The Screw Job

The scared young G.I.'s were huddled in the torn quonset hut, smelling smoke and fear... Bombs were crashing down all around them. "God, when will the bastards ever quit" muttered one of them in a low monotone. It was December 7, 1941, and the Japanese had achieved complete surprise. This particular group was caught on one of the airfields located away from Pearl Harbor, but nevertheless targeted as potential sites of defensive aircraft. A few pilots had tried to make it to the handful of aircraft on the small dirt field. But they had either been strafed down in their tracks, or blown apart as they tried to scramble inside an airplane. The handful of men left were huddled at the rear of a hangar, and the bullets and bombs were still flying...

����� The pilots of the group of Zeros finally decided that enough was enough. The American airplanes were piles of smoking, twisted metal. Bodies were strewn here and there around the field. And even the hangar was mostly destroyed; just the one end was standing. The leader of the Japanese strike force signaled his air wing to continue on. All followed his call, and they began to leave. All except one pilot. This one was a bit young and impetuous. And he still had a bomb strapped to one of his wings. He just could not resist taking one last crack at that standing side of the hangar. As he banked around to (act like) he was following his group leader, he did a rough mental estimation, and yanked the release lever at the appropriate moment. His plane jumped, signalling the heavy metal package had left his wing and was arcing towards its intended target. Away he went, following the now-dissapearing planes of his group: He was sure of his hit, and decided he had better catch up to the rest of the group or face difficult questions.

����� The bomb sailed right into the roof of the hangar. Since the roof was fairly thin to begin with, and weakened by the damage, the heavy bomb just popped right through the roof, and landed with a resounding thud right next to the group of huddling men. "Ho-lee shit" said one in kind of an awed voice. "Is it a dud?" The sargeant of the small group heard a telltale whine, and looked over at the bomb, sticking out of the dirt floor of the hangar. He saw the corkscrew at the back end of the bomb (now upright), turning, turning... Realizing in his mind that the screw was a timing mechanism, and when it came to a stop the bomb would explode. Without thinking twice, he leapt up, ran over to the bomb. The screw was slowing. He grabbed it and began to frantically twist it, as hard and fast as he could.

����� The other men looked mystified, as if it were a dream. They realized no other bombs were dropping; the Japs must have left. Meanwhile here was Sarge, twisting the backside of this bomb as fast as he could. "Get out you damn idiots! Get out of here now, on the double!" he hollered in as loud a voice as he could muster. The screw-like metal was very hot, and sharp too. It was cutting his hand with every turn. It took him a supreme effort to keep turning that screw with his now-bloodied hand, every turn cutting into more flesh. "Get the hell out of here you fools! Go - hurry - jeez this thing hurts - Please go..." The men began to see what was happening, and backed out of the hangar. One slower-moving GI hesitated, mumbling "hey Sarge, ya want me to...". Then changing his mind, he turned and hurried out to follow the rest of the small band.

����� The Sarge switched hands and turned with his good hand. The other one was a bloodied, shredded mess, would never be the same anyway. He was fatigued and lightheaded from loss of blood, and it was all he could do to keep turning the thing. With a last, more faint, "get out - get out - get away...", he struggled on, still turning the hot, cutting screw. His mind segued into memories of earlier times. He was turning a screwdriver on his old Model A, trying to get into a recalcitrant gearbox... He was turning a top for his kid brother... He had to keep turning... Can't stop turning... He was little and trying to turn some kind of toy, but it was really hard and he could barely do it... His weakened, bloodied other hand finally gave into weakened muscles demand, pausing, as his mind drifted off to sleep....

����� The explosion was deafening even to the men, who had made their way across the field, slowly, stumbling through death and debris. They instinctively dropped down, ducking all the flying shards of metal and wood and flesh. 'at least it went quick for poor ol' Sarge', thought one. 'Because of his sacrifice, the rest of us have a chance now.'