I was awakened by the strident, rapid notes of the bugle blaring out of the loud-speaker in my cabin, and I thought: "G.Q. already? Why, I just went to bed!"
I was warm and relaxed and comfortable under the sheets, and I hesitated to get up; I never did for the routine pre-dawn General Quarters, anyway.
The bugle ran on–it sounded perhaps a dozen notes, then smash! The ship lurched violently under a crushing impact.
TORPEDO!
My head jerked of the pillow, with that thought.
A vivid, yellow flare flashed through the openings of the green curtain over the door; almost simultaneously, the yellow flash lit the slats of the porthole.
We're in action! The Japs!
Even as my bare feet hit the deck, I concentrated on the most rapid way to dress. Pants first: I pulled them off the chair, wiggled into them. I reached for the flame-proof jacket, and as I pulled it over my head I suddenly "knew" something: I "knew" that I would get hurt. I "Knew" something else, too: I "knew" that I would not get killed. It was there, as vivid and clear as though someone had told me; it was so clear I grasped frantically t the thought: Where? But it was gone. I had a vague hope, perhaps a prayer, that it might be around my hips, somewhere; that would be less likely to be a permanent injury. The premonition accomplished something: I was suddenly cool and calm: What is to be, is to be.
I fumbled in the dark or my shoes–no time for socks. As I pushed my feet into them, the ship lurched again.
I stepped quickly out onto the deck and into the blinding glare of a searchlight. Vaguely, I was conscious of bodies huddled on the deck, of an overtone of muffled sounds, like mumbled prayers.
There was the crash of an exploding shell right around my ears, and the sudden rat-tat-tat of unseen fragments ricocheting all about me, like steel popcorn sprayed up against the inside walls of a cage. I couldn't see them, but I could hear them whistling by and spattering off the overhead.
I ducked instinctively, and realized how futile the gesture was.
I must get my life jacket, and my steel helmet–but quickly. I took the half-dozen steps to make the turn around the cabin and came to a dead stop–the Astoria was on fire, amidships! Less than fifty feet away, the flames were leaping high; there was a fierce crackling; the outlines of the planes on the catapults, shrouded in flame.
McKnight! Where's Mac? He'll know what to do . . .
There were life jackets near by, I remembered, so I turned back. The Jap ship had shifted her searchlight a few feet; its bright white flood of light was now slightly forward of the superstructure, playing on the No. 2 turret. The searchlight was powerful, appeared to be perhaps a thirty-six-incher; behind it, I made out the dim lines of the enemy. Her silhouette suggested a cruiser. She was slightly forward of our starboard beam, at a distance about 5,000 yards, I judged.
She fired again, just then, and the flames belched out of her guns; I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks: I thought I could actually see the shells in mid-air, red blocks wrapped in an aura of burning smoke, floating toward us.
Our forward guns roared, and there was the earsplitting crash of the massive eight-inchers.
The flames appeared bright yellow in the glare of the white searchlight; I realized that was what I saw in my cabin, our guns going off.
The deck heaved from the concussion, and the acrid smoke of gunpowder filled my nostrils. Behind me, I sensed, rather than heard, someone falling, I turned around to make out the shadowy form of a man on his knees, struggling to regain his feet on the heaving deck.
Mac!
I stepped over and grabbed his arm: "Mac, that you?"
"No, it's me, Ray. Ray Woods.
"You hurt, kid?"
"No, I'm all right."
He was up on his feet now, and steady. I shouted in his ear: "Where's Mac?"
"I don't know, I haven't seen him."
"I'm going in to get a life jacket. Better come along."
I walked quickly into the radio shack, caught a glimpse of a towering mass of flame just ahead of the Astoria; it seemed as though a gigantic matchbox had been ignited, and mushroomed into one vast ball of crimson flame. I learned afterward that this was the Quincy, as a torpedo crashed into her ammunition hold.
There was a half-dozen men where I was, and a young junior officer. Johnny Datko was there, and I was glad. The life jackets were strung up on the bulkhead, I noted with relief. "Better get them down?" I suggested to the officer. "We might be needing them."
He pulled out a jackknife and climbed up on the settee to reach the bundle. We huddled in a group below, waiting for them.
"Anybody hurt?" Johnny asked.
"Yeah, I think I got a scratch," one striker said quietly.
Apparently Johnny didn't hear him, for he asked again: "Anybody hurt?"
I nudged Johnny and pointed to the youngster. The j.g. was still fumbling with the cords binding the life jackets. Would he never get them down?
