Bill and Ruth

A love story

This is an extended repost of THE LOVE STORY OF BILL AND RUTH COPE with additional photos and information. This is a photo of Bill and Ruth at their Diamond Head apartment. The apartment was owned by the Dillingham family.

Ruth Lindman, a 25-year-old woman with no plans of settling down, embarked on a four-week vacation to Hawaii in August 1941. Accompanied by her Alpha Delta Pi sisters from the University of California, Berkeley, she anticipated a month filled with parties and golf. Little did she know, her life would take an unexpected turn.

When it was time for her to return to California, Ruth told one of her sorority sisters she would stay in Hawaii and find a place to live because “I think Lieutenant Cope might ask me to marry him.” Three months later, Ruth Lindman and William Cope were married

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I first met Ruth Cope in 2002 at the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial. She and Bill volunteered there every Friday morning, telling their World War II story. I spotted Ruth at a distance, matching her to a newspaper clipping she had sent me. She was wearing a teal volunteer uniform and a white Kangarol cap. On the phone, Ruth’s voice sounded strong, with the gravel undertones of a lifelong smoker. In person, she looked frail. Her skin was mottled with bruises, and her bones protruded from sun-leathered skin, but her eyes were clear, and her smile was as warm as her welcome. 

Ruth and Bill sat at a card table in the bustling atrium, surrounded by a crowd. A steady stream of individuals approached, eager to capture a moment with the couple. When my turn came, I introduced myself to Ruth. She took my hand and asked, “So, dear, what do you want to know?”

 

We walked over to a bench near the water’s edge. In the background was the white memorial over the Arizona.  I was there to interview Ruth about her service in the Women’s Air Raid Defense (WARD), but Ruth began her story by looking over to her husband. “It’s really a story about Bill and me. Our love story is better than any in the movies.” And it is.

Over the next three years, Ruth and I became friends. Each time we met, it became more apparent to me that Ruth was totally in love with her Bill, over and above all else.

My husband and I met Ruth and Bill for dinner at a restaurant overlooking Honolulu Harbor. Honolulu of the 21^st century is a modern city of high-rise buildings, traffic-jammed streets, and a thriving commercial harbor.

Before the war, “Boat Days” were festive occassions. The Royal Hawaiian Band and hula halau would greet guests.

Ruth pointed to the Aloha Tower. “In those days, when you sailed in, the first thing you saw was the Aloha Tower. I remember looking at the clock on the tower, but I forgot what time it was when we arrived. It was in the morning. I remember the big A-L-O-H-A letters and the American flag flying over it. It felt like seeing the Statue of Liberty when I sailed into New York City from Europe.

During World War 2, the Aloha Tower was painted with camouflage. There were no ocean liners coming in during the war. Most were taken over by the military and used as transport ships.

“I remember standing at the rail of the Lurline. We threw paper streamers and colored confetti to the crowds on the dock. They still had boys who dove for coins. It was just like in the movies. There were hula dancers on the pier wearing ti leaf skirts and plumeria lei, and the Royal Hawaiian Band played.” 

Ruth remembers walking down the gangway and catching a whiff of flowers. “The perfume of the flowers hit you as soon as you walked onto the pier, and so did the women selling the flowers. They were a quite aggressive lot.”

On the first night in Honolulu, Ruth’s Cal friends threw a party for her and her sorority sisters, and it was there that she met Bill. Bill graduated from Mount Union College of Ohio in 1938 and worked for the Ohio State Unemployment Office for the stupendous salary of $115 per month. Bill signed up in 1940 when a “fly boy” came through the office inviting those eligible to apply for the United States Army Air Corps. “The salary was $225 per month plus travel and glamour! I wasn’t sure I wanted to fly an airplane was, but the money sounded great.”

