by Jeff Shaara
I can’t help anybody, he thought. But I’m alive. Maybe Dr. Condon is too. Maybe. I could use him right now. Names rolled through his mind, Wakeman, Vaughan, Lieutenant Janz, Woody. God help us, God help them. He looked around at men still coming aft, more survivors escaping the massive fire. Some were taking charge, officers he guessed, sharp voices, some barely dressed, skin burned away, faces red and blistered, hairless scalps. Others were trying to help as he was, laying men flat, pulling them to one side of the deck, allowing the others to pass. Biggs watched with angry helplessness as more men emerged through the passageways, some with hands wrapped in bundles of cloth, the steel railings and bulkheads below too hot to touch. He heard the begging of men too burned to walk, trying to persuade others to go below, to rescue a friend, pleading with others to return to the hellish place they had barely escaped. And through it all was the relentless smell, some of that carried on the breeze from the great fire, smoke and roasting flesh, a kind of hell that was impossible to avoid.
Biggs eased down to his knees, the weakness and the pain winning the battle.
“Hey, sailor, come on, lie down over here.”
He looked up into the eyes of an older man, sensed the man was an officer. But there was no uniform, just shorts and one shoe.
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t stand for long—my feet. Sir, I was forward.”
“Yeah, sailor, we all saw it. Some were closer than others. You’re lucky to be in one piece. Anybody who wasn’t on deck felt it below. There’s a bunch of men still down there. If you feel up to it, pitch in with one of the rescue parties. We need to go below and get those people out. We’ve got to clear this ship quick as we can, get the casualties to the mainland.”
The officer moved away, and now the familiar sound returned, rising up above the deep rumble of the fire. Biggs saw the plane dipping low over the hull of the Oklahoma, leveling out, flying directly over the fantail. He heard the machine guns, the faint flashes from each wing, the impact tearing along the deck, across the legs of the burned men. Biggs curled up tightly, nowhere else to go, the pops and scrapes of the shells close past him.
Other faces were watching the harbor, one piercing voice, “They’ve come back! You bastards! You sons of bitches!”
There was more shouting now, wounded men screaming profanity at the departing plane. But the planes were swarming above them again, sweeping over the harbor. Biggs felt paralyzed, his arm still over his face, the only protection he had. He tried to hide his sobs, the burning in his eyes made worse by the tears. The agony of the burned men around him became noisily worse, men whose skin was blistered, enduring fresh wounds from machine gun fire. Others were silent now, their bodies punched and ripped by the new assault.
More planes sped along the row of smoking battleships, machine gun fire and dive bombers. Biggs looked skyward, high above, saw another formation like before, the high-level bombers making their own run. He was surprised to hear the antiaircraft guns, what sounded like a great many guns in a beautiful chorus of firing. Immediately, he saw the result, a dive bomber plunging straight into the harbor. He heard brief cheers, Arizona’s guns opening up again, and more all along the quay, sprays of fire that punched the planes out of the sky. A man hobbled across the deck, steadied himself on the railing.
“That’s better. Now we’re ready. No more surprises, you Jap bastards!”
Biggs tried to feel the man’s enthusiasm. He fought the pains that gripped him so hard, the pain in his lungs growing worse. He looked for the officer he had spoken to, felt a desperate need to help, to do something, but he knew the help might be for him.
The antiaircraft guns continued their fire, another plane spinning out of control, splashing down. Biggs struggled to control himself. The pain was overwhelming, and he fought for some kind of sanity, angry at himself. Dammit, you want to be a corpsman? Then be a better patient. Do something. You’re alive, right? It was like two voices inside his head, one of them sane, calm, the other in a furious rage. Okay, how bad are you? Breathing’s tough. Damn tough. You’ve got your pants, so your legs are okay. No shirt, a hell of a sunburn. No, it’s worse than that. Hair’s gone. Scalp hurts like hell. And my face feels like it’s been peeled off. He touched his face, a mistake. He felt watery blisters, no eyebrows, his lips cracked. He sat, leaned against the rail. You can’t do this. You can’t act like a little boy. Men are dying. Do something!
