To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  He handed it across the desk, and Yoshikawa said, “No one except you.”

  Kita did not respond, and Yoshikawa tore open the envelope. When he saw the contents, he couldn’t avoid a smile.

  Kita said, “Is it what you were expecting?”

  Yoshikawa counted the hundred-dollar bills. “Six. That is what I was told to expect. It will cover my expenses for a good while.”

  Kita leaned back in his chair, seemed perplexed. “That’s a substantial amount of money. I don’t know what kind of expenses you would incur here. Nearly everything you should need is within the compound, at your convenience. If you need anything else, we have staff who can secure it for you.”

  He paused. “I wish to ensure that you and I understand your role here. I have confirmed my own instructions with Tokyo. Will you please tell me what Tokyo has authorized you to do here? It is possible, certainly, that questions could arise which could fall upon this office. The FBI in particular makes it a practice to monitor our activity, though they have not yet come inside our compound. But that could change. My people here are excellent at what they do, jobs that can be challenging: dealing with Japanese immigrants, all the necessary paperwork for imports and exports, and any other matter that might arise. If there is some activity that is suddenly embarrassing to them, if your duties or any other activity were to attract unwanted attention, it could be most unfortunate, to your mission and to mine. In other words, if you are planning anything that could be dangerous to our relationship with Hawaii or the American military, I wish to know about that in advance. I believe that is a reasonable request.”

  Yoshikawa folded the currency, slipped it into his pants pocket. He turned again to the window, said, “I am here to observe the American fleet, calculate their numbers, and observe their movement. I am to do the same with the military aircraft. I am not here to light fires or blow up bridges.”

  Kita said, “That is much the same as I have been told. I must ask, for my own curiosity, why does the Ministry require this information?”

  Yoshikawa ignored the question, picked up his small suitcase. “Do you have the key to my cottage?”

  Kita handed him a small envelope, and Yoshikawa said, “Have one of your secretaries show me where I am to stay. You need not concern yourself with my well-being or my activities from this point on. I will do all I can to convince your staff that I am performing consular duties here. But I do not answer to your authority, nor to anyone in your office. Are we clear on that?”

  Kita’s pleasantness evaporated. He stood, waited for Yoshikawa to offer the bow appropriate to Kita’s position. Yoshikawa ignored him, and moved quickly out the door.

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, MAY 4, 1941

  Yoshikawa stepped off the road through tall grass, the hillside falling away in front of him, flowers bathing him in their scent, the soft buzz of a thousand bees the only sound he could hear. He stepped carefully over rocks hidden beneath the grass. He carried nothing in his hands, nothing in the pocket of his white linen pants, nothing in the lone pocket of the bright blue Hawaiian shirt he now wore. For anyone who happened by, Yoshikawa was one more in a vast horde of tourists, each one clamoring to see the beauty that was Hawaii. It was all around him, but as he stepped closer to the slope, he ignored all of that. He was focused on the water, and the great ships of the United States Navy.

  He stood for several minutes, no one approaching him, no one driving past on the road, where his taxi and his specially chosen driver waited, a man with patience and no questions.

  Yoshikawa backed away from the steep hillside, stepped again through the grass, crushing flowers, scattering the bees, reached the car, opened the door.

  “Take me to the teahouse. You mentioned it before.”

  The driver turned, an older man with a naturally friendly face. “The Shuncho-ro. Yes, I take you. Many nice girls there.”

  Yoshikawa said nothing, and the driver started the car, pulling out quickly onto the gravel road. They rode in silence, Yoshikawa visualizing the details of the harbor in his mind. The ships had been farther than he had hoped, the details not as clear as he had needed. The driver seemed to read his mind.

  “I can get you some binoculars, if you wish. It makes for better sightseeing.”

  “No.”

