November 30, 2023
Volume 53 - No. 48
82nd ANNIVERSARY OF PEARL HARBOR
And Three Unlikely Heroes By Friedrich Gomez I hated school with a passion when I was growing up – I mean really hated it like a bottomless bowl of beet soup, or root canal without the anesthesia. I would rather gargle with a throat full of piranha than sit in class. But then, one day, things suddenly changed. I remember as if it were only yesterday. I was 10-years-olde, in 4th grade class, wishing I were somewhere else. I was watching the wall clock, just waiting for school to end.
Then, that one fateful day, we learned about Pearl Harbor. That moment in history that, somehow, changed my life. There would be other battles in our elementary school history books, but, this one . . . was strangely different for me. For reasons secretly known only to me at the time, the reign of terror at Pearl Harbor hit me in the gut as a small child and that pain of remembrance continues to this very day in late 2023. Small children can be most difficult to figure out, especially from an adult perspective. Different things can affect us in vastly different ways for,
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seemingly, no sound reason. For me, the reason was simple. As a small child, I was raised with the U.S. Navy all about me. Our neighbours who lived on both sides of us, as well as directly across the street, were all either active or retired U. S. Navy officers. To our port side lived Chief Petty Officer, Ray Kilmade, to whom I became deeply attached and learned much about U. S naval history. Master Chief Petty Officer, James Lair, to our starboard, taught me to recite
all the ranks of the U.S. Navy from Seaman Recruit to Fleet Admiral, in precise transmission order. I even memorised the various types of warships, past to present, including the formidable nuclear subs! There was no getting away from the U. S. Navy – not that I ever wanted to. Even my uncles were in the navy. I first fell in love with the uniform when I was about 7-years-olde and I would sit my tiny body down on the carpet at my aunt Christine’s house, just staring at the framed photos of my Uncle Charlie in his bell-bottomed ‘dress blues.’
Pearl Harbor See Page 2