“Hey, Joe, you see anything yet?” George called across the truck. He was sitting at a small table, fiddling with a pencil and occasionally looking at the open logbook before him. His partner, Joe, gave a cursory glance at the five-inch radar scope, which was mounted to the top of the truck. Then he returned his attention to the windshield overlooking Oahu’s blue waters. He’d been asked this question several times during their shift, and it was always the same answer.

“Nothing.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly, the telephone rang, and George hurried to answer it. After listening for a moment, he turned to Joe.

“From Fort Shafter. They want us to shut down the radar unit since there’s pretty much no air traffic.” Joe’s eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise, but George wasn’t done. “And Hodges and Lawrence are coming in early to relieve us.”

Joe grinned and bent over the radar, beginning to turn it off. George set the telephone down and stepped toward him, then hesitated.

“Hey, Joe?” Joe grunted. “Uh, Sarge gave us permission to keep the machine on so I can learn to operate it.”

Joe gave a put-upon sigh and sat back. “Oh, all right.” George took Joe’s place before the radar, and Joe peered over his shoulder. “You’ve had three months training, so I assume you know the basics?” George nodded, and Joe continued. “Then today we’ll go over how to detect airplanes. First you need to―” He faltered as a huge white blip appeared on the scope. George turned to him, eyes wide.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know.” His eyebrows furrowed, and George slid out of the seat so Joe could take a closer look. Joe stared for a moment, then shook his head decisively. “Right. That’s not possible. The unit’s either malfunctioning or giving us a false reading. I’m going to run some quick tests― I’ll show you how to do these later.”

George watched as Joe’s hands flew over the controls. Every so often, he paused and studied the scope, then frowned. Finally, he sat back, perplexed. “Everything’s working perfectly, near as I can tell. Get the logbook; I want to figure out what’s going on.”

George hurried to the table and sat, picking up his pencil. He copied the information Joe read to him and then began some calculations. Joe came over to watch, waiting for George to finish and then double-checking his work. At last, they determined that the blip, if it was real, was a large group of aircraft approaching quickly from 3 degrees east, approximately 137 miles out to sea.

George eyed the logbook. “We should call this into the Info Center.” Joe laughed, his attention diverted.

“Don’t be crazy! Our shift ended at 0700.”

“Oh, come on. We saw this thing at 0702. There’s literally no difference.”

“Not our shift, not our problem,” Joe shrugged, already turning back to the radar. George caught his arm.

“It’s not our shift, but it’s our job. We’re supposed to track and report all activity to the Info Center. All activity.”

Joe shook George off and changed tack. “We don’t have time. Hodges and Lawrence are coming with the breakfast truck soon, and we still need to finish your lesson.”

George raised an eyebrow. “It comes at 0800. We still have plenty of time to call this in and finish.”

“No,” Joe said sharply, beginning to grow annoyed. “I’m the experienced one here, and I’m saying that if it’s real, it’s just some normal, routine flight.”

George laughed disparagingly, crossing his arms. “Pulling rank already? Yeah, you’re the experienced one, so you should know that we need to call it into the Info Center. They’ve got the flight schedule, and we don’t.”

“Hey, newbie. You’re the apprentice,” Joe warned. “I’m the one who actually knows what he’s doing, and I’m telling you there’s nothing to worry about. Now get back in that seat so we can continue.”

But George stood firm. “I know this’ll probably turn out to be nothing. But what about the off chance that it is dangerous? There’s that European war going on; what if someone’s decided it’s time to involve us?”

Joe snorted. “Please. Everyone knows the Japs and Krauts aren’t actually idiotic enough to attack us. And even if they did, they’d come by sea, not air.”

“I’m not going to be responsible if something happens,” George said, raising his chin.

Joe sighed and finally relented. “Well, go ahead and send it in if you’d like.”

George hurried to the telephone before Joe could change his mind. First, he tried the tactical line that linked the radar station directly to the Information Center. “Hello? Is anyone there?” No one answered. After a few moments, he set the telephone down and used the administrative line instead. This time, someone picked up.

“Private McDonald, switchboard operator. How can I help you?”

George glanced at Joe, then said, “This is Private Elliott from Opana Radar Unit. Are the Info Center’s plotters still there?”

“I’m sorry,” Private McDonald replied, “but they already left for breakfast. Can I take a message?”

George bit his lip. “Yes, please.” He nervously recounted what they had seen on the radar, ending with “Can you get someone in charge to call us back as soon as possible?” Private McDonald promised he would, and George hung up.

“They’re at breakfast,” he told Joe, who was watching him. Joe raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, like we should be. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

George took a seat before the scope and Joe leaned over his shoulder. He resumed the lesson, but it was clear that George was distracted. He kept glancing at his watch, then the phone line.

Finally, at 7:20, the phone rang. George rose hastily to pick up, his knees banging on the machine, but Joe beat him to it.

“Lieutenant Tyler,” the caller identified himself. “McDonald told me you saw something?”

“We did, sir,” Joe said. “I’m Private Lockard from Opana Radar Unit. I was manning the oscilloscope when I saw a large white blip―”

“Just tell me what it means,” Lieutenant Tyler interrupted tiredly. “This is my second day on the job, and I’m only here for instruction. I don’t know your jargon.”

“Yes, sir. We think it might be a group of aircraft approaching quickly from 3 degrees east, approximately 88 miles out.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Lieutenant Tyler spoke. “I believe we’re expecting some bombers from San Francisco today. Those would come from about that direction, right?”

“Correct, sir.”

“All right, then. Don’t worry about it.”

Joe set down the receiver and turned to George, an I-told-you-so expression on his face. George rolled his eyes and preempted the statement. “I said we should report it because it’s our job. I never actually expected it to be something important.”

“If you didn’t think it was going to be important, we shouldn’t have wasted all that time,” Joe snapped. “Now get out of the seat so I can turn off the unit.”

“Hang on a minute,” George objected. “You’re not done teaching me. The blip’s a good opportunity to learn.”

Joe pursed his lips but nodded, and the lesson continued with cold civility. They tracked the aircraft until 7:39, when the planes disappeared behind the surrounding mountains. They were twenty-two miles from Oahu.

Five minutes later, Hodges and Lawrence arrived in the breakfast truck to relieve them. Joe and George took their places and began driving back to the mess hall at Kawailoa. The frosty silence was strained and awkward. Suddenly, they turned a corner and saw a stake body truck full of soldiers rushing towards them. The soldiers were all carrying backpacks and wearing doughboy helmets.

“What the―” Joe said through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel and preparing to swerve if necessary. When it looked like the truck would just pass by, he honked and slowed down, sticking his head out the window. “What are you guys doing?” he yelled. But the truck blew past, the driver laying his hand on the horn as they sped towards the radar site.

Joe and George exchanged confused glances, their dispute briefly forgotten. Then they shrugged and carried on.

In the radar station they left behind, a calendar fluttering on the wall marked the date as December 7, 1941.