office, hoping everyone else on board was too busy to notice how scared he was. In the weeks ahead, he got progressively less frightened with each dive, but he was never completely at ease.
Bob couldn’t believe his good luck. It was October 1941, and when the
Tuna
got sent to Mare Island near San Francisco for repairs, he found out that Barbara was now working as a secretary for an insurance company in San Francisco. She had dropped out of the University of Oregon after a year and was living in a cramped studio apartment on Pine Street with her cousin Margie and Aunt Fern. He wasted no time in calling her, and to his great joy she agreed to go out on a date with him.
That first date didn’t go quite as he’d planned. The day before he was supposed to meet her, he forged an officer’s signature on a weekend pass for a shipmate and got caught. Sentenced to a week in the brig, he couldn’t call. When he finally got out and called, he apologized profusely; to his relief she quickly got over being angry and gave him another chance.
When he arrived at the apartment and Barbara opened the door, he stood there, mouth agape. She was even cuter and shapelier than he remembered.
For her part, she thought he looked pretty damn cute himself, all decked out in his sailor suit. He’d matured since she’d last seen him, his lean frame filled out a bit, his face fuller, more mature. And those eyes, sky blue and friendly, reminded her why she’d first been attracted to him back in high school, and why she’d let him sweet-talk her into the backseat of her father’s car across the street from the Baptist Church.
They went out for dinner at Mona’s Nite Club—veal cutlets and mashed potatoes—and a lot of close dancing. She invited him to spend the night. Because her aunt and cousin shared the small studio apartment with her, he would have to sleep on the couch. That was fine with him. He was just happy to be with her again. She was as affectionate as he remembered, and she still had that flirty way that got him excited.
For the next six weeks, he came to see her on every weekend pass he got, taking the one-hour bus ride from Mare Island into San Francisco, then a twenty-minute walk to her apartment. They even began to talk about marriage.
On December 4, 1941, her parents drove down from Medford for a visit. Barbara summoned her nerve to tell them that she and Bob were dating again, and that she was in love, and that they’d talked of getting married.
“Over my dead body,” her father replied.
On Sunday morning, December 7, Bob awoke late at his brother Darrell’s house in Medford. Home on a four-day pass, he’d come to tell his father and Cora that he planned to marry Barbara after he completed his stint in the Navy.
Getting dressed, he listened to the big band sounds of Tommy Dorsey on Mutual Radio. The programming was interrupted with a terse two-sentence announcement: “The Japanese have attacked U.S. Navy ships at Pearl Harbor. Enemy ships have been reported close to our shores.”
He spun the radio dial, searching for more news. All servicemen on leave anywhere in America, he learned, had been ordered to return immediately to station. He wouldn’t be able to see his dad and tell him about his plans with Barbara. By early afternoon, he was boarding a bus in his Navy blues to head back to California.
Settling into his window seat, he braced for the long ride, resolute in his country’s purpose.
On her way to work the morning of Monday, December 8, Barbara stopped at a newsstand, paid a nickel, and bought a copy of the
San Francisco Examiner
. The headline bannered the news: U.S.—JAP WAR! Later that day, along with the whole nation, she listened to President Roosevelt’s historic “a day which will live in infamy” speech.
For the people in San Francisco, the impact of the sneak attack was especially sobering. The vulnerable West Coast was now confronted not only with the reality of America being at war