Everyone was trying to get in a safer place, to get bandages,
to apply pressure to wounds it was hopeless; everything was covered
with dirt and dust.
The planes were diving again, spraying their deadly missiles. (I have
neither the will nor the talent to describe the gory details.) "Would
this be the explosion that would blot out our existence?" Then it was
over! Complete silence!
Stunned, we moved into the center of the hold to get better air to
breathe and to thank God for surviving. We bandaged the wounded and
moved them into positions of relative safety.
But our quiet didn't last long! More planes! More anti-aircraft
blasts! More explosions! More concussions! More dust and dirt!
As a doctor, I had seen many people die during the previous sixteen
years. I knew that nature was usually kind to dying persons, supplying
stupor and coma to ease any pain. But I wasn't ready to die-I wasn't
even forty, when life is supposed to begin. We had buckets of rice,
covered with dirt and rust chips, but no one could eat.
Fifteen more times that day planes returned to attack our ship. Five
times the gun crews on the deck were annihilated and replaced with
fresh crews.
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