The Wait
Seaman Third Class Lowell Webster, AKA "The Kid" lay in dozing in his bunk. He was in his skivvies, the tropical heat, even at seven something in the morning, being too much for anything more. His eyes were shut, but he wasn't really asleep, neither was he awake. It was Sunday, and the ship was in a relaxed state, unbuttoned for tomorrow's inspection. He did not have anywhere to be for four hours. Around him, in the vast berthing compartment he could hear his shipmates; a few snoring, more asleep than he was; a card game, an argument, one or two men praying. All around him the USS West Virginia, BB-48, "the WeeVee" was just starting to wake up.
He'd only been aboard the ship a short time, his first real assignment in the navy. It was taking some time to adjust. He was still the country bumpkin from a farm in Washington State. A few of the guys had teased him for a while, playing tricks on him, but with one exception, they mostly left him alone now. He was starting to make a few friends, but he knew he'd never make his section Chief happy. But he knew his mom was proud of him, even though he wasn't there to help his brothers with the farm.
Then his eyes opened wide, something; an insight, like a flash of lightening flew through his mind. Something was not quite right with his world. Listening, he heard running footsteps, a shout, other noises he could not put a name to.
The 1MC, the ship's announcing system squealed to life. "Away fire and rescue party!" [1]
"Some other ship must be in trouble," he thought, as he rolled out of his hammock and started pulling on his dungarees.
Somewhere far away, a deep BOOM echoed through the ship.
Then the general quarters alarm started to ring.
"What is this crap," he heard an angry voice, "It's Sunday for Chrissake!"
"Whoever pulled the wrong switch is gonna catch hell for this," said somebody else.
Then the 1MC, squealed again, the voice resounding through the ship energized the men in a way that no impersonal alarm ever could.
"BATTLE STATIONS! THIS IS NO ***! GOD DAMN IT THEY'RE USING REAL BOMBS. THEY JUST SANK A CRUISER! MOVE IT." [2]
"If this isn't a real attack," thought Webster, "whoever just said that is going to be in the hurt locker."
Suddenly the deck lurched under him, and a loud WHAM! reverberated through the compartment.
"Jesus! This is real!"
Webster did not even realize he's spoken out loud.
All around him the compartment broke into a kind of controlled chaos. Men jumped to the deck and began putting on clothes and shoes; and running toward their action stations. The deck lurched again as another explosion rocked the ship.
"What's going on?" Somebody yelled.
"It's the Japs," came a response, "The Japs are bombing us!"
Webster ran for the hatch leading out of the compartment, not bothering to button his shirt. He ran down a companionway, and dropped through an open hatch to the next deck down. He slid his hands along the rails, his feet never touched a stair tread. Others were right behind him. From his bunk in the stern berthing compartment he ran forward and down, toward his action station in the Turret III power room. Just as he arrived at his station, just outside the lower end of the barbette, another explosion ripped the ship. He picked up the headset and put it on, looked over at the Chief in charge of the section.
The Chief took a quick look around the compartment, saw the half dozen men at their stations and looked at Webster.
"Report manned and ready."
"Turret III Power manned and ready." Webster reported into the set. He got no reply.
"Chief, communications is out!"
The Chief reached over, "Gimme that you nitwit you probably broke it."
Another explosion. Webster realized the ship was taking on a list to port.
A seaman Webster didn't know bust into the compartment. He was soaking wet, and bore patches of oil.
"Come on we gotta get out of here. It's all flooded forward, there's no way out."
A couple of other men ran in behind him, and as if to prove him right, water started pouring over the lower edge of the hatch.
"DOG THAT HATCH!" The authoritative voice of the Chief rang in the compartment. Two men slammed the hatch shut, dogged it, and turned to continue running through the compartment.
"HEY STOP." The Chief yelled to no effect.
Just as the men reached the ladder at the end of the short companion way leading out of the compartment another explosion rocked the ship. Water suddenly began to pour in from above. The overhead hatch pushed by the force of the water slammed shut before the men could get up the ladder. A thin trickle of water ran through the edge of the hatch until it was shut off when the man at the top of the ladder dogged the hatch.