  Yoshikawa had gone over those kinds of details long ago. There could be nothing to make him stand out, nothing more than the typical tourist, gazing at fields of flowers, the presence of the great ships just a part of the fascination with such a beautiful place. Binoculars would draw attention, the military security perhaps, or even the FBI. He knew that there were many Japanese on the islands under surveillance, suspected as potential saboteurs. That most of them were resident Hawaiians seemed not to matter to the authorities. He wanted nothing to do with those people, considered most of the Japanese residents to be ignorant trash, untrustworthy, with loyalties that were at best suspect. The notion that he could recruit islanders to assist him as an army of potential observers had been dismissed completely in Japan.

  His role was solitary, and his manner innocuous, even buffoonish. If there were police, he would bow too many times, maintain the mindless grin, play directly into the Japanese stereotype. And all the while, he would practice what he had been trained to do: notice what was important, ignore what was not. There would be nothing written down, nothing to incriminate him as anything beyond the simple-minded tourist, dazzled by so many impressive sights. The first rule he had learned during his training in Japan was clear enough. Don’t get caught.

  He stared out the window of the taxi, caught more glimpses of the harbor, the ships closer. The taxi passed several houses, small shops, but soon they arrived at the teahouse. The taxi pulled over, stopped, and Yoshikawa noticed one other car out front. He said nothing to his driver, bounced quickly from the cab, stepped inside. The smell of tea and tobacco was overwhelming and delicious, and his eyes settled immediately on a pair of geishas at one end of a narrow bar. They responded by shuffling toward him on their wooden shoes, made their short bows.

  “Hello, sir. May we offer you tea? Would you like to sit? We are happy to talk to you.”

  “Got anything stronger than tea?”

  They seemed confused at the request, but behind them, an older man said, “I have sake and beer.”

  Yoshikawa was disappointed, had heard much about the variety of alcohol the Americans had brought to the islands, had hoped to discover just how much it was possible to consume. That would have to wait for a different kind of bar.

  “Sake, I suppose. But you should get something better. Not everybody wants to come here just to find Japan.”

  The man motioned to the geishas to move away, seemed to sense trouble. “We are a Japanese teahouse. I do not try to be anything else.”

  Yoshikawa didn’t want to anger the man. “I’ll take the sake. That’s good.”

  He looked around, found nothing to see but tall grass outside the windows. He saw stairs now, said, “What’s up there?”

  The man was still wary, handed him a cup of sake, one of the geishas carrying the bottle on a tray.

  “Upstairs is our second floor. Nice observation deck. Beautiful scenery.”

  “I’m going up there. She can come too.”

  He started up the stairs, heard the owner say something to the girls. They’re probably his daughters, he thought. You dress them like geishas, and you had better expect them to be geishas. All I want is someone to pour my drink.

  He reached the top of the stairs, a balcony, was surprised to see the harbor spread out before him, much closer than it had been from the grassy heights. There was a pair of men seated at the center table, the only other customers there. He ignored them, the geisha setting the tray down on a small table, then standing to one side. He was familiar with the routine. If he wanted her to sit, to talk, it would cost more. He
downed the sake, and she stepped forward, quickly refilled the small porcelain cup. He downed that one as well, and she obliged him again. He allowed himself to relax, took his time with the drink, looked over toward the other two men, who were standing now, ready to leave. But his eye caught something behind the men, something he hadn’t seen before.

  “What is that?”

  He knew the answer already, but she said, “It is a telescope. For a small price, we allow our guests to use it, to look at the ships, the airplanes. It is most beautiful, and very interesting.”

  He stood, moved that way, put his eye to the lens. He swept the telescope from side to side, could see Hickam Field, could see the details of every one of the large ships and some details of the smaller ones. He focused on one of the nearest battleships, saw sailors moving about on the decks, and nearby, shore boats and service barges. Another movement caught his eye, and he raised the telescope slightly, saw a trio of planes taking off from a field on what he already knew to be Ford Island. For the first time since arriving in Hawaii, he flashed a genuine smile.

  “Yes. It is interesting. It is very interesting.”

  PART TWO

  “Japanese cannot be effective pilots because as babies, Japanese children are carried on the backs of their mothers, or their older sisters, and their older sisters play hopscotch, (so that) the baby’s head bounces around and it destroys the balance in the inner ear.”

