We pulled the plane clear of the fire. Twenty yards. Thirty. Into the next bay, behind the fire doors.
Then the fire doors came down behind us.
Thirty seconds later, the fire reached the spot where the tractor had been sitting.
The fire party contained it in eleven minutes. Nobody died. Four men were burned. Two of them badly.
We lost one A-7 and part of a hangar bay. We were back launching strikes in three days.
That night, I found Jimmy Carrick in the berthing compartment.
He was sitting on his bunk with his head in his hands. Shaking.
“I froze,” he said. “Chief, I froze. I almost got us killed.”
I sat down next to him.
“I’m not a chief,” I said. “I’m a first class.”
“You will be,” he said.
“Everybody freezes the first time,” I said. “Everybody. You know what matters?”
He shook his head.
