To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  ONBOARD USS ARIZONA—SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 1941

  The launch had taken him across a calm patch of open water, and as he drew closer to her, he caught the smell of oil and paint, saw men dangling from ropes along the hull. The launch reached the heavy wood pier at Ford Island, jerked to a halt. One of the crewmen tossed a line to a man on the pier, who called out, “How long you be here?”

  Behind Biggs, the coxswain answered, “Two minutes. Just bringing this bubblegummer to the Arizona.”

  Biggs absorbed the insult, had expected this, one of the lessons from Chief Monroe back in basic training. Sailors had their own vocabulary, the new recruits onboard any ship the easiest targets. There was no reason for any new man to take offense. More new recruits would always follow, and of course, they would become the next targets.

  The crewman in the launch said, “That way, sailor. The accommodation ladder amidships. Don’t forget to salute the OOD.”

  Biggs nodded a brief thanks and climbed up to the pier. He hoisted the seabag on his shoulder, moved toward the ladder, saw others moving that way, coming from somewhere on Ford Island. No one seemed to notice him, and Biggs stayed back, waited for them to board, heard the formal greetings as they stepped onto the ship. Biggs had learned the formalities in basic training, but the reality was brand new, strange, made more strange by the massive gray steel that spread along the pier in front of him.

  “You lost, sailor?”

  The voice startled him, and he turned, saw an older man, an officer, saw the gold “scrambled eggs” on the man’s hat, a row of gold stripes on his sleeve. Behind him were two younger officers. It was more brass in one place than Biggs had ever seen.

  “No, sir. Um…just waiting to go aboard.”

  The older man smiled. “New recruit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your rating, son?”

  “E-2, sir.”

  The man nodded, glanced back at the others. “Good. That means your RDC actually taught you something. I’ve seen too many E-1s come out of basic, and I wonder what in blazes they were being taught there. With all we have to be concerned about, we don’t need to spend time teaching some green kid how to tie his shoelaces. What’s your specialty?”

  “I volunteered for medical training, sir. I’ve been assigned as a hospital apprentice. I’m hoping to be a corpsman someday. Nobody in my family’s ever had an opportunity like this, sir.”

  It was more than he needed to say, and he was embarrassed now. But the older man nodded approvingly.

  “Good for you. Most kids show up here and want to do nothing but fire the guns. There’s a lot more to running a ship like this than fireworks. You’ll like Dr. Johnson, and there’s a new man, Dr. Condon. Good men, both. I hope you stick with it. The navy needs well-trained medical personnel everywhere we go.” He looked upward, Biggs as well, a row of men along the rail staring down at them. “This is a proud old ship, with a lot of history, son. Don’t forget that. Now, go on up. Looks like you got some people waiting for you.”

  “Um…after you, sir.” It seemed like the right thing to say, Biggs eyeing the audience above him still. A jeep appeared, carrying three men, all armed, and behind them, a huge black sedan. Both vehicles rolled to a dusty stop, and the two younger officers moved that way, one opening the car’s rear door.

  The older man nodded toward them, then said to Biggs, “That’s my transportation. I’m headed the other way. There’s a lot of talk that comes with this job. Meetings with admirals just about every day, and my aides are terrified I’ll be ten seconds late. Even admirals can wait once in a while.” He paused. “At least they serve a decent lunch.”

  Biggs’s curiosity was overwhelming: a man with aides.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, are you one of the senior…”

  “I’m your CO, son. Captain Van Valkenburgh. That’s why you’ve got sightseers watching you up on deck. Best thing you can do is make it known up there that you got no idea who I am—you don’t need those boys thinking you’re the captain’s buddy. It’ll cause you too much grief. Just tell ’em I was asking you what time it was.”

  * * *

  —

  His guide was a chief petty officer, and Biggs followed him through a hatch, then down through another. All around him, men were moving, but there seemed to be no great urgency, as though for many it was a day off.

  “Here. This is your billet, this compartment. You’ll share this with all your new buddies.”

