The ringing in my ears is like static on the radio, with muffled voices trying to break through the airwaves. I press myself up to my knees, fighting off the dizzy weight holding me down. “Everett!” I try to shout but can’t hear the sound coming from my mouth.
A dirt-covered hand sweeps across mine. The round cuticles and short nail beds with a freckle at the tip of his forefinger tell me it’s Everett. It’s hard to keep my eyes open within the thick smoke, but the warmth of his hand eases my overwhelming fear. I wish I knew how many more bombs those dive bombers are carrying. I want to know if they see us scampering, suffering, weak, and unable to move.
Everett pulls his hand away and his arm loops beneath my stomach, lifting me to my feet. His grip moves to my wrists. “It’s the—zona.” I can hardly make out every other word.
“I can’t hear—” I cry out.
“The Arizona. It’s gone.”
With each second that passes, my ability to hear returns. The Arizona. Marines and Soldiers live onboard. I turn my neck to the side, looking out toward the harbor, but flames are engulfing the body of water. The smog has lifted enough to see the catastrophe unfolding before us, as if a sheet is slipping to the side a mangled, dead body.
Everett pulls me along the pier’s edge, waving his hand and screaming above the various clashing pitches of resonance.
The words pouring from Everett’s mouth emit in muddled howls, stinging my ears as he flags down one of the smaller vessels sailing toward us. A high-pitched scream in the distance pulls my attention away from the incoming vessel and out into the inky blazing waters. Arms flail. “So many of them are in the water. They are burning to their death,” I say. I’m not sure if Everett hears me or has already seen what I’m witnessing, but he lowers me into the vessel as if I am a rag doll—a sailor taking me from Everett’s grip. “Are you a civilian?” The man’s words are clearer than anything else I’ve heard in the last few minutes.
“She’s a nurse,” Everett shouts from behind me, stepping into the boat. “Take her to the USS Solace. I’ll help you pull bodies.”
There isn’t time for a formal introduction before the man grabs Everett’s fist and helps him down onto the bilge of the vessel. “Billy Albert, Seaman First Class.” Soot masks Billy’s face and blonde sprigs of hair poke through the ashy layer of debris on his head. The whites of his eyes and the storm blue hues of his irises are all there is to see within the dark shadows of death cloaking his body.
“Everett Anderson, Lieutenant, Air Corps. This is Elizabeth Salzberg, Commander Salzberg’s daughter.” Their conversation is occurring as if we’re standing on a sidewalk on a brilliant sunny day, rather than in a place where we should take cover from the bombers still flying above our heads. The thoughts of where Dad, James, and Lewis are burn through every blood vessel of my brain. Dad wouldn’t have been on base at this hour on a Sunday, but he would receive a call at the first sight of the air raid. I don’t know if there was enough time for him to make it to Ford Island. I pray there wasn’t enough time. The last thing I said to him was, “… how can you be so petulant and rude …” I will forever have to live with those horrible words spoken out of anger.
“I was on my way back to the ship when I heard the dive bombers coming for us. Before I knew it, I was asking myself why God would spare me after going home with this broad I met at the pub last night. I don’t even know the girl’s name, Anderson,” Billy says with a choky laugh. How could he be carrying on a conversation like this right now? I can only assume he’s in a state of shock.
Everett doesn’t appear to be listening to what the guy is saying, but if he’s a Seaman First Class, he might have seen Dad.
“Have you seen Commander Salzberg,” I ask.
“Your old man?” Billy responds.
“I heard him over the radio before I took this vessel out to collect bodies.”
The relief is slight, but it’s substantial enough to allow some adrenaline to pump into my blood. I pray he kept James and Lewis safe, wherever they are.
Everett rests his hand on my knee and squeezes. “He’s okay.”
The men screaming for their lives in the water are not. “There’s no time to drop me off at Solace. Let’s grab some of these men,” I say, leaning over the side. The heat raging from the bordering waters feels like a hot flash from diesel pluming out of the tailpipe of an old car.
