As I approached the place, I felt my heart suddenly become like a heavy weight in my chest. I was in awe, and it’s still hard to tell if I was more awed at the place itself, or by the fact that I was really there. Perhaps it was what had happened there, more than anything else, though it had all transpired nearly 70 years ago.
This is it, I thought, this is Pearl Harbor.
In my mind’s eye I could just see Japanese bombers coursing through the tranquil Hawaiian sky, totally unexpected, dropping death from their bellies as the Americans below scrambled to return fire and save their fighter planes and warships from destruction. I heard the boom of the torpedoes and bombs, and the rattling of machine guns. I saw pillars of fire all around, causing sailors and marines to dodge out of the way. The sky was now black, unable to be seen beyond the great, oil-born clouds of toxic smoke.
So many had died that day, I’d reflected. So many, so young. So untimely.
This was Pearl Harbor; the Alamo of the Pacific.
