He looked for the captain and found him almost immediately. He was on his back on the deck, his eyes and mouth open in astonishment, his shirt a bloody mess. He was very obviously dead.
There had been six, seven, eight people on the bridge a moment before. Now Pickering saw only two others on their feet. The talker, his earphones and microphone harness in place, leaned against the aft bulkhead not far from Pickering, a look of shock and horror on his face. A sailor, whose function Pickering did not know, stood with his back to the forward bulkhead, his face blackened, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. The helmsman was crumpled on the deck by the wheel, and the others were scattered all over the rest of the bridge. One sailor was crawling toward the chartroom port.
A bomb didn't do this, Pickering thought. These were small, explosive shells. He remembered then that the Emily carried five 20mm cannon and four 7.7mm machine guns. The Emily had strafed the Gregory before, during, and after the bombing run.
He tried to push himself off the bulkhead, and heard himself moan with pain. He looked again at his arm, and saw that it was hanging uselessly.
I am about to go into shock.
There was confirmation of that. He felt light-headed and was chilled.
He finally managed to stand erect and went to the talker, who looked at him but did not see him.
"Get the executive officer to the bridge," he ordered. When there was no response, when the talker's eyes looked at him but did not see him, Pickering slapped him hard across the face. The talker looked at him like a kicked puppy, but life came back in his eyes.
"Get the executive officer to the bridge," Pickering repeated. The talker nodded, and Pickering saw his hand rise to the microphone switch.
As Pickering went to the other sailor, he slipped and nearly fell in a puddle of blood.
"Take the wheel," Pickering ordered.
"I'm the ship's writer, Sir."
"Take the goddamned wheel!"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
Pickering went to the window of the bridge. Only shards remained of the thick glass. Dead ahead, he could see the Emily, still close to the sea, making a tight turn. He was about to make another bomb run.
An officer, a nice-looking kid in a helmet, appeared on the bridge.
"Mother of Christ!" he said, looking around in horror.
"Get the executive officer up here!" Pickering shouted at him.
"Sir, I... Mr. Goldberg's dead, Sir. I came up here to report."
"Can you conn this vessel?" "No, Sir. I'm the communications officer." "Get someone up here who can," Pickering ordered. "Get people up here. I need someone on the telegraph, someone on the wheel."
"Aye, aye, Sir," the communications officer said, then turned and left the bridge. Pickering saw that he stopped just outside and became nauseous.
He returned his attention to the Emily, which was now in level flight, low on the water, making another bombing run to port.
"Prepare to come hard to port," Pickering said.
"Damage report, Captain," the talker said. "What?"
"Damage control officer reports no damage, Sir."
"Tell him to get up here!" Pickering said, then: "Hard to port."
"Hard to port it is, Sir."
The Gregory began to turn, heeling over. It was now pointing directly at the Emily.
Pickering saw four dark objects drop from the airplane, and watched in fascination as they arced toward the ship. And then he saw something else: Red tracers from a Bofors 40mm cannon splashing into the sea, and then picking up, moving toward the Emily. When she was just about overhead, the line of tracers moved into the Emily's fuselage, and then to her right wing. The wing buckled as the airplane flashed over.
Pickering ran to the exposed portion of the bridge, his feet slipping in the pool of blood now spreading from under her captain's body. He looked aft. The Emily had already crashed. As he watched, what was left of it slipped below the water, and the dense cloud of blue-black smoke that had been rising from her wreckage was cut off. For a moment, there were patches of burning fuel on the water, but they started to flicker out.
He returned to the bridge. A lieutenant whom he remembered seeing in the wardroom at dinner the night before came onto the bridge.
"I'm the damage control officer, Sir."
"Can you conn this vessel?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Sir, you have the conn," Pickering said, and then put his hand out to steady himself. He really felt faint.
"I have the conn, Sir," the lieutenant said, ritually, and then Pickering heard him say, "Help the Captain, Doc. Stop that bleeding."
(Two)
ABOARD USS GREGORY (APD-44)
CORAL SEA
1425 HOURS 18 AUGUST 1942
Pickering was in the Captain's cabin, in the Captain's bunk, his back resting on pillows against the bulkhead. He was naked above the waist. His arm, in a cast, was taped to his chest. He appeared to be dozing.
The lieutenant walked to the bunk and looked down at him.
"How do you feel, Sir?"
Pickering looked at him for a moment without recognition, and then, with an effort, forced himself awake.
"Oh, it's you," he said cheerfully. "Mr. 'No Damage to Report, Sir.'"
"Sir," the Lieutenant said, obviously hurt. "I didn't know what had happened on the bridge, Sir. Except that Mr. Goldberg had been killed on the ladder."
"I shouldn't have said that," Pickering said. "I'm sorry. I had a tube of morphine; I must still be feeling it."
"Are you still in pain, Sir?"
"Every time I breathe. That's a hell of a place to be stitched up." He changed the subject: "What shape are we in?"