This can be true.
most likely, this is true 80-90% of the time.
however, when your brain is in a state of emergency, and you are letting it all out on the paper, that is when my creative juices start flowing. i'm not sure why this is, maybe it's a combination of stress and clarity of mind? the latter would be doubtful, since when people are stressed, their minds tend to clutter. it's odd...
well...
on to my main point.
i spent two hours last night working on a historical fiction essay for my english class. a little over 6 pages worth, and i find it to be very decent. i can safely say that i am very proud of that work.
and
if you are bored enough, or simply feel like reading this, here it is... :D
i hope you enjoy.
if not, sorry... i can't please everyone.
It takes place on december 7th, 1941.
the dawn of our entry into WWII,
Pearl Harbor.
on the U.S.S. Arizona.
Enjoy:)
Boy at War
I lay awake in my bunk, awaiting the breaking hours of day, staring up at the dull ceiling above. The fumes of stale sweat from my training uniform wafted up from my chest into my nostrils. With two lazy and bloodshot eyes, I scanned the room. Duff, our rough- and- tumble commander, was sleeping like an angel. A fat, disgusting angel. His snore could be heard outside of our padlocked corridor. 12 years my senior, at 30, he had been in the service for 10 years. War had hardened him and it showed on his chiseled, handsome face, and accompanied his take- no- shit- demeanor. Clay, the oddball crewmember in our ship, was talking to himself in his sleep. Deep down, I felt bad for him. His old man gave him a lot of shit when he was growing up. Common tales in our ship say his old man beat him until his eyes puffed over and he couldn’t see squat. After years of his old man wailing on him, he told his folks he was going to enlist in the navy. His pa didn’t take this too lightly; he made sure to give him an extra-good thrashing before he left. I’m sure if he knew his son’s fate, he wouldn’t have given him so much flak growing up. Spot, our “special” buddy, had one eye. Says he lost it from shrapnel lodged into his eye socket in the First World War. He says this comes to his advantage though; he doesn’t have to close his other eye when it comes to sniping. He says the most peculiar things. I started to get tired, thinking so much at such an early hour. I checked the time; it was only about 0750 hours. My eyes started to droop again, and I sunk into a sleep that would soon be violently interrupted.
My sleep was short- lived; about five minutes later, at 0755 hours, I heard our ship’s air raid alarm cut through the empty morning air. General Williams burst down from the upper deck, which jolted Clay up and out of his bunk.
“Whaaa…?!” He exclaimed.
“Men, our radar has detected foreign aircrafts approaching from the northwest. We aren’t completely sure what they are, but we are assuming it is only a standard drill-”
Before he could finish, I heard the unmistakable sound of planes approaching. We all went dead silent. At first, we thought it couldn’t be anything, but where there is possibility, there is always doubt. As the loud drone from the planes grew louder, Clay grew restless. He grabbed the M19 BAR from under his bunk, and held on for dear life. The tension, rising exponentially, quickly leveled off as the drone slowly got fainter and fainter. It was just a drill after all. Clay set the M19 on his bunk and crawled over to the hull door, poking his head outside. Williams continued, “Ok men, it was a drill. Now, back to your- -”
There was a dead silence for a split second, as though right before a giant thunderstorm. His sentence was cut off as the whole ship shuddered. The sound of an explosion spontaneously occurred, followed by the unmistakable sound of the crushing of steel. And then, nothing.
“What in the hell was that?” Spot exclaimed.
Nobody answered, for nobody knew. I checked the time again. A little after 0800 hours. The doors to the two corridors adjacent to ours were now ajar, and crewmen were slowly emerging, mingling with others and creating a faint, agitated murmur. The men grouped in the corridor, blocking the pathway for Clay, who was yelling something inaudible over the noise. I focused in on his mouth, which seemed to be saying…
“PLANES!”
Right as the murmur died down for a split second, his shrill voice cut through the air like a knife. There was no time to react as, visible through the crack in the hull door hoisted by Clay’s arm, we saw an object fall from an approaching plane. Everything seemed to freeze. It was dead silent; the world was moving at an abnormally slow speed. It was as if all possible noises were muted completely. After all the crewmen realized what was about to happen, everything sped up. Clay’s eyes, marked with terror, reflected the last sight he would ever see: a bomb 20 feet away from the starboard section of our lady, the
Duff shot up from his bunk, still in a daze from witnessing his friend being torn in two. He shot a glance at Williams, who then proceeded to bark out his first commands as a General at war.
“Men! Get your asses to General Quarters!”
