a thump like a knockout blow. One of the hits tore away the fore- mast and radio antenna. Others inflicted mortal wounds forward. The Pecos began to settle at the bow. Men in that part of the ship who had been injured could not get back to the main dressing station. The pharmacist's mate who had the forward dressing station had to carry on alone.
Several fires broke out, but the men put them out before they got beyond control. Smoke and fumes spread through the ship. Up on deck, the crippled batteries kept up a valiant fire at the planes.
The sick bay was crowded. Sailors struggled down the ladder, carrying burned and bleeding comrades. There seemed no end to the havoc.
The ship was listing badly. The deck of the sick bay slanted like a toboggan slide. One of the hits had jolted the operating table loose and sent it crashing into the bulkhead. The deck was covered with scattered surgical instruments. Each time a bomb hit the ship, or water broke over her, the vibration threatened to smash everything in the sick bay. Tile from the operating room began to chip and fly about.
The doctor and the chief pharmacist's mate who was assisting him lifted the patient onto the deck and knelt beside him. The chief held him steady while the doctor worked. Yon worked with one ear cocked for the bark of the Pecos' guns. He told me:
"When I heard the machine guns and the anti-aircraft guns begin to rattle, I knew that we had about thirty seconds before we either had another hit or a near-miss. We would give them about ten seconds and then drop alongside the patient, the chief on one side and I on the other, and wait for the ship to jump. From where we were in the sick bay, it was hard to tell whether it was a hit or a near-miss. A near-miss is one which is close enough to the ship to damage her when it explodes. About the only way we could tell was that on a direct hit it seemed that there was more metal flying and the ship seemed to jump a little more sharply. As soon as the