He looked skyward, the second wave of Japanese planes strafing all over the harbor, the island, the mainland. One skimmed low over the Oklahoma, the survivors on the ship’s hull flattening out, the plane spraying them with machine gun fire, one more insult. From the dive bombers dropping low across the harbor and those at high altitude, the bombs continued to fall, bomb blasts large and small in every direction. But the slow-moving dive bombers and torpedo bombers made fat targets for the antiaircraft guns. Biggs and the others around him watched planes falling, shattered and ripped by hundreds of guns from every ship, the unprepared now fully armed and fully manned, eager for a target.
Across the deck from Biggs, one man with bloody hands shouted, “Why the hell aren’t we standing out? We gotta get the hell out of the harbor. We’re sitting ducks. Where the hell’s the captain? The officers?”
Another man moved closer to him, responded, “Seaman, I am an officer. I’m sorry, but we’re not going anywhere because half this ship is gone and sitting on the bottom of the harbor. We’ve likely lost the captain. He was on the bridge, and the bridge is gone. Now, are you hurting? I can give you something. But we have to stay right here until somebody in command tells us what to do. How about you help me with that man over there? He needs a pal right now.”
Biggs sat up, his back still against the railing, felt a gasp of relief. “Dr. Condon, it’s Biggs, sir.”
Condon turned, looked at him, surprised. He seemed to flinch at Biggs’s appearance. “Mr. Biggs, thank God. I thought you were…Well, I sent you forward…I thought you were in the blast.”
“I was pretty close, sir.”
“I can see that. Burns on your face and scalp. I don’t have much of anything left for treating burns.” He lowered his voice. “There are fellows up here who lost all their skin. Just peeled off. Never seen anything like that. Poor devils don’t have a chance. And I ran out of morphine.”
“Plane!”
Biggs curled up again, and Condon dropped down beside him. The machine gun fire pinged across the railing, chattering off the bulkhead, one man in the hatchway suddenly collapsing. The plane was gone in a few seconds, and Condon cursed, moved quickly to the hatchway, Biggs struggling to follow. The man was ripped apart, another pool of blood. Around them were more moans, mindless yelling, a new chorus of fear and pain and misery rising up from the men spread all across the deck.
Biggs leaned in close to Condon, one hand on the doctor’s shoulder for support. “What do we do? We gotta help ’em, sir.”
“Mr. Biggs, go back over there. Sit down. You’re hurt pretty bad. There’s nothing much I can do for any of these men except wrap up their wounds.” Condon lowered his voice to a whisper. “I expect we’ll hear the abandon-ship order anytime now. The Japs don’t seem to be done with us, and the rest of us could get blown to hell at any time. There’s not much else we can do for the wounded except get them off this ship. I don’t know how many corpsmen survived, or where they are. But the harbor’s filling up with rescue vessels, and we’ll be able to leave here pretty soon. Go, sit.”
Biggs obeyed, limped past the wounded and burned men, saw antiaircraft guns firing above him. More men came up from below, helped by others, escaping the deepest bowels of the ship, some with burns, others choking from the smoke.
He heard a sound, high above, a high-pitched whistle. He looked skyward, saw the distant planes above the clouds, mostly hidden by the smoke.
The bomb impacted the deck on the port side, burro
wing deeply, but this time there was no delay, no agonizing wait. The blast was immediate, a chunk of metal ripping a slice into his left arm, the deck beneath him lurching upward. He was in the air now, no sound but his own screaming. Now he was falling, could see the great fire, black smoke above and a field of blackness below. He impacted with a soft smack into water, but it was not water. He flailed, a new agony, a sharp stinging pain in his left arm. He struggled to breathe, to see, swept his other arm through a slimy goo, his legs kicking manically to keep him upright. He began to call out, the terror taking over, the ship looming in front of him, the heat from the fire in the oil around him grabbing him, tearing at his skin, strangling him with an oily blanket.
