To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  Close beside him, a man began to cry, no words, just sobs, loud and piercing, driving into Biggs like a knife. He clenched his teeth, put his one good hand up to his ear to shut it out. But there were more cries, more men across from him, the nurses moving past, tending to as many as they could. The sobbing beside him stopped, a low groan now, and Biggs focused on that, wanted to see the man, talk to him, try to help. He raised up, could see a nurse beside the man, helping him, and Biggs thought, Morphine. It has to be. Give him plenty. Nobody should hurt like that.

  The nurse moved off, and Biggs propped himself up on his good arm. He held his breath as much as he could, braced himself against the pain in his throat. “Hey, buddy. You’ll be okay. We’re all pretty beat up. But we’ll be okay.”

  There were bandages across the man’s chest, gauze covering his face and head, a small hole for his mouth. Biggs didn’t know what he could do, thought, Talk to him, ask him questions. Maybe take his mind away. “Hey, pal. It’s gonna be okay.”

  The man responded, a surprise. “Can’t see you. I need a favor.”

  Biggs felt relief, as though he might actually be able to help. “Sure.”

  “You got a forty-five?”

  “Uh, no. I’m like you, I’m in bed.”

  “Well, find one. And shoot me.”

  NAVAL HOSPITAL, HOSPITAL POINT, OAHU—TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1941

  The second morning rolled over him with more screams, men calling for help, for God, for their mothers. It had been that way most of the night, even the morphine not keeping away the agony. Some of the men cried out in their sleep, having nightmares no medication could prevent.

  As he lay in the first light from the windows, Biggs realized he could see more clearly, the white coats and dresses moving past him with faces he could identify. It was obvious that they were moving with urgency, that the stink of so many horrible burns meant constant attention, dressings changed, medication administered. From his own training, he knew that burns were the worst kind of injury, the nerves under the skin the most sensitive. It was a curiosity to him that broken bones seemed much less painful, the men he had seen coming into sick bay supporting their own twisted arms.

  I don’t know enough, he thought. How do you help this much pain? How much morphine can you give a man? How long does it take burns to heal? And the scars…The thought stung him, and he put his hand on his scalp. Will my hair grow back? He was angry with himself now. Is that the worst of it for you? These fellows are screaming for reasons I’ll never understand. I’m lucky, no matter how much oil I swallowed. Don’t forget that.

  He saw an older doctor coming closer, trailed by a nurse, young, pretty. The doctor read from a clipboard, then looked down at him, said, “I think you’re ambulatory now, Mr. Biggs.”

  “You sure, Doc? I can’t hardly breathe. It hurts to talk. And, I can’t hardly move my arm, sir.”

  The doctor smiled. “ ‘Ambulatory’ means you can walk. I need you to move as much as you can with those places that don’t hurt so much. You’re luckier than some. It’s obvious that wherever most of you had clothes on, the burns weren’t as severe. Some of these fellows had every piece of clothing ripped off ’em, and they got it the worst. You must have lost your hat, so, you lost your scalp. Your legs were covered, but your arms weren’t. Something sliced into your left arm pretty well, shrapnel, most likely. That’s my biggest concern right now. It took off a piece of soft tissue from your forearm, exposed the bone. The oil played havoc with the wound. But, the good news is that your legs and feet aren’t too badly burned, so I need you to take a walk, work your muscles. Nurse Powell here will help you out. Excuse me, I’ve got…Oh, hell.”

  The doctor was gone quickly, a dash to the far end of the ward, his white coat following him like a cape. Biggs saw nurses flowing that way, and he looked at the nurse beside him, her eyes on the far end as well. She turned to him now, said, “Let’s sit up first, then move slowly, stand up. If you feel weak or unsteady, I’ll support you.”

  She was staring still toward the far end of the ward, and Biggs said, “I’m a hospital apprentice, ma’am. I wish I could help some of these fellows. Tried to on the ship, before she went up.”

  He had pulled her attention away from whatever crisis was happening, and he saw red eyes, a glance downward.

