To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

McMorris looked at the others, said, “No chance, Admiral. Absolutely none.”

  THE DUNGEON, 14TH NAVAL DISTRICT, PEARL HARBOR—WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1941

  The earphones offered nothing but silence, the occasional soft crackle of static. He stared at the ceiling, his hands clenching, felt the aching need to hear something, anything, any radio signal that would offer a hint of information. He lowered his head, slid the earphones off, looked across the room, most of the others doing as he had done, searching the silence. The knock startled him, the same cadence he had heard before, and he moved to the door, knew it was the young guard who seemed so enamored of this strangely named place. Rochefort pulled the door open, was surprised to see Captain Mayfield standing on the steps behind the guard. The guard stood aside, and Mayfield said, “A minute, Commander? Outside?”

  The guard led the way, Rochefort pulling the door closed, following Mayfield up the stairs. The guard vanished, and Rochefort followed Mayfield out into the sunlight, a stark blue sky, the soft sounds of birds broken by trucks moving past, the green of the army. Rochefort said, “Looks like General Short’s busy. We being invaded?”

  Mayfield said, “Short’s ordered his people to prepare for an uprising. He thinks there’s an underground army of Japanese troops here. Those trucks are probably full of ammo, being hauled to some safe place where he can keep an eye on ’em.”

  Rochefort shook his head. “The invasion’s already here. I heard someone speaking Japanese in a restaurant a week or so ago. Must be a spy.”

  “Laugh all you want, Joe. Speaking Japanese in public might get you arrested before too much longer. We’re doing a lot of listening to a lot of people.”

  “How many of those people speaking Japanese are American citizens, for Chrissake?”

  Mayfield glanced around, caution against anyone listening to him. “Well, let me tell you about those American citizens, Joe. You know we’ve been working alongside the FBI, that we’ve got listening bugs in their consulate.”

  “Yeah, I know it. The newspapers get wind of that, and you’ll have hell to pay.”

  “Well, the newspapers might get hold of this too. The FBI just passed along something you and Commander Layton ought to know. We didn’t have the faintest idea what McCollum’s note meant, all that talk about destroying God-knows-what in London and everywhere else. Well, it’s happening here. As of this morning, the workers inside the Japanese Consulate are burning their code books and their official papers. They’re either making ready to strike us, or they’re preparing to run like hell out of here. And you still don’t know what’s going on with their ships, their carriers?”

  Rochefort felt a cold jab in his chest. “All I know is they’re not talking. I don’t know why.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Biggs

  The ship arrived on December 3, the tugboats easing her to her berth at the Port of Honolulu. She was the Lurline, a passenger liner that made a regular run from San Francisco and Los Angeles to Honolulu and back again. For this part of the journey, she carried nearly eight hundred passengers, many seeking a Christmas vacation in the tropical extravagance of Hawaii. Among those who disembarked with wide-eyed expectations were fifty-two college football players, teams from San Jose State, in California, and Willamette University, from Salem, Oregon. They each came for a competition against the team from the University of Hawaii, but as passionate as the athletes might have been for football, the voyage alone had been an adventure.

  USS ARIZONA, AT SEA—THURSDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1941

  The man let out a sharp yell, one of the mates, Vaughan, and a corpsman, Hankins, holding him down at the shoulders. Chief Isham stood beside Biggs, anchoring the man’s undamaged leg. The other leg was bound against a narrow board, wrapped in gauze, the only way the leg could be held steady. Dr. Condon worked slowly, removing the gauze straps one at a time, but every touch made the man jerk and twitch, and Condon stopped, said to Vaughan, “Ice packs. Bring a half dozen. Wrap them in gauze. Applying them will hurt enough as it is.”

  Vaughan moved away quickly, dug through the freezer, returned with the packs, handed them to Condon one at a time.

  “This will hurt, sailor. But it will numb you up a little, and keep the swelling down. You ready?”

  The man looked at Condon, nodded, and beside him, his chief said, “He’ll handle it. Tough as nails. Just a little stupid.”

  Condon looked at the chief, said, “How’d you get him down here? He didn’t walk.”

