by Jeff Shaara
Biggs drank, then lay flat again, staring beyond the blue, his eyes picking out moving shapes. His mind swirled with the same questions from his childhood: Why is it blue? What’s up there past the blue part? He pushed away Wakeman’s talk about the gunners, all the envy about firing weapons, jumping with both feet into a war. He had kept Dr. Johnson’s advice tucked away, reminding himself that no matter the enthusiasm for the adventure of war, there was no escaping the simple fact that if you find joy in shooting those big guns, there might be an enemy out there, taking joy in shooting at you.
* * *
—
When the ship had first moved into dry dock, the scuttlebutt had been that the repairs were due to be completed by the fourth of November. Like so many rumors before, there was no truth to this one either. It wouldn’t be until the next day, November 12, that Arizona’s great wound would be pronounced healed and, to the delight of the entire crew, the water of the harbor allowed to fill the enormous trough around the ship. Once she was afloat, the tugboats backed her out of the flooded dry dock, positioning her again along her perch against Ford Island. Most of the crew still embraced the fantasy that Bremerton was their next port of call.
After one day’s speculation, the orders were issued, and the Arizona once again slipped out through the narrow entrance to the harbor. The crew pressed their questions where they could, but there were no satisfactory answers. The orders came for a submarine watch, and with that a heightened sense of alarm among the senior officers, even if no one could communicate to the crew exactly why. And for all those who still held to the desperate dream that they would steam gloriously eastward, the persistent fantasy of lengthy liberties in Bremerton or Long Beach, very soon it was apparent that the ship was far out to sea for the sole purpose of drills, training and running around in circles.
TWENTY-FIVE
Hull
THE CARLTON HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D.C.—SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1941
Stimson drank from the coffee cup, set it down beside him. “I am the head of a department where confusion is standard operating procedure. So much authority divided between the services is simply idiotic.”
Hull tried to read how serious Stimson was, then said, “Anything you want to talk about?”
“I mean that there are wrestling matches going on all over the military to see who can make the biggest splash with the White House. The army and navy have separate intelligence commands, two groups trying to do the same job, deciphering all the boogie woogie that flows through their offices. I’ve told them to coordinate, to work together, to analyze the information they’re receiving from all over the world. If I have to put up with spies and all that under-the-table crap, at least they can try to be efficient about it. Too often it’s a damn competition, somebody racing into my office with some dribble of intelligence just so they can thump their chest that they beat out the other guy. Nobody’s in charge, and then, everybody’s in charge.”
Stimson paused. “You know, they don’t have this kind of foolishness when there’s a dictator. One man runs the show, so one man makes every decision. You tell people what the hell to do, and nobody argues with you.”
Hull wasn’t sure if Stimson really believed any of that. But he didn’t respond, his eyes focused outside, so many of the trees bare of leaves. After a long moment, he said, “You’ll make it work. Nobody in the War Department wants you to get mad at them. You’re too frightening.”
Stimson made a low laugh. “I assume you mean that as a compliment.”
“Of course. I don’t want you mad at me either.” He kept his eyes on the street, people passing by in heavy coats, the first cold weather of the season. “I don’t care for this time of year, Henry. I get impatient for spring to get here even before Christmas. Everything just seems so bleak.”
Stimson laughed, surprising him. “Of course it’s bleak. The entire world is bleak. That’s what we’re trying to change.”
Hull saw a family leading a small dog, the animal wrapped in a sweater. “I suppose that’s the diplomat’s job. Your job is to oversee the military, make sure everybody has the right boots on, that the tanks have plenty of gasoline. Not much controversy over that, I suppose.”
Stimson seemed puzzled, said, “My job’s a lot more complicated than that, and you know it. What the hell’s eating you?”
Hull turned away from the window, looked at him. He didn’t want an argument. “Sorry, Henry. I’m thinking too much, I guess. You want to yell at anyone, you go right ahead. It’s the War Department, after all. People expect you to be a grouchy old fart. You do a fine job of it too. My job is to be pleasant to everyone, offer the happy handshake, all the while making sure I’m more clever than the other guy, that I can figure him out first. The worst thing I could ever do is lose my temper. There are times, when some smiling liar is sitting across from me, that I want to kick him in the shins. But nope, can’t do that. I’m supposed to make peace with everybody.”
Stimson reached for the coffee cup. “I agree, your job is harder. Soldiers and sailors follow orders. You can’t order anybody to do a damn thing. If some foreign hotsy-totsy gets mad at you, they walk out and raise hell with their government or the newspapers. Don’t forget, I did your job once. These days, you can have it. I’m not good at being nice.”
Hull scanned the papers on his desk. “You know, the president has pretty much handed me the Pacific, told me to take care of our problems with the Japanese. Churchill has him arm in arm, and their priority is the Atlantic, Europe, all of that.”
Stimson sipped from the cup, made a face. “Coffee’s cold. Can you have an aide bring me another one? And, just so we’re clear, Cordell, the Atlantic is my priority too. The Pacific isn’t much more than a bitching contest, whether it’s the Japanese, the Chinese, or anyone else who feels trespassed upon. And of course, you can bitch on our behalf as much as the rest of them. In a nice way, of course. But Europe’s different. There’s a shooting war that’s spread out all over the damn place. If the good guys lose…well, I don’t have to spell it out.”
