Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “Jack, no Japanese are going to attack this base. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just sick in the head. We ain’t even at war with the Japs.”

  “It was a surprise attack. They came—”

  “Whatta you mean was? Listen to you.”

  “I mean is…it is going to be a surprise attack. They’re coming out of the north. Their plan was to try and cripple our Pacific Fleet to buy them time to consolidate their gains and strengthen their defenses.” Jack was reciting history straight out of the textbooks. He looked at his watch. “Now we’ve got…about five minutes, maybe less. We’ve got to warn the others, Sal. We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

  “You go warn ‘em. Go ahead. Maybe they’ll even thank you. ‘Thank you Private Turner for waking me up early on Sunday so you can tell me the Japs are coming. I was gonna sleep in and miss it.’ See what that gets ya. As for me…I’m gonna just sit here and unwind and enjoy the view.” Sal leaned back against one of the sandbag walls, his hands behind his head, sunning his face.

  Jack turned to face the planes and hangars, then looked at the barracks building set against the bright blue sky. Such a quiet and placid scene. So entirely normal. A few men milled about in the nearest hangar drinking coffee, laughing, probably exchanging stories from the night before. Just outside, a group of about twenty mechanics were already busy working on several bombers, preparing them for routine training flights. No big surprise. That’s what people do in peacetime—routine training. Officers, noncoms, and enlisted men walked about, saluting each other, going in and out of buildings. Every one of these guys were probably thanking God for the chance to spend his tour in this tropical paradise. What was he supposed to do? Run around like Chicken Little telling everyone the sky is falling?

  Images began invading his thoughts, historic photographs of Hickam Field before, during, and after the attack. He looked back at the barracks building. No wonder it had looked so familiar. But it was odd seeing everything in color. All the photographs and documentaries he’d seen of Pearl Harbor were in black and white.

  “What was that?” Jack asked, jolted from his thoughts.

  “What was what?”

  “Those booms. They came from over there.” Jack pointed in a northerly direction. “Which way is Battleship Row and Ford Island?”

  “You know which way.”

  “Which way?”

  “Right where you pointed.”

  “You hear that?” asked Jack. More low, rumbling booms and then another sound. A deep droning, buzzing sound. Radial engine planes flying at low altitude. Jack recognized them from the dozens of air shows he’d seen. He strained his eyes in their general direction but couldn’t see a thing. He looked at his watch. “7:55am. It’s happening now. It’s really happening.” Jack was squinting, searching the sky for planes.

  “That ain’t Japs, Jack. Them Navy boys are always flying practice runs in the morning. They’re gonna catch some flak for doin’ it on a Sunday, but—” Suddenly Sal stopped talking and rose slowly to his feet. A pale, sick expression replaced his bragging smirk. He stared in the direction Jack had pointed a moment ago. Jack turned again to look for himself. Toward the north, in the direction of Ford’s Island, thick billowing clouds of smoke began to rise above the buildings.

  Instantly, the loud humming of planes grew louder, much louder. “There. There they are!” Jack shouted, pointing now to the opposite end of the runway. A thin line of white planes was diving straight for them. They stood like two men watching a movie. More booms could be heard in the distance. The planes came closer. Jack saw clearly the fixed landing gear beneath their wings.

  “Vals!” he shouted. “Dive bombers. Sal, get down.” Jack immediately dropped to the ground, curled up into a ball, and wedged himself tightly against the sandbags. He reached over and grabbed Sal’s ankle and shouted his warning again. Sal stood there motionless.

  “Sal,” he shouted again. “Get down!”

  Next came the deafening sound, several loud explosions in quick succession. He felt the impact of the bombs against the sandbag wall. It shook the ground beneath him. He knew from history, now from instinct, that several of the hangars he’d walked past twenty minutes ago were flaming ruins. He tucked tighter against the sandbags. The planes roared overhead as the sound of bullets tore into the pavement, then into the sandbags in a terrifying rhythm.