Johnny pulled the striker's shirt down off his right arm, and pointed his flashlight. A shiny bit of shrapnel reflected an angry little gleam of light, then the blood covered it up from sight.
"Just a scratch, you'll be O.K."
We jostled against each other, and I had the feeling the ship was wheeling to port; an explosion near by shook us up. The j.g. was jarred off the settee, and the life jackets cascaded after him.
Simultaneously our lights went out, and Johnny switched on his flashlight, gave cool, calm orders. In a few minutes the lights went on again. By that time we noticed that the Jap searchlight had penetrated into the room: the starboard porthole had been sprung by the concussion.
As we struggled into the kapok jackets, the power failed again; once more the room was plunged into darkness.
"Secure the watch on the equipment," Johnny ordered. "It's failed."
We were wedged in tightly, shoulder to shoulder, Datko on my left, Tommy on my right; I was struggling into my life jacket when there was an earsplitting crash and the room filled with flying shrapnel.
Tommy moaned. I felt his ands jerking up to clutch at his back. Johnny pointed his flashlight at the sound, and we caught the sailor as he started slipping to the deck, laid him out on the settee. His eyes were glassy; through pain-tightened lips he gasped: "Kidneys—kidneys . . . "
Pulling his shirts up out of his dungarees, we turned him on his stomach. There was no blood, but his extreme pain told its own story.
Six inched to the left, I thought, and it would have been me.
Just then as I bent over Tommy, I felt some hot, flaky substance on the back of my neck; for a second or two it burned, then stopped abruptly. Apprehensively, my hands went around my neck; I couldn't feel anything: "Flying bits of shattered tubes, probably."
Johnny was busy with his flashlight: he found a cast-metal cover from a switch had blown off its mounting on the bulkhead when the shell exploded. That undoubtedly was what had penetrated the sailor's back; its round, smooth contour explained why no blood had shown.
"His ribs may be broken, though," Johnny whispered.
"Lungs?"
"Guess they're O.K. He's quieted down considerably. Let's try to get him to his feet."
Tommy made it, wobbly, but indicating he could travel under his own power. There was another casualty, but a minor one: a bit of shrapnel in a striker's arm, just above his shoulder. The kid shrugged off attention: "I'll be O.K."
A rapid glance told us what had happened: a shell had penetrated the steel bulkhead on the starboard side, completely wrecked the large chart desk, then continued on through the portside bulkhead. It crossed my mind that some of us, in this group, might die; it was only by a miracle that we had survived, for the shell might have exploded in the room and wiped us all out. The Japs were using hard-steel, high penetration shells which ripped through steel plates like cheese before exploding. There was a gaping hole, large and terrible, where the shell had entered; through itt, we saw the darting flames of the fire raging on the gun deck below.
"We'd better get out of here," I suggested to the j.g.
"Where'll we go?" he retorted, his tome indicating that one place was just as good, or as bad, as another, considering the circumstances.
I persisted: "Apparently they've got the range on the superstructure, so any other place can't be worse. And it'll be easier to go over the side from the main deck, if we have to."
We started moving in an orderly group, inching forward to the hole in the bulkhead, wary of possible explosions. I wondered if we were trapped. But nothing happened, so we squeezed through the hole left by the shell, the jagged opening still warm to the touch. For some reason unknown even to himself, Datko crawled through the wreckage of the door, which was crumpled by the blast.
Out on the deck again, we saw fires raging all about us, on the decks below. Amidships, the Astoria was one mass of flame.
A congestion developed on the ladder, and there were warnings: "Take it easy, now; take your time–no crowding."
In the dark, we felt our way from one step down to the next; Johnny turned on his flashlight.
"Turn out that light!" a voice yelled from below. "Want to give the Japs a target?"
"with the whole ship on fire," Johnny muttered, flicking his light out.
There was little conversation, and that was carried on in low, disconnected whispers, as though even voices might attract Jap shells. There was a little swearing, too. I could make out Curley's low muttering over and over: "The Goddam Japs, the bastards! The dirty bastards . . ."
On the communications deck, at the foot of the ladder, a bottleneck developed as the sailors huddled close together in the shelter of the superstructure. There was no place to go.
Off our port quarter, a Jap warship had her searchlight playing on us, and her guns were flashing. Geysers of water spouted where the shells fell short. One of them was a vivid blue; somebody was using illumination charges. Our heavy guns were answering, again and again, and the Astoria shook with the concussions. The acrid smell of gunpowder was heavy; at times, I could hear the crackling of the flames amidships.
