by Jeff Shaara
* * *
—
He was straightening the sheet on his cot, perfect corners, and he looked toward Ray.
“The chief surprised me. I think he actually cares about us.”
Russo laughed with the others around him. “Yeah, go tell him that. See how many push-ups he’ll make you do.”
Biggs straightened his dress shoes, made a mental note to polish them one more time. He said, “Any idea where you’ll go?”
Russo shrugged. “I know where I want to go. But I’ll go where they send me. You too. Doesn’t much matter what we want. I put in a request for battleship duty. Not sure if they pay any attention to that. Been looking at ’em in a navy magazine. Huge, beautiful. And like the chief said, it’s a war machine. It can level an entire city.”
Biggs checked his locker again, neat perfection, and said, “Yeah, I put in for that too. I’m trying not to give it that much thought. Anyplace will be the navy. Hope they’ll give me a chance to be a medical tech or something like that.”
Ray looked at him, tilted his head slightly, as did others as well. “You really put in for that? I thought you were kidding. What the hell you wanna mess around with bandages and stuff? Blood makes me wanna puke. And you sure as hell ain’t giving me any damn shot.”
Behind Russo, another man, Parker. “Maybe he just likes giving short-arm inspections.”
The laughter flooded the barracks, a good joke at Biggs’s expense. His reasons wouldn’t matter to most of them, and he just absorbed their humor, knew it was a gibe he’d probably hear again. They had already experienced the short-arm inspections when they first arrived at the training center, a doctor or corpsman examining their genitals for signs of venereal disease, or any other contagion they might have brought from home.
The men turned back to their own equipment, and Ray was still looking at him, serious now. “You know, corpsman’s school could work for you. You’re smart, for sure. Pay’s probably a lot better too. You planning on going after that?”
“Not yet. If they let me, I’ll start as a hospital apprentice, an HA, be assigned to help the ship’s doctor. I guess the smaller ships might only have a corpsman, so I’d be there to help him. That could help me get into corpsman training, for sure. Either way, it might give me a chance at a good job later on.”
Ray nodded. “Like I say, you’re smart, Tommy. All those tests they gave us, I probably screwed up every one of ’em. I bet you did real good.”
Biggs shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll find out pretty quick. I’m just happy as hell we made it through. The chief was right: A bunch of ’em didn’t.”
The cots were made, the men checking the neatness of each other’s, a friendly inspection to help anyone avoid a last dose of punishment from Chief Monroe. The door slapped open at the far end of the barracks, a sharp voice.
“Ten hut!”
Biggs responded immediately, instinct now, moved to stiff attention at the foot of his cot. The voice was unfamiliar, and there was no sign of the chief.
“Listen up. When I call your name you will report to the clerks outside. They’ll have your assignments. Stand at ease.” The man paused, a nod of his head. “Congratulations, men. You’re sailors in the United States Navy.”
The names came alphabetically, Biggs fourth on the list. He stepped outside, following the first three men, saw a long table, alphabetical sections, those from other barracks lining up as well. Four clerks sat with boxes of envelopes, and Biggs moved to the first station, waited behind the others, beneath the sign in bold black letters “A-G.”
The men in front of him gave their names, each man receiving a sealed envelope. One man moved back past him, said, “God, I’m nervous as hell. We supposed to open this right here?”
Biggs shared the man’s anxiety, said, “Hell if I know.” It was his turn now, and he said to the clerk, “Biggs, Thomas.”
“Here you go. Good luck, sailor.”
He moved away from the table, others still lining up, and fingered the brown envelope, thick enough to hold several papers. Details, he thought. They have to spell it all out. Well, open it. His hands were sweating in the cold, his breath a steady fog. The voice in his head pushed him again to tear the paper open, but he felt paralyzed, a hard thumping in his chest. He moved slowly back toward the barracks, saw Russo, falling in line at the other end of the table.
“Tommy! Where’re you going? What’s it say?”