  Isham kept his eyes on his man, said, “Took four of us. Damn fool was screwing around where we were handling the five-inch shells, and they came loose, rolled right up his leg. How bad is it, Doc?”

  “Could have been a whole lot worse. I don’t think anything’s broken, but his ankle’s sprained pretty severely. I need an X-ray to see if there’s anything else broken.”

  “Thanks, Doc. He’s a tough old bastard, knows better than to pull a stupid stunt like that. He’s been here near as long as I have. Right, you old fart?”

  The patient didn’t speak, and Biggs could see that the man’s fists were clenched against the pain.

  “He’ll be okay, Chief. A sprain can hurt worse than a broken bone, but the ice will help. And a handful of aspirin. Nothing more for you to do here.”

  There were thumps from above, a rattle of antiaircraft fire. Isham looked up, said, “I need to get topside. We’ve got firing exercises all damn night. Those are my guns, and there’s too many recruits up there jerking around ’cause they like to make big noises. I feel like I’m some kind of papa bear sometimes. Thanks for everything, Doc. The rest of you too.”

  The others offered him a quick nod, and Biggs said, “Sir, I’m sorry about your man, but I wanted to tell you that I remember you, from that steak and beer cookout you did for us. That was really swell. Just want you to know how much we needed that, all of us.”

  Isham seemed to appreciate the compliment, said, “Thanks. Yeah, that was good. We’ll do it again sometime, maybe next week. I’ll mention it to the commander. We could do something on Ford Island. We’ll get back to Pearl tomorrow, and we’ve got a fair amount of maintenance to take care of. We have to overhaul the cannon sleeves, check out the smaller ordnance in case there are cracks or any other damage. All typical stuff, but when it’s time, it’s time. Can’t screw around with that kind of work.”

  “You mean, like dry dock?”

  Isham shook his head. “No, we’ll be berthed beside a repair ship. I think it’s the Vestal this time. Those fellows enjoy all the dirty work.”

  Biggs thought, Holy cow, so much I don’t know. So much other people have to know. He could see Isham growing anxious to leave, but he had to ask.

  “Sir, I don’t understand. The big guns—they have sleeves?”

  Isham seemed to animate. It was obviously his favorite subject. “Yeah, like inserts. They get worn out after so many times being fired. Hell, every gun barrel on this ship needs checking—some get replaced pretty regularly.”

  Biggs absorbed the new education. “I wonder who was the first guy to figure that out.”

  Isham said, “The first guy who got his ass blown off the ship because a barrel split open. ’Course, that’s just a guess. I wasn’t there.”

  He turned to Condon, said, “Thank you again, Doctor. Can you have one of your people keep me posted on how he does?”

  “Sure thing, Chief.”

  Isham moved out through the hatchway, and Condon motioned for Biggs to move closer.

  “Hold his good leg down—don’t need him kicking me. Mr. Vaughan, be ready with those ice packs. He’s not going to enjoy this one bit. Sailor, if it keeps hurting after this, we could give you some morphine. But I’d rather not. Let’s just wrap it up, keep the swelling down. We get back to port, we’ll probably send you over to the hospital. You’ll like the nurses. A whole lot prettier than these fell
ows.”

  Biggs watched Condon wrapping the ankle, checking the leg again for anything broken. Condon worked efficiently, his eyes focused on the leg, said, “You fellows going to the football games?”

  Biggs was surprised by the question, looked at Vaughan and Hankins, holding the patient’s shoulders flat, a foam pillow beneath his neck. Both men smiled at Condon, and Vaughan said, “Sure thing, Doc. We been looking forward to it. Nice change from the usual.”

  Condon laughed. “As long as somebody doesn’t bring any more busted-up gunner’s mates in here, everybody can have a pass.” He ran a finger down the bottom of the injured man’s foot.

  “You feel that, sailor?”

  “Yep. Doesn’t hurt as much. Thanks, Doc.”

  Condon said, “You’ll not want to do any walking around for a while. We’ll keep giving you aspirin for now. You can sack out right here for the next couple days, since we’ve got to keep your leg elevated. We’ve got crutches here when you feel up to wandering around.”