Biggs kicked himself upward, fought the sludge with his right arm, his left nearly useless. Oil was coating his face, was in his mouth, choking him. The panic was worse now, and again he thrust himself upward with his one good arm, a strong kick of his legs, the only part of him that didn’t hurt. The ship was close, but there was oil all around him, a vast sea of thick black that seemed to float above the surface of the water. He pushed himself hard, thought of Ford Island, the closest land. Swim, dammit. No, too far. And you can’t swim in this. You can tread water. Do it. Somebody will find you.
He tried to shake the oil from his ears—no chance of that. His hands were useless except for pushing the oil away from his face or creating a small open area around his body, but the spread of the oil was relentless. His burns were their own fire, raw screaming pain, and he tried to focus on breathing, swept his arm over the water’s surface, could feel that the oil was several inches thick. The stink was overwhelming, a different kind of burning in his lungs and throat, his painful breathing sucking in more of the sickening fumes. He felt himself weakening, panic returning, a new fear. I’ll suffocate. Okay, keep pushing up. Go! He kicked hard again, bobbed above the oil, tried to shout, choked instead, his stomach curling up with nausea. The effort was draining him, his breathing harder still, ripping agony in his lungs.
He kicked upward once more, his eyes catching the rolling ball of fire that spewed out of the forward half of the ship. But now there was a new horror. As he thrust upward again, his energy fading, no strength, he stared toward the shattered bow of the ship, and could see that the fire wasn’t confined to the ship: It was on the water. The oil was more than a hell of stinking fumes and choking—it was a carpet of flame.
Swim!
He began to flail through the oil, his legs working rapidly. But the oil was covering him, tearing at the burns on his face and head, choking and blinding him, a new torture from the open wound on his arm. His good arm jutted forward, and he felt a different pain, a collision with something hard, and he draped his arm over a piece of debris larger than a man, fat, with a skin of wood. Deck, a piece of the deck! He held on tightly, tried to ease his breathing, every breath stabbing him, boiling nausea. He couldn’t hold it back, vomited violently, the oil unyielding, thick in his nose. He gasped for air through his mouth, then vomited again, forced himself to hold on to the floating debris, his lifeboat.
He looked back toward the fire, saw the flames spreading slowly across the water’s surface, black smoke blending with the great roar still boiling out of the ship. His eyes cleared just a bit, and he saw more smoke, smaller fires, could see West Virginia close to Arizona, and to the left of her, the naked hull of Oklahoma. There was smoke from the other big ships, California and Tennessee, and all across the harbor, in the dry dock, where Pennsylvania was moored, another large column of smoke.
The blasted piece of decking had become his life preserver, the only chance he had. He rested his right arm, tried to feel for the wound on his left, but there was no letting go. Beneath him, his exhausted legs hung loosely, and he tried to calm his breathing, took short breaths to slow the pain in his lungs. But the fire was moving toward him, driven by the soft breeze, stinking smoke passing close overhead.
You’ve got to move! Kick, get out of the oil. He tried to find open water, but the oil seemed to expand as far as he could see. Just get away from the ship. It’s got to be clear farther out.
The smell of the fire blew over him again, and he couldn’t control the instinct, gagged, more oil seeping into his mouth. He tried to spit, gagged again, wrapped his arm tightly around the piece of debris. Just kick, he thought. Away from the ship.
His legs obeyed, but the movement was slow going, the debris putting up too much resistance against the deep layer of oil. Maybe climb up, he thought. Wave your hands. If there are boats, they’ve gotta see you. He started to kick, was bumped by another piece of debris, thought of bringing it closer, adding to his lifesaving raft. He forced his left hand outward, a punch of searing pain, wrapped his fingers around tiny handles. He tried to pull it in, then stopped, his hand pulling back, a shock. He could see now that what he had grabbed were toes. It was a leg.
He turned away from the sight, kept his arm draped over the piece of debris, fought to breathe, kicked again. He used every bit of energy to push away from the ship. His brain scolded him: Don’t think about anything, don’t look, don’t smell. Just kick. They’ll find you.
The plane came in low above him, and he froze, but the attack was focused on the wounded ship. He heard the bomb, and even the water beneath him vibrated. He didn’t want to see, but his heart turned him around, and he saw the tower of flame near the stern, one more bloody strike on a ship that had nothing left. He heard splashes, muted by the oil, thought of the severed leg, began kicking again, and now, a voice.