  “I’m sorry, sailor. It’s all been…I was never taught to expect anything like this. Can you sit up by yourself? I can help you from behind.”

  He pulled himself up, pushing with his right hand, sat upright, swung his legs off the side of the bed.

  “It’s okay, ma’am. My chest hurts, my throat. I just gotta breathe slow.”

  “All right, let me help you stand.”

  His legs betrayed him immediately, a surprising weakness, but she had him under the arms, said, “This is why you have to walk. Your muscles don’t like sitting still.”

  He was up now, slightly dizzy. He could see all down the ward, the cluster of nurses gathered around a patient with the kind of urgency he knew not to ask about.

  She held his good arm, said, “Let’s move out this way. If you’re comfortable with the idea, we can go to another ward. It’s not like this in the other wards. I mean, the burns…Oh God, I’m sorry. I have a hard time working here. It’s not just the burns…but the smell. Even the doctors can’t take it for very long.”

  Biggs felt his legs steadying, took a single step, then another. “I’m doing fine, ma’am. Just hurts to breathe.”

  She seemed to appreciate the change of subject. “Well, sailor, it would be a bad idea for you to stop breathing.”

  Biggs realized she had made a joke. “I don’t intend to. Just don’t expect me to blow up any balloons.”

  They reached the door to another ward—more beds, but it was different, the men not as ghostlike. The bandages were more for wounds, broken bones, shrapnel and bullet wounds, more of the horrors he had seen during the attack. He saw most of the men turning his way, then realized they were looking at her.

  “Hey, sweetheart, I wanna go for a walk too.”

  “Can I get a back rub, sugar pie?”

  Biggs felt uneasy, said in a low voice, “We don’t have to be here.”

  She hooked her arm in his. “It’s okay. It’s just what they do.”

  Biggs called out to them now, with as much wind as he could muster. “Hey, you goons. This here’s my wife.”

  The catcalls abruptly stopped, and she squeezed his arm, a silent Thank you.

  They moved through the ward, Biggs scanning the faces—no one he recognized. She seemed to read his mind, said, “What ship were you on?”

  The faces were on him now, and he had no reason to hesitate.

  “The Arizona. I got blown into the water. Well, into the oil.”

  The ward went deathly silent, and Biggs wondered if he had said something wrong. Down the row, one man said, “That’s tough, sailor. The battlewagons caught the worst of it, and I hear Arizona worst of all.”

  Biggs had not thought to ask the question until now. “How bad? Anybody know? I thought Oklahoma got it worst, rolling over and all.”

  Another man said, “That’s my ship. I made it up to the hull as she capsized. We were pulling people out of the water. A damn Jap strafed us, and there was nowhere to go. Caught both my legs. Even then, we could hear the poor bastards hammering inside the hull, letting us know where they were.” He paused, and Biggs saw him staring down at his wounds, his hands shaking. “They were trapped in the black dark, water and oil and God knows what else. And we couldn’t do a damn thing for ’em. They’re still there. Oh, Christ.” He put his hands to his face, no one speaking, no one interrupting the man’s emotions. Biggs saw the others looking away, those who already knew what the man had been through.

  He looked at Biggs with red eyes, still with the quiver in his voice. “They tel
l me there’s a chance I won’t lose my legs. Don’t hardly matter. I’d give ’em both away to see those fellows pulled out safe.” He paused. “I been hearing that they’re still pulling guys out. I know better. It’s been two days. Them that survived, they mostly made it to Ford Island.” He paused again, still looking at Biggs. “I don’t think there’s anybody they can pull out of your ship. Sorry, sailor.”

  Biggs’s emotions caught him off guard, another piece of the nightmare he hadn’t known until now. He needed the nurse’s support now, felt weakness in his legs, said in a low voice, “I don’t know how to ask, don’t know how to find out. I wanna find out who made it out. And, I guess, who didn’t.”

  The first man said, “Talk to the officers. They can find out anything. A bunch of ’em are in the houses across the yard, so I been told.”

  The nurse said, “That’s right. You feel up to the walk? How’re you doing?”

  Biggs felt energized, suddenly had a new mission.

