To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  The faces stared at him, Onishi with his arms still crossed.

  Genda shoved his papers into his folder, said, “Sir, I have added my voice as much as possible to call for an enormous increase in our production of aircraft. Fighters and bombers, and every other type as well. Our planes are the finest in the world. We can continue to improve them. We can use that force to prevent anyone from bombing our homes, or our ships.”

  Yamamoto looked down, shook his head.

  “The optimism of youth.” He looked at Genda now. “I agree with you, Commander. My voice is among the loudest advocating an enormous increase in aircraft production. Admiral Onishi feels the same way. And yet the Naval Ministry, the naval high command, they dismiss us, as they happily trumpet their fantasy. Right now, this day, two great new battleships are being constructed. The Yamato and the Musashi, more than sixty thousand tons each, double the size of this ship beneath our feet. Eighteen-inch guns, gentlemen; none like them in the world.

  “But no matter what anyone in Tokyo tells you, those ships won’t win a war any more than those American ships docked in Hawaii. And sadder still, for what we are spending to build those ships, Commander, I could give you most of the airplanes you ask for.”

  “What should we do, sir? How do we protest?”

  “Very carefully, Mr. Genda. A better choice is to go and do your job. Look at your plans again. Make them better. Sharpen the points, remove the blemishes, train your pilots. And then, find a way to launch a torpedo in forty feet of water.”

  SIXTEEN

  Biggs

  ONBOARD USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1941

  They had been in port for nearly two weeks, Biggs wondering if it was some kind of punishment for the men who had spent so much time complaining about the endless training exercises. But now, moored against the pier on Ford Island, the ship was undergoing extensive maintenance, most of it performed by the crew themselves. They applied yet another coat of paint, and performed service on what seemed to be every moving part, from pipe fittings to gunnery. With so much ongoing labor, liberty was being parsed out in small doses, adding to the frustration and boredom that were now becoming excruciating.

  Captain Van Valkenburgh’s push to organize teams for the various athletic competitions had been a respite for some, but the vast majority of the crew were not athletes, and many of those men were veterans who found little excitement in cheerleading the competitions on Ford Island’s ball fields. Men went about their duties with grumbling acceptance, some even grateful for whatever down time they were allowed. Others vented their frustrations in more destructive ways. With each day that passed, the number of fights had increased. Some were no more than shoving and shouting matches, exercises in creative profanity. But others were bloody and dangerous, the pent-up hostility leading to injuries more serious than a black eye.

  * * *

  —

  The two marines brought the man into sick bay with a firm grip on each shoulder. Biggs was sweeping the deck back in one corner, and he stopped, called out, “Doctor? We have a patient.”

  Dr. Johnson emerged from the small office, said, “What’s the problem here? Oh, a nasty one. Bring him over here, gentlemen.” He looked toward the far end of the compartment. “Corpsman!”

  The man came quickly, rushing past Biggs, and the doctor said, “Watch the arm. Grab some gauze and a tourniquet, in case we need it.”

  The corpsman moved away quickly and Biggs saw the patient’s blood, the man cut down one arm, a wide scrape wrapped with the torn remnants of a T-shirt.

  Johnson guided them to a table, said, “Lie here, sailor. Let’s take a look.” The sailor looked toward the marines, as though afraid to speak. One of the marines was much older, wearing the insignia of a first sergeant. He was a burly man with thick arms, a contrast to the other marine, a private, much younger.

  The older man handed a paper to the doctor and said, “Here you are, sir. Both parties signed it. Explains it all right there.”

  The doctor looked at the marine. “I don’t pay much attention to official paperwork, Sergeant. I want to hear it from you. Tell me what happened.”

  The sergeant looked at the doctor dismissively and said, “This fool decided to pick a fight with one of my men. I’m pleased to report that my man is not injured, but this one took a fall into some equipment.”

