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Show bodies, mostly sailors burned on their arms and legs from swimming through the flaming harbor waters; into Hospital Point Lieutenant Commander. J.F. Thomas heroically beached the wounded USS Nevada in order to keep the harbor unblocked; from the shores of Hospital Point people watched the Japanese attack over Ford Island unfold. As a child, though, I was unaware that the inky-black waters that lapped at my feet also concealed an unknown number of bodies, sunken ships a final resting place for so many men. When I remember that period of my life, though, I remember mostly devastation. For one, the hospital itself. Out past the thickets of white plumeria and near where the Chinese banyan let down its roots like a woman might her hair, cement pedestals marking the foundation of the once-busy hospital remained buried in the long grass not far from our house. Amputated steel cables and years of crumbling neglect made running along the foundation possible, a giant square of a balance beam that was both wide and rough. On long walks with my parents around the neighborhood, we would sometimes end up in this field, in this wreckage. A hospital without walls, floors, nurses, or stretchers, it seemed barely present, sinking into grass withered brown by the Hawaiian sun. I knew the hospital had been used in World War II, but the rest I could only imagine. Wounded soldiers, those hurt in the attack on December 7 and those injured later, were taken there and treated kindly by nurses in white uniforms and starched caps. An island seems like the perfect place to recuperate, especially right there on the harbor, salt water mingling with fresh, ships moving up and down the channel, a transitory space between war and home, pain and healing. I don't know how long the hospital was in service. As a child, I always imagined 45 |