unbroken-laura-hillenbrand

Seven
“This Is It, Boys”
OAHU WAS STILL RINGING FROM THE JAPANESE ATTACK. The
enemy had left so many holes in the roads that the
authorities hadn’t been able to fill them all yet, leaving the
local drivers swerving around craters. There were still a few
gouges in the roof of the Hickam Field barracks, making for
soggy airmen when it rained. The island was on constant
alert for air raids or invasion, and was so heavily
camouflaged, a ground crewman wrote in his diary, that
“one sees only about ⅓ of what is actually there.” Each night,
the island disappeared; every window was fitted with
lightproof curtains, every car with covered headlights, and
blackout patrols enforced rules so strict that a man wasn’t
even permitted to strike a match. Servicemen were under
orders to carry gas masks in hip holsters at all times. To
reach their beloved waves, local surfers had to worm their
way under the barbed wire that ran the length of Waikiki
Beach.
The 372nd squadron was sent to Kahuku, a beachside
base at the foot of a blade of mountains on the north shore.
Louie and Phil, who would soon be promoted to first
lieutenant, were assigned to a barracks with Mitchell,
Moznette, twelve other young officers, and hordes of
mosquitoes. “You kill one,” Phil wrote, “and ten more come
to the funeral.” Outside, the building was picturesque; inside,
Phil wrote, it looked “like a dozen dirty Missouri pigs have
been wallowing on it.” The nonstop revelry didn’t help
matters. After one four A.M. knock-down, drag-out water fight