To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  Biggs didn’t understand anything about the kinds of naval strategies some of the men were tossing about with feigned expertise. But knowing that four of the great ships were simply gone didn’t reassure anyone, Biggs included. Pearl Harbor just seemed a good deal more empty.

  USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1941

  They had tried to play cards, but Kincaid interrupted them with what seemed to be a carefully calculated plan to annoy everyone.

  “Listen, you turds. You’ve got a half day’s rest, but don’t get used to it. Orders have come down that we’re painting the hull again. I asked for rose-petal pink, to please all you little girls in here, but the skipper likes gray, so I was overruled. Until then, enjoy sitting on your ass.”

  Kincaid moved out through the hatch, followed by a collective groan from the men around Biggs. The griping came now, the dread of hanging on ropes, smelling the harsh stench of paint.

  Biggs sat at one end of a mess table, a sheet of white paper in front of him. It was his most recent effort to write to his mother, but the words weren’t coming. The infuriating thought distracted him, as it had every week before, that whatever he said to his mother would be intercepted by his father, inspiring some kind of abusive criticism toward her. His mother had responded to his letters, though not as often as he would have liked, and thankfully, she’d made no mention of his father. Her letters were mostly meaningless chatter about everything that was happening with distant relatives, all their various ailments, all those who were aging badly. It was painfully mundane, and he loved every word of it.

  This time, as always, he agonized over the right reply, something she would enjoy hearing, maybe even an emotion they could share. But, he thought, how do I send a note just to her? Simple answer to that one. You don’t. He slid the paper aside, decided he would come back to it later.

  At the other mess tables in the compartment, the men were involved in various activities of their own, some of them writing letters, some polishing shoes, idle chatter and the usual griping. As usual, the big talk and cursing was aimed at Kincaid, but no one had the idiotic courage to say anything to the PO’s face.

  Closest to him, Wakeman and Mahone were playing cards, what seemed to be a game of gin without any rules. Biggs slid that way, watched for a long moment.

  Wakeman offered the invitation. “Okay, you look like a hurt puppy. You can join in the next hand. I’m wiping the floor with him in this one.”

  Mahone crossed his arms, careful to hide his cards. “Your ass, Ed. Got you on this one. Just wait. I need a six. Maybe a ten too.”

  “Thanks for telling me, numbskull.”

  Biggs was laughing, not sure if he wanted to join in the chaos.

  The boatswain’s whistle cut through the talk, then the loud voice on the speaker nearby.

  “Now hear this!”

  The sounds jolted him, the slight echo telling them it was ship-wide. Biggs sat up straight, looked toward the speaker, most of the others doing the same. Some of the talk continued from men who ignored the messages, as though they had heard it all before.

  The loudspeaker came again.

  “Now hear this! To all hands. Notice received from the United Press in London. On twenty-seven May, 1941, the German battleship Bismarck was engaged in combat with ships and aircraft of the British Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force. After receiving considerable damage from British battleships HMS King George V and HMS Rodney, the Bismarck was sunk with much loss of life. That is all.”

  Biggs heard cheers drifting through the ship, but not many. He looked to the others, said, “That’s good, right? I mean, really good?”

  Wakeman seemed oddly subdued, had stopped his card game and was staring into space. Mahone put down his cards, shook his head. Biggs was confused, saw Kincaid move in through the hatchway. Biggs wanted to ask him the question, thought better of it. He assumed Kincaid had something to say.

  “You worms hear that? You suck that in?”

  The responses were muted, and Biggs still didn’t understand, waited for more. Kincaid said, “You know how big that son of a bitch Bismarck was? No need to guess. She was better than forty-one thousand tons. A third bigger than this whale. Now she’s on the bottom of the ocean. Anybody thinks we’re too tough, that nobody can kick our ass? Well, worms, the toughest ship in the world just got its ass kicked. Chew on that one.”

