To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  * * *

  —

  “Coffee, Mr. Biggs?”

  Biggs shook his head with a smile. “Still don’t drink the stuff, sir. Thanks for asking.”

  It had become something of a game, though Biggs had begun to wonder if Dr. Johnson was truly that forgetful. At an open cabinet, one of the pharmacist’s mates worked at organizing some of the smaller pieces of surgical equipment.

  Johnson looked that way, said, “Mr. Block, don’t get too detailed about that. Every time we go out for some kind of gunnery drill, this whole place shakes up again. Unless something’s broken, don’t spend much time on it.”

  “Yes, sir. Everything seems fine here.”

  At the other end of the largest room, another of the mates was checking levels in various bottles, and Johnson said, “Mr. Corey, you can close that up. I think we’re good for today. I had a call from a lieutenant up on the quarter deck that we’ve got a broken arm heading our way. A couple of the corpsmen are bringing him down. Seems one of the marines did something…Well, I’m not going to speculate. We can handle it. You three are dismissed.”

  The responses were immediate and joyful. Biggs glanced at the clock above the doctor’s coffee maker: 1530. A half hour early. The two pharmacist’s mates moved out quickly, both men with a smiling salute for the doctor.

  “Hold on a minute, Mr. Biggs.”

  He felt a tug of dread, that something had changed the doctor’s mind.

  “How you getting along with the mates?”

  “Just fine, sir.”

  “There’s a custom—maybe not on this ship, but on some. Those boys are all petty officers. It’s the required rating for them to be assigned to the post. Minimum is E-4. Almost always the apprentice is low man, and of course, everybody here knows it. I’ve seen that duty made pretty miserable, practical jokes and other idiocy. I try to stop that kind of nonsense, since I need you here as much as I need them, and I don’t want some jackass bullying you so you transfer right out of here.”

  “No, sir. They’ve not done anything. I mean, they kinda stand aside when the dirty jobs come up. That patient yesterday, the fella who threw up his lunch in here. I know that’s my job cleaning up, not the petty officers’.”

  “Good to hear. Block and Vaughan are both good men, Corey too, but he’s new. I just need to know I can depend on the lot of you if we run into a jam.” Johnson put his hand in a drawer, pulled out a paper. “I’m glad they’re gone. They’ll each finagle one of these anyway. Petty officers get pretty much anything they want. Here.”

  Biggs was curious, took the paper, his eyes wide. “Sir, this is a liberty pass.”

  “I know that, Mr. Biggs. That’s why I gave it to you. You’ve earned a little time off. Get yourself cleaned up, a fresh uniform, make yourself presentable for the officer of the deck. They take that sort of thing seriously. You’re representing this ship everywhere you go. You’ll need to be back onboard by, whatever it says, 0100 I think. One piece of advice: Don’t be late. They take that seriously too. I don’t want to have to fish you out of the brig.”

  * * *

  —

  “Hey! You got liberty? Me too. What you gonna do?”

  Biggs continued polishing his shoes, saw Wakeman running a comb through hair that wasn’t long enough to matter.

  “I don’t really know, Ed. Never been into Honolulu at all. What’s there to do?”

  The men all through the compartment laughed, and Biggs felt foolish, and as usual, he wasn’t exactly sure why. Wakeman reached into his ditty bag for a small white bottle, sprayed a quick squirt down his shirt.

  From down the compartment, Mahone was preparing for a shower, said, “Hey, Ed, you oughta keep him close to you. It’s his first liberty. We don’t need a problem, somebody stealing his dough, stuffing him down an alley. Some of those places are pretty rough. What say, Ed?”

  Biggs held up his hands, didn’t want to impose on Wakeman’s plans. “No, it’s okay, I’ll be okay. I’ll just walk around and stuff.”

  Wakeman cocked his head to one side, laughed. “Hank’s right. You seem like a decent guy, and so far, you haven’t done anything real stupid, or dangerous. And Kincaid hates you, so that’s even better. Takes his attention off the rest of us. Yeah, sure, come along with me. I’ll show you the ropes, keep you out of trouble.”

