Ernie: The Autobiography by Ernest Borgnine Page B

with a dance floor. We later came to find out that it was also a great place for spies. They could hear exactly where we were going, what we were doing. I’m sure they had spies all over the place telling them what to hit when they fired on Hawaii.
    When we were on ship, the commanders started a routine of having our planes fly over for what they called a drill. Everybody went to their general quarters battle stations. Our guns would follow these airplanes. We did that for a half to three-quarters of an hour and then they’d go away. We’d secure everything and go back about our business. That was done six days a week. Things were dicey in Europe—this was 1940—but we didn’t really think we were at risk in Hawaii. And if anything did happen, we felt we were prepared.
    But the Japanese were a little smarter. They came on a Sunday, December 7, 1941, when everybody was resting. The rest is history, of course.
    I wasn’t there when it all came down. I had finished up in September, 1941. The Lamberton also missed that initial action. When Honolulu was attacked, my girl was out at sea pulling targets for the fleet. In fact, most of the firing ships, the aircraft carriers, had stayed at sea over the weekend to prepare for target practice Monday morning. But word reached me at home in Connecticut that the Lamberton actually saw those airplanes coming in toward Honolulu. They radioed in and said “There are a bunch of planes coming in with red balls on their wings.”
    The guys on the radar reported it and heard back, “Oh, yeah, that’s fine. Those are our planes coming in from the States.” But they weren’t coming in from the States, they were coming in from Japanese ships to the west. It’s easy to second-guess decisions with hindsight, but I wonder how many lives could have been saved if the boys on the other end of that call had bothered to look at a map.
    The executive officer who was on board when I left the ship was kind of a nasty guy, and Italian to boot. He was real mad because I could speak Italian and he couldn’t. I used to call him names, but he couldn’t do anything about it because I said them nicely and he didn’t know what they meant. When he knew I was leaving, he said to me, “What do you think you’re doing? We’re practically at war and you won’t re-up?”
    I said, “No, sir. I want to go home. My mom isn’t well and I want to spend some time with her.”
    He looked at me and said, “Well, enjoy marching in the rear rank while we’re marching up front holding Old Glory.”
    That hurt, because no one loved the United States more than I did. But I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to spend my last enlisted days in the brig. But that wasn’t the last time I saw him. Years later, I was in Norfolk, Virginia, doing something with the Barter Theatre. I was in this paint shop buying paint for the show. I looked up and there was this old exec of mine.
    I said, “Well, sir. How are you?”
    He glanced over. “Oh,” he said. “You’re Borgnine.”
    I said, “That’s right, sir. I’m the guy you said would be marching in the rear rank.”
    In fact, I hadn’t been—not exactly—but we’ll get to that in a moment.
    He said, “Well, Borgnine, I had three ships shot out from under me. Can you match that?”
    I told him I couldn’t and said that I was glad he’d made it. Then I told him that I’d been acting and gave him tickets to the show.
    He said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
    I never did see him again. Still, I don’t think ill of him. I can’t. Not of a man who served his country the way he did.

Chapter 8

Home Again…but Not for Long

    I left the Lamberton and was transferred home. They sent me to New London, Connecticut, which was about an hour from my house.
    I hadn’t been there for years. The last time I’d gone had been a sad occasion. Not long after I signed up, my ship was docked in Guan-tánamo Bay, Cuba. This was long before Castro. Cuba was full of friendly,