In June 1941, Bill graduated from flight school in Alabama and was immediately assigned to Hickam Field as a bomber pilot. He admits, “I was never a star in formation flying. I’ve always suspected that’s why I wasn’t chosen to be a fighter pilot. The guys I went to flight school with called me ‘Lucky Sam.’” But when I asked him why he got that name, he answered, “Sam’s my middle name. Phil Rasmussen still calls me that.” He winked. “Phil and I would ride around Honolulu in our new Chevy convertibles at 70 miles an hour. That was the kind of formation flying I understood!”

One of Bill and Phil’s routines was to go down to the dock to meet the Lurline every two weeks. “We’d look over the ‘crop’ of college girls that came in for summer vacation,” he said. “I missed the afternoon Ruth arrived, but coincidentally, I was invited to the Cal party a fellow officer at Hickam was throwing for them that night. When I met Ruth, it was love at first sight.” 

During World War 2, the entire island of Oahu was circled with barbed wire.

Ruth doesn’t remember their first meeting so fondly. She says, “I thought he was a typical flyer. He was fortified by rum and Coca-Cola, and I didn’t think much of him.” Bill asked Ruth out on a date for the next night. She said yes.  “I did it to appease him. In his condition, I assumed he would never remember me by morning.”

Ruth left that party with another lieutenant. She can’t remember his name, just that they went to get ice cream. Unknown to her, Bill was already jealous.

When Bill called Ruth to confirm the date the next day, she said, “Oh, I thought you were kidding. I have a date with the Navy.” Bill was furious. “The Navy!” He still is shaking his head. “I swore I would never call her again.”  But Bill was already in love; he went to his best friend, Phil Rasmussen, for advice, and Phil came up with the idea of taking Ruth on a beach picnic. “Phil and I always had the complete set-up for beach parties in the trunks of our cars—complete with a barbeque and an army wool blanket.”

Ruth accepted, and Bill picked her up in his red Chevy convertible. “The blanket didn’t impress her,” Bill recalls. “And that set the tone for our 1941 romance.”

However, day by day, Ruth’s opinion of Bill softened. In October, Bill proposed to Ruth. Bill says, “Well, she didn’t say yes without a qualification. She said yes, then added, ‘By the way, I love you.’” The couple was married at the Hickam Officers’ Club on November 27, 1941. Phil Rasmussen was their best man.

The newlyweds spent a weeklong honeymoon at the Haleiwa Hotel. The hotel, built by the Dillingham Railway Company, was a sprawling North Shore retreat with double verandahs and an interior fitted entirely of koa. “Our stay there was a gift from the Dillinghams, who were friends of my family. Bill and I spent the week walking the hotel grounds and taking rides on the Hawaiian canoes.”

The Haleiwa Hotel was serviced by a railroad that ran from Honolulu to Haleiwa. It was demolished in 1953.

From their honeymoon, the couple moved into base housing at Hickam Field. They were assigned a second-story apartment in a four-plex on Signer Boulevard; from their bedroom window, they had a clear view of Pearl Harbor. Four days after they moved into quarters, the Japanese attacked.

“I wasn’t aware of any pending hostilities,” Ruth said. Bill added, “A few fighter planes were armed, but the bombers—all at Hickam—were totally disarmed. In fact, on Saturday night, December 6, 1941, I was Officer of the Guard at Hickam, and my job assignment was to inspect the Hickam Flight Line before and after midnight. The planes were lined up perfectly, wing-tip to wing-tip. The brass had been worried about Fifth Column activity, but it backfired and allowed the enemy to shoot them all in a minimum of passes.”

Hickam officer housing in 1941. Ruth and Bill lived in a fourplex.

On the morning of December 7, Ruth and Bill were awakened by the sound of plane engines. Like most people, both of them assumed it was a drill, but then Bill didn’t think the planes sounded right. They both got up and looked out the window. Ruth said, “I remember it like it was a tidal wave. I could see the Arizona in flames. I was stunned. I tried to imagine who, what, and why. Then a plane flew over our apartment, and there, on the fuselage, was the emblem of the Rising Sun!”

