T
he Hawaiian sky glowed a luminous blue the sun peeked out gaily from behind the few gentle clouds. The trade winds had blown away the choking smell of smoke and ashes. The tides had pulled deep into the ocean much of the thick black oil that had spilled from dozens of wounded ships leaving only a scatter of iridescent puddles that glowed in the sun.
It was a beautiful day inOahu. If you averted your gaze from the harbor still crammed with wreckage it was the perfect day for surfing swimming or lazily sitting on the island’s white sandy beaches.
A perfect day for funerals.
It had been a long week for the men and women stationed atPearl. The medical personnel were still struggling with the many wounded. Surviving soldiers and sailors including Private Moe Freed had been pressed into service trying to salvage what they could from the bombed-out ships and helping clean up the fragments of what had once been hundreds of aircraft. But the busiest of all were the men of Graves Registration the unit tasked with identifying and burying the dead.
All through the week the telegrams went out. The lists went up tacked onto bulletin boards: name after name of friends and comrades who had perished.