Hull saw one of his young aides leaning past the doorway.
“Mr. Jordan, bring a fresh cup of coffee for the secretary. Then you’re excused. Go over to the State Department, see what needs tending to.”
The young man disappeared, and there was the sound of a coffee pot, the clink of a fresh china cup. He returned now, said, “I hope this is all right, sir. It’s been in the pot for a while.”
“Thank you, son. It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”
“No…I mean, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear anything. I’ll be leaving now.”
Hull bristled at Stimson’s unnecessary admonition. It’s not his place, he thought. And I trust every one of my people to keep their mouths shut. Well, most of them, anyway.
Stimson looked into the outer room, waited for the aide to leave, then lowered his voice. “You see the latest from Magic? I know the Japanese are your bailiwick, but I do pay attention to what’s going on.”
“I’ve seen a number of the Purple messages lately. Most are the usual chatter. I’m concerned about the new foreign minister, and the instructions he’s giving Ambassador Nomura.”
Stimson tested the heat of the coffee, blew carefully, the steam fogging his glasses. He set the cup down, said, “Nomura’s being told to bring us to terms, and quick. What do you make of that?”
“It’s more involved than that, I think. But you’re right, they’ve told Nomura to keep talking to us, and get us to agree to all the Japanese conditions, and to do it by November twenty-fifth.”
Stimson thought a moment, said, “What are you planning to do about that?”
It was an odd question, and Hull said, “I’m going to keep talking to them, of course. There is no alternative I can accept.”
Stimson frowned, shook his head. “There are always alt
ernatives. Sometimes you have to do what needs doing, push your buttons before the other fellow pushes his. We have a flock of B-17s designated to be deployed to the Philippines, and they should be there in a few weeks. Let’s say MacArthur sends them to fly over Tokyo. No bombs, nothing ridiculous, yet. It’s just a little show we give to their emperor, which just might make their demands a little more flexible.”
It cannot happen that way, Hull thought. It’s too easy for him to say that, and he knows better. And you might start a war. Thank God the president understands that.
“I will continue to talk. And listen. It’s the only way, Henry.”
Stimson shrugged. “For now. Thanks for the coffee, but I need to go. I have a meeting at the Department of the Navy. Knox and Stark are getting a barrelful of bellyaching from Hawaii, from Admiral Kimmel. Seems Kimmel thinks he needs an extra fleet added to the one he has now. Never mind that there’s no reason for any fleet to be out there in the first place. I’m considering moving a good number of his ships to the Philippines, adding to the B-17s we’ve promised MacArthur. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that if we’re under any threat by the Japanese, the Philippines will be the target that matters most. But Admiral Kimmel’s having a tantrum about losing any more ships. He’s afraid we’re going to move everything he’s got to the Atlantic. I’m not completely opposed to that, but I’ll see what Knox and Stark have to say about it. Tomorrow, I’ll check in on General Marshall, see what the army thinks.”
Stimson pulled himself up slowly, struggling through obvious stiffness in his legs. Hull rose as well, moved to the doorway, waited, held out his hand. Stimson shook it, and Hull could feel the man’s weakness. He tried to ignore that, said, “Glad you came by, Henry. Good luck with your admirals.”
Stimson moved past him, then stopped, said, “Admirals and generals. They think they know so much more than us mere mortals.” He went to the door, stopped again. “Meant to ask you, where’s your wife? Mine’s always pushing us to get together, dinner or what have you. She makes a murderous coffee cake.”
Hull wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “Frances is out gathering up whatever she’s planning for Thanksgiving dinner. I know better than to interfere.”
“Wise man.”
Stimson was gone now, and Hull stared at the closing door. He thought of the Japanese, and all he still had to do, the efforts that had so far been useless. But we have to talk, he thought. There is no other way.
* * *
—
The Magic machines had intercepted an unusual message sent via the Purple codes, and it immediately crossed the desks of everyone in Washington authorized to receive it. It was an oddly detailed set of instructions from the Japanese foreign ministry to its consulate in Honolulu. The instructions called for the entire area in and around Pearl Harbor to be laid out in a series of grid lines, as though a checkerboard was to be superimposed over a map. The instructions also called for the consulate to designate the types and classes of the warships anchored in the harbor.
Hull’s reaction to the intercept was concern, but the cryptologists and the ranking military officers all the way up the chain of command dismissed his worries. They described the message as just one more peculiar example of Japanese attention to detail. Hull had no reason to disagree, and no reason to act beyond what he was told. After all, those men were the experts.
* * *
—
Hull’s meetings continued with Ambassador Nomura, the exhausting back-and-forth of proposals and arguments from the Japanese that never seemed to change. Through it all, Nomura kept up the pretense of good humor and pleasant conversation, and seemed completely agreeable to the proposals Hull offered, solutions to the dangerous difficulties that stood in the way of a genuine peace in the Pacific. Hull repeated his cautionary warnings about all that could go terribly wrong, and Nomura accepted them with enthusiasm, insisting he would communicate those warnings and Hull’s proposed solutions to his superiors in Tokyo.