"DAMAGE CONTROL, DAMAGE CONTROL. THIS IS TURRET III POWER WE'RE FLOODING! CAN YOU HEAR ME.?" The Chief was yelling into Webster's headset. He reached over to a panel and flipped a switch back and forth.
"Crap, it's out." He said to know one in particular.
Another explosion resounded through the ship. The lights went out, and were replaced by the glow of battery powered battle lanterns.
"We're trapped." Somebody said quietly.
"No, I'm sure there's a way out!" the Chief yelled, "back this way."
Within a minute or two, it was obvious. They were trapped.
Their world now consisted of a crosswise slice of the ship, one deck high. They had the power control room, a companionway that curved around the turret barbette, and some mostly empty storerooms. The later were close to the hull on both beams. The rooms on the Port side held pools of water and oil that lay against the bulkhead, where it had collected due to the ship's list. In one of them an access hatch led to the bilge. It was open, part of the preparation for an upcoming inspection.
"Maybe we can get out that way?" Somebody said. He didn't sound too hopeful.
"I'll go look," Webster was surprised to hear his own voice.
"Ok, you're skinny enough," said the Chief, "take a look."
"I've got a light." Somebody handed Webster a small flashlight. He crawled through the hatch, and into the confines of the bilge. It only took him a minute to prove to himself there was no way out.
After he climbed out, they sat together in relative silence, listening to the echoes of the battle raging outside. Booms, crashes, and the sound of flowing water resounded through the ship. After about two hours it gradually got quiet.
There were nine of them: the Chief, Webster, Eddie Hoyt, Alphonse Piscatelli, Michael Goldberg, Jim O'Rourke, Bill Blackburn, Bobby Lee, and Jack McClain.
After the noise outside had died down, the Chief picked up a wrench he'd found in a tool locker and began to bang against the hull in one of the storerooms. Three quick bangs, three long whams three more quick bangs. SOS. He waited and repeated the signal. After his third try they heard four quick bangs somewhere above them.
A ragged cheer rang through the compartment, and a chorus of voices.
"Hey they hear us."
"They know we're here."
"See," said the Chief, "they'll come get us as soon as they can. But we might need to plan on being here for a bit. Maybe even have to spend the night, although I hope not. Let's inventory what we've got."
He assigned a couple of the men to look through the storerooms, anther to see if they had any water.
"Oh yeah, if you need a head, use that access into the bilge. We gotta go somewhere."
"Hey I'm just gonna hold it until they get us out."
Webster couldn't see who said that, but it was met with laughter.
The men, organized by the Chief, produced a list of what was available to them. They had the battle lanterns, but no extra batteries, water could be supplied by a bleed valve on a fresh water return line running through the space. One of the store rooms held several boxes of canned baked beans, a couple more of Spam, one of canned creamed corn and four cases of canned spinach.
This last find led to all nine men singing a loud and lusty, if off key, rendition of the theme song from the "Popeye" cartoons. It was the first, but not the last, of the gallows humor that would dominate the mood in the compartment.
"All right you goons knock it off," the chief said putting an end to a moment of frivolity, "What else do we have?"
Another storeroom held some spare hammocks that could be used for bedding if needed; the men themselves had an assortment of pocket knives, watches, matches, cigarettes, a deck of cards and other useful items.
"Ok," said the Chief, "here's the deal. I don't know how long we're going to be here. But the Navy isn't going to leave us here. As useless as all of you are, the Navy owns your sorry butts, so I'm going to see to it that you're all here when they get us out."
"Hey chief," Goldberg called out, "who owns your butt?"
"You need to understand something. There's God, there's Jesus Christ, and in your religion there's Moses. Since none of them are here, you're talking to me."
"Those of us with brains already knew that chief," said Hoyt.
"Hey brown nose," Piscatelli piped up, "why don't you sniff out a way topside?"
This was met by boos and catcalls, which ended in sudden silence. All of them knew what was going on. Like a nervous man whistling as he walked through a graveyard, the desperation behind their jokes was starting to show.
"Time to keep it down boys, we've got to save our air. I'm going to turn off most of the battle lanterns for the same reason."
The chief began walking around the uncomfortably listing compartment turning out the lights.
"One of you have a watch with a luminous dial?"
"I do," Webster answered.