Biggs looked at him, shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t opened it yet.”
Russo was at the table now, and Biggs heard him.
“Russo, Raphaele.”
Biggs waited for him, and Russo was there quickly, seemed to pulse with energy, his own envelope in his hands. “Well? What’s yours say?”
Biggs tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. “Open yours first. I’m too damn nervous.”
Russo didn’t hesitate, ripped at the paper, said, “We’re all nervous, Tommy. Might be the biggest day of my life.” The contents of Russo’s envelope slid out into his hand, and he read, seemed to sag. “What the hell? The Curtiss? I been assigned to some ship called the USS Curtiss. I’m rated an E-1, seaman apprentice. I report to Bremerton, Washington. I ain’t going to the Atlantic? Well, hell.”
Biggs was annoyed with his friend. “Hey! They coulda stuck you on that garbage scow, right? You’re going on a navy ship, the real deal.”
Behind them, Biggs heard whoops, a few curses, the full variety of responses to the assignments.
Russo said, “You’re right. Just a little disappointed, that’s all. But it’ll be okay. Yeah, it’s a real ship. I’ll check it out—there’s gotta be somebody around here can tell me more about it. Says here, seaplane tender. Well, that’s okay. Taking care of airplanes. Go ahead, what’s yours?”
Biggs took a long breath, the nervous chill still inside him. He tore open the envelope, thought of the Curtiss…seaplane tender. Yeah, that’s good. I’d take that. The paper slid into his fingers and he hesitated, couldn’t avoid thoughts of the chief’s garbage scow. He opened the fold, read.
Russo grabbed his arm. “Damn it all, where’re you going? You got a real ship?”
Biggs read the words again, his eyes wide in disbelief. “I made E-2. They’re assigning me as a hospital apprentice. Just what I was hoping for.” He read the next page, his eyes wider still. “Jesus God, Ray. I got a battleship. I’m going to the USS Arizona.”
FOUR
Yamamoto
BATTLESHIP NAGATO, ARIAKE BAY, JAPAN—MONDAY, JANUARY 27, 1941
“It pains me to say this to you, Admiral. But at the Ministry, and elsewhere, there are some who feel you are insane. With my apologies, sir.”
Yamamoto looked up from his cards, smiled. “You cannot distract me, my friend. I raise your bet. Double it, in fact.”
He watched as Fukudome looked at his own cards, and Yamamoto could see from the blink of the man’s eyes that Fukudome had nothing in his hand.
Fukudome laid his cards down, shook his head. “You have bested me again, sir. I fear I cannot defeat you at this game, or any other.”
“How about we play gin then?”
“Please, sir, no. I cannot offer you any challenge. Surely there is something I can request from the orderlies, some refreshment? Or surely there must be a report from some department on this ship that requires our attention.”
Yamamoto had already spent the afternoon in grouchy boredom, and his usual relief, and greatest joy, was gambling. If there was no one else to engage him, and thus be victimized by him, Shigeru Fukudome, his chief of staff, would graciously endure the punishment. Yamamoto was grateful for the man’s efforts, though he had little patience for an opponent who couldn’t offer much of a challenge.
Yamamoto sat back, tried to ignore the anxiousness, a jittery coldness in his chest. “Where is Admiral Onishi? H
e is late.”
Fukudome stood stiffly, made a short bow. “Sir, I shall check with the deck officer one more time. I will inform him that the admiral should be escorted to your wardroom with all haste.”
Yamamoto waved him away. “Go. Just bring him to me.”
Fukudome moved out quickly, with typical efficiency.
Yamamoto drummed his fingers on the table, ran his hands over the playing cards, a game forming in his mind, some kind of bet made just for picking up a random card. It was his constant exercise; if there was no game to be had, he would create one. And if there was a game, there had to be an opponent, anyone who could offer a challenge for Yamamoto, so that his victory, whether through skill or luck, would be so much sweeter.