Bill’s reaction was immediate—get a gun, get a plane, and start retaliating. Ruth remembers him hurrying into his uniform and running down the stairs. She ran after him, calling down the steps. Bill recalls, “My ever-conforming Ruth yelled at me, ‘You forgot your necktie.’ Ruth says I gave her a look of disgust that she will remember forever.’” 

Barracks at Hickam viewed from Hangar Aveune.

Ruth watched from the bedroom window as Bill drove away. She could see the enemy planes bombing the Hickam hangars, the flight line, and the barracks, but there was nothing she could do. She stayed put and worried. Then, about ten o’clock, an airman came to the door and told her the Central Barracks was hit and the hospital needed help. Ruth told the airman she didn’t have any skills; then he asked if she knew how to wash dishes. “That I could do,” Ruth said, “I spent the rest of the day washing dishes and scrubbing pots and pans.” While she was at the hospital she heard that a few planes got off the ground. Ruth asked what kind of aircraft got up, but no one knew. There was no word of who the pilots were, if they were shot down, safe, or had returned.”

In fact, in the middle of the attack, four P-36s from Hickam Field did get airborne. The planes were piloted by Lew Sanders, John Thacker, and Ruth and Bill’s friends, Phil Rasmussen and Gordon Sterling. The four pilots engaged six Japanese Zeroes in a dogfight. Phil Rasmussen shot two of them down. Later that month, Ruth wrote to her sorority sisters, “Phil is quite the hero. His photograph is on the front pages of the newspapers. His plane is really a sight. They shot everywhere else but his gas tank. We lost Gordon, but not until he had gotten his man.”

Phil Rasmussen was the best man at Bill and Ruth’s wedding.

By the time Bill located Ruth and called her, it was mid-afternoon on the day of the attack. He asked her to leave Hickam and stay with friends in Honolulu because it looked like the attacks were limited to military bases, and she would be safe in town. Ruth said, “I told him I wasn’t going to leave. I felt I was needed at Hickam and spent that day and every day that week washing dishes at the hospital.”

Hickam Field, December 7, 1941.

On the night of December 7, Bill and Ruth met at their apartment. “It was pure chaos,” Bill said, “The armories had been opened, and everyone had a gun of some sort.” Ruth remembered, “An airman was posted outside our quarters. And he would shoot a volley of pom-pom type anti-aircraft artillery every few minutes into the air. Bill got up and yelled out at him, ‘What are you shooting at?’ and the airman answered, ‘I don’t know, but everyone else is shooting.’ That’s how it was the first few nights. Everyone was nervous, and no one knew what to expect.”

A week later, Ruth wrote to her sorority sisters, “The whole thing has been hellish, but I’m thankful I’ve been able to be of some good. About six other girls and I fed and did the dishes for 1,000 men at Hickam Hospital for the first four days—three meals a day. We were wrecks until they divided the Canteen. Now we feed 300. We weren’t afraid or ever hysterical. We saw the worst and came out alive, and it leaves you with the strangest feeling—all united for one common purpose: to get them back. I am rabid with the subject, but, of course, I would be because I miss the boys who have ‘gone’ for the good of our democracy.”

On December 7, 1941, a Japanese sub was captured at Bellows Field in Waimanalo.

During that week, Bill’s squadron was dispersed across the island to Bellows Field in Waimanalo. “We were flying patched-up B-18s on search missions to spot enemy warships.” Ruth said, “I was alone at Hickam then. I had heard that dependents were being shipped back to the mainland if they didn’t have ‘essential’ jobs. I didn’t want to be separated from Bill, even if there was a war on. Technically, we were still on our honeymoon. I went to the post office downtown to become a volunteer mail censor because I thought it was ‘essential.’ However, only paid positions were considered ‘essential.’ The Division of Censorship was at the end of a long hallway. It was just a room with tables and chairs of ladies, row after row of us, and the tables were piled with letters.