A crimson string of tracers reached out from somewhere aft of our ship, and arched over the Japs–and another. Then an answering rosary of death spurted from the enemy's decks.
The Jap heavy guns continued firing–red flashes, followed, seconds later, by detonations, like the clap of thunder through closed walls. Then the massive, shapeless blotches of crimson floating in mid-air, and again I wondered: was I actually seeing shells in mid-air?
Directly in front of us, some men were on the move, to the forward part of the ship. Davidson, the communications officer, came by, and paused directly in front of me, his eyes searching the superstructure. I called to him, but he didn't hear me in the din, so I moved forward: "How's it look?"
He answered something I couldn't hear, and moved off, forward. I started back for the shelter of the superstructure, when I noticed a sailor on the edge of the communications deck kneeling: he was playing a hose on the gun deck below. I moved forward and looked over his shoulder.
A "ready box" was afire. About the size of a steamer trunk, built of steel, and containing shells for the five-inch guns, it was covered with a rubber mat which was smoldering. The sailor played the hose on the mat, but in a few minutes the stream grew feeble, stopped altogether; the power was off. The sailor moved away with the hose, and I edged forward for a better view of the flaming gun deck below . . .
There was a tremendous white flash–a huge sheet of flame–then crimson spurts flaring in all directions. I herd the whir-whir of shrapnel on all sides . . . and suddenly I felt a hot, piercing stab of pain in my left eye . . . shooting stars sprayed in violent streaks.
Perhaps I cried out, I don't know. But in that instant I knew what had happened. I was hurt–my eye.
I stood there stolidly for a long moment, then I felt my hands slowly moving up to my face, hesitantly, for I was afraid to find out.
My fingers felt the warm, sticky blood, and I wiped them down my cheek. "I'll never see Hawaii again . . . "
In that instant, I remembered the flying shrapnel, so I turned my back on it and walked unseeing ahead, reaching out with my arms towards the group I had just left.
I felt my hands contacting the human wall, and fingers on my arms: "Are you hurt? Who is it?"
It was Datko's voice, and I was glad of that; we had been good friends.
"It's me, Johnny, Custer."
I realized my voice was a low whisper, for he bent his head down so that his ear brushed my lips; I repeated, more loudly: "Custer, Johnny. Think it's my eye."
"Here, put your arms around me and hold on. You'll be all right."
It felt good to hold onto something firm, and I stood there inhaling deeply; I was still aware there might be another explosion, and kept my back toward the gun deck. If it came, it would be easier to catch it in the back. I was glad I'd picked up the kapok life jacket; that might stop some shrapnel. But no helmet . . . I berated myself: "Serves you right, not having a helmet." And I realized almost at once that a helmet would have done me no good, for the protection comes only part way down the forehead, does not cover the eyes.
I stood there, and lost all track of time, with my arms of Datko's shoulders, apprehensively wondering if the shrapnel would strike again. My thoughts began to wander: "So this is how it feels to die . . ." Angrily, I rebuked myself for being a sentimentalist: I knew that I wasn't going to get killed, I remembered; and as I recalled the premonition I grew calm again, steadied down.
And I suddenly became angry and bitter: "That sonofabitch Hitler!" Instinctively, my resentment was against him: "That madman–paperhanger–murder! The dead, the suffering all over the world–the sonofabitch!"
There was a movement as the group surged forward a bit; Johnny hissed over his shoulder: "Easy, take it easy; there's a man hurt here." Immersed in my thoughts, I was only vaguely conscious of the undertone of queries and the answers: "The reporter . . . eyes . . . "
I began to wonder, then, about what lay ahead: how would I get around, when it came to going over the side? Johnny seemed to read my thoughts: "How do your legs feel?" They felt strong, firm. Physically, I felt all right; no dizziness, no nausea. There was a rim of pain around my forehead, but it wasn't severe. We continued to stand there in silence, waiting. Then Datko spoke to the group: "We'd better figure on moving out of here pretty soon, fellows; the fires are dying sown a little."
His voice was steady and reassuring; he took pains to tell me of every move in advance: "Think you can walk all right? Fine. We'll move forward, around the deck house, and try to get somewhere near the fo'c'sle. Hold on to me, and take it easy. Here, put your arms on my shoulders and move with me."
Carefully, he shuffled backward, and I moved ahead, trying to form a mental picture of our position; behind me, I heard the scraping of feet as the seaman followed us.