  More laughter behind Wakeman, and Mahone said, “Yeah, sure you will. Hey, Tommy, try to keep Wakeman out of trouble. He likes to pick fights with marines.”

  Wakeman played along, said, “Not on purpose. Sometimes I have to explain to those jarheads what ‘marine’ stands for: Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential. Just trying to be helpful. For some reason, they seem to take offense at that.”

  Biggs joined the laughter, wondered just how many marines Wakeman had fought, thought, It doesn’t seem like the best idea.

  Biggs said, “Sure, okay. You wanna fight a regiment of marines, I’ll not get in the way.”

  Mahone pointed a finger at him. “You catch on fast. After his fifth beer, anything can happen.”

  Wakeman laughed again. “Six. Five just gets me warmed up. Come on, Tommy. Let’s head up to the deck. The OOD likes his goodbye kiss.”

  “Yep, I’m almost ready. Thanks a bunch. Guess I got some things to learn.”

  Behind Biggs, there were footsteps in the passageway, a grunt as the man stepped through the hatch. Biggs could tell by the faces of the others that it was Kincaid. He turned, said, “Hello, sir.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You got a date with the new ensign? He looks like he’d be your type.”

  Wakeman said, “He’s got a twelve-hour liberty pass, sir. He’s going with me into town.”

  Kincaid’s face seemed to inflate like a hot air balloon. “Where the hell did you get a liberty pass? What tin-brained gap-jawed moron would give you…Give me the damn thing, right now.”

  Biggs hesitated, knew how valuable the pass was. But he also knew that if he tried to hold it back from Kincaid, it might cost him teeth. He reached into his shirt, handed the paper to Kincaid. Biggs expected the paper to be ripped to shreds, the dream of liberty vanishing.

  But the petty officer read for a few seconds, said, “So the damn doctor did this. I wondered what went on in that sick bay. Lots of ass-kissing, it appears.” He handed the pass back to Biggs, who stuffed it safely into his shirt. “You know how to tell time, lamebrain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your liberty ends at 0100. You show up here five seconds late and I’ll be at the head of the ladder to toss your ass in the drink. You hear me?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Kincaid turned, started for the hatch, stopped, faced them again. “Hell, this moron made me forget why I came down here. The captain’s sent word that he expects us to do our part to compete at various forms of athletics with the other ships in the fleet. It’s his way of improving our physical conditioning, and he’s probably made some bets with the other skippers. There will be sign-up sheets posted in the passageway, and in the gedunk stand, for anyone who’s got some kind of skill at some sport. If you’re any good, then do your part. If you’re going to embarrass the ship, the captain, and me, forget I said anything.”

  Behind Biggs, Wakeman said, “Excuse me, sir. What kinds of sports?”

  “Athletic ones, dink whip. Football, boxing, basketball. Hell, some others. Wrestling, rowing. And, I think, baseball.”

  Biggs smiled, then stifled it, but not fast enough for Kincaid.

  “What’re you smirking about?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. Do you know when those sign-up sheets will be posted, sir?”

  “They’ll be posted when they’re posted. I’m late for my nap.”

  Kincaid turned, moved out through the hatchway, and behind Biggs, Wakeman said, “What’s
up with you? You some kind of athlete?”

  Biggs smiled, stowed the rest of his gear. “A little baseball. High school, a little after. I’m ready to go.”

  Wakeman looked at the others, said, “He’s being cute. I bet you played a bunch of ball, huh? You pitch or hit?”

  “Mostly hit.”

  Wakeman nodded, slapped Biggs’s back. “Let’s go, slugger. Maybe we’ll run into Ted Williams.”

  ELEVEN

  Biggs

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1941

  He mimicked the moves of the others, a stiff salute to the officer of the deck, then a salute toward the Colors fluttering above the stern. Once down the ladder, Biggs followed Wakeman, who led him into a rapidly moving parade of men, all heading toward the launches that would carry them from Ford Island to the mainland. The trip took only a few minutes, each of the fifty-foot boats packed tightly with sailors, a chorus of enthusiastic chattering. Once across the water, Biggs could see a line of taxicabs, some painted in garish designs, probably to attract more business.