"Ok, you're the official timekeeper. What time is it now?"
Webster looked at the glowing marks on his watch, which now seemed very bright in the confined darkness.
"11:03 Chief"
"Tell me when its 11:15"
"Aye aye, sir."
Webster eyed his watch nervously for the next twelve minutes. The men in the compartment retreated into fearful silence, alone with their thoughts.
"Time Chief."
The Chief picked up the wrench and rang out SOS on the ship's side.
A moment later they were rewarded with four bangs in return. All of the men had the same thought: the Navy knew where they were and would come get them.
The men did the best they could to make themselves comfortable. They piled the hammocks on the deck in an effort to make themselves a soft place to sit or lay down. O'Rourke, Blackburn, Lee and McClain started a poker game, using a deck of cards one of them had carried along for some reason. Hoyt and Webster talked about the girls that were waiting for them back home.
"Like a real woman would care what you pussies think of them."
"Shut up Piscatelli," the Chief said, "I haven't seen any letters from women begging you for your company."
More nervous laughter rang around the compartment.
Piscatelli retreated to a vacant corner of the compartment, put a cigarette in his mouth and struck a match.
"Smoking lamps out," the Chief yelled at him, "we may have air for us, but not for smokes."
Piscatelli shook out the match, and left the unlit smoke between his lips, as if that would satisfy his need for a drag.
Every fifteen minutes, as kept by Webster's watch the chief hammered out his distress signal. Every fifteen minutes they got an answer.
"Webster."
"Chief?"
"I'm just going to do this once an hour. They know we're here. We just need to let them know we're still alive once in a while."
"Yes Chief."
Webster dutifully checked his watch and told the Chief when each hour had passed.
As the hours dragged on the men fell into a sort of bored silence. They lost interest in the card game, there was only so much that could be said about the girls back home, a few minutes of restless exploring took them everywhere in their suddenly constricted world. Inevitably they found themselves gathered in the largest of the available compartments and the conversation turned to what had brought them here.
In the dim light of the single battle lantern they tried to piece together the day's events.
"As I was coming down here, somebody said it was the Japs," said Webster.
"It was," said McClain, "I was topside having a smoke when it started. I could see the meatballs on the planes."
He laughed, "Just before the first bomb went off, some jarhead next to me said ‘Hey look a Russian carrier is visiting.' Then all hell broke loose."
"Do we no how bad the ship is?" Blackburn asked.
"Hard to say," answered the Chief, "obviously she's flooded and taken a list, although not as bad as it was early on…"
"No ***," one of the men said, "I thought we were going over."
There were murmurs of agreement, they all remembered the sickening feel of the tilting deck as they had run to their stations. But it had settled back after some nervous moments. Presumably damage control had corrected a problem. That was also the likely cause of their confinement.
"I didn't even know the Japs was pissed off at us," injected Bobby Lee (it had been a running joke among the crew – if you're from Virginia and your last name is Lee, what else are your parents going to name you?) "but I know this, they're in for a good old fashioned all-American ass whopping now."
This remark was greeting with clapping and cheers.
"Guys," O'Rourke spoke up, "I'm all for whooping the Japs asses, but maybe we could eat first?"
"Aw crap," the Chief grumbled, "Webster, what time is it?"
"Sixteen-twenty."
"Let's grab some grub."
The Chief looked over the supplies and doled out three cans of Spam, and nine cans of beans. The cans were cut open with pocket knives and the contents eaten cold. The empty cans were tossed into the bilge.
"Chief, do you think we ought to do this?" Webster asked, "I don't think tin cans in the bilge are good for the ship. Or maybe they'd be good for something."
"Kid," the Chief put his arm around Webster, "right now some cans in the bilge are the least of ‘WeeVee's' problems."
After disposing of the remnants of their meal the men retreated to the places they'd set up for themselves. Webster kept track of the time on his clock and every hour on the hour the Chief banged out their plea for help. And every hour, somebody, somewhere topside, hammered out an answer.
Late in the evening the Chief ordered them to shut up, go to sleep and conserve air. They all knew that arguing with the Chief was the short path to Hell, so they did the best they could to find a comfortable place and settle in for the night. They all knew it was going to be a bad night, they were getting headaches from the bunker oil fumes in the stagnant air.
