It was September 11, 2001 that I recall a phone conversation I had with my oldest daughter, Noel. It was towards the end of that day of horrors, when I could finally get through to her. Many thoughts and feelings were shared in that conversation, but one in particular that I seem to recall on occasion. As we were talking about the terribleness of what happened in New York the thought seemed to come out in words that this would be the closest we could ever come to understand the fear and tragic loss Americans felt on December 7, 1941. I am not sure if she could quite understand the significance of that, but for myself it took me back to a time many years ago when my grandfather decided to tell me his story that made Pearl Harbor personal for me.

At the time of this writing it was 38 years ago, when I was 9 years old, that my grandfather, Cmdr. Leonard "Leo" Lay (ret) chose, for whatever reason, to break his silence regarding that Sunday morning. Grandpa had always been a quiet man of gentle disposition. I knew he had been in the US Navy, but other than a few comments on occasion about some of the places he visited while in the Navy much of his military life was unknown to us; even to my grandmother. I remember wanting to ask him questions about his experiences in WWII, but there always seemed to be somewhat of an unspoken hush about it, that it was an area I needed to respect as being private. While I knew much about the attack on Pearl Harbor, as even at that young age I had a curious passion regarding this part of American history, I did not know Grandpa had first hand experience with it.

The day he shared his story with me is still vividly clear, even 38 years later. When I tell this story, whether I am writing or sharing it with someone I can still hear his voice, see the confused look in his eyes, and his hands as they quivered at times, his fingers intertwining as if trying to comfort himself. My family had been visiting on a Thanksgiving holiday. Somewhere in the course of the dinner chit-chat he mentioned that him and Grandma had seen Tora! Tora! Tora!, the first blockbuster film that documented the Pearl Harbor attack in story form. I specifically recall him referring to the movie as having "left me flabbergasted!" Perhaps it was seeing this film on the silver screen that stirred him to want to share his story. Why he chose me was not something I ever came to understand.

As dinner came to an end and the family dispersed to either clean up or watch the parade on the television, I noticed Grandpa sitting quietly in his favorite recliner chair across the room. He seemed to be in thought, just observing, and I found my way over to sit next to him on the floor. I really wanted to ask questions and for whatever reason felt bold enough to ask him what the name of his ship was when he was in the Navy. He let his eyes turn towards my direction and he just looked at me for awhile. At first I thought I had asked the wrong thing, but as I think back now it seemed to be a moment of connecting. His features softened...his voice lowered, as he watched my eyes as he told me his first ship was the USS Arizona. I felt an immediate lump in my throat. From my reading I knew immediately the significance of what he was saying. We maintained a locked gaze for what seemed like eternity...then he finally nodded slightly. "Yes, I was there...at Pearl."

Grandpa was only 18 years old that day, just starting his 20 year Naval career. Like so many other sailors and officers stationed on the USS Arizona, he was asleep in his small cabin. After all, it was Sunday, and since he had the 4 person cabin to himself this morning he was enjoying the rare opportunity to sleep in. His story really had no slow, gradual build-up, that would typically create the suspenseful anticipation. His story began with a ear-splitting explosion and violent lurch of his ship which threw him like a rag doll against the steel wall across the cabin. Dazed and confused from the impact, he felt the floor below him rock, seeming to drop, more explosions sending sharp vibrations throughout the steel all around him.

Grandpa stopped for a moment, slipping deeper into thought it seemed. "I really thought I was having a bad dream," his voice trailed off, continuing to say that he realized it wasn't a dream when he heard machine gun fire and waves of airplanes that seemed to be barely overhead. Explosions in the distance. Within seconds of being thrown from his bunk he came to his senses and realized the cabin door had been slammed closed so hard he could not open it. With the deck rocking in an unsettling feeling beneath him he fought panic, fearing the ship was sinking. Within literally moments his fears were confirmed when sea water started rushing in through the open porthole!

Panic overtook him and he fought against the violent surge of water rushing in to get through the opening, but to no avail. The cabin was filling quickly and he realized he would have to let the cabin completely fill before he would be able to attempt to squeeze through the 18" porthole.

"I remember taking my last gulp of air as the water reached the ceiling." Grandpa's eyes seemed to be searching for something as he told me how he fought with every ounce of energy to get through the small opening - and resisted the urge to panic. It was a moment that few of us live to tell about it seems. That moment when you are certain this is the time of your death, with no say-so over the situation. But somehow, perhaps miraculously, he managed to get through and immediately saw the surface of water above him ablaze, as an oil slick was already on fire.

I remember his hands clenching as he tried to describe how out of breath he already was, yet knowing he had so far to swim under water to get away from the burning surface. Then his voice trailed off to a quiet whisper...his lips moving for a moment, then silence.

His next conscious moment in his life found him in a Naval hospital. Apparently he had been found hours later by a patrol boat, clinging to a railing barely above the water's surface, though he could not remember. Even to the day he told me his story, he was convinced his last memory of trying to out swim the blazing water above him was his gifted moment to make good with his Maker.

His stay in the hospital was short, as he amazingly suffered no injuries, other than swallowing more sea water than one should. There were two times when telling his story that I saw Grandpa's eyes moist over, the first being when he told me about returning to his ship...or what was left of the USS Arizona, most of which was sunk. One of the most powerful battleships in the US Naval fleet...laid to rest, like a soldier still in his prime, in a matter of moments...carrying with her 1,175 of his shipmates. Almost half of the total casualties of the Pearl Harbor attack!

He spoke for awhile about the once brilliant blue sky now black with smoke, ships still smoldering about the harbor. Ambulances were in a continuous cycle as lifeless bodies were retrieved from the water. When a sailor was found to still have life in him it became a moment of rejoicing. Then his voice began to quiver, his eyes showing tears for the second time as he recalled helping retrieve the last alive sailor from his sunken Arizona. It was a heartbreaking moment to hear about, because he, as well as his fellow crew, knew the sailors that were still alive - trapped in small air pockets in the ship - would not be able to be saved. At that point it had become hopeless as the only means of getting to them would have meant using cutting torches. With the harbor so saturated with oil and fuel this would have been a disaster of unimaginable proportions.

My grandfather spent most of his time at the Arizona, along with other service men. With what must have been heart rendering compassion they would communicate with the trapped sailors by tapping on the hull with, as he mentioned with an emotional chuckle, terrible morse code. Most of the 'conversation' was frantic inquiries of when they would be saved. None of the fellow service men my grandfather was with had the heart to tell them there would be no help. There was talk about Christmas, families, and how hungry they were. Even at only 9 years old I could not comprehend the helpless feeling they must have felt.

My grandfather was there, when the last tapping was heard from inside the ship. There was no more morse code. He said it sounded like a ship's bell slowly fading.

That was the last of Grandpa's story. I am sure there would have been so much more to tell, but it seemed he had unloaded a weight from his soul. He never spoke of it again - to me, or to my knowledge anyone else. For whatever reason I did not tell his story to anyone for many years, even after he passed away in 1975. Ironically, I did not realize that I was the only one that knew of his story until, as an adult in my mid-20's, I mentioned some of it at a family gathering. As the dinner table had become quiet as they listened - it was at that moment that I realized the significance of that time when Grandpa and I connected long enough for him to share his story. Even my grandmother later told me that she knew so little of this part of his life.

To this day I often wonder what would have had happened if I had not sat on the floor next to him in his favorite chair, and asked him about his first ship's name. A moment lost perhaps...a story left untold.