  Biggs was confused, saw a row of metal tables, a miniature mess hall. “I sleep here?”

  The chief had his hands on his hips, as though tired of explaining this too many times. “The tables are folded up and stowed after dinner. You hang your hammock up there from those hooks. Make sure you put your spreader sticks at each end, or you’ll roll up like a rug. The hammocks are hung three high, and you’re the new man, so you get the top. Two things: Cinch it up tight so your ass doesn’t bounce off the man beneath you, and don’t fall out of the damn thing. First morning they wake up, most idiots roll over like they been spit out of a cocoon. That won’t make you any buddies when you land on somebody. There are cots, too, but the new men never get those. Stay here long enough, you might be that privileged.

  “Reveille’s at 0530, and breakfast at 0600. Color ceremony is at 0800, on the stern. We got a band that thinks they can play the national anthem. It’s debatable. You might get to hear that, or not; depends on what your duty assignment is. Some days you’ll start work at 0700. You’ll roll up your hammock and stow it in those cabinets right there. Leave it be until chow that night.” He looked at Biggs’s seabag. “You won’t be needing a fourth of the crap you brought with you. I’ll show you where the lockers are, and you can stow most of your gear there. There’s shelves, over there on that bulkhead. That’s where you’ll stow your ditty bag, your shaving kit, toothpaste, whatever else you need to look pretty.”

  Biggs was overwhelmed again, inhaling the odd smells around him—fuel oil, cleaning fluid, grease, chow. The chief seemed to be running out of energy for this routine, said, “You bring any jugs of water with you?”

  Biggs was puzzled by the question. “No, sir. Was I supposed to?”

  The chief almost laughed. “That’s a joke, sailor. On this ship, you’re allowed three half gallons per day of clean water. Make it last. Shower, shave, wash your hands, whatever else. This ship generates its own fresh water from the ocean. It’s some fancy process and I got no idea how it works. But it don’t pump out enough to let you take some forty-minute hot shower. Try that, and your shipmates here will toss you overboard. The captain? Well, we let him do what he wants.”

  Biggs saw a handful of sailors drifting in through the far hatchway, wanted to offer some kind of greeting, but they ignored him, sitting down heavily at the closest mess table.

  The chief paid no attention to them, said, “And one more thing. The laundry is below this deck. You’re responsible for keeping your uniforms clean, whether you like it or not. Ignore that and Petty Officer Kincaid, who runs this little kingdom, will chew you hard. I don’t recommend it. He likes to hurt people. Laundry costs fifteen cents for any size load, and it’s a dime more if you want your whites pressed. I recommend that too. None of my petty officers, and, sure as hell, none of the brass will tolerate any member of this crew who dresses like a slob. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  “Yeah, absolutely. I’ll tell PO Kincaid you said that. We’ll see how long it lasts. All right, that’s about it. You missed lunch, but there’s a gedunk stand one deck up, aft.”

  Biggs didn’t want to ask, but his face betrayed the obvious question. The chief didn’t hide his impatience.

  “The gedunk stand is where you can get the unhealthiest junk on the ship, so naturally it’s popular as hell. They got ice cream, candy bars, all sorts of
other crap. Actually, I kinda like the Tootsie Rolls. There’s also a general store. All manner of useless stuff there; all you need is money. There’s the post office, bakery. Hell, we even got a blacksmith shop, but I ain’t seen a single damn horse on this boat yet. You’ll figure it out soon enough. I ain’t handing out maps. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight, though I bet you won’t.

  “We’ll stand out in a couple days, expect to be at sea maybe a week, maybe less. That’s the routine around here since we got a new hotshot admiral. Kimmel’s his name. Never met him. Don’t want to. But the orders come down every week. Most times, we stand out on Monday, come back to this glory hole on Friday night. Five days of running around in circles, shooting at targets we’ve already hit, blowing hell out of ships that shoulda been sunk years ago. We practice real difficult things like zigzagging, stuff you could do on your tricycle. Supposed to make us tough to hit in case some enemy submarine tries to torpedo us. A boat this big, I’m not too damn worried about some pissant sub. Not sure just who the enemy is supposed to be anyway. German U-boats are about four million miles from here.