Even as a young man, he had been drawn to games of chance, nearly any game or any chance. He bet on athletics, on random events in nature, on the efficiency of his deck crew, men who had no idea that their various duties around the ship were being tallied by their admiral. He was never far from the fantasy that one day he would retire from the Imperial Japanese Navy, move his family to Monte Carlo, become a professional gambler. He had traveled there before, seemed always to win, a handsome profit that he imagined could be parlayed into great wealth. But for now, there were duties, always duties, and these days, there was a frustration far more dangerous than boredom on his flagship.
The knock came now, the unmistakable rhythm of his chief of staff.
“Enter.” Fukudome opened the door, then stood aside, allowing the other man to enter.
“Sir, Admiral Onishi.”
Yamamoto managed a smile, thought, Finally. Onishi seemed to march into the wardroom, halting abruptly, standing tall above him. To the diminutive Yamamoto, Onishi seemed gigantic, with an athletic physique that made him an imposing figure in any group. He served as chief of staff of the Eleventh Air Fleet, and Yamamoto considered him a good friend, one who shared Yamamoto’s enthusiasm for the airplane. Even more, Onishi was one of the few men with whom Yamamoto could safely discuss any topic, including those subjects that might bring down the wrath of the government in Tokyo. And to Yamamoto’s delight, Onishi enjoyed gambling.
Yamamoto said, “You may be seated, Admiral. Now, you may tell me your thoughts. Hold nothing back. I trust your opinions, you know that.”
Onishi removed an envelope from his jacket, spread the contents on the table. Yamamoto recognized his own writing, saw notes in the margins, said, “I can see that you do have opinions.”
Onishi picked up a page, read for several seconds, and Yamamoto could see theatrics, a delay for dramatic effect. He would allow Onishi his game, but it was to be a short game. Onishi seemed to understand that as well.
“Admiral Yamamoto, you have designed a plan that for all purposes resembles the most intriguing game of chance I have ever seen.”
Yamamoto smiled broadly. “That is why we must do it. It is why I must lead it. It is why you must assist me.”
Onishi said, “I have concerns that we must discuss.”
“That is why you are here, of course. I sent that proposal to the naval minister the same day I sent it to you. I have not yet heard anything of substance.”
“Are you surprised?”
“I am surprised by very little that comes from Tokyo.”
Fukudome had taken up his customary position, standing to Yamamoto’s left, and Yamamoto looked that way, said, “Bring in the orderly, with a bottle of whatever decent spirits we have. My friend here is thirsty.”
Onishi smiled. “Very much so, sir.”
Fukudome returned quickly with the orderly, a small man named Omi, older, many years in service to the admiral. Omi poured from a porcelain bottle, filling a small glass. Fukudome pointed toward Onishi and the orderly gently set the glass in front of him. Onishi tasted, then gave an approving nod.
“I feel much better now. Thank you.” He sipped again, said, “You must believe the Ministry respects your instincts, your experience. Surely they will respond approvingly to your plan.”
Fukudome motioned toward the small man, a silent order. Leave. Onishi started to protest, but the orderly was already gone.
Yamamoto had watched the scene, said, “I am sorry, my friend, but I require you to keep a sharp mind.”
Onishi put the glass to one side, Fukudome removing it quickly. Onishi laughed. “Ah, yes. I am in the presence of the admiral who does not drink spirits. I should have remembered that.”
“Take no offense, Takijiro. I do not object to anyone who enjoys a healthy drink. If we were in a card game right now, I would insist you fill your glass many times. Dull senses make for careless decisions. I admit that I once enjoyed a glass or two, but there was a time, years ago…My only memory of the occasion is that I woke up in a ditch beside a road. It was an experience I vowed never to repeat.”
Onishi studied the maps again. “You realize that the Naval Ministry might believe that you had consumed a bottle or two when you created this plan. I admit, sir, I might agree with them.”
Yamamoto had enough doubts as it was, knew that Onishi was simply speaking those doubts aloud. He looked down, chose the words he had rehearsed in his mind for weeks now.
