.

About the time I thought it couldn't get much worse, another huge explosion rocked the ship, and a geyser of water erupted 50 feet into the air on the port side, a grim message that a Japanese torpedo had found its mark on the stern. Our crew, under the direction of our skipper, began removing lines from our mooring, a site close to the mouth of the harbor, which would surely allow us to escape if we could get underway. Another torpedo found its mark, throwing tons of water skyward and knocking us to the deck. Glancing toward the bridge, I could see men being tossed into the water as a result of this latest explosion. Our skipper landed unceremoniously, dazed but clear of the ship and the burning fuel oil that covered the water. Some of us gathered on the rail and tossed him and others a line and managed to get them back onboard.

Due to the extraordinary efforts of her crew, the USS Helm was able to limp out of Pearl Harbor and into the open seas that hellish Sunday morning. She was possibly the only ship able to make an escape. This horrible attack, now referred to as the "Day of Infamy," which became a rallying cry and "Awoke the Sleeping Giant," brought our mighty country together ultimately to declare victory on two fronts.

Movie Extras
This account is mine from when I was Petty Officer First Class, USN, Harry William Seibert. How, you say, could someone born November 13, 1941, a literal babe in arms when this historic event took place, have these experiences?

I was stationed with the Navy Pacific Missile Range Facility at Marine Corps Air Station Kaneohe, Hawaii, in 1969; scenes for the movie Tora! Tora! Tora! were being filmed at Pearl Harbor. I, along with my leading chief and others from my command, was selected in answer to a call that went out for active-duty sailors to earn money as extras. Tora! Tora! Tora! went down in history as the most costly film of its day, exceeding $40 million.

No expense was spared. There were crews in Hawaii, Japan, and the United States. A mock-up of the USS Arizona's superstructure was designed to actually sink during the filming at a cost of about $2 million. Retired Navy SNJ's were pulled out of desert retirement and painted like Japanese fighters and bombers. Strobe lights were fitted into the wings to simulate machine guns, and they looked like the genuine article. Dummy ordnance was strapped to their underbellies.

Those stationed at MCAS Kaneohe would arise each morning at 4:00 am to make the drive over the Pali Highway and catch the ferry to Ford Island where we were "made-up" and readied for the day's shoot. We would start with a clean uniform from the skin out and line up to let the make-up man douse us, one by one, with water from an old fire extinguisher and randomly apply charcoal from a bag, much like a large powder puff. We would then board a whaleboat for a 15-minute trip to an old destroyer, which had been removed from mothballs to play the USS Helm. The film's storyline says it was the only ship to get underway and leave Pearl Harbor. Upon arriving on board, we were assigned specific duties to be performed when the word "Action!" was shouted over a megaphone.

That was when, if it is possible without actually being there on December 7, 1941, I experienced a small sample of the Hell here on Earth experience by those who were actually there 59 years ago.

Imagine Japanese planes diving and flying wildly around with guns blazing, barely missing the antenna masts of the ship. The .50-caliber machine guns chattering loudly as they were fed a constant stream of blank ammunition by my real-life buddies. As fast as the crew could reload the 30mm deck gun, it would shoot wax projectiles and rock the old ship with its recoil. Once I saw a wax projectile almost hit the wing of a simulated Zero before disintegrating; I never could get used to that gun going off; it would catch me off guard every time.

Every so often, a huge column of water belched from a giant "burper" alongside the ship, which took hours to fill with seawater only to be tossed into the air in seconds with compressed air simulating a spout thrown into the air from a torpedo strike. Some areas of the ship were drilled and wired to simulate strafing. An electrical switch operated off camera would create small explosions under painted aluminum caps, which left jagged edges protruding as though actually the result of machine gun fire.

Back In Time
This action would take place for days on end, sun up to sun down, with only a short break to gulp down a box lunch and grab a smoke. One scene had the commanding officer blown over the side of the ship. This scene was performed by a stunt man catapulted from a spring-loaded trampoline into burning water at the precise moment the burper belched and the planes dived low with guns blazing. Little effort was required to get caught up in the scene and to start the adrenaline pumping, sweat pouring, and fake blood oozing, stopping only when the word "Cut!" was blasted from the megaphone. Our rest would be short-lived; soon the call for "Action!" would again launch me and my buddies back in time to the struggle experienced that sad Sunday, December 7, 1941.

Each year at this time, I recall my experiences, which have allowed me, one from a younger generation, a small insight into what it must have been like on that fateful "Day of Infamy."

Harry W. Seibert is a retired U.S. Navy Vietnam-era veteran who served 22 years as a Senior Chief Petty Officer. He received his Scottish Rite Degrees in the Orient of Florida, Valley of Pensacola, in 1966. He is a Past Master of Pensacola Lodge No. 42 (1984) and has served his Lodge as Secretary since 1992. This article is reprinted from the Pensacola News Journal, December 7, 2000.