“Help! I’m hit! Help me!”
And now, another, “I can’t swim!”
The voice was familiar, and Biggs twisted around, tried to see, to bring them, any of them, to his raft. He tried to call out, a beacon for anyone else, but the oil was strangling, the smoke from the creeping fire swarming over him. He closed his eyes, tears pouring through the oily burn in his eyes, the man’s voice still in his ears: I can’t swim. I can’t help you, he thought. It’s a blessing for you, pal. Just go down, stop the pain.
He felt his hold loosening on the raft, woke up to that, tightened his grip. He took several breaths, as deep as the crushing heat in his lungs would allow, tried to shout, “Anyone? Over here! I got a raft!”
He choked on the last of the words, could muster no more volume. He closed his eyes, thought, Do it again. Help them, for Christ’s sake! He glanced at the fire, closer still, no time to rest. He began kicking again in a slow shove against the oil. There was something floating to one side, a body, facedown, bobbing with the sea of stinking goo. I can’t swim. Was that you? Or were you dead when you hit? He tried to focus his mind. What the hell difference does it make? He continued to kick, forced out the words, “Anybody. This way!”
Another voice came now, different. “Help. Hello?”
Biggs stopped kicking, turned, tried to see—nothing but the oil. “Hey! Here!”
“Help! I can’t breathe!”
Biggs swept away the fog of the pain, held his breath, looked around, searching. He saw the man’s arm go up, splashing through the oil, a lump of black bobbing up, the man’s head. Biggs kicked himself around, shouted, “This way. Over here. I’ve got a float.”
“I can’t see. I’m wounded. The fire’s coming!”
Biggs propelled the makeshift raft toward him, the man’s arms manic, splashing into the oil.
“Where are you? I can’t see.”
“Here. You hear me? Swim toward my voice, this way. It’s not far. Ten feet away.”
The man was struggling, but his arms were cutting through the layer of oil. He was choking, as Biggs had choked, and Biggs said, “Come on! Hold out your hand, I’ll pull you in.”
“The fire’s coming. We’ve gotta move.”
“I know. You help me; we can kick together. Gotta get to deeper water, let a boat find us.”
The man’s hand was close enoug
h, and Biggs forced his wounded arm out with an agonizing scream. He felt the man’s fingers slipping, made another grab, his fingers wrapping around the man’s wrist.
“Gotcha! Here, grab this debris. It floats. Rest a minute. Then we’ll kick the hell away from here.”
The man draped his arms over the raft, gasping for air, his head soaked with the oil, vomiting, a familiar sound now. There was nothing Biggs could do, waited for the man to calm down.
“We’re okay, but we gotta move away from the fire.”
The man laid his head down on the makeshift raft, choked violently, wiped at his face. “I got blown clear. Damn Jap bomber. Sons of bitches. Look what they did to my ship.”
Biggs stared at the man, his face still obliterated by oil, but the voice familiar, even through the choking.
“Yeah, I got blown clear too, near the stern.”
The man said nothing, stared down, ran one hand over his forehead, trying to clear away the thick coating of black slime. He shouted, jerking his hand away. “Gah! I’m burned. Oh Jesus. I don’t want to die this way. Not like this.”
Biggs moved his legs, said, “Look, there’s no time for crying. We’ve gotta get out past the oil. That fire’s spreading pretty good. We need to kick like hell.”
The man nodded, coughed, wiped again at his face, and now Biggs saw why the voice was familiar. It was Kincaid.
* * *
—
The rescue boat picked them up within minutes, adding them to a dozen men with burns or wounds or both. As the boat pulled out into open water, the three-man crew scooped up buckets of clean water to try to wash off the oil. On some, the oil hid the worst of their burns, Biggs and some of the others reacting to the sudden bath of salt water with agonizing screams. And the painful bath had exposed the size of the gash in Biggs’s arm, a slice from his hand to his elbow. He tried not to look at it, but the pain was brutal, made far worse by the invasion of oil. Still, no matter his suffering, he understood that the oil had filled the wound, and might have kept him from bleeding to death.