  As he stepped up from the launch, another lecture was delivered by the shore patrol officers, the navy’s version of the police. The lecture fell mostly on deaf ears: more grave warnings about consequences should they return after their passes had lapsed. He scanned the men around him, saw that none were paying any attention to the shore patrol. All eyes were on the taxis.

  He tried to keep up with Wakeman, moving along with the crowd of white, but he stopped, surrounded by an extraordinary smell. For the first time in weeks, he was away from the stink of grease and paint, machinery and gunpowder, all a part of life on an enormous ship. Now, the air was sweet, a light warm breeze drifting down from the hills to the north. He saw the source of this new fragrance—vast seas of flowers, sprays of colors through the open fields, spreading down along the road itself.

  But there was no time to linger. Wakeman was already calling out to him, motioning with a sharp wave.

  Biggs joined Wakeman in the cab, was surprised that other sailors followed him in. The car seemed designed for five men, and seven had squeezed in, each one obliging the driver with the standard fare of twenty-five cents. As they drove out onto the road, Biggs stared across more of the wide-open lands, enormous fields of thick tall grass. His question was answered by Wakeman: sugar cane. There were more fields, rows of thousands of spiny plants, his question answered before he could ask: pineapples. The trip took no more than a few minutes, the distance less than ten miles, but the fields, and then the mountains beyond, made him understand what he had read about Hawaii, all the talk of paradise.

  Beside him, one of the other sailors, staring out the other side, said, “Look at those beaches. I bet there’s some honeys out there. You fools can go to the bars, I’m heading out to the sand.”

  Wakeman said, “Suit yourself. That just makes one less sailor lined up at the bar.”

  Biggs ignored the talk, tried to see the city coming into view. Wakeman seemed to read his mind.

  “Those big buildings are hotels. That’s the Halekulani, that one’s the Royal Hawaiian. Forget them. We ain’t dressed for it, and anything they got we can’t afford. Those places are for the officers, senior officers. They put on their top-notch dress uniforms, sit out there under the moonlight with some high-class dames, smoke their Cuban cigars, and forget the rest of us are alive.”

  The others seemed to agree, and Biggs felt the car slowing, then pulling over into another sea of taxicabs. The cab driver turned to them as they unwedged themselves from his car. He was an elderly Asian man with brown skin more rugged even than Kincaid’s. The accent was heavy, but the message clear: “Twelve-thirty. I be here only to twelve-thirty. You miss, they put you in brig.”

  Wakeman pulled Biggs from the car, said to the driver, “Plenty of time, grandpa.”

  Around them, others cabs were unloading their cargo, clusters of men in white, plus a scattering of marines. Biggs had a sudden dread that Wakeman might actually start something right off the bat. But Wakeman was already on the move. He looked back toward Biggs, said, “Come on. Clock’s ticking.”

  Biggs kept up, the street crowded with sailors, most headed in the same direction. Wakeman tugged his arm, said, “I forgot to ask you. You got money, right?”

  “Yeah. Seven bucks.”

  Wakeman said, “I got four. That makes you my best friend. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  * * *

  —

  As they left the restaurant, Biggs rubbed his stomach, a soft groan coming from some very happy place. Wakeman shared his joy, the two of them walking out into the street, joining the parade of sailors.

  “Ed, that’s the best steak I’ve had in months, maybe years.”

  “Don’t get used to it. That place cost us two eighty-five. At least their beer was cold. I need another one of those.”

  Biggs followed Wakeman’s lead, moving silently through the throng of white-uniformed men. What he couldn’t reveal to Wakeman was that he hadn’t had a genuine sirloin steak his entire life.

  “There it is. The Black Cat. Worst booze on the island, but the beer’s cheaper than that restaurant. Fall in with me, sailor. There’s always a line.”