  —AS TOLD TO CAPTAIN ARTHUR MCCOLLUM, U.S. NAVY, 1941

  “The Japanese, as a race, have defects of the tube of the inner ear, just as they generally are myopic”; [thus they have] “a defective sense of balance and are less mechanical than any other race” [and are not capable of flying aircraft].

  —FLETCHER PRATT, HISTORIAN, 1939

  THIRTEEN

  Biggs

  ONBOARD USS ARIZONA, AT SEA—THURSDAY, MAY 22, 1941

  He had no idea why Kincaid had left him alone, but knew better than to ask stupid questions. All he knew was that others had been chosen for swabbing duties, which was just fine with Biggs. His duties now were what he had been trained for: remaining belowdecks in sick bay, working alongside the doctors and the pharmacist’s mates. Each day that passed, Biggs had learned something, some small piece of medical expertise, learning to distinguish the serious from the superficial. The mundane ailments of most of the crew quickly faded away once at sea, the aftereffects of overindulgence usually cured with a good night’s sleep. Most of the problems now involved physical injuries, often affecting the men who toiled deep below, whose duties put them around the heaviest machinery.

  This shift, Dr. Condon commanded sick bay. Biggs had detected the subtle hint from the mates and some of the corpsmen that they felt Condon was just a bit too young and a bit too green to hold sway over them. It was an informal system that Biggs was becoming familiar with, that anyone new, regardless of his rating or whether or not he was an officer, had something to prove before any of the veterans would take him seriously. Biggs’s exploits during his first liberty seemed to satisfy some, as though getting drunk or seeking out a prostitute earned a man a badge of honor.

  He was still the newest man in sick bay, but the pharmacist’s mates now mostly left him alone—no practical jokes, no games. They seemed to accept him for the efforts he had made to fit in, his acceptance of just where he stood in the medical hierarchy, which of course was at the bottom. His willingness to accept his place, performing the most unpleasant jobs, had earned him an odd sort of respect, even from the doctors. Biggs knew it was just the job, and that one day he might have the opportunity to climb the next step up the ladder.

  * * *

  —

  He was wiping down one of the metal countertops when he heard voices, Condon responding. The voices were louder now, full of urgency and pain, Condon calling his name. He tossed his cloth into the small sink, hurriedly washed his hands. He moved quickly, saw two corpsmen and two sailors supporting an injured man, the man whimpering, then a long shout. Biggs saw the injury now, one arm blistered red, its flesh seared and a smear of blood on the man’s pants, dripping onto the deck. One of his sailors turned away, overpowered by the smell, and Biggs stepped forward, the corpsmen now taking charge, laying the man flat on the deck. Condon grabbed a hypodermic needle, jabbed it into the man’s uninjured arm, said, “Okay, I’ve given you morphine. You hear me, sailor? Talk to me.”

  The injured man looked up at Condon, already bleary-eyed. Condon said, “We’re going to lift you up onto this table. Don’t worry, sailor, you’re in the right place.”

  Condon directed the others to lift the man, Biggs helping, careful to avoid the man’s arm. They rocked him back, all arms supporting him, eased him up onto the table, laid him flat. Biggs was engulfed by the smell of the man’s wound, made himself look at the bloody horror, knew it had to be a part of his job.

  Condon said, “What happened?”

  One of the sailors, an older man, wiped the back of his hand on a sweating brow.

  “Antiaircraft gun, a blowback. This one’s pretty bad. He gonna be okay, Doc?”

  Condon was eyeing the injury, making a soft probe with his fingers, gently moving damaged skin. He looked toward the injured man’s face, said, “He’s out. Won’t feel anything now. He’ll have some scars, and it’ll be a while before he returns to duty. When we get back to Pearl, I’ll send him over to the hospital. They’ll be able to fix him up there, better than I can here.”

