“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?
21
December 1941
When nothing else matters,when the only world I have ever known is gone, what difference do my actions make?
The ship stills, the rocking motion halts, and the deck is unnaturally quiet. “I’m going to help you back onto the bed now,” I say to the patient, whose name I still don’t know. “I need you to keep pressure on this arm while we move, okay?”
“Yes, Miss.” I help the young man slide out along the slick floor. He’s able to lift himself back onto the bed without using his left arm, which is bleeding through the towel he has pressed to the wound.
I don’t know how many minutes have passed since Everett left with the rescue vessel to pick up more patients, but I know they can only fit five men in it at a time.
“Another incoming rescue vessel with patients is approaching,” a sailor shouts from the port. “Prepare for triage.”
