The coxswain inched the boat forward until he was right next to the black monsters. The boatswain in the bow grabbed the rudder of the starboard tail and pulled the boat to it. Woods moved forward and stared.
Small pieces of honeycombed metal — all sizes and shapes — floated around the tails. Woods was surprised by how intact the tails were, the white skull and crossbones staring back at them defiantly from the middle of each tail. He peered into the blue water underneath the tails for more of the airplane, but the way they were bobbing meant there wasn’t much attached below the surface.
There was something odd about the top of the left tail where the red anticollision light should have been. Woods walked aft in the boat and examined the light, holding his hand over his eyes to block the sun and squinting slightly to focus. “What in the world…” Woods said out loud.
The corpsman stood up next to him and looked where Woods’s eyes were focused. He stared for a few seconds, then said, “It’s a scalp.”
Woods lowered his hand, fighting the nausea in his stomach. “What?”
“It’s a scalp, sir. Sure as hell,” the corpsman said.
Woods raised his eyes and examined the light once more. It was Brillo’s scalp, all right, sitting on the anticollision light just as if it were sitting on Brillo’s head. He recognized the uncontrollable wiry brown hair. The horrific image was searing itself into his brain and he turned his eyes away. “How could his scalp be on the tail?” he asked.
The corpsman replied, “He stopped before the tail did. Took him clean out of his helmet. Shitty way to go. At least it was fast.” The corpsman sat down quickly and pulled something out from under his seat. A body bag. He unzipped it and stood up again by the port side. “Slow down,” he said to the coxswain, who couldn’t have been going more than one knot. The corpsman leaned over the side.
Woods saw a large white piece of meat floating next to the boat, undulating gently and heading for them. “What is that?” Woods asked, not wanting to know.
“A back,” the corpsman said matter-of-factly. “See the indentation for the spine?”
Woods felt his mind at work again, searing this new image into his memory. He couldn’t stop it.
The corpsman reached down and picked up the flesh with his latex-glove-covered hand and hauled it into the boat. He put the back into the body bag and zipped it partway up. He held it at the top in his fist, like a trash bag with potting soil in the bottom. “Here comes some more,” the corpsman announced. “Help me out here,” he ordered.
Woods looked the other way, pretending to be interested in various pieces of wreckage until the body collection was completed.
After much effort and boatswain cursing they secured the tails to the boat as well as they could. The boat headed slowly toward the destroyer, towing the tails behind it.
Commander LaGrou was waiting when Woods came up the ladder. “How’d it go, Lieutenant?” he asked anxiously.
Woods couldn’t say anything. The images tore through his brain.
“Any signs of what caused it?”
Woods shook his head and forced his mouth into an inverted crescent, as if he had no real expectation of finding anything that would give a reason for the crash.
“We’ll have to detach soon and head for Sicily — they’re going to set up an accident wreckage inspection sight at Sigonella.”
Woods nodded absently, barely hearing the Commander.
“The bad news for you, Lieutenant,” LaGrou said, “is that the helo that was supposed to pick you up would have had to get you five minutes ago to work you into the air plan.” LaGrou waited for some reaction. Seeing none he continued, “So, you’ll be with us until tomorrow morning at 0700. They’ll send a helo back to retrieve you. You can sleep in my in-port cabin. It’s very comfortable.”
“Thanks,” Woods said absently.
“No problem. I’m sure the wardroom will treat you very nicely. I think you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, sir, I appreciate it.”
The wardroom did treat him nicely. The men were even deferential. They weren’t sure how to console Woods over the loss of two of his squadron mates. They wanted to ask the questions that would tell them how close he’d been to the dead men so they could know exactly how bad he was feeling, but they didn’t want to be morose. So they avoided the questions, and didn’t know how deeply he was affected. They all knew about the scalp though. Everybody on the ship knew about the scalp. It was one of those details that was too good not to tell someone else about, usually starting with “Can you believe it?” to set the tone of disgust and amazement.
Woods excused himself from the wardroom early, skipping the movie and free popcorn in spite of the guarantee that it was just what he needed. He went to the Captain’s in-port cabin and sat on the rack. He was exhausted. He pulled his flight suit down around his waist and washed his face in the steel sink. He looked as tired as he felt. He took off his flight boots and flight suit and lay on the top of the Navy blanket in his boxers and T-shirt. The ship was moving too much for him to sleep on his side. He stared at the overhead that he couldn’t see in the blackness and thought of the XO and his three beautiful daughters. All blond with curly hair. He wondered if they knew about their father yet.
Suddenly there was a quiet knock on the door. He wasn’t sure he had even heard it. There it was again. “Yes?” he said loudly.
“Commander LaGrou.”
He swung his legs over and pulled his flight suit on quickly. He crossed to the door in his stocking feet and opened it. “Yes, sir?”
“Mind if I come in?” LaGrou asked.
“No, sir,” he lied, turning on the light.
LaGrou closed the door behind him. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was afraid you’d be asleep.”
“No, sir, just resting a little. Kind of hard to sleep.”
“I’m sure,” LaGrou said. He stood awkwardly. “I… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. They were your friends.”
Woods didn’t want to talk about it. Talk wasn’t going to do anything. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”
“Look, these things happen. People are killed every day in the Navy, just doing their jobs—”
Woods had heard that enough. “And why? Not why did he crash — we’ll figure that out — but why are we here where he could crash? Why do we fly off carriers every day?”
“It’s what we do—”
“So we’re ready when we need to use force. So we stay sharp — “ He stopped. “Do you have a chart that shows our position?”
LaGrou was taken aback by Woods’s intensity. “Sure, in Combat—”
“I want to show you something,” Woods said as he quickly sat down on the single chair in the stateroom and pulled on his flight boots. He laced them halfway, wrapped the laces around the ankles, and tied them hurriedly. “Show me.”
LaGrou opened the door and headed down the passageway. Woods followed. They walked into Combat Information Center, the nerve center of the ship. It was almost completely dark. Three large screens were in front of several consoles, where officers and enlisted men sat, monitoring the huge volume of information that flooded in from innumerable sources.
“Over here,” LaGrou said. They crossed to a large flat table that had a chart on top of it. “I have our navigator keep a paper chart with our position just in case all the electronics crap out at the same time,” LaGrou smiled.