  “Let’s go.” He caught himself, looked at the men in the beds. “I’m sorry for you guys. I guess we all lost somebody who mattered.”

  Another man responded, “Yeah, give me a chance. I’ll make those damn Krauts pay.”

  There was a chorus of groans, and Biggs was confused. “I thought Krauts were Germans, right?”

  The man ignored the derision coming from the men around him. “Damn right. And I’m a hundred percent certain that’s who flew those planes. No damn Jap can fly like that, hit targets like that. They ain’t got an airplane good enough to stay in the air for more than ten minutes. It was the Krauts, sure as hell. They paint damn meatballs on the wings so’s to fool us. Well, I ain’t fooled a bit. And neither are the boys I heard about, who shot one down. They say it was a Kraut pilot, Kraut uniform.”

  To one side, another man, “You bring me that Kraut uniform. What I saw was Japs. Saw ’em looking right at us as they flew over. There wasn’t a blond-haired, blue-eyed jackass in the bunch. And I saw ’em up close.”

  The argument continued, obviously a familiar one to all concerned. The nurse tugged at his arm, moving them out through the door, down a short hallway with offices, then outside. He felt the sun on his face, ached to take a deep breath. He turned to her, said, “Hey, what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Loretta. But if any of the doctors are around, it’s Nurse Powell.”

  “You seem kinda young, not like some nurses I saw.”

  “Old enough to bandage you up, sailor.”

  “Tommy. Or, Mr. Biggs, if the doctor’s around.”

  She stopped, seemed concerned. “I’m sorry for what I said before. My job is to take care of anyone who’s hurt, no matter how bad. But the burns…there’s nothing like that. I know that’s why the doctor sent me out here with you. I can’t stand it in that ward for more than a half hour, maybe less. Most of us feel the same way, but we’ve got to do the job.”

  “Why’d you get assigned to the burn unit? You volunteer for that?”

  “We didn’t have any choice. Nobody can pick and choose what kinds of patients they want to help. There are just too many of you.”

  “How many?”

  She put a hand to her face, took a deep breath. “I don’t know, exactly. But this is just one hospital. There’s a base hospital at Hickam, the medical facility on Ford Island, on Tripler, the marine medical facility, and a half dozen other makeshift hospitals. Then there’s the hospital ship, Solace. People are saying the attack could have been worse, but I don’t see how. One boat came into the landing full of limbs. Just limbs. There were corpses soaked in oil, you couldn’t make out if they…”

  She stopped, her face in her hands.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  She looked at him. “No, it’s not. It’s war. There’s going to be a lot more of this. Even the doctors are talking about that. My mother was a nurse in the Great War, in Belgium. She won’t talk about it, not a word. She hated it when I said I wanted to be a nurse. Warned me how bad it can get. It didn’t matter. Now…I’m here.” She seemed to gather herself, gripped his arm again. “We can go over there, where they’ve got some of the officers. You sure you want to do that? The doctor didn’t want me to take you very far.”

  “I guess I kinda like walking with you, no matter where we go. If it’s okay I say that. I’m not good at saying the right things.”

  She gave a small laugh, like music. “You’re doing just fine, Sailor Tommy.”

  Biggs felt her hand on him now, as though for the first time. He wanted just to stand there, swallowed by the sunshine, by her voice.

  “I can’t keep you out here for too long. You can’t take much of the sun on your head, even with the bandage. And, they’ll need me to change dressings on some of the other patients. The doctor tends to be impatient. Do you still want to see the officers?”

  He looked across the green lawn toward the other buildings, where men might know.

  “I have to, I guess. I had buddies on the ship.” He thought of Russo now, a cold jab in his gut. “I had buddies on other ships too. My best buddy. I gotta know if they’re okay.”

  She led him slowly across the green grass, and he saw the harbor now. Columns of smoke were still rising, small boats in motion in every direction. He didn’t want to see any more, but the largest plume of smoke came from his own ship, and he stopped, stared for a long moment.

  “That’s her, the heavy smoke. It’s wrecked. It’s sunk. How did anybody get off her?”

