by Jeff Shaara
Nomura glanced downward, then looked at Hull, spoke slowly. “Mr. Secretary, Japan is not committed to courses of conquest.”
There was no emotion in the words, and Hull sat up straight now.
“As long as Japanese forces are all over China, as long as Japanese warships, troops, and planes are as far south as Thailand and Indo-China, accompanied by the kinds of bellicose threats that Japanese statesmen are making every week, there can only be increasing concern as to what we can plainly interpret as Japan’s intentions for conquest.”
“I would suggest, Mr. Secretary, that my leaders are very willing to make peace with China. It is only necessary to combine the existing government in Nanking with the government of Mr. Chiang Kai-shek.”
“You are referring to your puppet government in Nanking, whose strings are pulled from Tokyo? The fact that Chiang Kai-shek has been forced to defend himself from a Japanese army inside the borders of China should make it very clear that his government is not interested in your ‘peace’ proposal. On what basis do you feel that would lead to a peaceful solution?”
Nomura looked down at his hands, seemed to grasp for something to say. “Our nations enjoy warm relations. I see every reason why that should continue.”
“Ambassador Nomura, there are loud voices in your government and in your military who are preaching hostility toward the United States, toward Britain, Australia, and France. Anyone reading a Japanese newspaper can find these speeches, interviews, documents created for your own people to consume. How should we interpret that? Whose voices are we to believe?”
Nomura seemed resigned to the obvious, said, “There are moderates in my government who wish nothing more than friendly relations with the United States. But too often, those voices of intelligence and reason are shouted down by the militants. I am sad to tell you that the militant factions have risen in power, and it is those voices you hear. My direct superior, Foreign Minister Matsuoka, has made numerous speeches in which he emphasizes that Japan will not kowtow to anyone, that our goal is a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, seeking only to protect Japanese interests. Your government, with its embargo of critical industrial materials, has put significant economic pressure upon Japan. Many in my government see that as an act of aggression.”
“Mr. Ambassador, we have threatened no one, invaded no one, and surrounded no one. We freely offer cooperation in peace to all who wish it. But we cannot sit by while any government takes upon itself the mission to conquer free peoples. And I would emphasize to you, Mr. Ambassador, that it has been Japan’s moves toward conquest, Japan’s own acts of aggression, that force us to enact our shipping embargoes. The embargoes did not come first.”
There was no anger in Nomura’s face, and Hull could clearly see what Magic had already told him, the Purple messages having made clear that the man was doing a job he did not want. Nomura’s instructions from his government were being carried out before Hull’s eyes.
“Mr. Ambassador, you know that our embargo of goods is not absolute. We continue to sell you oil, which might be the single most valuable import for your economy. That is an act of hopefulness, that one day soon we may again see cooperation between our countries. That cannot happen as long as you are aligned with Germany.”
“I share your hopes, Mr. Secretary.”
Nomura offered nothing else, and Hull gathered his papers, the sign that the meeting had concluded. Nomura stood, made a deep bow, couldn’t hide a hint of sadness.
Hull said, “Mr. Ambassador, we shall do all we can. No one wants a war.”
Nomura bowed again but said nothing. Hull understood the silent message, the words Nomura would not say: In Japan, a great many people are hoping for a war.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—TUESDAY, MARCH 11, 1941
They sat facing the president, no one speaking, nervously waiting for the results of the vote in the Senate.
Hull glanced to one side at the scowling face of the treasury secretary, Henry Morgenthau. Hull had not always been friendly with Morgenthau, had bristled at his tendency toward intruding into the responsibilities and relationships that were rightfully the territory of the secretary of state. Roosevelt had wielded a careful hand, nudging Morgenthau to his proper duties at the Treasury Department. In the end, there was no serious friction, Hull accepting that Morgenthau was a passionate man who was doing all he could to guide American foreign policy through the morass of isolationism, especially in Congress. Even more than Hull, Morgenthau had pushed hard for an agreement between the United States and Great Britain that would go as far as possible to aid Britain’s desperate war effort without the U.S. actually becoming an official participant.
The plan was called Lend-Lease, the Americans guaranteeing that all manner of supplies, including essential military materiel, be shipped to Britain, much of it on American merchant ships. The name said it all. The aid was neither a gift nor a purchase by Britain. As Morgenthau and his British counterparts had confirmed, Britain simply didn’t have the financial resources to pay for billions of dollars in assistance.
Hull had already weathered protests from Germany, some in Berlin insisting that if the United States was to provide aid to Britain as a neutral observer, that same aid should flow to Germany as well. Very few in the American government took that demand seriously. Regardless of overwhelming sentiment throughout the United States that Britain be given assistance, in Congress the usual voices of isolationism were loud with protest. After considerable pressure from Roosevelt, and Hull’s own vigorous testimony at various hearings, the Lend-Lease program had passed the House of Representatives with a sizable majority. But that was a month ago, and since then, isolationists throughout the country had applied pressure of their own.