My job was to read outgoing civilian mail. So many of the letters were filled with horror stories about the attack and tales of being under bombardment in areas I knew were never hit. There were quite a few exaggerated stories, but very few had seen the true hell of the Pearl Harbor destruction, and if they did write about it, I had to carefully cut out the words from the letters. Our instructions were to remove any mention of weather because it could give the enemy information as to when to attack, nothing about the damage inflicted by the Japanese could be written, there was to be no information about U.S. military, food supplies or any crimes-military or civilian- in any correspondence. Any of those references were cut out of the letters with razors.” Ruth smiled. “Sometimes all that was left was paper lace. We were called the ‘society girls snip and snoops.’ It was a job I was happy to leave.”

Christmas Day, 1941. Remember the story of the Christmas Tree ship never making it to Hawaii? This is a Cook pine tree that was used by many residents as a replacement. Many local families still prefer this tree.

On Christmas Day, Ruth was alone in their quarters at Hickam. Her mandatory bags were packed, and she was ready to evacuate within 24 hours. However, she had not received word about any evacuation, so she drove across the island to Bellows Field to spend the day with Bill. The couple had enough time to have lunch together at the Bellows Mess Hall, and then Ruth left to return to Hickam before curfew. 

Ruth remembers, “When I drove up to the main gate at Hickam, the sentry asked me where I was going and told me I was going home, that I lived at Hickam. He told me not to go anymore because there had been an unannounced evacuation, and all the other wives had been shipped out.”

Ruth said, “I missed the boat—literally. I went back to my quarters, and sure enough, all the other units were empty, and Signer Boulevard was a ghost town.” Ruth explained, “None of the wives were given any advance notice. The army figured out that too many wives were planning on not being in their quarters on the day of the evacuation so they could avoid being sent home. So, on Christmas Day, they came in and evacuated all of my area

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“I was forced to leave Hickam and was taken in by Mr. and Mrs. Moody of Grossman-Moody Jewelers. They were so gracious and kind to me. They had a lovely home in Nuuanu, where I stayed for a few days before I got settled in our Hibiscus Drive apartment.”

The apartment Ruth rented was a penthouse at the base of Diamond Head.  The building was within a stone’s throw of the Dillingham estate, La Pietra. Ruth wrote to her friends, “Our apartment is—or rather was—darling. Right now, it is a mess as we rarely sleep or eat there. Bill and I are both fine. I count the days until I can see him again. He has turned into the finest husband one could ever hope for, and we were so utterly happy prior to all of this. As for me, I don’t know if I will ever return, but I will never regret being here. If I do return, you can count on me to put you all to work on something. We need ships and men and planes and supplies and, above all—good, wholehearted American support. This was a ruthless, unwarranted raid. Please all do your share. We need it!” Ruth did her share by joining the Women’s Air Raid Defense

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Recruiting women for the WARD was a word-of-mouth campaign. Brigadier General Howard Davidson, the Commanding Officer of the VII Fighter Command, called Alexander Walker to ask if he and his wife Uma could recruit fifty women for a secret war mission. Davidson told them that the women had to be between twenty and thirty-four years old, free of family obligations, be willing to live on the post of Fort Shafter, be free to give twenty-four-hour service, pass a physical and intelligence test, G-2 security clearance and they could not be subject to evacuation. Those requirements cut deeply into the number of applicants. The available number of island girls fell short. By a special waiver, General Davidson arranged for army, navy, and marine wives who were interested and qualified for service to be taken off the evacuation list, enabling Ruth to join.

The first meeting of the WARD was in the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on December 26, 1941

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Ruth said, “The Navy had already taken over the hotel. There was barbed wire strung across the sand, and tents were set up on the beaches with soldiers living in them. I remember General Davidson talking to us. He was a complete gentleman. He explained what our duties would be and if any of us decided to leave, we could do so. I stayed. I was motivated by a desire to serve my country, but I also wanted to be with Bill, and the general said none of the military wives would be evacuated.”