Somewhere in his wanderings Webster had come upon a grease pencil. He drew a box on the bulkhead next to his head. Inside the box he put a "7" above it he wrote "Sun" under it he noted: "Japs attacked."
The first day was over.
Webster woke up wondering where he was. Something had startled him out of his sleep, a piercing scream. Was it a dream or was it real?
Then it came again, and he realized where he was. He was trapped deep in the bowels of the WeeVee, and a few feet away from him, Eddie Hoyt was yelling at monsters in his sleep.
"Get away from me! Guys get it off me! Make it go away!"
With a cry he sat up from where he was huddled in a pile of make do bedding, and looked around wildly. Suddenly, as he woke up, his face turned sheepish. The other men in the compartment had been aroused by his cries, and were staring at him.
"Sorry guys, didn't mean to do that."
"Don't worry about it," said Piscatelli, "I was only dreaming about making it with the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"Yeah, Eddie," O'Rourke called out, "don't worry about it. The most beautiful thing Piscatelli's made it with up to now is his hand."
Laughter rang around the sealed off part of the ship, then ended suddenly as the men realized that they'd awakened once again, in a cave, cut off from the rest of the world.
For three days now the ship had apparently been laying deep in the waters of Pearl Harbor. Condensation ran down the bulkheads to join the mixture of saltwater and oil that was slowly creeping up the slanted deck. They had been living on short rations and the air was growing foul. The compartment was still lit by the glow of a single (but different) battle lantern.
Webster looked at the grease pencil calendar over his head. He drew a new box, put a "10" in it and wrote "Wed." above it.
"God," he said silently, "I'd sure like it if I was some where else tonight when its time to cross this one off."
The day settled into the established routine. Piscatelli wondered off into the store rooms where he seemed to like being by himself.
"Enjoy your date." O'Rourke called after him, to be answered with a single upraised finger.
Webster and Hoyt set up their game of checkers, using empty food tins and a board scrawled on the deck with the grease pencil. Goldberg talked to whoever seemed interested. The poker game would start up, each day the stakes got a little higher. The Chief would dole out some food in the morning, and again later in the day. This morning he came out of the store room containing the food (he slept in front of the hatch), with nine cans of beans.
He started cutting open the cans with the pocket knife he carried in his sock, a process that left sharp edges that needed to be avoided as the men ate with their fingers, or poured the contents of the cans into upraised mouths.
"Breakfast is on, today I've got beans!" he announced as he started to hand a can to Goldberg.
"Chief, I'm tired of beans," Goldberg said, "today can I have beans instead?"
"Well it's against the rules, but I suppose that yes, I can exchange beans," he set the can he'd been about to hand out on the deck and reached back for another can, "let me see what I have here."
He picked up a different can and handed it to Goldberg.
"Would beans do?"
"Thank you Chief, I'd be happy to have beans."
Groans and catcalls echoed through the confined space.
"I sure hope we get to go fight the Japs soon, I'd rather be in combat than listen to much more of this."
"Yeah, Bobby, we'll go fight the Japs, it'll be less dangerous than Saturday night at Lucy's."
That sparked a lively discussion about their favorite hang out. Lucy was rumored to have been serving drinks to sailors in various locations since the Spanish-American War. Her bar and grill was a simple cinder block building filled with cheap second hand furniture. A typical Saturday night ended with about half the furniture in the trash, and most of the customers in the brig.
"I got my first trip to the brig, defending the Navy's honor in Lucy's" said the Chief. The men stopped eating and stared, the Chief NEVER said anything personal.
After long seconds of silence, McClain summoned the nerve to ask, "What happened?"
"Couple of Army privates that didn't know their way around stumbled into the place, so a buddy and I showed them back to the street."
"That got you into the brig?"
"Well, we sort of sent them out through the front windows."
"Hey! Lucy's doesn't have windows."
"Not after that, no."
But after an hour or two the games stopped, as did the banter. The men fell into fearful silence, listening to the unnatural noises around them. Water dripped, the ship groaned, somewhere above them they could hear bangs and metal scrapping against metal. He no longer kept a regular schedule, but from time to time the Chief banged the hull. There was always an answer from above. They all were sure the rescue crew was working its way toward them.