A few minutes later, Johnny halted: "Right before us is a big crack in the deck, about a foot wide. Be careful to step clear over it, you could twist an ankle."
I had an idea: "Wait a minute." While he held me, I put my head down and with both hands tried opening the eyelids of my right eye: briefly, I caught a glimpse of a jagged tear in the deck. I shut my eyes again, and with Johnny holding me by the elbow, cleared the crack with one long step. We moved on, a few more feet, then Johnny stopped again and backed me around: "Sit down here. You're directly behind the No. 2 turret, almost under it." It felt good to rest my back against the heavy steel. I was conscious of a vast relief, too: I had seen with my right eye . . . perhaps everything was all right . . . everything would be all right.
I was conscious, too, that the ship had not stopped shuddering; explosion after explosion rocked the Astoria, there was a constant shock of concussion. I couldn't tell if our guns were firing, or if we were being still pummeled by Jap shells. The air was heavy with gunpowder fumes, and it became increasingly more difficult to breathe. In the background, I could hear the roar and crackling of fire on the ship.
"I'm going to leave you for a few minutes," Johnny said. "They're trying to cut down some life rafts, and I'll give them a hand. Be right back."
I felt he came close to adding, "Don't go away," but checked himself.
He wasn't away very long, and he brought news: "There's a lot of activity on the main deck below, around the No. 1 turret. They're bringing the wounded down around there, and I think it'll be better for you. Here, let me help you up. We'll try it."
A moment later, he told me we were going down the side. "There's a boom right here, under your feet. Feel it? We'll climb down on it." He placed my feet on the bar. "Now, take it easy, I'll hold on to you." The boom slanted at a steep angle, but by carefully sliding one foot after the other, I made it without difficulty. We stood still a moment to get our bearings; I felt movement around me, of men brushing by. "Look out for my leg," a voice said, near by; the words were tense, filed with pain. Johnny whispered to me to be careful going past the sailor sitting immediately before us; I pried my eyelids open again to gauge the steps, and saw a tubby, round-faced sailor in dungarees sitting on the deck, his bare legs stretched out before him–the right leg hung by shreds, below the knee; his dungarees were blood-soaked.
My stomach turned within me; I shut my eyes, and Johnny steered me carefully, shuffling along. We made a turn to the left–and there was a sudden crushing explosion right over us. We held on to each other tightly, as the deck heaved and shuddered under our feet. I thought we were going down, but Johnny tightened his grip on me, and we remained upright, swaying. There was a ringing in my ears, a vibration that pulsed in painful waves. We waited fearfully for another blast.
None came, and we resumed our slow shuffling. Johnny backed me into a sitting position, and I felt my back resting against a heavy chain; a few minutes later, he prodded me forward and slipped something that felt like a pillow between my backbone and the anchor chain.
"I thought we were goners, that time," he said. "Guess the No. 2 turret fired, just as we were right under the barrel. Boy, I couldn't see a thing, and I couldn't hear a thing. My ears are still ringing."
As I opened my eyes the panorama before me appeared in pantomime, soundless at first with the ringing in my ears, but gradually the boom! boom! of gunfire began to penetrate again. The Japs were still firing, and I wondered if the shells would come our way. Tracers hung from our fantail to the Jap, and back again; star shells exploded spasmodically–the big guns belched flames, again and again.
I wondered if the Japs would rake our fo'c'sle, and I wondered how it would feel to have my head torn off, sitting there and not seeing Death come roaring through the darkness. If I have to go, I thought, let it b like that–quickly. . . . Feeling that this might be the end, I recalled that that was the time your life was supposed to pass before you in swift retrospect, and so I prompted my imagination; but all I could grasp was a vague mental picture of the palm trees and the beach at Waikiki–nothing else seemed to register, nothing more clear-cut–and I abandoned the attempt. More strongly than ever, I had the feeling that everything was going to be all right. I felt that it had to end sometime, and that was a comforting thought. "That's right–it has to end sometime, it can't go on forever."
There was constant movement about me, and occasionally I pried my eyelids open for brief glimpses. The fo'c'sle was jammed with men, many of them lying on their backs. Occasionally, someone moaned, but more often there was a quiet reminder: "Look out, take it easy–this man's hurt."
A gun roared somewhere. Suddenly, the Jap searchlight went out and the sea was black again where it had been bright in the spotlight and the lightning of gunfire. In the new darkness, the flames from amidships leaped high, and I caught glimpses of them licking the superstructure.