  Kincaid moved back out through the hatch, and Biggs looked again toward the others, saw no hint of cheering or gloating over what he imagined to be a great victory. Two tables away, Lorenzo said, “I loved that ship. Read all about her. She had fifteen-inch big guns, and she was a hell of a lot bigger than us. She was eight hundred feet. And she could make thirty knots. On our best day, we do about twenty-one. Any ship in this navy ever tangle up with her, it might have been ‘Good night, nurse.’ I guess the Limeys got lucky.”

  Biggs was still confused, said, “But she was the enemy, right? I mean, we’re buddies with the English…the Limeys, right?”

  Wakeman slid his cards aside. “Tommy, something you ain’t learned yet. And I hope you do pretty quick. You know, when you play on a ball team, like maybe the Tigers, and you’re playing the Yankees. Sure, you wanna win. But over there in that dugout, maybe there’s Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth. You’d respect that, right? You’d respect them? And, you’d try like hell to strike ’em out.”

  “Yeah, guess so, sure.”

  “Well, the Bismarck was Babe Ruth. She was a bigger, faster, and stronger battleship than this one. We respect that, Tommy. If we ever had to fight her, would we try like hell to sink her? Damn right. But now she’s sunk. And you can cheer if you want to. But I’ll take my hat off to her. And even more important, we learned something today, that we better not forget. There ain’t a ship on this earth that can’t be sunk.”

  * * *

  —

  It was quiet in sick bay, Dr. Johnson reading a book in one corner of the smaller room, two of the pharmacist’s mates playing cards. Biggs had taken advantage of the calm, knew that by tonight, as liberty ended, the place would likely fill up with the afflicted, as happened every night the ship was in port.

  He stared at the paper again, pen in hand, wrote the date at the top. He was still annoyed with himself, thought, You’re out of excuses, Tommy. Just write her the damn letter. He glanced over at the doctor, whose eyes were buried in some novel. He looked again to the blank paper, pondered the date, did the simple math in his head. Her birthday’s in ten days, he thought. Wonder if Pop will do anything for her, if he’ll even remember. The neighbors will know, I guess. Maybe. But he won’t let them do anything for her, no fussing. Anybody spends a nickel on her, he takes it like a damn insult. Well, I’d fuss if I could. I guess this is the best I can do.

  Dear Mom,

  Back in port now, after most of a week at sea. We did a bunch of maneuvers, fired a whole bunch of antiaircraft shells. Not much for the gunners to shoot at, maybe a seagull. (that’s just a joke). Sorry to hear about Aunt Edna’s poodle. And Cousin Barney’s leg. If he was here, we could fix him up. I like the doctors a lot. They’re teaching me all about working in sick bay, and they say I could go to corpsman training in a year or so, if that’s what I want to do. I think it is, Mom. I’ll never go to college, pretty sure of that. This is as close as I’ll come. I’m sending you some pay, a money order, to help out. Also, maybe you can buy yourself something nice for your birthday. Don’t let Pop talk you out of that. You deserve it, maybe something pretty. So, happy birthday. And don’t ever forget that I love you. Pop too, I guess.

  Love, Tommy

  He reread the letter, saw Johnson looking at him.

  “Her birthday, right?”

  Biggs nodded, had forgotten he’d mentioned it. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “You sending home your pay? A lot of the men send something.” />
  “Most of it, sir. I keep enough to go to town maybe once a month. That’s all I need.”

  Johnson shook his head, smiled. “If you say so, Mr. Biggs. But most of the sailors I know think of liberty as the only reason they joined the navy. I know the phar-mates feel that way. Three of them are going ashore tonight, and probably half the corpsmen. Mr. Vaughan went last night. But you? It feels like I have to pry you out of here.”

  Biggs looked again at the letter. “I’m sending her enough to buy herself a nice present, if Pop don’t grab it all.” He paused. “I guess you’re right about liberty. It’s been a long week. Geez, sir, I sure wish I had a liberty pass.”

  Johnson laughed. “Don’t go all hangdog on me, Mr. Biggs. Hand me that pen.”

  Biggs obliged, and Johnson reached into a drawer, pulled out the paper, went to work. He handed the pass to Biggs, said, “Just try to be a little more civilized this time, Mr. Biggs. You’re supposed to clean up the messes, not become one.”

