Not one message lost that day (flash fiction)

Morning drags herself in for night crew waiting those last hours, minutes, before shift changes and shut eye comes before the ache subsides.  Radio room below deck of an aircraft carrier smells just like you’d think in an airlocked compartment where barely ten guys could stand and turn, elbowing on all sides.  It was close quarters.  Air piped in mixed with that machine smell of electrical boxes stacked floor to ceiling all with nobs and gauges that pulled thinly threaded sound into the ears via doughnut earphones.  Static at least let you know the box was still hot.  There were two of us fresh on duty that morning and we could hear the bombs in the distance even in that underwater tomb.  Too far away to hear the warning signals.  The next sound shook us, I looked up through the top and saw planes, meatballs on the wings.  I shouted down, “Japanese!” Jumped to, adjusted the nobs, both of us trying to determine what was going on.  Radio buzzing up with questions. Cautiously we said it looked like an attack—hadn’t heard from headquarters so we say nothing much.  We knew the truth in each other’s eyes.  Pearl Harbor was under attack.  The Japanese were attacking Pearl Harbor. Then we received and relayed orders to dispatch planes.  We knew lives were flaming out with every sound and tremor.  Pen and paper at my elbow.  Suddenly my crew, my friends, my own life became most precious.  No thoughts, only words.  As pilots headed in they could see the mass destruction forming clouds with sparks flying, like crazed palm trees capping out with swirls of smoke and ships exploding in the seas.  The pilots knew where they were headed and radioed in the letters. Voices like ghosts trapped in the wind screaming over screaming engines, each word fired into my memory, shot out of my pen, my lips trembling with their fear and bravery. “Tell Mom I’m thinking of her and I’m sorry I won’t be home at Christmas after all.”  “Sally Fulbright, 157 4th Street, Tupelo: Honey, I love you—every hour was hoping to see you again.  Okay?”  “This one’s for you, Jimmy! Take care of Mommy for me.” “Mail the letter under my pillow. Got it?” “Mom, I remember the train engine you got me for Christmas—I was only 7 but I knew it cost you more than money.”