  Sal’s ankle was suddenly yanked from Jack’s grasp. He heard Sal’s body hit hard against the opposite sandbag wall. Sal uttered an emotionless, “Uh.”

  “Sal?” Jack reached over with his hand, his head still down, the rest of his body still locked tight in a fetal position. He felt Sal’s leg and shook it. “Sal?”

  Sal didn’t answer.

  For a moment, the sound of planes had faded. Now Jack heard the cries of men screaming in agony and swearing in anger. More explosions in the direction of Battleship Row. Jack unfurled for a moment and looked at Sal.

  Sal was half-sitting, half-lying with his back against the sandbag wall. His head hung unnaturally off to the side, his face still set in that unbelieving stare. Three bullet holes in equal distances spread across his abdomen.

  Sal was gone.

  10

  Jack jumped over the sandbag wall to flee the maddening scene. He had seen death before but always in natural, civilized doses. Wakes, memorial services, funerals. He’d never seen anyone die like that. He ran toward the barracks. The planes returned. New planes. This time from the opposite direction, behind him.

  Before he had a chance to turn around, he heard a bomb whistling through the air. He glanced to his right in time to see that group of twenty mechanics disintegrate in a blinding flash, along with the planes they’d been tending. It was so close he could feel the heat from the explosion. The impact wave knocked him off balance. He buried his head in the grass, covered his helmet with his hands. Several more earsplitting explosions thundered down the flight line. Jack knew the B-17’s were their target. They, too, were now gone.

  God, he prayed, please don’t let me die here. Please let me get back to where I belong.

  Pieces of planes, buildings, and people started to rain down from the sky in a sickening cascade. Again, the Japanese planes faded into the distance. Jack looked up toward the barracks. Through the thickening smoke, he could see the outline of a building. He had to make a run for it.

  He took off toward Halemakai Barracks, limping slightly, jumping over chunks of buildings and human debris. He tried not to focus on the gruesome sights as he choked on the smoke and oil fumes that filled the air. He saw bleeding and wounded men, some crawling, others running in different directions. He remembered another black and white photo, a picture of a building on fire. Looking up, he saw a perfect match in color. It was Halemakai. The barracks, they get hit. So does the Mess Hall. Over thirty guys die.

  Jack made his way there to warn them all to get out. Through the smoke, he saw it was still intact. As he ran, he tried to remember whether Halemakai got hit in the first or second wave of attacks. How much time did he have?

  Moving toward the barracks as fast as his legs would go, he ignored the pain in his knee. He dashed across the street away from the intense heat from two hangars, now burning out of control. He looked for the doorway he’d come out of before. He couldn’t afford to get lost on his way to the mess hall. He may only have seconds to spare once inside.

  Another louder explosion stopped him in his tracks. It came up ahead in the direction of Battleship Row. Immediately followed by another explosion greater than the first. It sounded like the earth splitting in two. The ground rumbled like an earthquake. He felt the vibrations through the soles of his boots. A large, black mushroom cloud started to billow and rise off in the distance over the harbor.

  The Arizona! The greatest single tragedy of the entire attack. A bomb from one of the Val dive bombers had just broken through several decks and ignited the powder magazine. That was the second explosion Jack had h
eard.

  Eleven hundred men had just died.

  A moment later, the dreaded sound of radial engines returned, zooming down over his left shoulder. He looked up in time to see three more dive bombers in a tight V-formation swooping directly toward Halemakai Barracks. Jack watched the birds of prey descend as he ran.

  The whole scene moved in slow motion. He ran faster, as if he might outrun them, but they sailed right past. Machine guns blasted from their wings overhead. Bullets danced in straight lines, kicking up dirt and grass several feet into the air about fifty yards ahead. They found their target. Four airmen also running toward Halemakai. The bullets raked right over them. Three of them twisted and writhed in horrific spasms as they fell to the ground. The fourth stood perfectly still as the bullets raced past. He looked down with a stunned expression at his three dead friends. Together, Jack and this airman watched the planes finish what they came to do.