  Biggs hadn’t crossed paths with any of the marines onboard, but he couldn’t avoid thinking of Wakeman’s favorite joke, Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Expected. He kept his distance, didn’t care for the scowl coming toward him from the first sergeant, as though the man was reading his mind. The younger private moved back toward the hatchway, stood with no expression, hands clasped behind his back, the look of a man accustomed to long shifts standing guard.

  Johnson removed the bloody rag from the arm, and the sailor finally spoke.

  “Is it gonna be okay, Doc? It don’t hurt much.”

  “Just lie there. We’ll get it fixed up pretty quickly. What’s your name?”

  “Cockrum, sir. Machinist’s mate first.”

  Johnson looked toward the secure closet, called out, “Mr. Hankins? Any time now.”

  The corpsman appeared, bandages in hand, and Johnson said, “Mr. Biggs, there’s a tube of ointment in that cabinet behind you. Right now, please.”

  Biggs obeyed, handed the tube to Johnson. With the rag removed, the blood came again, dripping down onto the deck. Biggs kept back, no room yet for him to do anything else.

  As they worked, the doctor said to the older marine, “Just about have the bleeding stopped. You’re Sergeant Duveene, right? I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “Yes, sir. Just doing my job.”

  “Are you filing the report on this incident, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Colonel Fox has already been informed, and is waiting on my paperwork. The colonel has already reported the incident to the captain. Your machinist here will spend four or five days in the brig—bread and water. That’s the usual punishment for assault.”

  Johnson backed away from the patient, said to the corpsman beside him, “Mr. Hankins, finish wrapping the wound. I’m prescribing antibiotics for ten days. Let me put Mr. Block to work on that. Mr. Cockrum, we’re going to give you some pills. Make sure you take one every day until they’re gone. You understand?”

  The patient looked at Johnson with bleary eyes, nodded slowly. “I’m gonna be okay, Doc? You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He looked at the marine now, said, “Wait here. I’ll give you my own report. You’ll need that.”

  “I know the drill, Doc.”

  Johnson went to his office to work on the necessary papers. Biggs stayed back, watched the corpsman wrapping the patient’s arm in white gauze. Hankins seemed to take his time, and Duveene noticed.

  “Hey. Get on with it. He’s due for the brig, and I’m not waiting all damn day.”

  Hankins said, “You want him fixed up right, Sergeant? He starts bleeding down in the hole and you’ll have bigger problems. And you need to make sure he takes the pills.”

  Duveene said, “You ever been in the brig, son?”

  Biggs saw Hankins clench his hands, but the corpsman kept his composure, finished the last bit of work on the man’s arm.

  “Not recently. I prefer to hear about it thirdhand.”

  The marine looked back at the young private standing behind him.

  “They got a corpsman who talks like a college boy.” He turned again to Hankins. “Just get it done. Any dumb son of a bitch decides to punch it out with one of my men deserves as much time in the hole as they give him. He’ll learn to love it back down in the engine room after a few days eating dust and licking the floor clean.” He leaned closer to Cockrum. “Hey, mouth. You can’t talk? You did plenty of talking an hour ago.”

 
Cockrum stayed silent, flexed the fingers protruding below the thick white bandage. After a few seconds, he said, “Didn’t mean to get into it, Sergeant. He said some things ought not be said.”

  “Listen, machine head. Doesn’t matter what anybody says to you, you don’t haul off and swing at a guy. You’re lucky he didn’t take that arm clean off. You’re also lucky that Lieutenant Hollis stepped in when he did, or you’d have been tossed overboard.”

  The corpsman did a final examination of the arm, said, “He’s all yours, Sergeant. Just know that if our good work gets torn all to hell down there, we’ll write that up too. He’s taken enough punishment.”

  “You and the doc just worry about mopping up puke and curing jock rot. The marines run the brig and we don’t need any help.”

  Dr. Johnson emerged from the small office now, gave the marine a hard stare. “First Sergeant Duveene, I don’t appreciate any abuse of my men, including big talk. You go on and take this man to the brig, but I’ll be sure to check on him. He’s not guilty of anything more than being stupid, and that doesn’t warrant any ill treatment by you or your guards. Do you understand me?”