  * * *

  —

  It had already become more routine, Biggs falling in with the others, stuffing into the taxis, impatiently enduring the journey to town. Once in Honolulu, he moved with the flow of sailors toward the obvious places, the more popular destinations. This time, he ignored the street that led to the beaches, to the enormous statue of King Kamehameha. He knew exactly where he was going, saw it now: the Black Cat.

  The beer was awful, something he was trying to get used to. He still had not acquired the taste for Primo, but the other labels, even familiar ones, were considerably more expensive. He moved outside, saw sailors tipping their bottles skyward, some not pausing until the brew was gulped down. Then, they returned to the bar, to do it all again. Biggs felt a certain admiration for that. He had seen men drink a half dozen brews in quick succession, a feat he would never attempt.

  As he fought to swallow his way through his first bottle, he thought of Wakeman. No liberty for him tonight, he thought. That afternoon, Wakeman had been assigned to swab duty on the quarter deck. Kincaid happened to catch Wakeman reading a letter from one of his girlfriends, still with the mop resting on his arm. Kincaid had done what he always did, reacted to Wakeman’s self-indulgence with his usual profane fury. When Kincaid ripped the letter into pieces, Wakeman naturally enough took offense, but Kincaid took much bigger offense. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would put Wakeman in the brig, but sometimes Kincaid’s punishment was worse. And so now, Wakeman was still swabbing the quarter deck, and might be doing that all night long.

  Biggs finished the beer, the last gulp going down just a little more smoothly. He stood to the side of the current of sailors, eyed the Black Cat again. It’s thirty cents, he thought. Mom won’t mind if I hold back a little money for me. It’s just beer. The guilt slipped away with thoughts of the next bottle. At least it would be cold.

  “Hey!” The voice carried toward him above the din of the mob, and he ignored it, focused on making his way into the Black Cat.

  “Hey! Tommy! Hey!”

  The voice was closer, and he tried to see the source, but the flow of men was carrying him along. He eased his way off the street, his back against a wooden building, and heard it again.

  “Hey, Tommy! Hey, over here!”

  He smiled now, knew the voice, searched the crowd, saw the small man struggling to get through the mass of white uniforms. Russo was there now, offering a strong handshake, both men enjoying the moment.

  “I’ll be damned, Ray. I wasn’t sure where the hell your ship sailed off to. Besides that, I figured you drowned by now.”

  “No more than you.”

  “Yeah, but at least I can swim.”

  “You mean that splashing around we used to do in the river? I know your mom did her damnedest to teach us both how to swim. All I did was drink nasty water and stick my feet in the mud. At least you can doggy-paddle, Tommy. I can’t even tread water.”

  Biggs laughed. “I guess that’s why they put us on ships and not under them.”

  Russo showed the wide smile Biggs knew well, but the razzing came in a steady flow.

  “Well, my boat’s a hell of a lot smaller than yours, so when I fall overboard, it’ll be easier finding me. I hear they use battleships to teach those guys in the circus—you know, the ones who get shot out of a cannon? You training for that?”

  “Nah, we’re taking target practice on all those little ships around the harbor. Yours is probably next.”

  They stared at each other with wide smiles, a long few seconds, and Russo said, “Damn, Tommy, it’s good to see you. So, how you doing? Hawaii looks pretty nice. Navy life okay?”

  “Better than that. I’m assigned to sick bay, when I’m not painting the hull. I work for really good doctors. They want me to go in for corpsman training.”

  Russo nodded, still the big smile. “Proud of you. Knew you’d do good. Hey, you hear about the Bismarck?”

  “Yeah. Hell of a thing. Bunch of my shipmates feeling kinda bad about it.”

  “Why? They German or something?”

  Biggs realized that Russo wouldn’t understand, but he wouldn’t push it. “Nah, they just like battleships. So, how about you? How you doing?”

