"There are no extraordinary men...

Just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to meet."

- Fleet Admiral William "Bull" Halsey

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"Bell Bottom Trousers"

by Guy Lombardo

Oahu, Hawaii; July 11, 1942

The most scenic body of water Clint had ever seen in his meager twenty years was the East River, which, as one can imagine, was not scenic in the least. Thus the shocking tropical beauty of Hawaii came as quite a shock.

The North Carolina maneuvered around the southern tip of the islands, a series of rolling green hills and lush landscapes that seemed to have fallen from the pages of a storybook. Clear water shone like glass, lapping blue waves sparkling in the rising sun. The rest of the sailors couldn't resist the beckoning view of the sea, and the rail became crowded in minutes.

The massive Diamond Head volcano formation loomed above Clint's head, followed by an airfield and the red cross of a hospital on a distant building. Other Navy buildings drew closer as the Showboat rounded the tip of Oahu, including the signal tower. Soon the flutter of semaphore flags and the flash of lights in Morse code pinged between the two sources, while a few radiomen translated to rapt clusters of sailors anxious for the news.

The signal for quarters sounded, and Clint fought his way through the throng of sailors pouring onto the decks to stand beside his 20-millimeter gun. The other sailors took their positions beside him, the shining white uniforms of the North Carolina crew lining the rail. Looking back over his shoulder, Clint could see the officers and radiomen forming ranks on the superstructure as well.

Even as the grandeur of Oahu unfolded before the sailors, remnants of the Japanese attack still lingered. Long scars from fire stretched across the airstrip, and oil blackened the otherwise crystal-clear waters. Dingy uniforms from the cleanup process stood in stark contrast to the clean digs of the North Carolina's crew. Whoever the ship passed, sailor or civilian, cheered as they drifted along. The sailors remained stoic at their posts, anticipation electrifying their air as the ship rounded Ford Island in the center of the harbor.

The Utah was the first wrecked ship that came in sight of the sailors that day. She was already immersed in water lying flat on her side, her hull torn open by explosions and smaller pockmarks from bullet holes. The jagged steel wrenched itself open in the shape of a wretched maw, gaping up at the sky with floundering breaths. The sailors beside Clint shuddered at the sight.

The crew exchanged salutes with the work crews on Ford Island, over and over again until Clint's arm began to throb, and the Showboat was welcomed by tinny strains of "Anchors Aweigh." The mood was triumphant, but the tone of solemnity was underscored by the scars from oil spills and bursts of flame and the wreckage of once-seaworthy craft.

As the ship came into full view of the naval complex, sailors poured from the structures. Crashing waves of sound descended on the ship's snapping flags, cheers rising in a grand chorus to triumph the entry of the North Carolina into the Pacific fleet.

The Arizona was the next ship to pass into view. Her superstructure was twisted, the only part of her once-proud figure emerging from the deep blue water. A tattered American flag remained on the top of the structure, flapping in a sort of patriotic defiance. Turned on her side and torn apart by Japanese firepower, the Arizona's sister ship Oklahoma was hardly recognizable beneath the waves and the wreckage. And the sailors cheered on and on and on...

Clint wondered if some of them had been on the ships that now lay beneath the water. He could sympathize with that experience, to feel the tilt of the deck as the proud beams of your ship dip toward the hungry sea. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

After the grand fanfare of an entrance, the sailors were dismissed and life continued as usual on board. Clint worked his way back to the Marine barracks, where the sailors were in a furious discussion about what they would do once they received liberties. As always, the Marines were busy drilling on their guns. Their single 5-inch gun mount had been nicknamed the 5-inch machine gun; they could fill the sky with massive shells in seconds.

"I hear there are really nice beaches on Hawaii. We should go there first," one of the sailors in Clint's bunkroom mused, his head hanging down from his bunk.

"Have they got volcanoes in Hawaii? I mean real ones, the ones that are still exploding and that sort of thing."

"I don't think these volcanoes have an explodin' to do," Clint nodded in the direction of the way they'd come, the Diamondhead still looming in the distance over the sails of the North Carolina.

"You're right, the Navy would court-martial them for interfering with the war effort!" Daniel D'Amico was a mouthy Italian from New York and the bunkroom's resident comedian, much to the other sailors' chagrin. He spent most of his time making wisecracks about the officers, more often than not in front of their faces, and giving supposed 'quality commentary' on the newest issues of the Captain America comics.

"Think there are girls in Hawaii?" Reathel Kessinger was a bookish sort of man, an intellectual who kept his nose in a book or in his own business. Unlike the rest of the guys in the bunkroom, he had been in college for two years before he was called up to serve, but he didn't hold it over their heads. A Hawaiian guidebook sat propped against his knees, with large black-and-white pictures of swaying hammocks and tropical sunsets.

"No, Kess, Hawaii is the only place under the flag of the Stars and Stripes that is one hundred percent male." D'Amico jabbed, nudging Kessinger's tour book with the toe of his boot.

"I don't care about the girls so much. Let's hope they have something interesting to do besides the beaches. You know, movies, that sort of thing." Paul Peicott was a sports man who had a soft spot for football and his girl back at home, Duffy. He kept her picture in his breast pocket and was ready and eager to show her portrait to any of the sailors. He craned his neck to see the next page of the book as Kessinger flipped to a section marked 'Attractions.'