The most influential voice from those vehemently opposed to any assistance to Britain was Charles Lindbergh. In 1927, Lindbergh had made a solo flight in a single-engine plane across the Atlantic, the first pilot to accomplish such a feat. Since Lindbergh was an officer in the Army Air Corps, the military recognized his extraordinary accomplishment by awarding him the Medal of Honor. Throughout the 1930s, Lindbergh had been regarded by most Americans as a genuine hero, his boyishly handsome face seemingly made for the newsreel cameras.
But Lindbergh had become a vocal critic of Roosevelt, and campaigned vigorously against American interference in the increasing turmoil, and horror, of the war in Europe. Lindbergh’s celebrity had given muscle to the isolationist movement, and once the House of Representatives had voted in favor of Roosevelt’s plan, the pressure from the isolationists and Roosevelt’s various enemies had shifted toward the Senate. There, the vote would determine whether or not the Lend-Lease bill would pass.
Hull scanned the roomful of somber faces, in one corner the president’s friend and perhaps closest advisor, Harry Hopkins. Hull looked toward Roosevelt, the president staring at the telephone on his desk.
Roosevelt said, “They should be voting now, right?”
One of his aides, seated behind Hull, said, “Anytime now, sir.”
Morgenthau pounded one hand into his palm. “This is ridiculous. Why in hell is it so hard for those people to make the right decision? It’s a simple equation, isn’t it? Do you want the British to prevail, or the Germans? What kind of world do you expect there to be?”
Hopkins said, “According to Mr. Lindbergh, if the Germans win the war, we will have nothing to fear. It will not harm us at all.”
Morgenthau grunted. “It will certainly not harm Mr. Lindbergh. He’s friends with half of those people in Berlin.”
Hull said nothing, knew that Morgenthau’s anxieties went far deeper than politics. He was Jewish, a rarity in any president’s cabinet, and Hitler’s deadly animosity toward Jews of any nation was no secret.
Roosevelt sat back in his chair, his eyes still on the telephone. He looked at Hopkins now, then the others, settled on Hul
l. “The Germans are sweating this as much as we are, right? You told me that, right?”
Hull understood the president’s nervousness, nodded, said, “They are. Our embassy in Berlin cabled me just before Christmas, expressing their distaste for our intentions. It seems that Hitler and his friends had convinced themselves that due to their military successes alone, we would do everything in our power to maintain our neutrality, perhaps offering them a nonaggression pact, in order to ensure friendly relations. We know now that peace with the Nazis means total surrender, but they are convinced that we are so afraid to stand up to Hitler, we will offer any concessions they require to maintain the peace.”
Voices were raised throughout the room, angry dismissals.
Morgenthau spoke above the others. “Yes, it’s nonsense. Utter nonsense. But that’s how those people operate. Just because their own people have swallowed that load of bilge doesn’t mean we should.”
Hull said, “Quite right, of course. We’re not paying much attention to anything that comes out of Berlin these days.”
The silence returned, a long minute, broken by the jarring ring of the telephone. Hull saw a slight quiver in the president’s hand as Roosevelt put the phone to his ear.
“Yes.”
Hull studied the president’s expression, was grateful to see a smile.
“Thank you, Missy.”
Roosevelt placed the phone on the receiver, leaned back in the chair, a wide grin Hull had come to know so well. “Gentlemen, the vote was fifty-nine to thirty. We have prevailed.”
The joy was immediate. Morgenthau held his hand out toward Hull.
“This was your party, Cordell. You convinced those blocks of wood in the Senate to vote with their brains. Fine work.”
Hull took the hand, let out a long breath. “Thank you, Henry. We all still have a great deal of work to do.” He looked at Roosevelt and his beaming smile.
“Mr. President, I should immediately cable our ambassador in London, and phone the British ambassador here. A great many others. The Turks have been anxious about this. Ambassador Grew in Tokyo, certainly. Well, it’s a long list. I would imagine most every major newspaper throughout the world will make something of it, one way or the other.”
Roosevelt motioned toward the door. “By all means. Go, go. I will telephone Mr. Churchill personally. This shall bolster his spirits considerably. The rest of you, see to those in your sphere who need to know as a priority.”
Hull rose, made a short bow to the others, then moved out through the door to the Oval Office, with another nod toward Roosevelt’s secretary, Marguerite LeHand. “It’s a momentous day, Missy. This is history. He’s as happy in there as I’ve seen him in months.”
She shared the same smile as her president, said, “He deserves it, Mr. Secretary. This is an excellent day. I know that you and the president and so many others have been working so very hard toward this. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. But this is not victory. There is great evil in this world, and it possesses great power. It is perhaps difficult for us to understand why others despise us so, why a free nation is anyone’s enemy, why so many bad people need to make war.”
“I am comforted, Mr. Secretary, knowing that men as capable as you are protecting us.”
Hull shook his head. “Thank you, Missy, but you must not credit me with that. Protection comes from the sword, the cannon, the battleship. That’s what today was about, that we may send the means for our allies to survive, the power they will need to survive. I fear that eventually, we may require that power right here at home.”
