by Jeff Shaara
The noise around him was growing louder. There were more planes passing close overhead, more of them farther out, swirling around other ships, some flying low across the water. The machine gun fire came again, ripping through the tower high above, chattering sparks, a row of bright flashes down the side of the ship, men going down on the walkway high above him. A familiar sound came, the ship’s own antiaircraft guns. There had been so many drills, so much practice at targets that weren’t there. But the targets were all around them now, and the gunners were beginning to fight back.
Biggs followed Condon, kneeling again beside another man, and Biggs strained to hear the guns, the right guns. But there weren’t many, most of them horribly silent, as though no one was there, as though no one thought they would ever be needed.
Another plane raced past, straight along the ship, machine gun fire pinging and sparking against the steel, men hunkered down. But there wasn’t good cover. Biggs saw a man tumble over, spinning from the impact of the shells, blood on his back. Condon was there quickly, rolling the man over, tearing at his shirt, the man’s chest ripped apart, hard screams, Condon shouting toward Biggs. “Morphine! Give me a syrette!”
Biggs dug into the kit, his hands jelly, fingers not working, but he felt the syrettes, handed one to Condon. Condon looked at the men huddled nearby, said, “Listen! There’s nothing I can do for him now. Stay with him, if you can. One of you keep his shirt pressed into his wound, steady pressure. We’ll get stretcher bearers back here quick as we can!”
The men seemed frozen, their eyes panicked. They stared at the wounded man, the flowing blood, another horrible stain spreading on the deck. Biggs felt pure helplessness, watched Condon, saw a flash of anger, Condon shouting at them. “Do it! Help him! Hold the shirt!”
The sailors obeyed, crawling toward the wounded man, and Condon rose, stared at Biggs with a furious glare.
“Let’s go, Mr. Biggs. There’s so much more. We can fix all of this later on.”
Behind Biggs, a shout, and Biggs saw a corpsman, Hankins, already dropping down to the wounded man. Condon yelled toward Hankins, “Good. Do the job. We’re going aft.”
Biggs could feel himself shaking, heard more clatter of fire overhead. A plume of water launched skyward close to the ship, farther out in the water.
“Now, Mr. Biggs!”
He followed Condon quickly up a ladder, and Biggs felt another hard bump, the deck rising up beneath his feet, then settling down, the ship rocking slowly side to side. He wanted to ask Condon, anyone, What is that? What does it mean? But the doctor was dropping down to more wounded men, another bloody body. Biggs’s eyes were pulled to a man’s gut, ripped apart, the man’s eyes watching him, tears on his face, and Biggs thought, What do I do? How do you fix this?
“Keep moving, Mr. Biggs.”
Biggs saw the same hard look on Condon’s face, then the doctor moved away to another wounded man. Out across the harbor, Biggs saw a plane flying low, crazy low, nearly touching the water, a long black bomb sliding off its belly. The plane rose up slowly, just enough to pass over the ship, and Biggs could see the open cockpit, the pilot looking down, looking at him. And then, the pilot waved.
The thunder beneath his feet came again, the ship rocking, and nearby, more antiaircraft guns were doing their work. Condon still moved, closer to the fantail, and Biggs saw more wounded men, a fresh horror, a man sliced nearly in two, rivers of blood flowing across the deck, spilling into the drains. Condon stopped, staring for a brief moment, said something Biggs couldn’t hear, too much noise, more shouts, the engine of a plane, coming across the water. He felt himself yanked down hard, Condon beside him, the plane machine-gunning the deck, the hatchways behind them. Biggs closed his eyes, bent low, nothing else to do, waited for the plane to pass. He pushed himself up from the deck, realized it was wet, thick and syrupy, looked at his hands, dripping with blood. He felt sick, but his brain kept that away, and he saw the teakwood deck behind him, shredded. He felt himself pulling away, to some other place, thought, This can’t be real. He wanted to laugh, someplace opening up inside of him, trying not to see the blood caking on his hand, one thought, I guess there’s no more holystoning here.
Condon shouted into his face, “Mr. Biggs! I need you here. Right here. Do you hear me?”
The doctor’s voice shook him, cut through the fog. He nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.”
“All right, let’s go. We need all the gauze we’ve got, and we have to rip bandages from shirts or pants. There’s so many men down. Are you okay?”
