To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  He heard his name, was surprised to see Dr. Condon.

  “Headed into town, Mr. Biggs?”

  “Yes, sir. You too?”

  “I’m having dinner at the Halekulani with a few medical officers. A couple fellows from the Oklahoma will be there, so I’m sure they’ll buy us a few drinks, and I’m sure we’ll get in a few jabs at their skipper’s bad driving. I hope they have a sense of humor.”

  “They’re probably hoping you have a sense of humor, sir. They busted up our ship, coulda sent us to the bottom. Nothing funny about that.”

  Condon rubbed his chin. “Very good, Mr. Biggs. Maybe you should come along.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I doubt your friends would be happy having an apprentice at your fancy dinner.”

  “Any more than your bunkmates would be happy sitting down to eat with an officer. I guess it’s just the world we live in. What are you watching?”

  “Oh, sir, just the steel workers. It’s pretty amazing how quick they can patch us up. I just worry somebody’s gonna get hurt. Looks pretty dangerous, all of it. I’m not sure we could do much for one of those fellows in our sick bay.”

  “You’re thinking like a corpsman, Mr. Biggs. But Dr. Johnson and I have already spoken with the naval hospital over at Hospital Point. What we can’t handle, they can. We’re just hoping it doesn’t come to that.”

  HONOLULU, HAWAII—TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1941

  The beer was still awful, but it was all he could afford. He was determined to send his pay home, but his mother had protested, wouldn’t accept his generosity. Instead, she had assured him the money would be there when he returned home, in the savings account she had opened for him at the one surviving bank in Palatka. He had been surprised at that, still insisted she use the money as it was needed, but she insisted right back, it was his money, and certainly, once he left the navy, he would need it more than they would. Biggs had begun to suspect that his father was behind that, that his pride would never let him accept his son’s help to pay the bills.

  He took another gulp of the beer, forced it down. He didn’t know how to tell her, tell either one of them, that he wasn’t sure if he’d ever come home, not as a civilian anyway. I love the navy, he thought, and if it works out, it could be a hell of a good career. Compared to…what? Palatka?

  He glanced to the side, saw Russo staring down into his bottle. Ray’s got it a hell of a lot worse. His whole family needs him. Joining the navy was his idea, but he’ll have to go home first.

  Russo seemed to rock slowly on the stool, and Biggs said, “Geez, Ray, how many you had?”

  Russo responded with a mumble. He let out a loud belch, leaned forward and put his head down onto the bar. Biggs knew he had no business scolding Russo for anything at all. Ray was as close a friend as he ever had, but Biggs wasn’t comfortable pushing him to talk about his misery.

  He jostled Russo, saw the bartender eyeing them with a hard stare. “Hey, Ray. Sit up. You’ll get us tossed out the door. Come on. You can’t sleep on the bar.”

  Ray sat up, blinking, looked at Biggs, smiled. “I’m okay, Tommy. Just kinda thinking about things, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know. You tell me when you’re ready to head back to the ship, and I’ll take care of the tab. They’re gonna want these stools.”

  Russo studied his bottle again, tilted it back, most of the beer finding his mouth. Biggs watched him carefully, a glance again at the bartender. His own bottle was empty, a relief, his gut already churning from the few he had consumed. He wanted to ask just when Russo was planning to ship out, if he would still complete his hitch. But it was a subject neither man seemed willing to raise. He’ll be out of here soon enough, Biggs thought, back home to a whole new life he never planned.

  He questioned himself often, why he seemed to be different from so many of the others, even the men in his own compartment. So many were homesick for whatever life they had left behind them. He thought of Mahone, the man who wrote a letter to his parents nearly every day, sad, emotional letters about how he couldn’t wait to come home. Hell, I write my mom plenty, and if Pop ever sent me a note, any kind of note, I’d answer him. But I don’t need to unload every detail on them, every day. A lot of what I do ain’t all that interesting. And all the stuff she writes about. That just reminds me I don’t want to be there hardly at all.

  But, Jesus, all around me, there’re so many complaints, every day, so many of us griping about Hawaii, the ship, the duty, the officers. And of course, Petty Officer Kincaid. Biggs shook his head. Now there’s something to gripe about. The biggest bastard in the navy. Maybe the world.