I wondered if the after part of the Astoria had been shot away, and that reminded me of the superstructure and the bridge: could there be anyone alive up there? It was silent and ominous; what about the skipper?
Voice near by: "There's no water pressure, sir; we've tried all the valves. Fire mains must be out."
Then the Captian's voice, out of the darkness of the bridge: "Will you officers down below get some rescue crews organized at once! Go down to the Captain's cabin and remove the wounded! Remove them before the before the fire spreads down there!"
His voice was shrill, anxious; but it was comforting to hear him, to know the skipper was alive!
There were hurried orders about us, and the shuffling of feet. Johnny whispered: "I'm going down to help; be back as soon as I can."
The Captain's voice again: "Some of you officers organize fire brigades, and help check these fires! The water mains are out!"
Again hurried orders, the clattering of feet. I sat back, and the absence of gunfire somehow made everything seem more cheerful, the bustling of men, more hopeful. I wondered how long the battle had raged. A half-hour? I had no idea; I was just thankful it was over.
I had the uneasy thought that perhaps the Japs were even then maneuvering to close in on us, to come alongside and shell at point-blank range.
Then I began to realize that I was aching all over; I felt hot and cold in turn. The acrid smell was deep in my nostrils, I began to feel nauseated. As Johnny returned, I grabbed his arm. "I'm gonna get sick to my stomach. Get me over to the rail, quick!"
"You can't move," Johnny said. "There isn't a square foot of space anywhere around here–all jammed with wounded. Here, get to your feet. Open your mouth. Take a deep breath. Another one. Again . . . "
I stood gulping and gasping, and the choking in my throat subsided although the air was foul and heavy with gunpowder and burning paint.
"The flames are under control around the fo'c'sle." Johnny said. "We used buckets and helmets and everything else we could lay hands on. And you should have seen the helmets! I saw three that were so badly smashed up they had no shape at all. One guy told me he was knocked cold, and his helmet twisted all out of shape, by a chunk of shrapnel or something–but it saved his life. All the rafts are shot away. Every gun I saw is in shambles, the five-inchers, too."
On his way below to help with the wounded, the decks were so hot he could barely stand it, and he wondered how the injured could hold up. In the Captain's cabin the smoke was thick, and he had to stick his head out the door and gulp in fresh air before he could duck inside; some of the men were wearing gas masks.
"I stumbled onto a cot with a wounded man on it; he seemed to be unconscious. Somebody said he had a badly injured back. Both his hands were badly burned, the top layers of skin peeled off . . ."
Johnny motioned to a couple of sailors for help, and they picked up the cot and headed for the door; but it was too narrow: "We had to stop and take out the end sticks; the man came to, and the pain must have been terrific–he kept waving his arms as though he wanted us to hurry, hurry! Or maybe he wanted to help get the cot through, but of course he couldn't. God, he must have been in awful pain!"
After what seemed like ages, they made it up the narrow iron passageway, out to the fo'c'sle, and deposited the cot there.
"There's a destroyer coming alongside," Johnny interrupted his story. "Probably to take the wounded off. Here, let's get going. I'll get you aboard."
He moved me cautiously backward, step by step, and I felt the railing against my back. But the destroyer left: "Came alongside, and started to tie up, then suddenly went off. Maybe they think we'll blowup and take 'em with us."
That was something else to think about: the ammunition depot for the No. 1 turret was almost directly beneath us. So was the paint locker; a fire there could blow off the whole bow. The word was passed: "The smoking lamp is out." It meant nothing to me–I had no desire for a cigarette.
"We may have to swim for it," Johnny observed. "Think you could make it?"
"Where's the nearest land?"
He turned me about-face, and I opened my eyes for a moment perhaps three miles away, the outline of land was dimly discernible. Guadalcanal? Johnny thought it might be, although he wasn't certain. I thought I could make it; my legs felt strong, my hear clear.
But it was a dismal prospect: sharks—perhaps Japs mopping up. Whose ships were those vague forms moving about in the darkness? No telling friend from foe. And yet we couldn't stay on the burning ship . . .
"Don't you worry about anything," Johnny advised. "I'll stick right with you in the water. Here, let's see if your life jacket is on tight."
His investigation revealed that I had put my jacket on backward: the "horse-collar" was inside. Patiently, he untied the strings, and I put it on correctly.