  “Understood, Doctor. I’ll try to keep my men out of sick bay, and you keep your men out of my brig.”

  “Fair enough. One of my people will be down there in a while to check on his wound.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  The marines moved to either side of Cockrum, took hold under his arms. Cockrum offered no resistance, moved with the men toward the hatchway, and out.

  Biggs had kept to his corner, the broom still in front of him, as though he needed some kind of shield. He looked at Johnson.

  “Wow, sir. I wouldn’t wanna cross eyes with that first sergeant. He’s one of those marines that scares people just for the fun of it.”

  Hankins laughed. “He’s a plank owner. I don’t think he’s been on land in thirty years.”

  Biggs leaned on the broom. “A what?”

  “A plank owner. An old-timer. I think he’s been on this ship or one like it since he was born. Pretty much owns the brig, which is one very good reason to stay the hell out of there.”

  “I plan to.”

  The doctor said, “Yep. Best stay clear of him. More than one man has been brought in here with a pretty severe injury because he thought he should try proving his point to the marines. I’ve had some come up here straight from the brig with cracked heads and busted ribs. I don’t approve of that sort of thing, but…well, it’s the brig. Not much different from the county jail back home.”

  Biggs said, “So, you think the marines are as tough as they say?”

  Both men laughed now, and Hankins said, “If you ask them? Sure. I guess that’s what they’re taught, that they can lick anybody on earth. But they’re not so different from any sailor on this ship. I do remember a short-arm inspection where some of the marines took pride in every case of the clap they could bring us. Not sure I’d want my sister dating one.”

  They all laughed, but Johnson held up his hands.

  “All right, no further. There’s a reason they’re trained like that. All of us might end up needing them one day, and if we’re ever in a nasty scrap, you’re likely to be in here patching them up. We’re all on the same ship.”

  The laughter faded, and Biggs returned to his broom.

  Hankins said, “Hey, sir, who’d Cockrum try to knock out?” He glanced at Biggs with a smile. “So I’ll know who to steer clear of.”

  Johnson looked at the clipboard beside him. “PFC Finley.”

  Hankins seemed surprised, said, “Woody Finley?”

  “It says Woodrow. Guess so. Why?”

  Hankins shook his head. “Glad Cockrum didn’t damage the guy. He’s supposed to be an ace right-handed pitcher. Lieutenant Janz put the word out to assemble a decent baseball team, and Finley would sure as hell be the anchor.”

  Johnson said, “There’s no team yet? I thought that was already happening.”

  “Well, sir, the football boys are practicing, and the rowers have been out in the harbor pretty regular. But the baseball team just hasn’t come together.”

  Biggs stopped the broom, said, “Petty Officer Kincaid gave us the word about athletics, and he mentioned baseball, but nothing else was said. I thought the idea had been dropped.”

  Hankins said, “Not according to Lieutenant Janz. I guess the captain said Do it, so he’s doing it. Why, you interested?”

  Biggs said, “You bet. I love it. I’m too skinny for football, and my old man gave me too many boxing lessons growing up. The kind you never win. I always played baseball.”

  Hankins said, “Well, I can tell you, I thought about boxing, had a few amateur fights when I was fresh out of high school. But there’s a guy on the West Virginia, Negro named Doris Miller. He takes people’s heads off. Guess he had to learn to fight, growing up with a girl’s name. I figured out pretty quick I needed to stick to sick bay. A few other fellas have climbed into the ring with him and found out what an ass-kicking is. So, you any good at baseball?”

  Biggs shrugged. “I used to be, maybe. So now? I’d sure like to find out.”

  * * *

  —

  The schedule had finally been posted outside his compartment, a call for any interested players to report to the upper deck, forward at 1400 hours. Permission for him to leave sick bay early was granted by Dr. Johnson, all of the sick bay crew wishing him well. He could tell exactly what they were thinking; even the doctors were wondering if their apprentice could actually play.