  He looked at Biggs, laughed. “He won’t take ’em. Never saw a gunner yet who’d admit to needing them. They’re as bad as marines.”

  Biggs saw the patient smile, could see he was a good bit older, just like Isham had said.

  “No crutches for me, Doc.”

  “Whatever you say. So, how about you, Mr. Biggs? You going to the game? Hawaii’s supposed to be pretty good, though I don’t follow it too closely. Never been too enthusiastic about watching two herds of buffaloes ram their heads together.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I want to go to the shopping area in town. I’ve been saving up to get my mom a nice Christmas present. I figure Saturday will be a good time, since a bunch of people will be at the game.”

  He expected teasing from the mates, but they seemed to approve, and Condon said, “Good for you, Mr. Biggs. I’m betting she doesn’t need any straw voodoo dolls or snow globes with palm trees in them. There are several nice shops near the Halekulani, and I guess it depends on just how much money you’ve saved up. But I’m pretty sure you won’t have to rub shoulders with a thousand sailors just to cross the street there. Hope you find something nice. Oh, I meant to ask you. What about your next baseball game? Aren’t you about done for the year?”

  “One more to go, sir. Monday afternoon. We keep hearing rumors about big league scouts showing up. Drives me nuts that people believe that stuff. Why in hell would a big league team send somebody all the way out here? I feel bad for Woody, ’cause I know he wants to believe he’s got a chance. He’s damn good, and somebody oughta be paying attention to that. We’re just too far away.”

  “I hear you’re pretty good too.”

  Vaughan said, “He is. I hear plenty of chatter about it.”

  Biggs shrugged. “I can swing a bat okay. It takes a lot more skill to pitch like Woody.”

  “Well, then I would suggest you go out and play that last game like it really matters. If there’s not one single soul watching you, do it anyway. Do it for you.”

  USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1941

  He watched Wakeman and the others scrambling to get dressed, some of the men choosing up sides for which team they would root for, how much betting they were willing to do. He laughed as they debated just who would win even though none of them had any idea which teams were better.

  The Saturday before, they had listened to the Army-Navy game on a radio set at the YMCA, the crowd nearly all sailors. The soldiers, of course, had mostly been at Schofield Barracks, listening to radio sets of their own. Biggs had been as caught up in the raucous enthusiasm as any of them, especially when Navy won the game, 14–6. That celebration had naturally spilled out toward the bars and entertainment on Hotel Street, and Biggs was grateful that Schofield was several miles away. With so many sailors swarming the usual haunts, it wouldn’t be wise for a squad of soldiers to go roaming through the crowd of white uniforms with a chip on their shoulder. Surely the army officers had understood that, and so naturally, rumors filled the ship that the soldiers had stayed home, consoling themselves over their team’s crushing loss with whatever dirty water they could drink on their base.

  This week was very different. No one had a rabid passion for any of the teams. The sport was enough, the kind of entertainment that most of the men appreciated. The monotony of their schedule had spread to the weekends in port, the Arizona sailing into Pearl Harbor nearly every Friday, going out to sea Monday morning. Hotel Street was still a draw for some, but Biggs knew that many of the men were ready to spend a Saturday afternoon doing something more fun than nursing a hangover.

  The men began to stream up the ladders, and Biggs could hear their questions, most of them having no idea where the stadium was. With all the mayhem around Biggs, no one had razzed him about his own mission, to buy his mom a Christmas present. To forgo a sporting event for your mother seemed to be a perfectly reasonable excuse.

  Those in his compartment began to move out into the passageway, crisp white uniforms over polished black shoes. Men emerged from other compartments, and Biggs hung back, feeling no need to join the crush. It was barely noon, and he had plenty of time for his own mission.

  Wakeman moved past him now, slapped him on the shoulder. “Wish me luck, Tommy. I bet five bucks on Hawaii to whip San Jose.”

  Biggs laughed. “Why?”

  Wakeman feigned offense. “Simple. I need the five bucks.”

  The talk was rowdy as the men disappeared up the ladders, and Biggs felt their enthusiasm. Work and training, he thought, that’s about all there is. Drinking too. And the squacks.

