MEMORIES
OF “THE BATTLE OF LOS ANGELES”
The Battle of Los Angeles, also known as the Great Los Angeles Air Raid, is the name given by contemporary sources to a rumored attack on the mainland United States by Japan and the subsequent anti-aircraft artillery barrage which took place from late 24 February to early 25 February 1942, over Los Angeles, California. The incident occurred less than three months after the United States entered World War II in response to the Imperial Japanese Navy's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, and one day after the bombardment of Ellwood near Santa Barbara on 23 February. Initially, the target of the aerial barrage was thought to be an attacking force from Japan, but speaking at a press conference shortly afterward, Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox called the purported attack a "false alarm." Newspapers of the time published a number of reports and speculations of a cover-up.
When documenting the incident in 1949, the United States Coast Artillery Association identified a meteorological balloon sent aloft at 1:00 am as having "started all the shooting" and concluded that "once the firing started, imagination created all kinds of targets in the sky and everyone joined in." In 1983, the U.S. Office of Air Force History attributed the event to a case of "war nerves" triggered by a lost weather balloon and exacerbated by stray flares and shell bursts from adjoining batteries.
– Wikipedia
My late mother’s account of the air raid had long become a favorite part of our family’s “oral history.” Finally, in 1998, she was persuaded to set it down in writing. Here is a full transcription of her story:
The U.S. is at war with Japan since December, 1941. People of Japanese ancestry are being relocated away from the Pacific Coast. Barrage balloons are floating over aircraft factories, including Douglas Aircraft, which is near our home in West Los Angeles. Anti-aircraft gun emplacements are now on the hills between Douglas Aircraft and Cheviot Hills. My dad is head air raid warden for our neighborhood. His “army” consists of mainly retirees of a certain age. One, Mr. Luby, is in his 80s – the others are all 50 or older. They meet weekly in my dad’s office, which is adjacent to our garage. They are all equipped with helmets, whistles, nightsticks, gas masks and stirrup pumps (for extinguishing incendiary bomb fires). All in the L.A. area have had orders to put up blackout curtains in at least one room, and to find a suitable part of the house to use as a “bomb shelter.” This, with the encouragement of the air raid wardens, has been accomplished. Several air raid drills have been held, complete with sirens and all-clear signals, but, thus far, no real emergency.
1. My father, a Boy Scout Master and participant in civic affairs, is a natural choice to be the head warden. He is a leader and is thought to be calm in emergencies.
2. My dad’s sister, Lydia, a nurse and lifelong spinster, who at the age of 50 has recently married an elderly San Diegan whom she has left in S.D. to visit us for a few days.
3. Grandma Kneale, my mother’s mother, who lives with us and who is a semi-invalid with a heart condition.
4 & 5. My Mother (Norma) and I (normal?)
6. “Auntie” Nelson, our long-time neighbor and dear friend.
7 & 8. Our dog, Tillie, and Auntie Nelson’s dog, Queenie.
9 – 13. Our cat, Catherine, and her 4 baby kittens.
14 – 20. The air raid wardens.
All the family are in bed. Aunt Lydia is sharing mine. I am still awake, unaccustomed to having a bed companion. Phone rings. I leap up and run to the kitchen (our blackout room). The person on the line says only “Red alert!” I hang up, run to my parents’ room, and shake my dad, saying, “Red alert!” Startled from a deep sleep, he jumps up, stubs his toe on the end of the bed, shouts, “That God-damned bed!” and turns on the light, which I immediately turn off, hops to the phone in our blacked-out kitchen and calls his wardens to report for duty. Sirens sound. Mother awakens Grandma, whispering that there is a red alert, and she, always game for something new or interesting, says “Goody!” We put a chair at the end of our “bomb shelter” hall for her, get additional chairs for ourselves and Aunt Lydia, call Tillie, who jumps up on Grandma’s lap. Doorbell rings. Auntie Nelson, in her bathrobe and with her long white hair in a braid, asks if she and her German shepherd, Queenie, can join us. We usher her into the hall and Tillie, who is Queenie’s sworn enemy, begins to growl and show her teeth. Queenie is restrained and Tillie, from the safety of Grandma’s lap, mutters from time-to-time. Meanwhile, Aunt Lydia (who was always a bit unhinged) is moaning “Oh, my poor Frank, all alone in San Diego.” While this is going on, I join my father and the wardens outside. In the sky are lots of searchlights meeting overhead in what looks like a giant web, and in the middle is “something” (a plane?) that the anti-aircraft guns are aiming at. Lots of anti-aircraft fire, not even coming close to the target. Shrapnel falling around, but we are protected by helmets. My dad’s ulcer begins to act up, so I am sent to warm some milk for him. The other wardens, having completed their task of warning the neighborhood residents and making sure that no light is showing in our area, have regrouped in my dad’s office, in which our cat, Catherine, and her four kittens are having a peaceful night. The kittens, though too young to be adopted, have that very day “graduated” to a much larger box with high sides to prevent their crawling out prematurely. Of course, no one has figured out that a bunch of old geezers in white helmets, waving nightsticks and shouting at one another, would prove to be an alarming menace to cat and kittens. Naturally, cat instincts take over, and the four little ones and Mother Cat immediately are empowered to climb some two feet out of the carton and, in the dark, are underfoot and a danger to themselves, as well as the wardens. Luckily, I manage to get our dog Tillie (who is like a second mother to the kittens) from Grandma’s lap in our hall, by-passing a bristling Queenie en route, to round up Catherine and her kittens. Meanwhile, stuff is falling from the skies, my dad is drinking his warm milk, Mr. Luby is about to faint and has to be led to a porch chair, Aunt Lydia is still lamenting the absence of her darling Frank, Grandma is exclaiming “Isn’t this fun?” and I am running back and forth, warming and serving milk to two other wardens who have suddenly developed stomach distress, and watching the sky show. Then, after a couple of hours, the all-clear sounds and the fun is over.
Was it really an air raid? There were rumors of a small plane from a Japanese sub that had made a run over the W.L.A. area, but it was never proven. My theory is that it probably was a test to check on the readiness of the home guard and, if so, they were probably found wanting. Anyway, that is my memory of our first and only “air raid.”
iAccording to official records, the red alert was sounded at 2:21 A.M., so the estimates here are a bit off.
iiThe night of February 24-25.