I am the daughter of a Pearl Harbor survivor, Calvin Clifford Dawes who served in the Navy as a gunner’s mate on the destroyer, U.S.S. Raleigh.

My dad was a month away from turning 18. His mother had signed to allow him to join the Navy. He became a man the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, a day on which I had not been born yet, but a day that impacted my life like no other. I wished I’d known the fun-loving boy, the adventurous youth he was before that day. I was never to know him in that way. Dad served from 1941 to 1947.

When my dad tried to join the Navy. He needed to have his mother’s signature. It was then at the recruiters office that he found out his social security didn’t match his last name. He had to find why the man who raised him was not his father. My grandmother had been married before and Dad was the product of that marriage. It was an arranged marriage. Unfortunately, my real grandfather was killed when Dad was only 10 months old. Grandmother swept it under the rug. She later began a life with a new husband without the benefit of adoption and she just gave him her new last name. Dawes. His real last name was Kirby. He was devastated that she kept such a secret from him. So imagine his anguish going off to war and finding out he wasn’t whom he thought he was. Dad looked for his father’s grave for a long time. He died never knowing. I found it a few years ago in Detroit. My grandfather served during World War I in France as an hourglass soldier. Eventually, my father did enlist at 17. His mother had to sign for him. He had an older brother serving in the Army. He wanted to do his part. My mother had this picture made of her saluting to send him while out to sea in support of what he was doing to fight the war. The group picture is of me, Mother and Dad who hated having his picture taken. He never looked at the camera.

As a child, I remember my father talking about the war. Dad was a gunner’s mate on the U.S.S. Raleigh went the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. On occasion he would talk about that day. It had a profound effect on him. He would recall that they were one of three ships to be attacked as they flew over Ford Island. He remembered the noise of the planes flying overhead, the sound of them diving in suicide missions and hitting the ship, the smell of burning oil with injured men scrambling to their stations. The damage to the ship caused them to limp back to the harbor. He was never the same after the attack. It is now obvious he suffered the rest of his life from PTSD, but it was way before such a thing was diagnosed. One thing I remember well is he would talk to the young men in our family about the war. My two sons, my nephew and now two of my grandson chose the military largely because of the pride they felt in my father and other relatives who served in the WWII.

His life went on after the war; he married Mother, his high-school sweetheart. They had four children over the course of time, I was the second born. Yes, life went on, but not for Dad. He recounted the moments that stole his youth, those moments seared in his brain forever. We heard the stories and lived through it with him. It was real to us, as if we had been there with him. A dull explosion hit the ship. All hands were called to general quarters and 5 minutes later the anti-aircraft guns on the Raleigh opened fire. The ocean water was boiling. Dad did his job as he was trained, with no time to think, no time to be afraid. Men hollered orders, ran back and forth with ammunition. Everyone did his job to perfection.

The ship started to list toward port. An airplane torpedo struck the fire room and flooded it. It looked as if the Raleigh would capsize. The noise was deafening and the smoke was everywhere. The taste of burning oil was in the air. The gunfire was steady and accurate. Dad saw several Japanese planes fall out of the sky as a result of his mates and their training. A bomber flew over the stern of the Raleigh, burst into flames and crashed on the USS Curtis. Thank goodness for the training these men went through, that in the heat of battle, they could perform their duties without hesitation. Dad found out later that the Raleigh was responsible for the downing of five Japanese planes. Proudly, he remembered everyone on board stayed at their posts and finished the job. The Raleigh survived the attack, and no one on the ship was killed. It was a miracle, since the Utah and USS Raleigh were the first ships attacked. They were mistaken by the Japanese for the Lexington and the Enterprise. Even at his tender age, Dad performed valiantly, as did all the men on the Raleigh, and as stated in numerous reports. Dad would be in several other battles during the war, but none impacted him as much as that attack. He’d just begin telling the stories, over and over, as if they played like a movie in his mind. He was prone to fits of anger, weeping, emotional upheaval he tried to drown in drink. Back in that day no one heard of post-traumatic stress disorder, much less knew to treat it. Dad lived with it. A seventeen-year-old boy caught in one of the biggest naval battles in World War II history, forever to live with the extreme memories. I lost my dad about twenty years ago to a heart attack, but I always felt I’d lost him before I ever really knew him. The last two years of his life he would tell me he was sorry, sorry for the memories he forced on us. But he seemed more at peace then. I held his hand and wept with him.

Not being able to contact his family to let them know he was alive was also very difficult. The long stretches out to sea with little contact from home. He became a man that day and would never look at anything in the same way. They received a hero’s welcome. The family rallied around him, and he basked in the reunions. Readjustment was very difficult for my father. He didn’t realize he was suffering from PTSD. He didn’t understand the anger he felt. My mother was instrumental in his on-going recovery. Her patience and love and the love of his children buffered the storm raging in him because of what he’d witnessed. He took to the mountains. He wanted nothing more to do with the sea. We backpacked on the weekends, took summer vacations in the mountains ranges in the Mt. Rainer area. It was as if he was trying to rid himself of the demons. I believe it’s what saved him, the peace of the mountains ranges and nature.
After the war, my father suffered from PTSD, but it was before anyone knew what it was, so there was no treatment for it. It was hard to understand when I was a child, but as I grew older and he talked more about the war, I began to see why he was suffering so much. I think Dad’s greatest fear was for the safety of his family. Who knew if the war would come to America’s shores?

I have two sons; Lance A. Cameron who served in the Army from 1990 to 1995 and Scott A. Cameron who served in the Navy from 1992 to 2000. My nephew Kelly Beatson served from May of 1988 to May of 1992 and grandson Alex Cameron is presently serving in the Navy. My grandson Chandler Cameron is also currently serving in the Marines. They enlisted because of my father’s service. My oldest son, Lance Cameron says, “The military taught me two very important ideals. Pride in my country and pride in family tradition. When I joined the army I just did it for a paycheck. But the army helped me become a man, and during that process I learned a lot about our country’s history and the many ‘boys to men’ stories in that history. When I learned that both my grandfathers served in WWII I felt such pride and honor knowing that the men in my family were and are part of a heroic history. I learned all I could about my grandfather’s time in the war and listened to all the stories I could. I am so proud of them that I encouraged my sons to serve and continue a noble family tradition. My brother Scott served in the Navy and my two sons are serving now. And when they are ready I will pass on the stories of WWII and what my grandfathers had to endure. Grandpa, you are my hero.”

My father passed away twenty-two years ago. I do everything I can to keep his legacy alive and tell my children and grandchildren the stories he told me. He sacrificed so much at such a young age. The war changed who he was completely. I don’t want that sacrifice to be in vain.

My family knows the hero that he became.
~ Patty Wiseman
www.pattywiseman.com

Honoring history and veterans, one day at a time
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