  Biggs understood the term “blowback,” someone firing a round before the breech was fully sealed. Inside the turrets of the largest guns, an ignition like that, from any source, could kill a man. At least, he thought, the antiaircraft guns are smaller, far less powerful, with far less powder to ignite. It didn’t mean the man’s pain was any less, just that he was still in one piece.

  Condon said to Biggs, “Cabinet over there, on the end. White tube of salve.”

  Biggs moved quickly, handed the tube to Condon, stepped back out of the way, awaiting whatever might come next. Condon looked to the sailors, said, “You boys can return to duty. Nothing else you can do here.”

  One man seemed grateful to be let go, but the older sailor stood still, stared at the injuries. Biggs saw his insignia: chief gunner’s mate. He had a touch of gray hair, wore the fierce expression of a man who had seen this before. The first sailor moved away, waited at the hatchway, but the chief didn’t move, said, “I knew this would happen. Damn it all, they keep sending us out here, doing God-knows-nothing. Same routine, over and over. The officers say it’s supposed to teach us to be perfect, but all it does is bore us to death. Torpedo drill, antiaircraft drill, every stupid damn drill they can think of. I’m sorry, Doc, don’t mean no disrespect. I appreciate what you’re doing for Sam. But he’s like the rest of us. Same thing, day after day. Instead of making us sharp, it’s doing just the opposite. It’s hard to take any of it seriously. We go to sea on Monday, go back to Pearl on Friday. I might as well be working in a damn hardware store. I’ve been in the navy for twenty-six years, and it scares me to hell that if there’s ever a shooting war, we’re gonna tell the enemy, Oh, excuse me, hold on there, we gotta do this the way we practiced it.”

  Condon handed the salve to one of the corpsmen, motioned to the wound, and the corpsman went to work on it. Condon looked at the sailor, said, “I don’t have anything to tell you, Chief. If nothing else, this ought to push all of you to pay more attention to what you’re doing. I’m not gonna lecture you on that, not at all. It’s just a fact.”

  The chief put his hands on his hips. “You’re kinda young. How long you been a doctor?”

  Condon kept his eye on the corpsman’s work, said, “Long enough so I know how to do that.”

  The chief lowered his head. “Yeah, I guess so. Look, sir, I ain’t blowing off steam about the officers on this ship. They’re doing what they’re told. This whole task force out
here, a dozen ships running around in circles. Yesterday we did a drill to dodge bombs, like the bombs are always gonna come from the same direction, at the same speed, and be the same size. It’s the admirals, sir, playing with us like this is their own big-assed bathtub and we’re just toys.”

  Condon looked up, said, “That’ll be all, Chief. You can return to your station.”

  The chief seemed to understand he had gone too far, put a hand on the patient’s chest.

  “Get better, Sam. The doc’ll take care of you.”

  Condon watched closely as the corpsmen dressed the wound. He looked at the chief. “He probably can’t hear you. Be grateful for that.”

  The chief kept his eyes on his man. “He can hear me. I’ve reamed his ass so many times, he hears me in his sleep.” He looked at Condon now, a glance at Biggs, the others. “Sometimes it’s not practice, eh, Doc?”

  Condon said, “Not in here.”

  USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1941

  As they were eased back into Pearl Harbor, the rumors began. Biggs saw what they all saw, that ships that should have been in their moorings were gone. The officers knew the schedules for maneuvers, which task forces were out, which were in port. This time, something was very strange, the rhythm of each week’s drills upset. The scuttlebutt was vague, and no one below the captain seemed to know who had given the orders, or why. But the rumors were confirmed not long after the Arizona tied up to a mooring of its own. Every man on the ship could see for himself that the fleet had become smaller, that three of the battleships, the Mississippi, the Idaho, and the New Mexico, along with the carrier Yorktown, had simply vanished.

  The questions came quickly, a handful of officers digging for information, confirming that those ships, plus a number of destroyers and other support craft, had been ordered away from Pearl Harbor. They were to make their way through the Panama Canal to strengthen the Allied power in the Atlantic.