The roar of the planes was farther away, no danger close by, at least not yet.
“Never seen this before, sir.”
“Neither have I. But we have to do the job.”
“Yes, sir.”
Condon climbed to his feet, his white pants mostly red, a trail of footsteps through the blood. Behind a ladder, a cluster of men were gathered, one man calling out to Condon.
“Doc! Over here!”
The men made way, Condon went down to his knees, and Biggs saw a pair of men, side by side, both with stomach wounds, one man moaning, nonsensical words, the other with wide terrified eyes, looking at Biggs. “I’m gonna die! The Japs killed me!”
Condon took the kit from Biggs’s hand. “You’re not dying yet.” He looked up at Biggs. “Get down here. Hold this fellow’s hand. Do it!”
Biggs obeyed, knelt in another red pool, took the terrified man’s hand, leaned closer to the man’s face. “Hey, buddy, you’re gonna be fine. The doc, he’s the best there is.”
The other man was still moaning, delirium and shock, the sound drilling into Biggs, Condon trying to quiet the man, administering a morphine syrette. Condon looked the other way, toward the bow, the direction of sick bay, a long way away.
“Damn it all, we need stretcher bearers and more corpsmen! It must be just as bad toward the bow.”
Biggs felt agonizing helplessness, still holding the wounded man’s hand, his eyes still looking up at Biggs with terror.
“Don’t let me die. I don’t wanna go to hell. Help me.”
Biggs leaned close again. “You’re fine, just a wound. The doc’ll fix you up. It’ll be okay. Nobody’s going to hell.” Biggs watched Condon sprinkle sulfa powder in the wound, spread a bandage on the other man’s belly. Biggs stared at the doctor’s work, his fast hands, precise motion. “Sir, what do you want me to do? Tell me!”
Condon continued to work on his man, the moans more faint. He said, “Morphine’s working, bleeding’s almost stopped. We get him to the hospital ship, he’ll be okay. Okay, let me check your patient.”
Biggs realized he was still holding the man’s hand, and Condon was close beside him now, put a hand on the man’s neck. He let out a breath, said, “You can let go, Mr. Biggs.”
Biggs looked at the patient, the eyes calm, the fear gone. The man’s face was a light gray, but Biggs wouldn’t let go. He squeezed the man’s hand, then again, like a beating heart, his mind telling him it was the thing to do. Condon put a hand on Biggs’s arm.
“Nothing you can do. Let go of him.”
Biggs released the man’s hand, felt tears, heard Condon, “No time for that. We have casualties back here. Let’s keep working. I want a quick look all the way aft, see how many more, then I’ll move up the port side. I need you to move forward quick as hell to round up any corpsmen and stretcher bearers. We have to get these men to a hospital as quick as we can. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I can do it, sir.”
“All right. Let’s check the stern, the fantail, then you can double-time it to sick bay, get word to Dr. Johnson to send the stretchers and stretcher bearers, that we’ve got a couple dozen casualties aft that we can still save.” Biggs caught the stink of dense smoke, a black cloud swirling past, and Condon looked out into the harbor, said, “Good Lord, the Vestal’s on fire. J
esus.”
Biggs said, “What do we do? Can we help?”
“Not now. We have our problems right here.”
Biggs heard another plane, heavy and low, another dive bomber roaring past just overhead, then gone. The impact thumped into the ship, the deck just forward, a man shouting, “A bomb—direct hit!”
There was a hush for a long second. Biggs could see the crushed hole in the steel, the men who could move scattering out toward the fantail. But then…nothing. Another man yelled out, “It didn’t go off! A dud! Thank God! That makes two of ’em.”
Biggs looked down between his feet, thought of the bombs sitting somewhere down below. Or maybe, he thought, they went all the way through, right out the bottom of the ship. How the hell could they do that? Why didn’t it blow up?
More planes rolled past now, and Biggs ducked down, felt the sharp punch of an antiaircraft gun firing right above him, men shouting, running, more wounded, a pair of dive bombers screaming past. The lull came again, and he followed Condon up onto the fantail, the stern of the ship, suddenly had a clear view across the harbor. There were planes everywhere, some high above, others very low along the water. Plumes of water rose up along several of the battleships, smoke billowing upward from other ships, the Vestal close alongside, still burning. Biggs stared at the planes, helplessly waiting for the next one to take aim at the ship.
