looking, and yet so damn valiant. A lone figure emerged, the fire crew spraying him with a desolate trickle of water, steam rising from him, cradled in his arms like a child, a badly burned sailor, sobbing with pain.
Dianne slowed.
“Come on, keep moving,” James shouted, and she nodded, moving in close to his side like a frightened child.
The rain of five-, six-, and eight-inch shells was clearly unpredictable, winging in without warning or pattern. He could see the east channel, a half-sunk light cruiser, down by the bow, a shot impacting amidships. Gun crews continued to fire straight up from nearly every ship still in port, and there was now a steady rain of exploded fragments and spent .30-and .50-caliber bullets smacking back down, a deadly rain of debris. Their own antiaircraft fire was one more danger as it fell back to earth, the shells often with faulty fuses that failed to air burst, but would detonate when they finally hit the ground.
They turned left back on to a main street that led straight down toward the channel. It was ablaze with light, burning ships, flashes of gunfire, and then, terrifyingly, two fourteen-inchers impacting to the south of the channel, what looked to be an entire building soaring skyward, steel beams, wooden frames, more shattering glass, the concussion washing over them.
He spotted their destination. The blackout had been forgotten, and the door was open. Dianne had stopped momentarily to gaze, awestruck at the twin impacts. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her into the shack.
It was a long narrow building, tucked in between two small warehouses. They were most likely made of nothing more than a few steel beams and wood, like the building that had just been blown tohell on the other side of the channel, but somehow their high bulk gave him at least a false sense of security.
The room was brightly lit, packed with several dozen men and a few women, most of them the crew from the basement of CinCPac, the others naval radio technicians. The walls and work benches were lined with radios of nearly every description, heavy bulky units pulled from destroyers, cruisers, and battleships and brought ashore for repairs. There were bins filled with every tube imaginable, the smell of solder heavy in the air. A seaman second class was seated just inside the door, bent over his work, panel off a unit, voltmeter probe in hand, carefully working away inside the radio as if nothing unusual were going on outside and winged death might not crash in upon him at any second.
“Watson!”
It was his commanding officer, the man who had recruited him out of retirement and back into the service in the cryptanalysis branch of Naval Intelligence, Captain Collingwood, pushing through the crush, coming up, hand extended. “You OK, man?”
James nodded and Collingwood looked down at his arm. The bandage had soaked through in spite of his mother-in-law’s handiwork as a seamstress.
“You should have stayed home.”
“Couldn’t,” was all he could say, and then they all braced for a second, looking up, the sound of more incoming thundering overhead, seconds later the concussion slapping through their feet.
James looked around at the confusion. Gone was the quiet, almost monastic atmosphere of their sanctuary basement in the now destroyed wreckage of the offices of CinCPac.
“Some of the boys here know some civilian ham operators and had them drag their gear down,” and Collingwood nodded toward three elderly men, and one young man, a nisei, standing around a massive unit the size of a small icebox, dials lit up. One of the three, with headphones on, looked up.
“The antenna. Go outside and check the damn antenna!”
A couple of young seamen technicians sprinted out of the room, and seconds later he could hear a clambering on the roof. My God,those boys were up there while all hell was coming down around them. Their courage gave him heart.
“Coffee, sir?”
It was one of the
Dianne slowed.
“Come on, keep moving,” James shouted, and she nodded, moving in close to his side like a frightened child.
The rain of five-, six-, and eight-inch shells was clearly unpredictable, winging in without warning or pattern. He could see the east channel, a half-sunk light cruiser, down by the bow, a shot impacting amidships. Gun crews continued to fire straight up from nearly every ship still in port, and there was now a steady rain of exploded fragments and spent .30-and .50-caliber bullets smacking back down, a deadly rain of debris. Their own antiaircraft fire was one more danger as it fell back to earth, the shells often with faulty fuses that failed to air burst, but would detonate when they finally hit the ground.
They turned left back on to a main street that led straight down toward the channel. It was ablaze with light, burning ships, flashes of gunfire, and then, terrifyingly, two fourteen-inchers impacting to the south of the channel, what looked to be an entire building soaring skyward, steel beams, wooden frames, more shattering glass, the concussion washing over them.
He spotted their destination. The blackout had been forgotten, and the door was open. Dianne had stopped momentarily to gaze, awestruck at the twin impacts. He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her into the shack.
It was a long narrow building, tucked in between two small warehouses. They were most likely made of nothing more than a few steel beams and wood, like the building that had just been blown tohell on the other side of the channel, but somehow their high bulk gave him at least a false sense of security.
The room was brightly lit, packed with several dozen men and a few women, most of them the crew from the basement of CinCPac, the others naval radio technicians. The walls and work benches were lined with radios of nearly every description, heavy bulky units pulled from destroyers, cruisers, and battleships and brought ashore for repairs. There were bins filled with every tube imaginable, the smell of solder heavy in the air. A seaman second class was seated just inside the door, bent over his work, panel off a unit, voltmeter probe in hand, carefully working away inside the radio as if nothing unusual were going on outside and winged death might not crash in upon him at any second.
“Watson!”
It was his commanding officer, the man who had recruited him out of retirement and back into the service in the cryptanalysis branch of Naval Intelligence, Captain Collingwood, pushing through the crush, coming up, hand extended. “You OK, man?”
James nodded and Collingwood looked down at his arm. The bandage had soaked through in spite of his mother-in-law’s handiwork as a seamstress.
“You should have stayed home.”
“Couldn’t,” was all he could say, and then they all braced for a second, looking up, the sound of more incoming thundering overhead, seconds later the concussion slapping through their feet.
James looked around at the confusion. Gone was the quiet, almost monastic atmosphere of their sanctuary basement in the now destroyed wreckage of the offices of CinCPac.
“Some of the boys here know some civilian ham operators and had them drag their gear down,” and Collingwood nodded toward three elderly men, and one young man, a nisei, standing around a massive unit the size of a small icebox, dials lit up. One of the three, with headphones on, looked up.
“The antenna. Go outside and check the damn antenna!”
A couple of young seamen technicians sprinted out of the room, and seconds later he could hear a clambering on the roof. My God,those boys were up there while all hell was coming down around them. Their courage gave him heart.
“Coffee, sir?”
It was one of the
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