  He leaned closer to Russo. “Hey, Ray, you got anybody on your ship who loves to bust asses just for no good reason?”

  Russo seemed to think for a moment, as though he was pushing through a headful of cobwebs. “Nah.”

  Biggs laughed. “You probably forgot.” He looked around, the bar packed with sailors, a handful of marines in one corner, standing like a human fortress. He blinked through the smoky haze, tried to remember the name of the bar they were in, said it aloud, “Blue Moon.”

  Beside him, Russo surprised him with a sudden burst of clarity. “It’s not the Black Cat?”

  “Nope. I got tired of that place. Too crummy. Too many fights. And the beer’s bad.”

  “This beer’s bad.”

  Biggs couldn’t argue with that, but his bottle was empty and he motioned to the bartender, an older Hawaiian with no teeth. “One more, please, sir.”

  The old man said, “You better pay up first. Your buddy’s had enough. You too, maybe. That’s four dollars twenty.”

  Biggs groaned, knew that all he had was a five, and there was still the cab ride. But he couldn’t take anything from Russo, no matter how much beer his friend had consumed.

  “Fine. We’re done.”

  He dug the five out of the pocket on his shirt, handed it to the bartender, who seemed surprised, as though he had expected trouble. Biggs felt mildly offended, thought, Look, pal, my buddy’s drunk, but he’s not a thug. You oughta keep an eye on those marines over there. He suddenly felt guilty for that, had no reason to spout out the same prejudice against the marines that they felt for the sailors. He had become very close to Finley, even if Finley had to suffer ribbing from the marines around him, wondering why he even spoke to a swabby. It’s all so ridiculous, Biggs thought.

  He put a hand on Russo’s shoulder. “Come on, Ray. We’re done here and there’s guys waiting for our seats. I got no more dough.”

  Russo slid clumsily off the stool, held himself up on Biggs’s shoulder. “Jesus, Tommy. I’m kinda blasted.”

  “Let’s go, I’ll get you into a taxi.”

  Russo followed him outside, the air cool, breezy, a blessed relief from the bar. But the streets were as busy as always, a slow-moving river of white, boisterous sounds coming from the clubs, music and shouting and drunk revelry. Biggs couldn’t avoid a feeling of gloom, knew that when Russo went home, he might never see him again.

  The rendezvous tonight was a rare success for a general plan they had hatched weeks ago. Neither of them could know when the other had liberty, and there was no way for low-ranking seamen to communicate between ships, but they had agreed that whenever they had a pass, the Blue Moon would be their first stop. If they both had liberty, they would find each other easily. Tonight had been only the second time it had worked, a stroke of luck for both of them.

  He held Russo’s arm up, checked his watch: nearly ten o’clock. “Come on, Ray, there’s a taxi stand over this way.”

  Russo could barely walk, Biggs supporting him. Men all around him staggered by, some of them as bad off as Russo. Biggs was surprised to see Wakeman, coming toward him.

  Wakeman said, “I thought it was you. Hard to pick faces out of this school of fish. So, this your hometown buddy?”

&nbs
p; Biggs stared at Wakeman’s face, a deep purple stain under his eye.

  “Yeah. Ray Russo. He’s a little foggy. Ed, holy cow. What the hell happened to you? Marines again?”

  Wakeman touched the bruise, flinched. “Ow. Damn. Is it getting bad? You can see it?”

  “See it? Hell, Ed, the whole fleet can see it. It’s all over your face. What did you do?”

  “Look, Tommy, I don’t mean to sound insulting or anything. It’s just that I can’t always understand people from your part of the world.”

  “Palatka?”

  “No, I mean the South. I was waiting for my beer, and heard kind of a ruckus behind me, this big fellow, sailor, pushes into me, says something. He was nice about it, but I didn’t understand his accent. He says it again, and damn it all, I got no idea what he’s saying, talks with a mouthful of marbles. Well, hell, I guess I pissed him off, and he was pretty tanked, so he swings at me, catches me flush on the face. I ain’t ashamed to say that I went down, kinda hard. It ain’t been too often I actually saw stars. His buddies helped me up, more mouths and marbles, and one of ’em wanted to buy me a beer, I think. I declined. Figured I’d best get the hell out of there. Then I see the guy who decked me, leaning over the bar, puking. I guess that’s what he was saying. Maybe I needed you there to translate.”