  He still thought about the girl, but would never go back to any of those places. It was something he’d needed to do, or at least that’s what he told himself. It was fun, I guess. I wonder if she’d remember me. Okay, now you’re just being an idiot. There might be fifty guys lined up outside. She’s a whore, for crying out loud. One of these days, you’ll find a real girl, somebody just as pretty—prettier. Somebody you want to have kids with.

  He moved out into the passageway, could hear the voices on the deck above, men still crowding the ladders. He put one hand against the steel bulkhead, looked at the steel beneath his feet. I’m not ready for a wife and kids, he thought, not yet. I really like it here. I think I know why guys join the navy and spend thirty years at sea. Maybe every sailor feels this way about his ship. Maybe that’s how Ray feels, and it’s breaking his heart to leave the Curtiss.

  The passageway was empty now, the voices quieting.

  “Hey, well, look who’s still home.”

  He knew it was Kincaid, felt his pleasant thoughts shatter like glass. He turned, Kincaid standing behind him with his hands on his hips.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Thought I’d come through here and make a note of what kind of messes you turds left behind. Didn’t expect to run into the biggest turd of all.”

  “I was just heading up the ladder, sir. I’m going into town to find a Christmas present for my mother.”

  Kincaid tilted his head. “So. A mama’s boy. The rest of your buddies are off to a football game, and you’re gonna tuck yourself into mama’s petticoats. Damn, that’s so sweet. You know, Mama’s Boy, there’s nobody else around here. We’re all alone.”

  Biggs knew he was being baited, but it had happened too many times, he’d been insulted too often by a man who never seemed to do anything else.

  “Sir, why? What did I do that you jump on me so much?”

  Kincaid stared at him for a long moment. “Because I don’t like you. Not one bit. You think you work so hard, you do everything everybody tells you to do, you work in the sick bay with fancy-ass doctors, you dream of being a doctor so you’ll be better than the rest of us. This is my ship, Mama’s Boy. There’re sailors here who I put up with, and sailors I don’t. And there are sailors who make me want to break their te
eth every time I run into them. And that’s you.” He paused. “I’ve got three weeks left. That’s it. Three weeks. For thirty years I’ve had to put up with smart boys like you, and now, they’re making me stand down. I can’t even get a damn desk job. The captain wants to hang a medal on me for my good service, like that’s worth a turd in a snowstorm. Thirty years.”

  Biggs was surprised to hear a softening in Kincaid’s voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir. That’s gotta be tough.” Biggs knew immediately he’d made a mistake.

  “Pity from you? The day you walk off this ship, you can go play baseball, like you’re ten years old. You go back to Florida and lay on the beach, or maybe you get a job at some hotshot hospital, make a million dollars fixing up rich whores. I don’t need anything from you, you spoiled son of a bitch.”

  Biggs had no words, felt as though he was confronting a different kind of steel bulkhead, immovable, unchanging.

  Kincaid leaned closer to him, into his face, too close. Biggs felt his hot stale breath, was suddenly very afraid, tried to back away, pressing hard against a bulkhead. He slipped to the side, past the hatchway into his compartment. He tried to hold himself up, fell backward, his head coming down hard on the deck. Now Kincaid came at him, stood over him, bent low, said, “Mama’s Boy. You know how we treat mama’s boys?”

  There was nowhere for Biggs to go, no way to avoid Kincaid’s open hand, coming down hard across his face, a loud slap. The fear grew now, Kincaid staring at him with a sickening fire.

  Biggs forced the words, “I don’t understand. I ain’t done anything to you.”

  Kincaid straightened up, towering over him, a foot planted on either side, still nowhere for Biggs to go. “You’ve done plenty. Get up, Mama’s Boy. You wanna get back at me? You pissed off? You wanna play some more?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now, you wanna go around talking about this, about what a mean son of a bitch I am, how I beat your ass, how pitiful it is that you turn my stomach, well, you go right ahead. And if you do, I’ll smash your skull into the bulkhead, right about there, and won’t nobody know who did it or why.”