  “How did you?”

  “I didn’t have much choice. A bomb threw me off.”

  “You’re alive. That’s something. Hold on to that.”

  Biggs looked at her, the sun on her face. She had soft brown eyes, and he realized just how pretty she was, prettier still.

  “You’re staring at me, Mr. Biggs.”

  “You’re staring back, Nurse Powell.”

  They walked on toward a large house, a guard appraising them, then opening the door. The smells returned, but they weren’t as brutal as in the burn ward. Another guard met them inside, made a leering examination of Loretta, then stood aside. Biggs stepped inside, saw nothing different, nothing to distinguish these men from any of the sailors he had already seen. She tugged at his arm, said in a soft voice, “Go ahead. Most of them are awake. Keep it in a low voice, but ask what you need to ask.”

  Biggs felt completely tongue-tied: no words, too many questions. There was a noisy commotion down the row of beds, nurses gathering, a doctor. The doctor turned, walked toward Biggs, ignored him, moved past, said, “Worst damn patients in the world. Doctors.”

  The nurses spread out now, tending to other patients, and Biggs stepped farther into the room. He saw gray hair, a few men watching him. Their wounds were no different: thick white bandages, heads covered, arms and legs and entire bodies. He searched carefully, hoping to see a familiar face, Lieutenant Janz, or Dr. Johnson. Doctors make the worst patients. He looked to where the commotion had been, walked more quickly, Loretta keeping up. He saw the face turn toward him now, both men letting go of a smile, the first for either man since that awful morning.

  “I’ll be damned. Hello, Mr. Biggs.”

  “Hello, Dr. Condon.”

  * * *

  —

  “To be honest, Mr. Biggs, you look like hell.”

  “I’m alive, sir. The rest of it doesn’t much matter.”

  Condon looked down. “Well put, Mr. Biggs.”

  Biggs eyed the bandages, one arm wrapped to the shoulder, another around his chest. “How’d you get hit? You go in the water?”

  “No. Bullet hit my arm. Soft tissue, thank God. If it had hit bone, it would have taken the arm away. I fell against a hand rail, broke three ribs. I keep arguing with them that this bed should be used for somebody who needs it worse than I do. That doctor over there, Br
ubaker, stubborn pain in the ass.” Condon looked up at Loretta now. “Sorry. I’m sure he’s a great doctor. I just don’t like being a patient.”

  “None of us does, Doctor.”

  The voice came from the next bed, and Biggs turned, saw an older man, a look of seniority. Biggs stepped back, stiffened, said, “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I worked for Dr. Condon on the Arizona. Hospital apprentice.”

  The man stared at Biggs for a long moment, said, “Your skipper was a good friend of mine. I’m sorry, son.”

  Biggs turned to Condon, said, “The captain is dead, sir?”

  Condon nodded. “Along with Admiral Kidd and most of the senior staff.”

  Names rolled through Biggs’s mind, and he wanted to ask, saw the older officer close his eyes, turning away.

  Biggs bent closer to Condon, whispered, “What about sick bay, sir?”

  Condon stared at him, no words, slowly shook his head.

  * * *

  —

  They came in the backs of trucks, packed into cars and taxis, some brought by their bouncers or madams, some on their own. They had answered the desperate call for blood, and when the civilians on Oahu responded, so too did the women who had relied so completely on the money they made from the sailors. They lined up at the various dispensaries, the hospital wards, anyplace the blood banks could be thrown together. To the surprise of many of the doctors, and especially their patients, the prostitutes from Hotel Street offered the gift these men most needed now: blood.

  But the women didn’t simply return to their trade. Some stayed on the bases, assisting the nurses, offering help with even the worst kind of duty, from washing sheets to disposing of soiled bandages, and much worse. Their efforts freed the nurses for far more important jobs—offering relief to the overtaxed doctors. From the earliest days that the navy had anchored its ships in Pearl Harbor, the women of Hotel Street had served a function that the sailors appreciated with lusty gratitude. Now the gratitude was of a very different kind. The doctors knew, even before any of their patients, that these women were saving lives.