Later Webster reached up and drew an "X" over the day just before he settled in for another night.
December 12th
It was becoming too much effort to try to entertain themselves. The games had stopped. You could only play checkers so many times, and after O'Rourke lost the Boston Red Sox to Blackburn, the poker players had run out of things to bet. The air stank of bodily functions and bunker oil, and lacked sustaining oxygen. They lay on their piles of hammocks and talked quietly or listened intently for the sounds of a rescue crew.
Goldberg had started coughing the day before. Just a little cough at first growing worse as the day progressed. Now it was continuous.
The Chief shuffled across the dimly lit space with a can of water he collected from the bleed valve in his hand.
"Goldberg, here drink this."
He held Goldberg's head while he sipped some water.
"I don't feel so good Chief."
"Hang in there."
"Ok, they'll get us out soon right?"
"Sure."
As he put his "X" across the day's box Webster noticed something curious. Time no longer had any meaning. At any given moment if asked what the day was like, he would have said endless. It seemed to be going on forever. Yet when it was over, it had been the blink of an eye. His memories of the day wouldn't cover five minutes.
December 13th
Goldberg was dead when they woke up. He lay on his pile of canvas, face pale, eyes staring blankly at the overhead. Webster shrank to the back of the circle when somebody had figured out what happened. He'd never seen a dead person before. The Chief wrapped Goldberg in several hammocks and dragged him to another part of the space. There was some banging around as he did something with the body.
He was back a minute later.
"We should say something, but I have no idea what to say at a Jewish funeral."
The men looked at each other. The death had been shocking, they'd convinced themselves that rescue was on the way, now one of their number had died waiting. Now it seemed they didn't even know how to honor him in death.
"Maybe each of us could just say something nice about him."
The Chief looked at Webster, then the rest of the men.
"Ok, nobody else has a better idea."
They sat in a circle on the slopping deck, the air no longer gave them enough sustenance to stand for long periods. They all did the best they could, they weren't men of words. After they'd paid their respects to Goldberg, they settled down to rest.
Webster found himself forced to move his resting place. The oily, foul smelling water was nearing the lower edge of his makeshift bed. He rubbed his eyes, the irritating oil in the air left them stinging constantly.
Just before he fell asleep he drew an "X" across the day's box on the calendar on the wall. He thought of making a note that Goldberg had died, but didn't have the energy to do it. He hoped the rescue crew would get them out soon.
December 15th
Mostly they lay on the sloping deck and did nothing. The air was beyond foul, it felt thick, humid with sweat, exhaled moisture, and urine. They'd done their best to keep things sanitary, but it was a losing battle. Somewhere in the confined space Goldberg's body was hidden away, and almost all survivors were either coughing or vomiting or both. God alone knew what bugs were floating through air.
The Chief pulled out some cans of food and cut them open. He didn't pay much attention to what they were, nor did the men as they forced themselves to choke down the cold food in the unpleasant atmosphere.
Webster ate a few bites of whatever the Chief had given him, and lay back on his pile of hammocks. He'd been forced to move it again, the pool of water was still slowly, but inexorably rising.
"If the rescue crew doesn't get here soon," he thought, "It's going to be a race to see if we drown or just suffocate."
Then he pushed the thought away for a more pleasant one. It had been…four, five years ago. He'd been fourteen (he thought) it was a church social on the lawn behind the small brick Baptist church in his hometown in eastern Washington. He'd walked down the hill from his parent's house, with his dog Buddy, (as always) at his side. His parent's had insisted that he go to the social, he'd taken the dog so he'd be sure to have some one to talk to.
He hadn't recognized the girl when she came over to pet Buddy. They talked just enough for him to learn that she was visiting a relative. Mostly they'd talked about the dog. He never even learned her name. For two days now he hadn't been able to think about anything else. What if he found out her name? Her family? Their address?
He'd thought about nothing but this girl whose name he didn't know, and face he could barely remember. He'd imagined the two of them sitting together in church, getting married, he would have opened the repair shop like he'd wanted to do, before he enlisted in the Navy, to help support his family with a paying job.
With a start, he woke up from his reverie. Almost all of the sounds from outside had stopped. There were small creaks and groans as, presumably, the ship settled into the mud, but where was the sound of the rescue crew?