Ruth started her training with the charter class of the WARD on New Year’s Day. “There were no New Year’s celebrations that year. There wasn’t much of a Christmas, really. We had blackouts and air raids. Rumors were rampant, and we thought the Japanese would be back. I got up early that day and went to Iolani Palace. It was partitioned off. I remember it being painted a dull green. The WARD were in the Senate Chamber. I was issued a gas mask, a helmet, and a non-combatant armband and was measured for my uniforms. We took classes in the techniques of aircraft plotting, meteorology, military protocol, and technical orders.” 

During World War 2, the Military Government took over Iolani Palace to be used for offices. Some WARD training began at Iolani Palace.

The women trained daily for two weeks, and on January 12, 1942, the Women’s Air Raid Defense took over their first shift at the Information Center at Fort Shafter.

“I was made a supervisor, probably because I was older than most of the other girls. I was twenty-five. I remember making the trek down the hill from our quarters to Little Robert (the Information Center). It was a rainy winter that year. We walked down wood plank sidewalks in our saddle shoes, bobby socks, and makeshift raincoats. We were always wet. The sheets on our beds were damp, and the leather on our shoes grew mold.

“Little Robert was no more than a ‘tree house’ perched atop a warehouse. All the buildings around it looked abandoned, but it felt brave and patriotic to work there. When we got to the warehouse a guard would check our I.D. badges, then we made the climb up the stairs. At the top of the stairs was another sentry.” Ruth laughed. “Tanya (Widrin) said he was the ‘Blanket Cadet’ because the entry to the vestibule was covered with an army blanket that kept any light from shining during a blackout. Once we got inside, we unloaded several pounds of gear—our steel helmets, our gas masks, raincoats, and packed lunches. The plotting was totally occupied with a board. On the board was the map of the islands, all with grids. We used headsets to talk to the radar operators at the stations, and we tracked all aircraft over the islands. The code name of the radar operators was “Oscar,” and our code name was “Rascal.”

Ruth remembers the WARD living quarters at Fort Shafter as being modest. “We had three girls to a unit. My roommates were Barbara Thompson and ‘Bam’ (Winifred) Sperry. We all worked in shifts of six hours on and six hours off for eight days, and then we got thirty-two hours off. If Bill and I got the same days off, we would meet at the Honolulu apartment.” Ruth stopped, wondering out loud if Bam Sperry was still alive. Then she told me she had photos of her WARD days stored at her younger daughter’s house on the mainland and would bring some back for me.

It was several months before I heard from Ruth. In January 2005, she was hospitalized and had a pacemaker implanted in her heart. A few weeks later, she and Bill visited my home for dinner. Ruth wore a flowered muumuu and a white hibiscus over her left ear. Her hair was curled, and she wore pink frosted lipstick. While our husbands discussed military aviation, Ruth and I snuck off to my office. She held my hand as we walked. She said, “Some people thought the WARD were just rich society girls who didn’t do much.” She said it as if she were revealing a secret; I told her I was aware of that opinion. “But it wasn’t true,” she said. “We did an important job, especially during those first months, and no one knew what we did. Quite a few of the girls had husbands who were in the military, and we couldn’t even tell them what we did. Bill never laid eyes on ‘Lizard’ tunnel until the WARD 1986 reunion when the Army opened it for us.”

“Bill knew I worked in radar aerial defense but it wasn’t until February 1942 when he really found out what I did.  Bill was flying a patched-up B-18 out of Bellows Field, and I was on the board that day tracking his flight. I listened to his voice relay. I knew one of his engines quit and that he was going to make an emergency landing in the ocean.” Ruth heard it all—Bill cut his engine, stalled his plane, and “ditched” in the water. And then she heard one of Bill’s squadron mates report that it was a good landing and that he could see the B-18 bob and “float nicely.”  The next communication Ruth heard was from the Navy tender that was en route to pick Bill up. Ruth recalled, “The tender got caught on a reef. I tried to think of it as a routine flight, but I knew it was Bill. Finally, the tender got loose, and Bill was pulled out of the water. When he called me to tell me he had an accident, I said, ‘I know. I tracked you in.’”