"Why, Paulie? Pining after your girl? Maybe Katherine Hepburn will help still your beating heart..." D'Amico crooned, and Peicott pushed him away with a swipe of his powerful arms.

"Enough, enough. What about you, Barton? Looking forward to white sand beaches and island girls?"

"Oh, sure," Clint leaned back on his bunk, peering down through the crack between his mattress and the wall to get a look at Kessinger's guidebook. "Anything else good in there, Kess?"

"I suppose we'll have to ask what the Marines want to do as well, if they want to associate with us common soldiers. My arms are still sore from the time they made us do physical training with them. How do you keep up, Barton?" Falling back to his bunk, D'Amico released a languid groan. His hand fell across Kessinger's guidebook.

"We had a PT instructor who worked us hard during my last stint with the Navy." Clint shrugged, and Peicott nodded approvingly.

"I enjoy when we work out with them. The boys in this ship have to be on the top of their game if we want to defeat the Japs."

"Clint, you know that radioman who works in the superstructure, right?" Kessinger asked, dragging his guidebook away from D'Amico's grasp.

"Yeah, Paty. Why?"

"Well, I figured we could go up on the superstructure and check out the view. But that's officer's country, so we need an inside man. Should we go?"

"Relax, man! They'll have some warm beer for us on shore, and we'll wander to our heart's content. What's the rush?" D'Amico interjected.

"I don't know about you, but I'd go up on the superstructure just to hear the broadcasts. Do the radio boys get news from home?" Peicott asked, already halfway out the door. Clint and Kessinger followed after him, while D'Amico stumbled behind the lot trying to drag his boots on.

"Wait, fellas, I'm comin'!"

"I couldn't tell ya, Peicott, but there's no harm in finding out." Clint followed Peicott out the door, although he was only partly motivated by the incentive of news. He was mostly drawn to the striking scenery of Oahu, the glittering water and lush hills untouched beside the harbor. An echoing thump and a curse indicated that D'Amico had wrangled his boots on, and the sailors streamed out of their bunk and hurried up the ladders.

A flurry of activity enveloped the deck, which was crammed full of sailors bustling about or simply soaking up the Pacific sun. Board games and hands of poker were common sights, along with craps games hidden behind the big guns and out of the sight of officers. Some men were sunbathing on the 5-inch mounts, and the clanking from one of the guns indicated that the Marines were drilling yet again.

"Give it a rest, bud!" D'Amico pounded a fist against the side of the mount, and was confronted with a red-faced Marine with a neck as thick as a tree trunk who scared him off back into the crowd of sailors.

Ladders up to the superstructure were crowded. If there was one thing Clint missed from the Reuben James, it was the rapid transportation between the decks and the daring missions he had embarked on with only a carabiner and a metal wire between him and certain death. Things on the North Carolina were much more structured, regimented, and very crowded.

The various layers of the superstructure were crammed full of officers and sailors, so Clint ascended higher and higher until he could hear the American flag on top of the ship waving in the wind. Peicott stepped off when they were level with the first conning tower, wrangling some room for his bulky physique with a few well-placed elbows. Clint pushed his way in front of two gangly apprentice seamen.

Green trees and shrubbery extended in a rustling wave, surrounded by surreal blue water. Clint tried to appreciate the view, but his eyes were drawn back down to the scarred and mangled form of what used to be Pearl Harbor. Workmen scurried across the concrete, salvaging what they could from oil dumps and crates that had managed to escape the bombardment. Bodies were still being salvaged from the water, uniforms scarred and burned until they were unrecognizable.

He watched the scene unfold with cold detachment. Once a man falls from a zeppelin and survives Nazi sniper fire, he can do anything, or so Clint hoped. This was nothing compared to the wreck of the Reuben James.

For the sailors beside him, the ruins below seemed to have a greater effect. Faces bathed in the golden light of the midday sun, their expressions hardened as their eyes strayed down to the forms of the ships lingering beneath the water. One turned away and hurried back down the ladder, most likely to be sick, as another body was pulled from the water. The rest stood at the rail in a wall of white and watched. Horror, shock, and anger flickered across their features, observing the jagged forms of the ships that could have easily been their own. That might be their own.

"A real shame. C'mon, let's go find some cards and some money," D'Amico grabbed Clint's collar and dragged him away from the rail.

"You haven't got any money, Dan."

"It's never stopped me before, has it?" D'Amico winked, then dragged Peicott along with him as he started down the ladder again. "Paulie, can I borrow some money?"

"Not likely!" Peicott roared. "Where's the money I lent you before, huh?"

"I'll pay you back, I swear. Scout's honor!"

"What honor?" Clint shouted, scuffing his boot against D'Amico's head as he started to descend the ladder and receiving a dirty look in return.

"You're a scream, Barton. Come on, a man has gotta have some cash when he's on liberty!"

Their boots slapped against the deck as they started for the rail, Peicott rubbing his knuckles in D'Amico's hair. "Don't you worry, Danny boy. Just stick with me and we'll have the trip of a lifetime!"

"Forgive me if I'm not jumping for joy," D'Amico groused. It was all so much like the Reuben James Clint couldn't help but smile. The island before them, the sun beating overhead, a thousand possible adventures waiting on shore - this was a new beginning, and one he welcomed with open arms.