  Biggs fought the urge to laugh, his eyes on Wakeman’s glorious shiner. “I might not have understood him either. Down home, we say some people talk with a mouthful of grits. Same idea.”

  Wakeman prodded the bruise again, said, “Guess I’ll be seeing you in sick bay. This hurts like hell.”

  “I’m heading back to the ship now. I just want to get Ray into a taxi, so he can get out to the Curtiss.”

  “I’ll give you a hand. Looks like you’ll need it.”

  Russo had sagged down to his knees, and Wakeman moved closer, helped Biggs pull him upright.

  Wakeman said, “He’s a little fellow. Thank God for that. But if he says something I can’t understand? I’m getting the hell out of the way.”

  USS ARIZONA, DRY DOCK, PEARL HARBOR—SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1941

  The bundles were lowered by crane and a dozen crewmen unloaded the boxes and crates. The officer, a young lieutenant, called out the contents.

  “From the Wing Coffee Company, we’ve got four thousand pounds of oranges.”

  Beside Biggs, Dr. Condon stepped forward, selected one large crate. “This one.”

  The crate was pried open, and Condon eyed the oranges, then gave a nod to the lieutenant, who read from his pad.

  “From Wing, twelve hundred pounds of pears.”

  The routine was repeated, Condon making his own notes, Biggs focused more on the sheer volume of food. Condon examined a huge crate of the pears, stepped back with a nod, and the lieutenant called out, “From Chun Moon Ltd., tomatoes, seven hundred pounds.”

  Condon chose the sample to examine and the crate was pulled open, a sour stink filling the air. Condon leaned closer, said, “No good, Lieutenant. These have seen better days. There’s mold, and some of them are flat-out rotten.”

  The lieutenant leaned closer, saw it for himself, made a face. “Never understand why these folks think they can stick us with this crap. Okay, hoist it up, get it out of here. Next, from Tai Hing Company, sixteen hundred pounds of apples…”

  * * *

  —

  Biggs felt as exhausted as Condon looked, the two men stepping through the hatchway into sick bay. Johnson emerged from the office, laughed at the sight.

  “You two have a swell day on the job?”

  Condon sat heavily, pointed to another chair, permission for Biggs to sit as well.

  Condon stretched his back, said to Johnson, “I learned something today, Commander. There’s advantage to rank. I suppose that was the lesson. Otherwise you’d have been out there instead of me, smelling rotten tomatoes.”

  Johnson laughed again. “No need to get all pissy with me, Dan. I’ve done those food inspections plenty of times. I assumed you’d give Mr. Biggs his share of the fun. How bad was it?”

  Condon laughed now. “Pretty impressive, I’ll say that. Never appreciated before what it takes to stock this ship. Hell, there was fifteen hundred pounds of grapefruit. I don’t even like grapefruit. Four hundred pounds of lemons, for God’s sake.” He looked at his notepad. “A half ton of sweet potatoes, eight hundred pounds of squash, three hundred pounds of cucumbers, seventeen hundred pounds of celery, five tons of potatoes. Five tons. No wonder the boys who have to peel those things hate it so much.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Tomatoes. If we’d have eaten those things, we’d have killed half the crew.”

  Johnson looked at Biggs. “So, what did you think? The best six hours of your life?”

  Biggs shook his head. “Not sure I’d call it that, sir. I sure never seen anything like it. They loaded us with a thousand pounds of ice. I guarantee, sir, that those fellows doing all that hoisting will find a way to grab up some of that. My back hurt just watching them.”

  Johnson took Condon’s pad, looked it over. “Part of the job, Mr. Biggs. One way to fight sickness is to prevent it. As much fresh food as there is to come aboard this ship, it has to be inspected for quality. Can’t have any bad tomatoes.”