  The planes flew directly over Halemakai’s roof and back up into the sky. The center of the barracks erupted like a volcano of lumber and cement. Flames shot two hundred feet in the air. Both men hit the ground. As he lay there clutching his helmet, pictures of the mess hall began to form in Jack’s mind. He wondered if any of the men he had casually nodded to were among those whose lives had just been snuffed out. How many of the men sleeping in the bunks finally made it over to the mess hall, just in time to meet their doom? Why couldn’t he have figured all this out sooner? Even if he had, who would have listened? Would anyone have taken him more seriously than Sal?

  Sal. Jack could see him lying there against the sandbag wall. The bullets puncturing his abdomen.

  As he laid there, other images of the last few hours began to swirl around his mind in a nightmarish carousel. He tried to block them out, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. He covered his ears, trying to cut off the sounds of men dying, of piercing explosions and flames devouring ships and buildings.

  He felt drained and exhausted. He seemed to be fading. It felt like he was losing consciousness.

  Or…was he merely falling back to sleep?

  # # #

  When Jack awoke, the first thing he noticed was the absence of the acrid, choking smoke. Next, the silence. It was over. He had survived the attack on Pearl Harbor. He listened for the battle sounds, his eyes still closed. Gradually, he became aware of a strange softness beneath him. A second squeeze confirmed—a pillow.

  He bounced up on his hands and knees and looked down. “I’m in bed!” he shouted. He rolled on his back, gazing at the ceiling with an exhilarated smile. There was the familiar water stain in the corner, the dusty floral globe covering the ceiling light. It was just a dream. He looked around the room. Yes. He was back at 433 Rambling Road. No warm breezes. No palm trees. No epic battles.

  He jumped up and raced through the doorway to his bathroom, skidding the last few feet over the wooden floorboards in his socks. He smiled at his antique porcelain tub with its stubby little legs, as if greeting a long lost friend. He marched in, pushed the shower curtain back, and turned the water on. As he straightened up, he looked at his face through the crack in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked terrible, but he was alive. And he was back home. And it was just a dream, a scary stupid dream.

  The steam from the shower quickly fogged the mirror. He undressed, letting his sweaty clothes drop to the floor, and stepped into the soothing wet heat. He grinned as he watched the tornado of water form in the drain. This was the shower he had wanted to take back in the barracks. The one that washes bad dreams away. He got out and dried off. Stepping into the hallway, he took a whiff of the freshly-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen, compliments of his automatic timer.

  Then it happened.

  A vivid, piercing picture of Sal’s bullet-ridden body blasted into his mind. He could see his face, that cold dead stare, the weird slant of his head. Then an image of those twenty mechanics being blown to pieces by that whistling bomb, debris falling down all around him. Then the sight of the four men running toward the barracks, three of them cut down by strafing bombers. He could almost hear the planes coming from behind, as though flying right through the bathroom into the kitchen. He winced and ducked down.

  He ran back to the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and flushed his face and eyes. Grabbing hold of the sides of the sink, he slammed his eyes shut. The flashback was so powerful he feared it might somehow pull him back to Pearl, back to the aftermath of the battle. He looked at his petrified face in the mirror. In a loud, trembling voice he declared: “You are awake. That was a dream. It never happened!”

  He was sure he was battling for his sanity.

  11

  Later that morning, a few minutes after eleven, the warming sun began to pour through the blinds in Jack’s apartment. A pleasant song played through his iPod speakers. Jack sat at his desk, staring past his laptop at the dust molecules dancing in the sunbeams.

  He had just come in from the gravel driveway downstairs, shuffling like a zombie, still hungover from The Dream. He had walked down to the sidewalk to get the morning paper. He needed something, anything to keep his mind off The Dream. In the last few hours, the intensity had subsided, but when the images came they were still vivid. Keeping them at bay over the last few hours had given him a headache.