  Biggs followed, trying to absorb every detail. He could see a larger building off in the distance, a flow of sailors moving in and out.

  “Hey, Ed. What’s that place? Seems popular.”

  “That? It’s the YMCA. That’s for teetotalers and mama’s boys. Anybody can’t find anything better to do ends up at the Y. They got women in there you can dance with, for a price. But you better keep your distance. No lovey-dovey stuff. And after the dance, if you actually try to touch one, some goon breaks your arm. You’re allowed to have a conversation, if you want, but I’ve always wondered why anyone would want to sit and talk to a dame, knowing that’s all you’re ever going to do with her. Hell, I heard some of ’em are married. They just go there to pick up a few bucks. You can get a hamburger in there, and they got cold milk, stuff you can’t usually get on the ship. But I didn’t come to town to get a glass of milk.”

  Biggs laughed. “For somebody who’s not a teetotaler, you sure know a lot about the place.”

  “I’m not paying you any mind.” The line for the beer counter moved quickly, and Wakeman said, “We’re up next. Don’t be bashful.” A sailor in front of them moved away, and the Asian bartender waited impatiently. Wakeman said, “Hey there, my buddy and I will have two beers. Make sure they’re cold.”

  Biggs saw no expression on the man’s face as he dipped down, retrieved the two bottles from a watery bath behind the bar.

  “Sixty cents. You want ’em opened?”

  Wakeman put the change on the wooden bar, said, “We ain’t marines, sport. We don’t chew through the glass.”

  The bartender popped off the caps, and Wakeman said, “You still selling gin in this place that’s half water?”

  Off to one side, Biggs saw an enormous man, obviously Hawaiian, sliding slowly toward them. Wakeman seemed to notice as well, made a bow toward the bartender.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Wakeman handed a bottle to Biggs, the crowd of sailors behind them pressing forward, the bar doing a brisk business. They slid through the mass of white uniforms and out the door, Biggs holding the beer close, no chance of spilling on someone who wouldn’t appreciate it.

  “Hey, Ed. You see the size of that lunk that was eyeballing us?”

  Wakeman glanced back at him, then moved off the street into a narrow clearing, a small bench occupied by a sleeping sailor.

  Wakeman ignored the sailor, but Biggs couldn’t avoid the man’s aroma. Wakeman said, “I heard ’em called bouncers. You make an ass of yourself and they bounce you right into the street. There’re a few of those big guys in just about every joint here. They can mess you up pretty good, ev
en before the shore patrol gets there. Then, those boys will mess you up too. Hell, I was just playing back there. But the Black Cat’s pretty well known for watering down their whiskey. Probably every joint does the same thing. That’s why you get beer. Not much they can do to that.”

  He took a long swig from the bottle. “And something else you need to know. It’s a good idea to stay close to where you see all the uniforms. Don’t go wandering off down some side street. I’ve heard it said that the natives here aren’t too happy having an islandful of sailors. Hell, there have been sailors based here for years, not sure why the natives ain’t gotten used to it. We spend enough money, and drink a hell of a lot of their local brew. I ain’t never had a problem, but I know some that have. Most of the trouble comes when somebody tries to get too friendly with a local girl. Their families get a little prickly about that. But that’s why we got Hotel Street. Let’s go over to the beach first; I’ll show you where it is. Then, we can make our way over to squack-land. There’s a trolley comes through over that way. We can hop on.”

  Biggs had no idea what Wakeman meant, but he followed along, moving only as fast as the mass of white uniforms around them, elbows and shoulders twisting past. He slipped off into a small open area, Wakeman following, and Biggs took a swig from his beer, felt his face twisting into a squint.

  “Good God. What is this stuff?”

  Wakeman shrugged. “Yeah, I know. It’s called Primo, but there ain’t nothing prime about this crap. They should call it ‘pisso.’ But unless you want to go to the Royal Hawaiian and pretend you’re classy enough to be there, this is what we got. Trust me. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Guess I got no choice.”

  “Now you’re getting the picture. Come on—there’s the trolley. I’ll show you the beach, the classy part of town.”