  SHORE LANDING, ADJACENT TO DRY DOCK—TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1941

  The gift of a party had come to the crew from the gunnery officers and their men, a celebration to honor Armistice Day. It was held near the dry dock, along a stretch of narrow beach.

  The gunners had provided the steaks and the charcoal, and enough beer to float the ship. Biggs had consumed the charred beef with the same enthusiasm as the men around him, and the beer was far more palatable than what they had endured in town.

  Biggs was in the grass above the rough dark sand, laid flat, staring up at a perfect blue sky. Beside him, Wakeman let out a long happy belch, said, “I guess they’re making sure we remember why there’s a holiday today. End of the Great War and all. Hell, I bet those poor bastards didn’t have a steak dinner.”

  Biggs turned his head. “Bet they did when they got home. If they got home. That was a bloody hell on all sides. Hell, Ed, I don’t wanna think about that stuff. I’d rather just lie here, drink beer, and pretend I’m in Daytona Beach.”

  Wakeman lay flat as well. “You’re right. But have you walked out there, right off this little shoreline? Water feels good, but the sand, well, hell, it ain’t sand. It feels like walking on pieces of glass. It’ll cut you to hell. Not like any beach I ever seen.”

  “You go to the beach a lot in South Dakota?”

  Wakeman laughed. “Went to somewhere in California when I was a kid. They had real sand. Not like this stuff. So, Daytona pretty nice?”

  “Never been there. Parents couldn’t afford to go. I seen pictures.”

  Wakeman raised himself to his elbows, looked at Biggs. “You know what we are? Idiots. We’re in the navy, and we don’t know a damn thing about oceans. I remember the recruiter where I signed up. All kinds of posters of white sand beaches and palm trees. Still waiting to find out where that was.”

  “It’s right here if you wanna hang at the Royal Hawaiian or the other fancy places.”

  Wakeman stared out into the harbor, a long minute. “They probably bring their sand in from Florida. Those people can afford it. Hell, I’m gonna get another beer. You?”

  “Sure.”

  Wakeman was up, gone, and Biggs heard a new voice.

  “You boys doing okay? There’s a few more steaks if anybody’s still got an appetite.”

  Biggs sat upright, saw the chief gunner’s mate, Isham, hands on his hips, pure satisfaction on his face. No one seemed willing to volunteer for any more gluttony, and Biggs turned, faced him, said, “This was really swell, Chief. You fellows did us a real good thing.”


  “Thanks. Just part of being a team, all of us. What’s your station?”

  “Hospital apprentice, sir. Tommy Biggs.”

  “Well, Hospital Apprentice Biggs, I hope you have the most boring tour of duty of any man on the ship. I kinda hope the same for all of us.”

  Isham moved away, passing through the sea of well-fed sailors, offering the same good cheer. Wakeman was back now, handed Biggs a bottle, said, “Who was that?”

  “Chief gunnery officer. Just making sure we’re all fat and happy.”

  “That man’s got maybe the best job on the ship.”

  Biggs drank from the bottle. “Why?”

  “Hell, Tommy, they get to fire all those guns—big ones, little ones. I tried for that duty, couldn’t get it. And he’s the chief? Lucky son of a bitch.”

  “Why?”

  Wakeman looked at him. “You been lying out here in the sun too long. I said, they get to fire the damn guns. Make all that racket, while the rest of us are pushing a mop. If we ever run into a real gun-shootin’ enemy, these guys get to blow ’em to hell. Like I said, it’s the best job on the ship.”

  Biggs settled back into the grass, heard commotion, men starting a football game across the field.

  Wakeman was looking that way, said, “We should head over there. Looks like it might be a good game. Hey, how come there’s no baseball game? Your team could beat hell out of anybody around here.”

  “Played day before yesterday. It was good. We beat a team from the Tennessee.”

  “How bad? I love it when you whip up on the battleships.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We won.”

  Wakeman lay flat again. “I hate it when you’re so damn humble.”

  Biggs stared into the blue for a long minute, then said, “Eighteen to three. I hit three home runs. Finley struck out fourteen guys.”

  Wakeman held up his bottle. “I knew it. Salutes to you.”