“They are locked into the old ways. The Naval Ministry, the army, all of them believe that Japan’s strength lies within the man, that it is the spiritual perfection of the samurai that wins battles. That if your enemy is not pure of heart, does not possess a warrior’s heart, he will fall to you, just by your will alone. Perhaps in the days of the sword. But now…it is absurdity.”
Fukudome seemed uneasy, and Onishi looked at him, laughed.
“You need not fear the words of your commander. No matter his blasphemy, or who might disagree with him, he is correct.”
Yamamoto looked at Onishi. “My chief of staff has doubts about my ideas. He is wrong, of course. But he is still my chief of staff. Sit down, Shigeru. No doubt you are among many who believe this plan is a measure of my foolishness. Or insanity.”
Fukudome sat, after a brief bow. “Thank you, Admiral. I shall remain discreet.”
“Of course you shall. There is no alternative.” Yamamoto returned to the maps, pushed them aside, said to Onishi, “The Ministry, every high-ranking official of this government, every one of them, believes that Japan’s destiny, its wise course, is to engage in an all-out war with the great powers, and defeat them by tactics that worked exactly once, more than thirty years ago against the Russians. The scale is much larger now, the entire Pacific Ocean; the enemies are far stronger, whether the British or the Americans. But our goal, our methods remain the same.
“They insist that we should commit some act of aggression against, say, the Philippines. But that is only a ruse. We hold our fleets back, waiting for the response. The Americans must respond, of course, and so they will send their mighty navy across the ocean, seeking justice, seeking to rescue the afflicted. But we have planned well. We pick at them with our submarines, we bite off small pieces of their fleet, reducing their strength as they cross the great ocean. Then, when they reach a place of our choosing, we attack them with all our forces. The Americans shall be utterly destroyed, their ships sent to the bottom of the ocean.” He paused. “It is a grand story, is it not? We must surely be celebrated by our children, and their children, for centuries to come.”
Onishi nodded, said, “I have been hearing much of this great strategy. There are few in the government or in the Naval Ministry who talk of anything else. They also speak incessantly about the power of our battleships, the finest in the world. With such beasts, such magnificent weapons, we cannot be defeated. Even now the Naval Ministry begs for the funding to build even more of the great ships, larger, more powerful. It is foolishness. But no one in Tokyo can be convinced of that. They insist that the larger the ship, the easier it will be to conquer the world. Perhaps the stars as well.”
; Yamamoto glanced at Fukudome. “His gift for sarcasm rivals my own. Admiral Onishi knows well of a man named Billy Mitchell, an American who fought to convince his reluctant military to accept the value of the airplane. They are still reluctant, so much so that Mitchell died without receiving the credit he was due. Like us, the Americans place extreme value on the great ships of their fleet, the mighty battleship. The days of those weapons have passed, but singing a new song only draws laughter, mockery. Mitchell suffered for it, and I regret that he did not live to see his ideas celebrated as they deserved to be.” He looked at Onishi. “This is not a lesson I must teach you. That is why I revealed my plan to you even as I offered it to the Ministry.”
He paused. “The Americans value their battleships as we do, but those will not win a war. The aircraft carrier is the greatest tool either of us possesses.”
“I agree completely, sir. Time will prove that we are correct. The airplane is so inexpensive to build, we can fill the skies.”
Yamamoto felt the familiar gloom, said, “Unfortunately, those who make such decisions are holding tightly to the old ways. They fantasize that it is still 1905, that we will once again fight the Russians, a glorious victory with our great ships. And that is why I designed this plan, and why I need your support, and that of many others, to convince the Ministry and the naval staff that they must look upward.” He glanced at the papers again. “As it is for so many of us, the battleship is a symbol of great importance to the Americans. It is a beautiful mass of steel and guns that takes the breath away from civilians, from congressmen, that inflates their president with pride. I must convince the Naval Ministry that striking a blow against those symbols could have much more power than any salvo from our cannons.”