  “Weekends, a third of us get liberty, but don’t get your hopes up. Let’s just say that new men don’t get much consideration. You keep your nose clean, and one of us will cut you a break. We got us a new ensign who’s about twelve years old, so you can ignore him. Like I said, your immediate superior is Petty Officer Kincaid. He’s been around damn near as long as I have, and he knows the ropes.”

  “Can I ask, how long you served, Chief?”

  The look on the man’s face made Biggs regret the question immediately.

  “Feels like three hundred years. Don’t ask me again.” He glanced at a piece of paper in his hand. “Orders say you’re assigned as a hospital apprentice.”

  “Yes, sir. I been told that the doctors are good to work for.”

  The chief shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know them. But you wanna be a penis machinist, that’s up to you. I try to stay away from folks like the docs. I ain’t never had a short-arm inspection that was any fun. Well, whatever makes you happy.”

  “I’ve never actually performed those exams, Chief. They didn’t drill me on that in basic.”

  The chief pushed his hat back, put his hands on his hips. “You know how they do them, right?” He didn’t wait for a response. “A whole flock of us line up and drop our drawers while the doctors and numbskulls like you take a close look at what’s going on between our legs. Me? I been lucky. Some of these jackasses get the clap every time they go into town. I guess we’re fortunate that we’ve got professionals like you to make sure our loggerhead don’t fall off.”

  Biggs had endured those inspections during basic training, had never really thought that he might be the one doing them. He didn’t know what to say. The chief started to move again, then stopped. “What’s so damn funny?”

  Biggs didn’t realize he had been smiling. “Sorry, sir. I never heard it called that. Guess I learned a new word.”

  “Sailor, by the time you finish your service on this boat, you’ll be able to write your own dictionary.”

  SEVEN

  Biggs

  ONBOARD USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 1941

  He was ravenously hungry; it had been hours since his tour with the chief. He was seated now on a hard bench, one of several tables in the mess area, directly below the hooks for his hammock. At one end of his table sat a petty officer, and Biggs couldn’t avoid looking at him. He was an older man, with a hard creased face over wide shoulders and thick heavy arms. It was the only seat at the table’s end, the other men seated along the sides. Farther down the compartment, the last of the men found their seats, and immediately, the mess orderlies brought large bowls, huge spoons protruding from each one, setting two down on each table. No one moved, and Biggs stared at the massive heap of white beans, the first meal of any kind that he’d experienced on the ship.

  At the end of the table, the petty officer scooped a heaping spoonful onto his plate, then handed it to the man on his left. The procedure was repeated across from Biggs, then down along the far end of the table. Biggs had been warned against stepping out of place most anywhere on the ship, but here, he could sense a different kind of off-limits. As the beans crept closer to his white porcelain plate, he realized that eyes were on him. He responded with stiff-backed discipline, eyes front, waiting his turn. The closest bowl was slid noisily in front of his plate, and he paused, wary of what might happen next. He eased one hand toward the spoon, heard the growling voice of the petty officer.

  “Wait a minute. Hold on.” There was a silent pause, seconds ticking by. “Okay, now you can have ’em.”

  A chuckle came from most of the men around him, one man beside Biggs slapping him on the back.

  “Enjoy this stuff, sailor. Two or three days a week, this is all we get. I’d advise you to use the ketchup, and sop it up with a hunk of that cornbread. Only way you can fool your mouth into thinking these damn beans taste good.”

  Biggs followed the suggestion, stirred the ketchup into the beans on his plate. From the end of the table, the petty officer clenched his teeth, said, “Reserves, right?”

  Biggs realized the question was directed at him, said, “Um, no, sir. I enlisted.”