  His concentration was broken by a car skidding to a halt in the driveway. He peeked out from the curtains but didn’t recognize it. He did recognize the beautiful young woman who got out. It was Rachel Cook, the General’s daughter. What was she doing here? She lifted her collar against the wind and pulled her gloves from her coat pockets.

  Jack peeked out a crack in the curtain. As she made her way up the stairs he saw her cradling a large platter covered in plastic wrap. The screened door squeaked loudly. Before she knocked on the kitchen door, he opened it. Up close, her face was stunning, like a model’s. High cheek bones, deep brown eyes, a natural blush provided by the cold. He snapped out of his stare. “Hi…it’s Rachel, right?”

  “You remembered my name.”

  “Well, you were only one of three girls in the lecture hall yesterday. I asked Professor Thornton about you.” Jack backed up. “It’s miserable out there. Better leave your coat on a few minutes. The heat in this place isn’t too good.”

  “I really can’t stay.”

  Jack looked down at the platter. Looked like the makings for hoagies. “So, what brings you here?” Only a handful of people knew where he was staying, so she must have asked around.

  “I’m sorry, this was probably a stupid idea. You’re busy, got your lectures to prepare for, your book to write.”

  “No, I’m glad you stopped by. I am supposed to be writing my book, but the lectures really aren’t any work for me, they’re all reruns.”

  She laughed. “Officially, I’m here just offering some Culpepper hospitality.”

  “And…unofficially?” Jack took the platter and set it on the counter.

  “You don’t remember me, do you? This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”

  “No?” It had been twelve years since Jack served her father in Ramstein, Germany. He looked closely at her eyes, her smile, her hair. But she would have been so much younger. No, it couldn’t be.

  “You don’t remember. I’m glad. I was fourteen, almost the same height as I am now, but I was a toothpick with braces. My dad wouldn’t let me wear makeup. He’d only buy me the plainest clothes, and every day back then was a bad hair day. But you were always very nice to me.”

  Vague flashes of a homely teenage girl greeting him at the General’s door or peeking out behind the living room curtain began to percolate. He looked back at her now. The transformation was astounding. “You know, I am starting to remember.”

  “Liar,” she said smiling.

  “No, I do…but, you’ve got to know how much you’ve changed.”

  She started tossing the salad. “I couldn’t believe it when Professor Thornton announced you were coming back to Culpepper. I didn’t th
ink I’d ever see you again.”

  She instantly seemed to regret that last remark. The picture was becoming clear. A teenage crush. He had never suspected. “Small world.”

  “What I mean,” she said, “who could have imagined out of six billion people going six billion different ways our lives would suddenly intersect again?”

  She still seemed uneasy saying that. Jack wished he could think of a way to ease her embarrassment, but he rather enjoyed it. And coming over here unannounced wasn’t very subtle. But then he began to rethink the moment. He was supposed to be still getting over Gwen. This trip was supposed to be a break in the action, let him readjust his focus. Some downtime to write his book.

  “Are you all right?”

  He smiled and looked away. “Just had a really rough night of sleep,” he said. “Bed’s too soft, I guess.”

  “Nice little place,” she said.

  “I roomed here when I attended the school.”

  “Really.”

  “Professor Thornton offered me any place in town, but I wanted to be here. Would you like a tour of the west wing or the east wing first?”

  “Which is more impressive?”

  “The east by far. The bathroom is in the east wing, hot and cold running water. But we’ll start in the west wing, let the suspense build.”

  Jack led her into his miniature living room. He watched her as she observed the sparse collection of upholstered antiques. Several thin throw rugs dotted the wooden floor. Doilies covered the dried glass rings on the dark wooden end tables. It looked like the apartment of an old woman, except for the black-and-white World War II magazines spread out on the coffee table. “The apartment came furnished.”

  Rachel nodded. A doorway led into the single bedroom containing a small desk, a matching double-bed and dresser. “I like the song playing on your iPod,” she said.