We have several empty beds on this deck, but I know some men are making triage areas on other decks, too.
Please let this be Everett.
I’m trying to keep my focus on the patient I’m tending to, irrigating his wound to inspect for lodged shrapnel. The cut is clean from debris, just deep and wide. “This will need sutures,” I tell him. “We need the bleeding to slow down first, so I’m going to need your help keeping pressure on the towel.”
“Yes, Miss, but you aren’t going far, right?”
“I need to help the incoming patients, but I’ll back in just a moment to check on you. You’re going to be just fine. Don’t you worry, sweetheart.”
Bile rises from the barren depths of my stomach as I race toward the port to help the incoming men with injuries. The rescue groups have lined up stretchers, ready for patients on the short loading ramp. The rescue vessel preparing for transport is different from the one I arrived in. There are three men helping the injured, not two. None of them are Everett.
“How many men were on the rescue vessel that went down?” A sailor shouts out to the waters.
“We don’t know yet. It’s gone.”
“Gone as in—”
“It blew up. It’s gone and we can’t focus on that right now. One of these men has minutes left, maybe less. I need to get him in there first. Let’s go. Come on,” I hear from outside. “He’s not breathing, but he has a slow pulse. The explosion stole both his legs.”
Everett is still alive.
I must believe.
He has to be okay.
I must focus on these men who need care.
Everything is going to be all right. It must be.
As I help them with the stretcher, everything around me seems to move in slow motion while I focus my thoughts on where they should be. “There are four more rescue vessels behind us, filled with severely injured men. How many beds do you have left?”
“We don’t have many beds at all, a dozen at most. We need to transfer the critical to the hospital.”
“Stabilize those men so we can move them.”
The conversation continues and the orders keep coming.
There are four more rescue vessels approaching.
There are too many injured men to care for here.
We need to stabilize the critical and move them out of her as fast as possible.
Every nurse on this ship is elbow deep in blood and burning oil. Patients are screaming, crying, pleading for mercy. I find the man who’s dying and begin a set of chest compressions while a medic wraps his legs. “Come on. Stay with me,” I chant mindlessly as I use every ounce of strength to press the heels of my hands into his chest. He looks so young, maybe just eighteen. He’s not ready to die. I close my eyes and forget the exhaustion wreaking havoc on my arms. “Come on. Breathe.”
Five minutes pass and there’s still the slightest sensation of a pulse. There is still hope. It seems as if there are more injured men arriving every time I turn around. The moans and cries grow louder than the shouting orders. “We need to move onto the next bed,” a doctor says from behind me. “You’ve done all you can do.”
“No,” I shout, pressing harder and firmer into the man’s chest.
Water expels from his mouth as if shooting from a spout. I tilt his head to the side, allowing the water to spill off his face. He coughs and gags on the oil-laced liquid as more comes up. There is little color on the man’s cheeks, but his eyes open. I place my fingers on the side of his neck, finding his pulse stronger and faster. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him.
“There are no more beds,” a sailor shouts from an open hatch. “We’re running out of supplies too. We need to get these men over to the hospital.”
“It’s not safe to transport them yet. Those damn dive bombers are still out there ready to drop another load,” a man hollers from a deck above ours.
I thought it was over. I was praying they ran out of ammunition, bombs, torpedoes, and whatever else they’re trying to murder us with. How many more explosions will we survive?
“Help!” The scream is shrill. Panic is raw and raging through the deck, like a hurricane. These men must know the attack is far from over. None of the less critical patients are focusing on the pain writhing through their bodies. Some of them are dressing each other’s wounds because we aren’t making our rounds fast enough. There aren’t enough of us.