  The man seemed surprised, and Biggs saw a few nods from the others around the table. Beside Biggs, the man said, “Good for you. Most of us been here awhile. The damn reservists, they drop in to get duty pay or hash marks, anything they can take, then they flit off like moths to wherever they can go next. We kinda thought that was you, seeing as how you ain’t got any dirty fingernails.”

  Biggs said, “No, I enlisted, my buddy and me. He went to the USS Curtiss, and they sent me here. I’m assigned as a hospital apprentice, second class. I start duty in the sick bay and dispensary tomorrow.” He glanced at his fingers. “I guess the doctors wouldn’t be too happy if I showed up with dirty fingernails.”

  The others seemed to ponder that, most of them with approving nods.

  Another man said, “Tell you what, pal. You ever have to fix me up for something, I want you to remember I’m your cabin mate. Don’t be hacking off anything that ain’t gotta go.”

  “I doubt I’ll do any hacking. I’m hoping to get training to be a corpsman. But I’m not sure when that’ll happen.”

  The petty officer sat back, arms crossed. “Oh, for God’s sake. You all sound like a bunch of biddies at a tea party. Big dreams. Big talk. You’re from the South. I can hear your accent. But it ain’t Mississippi or Virginia.”

  “No, sir. Florida. It’s south I guess, closer to Georgia than Miami.”

  The petty officer stood now, said, “All right, enough of this kindergarten class. He passes muster. He’s officially one of the rest of you worms. What’s your name, worm?”

  “Biggs, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Biggs, just so you know, if you’d have dipped those beans out of turn, I’d’a broken your arm. Guess you coulda fixed it up yourself. All right, I’ve spent all the time I can stand with you turds. I’m back to my own comforts. You may resume eating your slop.”

  He moved away, the others staring down at their food until he was completely gone. As his footsteps faded, the men seemed to exhale in unison, the forks jabbing again into the red glop on their plates.

  Biggs was curious, said in a low voice, “Who is he?”

  The man beside him said, “Petty Officer Kincaid. He’s what we like to call a son-of-a-bitch bastard.”

  Biggs recalled the name, the instructions from the chief.

  Across from Biggs, a man said, “He comes in whenever we get a new recruit. Likes to bust chops, or arms or legs, tries to catch any kind of slipup. Then he goes back to petty office country.”

  “That like officer’s country? I’ve heard of that.”

  Beside him, “It’s probabl
y a hell of a lot more cushy than officer’s country. The petty officers run this ship. Maybe run the whole damn navy. I hear the captain’s scared of the whole lot of ’em. He’s got a marine standing guard outside his quarters in case one of the POs decide to take over.”

  The others laughed and Biggs said, “Name’s Tommy Biggs.”

  Beside him, “Ed Wakeman. I’m from Sioux Falls.”

  Biggs wasn’t sure just where that was.

  Across from him, “Hank Mahone, Columbus, Ohio. You really from Florida?”

  “Yeah, near Jacksonville.”

  Mahone said, “You left sunshine and beaches to join the navy? Hell, you had all the good stuff right out your window. Now you gotta put up with officers. And Kincaid.”

  Biggs was feeling more comfortable now, laughed along with the others. Another man spoke up, a small dark man with a distinctive northern accent.

  “I got one thing to offer you, fella, what I tell all the new boys. I been here four years, and I learned a few things. The most important…never volunteer for nothing. Not never no how. They’ll think you actually like doing all that stuff, and you’ll never see the light of day ever again.”

  Wakeman waved a hand toward the man, said to Biggs, “Don’t pay no mind to Vincenzo. He thinks ’cause he’s from New York he’s got the market cornered on brains.”

  Vincenzo feigned indignation. “It’s Brooklyn, sport. Nobody’s from New York unless they work on Wall Street. Or they sing in some Broadway show. I seen Jimmy Durante once…”

  The protests came in a flurry, and it was obvious to Biggs that this story had been told before. Biggs finished the beans on his plate, said, “I was gonna head over to the gedunk stand, maybe get some ice cream. Anybody wanna go?”