  Russo shrugged. “Made it to seaman second class, so I figure I’ll make it to admiral in about four hundred years. I paint the hull every week, swab the deck about ten times a day. I like the airplanes we serve, though—big noise, a lot of fun watching them take off on the water.”

  Biggs said, “Hey, come on. You want a beer?”

  Russo made a face. “Nah. Nasty stuff. I’m still trying to find a place that has Chianti. And speaking of nasty stuff, what the hell are you doing in this part of town? I never figured you for Hotel Street.”

  Biggs laughed. “You’re here too, right? Hey, it’s something to do. One of my shipmates introduced me to the place. But never mind about that. How’s your family?”

  Russo’s expression changed, the smile gone, a long pause. “I didn’t want to tell you. Didn’t want you upset. My papa died, Tommy. That construction accident last year…He was hurt in the head more than we knew.”

  Biggs felt a cold shock. “Jesus, Ray. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “Mama’s trying to get by, and my sisters are helping out. I think, when my hitch is up, I gotta go home, try to find a decent job close by. The navy experience might help that. The chief on the Curtiss said that there could be a lot of seaplanes in a place like Jacksonville. I’m trying to learn what it takes to work on ’em, a mechanic maybe. Sounds like a job somebody might need.”

  Biggs stared at him, one thought punching him. Mom didn’t write about that? Well, no. Pop didn’t have much use for “that Italian fella.”

  Biggs wasn’t sure what else to say. “You can’t just stay in the navy? Make a career? You could make a decent wage if you move up a little, go for machinist or fireman or something. Hell, I’m making thirty-six bucks a month now. The petty officers make a hell of a lot more than that. And nobody’s gonna toss you out the door when times get tough.”

  Russo shook his head. “Been all through this with my CO, and the chief. My family needs me close to home. My sisters are too young, Mama’s only forty-five, but she’s got no skills, and you know there’s nothing in Palatka. She can’t make it being a waitress, and I’m not having that anyway. Anything better than that? Hell, she didn’t even finish high school.”

  “You could get out early then, like a hardship discharge?”

  “No. I want to finish my hitch. I send home what I can every payday, but Mama don’t want me quitting. I guess I don’t either.”

  Biggs felt supremely depressed, completely detached from the mindless celebration that drifted past the two of them. “I don’t know what else to say, Ray. You got me into this, and I gotta say, it’s the best decision I ever made.”

  Ru
sso grabbed his arm, gave it a hard squeeze. “Then I’m happy, Tommy. Something good came out of this. I’m happy for you. And I’ll push hard to learn something useful on the Curtiss. You’re right, there’s a lot of technical stuff on any ship, and the guys seem willing to help me out.”

  Biggs thought, Because you didn’t quit. “It’ll work out, Ray. Give it time.”

  Russo managed a smile. “I gotta stick around regardless. I’m curious as hell how long it’s gonna take you to fall overboard.”

  FOURTEEN

  Hull

  THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C.—THURSDAY, JUNE 12, 1941

  For several weeks, he had been coming into the office at the department more frequently. Too many dispatches were flowing in from the offices overseas, a level of heat he could feel coming from too many foreign capitals. The war that Japan was waging in China had continued with as much ferocity as ever, with no indication from Japan that it had any thoughts of agreeing to a withdrawal or even a temporary cease-fire.

  He turned the chair around, faced the large window, and stared out toward the Washington Monument. He thought of Washington the man, so decisively handling a crisis that was utterly unique. There is very little that is unique about war these days, he thought. Entire countries are consumed, populations displaced, or worse. It is all too common. So what can we do now to be decisive, to repair so much that is broken?

  He turned the chair back to the desk, and his perfect view of the portraits of Lincoln and Grant. Interesting pairing, he thought. Lincoln would charm, and Grant would fight. So, they have predicted our future. We tread ever so carefully down the middle of those paths. Clearly, I am the charmer. He smiled at his joke. There are warriors aplenty in this town. Stimson, for one. Age has hardened him, made him inflexible. If the president suggested that tomorrow we attack Germany, Henry would be the first to give a cheer.