His call for assembly to battle stations went without hesitation; the men scattered with surprising order and precision in such hot times. Williams divided the men in the corridor from the middle, sending half to the starboard deck, and half to port. A recently recruited crewmember burst out of the port hull door, quickly scrambled out onto the deck, and manned the 14"/45 caliber gun, barely dodging enemy machine gun fire. Another, suffering from a bullet lodged in his left leg, limped over to an unmanned 51 Caliber machine gun; his kneecap blown around to the inside of his calf muscle. He got two shots off, barely missing one of the plane’s wings. Another plane, approaching from behind the crewmember’s target, returned heavy fire with a Hiryū Kate bomb. He was instantly one with the ocean. The 51cal gun he manned lay charred and crumbled in the plane’s wake.
By this time, at 0820 hours, the attack was fully underway. Observing all this, standing unscathed on the starboard side deck, I came to my senses and quickly manned an empty 14"/45cal. My first few shots were rough, coming nowhere near my intended target. Looking around, I saw another plane approaching at 10 o’clock. I swerved the fourteen- inch barrel around, and pounded 5 rounds into the tiny plane’s fuselage. This sent the charred mass of wreckage careening over my head, into another plane turning away from dropping a bomb near the
***
In my earlier years, I never speculated too much on possible causes for my death. Death was a topic I didn’t pay much attention to. Being in the navy changed that forever. When you put yourself at peril for your country, you begin to think about everything. It had only been a half hour since the initial attack. It was 0830 hours, and already I saw smoke plumes rising from all around. Scanning the upper deck from my vantage point in the 14”/45cal seat, I witnessed one of our 76mm AA guns rotating up towards the sky. As it began its path, 5 men burst out from the starboard side and booked it for my side of the ship to provide reinforcements. They were met halfway with intense fire, tearing them down to the ground. By this time, I had already witnessed the death of 7 of my comrades. But this was war; it was no time for sentiment. As the 76mm missile shaft launched out 3 massive flak rounds, a plane marked with two red dots flew down, swooped over our ship, and dropped a bomb straight down the missile shaft into the magazine. Our lady blew up from the inside, sending dozens flying over the railing. My head felt warm; I reached up and touched my greased and blackened hand to my hairline. I brought it down to eye’s level and brought part of my scalp with it.
“Patterson! Holy shit, your head! Are you ok?” Spot appeared from behind the railing, nursing a shoulder wound. I replied with what sounded like an inebriated mumble:
“Yes, only a flesh wound.”
“Yeah, no shit! Let me get you out of here!”
Another bomb, exploding approximately 60 feet away, sent Spot flying into me, and the resulting force carried the both of us overboard. Everything went black.
The cool temperature of the ocean did nothing to sooth the pain of my head injury, which was still leaking blood. I started to swim up to the surface when it hit me: SPOT. I whirled around, checked up and down, and saw a familiar character sinking into the abyss. As fast as my weary arms would take me, I muscled my way through the water, towards my unconscious comrade. Lungs… bursting…I thought to myself. I latched Spot’s arms around my back to the front of my neck, and hiked him up to my shoulders as best I could. Feeling dizzy, I began my ascension to the top of the water. The whole world seemed shut out. It was completely silent, except for the frantic sloshing of water around my ears and the dull, muffled sounds of explosions some 100 feet above. I was slowly nearing the top when I started to grow weak. The burden on my shoulders weighed my fragile body down like a sack of potatoes. Can’t… take this much longer… my chest was going to explode. I could feel it coming. My eyes were burning, my whole body was numb and sore from the pain, and I was growing dizzier by the second from my head wound. 5 feet from the top…
I burst through the top of the water, nearly unconscious. It felt like I was punched straight in the diaphragm… I couldn’t breathe. I sucked in my first breath, which felt like a blessing. I was never happier to taste the sweet, cold air. The rasping sound of me trying to get air into my lungs was enough to scare away any enemy of mine. Panting heavily, I looked above… the skyline was dotted with tiny explosions and gunfire. The sun was blackened out by dark clouds and enemy planes. It was the most surreal experience I had ever seen; at only 18, I never thought I would be part of anything so significant. I looked at the lump on my shoulder, and saw what I thought to be an unconscious Spot. A wave splashed over our heads, engulfing us for a brief second, and brushed Spot’s long and unkempt hair over his face. And that’s when I saw it- where the back of Spot’s neck used to be was a mangled crater the size of a tennis ball. Treading water while losing consciousness, I checked the front of his chest, where I saw the exit wound. The sight was too much for me, and I lost it on his dead body. The stomach bile diffused into the ocean and floated away from me, just like 8 of my friends already had. The lifeless body lolled on my shoulder, reminding me of the harshness of war. My energy seemed to evaporate out of me, and I slowly passed out, releasing my friend into the dark blue below.
***
