“I hope you're right about us winning this thing,” Luke said, taking a bite of ham. “The Japs are cocky. They think they can beat us.” He cut off another piece of ham and swiped it through his gravy. “The kamikaze pilots are the worst. They gotta be crazy—crashing their planes into a ship and killing themselves.” He pushed the meat into his mouth. “You wouldn't think they'd do something like that unless they were sure the sacrifice was worth it. They must believe they're gonna win the war.”
“I heard they're drugged. They don't even know what they're doing.” He forked another bite of cake into his mouth. “The Japanese have been putting out a lot of propaganda. I think they're nervous. 'Course, that's not necessarily good. Sometimes a nervous enemy is more dangerous.”
Resting his arms on either side of his cake plate, Barry leaned forward. “We've been pounding them, especially in the Marshall Islands. And don't forget Wake Island. We hit 'em really hard there.” He shook his head slowly. “I got to say, I'd like to have seen their faces when our bombers came in over the cities on mainland Japan.”
“That was months ago.” Luke pushed his nearly empty plate aside. “And after making those bombing runs, our planes didn't even have enough fuel to make it back to base. They crashed in China. I don't call that winning.”
The carrier made a shift toward starboard, and Luke grabbed the table. “What?”
Two explosions in quick succession followed, rocking the ship and throwing Luke and Barry to the floor. It felt as if the Wasp had been lifted out of the water. Another blast rattled from up forward. The ship convulsed.
Luke grabbed hold of the table and dragged himself from the floor. Another thunderous roar ripped through the carrier, and he scrambled to maintain his footing. “I think the forward magazines blew!”
A siren wailed. Barry staggered to his feet and headed for the door. Luke followed. The ship listed.
As the two men made their way through the companionways, more explosions shook the vessel. Sailors scrambled to duty stations. When Luke and Barry stepped onto the upper deck, they entered a living nightmare. The stink of oil and gasoline was heavy. Airplane parts, ammo, and men's bodies littered the deck. The forward antiaircraft guns had been ripped apart and scattered. A cloud of smoke hung over the carnage. Fires seemed to be burning everywhere.
Dodging bullets from exploding guns and burning planes, Luke headed for the bow. Officers and crew calmly but quickly carried out their duties. Men manned the guns, put out small fires, helped the injured, and hauled bombs away from flames. Burning planes were too hot to approach. One at a time they blew up with their payloads.
“We need to get water on those!” Luke yelled, running forward. He nearly stopped when he saw the damage to the bow. It was beyond comprehension—a large portion of the forward deck was missing, and blackened bodies lay in grotesque positions, mouths in indistinguishable faces were drawn back in shriveled grins. One man lay with his arms bent at the elbows, his hands seemingly protecting his face; another lay outstretched, his arms at his sides. He stared through burned-out sockets.
Luke choked back nausea and kept moving, staying low.
Barry was at his side. “Don't worry about them. They're not feeling anything now.” He rested a hand on Luke's back. “We'll make it.”
Luke managed a nod, then yanked a hose free. He turned the nozzle. No water. He closed it off and turned it again. Still no water. Throwing it aside, he headed for the next hose. Barry followed. The two men ripped it away from a bulkhead, but it was the same—no water.
“The lines must be busted,” Luke shouted, ducking as exploding bombs and ammo sent shrapnel and bullets zinging across the deck. A piece of burning matter fell on him. He grabbed at it, burning his hands. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tossed the material aside. His hands felt as if they were still on fire. He steeled himself against what he might see and looked down. His fingers were blistered and red, but the burns didn't look serious.
What should he do now? What could he do? How did you fight a fire without water? And even if they could find water, the blaze was out of control. The flames were consuming the carrier.
Was it time to give up and abandon ship? Something in Luke wouldn't allow the thought. He headed aft. Most of the damage seemed to be in the bow; maybe the hoses in the stern were undamaged. Ignoring the pain in his hands, he grabbed one and turned it on. It worked.
He immediately unfurled the lines. “Get water on those fires,” he hollered, connecting hoses and dragging them toward the bow. Other men got the idea and began to hose the flames, but the fire was out of control. The crew might as well have been using eyedroppers to hose it down.
More explosives went up, and the fires burned through more of the ship. Heat singed Luke's eyebrows and scorched his face. He knew he was blistered.
The ship slowed and turned astern. The flow of air decreased. The maneuver was meant to slow the fires. Maybe they had a chance. Moments later a series of blasts squelched all hope. Luke lost his grip on the hose, and it broke free. Water spiraled wildly. The explosions had come from the forward part of the hanger. It had to be bombs, he decided.
The smell of gasoline intensified, and heat seemed to be coming from everywhere. Luke thought this must be what it felt like to be in an oven. He began to fear that he and everyone else would be roasted alive. They were in real trouble. A firefighter's clothes torched. He screamed, ran for the railing, and hurled himself over the side.
The smell of charred flesh in his nostrils, Luke watched in horror. God, help us, he prayed, then turned and did what he knew to do. He captured the wayward hose, pointed it at ammo threatened by flames, and cooled the heating artillery.
Barry grabbed him. “We got to get out of here. It's gonna go. The whole ship—all of it.”
“Where do we go?” Luke asked, keeping the water flowing.
“Off the ship. There's nothing else we can do. We're cooked.”
“We haven't gotten the order to abandon ship. I'm not leaving.”
“We gotta go.”
Luke shook his head and moved the water toward a burning plane. “Not until the captain gives the order,” he hollered.
“All right. All right,” Barry shouted, grabbing hold of the hose behind Luke. “I'm not leaving you. If we don't make it, it's your fault.”
Stunned, Luke looked at his friend.
Barry grinned. “Just teasing.” He turned his attention on the hose.
A few minutes later the order came: Abandon ship.
Luke couldn't believe it was happening. He'd never envisioned himself bailing out. He watched as boats and rafts were lowered. Men climbed down rope ladders; others, unable to hang on to hot cables, leaped into the sea. The injured were lowered down and helped into rescue crafts.
“It's time,” Barry said.
“All right. I'm coming,” Luke said, keeping the water on the flames. Finally he dropped the hose and followed Barry.
The two headed aft along with the others. The evacuation was orderly and calm—too calm Luke thought, wondering if it was hopelessness that brought quiet. They'd lost their ship to the enemy. An intense bitterness filled him.
A scream cut through his thoughts. Luke turned and watched a sailor, his shirt aflame, running erratically. “Stop!” he shouted, sprinting for the man. As he ran, he searched for something to smother the flames. He couldn't find anything.
Luke hurtled himself at the sailor and threw him to the deck. He could feel fire burning through his shirt as he forced the hysterical man to roll. Luke slapped at the last stubborn flames.
The sailor lay panting and shaking, his eyes closed. Luke leaned on one arm, trying to catch his breath. “You nearly killed us both,” he said lightheartedly. Offering a hand, he added, “Come on, we've got to get off this tub.”
“Thanks,” the sailor said, allowing Luke to pull him to his feet.