"Chief, I can't here anything."
"Cross out the day, Webster, they've gone home, it's the middle of the night."
"Aye aye."
December 17th
Piscatelli had been something of a loner even before they were all trapped. Throughout their confinement he'd spent more and more of his time off somewhere alone. This morning the Chief realized he hadn't seen him at all in the last twenty-four hours or so. Even as fatigued as they were it didn't take the men long to find him. He was sitting with his knees drawn up, back to the bulkhead.
The Chief crawled up to him. Piscatelli looked at him, he seemed alert, but displayed no emotion at all.
"You OK, Piscatelli?"
"Sure."
"You haven't had your food ration for a full day, come over here and eat something with the rest of us."
"No, I'm good."
"Thirsty? You should drink some water."
"I'm OK."
The Chief reached over and patted Piscatelli on the shoulder.
"Hey, man, come on over talk to us, tell us what's going on."
"Why."
It wasn't a question. Piscatelli didn't see anything wrong with just sitting where he was.
In desperation the Chief reached into the top of his sock and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
"Hey, I'll light the smoking lamp just for you."
"I quit a few days ago."
A couple of other guys tried to do something with no success, in the end they had to leave him where he was.
Late in the afternoon a series of thumps could be heard along the port side of the hull above them. There were a few minutes of excited talk as the trapped men speculated about the cause. There was a general agreement that the rescuers must have found a new way to get at them. Tomorrow they'd be having beer and steak for dinner.
Webster drew another "X" on his calendar.
December 20th
Sometime during the endless twilight in the compartment Eddie Hoyt went crazy. He started trying to claw his way through the hull. He broke off several fingernails, leaving streaks of blood on the steel.
He was screaming, some of it made no sense, some of it perfectly logical.
"I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE. I WANT TO GO HOME."
At first a couple of the other men tried to get him to settle down.
"Hey, Eddie, it's OK, we all want to get out."
"Don't waste air."
"Settle down."
"GET ME OUT OF HERE," he wailed, "MOMMA GET ME OUT."
After a few minutes his exhausted body gave out, along with his mind. He lay on the bare deck and cried. Then he was still and quiet.
Webster drew another "X".
December 23
Webster lay on his back staring at the overhead in the dieing light. The last of the battle lanterns had grown dim. Doing nothing took all his strength. His lungs labored trying to pull in enough oxygen to keep him alive. This was everything there was, lying on his back and breathing. He wasn't in pain, he wasn't frightened, and he wasn't bored. This was what he did. He breathed.
Lifting his head a bit, he saw the calendar on the bulkhead by his feet. He thought briefly that some how some time it had been by his head. Then he remembered that he'd had to move his bed to keep above the rising water on the deck.
With an effort he pulled himself down to it. He knew he was supposed to do something but it took a minute to remember. He started to draw an "X" but only got as far as "\".
He heard a cough.
"Chief, is that you."
Labored breathing followed by, "yeah."
"Tomorrow's Christmas Eve."
"Hey, maybe Santa Claus will come down the chimney."
Webster didn't have the strength to laugh. He gulped in air for several long moments.
"Chief, they'll be here soon to get us out, right?"
"Yeah, kid. They'll be here soon."
- - -
Author's note: When I published this piece on the net for the first time on December 7, 2004 I knew that when West Virginia was raised salvage crews found the bodies of some trapped men who had survived for over two weeks (according to a handwritten calendar on a bulkhead). But I had no detailed information about them, or where they were.
Since then I have found that they were Clifford Olds 20, Ronald Endicott 18 and Louis "Buddy" Costin 21. They were trapped in compartment A-111, a forward freshwater pumping station. I've left my story as originally written, as a memorial to all those who have gone down with their ships.
Footnotes
[1]
http://www.usswestvirginia.org/battle_report.htm [2] This is a paraphrase of an announcement over USS Oklahoma's 1MC at the start of the attack. See "Trapped at Pearl Harbor" by Stephen Bower Young, Dell Publishing, New York NY, 1991 p 36 I've moved it to West Virginia for dramatic purposes.
- - -
Copyright © 2005 Jeffrey A. Thomas
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