I
t was a day whose endless flames were seared intoAmerica’s collective consciousness. It was a day of no light when the smoke from exploding ammo dumps ships’ magazines and aircraft gas tanks obscured the sun and created a black haze at noon.
For hundreds of young men and women — for Private Moe Freed — there was no time on that day: no time for mourning or fear or sorrow. There was just the wounded the dead the dying.
The harbor was a seething mass of smoke flames and screams. Again and again Moe rushed into the water pulling out soldiers — survivors corpses pieces of what had once been young carefree sailors.
He saw the Arizona hull buried deep in what had beenPearl’s tranquil waters. For a horrible moment he could make out the sound of tapping — sailors trapped within the ship’s hull buried 40 feet beneath the surface desperately trying to make themselves heard.