  It was clear and bright on the upper deck, the stretch of teak between the forward gun turrets and the bow of the ship. He gathered with the others, roughly thirty men, some jostling each other with noisy boasts of who would strike out who, who would be mouthy enough to take a pitch in his ear. Biggs eyed them all, tried to pick out the true athletes. He saw one marine, barrel-chested, thick arms, wondered if he was Finley, wondered why the machinist, Cockrum, had chosen to pick a fight with him.

  Lieutenant Janz was there now, another officer beside him, an ensign. Janz held a clipboard, a sheaf of papers.

  “Men, you signed up for the USS Arizona’s baseball team. Our goal is to field a team that will be competitive with every other team in the fleet. We’re not sure how many that will be, but if the turnout for football and other sports is any indication, we should have a healthy number. Captain Van Valkenburgh believes strongly in athletic competition, and he has expressed his confidence that every time we take the field, we will do honor to our ship.”

  He turned over the pages on his clipboard, the ensign talking to him in a low voice. After a full minute, Janz said, “Some of you have done this before, and I will count on you for leadership on this team. I see some familiar names, and I thank you for returning. From your sign-up sheets, I see we have a few pitchers, a couple of catchers, a few who specialize in fielding, and of course, as is always the case, most of you think you can hit home runs.”

  There was laughter, and Janz said, “You pitchers, fall in up close to the bow. We’ve got a box of baseballs there, and a makeshift rubber. Gloves are in that larger box. Find one you like. There’s a few for lefties, just dig for ’em. All right, Seaman Harrington, front and center. Good to have you back. You’ll catch for the pitchers. Home is marked with that steel plate over there; help ’em warm up. You fielders, spread out along the bow rail, do your best to keep the balls from rolling into the harbor.”

  Biggs watched a half dozen men move out, picking gloves, fists slapping the leather as they moved into position.

  Janz looked toward the pitchers, seemed to acknowledge one man in particular. “The first pitcher is PFC Finley. Most of you know that he’s played some minor league ball, and might still have a chance to go to the majors.” There were scattered hoots, a few claps. “You might also know that he’s probably
struck out nearly everybody in the fleet. Mr. Finley, take your place at the rubber and warm up. You hitters, take note. This might be the best way we know to determine who among you has the goods. Don’t be embarrassed or insulted if you can’t make contact. We’ll work on that best we can, and you’ll get plenty of chances. Once we put together most of a team, we’ll head out onto Ford Island, where there are some fields drawn up. For now, there’s not a lot of room up here, but most of you won’t need it.”

  The teasing seemed to animate the men, but Biggs was focused on Finley, studying his warm-up, the speed, the pop of his pitches in the catcher’s mitt. More men were watching as well, the talk quieting.

  Finley called over to Janz. “I’m ready, sir.”

  Janz looked over his papers. “In alphabetical order, the ones who claimed to be hitters…” He stopped and looked at the gathered men. A man behind Biggs said, “Lambs to the slaughter.”

  “All right, first up, Hospital Apprentice Biggs. Front and center.”

  Biggs stepped out, and Janz didn’t look at him, pointed to a tall crate.

  “Bats are there.”

  Biggs dug through the bats, some with deep scars, most badly used. He slid one from the crate, tested the weight, tapped it on the deck, making sure it wasn’t cracked.

  Janz looked at him now, impatiently. “Batter up, Mr. Biggs.”

  Biggs moved to the plate, glanced at Finley, saw a smirk, saw the same look on the faces of the other five pitchers. He stood in, took two warm-up swings. Finley made ready, a slow wind-up, the ball coming hard and fast, and straight down the middle of the plate. Biggs kept the bat on his shoulder, let the ball rip past into the catcher’s mitt.

  Janz said, “What’s wrong, sailor? You did see it, didn’t you?”