“We won’t be able to fit more than a few men into this lifeboat.” How do we choose one life over another? There are so many men begging for help.
I wish the word “help” didn’t have to sound like a breathless plea when the smog filled air is all that is keeping them alive and there doesn’t seem to be enough to fill everyone’s lungs.
Cries of pain sear through my blood as we reach the first oil-covered sailor. The grease is so thick I can’t tell if he’s wearing clothes or if the flames have burnt them off his body.
We reach for one of his two hands and pull him over the rim of the boat. “You’re going to be okay,” I say, pulling the sweater off my shoulders. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” It’s always the eyes that tell the story. Why does it have to be the one part of him I can see?
He’s asking me a world of questions but hasn’t moved his mouth since we dragged him into the boat. This look, the wide eyes searching mine for answers, the dilated pupils, and heavy breaths tell me there are significant injuries. “Freddy,” he mumbles through gritted teeth.
“Freddy, can you tell me what hurts?” The more I inspect this man, the clearer I can see the breadth of damage to his skin. The oil is all he has protecting him, but it is also scorching and eating through every inch of his body.
“Everything,” he mutters through a ferocious groan. If I touch him, it will feel like a thousand knives piercing his flesh and I don’t have a stitch of medication to numb the pain.
“We’re taking you to the USS Solace. We’ll get you something for the pain as soon as we arrive. Do you want to squeeze my hand, Freddy?”
The screams of the next person we are heading to save grows louder than my voice. Freddy doesn’t immediately respond, but as Everett and Billy are pulling in another body, Freddy takes my hand and squeezes with a weak grip. His hand is burning within mine and he clenches his eyes closed, crying tears from pain and fear.
“I don’t want to die, Miss.”
“Shh, no one is going anywhere. We’re going to take care of you.” Am I lying to this dying man? Is this what he should hear minutes before finding death? Fear is worse than pain, I know this. He needs hope to hold on to. “Freddy, can you tell me about your family? Do you have any sisters or brothers?”
With twitch-like movements, he nods his head. “A brother, Sam, and he’s on the ship.”
He’s on the ship. The Arizona nearly submerged. “The Arizona?”
“Yes, Miss,” he says, his words hard to hear as another wave of bomber planes dive over us.
“What about your parents?”
“Martha and Joe. We—we came from Texas. Just a small family and farm.” Freddy’s eyes roll from side to side as if confusion is setting in. “Where’s Sam?” he cries out through agonizing gasps.
“Lizzie, we need you over here,” Everett shouts while pressing his hands into a body’s chest.
“Freddy, I’m going to ask you to hold on to my sweater for a minute while I go help another sailor out. I’ll be right back.”
“Sam!” Freddy shouts. “Sam, where are you? Answer me. Sam!”
I crawl across the rocking boat until I reach Everett’s side. “He’s not breathing.”
I lean my ear toward the man’s mouth, listening for the sound of airflow, but there’s nothing. “Is there a pulse?” I press my finger into the side of his neck, searching for a carotid pulse. His eyes are wide open, staring up into the smoke-filled sky. “He’s gone.”
Everett runs his hand down to his mouth, gasping for air. “This is it, isn’t it?”
“Don’t talk like that. Do you hear me?”
“We can take one more man before we pull up to the Solace,” Billy says.
“Lizzie, how are you so calm right now?” Everett asks.
“These men need us. What other choice is there? Go sit with Freddy. His brother was on the Arizona, and he doesn’t know what the status of the ship is at the moment. Try to keep him distracted,” I tell him, grabbing his shoulders to snap him out of the shock written along his face. “Look at me.” I place my hand on his cheek. “This is why you are here. You’re needed. God puts us where we should be.”