By this time it was raining, a cold, driving rain. I opened my mouth and let the water run down my face and on my tongue, cool and refreshing. I recalled the saying that it generally rains after a battle: the concussions of the big guns disturb elements in the atmosphere much as thunder and lightning. Whatever the cause, the downpour was welcome, for it provided hope that the fires might be quenched aboard the Astoria. For about an hour, it rained, and it did help controlling the fires topside. It grew steadily colder, too, and I found myself shivering and chilled.
Johnny had left to help with the bucket brigade and first-aid groups, and returned with a corps man who was treating the wounded on the fo'c'sle, with the aid of a flashlight. The corps man swabbed my eye with iodine; it stung briefly.
"The Bagley will come alongside pretty soon," he said. "Get them to put a bandage on when you go aboard. You're all right for now."
I leaned back against the railing and relaxed. The Bagley: it was a grand and glorious thought, comforting. I had been apprehensive about going over the side, into the shark-infested waters.
Johnny was off again. I wondered what time it was, and someone near by asked: "How long before daylight?" And I recognized the voice of Lieutenant Bates. "Oh, three-four hours, maybe." There was a calmness in his voice, a cheerfulness that instilled confidence. Things could be much worse.
Johnny returned in a little while: "The Bagley's coming alongside. Get ready."
The destroyer pulled up on our starboard bow, almost directly beneath us. Sailors began helping the wounded to their feet, or carrying them in their cots.
There were several dozen before me, and I told Johnny to help with them; I was O.K. on my feet. The destroyer was completely blacked out, men on her deck flashing a light briefly to get bearings on each patient, then working swiftly by touch to complete the transfer. Johnny came back, panting: "Damn near fell in the drink; lost my footing. Well, let's get going."
We went over the side, and he handed me down to waiting hands below. A marine held me as I stumbled onto the Bagley's deck: "Here, this notebook fell out of your pocket." That was a surprise; it was the first I knew that I had a notebook in my flame jacket. He crammed it into his pocket.
I wanted a drink of water. The Marine pulled my arm around his waist, and we started moving down the deck. I heard Greenman's voice again, from the Astoria's bridge, far above: "Able-bodied men stay aboard—not abandoning ship!" A spontaneous cheer went up.
The Marine and I made our way back toward the Bagley's fantail, and then into the seamen's mess hall, converted into a first aid station. The corps man examined me, applied more iodine, tied a bandage around my forehead, over my left eye.
"Here, drink this," he said, mixing something into a thick coffee cup. "This'll settle your stomach."
It had an evil smell and taste, but I downed it in a gulp. My guide put his arm around my waist, and we started forward; but as we hit the fresh air the concoction came up in my throat; I leaned over the rail . . . I felt much better, after that.
We stopped to see the doctor, in the officers' wardroom, converted into a sick bay. Charley Gorman, the Marine, opened the door, and I took one look inside: it was like a butcher shop: naked and partially naked bodies, the red flesh and bone showing where the blood had been washed away. The doctor was bending over a man on the table. One look was enough: an emergency operation, no time to be bothering the doctor. We backed out quietly.
"I'll get you a bunk in the CPO quarters," my guide said. As we went below, Gorman said that the Bagley had thrown four torpedoes at the Japs.
Below the bunks were filled with wounded; red splotches seeped through some of the sheets. I went into the CPO wardroom and sat on a bench, while Gorman disappeared to search for an empty bunk.
Some burn cases were sitting around, their flesh black and lumpy with the thick applications of jelly patted there by corps men. They sat silently, smoking cigarettes, and I realized that I had yet to hear anyone complain, or so much as moan. Some of the more able-bodied managed to smile occasionally. Two buddies, reunited, one as patient and the other as nurse, kidded: "What the hell, you're not hurt! Have you good as new in no time, you old so-an'-so."
Datko came in, tired and pale.
"You look pretty good." he said. "How about some chow? I'm starved. All right if I raid your icebox?" he asked aloud.
The Bagley men waved their invitations. Datko poked around, came to the long table with bowl of canned tomatoes, crackers, butter, and coffee, and ate ravenously: "I don't know when I've tasted anything more delicious."
Gorman returned: "Found a bunk for you." It was an upper; I kicked off my shoes, and discovered I hadn't tied my shoelaces, those eons ago when I put them on aboard the Astoria. I fell into a sound, dreamless sleep before my head touched the pillow.
-Joe James Custer
From: The United States Navy in World War II
Compiled and Edited by: S.E. Smith
Part IV: Chapter 3: Astoria's Ordeal
