Medford mail tribune., December 01, 1963, Image 40

I Praised the Lord
They Passed the Ammunition
One seaman's legs were buckling as he passed the
heavy shells up the line. Impulsively, 1 clapped him on the shoulder
and shouted: "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!"
In America's darkest hour, a young chaplain sounded a battle cry that inspired his
shipmates and the nation; here is his story of that Peari Harbor incident
Editors' Note: The Rev. Howell M. Forgy was
a young pastor in Kentucky when World War II
broke out in Europe. In 19 40, he wrote to Presi
dent Franklin D. Roosevelt, offering his services
as a chaplain wherever he might be needed. He
was accepted and assigned to the Navy. When
the Pearl Harbor attack occurred, he had been
aboard the cruiser USS New Orleans about nine
months. He remained on that ship, which saw
action in many Pacific engagements, throughout
the war.
After the war, he divided his time between
the pulpit and working as a sociological consult
ant. During 1962 he served as Chairman of the
Pearl Harbor Survivors Association. Recently,
he was felled by a series of strokes and is now
in an Air Force hospital near Riverside, Calif.
A big, energetic, deep-voiced man, he finds the
forced inactivity chafing.
I WAS stretched OUT in my bunk on
the heavy cruiser USS New Orleans
in Pearl Harbor when General Quar
ters sounded at 7:45 on the morning of
Dec. 7, 1941.
I wasn't sleeping; I was planning my sermon.
It was Sunday, and as the only chaplain on the
ship, one of my duties was to conduct services
for the 1,400-man crew.
COVER:
By HOWELL M. FORGY
Commander, U.S.N., Ret.
Former Pastor, Hollister (Calif.) Presbyterian Church
as told to Joseph N. Bell
ILLUSTRATION BY GIL WALKER
Taking it for granted this was another dry
run, I sauntered to my duty station in the ship's
hospital. But the speaker system began bellowing
over and over, "This is no drill," and, a few sec
onds later, one of the ship's doctors stuck his
head into the sick bay and said with a chilling
edge to his voice, "There are planes up there
lots of them and they don't look like ours."
As I hurried topside onto the well deck, there
was a deafening roar from an aircraft motor,
then a stnccato rat-a-tat-tat-tat. Bullets hitting
the metal deck made sparks as they ricocheted
around me. Without thinking, I did a little
"dance" on the deck, foo.ishly trying to dodge
the flying bullets.
By some miracle, I wasn't hit, and I watched
for a few seconds, transfixed, as the plane trav
ersed the length of the ship, its tail bobbing and
weaving like a jack rabbit in a mesquite patch.
Then it was gone and in its wake was confu
sion. A quarter-mile away, the Arizona was a
black, flaming pyre, and the West Virginia looked
as if her back had been broken. The Hack, oily
water was full of struggling figures, and the sky
was orange with antiaircraft fire. The whole
harbor looked as if it were aflame.
Dozens of planes were overhead, bombing and
strafing, their rising-sun emblems glinting in the
bright sunshine.
I knew we were in mortal danger trapped
in the confines of Pearl Harbor, fat targets for
an enemy that had refined treachery to a fine
edge on this beautiful Sunday morning.
The order came to cast loose and rendezvous
at sea, and someone ashore hacked away the lines
holding us. In their frantic haste, they forgot one
thing: the New Orleans was in Pearl Harbor to
have a turbine repaired. Our engines were down,
completely immobile. We were receiving power
from a line strung out from a shore installation.
And the shore crew cut all the lines including
the power line!
The New Orleans not only couldn't move, but
she also had no power on board within a few
minutes after the Japanese attack. Since all our
ammunition was stored below decks and was
carried to the gun crews by electric hoists, we
were virtually without means of defending our
selves once we had used our ready ammunition.
In this crisis, our men responded, as they were
to do so many times in the months and years
ahead, with great courage and ingenuity. There
was only one way to get the ammunition up to
the guns by sheer muscle power. And within a
(Continued on page 14)
Baby brothers are for loving is
the unspoken phrase here as pert
Julie Lochridge and new brother
Jeffrey get acquainted. The scene
was photographed by Phoebe Dunn.
Family Weekly
December 1, 1963
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