By the time we arrived on the promenade deck to see what was happening in the harbor, the sky was full of Japanese bombers dropping torpedoes like rain.
Air raid alarms blared from every direction. It looked like almost two hundred airplanes were descending upon Pearl Harbor. Smoke billowed into the sky from Ford Island, just across the channel from where theSolacewas anchored and to the right of Battleship Row. We were less than a hundred and seventy-five yards from the USSArizona.
Torpedoes dropped from the Japanese bombers, one after the other, in a dizzying pattern against the brilliant blue sky, hitting countless targets. The sound was deafening. Sailors were running on the decks of all the ships around us, looking to the sky in shock and horror. They began to scramble to their stations, trying to return fire, but it would be too late for most of them. The Japanese had achieved complete and utter surprise.
Anna held my hand tight as we watched the carnage unfold before our eyes. We were all speechless. Fires had begun on several ships and buildings on Ford Island, soon turning the sky to dusk, blotting out the glorious sun.
Though there was destruction and chaos all around, the Japanese pilots appeared to be avoiding theSolace, for which I was thankful. I watched theArizona, praying fervently for the souls upon that particular ship. Several torpedoes were dropped into the harbor by planes flying low overhead, striking theArizona—and then the air rent with a cataclysmic blast unlike any other. TheArizonaexploded, shaking theSolaceand raining debris into the water and onto Ford Island. Within seconds, the forward turrets and conning tower of theArizonacollapsed downward, and the foremast and funnel collapsed forward, tearing the ship in half. The explosion was so powerful, it put out fires on the repair ship moored alongside it.
Within minutes, theArizonawas beneath the water.
Oil spilled from the assaulted battleships, floating to the top of the water, and fire burned everywhere. Men swam through fire, both drowning and burning to death, screaming for help.
After just moments of shock, the crew of theSolacewent into action. Two stretcher parties were launched to evacuate men from theArizonawhile the rest of us rushed to prepare for maximum service.
Zechariah appeared, his stern countenance bringing me hope and anchoring me. If anyone knew what to do, it would be him. He immediately began ordering the hospital corpsmen to prepare the emergency ward, which included an additional fifty beds. He sent other corpsmen to the patients already on board with orders to return as many convalescing sailors as possible to active duty.
“What should I do?” I asked him.
“Start preparing for triage.”
Nodding, I found a corpsman and asked him to bring meall the morphine he could find, and then I grabbed tags and pencils and brought them to a handful of corpsmen standing near the gangplank. “As the victims are brought on board, we’ll need to examine them and determine which wards they need to be brought to. You’ll write the wards on these tags and attach them to the men for the stretcher-bearers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They took the supplies.
I immediately grabbed two deckhands. “I’ll need all the stretcher-bearers you can find. Bring them here.”
They nodded and went to work.
Even before our rescue boats returned, other evacuation boats began arriving with victims. I stood alongside Zechariah as he quickly assessed each patient, and then I told the corpsmen what to write on the tags. The deck crew began taking them away as fast as they arrived. It was my job to administer morphine to each patient in need—and they were all in need.
It was hard to know how much time had passed, but at one point, theSolacewas moved to a safer docking station as a second wave of Japanese planes barreled into the harbor.
The entire time, stretcher parties and rescue boats delivered victims and then went back out to find more. I heard that they climbed aboard the burningArizonato save lives, got into the burning water, and put themselves in constant danger of being hit by enemy fire.
I had never seen such wide-scale suffering in my life—not even at Bull Run. I kept thinking of the Twin Towers burning on September 11 and the massive battles that would steal the lives of hundreds of thousands of men at Gettysburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Antietam, and more—not to mention all the battles ahead of America in WWII. War was merciless, and I hated it with every fiber of my being. I wanted to weep, but there was no time for emotions. As soon as I was done with one patient, there was another, and then another.
Zechariah’s confident voice and presence steadied methroughout the endless horror. Hundreds of men arrived on the ship, some with minor injuries, and some who did not survive.
“Doc,” a corpsman called out to Zechariah as he ran up the gangplank of theSolace. “There’s a man pinned, and we’re afraid to move him in case he bleeds to death. We need a doctor to see if there’s any chance of him living.”
“I’ll go.” Zechariah turned to me. “Get someone else to administer the morphine, and you can continue my job.”
There was no time to question him or debate the wisdom of leaving theSolace. He followed the corpsman off the ship and got into one of the rescue boats without saying good-bye. They pulled away, toward the burning water and smoke, and I lost sight of Zechariah in the melee.
I worked for what felt like hours, watching for him to return. The bombing eventually stopped, but the carnage did not.
As the sun was falling in the west, I was asked to leave my station and help Dr. O’Neal in the operating room. It was strange not to work alongside Zechariah. I assisted Dr. O’Neal as patient after patient was brought to us.
Acrid smoke filled the air, and the smell of death was all around us. I was sweating and covered with blood, but so was everyone else. At some point, the corpsmen began to bring coffee and sandwiches around to the medical staff, but none of us could pause for more than a minute. Exhaustion was a constant companion, exhaustion and fear.
I was just returning to the operating room when a stretcher was brought in—holding Zechariah. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed. Blood soaked his right pant leg, but the rest of his body appeared unharmed.
“Zechariah!” I ran to the stretcher as they positioned him on the operating table. He bore a tag that simply saidOR.
He opened his eyes, which were glassy with pain and morphine.
“What happened?” I asked.