The second time Ruth was aware that Bill was in danger was in June 1942. Bill told Ruth he was going on a mission so classified that he couldn’t tell her where he was going, but Ruth already knew. General Davidson had briefed the WARD on the plan to assault Midway Island. It was a top-secret operation, and neither Bill nor Ruth discussed it with the other.

The days leading up to the attack were tense. “Everyone on the island had a feeling something was going on, and the island was flooded with rumors.” On June 6, 1942, the U.S. forces attacked the Japanese at Midway. It was a stunning victory and a pivotal point in the war for the Americans. In Hawaii, the defeat of the Japanese at Midway relieved some of the tension and fear of a second Japanese attack.

The women of the WARD tracked planes back to Oahu from Midway. Ruth was on duty that day.  After all, but two planes were tracked safely. General Davidson briefed the WARD on the success of the mission and told them that there was one plane lost—that of General Tinker. According to Davidson, all other planes were accounted for and returned.  But Ruth knew that Bill wasn’t back, and Ruth, ever-proper and ever-deferential, challenged the general right on the spot. Ruth spoke up, “Lieutenant Cope is not accounted for.” General Davidson apologized to Ruth.  “Lieutenant Cope lost an engine on his return flight. He’s coming in slowly and due in within a few hours.” It was the only time during the war that Ruth was so weak-kneed she had to sit down.

Ruth stayed in Hawaii until Bill was deployed to the Pacific Theatre; then, she returned to California. “I went back with four other girls. There were quite a few military on the ship—most of them were wounded. It was difficult to stand there and observe this cavalcade of ambulances parade in front of us and see the men being carried up the gangplank on stretchers. It was nothing like the day I arrived. I stood at the rail and waved to friends and WARD on the dock. And I stared at the Aloha Tower—it was painted brown and gray camouflage. I was leaving with mixed feelings. I don’t know how I would have been different if I hadn’t gone through the war. I don’t think I really matured until I became a realtor and started my own career.

VJ Day, Waikiki.

After the war, Bill decided to make a career in the Air Force. He retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in 1961.  He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for a mission flown during World War II.

When Bill retired from the Air Force, the couple settled in Fresno, California. Ruth became a Real Estate Broker with her own office and fifteen employees. She served as the chair of the Fresno Multiple Listing Service and three terms as the president of the Women’s Division of the Fresno Board of Realtors. She was active in Alpha Delta Si Sorority, the Women’s League of Fresno, and the Fresno Community Theatre.

After sixty-four years of marriage, the Copes made a life for themselves in California. Eventually, they returned to their beloved Hawaii, where they became active in the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association. Among the thousands of people they told their story to were President and Mrs. George W. Bush

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Punchbowl Cemetery, Honolulu

Two months before she died, Ruth Lindman Cope was still playing golf and volunteering at the Arizona Memorial. She was 89 years old. The last time I saw Ruth was on May 2, 2005. Grace Powers Staples and I visited her at hospice. On the window sill of her hospice room were framed photographs of her two daughters, nine grandchildren, and eleven great-grandchildren. Propped on the TV was a stuffed animal CAL bear, and on the wall, next to her bed, was a model replica of Bill’s B-18 sold at the Arizona Memorial. She clutched an envelope of photos and newspaper clippings for and about her family and talked about her grandson’s upcoming wedding. Ruth told us about the plans for her memorial service at the Punchbowl, and we promised that we would be there. Ruth Cope died on May 13, 2005. On May 19, 2005, her ashes were inurned at the Punchbowl National Cemetery of the Pacific. Her “Bad Billy” stood tall in his Pearl Harbor Survivor uniform. We were all there—Ruth’s family, friends, Pearl Harbor Survivors, and National Park Service historians—and we left our lei at her resting place.