Condon had bandaged a man’s arm, gave him reassuring words, and Biggs moved closer to him, angry at himself. Do your job. He followed Condon again, the doctor searching for anyone he could help. Condon seemed to freeze, staring away out beyond the stern, said, “Oh my God. It can’t be.”
Biggs looked that way, toward the other battleships, that glorious formation lining the quay along Ford Island. Other men had gathered, staring at a new horror. Biggs saw what they all saw, heard Condon, others: “My God. It’s the Oklahoma.”
Biggs watched as the great ship leaned to one side, then leaned farther, the superstructure tilting toward the water, dropping closer still. In a long sickening minute, the ship rolled over, its hull and keel and one screw out of the water. For that minute, those men on the Arizona watched what they knew to be impossible, knowing that no battleship in this fleet could ever be made to capsize. And now, they could see Oklahoma’s crewmen, those who could escape as she rolled over, scrambling over the exposed hull of the ship. And they all knew that many more must surely be inside.
Condon turned to Biggs, a hand on his shoulder. “Go. I’ll head up the port side, do what I can there. Bring me more kits, bandages, stretchers. Dr. Johnson will know what you need.”
Biggs moved down off the fantail, tried to jog his way forward, but there was debris everywhere, more wounded, and the going was slow. He passed one group of men, working one of the antiaircraft guns, a gunner yelling with bloody rage, “Where the hell are our planes?”
It was a new thought for Biggs, and he looked skyward, saw more of the same, the red meatballs on the wings of the planes, on all the planes. The gun fired, straight up, and Biggs craned his neck, but there was no time for gawking. Another plane was coming in low and fast, straight along the ship. He heard a splatter of machine gun fire, fell to one side, hard on his shoulder, the deck beneath him like the others, the polished teak now split and shattered, pulled away from the steel beneath it. A hand was on him, helping him up.
“You okay, Mac?”
Biggs stood, eyes on the damaged deck. “Yeah, thanks. That was close.”
It was no one Biggs knew, and he was already gone.
He pushed on, tried to avoid the stains of blood, saw a corpsman kneeling beside another wounded man, and then, another dead man, most of his head sliced away.
The deck rolled to the side even more, and Biggs steadied himself against the rail, the nightmare of the Oklahoma filling his mind. He gripped the rail, breathing hard, forced himself to let go. Get to sick bay! Beside him, a man fired his pistol at a passing plane, useless anger, Biggs watching the plane, a waggle of its wings, another smiling pilot, now racing away.
Biggs was beneath another of the antiaircraft guns, the barrel straight up, firing a round. He was puzzled, looked skyward, saw a formation of planes, very small, very high. The gun fired again, one man cursing, “Too damn high. We can’t reach the bastards.”
Biggs started forward again, stepped through a wide puddle of blood, one more horror spread out alongside one of the ladders. He tried not to see it, made himself think of Dr. Johnson. How bad is it forward, in sick bay? How do we get these people to the hospital? He looked up again, drawn once more to the formation of distant planes, hidden by the clouds, then visible. He was just past the third turret, the great cannons pointing aft, realized that none of the big guns had fired at all. Mighty weapons, he thought, useless now, with nothing but airplanes out here. Where the hell did they come from?
He was not quite amidships, the great superstructure above him and forward of that, the bridge, the command centers, the men who would know what to do. He looked up that way, thought of Captain Van Valkenburgh. He watched me hammer one of Woody’s fastballs. What does any of that matter now? He looked again toward the hatchway far in front of him, the ladder up to the quarter deck, thought, What if the captain’s wounded? How do we know? We have to help them all. It’s what we have to do.
A plane passed over, from Ford Island, out into the harbor, men responding with whatever weapons they could find. Another came now, past the bow of the ship, speeding across the harbor, barely thirty feet above the water, then pulling up, banking sharply, now racing toward the smaller ships farther away. Biggs picked his way forward again, but in the midst of the chattering machine gun fire and the heavier blasts and the shouts of men, he heard an odd sound. It was a whistle from high above, louder now. He never saw the bomb, but felt the impact through the steel deck, up near one of the forward turrets, a shudder beneath his feet. He stopped, one hand holding tight to the rail, saw others doing the same, searching, waiting for…something.