SIX
Biggs
Within forty-eight hours of receiving his assignment, Biggs had boarded the train that would take him from Chicago to the port of San Francisco. The journey had been an adventure, the train winding past the kind of country he had never imagined, vast fields that stretched to the horizon, broken only by sad towns and the extraordinary stink of stockyards. With darkness, he welcomed the chance to find sleep, resting his head against the window, trying to ignore the astounding amount of snoring that drifted all through the car.
With the new day, he awoke to mountains and snow, as though the train had taken him to another world. But the astounding beauty of that was not to last, and as the train rolled into San Francisco he searched for different kinds of details. He had heard stories about the city, the odd mix of people and exotic food, the beauty of the bay and the ever-present danger of earthquakes. Until recently there had been a chance that he would remain there for as long as a week, while the navy found him a spot on a ship that would take him to Hawaii. Biggs had been optimistic that he would have time to explore the city, but that kind of adventure was not to be.
As the train completed its journey, a prominent sign greeted him in the train station: Military Personnel This Way. He was one of a dozen or more, mostly sailors and marines, who gathered alongside an unmarked bus. After a long ride along the shores of the bay, the men were deposited at the naval base at Treasure Island. The base spread along a part of the harbor that was populated by ships of all sizes, and Biggs searched for what would surely be a battleship. But nothing there seemed large enough, and he thought of Russo, by now onboard the USS Curtiss. Biggs still wondered just what a seaplane tender looked like, and if there were any in San Francisco Bay. But there would be no time to learn much of anything about Treasure Island. Within twenty-four hours of his arrival, more orders came. He was to report immediately to a mine-layer, the USS Oglala. The Oglala would be his transportation to Hawaii. An hour after he boarded her, the ship was under way.
At three thousand tons, she was barely a tenth the mass of the great battleships, but to Biggs she was enormous, an observation that drew howls of laughter from the crewmen who were now his hosts. They were good-natured in their ribbing of his utter lack of experience, since, of course, they had all begun the same way. And they took particular delight in warning him just how rough the seas could be across that stretch of the Pacific, on a ship this small, a prediction that came true almost immediately. But very soon the inevitable question had come—just why he was going to Hawaii. His assignment to the Arizona caused hints of jealousy. Biggs was surprised by their reaction, felt apologetic, though he was beginning to understand that his posting seemed to many others to be an extraordinary gift from the navy, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why.
PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 1941
“Topside, gentlemen. Formation.”
The Oglala’s crew seemed to know the routine, every man in his pressed whites moving up quickly, lining up shoulder to shoulder along the rails on the main deck. Biggs had been told of the ship’s tradition, that entering port, the captain of the Oglala ordered the crew to turn out as a form of salute, a show of respect for the naval base’s senior command.
Biggs stood with them, facing out from the starboard side of the ship, his eyes scanning the variety of craft berthed along the shoreline. All across the harbor, he saw other ships anchored together, clusters of warships that seemed to be mostly destroyers. As the Oglala moved farther into the harbor, he could see a dry dock, an enormous box, holding a pair of ships larger than this one, embraced by all manner of heavy equipment. Beyond the dry dock he glimpsed the conning tower of a submarine, then another. He knew of several recruits in his class who had volunteered for that duty, drawing respect from Biggs and many of the others. What the training had taught him about submarines had led more to his claustrophobia than to any enthusiasm for service inside a steel tube that sank on purpose.
But his first real glimpse of the subs, like so many of the other ships anchored across this part of Pearl Harbor, was stirring something deep inside him, a new kind of nervous excitement, that everything he hoped the navy would offer him would be found right here. This was his new home.
Behind him, he heard a voice. “Seaman Biggs, about-face!”
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He responded instinctively, was now face-to-face with a young officer.
“Sir!”
“Follow me, Seaman. Something you should see.” The officer led him behind the others, toward the bow, then around, now on the port side of the ship. “The Arizona’s over there, just off Ford Island, on the right, third one in. Thought you’d want to see what she looks like, even from this far away. Pretty impressive from any distance.” He paused. “Good luck, sailor.”
Biggs saluted the officer, turned again, eyes fixed across the open water of the harbor, a row of enormous ships berthed end to end. He scanned them all, focused now on the Arizona, one thought rising up in his mind. God, she’s enormous. He tried to see every detail—the towers, the scout planes perched on her stern, as much as he could make out on every deck. But his eyes settled on the most impressive part of every battleship, and he said the words in a low whisper. “God almighty. Look at the guns.”
Even from a distance, he could see the cannons, three each in four turrets, two forward and two aft. There were smaller guns as well, the details too far away to make out. I’ll find out soon enough, he thought. He pulled his gaze away from the Arizona, searched the other battleships, each one slightly different. Massive and powerful, but in his mind, none was quite as beautiful as his own. He thought of Russo again. Wonder if he’s here, or maybe he’ll stay close to Washington. It’s a big harbor, and I got no idea what the Curtiss looks like. Jesus, Ray. I understand now. I know why you wanted a battleship so bad. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my whole damn life.
