I search for the source of crying pleas, finding Freddy in the corner. Parts of his face are clear of the burning oil, but in its place is raw flesh. I flee to his side. “I’m here, I’m here, Freddy.” I inspect him to gauge where the pain is escalating from, but no sooner do I open my mouth to ask what’s changed that I spot the evidence beneath his fingernails. He scratched the oil off his face along with the top layer of skin. I’m living in a horror picture, a well scripted one. I’m not one to get queasy at anything except the sight of vomit, which I have tried hard to overcome the last several months, but the sheer look of agony and the gruesome wounds are gutting me.
“Why won’t the burning stop?” Freddy continues to shout. “Make it stop!”
“Okay, I’m going to apply more petroleum jelly, but I need you to remain still.” I lean forward, inching my stare closer to his, hoping to capture his full attention. The sound of explosions erupting seems further away than it was. I can only hope the Japanese have run out of ammunition and bombs.
“Miss, I want to go home. I just want to go home. Will you help me find Sam and take him home too. Please, please,” he cries out. “He’s my big brother—the best big brother any guy could ask for. Sam enlisted because I did. He wanted to watch over me. What if he’s gone? What will I tell our parents? This is my fault. It’s all my fault. Help me, please.” His questions and statements are like hundreds of fishhooks, gutting me alive. I haven’t heard anything about his missing brother. He could be in one of these beds, still drowning, or shredded in body parts at the bottom of the ocean.
“Freddy, I want to help you get home, Sam too. Tell me your last name, sweetheart.”
“Winthrop,” he mutters. “Our names are Frederick Winthrop and my brother, Samuel. We need to get home.”
“Sir, I need to advise you to sit back down. You are in no shape to go fight,” a nurse scolds a patient behind me. I twist my head over my shoulder, spotting a man with burns and minor contusions. His burns are far less severe than Freddy’s. I’m betting it’s because of the uniform he’s wearing beneath the oil. Those who were asleep in their barracks on the ship were only in their skivvies, and they are the ones suffering the most. Anyone in uniform may have been spared from the worst of it. At least that’s how it looks from what I can see on this deck.
“It is my duty and right to defend our men and country. And with all due respect Ma’am, the probability of us being the next target is just as likely as me sustaining additional injuries out there. I need to defend. They need me.”
“No, you have serious injuries. The water is contaminated, and you will get yourself an infection,” the nurse argues.
“Let him go,” I shout. “We’re all doing what we can to save each other. If he saves one person along with himself, he’s done more out there than in here.”
I’m aware that I’m speaking out of turn. I don’t work on this ship, nor do I belong on this ship, but I can’t watch these men die without a fighting chance, and if there’s anything I can do to save even one life, I will do it regardless of what anyone thinks. The middle-age nurse seems taken aback by my remark but doesn’t respond.
“You’re a smart gal,” the sailor says to me, jumping from his cot.
Four others in the vicinity stand up, two still bleeding, one with burns covering half of his upper torso. “We’re going too. If they’re dying out there, we’re all dying together.”
The older nurse slaps her hands against her sides. “This is preposterous. You, gentlemen have injuries and need medical attention. You’re risking your lives.”
“That’s what we do, Ma’am. We’re here to risk our lives. Now, if you please, pardon us.”
The five men don’t wait for a response. They don’t wait for a rescue vessel. One by one, they dive back into the waters, ready to dodge bullets and recover more men. “What on earth gives you the right to step in front me at a time like this? I don’t even know who you are,” the nurse says, stepping in front of me with abruptness.
“I’m Commander Salzberg’s daughter, Elizabeth Salzberg, a certified nurse, and I’m helping the best I can, going above and beyond the responsibilities of my civilian duties. We are all losing a battle here today, Ma’am, and if you don’t allow these men to do what they have been trained to do, then you will spend more time fighting with patients today than you will saving their lives. Forgive my crass tone, but we are all in this together and there isn’t a moment to second guess or spare. We are here to help the wounded, not hold them against their will because of rules that didn’t consider the tragedy we are witnessing today.”
The nurse, who looks to have years of experience above mine, looks appalled by my comments. Her eyes are wide, stained with red veins—a look of shock tugging at every fine line encasing her mouth. “I didn’t realize who you were. My apologies.”
I never admit to who I am—being a commander’s daughter, but if the power of my last name has any leverage for good use, I will use it in the way Dad would. “Apologies aren’t necessary. We are running low on morphine. If we cannot evacuate these men soon, do you know if we have a supply drop coming in?”
The woman continues to stare at me, as if in traumatic shock—as if this is the first moment reality has begun to strangle her. She wraps her hands around my arms. “You’re right, Miss Salzberg. You’re a brilliant young woman. We need supplies. I will call for supplies.” The color in her cheeks fades to a dull pink.She’s recalling the last hour of our lives, the images she will never forget.
At this moment, I’m not sure any of us will ever see another sunset.
22
December 1941
The hospital isat its capacity, injured men fill every available cot, and each spare chair is warm. Supply runs are occurring more frequently, and the cries are becoming softer. We work as the minutes blend into the afternoon hours while writing out the names of men who didn’t survive—those who died in our presence, in agony, struggling for breaths, and wishing to see their families once more. I watched the time run out again and again, and I was the recipient of last words, final prayers, pleading wishes, and messages in need of reaching the proper recipients. I found a small notebook in the supply closet, and I’ve been keeping track of the names of those who made requests.
For all the soldiers and sailors recovering from an amputation, or losing multiple missing limbs, they lay in their cots, staring at the ceiling, as they imagine a future without part of their past.
The burn victims—most of the critically wounded are still in a state of sedation, mute, numb, and unknowing. Forever, they will remain scarred by the horrors of today. Each time they look in a mirror, they will replay the pain of wishing for death over life, and the reminder of the moment they lost their identity.
We’re still missing so many men. The columns on lists are accumulating, all information on display publicly for those searching for a loved one.
I’m looking for my loved ones.
During the brief moments I’m able to take a breath, I realize I haven’t exchanged words with a familiar face since arriving at the hospital just before noon. Red Cross nurses have arrived to assist, but across the base, there are less than a hundred nurses aiding what we think to be nearly one thousand injured men. However, the more recent tallies are showing over two thousand casualties. There are more deaths than those hanging onto a sliver of life, and I don’t recognize even one of the tormented souls lying around me.
With my round of patients stable for the moment, I step into the corridor, lined with military personnel and civilians finding debris and black soot covering everyone and every object. It’s not surprising to see since I have been coughing for hours, trying to clear my lungs from what I inhaled. My chokes are minimal, if not insignificant compared to the haunting gasps for air echoing through the halls. The sounds follow me as I try to move at a quick pace, but my legs are heavy, like I’m carrying the weight of life and death on my shoulders.