It didn’t go off?
The ship erupted in front of him, the bow rising sharply out of the water. A blast of fire punched him backward, a crushing fist that drove him against the bulkhead. He put a hand over his face, reflex, fire blowing all around him, flames sweeping over him. There were no other sounds but the thunderous roar, more blasts blending together, a deafening chorus of hell. The deck collapsed downward, and he fell with it, one arm gripping a ladder, the heat searing every part of him. His hand was still clamped on his face, the only protection he had. He looked down, the wood of the deck torn away, the heat torching the back of his hand across his face, a breath of fire tearing at his skin, burning his scalp. The roar of the fire was relentless, engulfing him, and he covered his face with his arm, let go of the ladder, pulled himself away, sliding on his backside, then crawling, one leg after the other. As he moved away from the worst of the fire, he heard other sounds, the screams of men suffering the burns, blind and limbless, the terror and the pain from an explosion that was destroying their ship.
As he moved farther away, he heard impacts around him, smacks on the deck, on the steel beside him. He hugged against the bulkhead, nowhere else to go, tried to open his eyes, saw a man’s arm, no blood, pale white, a naked bone at the shoulder. There were other pieces of men, blown high with the blast, coming down onto the ship, some too grotesque to identify. Limbs were hanging on the rail, tumbling slowly down the ladder, like pieces of mannequins. Across the deck, he saw a man’s head, a white skull, the eyes burned out. He turned away, the image immediate and terrifying. There was other debris, not all of it human: shards of steel, pieces of burned equipment, the leg of a table beside the leg of a man.
Biggs crawled again, the fire driving him from behind, pain on his back, his legs. The harsh burn on his scalp was growing worse, and he probed lightly with a finger, testing. His hair was gone, the touch agonizing, and he screamed f
rom the pain, no one to hear but the bodies around him, and behind him, the great maw where the fire boiled up. He turned toward the fire now, a quick glimpse, saw the entire bow engulfed in flames and smoke. He turned away, slid along the deck, blessedly farther from the flames and the suffocating smoke that engulfed the bow of the ship, the smoke flowing past him, seeming to swallow the entire world.
He kept moving, a glance upward, saw the towers, knew he was amidships, aft, could see the dense black smoke drifting in a massive cloud outward, above the harbor. The blistering heat still followed him, and he crawled again, saw others, men appearing through hatchways, horrible burns, some bathed in their own blood, some with skin falling away from bones. Some, like him, were escaping the fire any way they could. He heard a shout, a man staggering past him, his pants burned away, the skin on his legs snow white. The man stumbled close to Biggs, then rolled onto his back, his face a mask of suffering, the flesh on his chest burned away, bare ribs. Biggs stared, nothing he could do, nothing the doctor could do, no medical kit, no morphine. He wanted to tell the man something, soft words, try to help, to offer a minute of comfort. But the man seemed to stiffen, his back arching upward, and he let out a whining sound, and then, relaxed. Biggs looked down, thought, He doesn’t hurt now. What else could I do?
The heat still shoved at him from behind, carried on a swirl of breeze, and he put his hand on his face again, a desperate effort to protect his eyes. The deck was becoming blistering hot, and as he crawled, his hands began to burn. He tried to ignore the pain, passed another piece of a man, one leg, half a torso, and again, the bones stark white. He forced himself to keep moving, tried to stand, realized now that his shirt was mostly torn away. His chest was bright red, a brief thought of Wakeman, wanting a sunburn. Wakeman. Oh God, where is he?
His feet were soaking up the scalding heat from the steel below him, and he moved more quickly, other men doing the same. Many were dazed, staggering, wrapped in the shock of the blast. Some had obvious wounds: a grotesquely broken arm, a bloody neck. Biggs slowed, the heat not as blinding, tried to blink through the goo in his eyes. Around him were more pieces of debris spread out on every surface, dropped by the blast, which had thrown everything skyward. There were more pieces of men—a single leg bone, another skull—and he glanced over to the water, thought, How many are out there? He stared back toward the stern, the fantail, not as much smoke there, more of the crew, men working with fire extinguishers. His brain seemed to roll over, the raw stupidity of that. Fire extinguishers? What about hoses?
