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“Missile compartment hatch, by MCC,” said Jabo, “slammed it shut on my hand.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Like a motherfucker,” said Jabo. He looked him over; his eyes were slightly glassy. The XO thought he might be going into shock from the pain.

The XO glanced over his shoulder, two other men were coming down the ladder, both in EABs. He couldn’t tell who they were, or even what rank they were. He saw by their reactions that one of them saw the navigator’s body, the other didn’t.

He shouted at them. “You two get on this hose…one on the wheel the other one get on this fucking nozzle!” He turned back to Jabo. “Go to Crew’s Mess, see the doc. You are of limited usefulness to me. At least get something for the pain.”

“XO, I’m fine…”

“Do what I fucking tell you, Jabo, go get fixed up. Your fingers are going to fall off and clog the trim pump.”

• • •

Jabo climbed the ladder one-handed and walked the short distance to Crew’s Mess. Master Chief Cote had turned it into a makeshift trauma center, with men laid out on each of the six small tables, IV bottles hanging from the pipes that ran overhead. Men with lesser injuries were seated in chairs, slumped over with the profound fatigue brought on by fear and pain. The bins of the small steam table, normally filled with mashed potatoes and green beans, were overflowing with medical supplies, bandages, tape, and gauze. A nylon case was rolled out, an array of shiny scalpels glinting in the fluorescent light. Beside it the ice cream machine had somehow been almost ripped in half; melted white soft-serve ice cream leaked into a bucket beneath it. Cote was putting a splint on the broken leg of a groaning petty officer. He looked up at Jabo.

“Where were you sir?”

“Torpedo Room. And Machinery One.”

“Don’t they need you down there?”

Jabo held up his hand, but tried not to look at it himself as his two fingers dangled loosely at a weird angles. “XO sent me up here.” He felt a little stupid presenting the master chief an injured hand; the room was filled with broken bones and what looked, to Jabo’s untrained eye, to be serious head injuries. But Cote put down the small scissors he was using and walked over to take a look. Jabo noted that the front part of the master chief’s poopie suit had been stained dark with the blood of his shipmates.

“Take care of these other guys first, master chief.”

“These guys aren’t going anywhere, Lieutenant. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to have as many people fighting this fucking casualty as I can. Maybe I can get you back in the fight.”

“Alright,” said Jabo. Cote took his hand.

“What happened?”

“Missile Compartment hatch got slammed on it.”

The master chief touched each one of his fingers in turn. “Feel that?”

“Not a thing.”

He squeezed another, and Jabo winced in pain.

“These two,” said the master chief, pointing to his middle finger and ring finger. “They’re pretty fucked up. The other ones look okay, although your pinky maybe broken too.”

“Can you tape them up or something?”

“They’re so mangled…and if you’re going back down there, the bandage will get soaked through instantly….”

“What do you think?”

Cote looked him in the eye. “We might have a better chance of saving them if I cut them off. Make it as clean as I can, get them on ice. Plus, that will probably make you more effective on the scene.”

“Do it,” said Jabo.

“You’re sure?”

“Yep,” said Jabo. “Cut them off and stick’em in ice.”

“Alright,” he said, “You’re the one with a college degree.” He walked over to the ice cream machine and grabbed his scalpels and a syringe that Jabo hadn’t notice before.

“Novocain,” he said. It’s all I’ve got. Well, I’ve got morphine too, but you won’t do us much good if you’re in la la land. Give me your hand.”

Jabo stuck it out and the master chief moved fast, sticking the needle in the middle of the back of Jabo’s hand, and depressing the plunger. There was a momentary sharp sting, bad enough to penetrate even the pain that was pulsing through him, but quickly a wave of relief swept through, so strong that he almost gasped. “Oh fuck that feels better,” he said. He hadn’t realized how bad he was still hurting until the drug made it go away. Jabo felt nothing when he removed the needle.

“Okay, tough guy, you still sure about this?” He’d selected a scalpel from the middle of the pack.

“Do it, master chief.”

Cote hesitated. “At least sit down. I don’t want you passing out and falling into the blade or anything.”

All the seats were taken by men hurting too badly for Jabo to ask them to move, so he sat on the deck, his back against the starboard bulkhead, and the master chief got on his knees in front of him. “Look away while I do this,” he said, and Jabo gladly complied. He couldn’t feel anything in his hand or fingers, but he felt the master chief’s grip on his elbow grow stronger as he cut through the fingers. He felt him tugging, turning his arm slightly, trying to saw through the broken bone. He was reminded, nauseatingly, of his father carving a chicken.