But Nomura could relate only the responses that he was ordered to give, and the responses from Tokyo were maddeningly consistent. If the United States would agree to everything Japan wanted, including lifting the embargoes, all would be made well, and surely, the Japanese would embrace the peace. Meanwhile, the occupation of China would continue, as would the occupation of Southeast Asia. There was no guarantee on any level that the Japanese would end their designs on the Dutch East Indies, or on the islands spread all across the South Pacific.
THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C.—MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1941
As Nomura had told Hull weeks before, the Japanese foreign ministry was sending him an assistant, or co-worker, or any other euphemism Hull wished to apply. There was no doubt at all in Hull’s mind, even before he met the man, that the Japanese government was sending Nomura a babysitter.
Saburo Kurusu was as opposite from Nomura as a man could be. Unlike the hesitant and slightly clumsy Nomura, Kurusu spoke perfect English, likely aided by his marriage to an American woman. While Nomura continued to display a naive charm, Kurusu seemed to Hull to be little more than a snake, a small, thin man, with the narrow mustache and glasses that gave him an unfortunate resemblance to the most racist stereotype of Hollywood’s version of a Jap. But Hull measured the man by far more serious considerations. Kurusu had formerly been the Japanese ambassador to Germany, and as such, had been the signatory of the Tripartite Pact. No matter what other proposals Kurusu might bring to the table, Hull knew it was unlikely Kurusu would negotiate any terms that would upset the Germans.
As they began their first meeting, marked by the usual cheerful politeness, Hull was immediately convinced that he could believe nothing that Kurusu said to him. Beyond that, he simply didn’t like the man.
* * *
—
We ought to wait and see what turn the war takes and remain patient. However, the situation renders this out of the question. The deadline is set and there will be no change. You see how short the time is. Therefore, do not allow the United States to sidetrack us and delay the negotiations any further. Press them for a solution on the basis of our proposals, and do your best to bring about an immediate solution.
He finished reading the intercept, read it a second time. The messenger waited patiently, and Hull slid the paper back into its envelope, stared at it for a moment, handed it to the man, who said, “Thank you, sir. I must return to the decryption office. Enjoy your day, sir.”
The man didn’t wait for any acknowledgment, left quickly. Hull heard the outer door close, and now his aides appeared, waiting for instructions. He waved them away without speaking, sat back in the soft chair, turned it toward the window and the gray gloom of a chilly November afternoon. The aides are asking each other what this is about, he thought. Probably do that every time this happens. I would too, I suppose. They’re used to messages from the White House, from Stimson, from any of the ambassadors in every part of the world. But the Magic messages are different, so very unusual. This is secret, what that messenger with his pistol carries in his sealed folder. I wonder if he knows. Is he tempted to stop for a doughnut and scan the decryptions over a cup of coffee? No, it’s not funny, none of it.
He thought of the text he had just seen, the obvious message. Japan is telling Nomura that if we don’t meet the deadline he’s been given, then…what? They set off bombs in Washington? In New York? They assassinate someone important? They send their army to invade the Philippines? That’s what Stimson thinks, certainly.
He thought of Nomura. A decent man, unless I’ve been fooled completely. The Japanese offer us the pretense that we are negotiating, that it’s a give-and-take. Nomura has become a mindless servant, marching in whatever direction they point him. Kurusu is here to make sure that Nomura makes no mistakes. And that we keep our lines of communication open, so that we may avert a war. What happens ne
xt? Stimson would push them hard, maybe even threaten. Is that the better course? No, it most certainly is not. Starting a war is never the right thing to do.
I will take both men to see the president, and let Franklin form his own opinion of Mr. Kurusu, and perhaps we will learn a little more about what this “deadline” might mean. But you already know what it means. We sign on the dotted line, or we accept the consequences. How much of that is just bluster or posturing? Have they gone too far, or are they pushing us, to see how far we will go? I know the military people believe we must show Japan that we aren’t to be pushed around. But damn it all, this isn’t a school yard. Japan isn’t simply the latest bully who should be punched in the nose.
He heard sounds in the outer office, the voice of his wife, saw her now, one of his aides relieving her of an armload of bags. “Please put them right over there, Jeffrey. I’ll deal with them in a moment.”
The young man did as he was told, said, “My pleasure, ma’am.”
Hull said to the aides, “You two can go on home. Now that the real chief has returned, I’m the aide.”
The young men responded with smiles, brief farewells. They were out quickly, and Frances waited for the door to close, said, “What’s wrong?”
Hull moved back to his chair, sat. “Did I say anything was wrong?”
“Your face does. Don’t hide it, Cordell. I know better.”
He felt the usual surrender, said, “Yes, you do. I don’t know how else to say it. The Japanese continue to insist that their goal is world peace. And it’s a lie. They’re testing us, testing how much backbone we have.”
* * *
—
For the next several days, Hull, Nomura, and Kurusu wrangled and wrestled over demands from both sides, the sticking points varying from Japan’s occupation of China to its ongoing alliance with Germany, from the oil embargo to Japan’s occupation of Southeast Asia.