Billy is trying to edge in close enough to the next guy, so I run to his side and grab a hand to pull the man up into the boat. Unlike Freddy and the other man, I see hints of white fabric covering his chest and there isn’t a full covering of oil on his skivvies. He’s covered from head to toe. “You’re going to be okay, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
“Keith Williamson. It’s burning, Miss. Help me, please. Make it stop.” I notice Keith has a contusion on the side of his head, the blood is hardly noticeable while mixed in with the black oil stains. I tear the hem of my dress and wrap the material around my hand to press to the side of his head. In response, Keith screams from the pressure of my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. We’re almost to the hospital.”
I check behind me, watching Everett talk to Freddy. Everett is pale, but his mouth is moving. He’s doing what I said. I imagine the men going off to war must not entirely understand the reality they’re about to face until it drops on them. I’m not positive any of us will survive today, but I can only look in front of us and keep going. Billy is steering us toward the boarding ramp of the Solace. Sailors are waiting by the open hatch of the ship with stretchers to help get these men off the boat, and I give them the scant rundown of information I have about the men. “This one here, he didn’t make it.”
Once the last of them are carried off the boat, I follow the sailors, stopping for a brief second in front of Everett. “I love you so much today, Everett. I’ve loved you every day before this one. And I’ll love you for all of time—whatever that may be.”
“I love you, always and forever, doll-face” he says, grabbing my hand. “Always and forever.” I pull my hand from his, refusing to steal a moment of time from the men waiting for rescue.
The look on Everett’s face says this is it. This is our last moment together and I don’t know if one or both of us will die today, but the finality of our goodbye twists my stomach into a tight knot as I leap from the boat onto the ramp. I refuse to turn around. I can’t. I don’t want to see what goodbye looks like again.
“Where can I help? I’m a nurse,” I shout to the entire flat area filled with double layered beds.
“Bed four,” a nurse replies, pointing over her head. “Give him a shot of morphine for the burns. He’s been in shock, unresponsive since he arrived.” I inspect the man, wondering why the other nurses haven’t cleaned them up at all, but the longer I think about the oil eating the skin off these men, I’m not sure we can clean them or have the time. “He’ll be on the next transport to the hospital. He needs an amputation. Check the tourniquet every five minutes.”
The nurse hasn’t stopped shouting the list of injuries since I have arrived at this man’s bedside. I pray he’s sleeping and doesn’t wake until this morphine kicks in. I inject the pain killer quicker than I would ever imagine doing, as if the man is dead. There’s no reason for bedside manners or calming the patient down. The risk of infection is unthinkable with the oil dripping around the injection sight. I lift the sheet from the man’s midsection, checking the tourniquet for spots of blood, but the gauze is still white. “He’s stable, nurse,” I reply.
“Bed eight, stop the bleeding.” It doesn’t take long to see how this nurse is keeping track of the patients. Every man brought in enters with an accompanying shout of assumed injury diagnosis. “We won’t have enough morphine at this rate. Supplies will not last.”
I was hoping there were more syringes and vials in the cart I pulled from. It was half full, half empty.
While I tend to bed eight, rounds of explosions throw the boat so hard the beds roll and swivels Piercing screams of pain erupt from every direction. “The last round of bombers hit more of our ships. A damn rescue vessel, too. I think they’re coming back again too. Get down, get down,” a voice screams out.
I don’t know who is shouting the information, but I pull the bleeding man from his bed and use every ounce of strength in my body to push him beneath the bed. As we rock and slide to every single explosive thud, I search my surroundings for dressing to wrap this man’s bleeding arm. “Don’t worry about me, honey. I’ll be okay,” he says.
“We’re all going to be okay; do you hear me? We’re all going to be okay. I’m going to stop the bleeding on your arm. It may hurt a bit.” The pain wouldn’t have been as severe if the boat didn’t sway so hard to the right. We’re shielding ourselves from soaring unsecured objects. I’m doing my best to cover the man. “In case no one tells you today, Miss. You’re a hero. You’re my hero. Thank you.”
A bomber plane hit a rescue vessel too. Was it my hero?