To Wake the Giant

by Jeff Shaara

  Biggs followed as Wakeman stepped up to the passing trolley, the car already packed with men in uniform. After a few short minutes, Wakeman motioned to him, Get off. Biggs obeyed, followed Wakeman again. The street wasn’t nearly as crowded here, and Biggs saw a statue, nearly twenty feet tall, obviously of a native Hawaiian, a wide sandy beach behind it.

  Wakeman said, “Waikiki Beach. Looks nice. But keep your shoes on. The sand will cut up your feet real good. It ain’t Florida sand, I promise. Coral or lava or something. And any fool thinks he’s gonna find some sweet bathing suit honey out there is dreaming. Those are at the hotels, and they’re only looking for officers.”

  Biggs was absorbing all that Wakeman was telling him, saw very few people out on the beach. He looked again at the statue. “Who the hell’s that?”

  Wakeman shrugged. “The head Hawaiian, I guess. Big cheese.”

  Biggs wouldn’t accept that explanation, moved toward it, saw a cluster of sailors coming together, posing for a photograph around the base of the statue. He waited for them to finish, and Wakeman was there now, said, “What’s the deal? It’s just a statue.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Just curious. I want to see the sights.” The sailors cleared away, and Biggs moved closer, read the plaque. “It’s King Kamehameha the Great. I guess he used to own the place.”

  Wakeman said, “Yeah, okay, fine. You ever wanna come to the beach, get broken glass in your shorts, this is a good place to be. Tonight, we got other things to do. It’s a little bit of a hike to Hotel Street, so the trolley is the only way to go. Come on. I told you I wanna see the squacks.”

  Biggs swigged again at the beer, still not used to the awful flavor. “What’s a squack?”

  Wakeman downed what remained of his beer. “Boy, you really don’t know nothing. Hotel Street’s the place to go for, um…some friendliness.” Biggs still seemed puzzled, and Wakeman shook his head. “For crying out loud, Tommy. Squacks are whores. And Hotel Street is where they live, or work. You can get just about anything else you want there too, including a tattoo.”

  “Why would I want a tattoo?”

  “You could put something nice on your arm about the navy, like an anchor or something. Your mama’s name maybe. Or even fancier, you could put a girl’s name inside a heart. ’Course, if you ain’t planning to marry her, that’s dumb as hell. So, you got a girl back home?”

  “No. I kinda gave up.”

  “Well, you got a world of opportunity right here. Not that you’d wanna marry one of the squacks. Although, she might be kinda rich. I hear they make stupid lots of money. Don’t think I’d wanna sit around the dinner table and talk about her work, though. Come on, let’s grab another beer or two along the way.”

  “Okay, but how many you figuring to drink?”

  “Until the money’s gone. That’s kinda the way this goes.” Wakeman waved him on. “Time’s wasting, my friend. Wave goodbye to King What’s-his-name up there and let’s practice getting used to this genuine Primo beer.”

  * * *

  —

  He had suffered through more beers than he could recall, none of them going down any better than the first. But the fog in his brain stripped away the fear and reality of just what it meant to be on Hotel Street. The lines were long, the visits brief, the madams backed up by the menace of the bouncers, men eager to take your money. Once inside, Biggs was overwhelmed by the smell of perfume, and by the heavy haze from the beer. He had no idea what to do, how to act, what questions to ask. But the girl took his hand, helping him as he staggered unevenly to some place he had never expected to be. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and she spoke to him with a soft voice that reminded him of that girl he always hoped to find. And then, with his three dollars gone, it was over.

  Wakeman staggered along with him, past the snaking lines of sailors, marines, and soldiers, all of them waiting their turn at the various doorways. They stumbled over each other’s feet, Wakeman keeping his eyes glued to the path straight ahead. But Biggs still wanted to see it all, blinked through bleary eyes in drunken fascination as they moved past small shops selling jewelry and trinkets, souvenirs and pinball parlors, barber shops and clothing stores. He knew that Wakeman had done this often, and, more important, that Wakeman knew how to get back to the taxis. Biggs had no idea where they were, or how they had gotten there. He realized he still had a beer bottle in his hand, pulled it up to his face, said, “Hey, Ed. There’s a little bit left.”

  “Drink it.”

  Biggs nodded. “Right.”

  He obeyed, the brew as warm as the air around him. He felt the sudden rise of a volcano, deep in his gut, his eyes widening in a desperate glance toward a narrow gap between two ramshackle buildings.

  “Oh God. Gotta puke.”

  He made it to the narrow space, blind darkness in front of him, and his knees gave way, dropping him hard onto broken concrete. There was no holding back what came next, no thoughts of a good meal wasted. He let it go with pure abandon, then felt a hand on his back.

  “Good job, Tommy. You’re officially a drunken sailor.”

  Biggs stood slowly, Wakeman assisting. He put one hand against the small wooden building and tried to stop the swirling in his head, a useless effort. Wakeman said, “Come on. Taxi’s over there. Maybe.”

  Biggs focused as well as he could on Wakeman’s directions, saw Wakeman stumble, try to right himself, and Biggs said, “Christ, you’re no better off than I am. You sure which way is right?”

  Wakeman said, “What time is it?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I ain’t got a watch.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  Biggs saw a pair of marines, one with a watch on a muscular tattooed arm, Wakeman moving their way in a crooked line. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Can you tell me the time?”

  The larger marine eyed them both with a dangerous smirk. “What’s your ship, swabby?”

  Biggs moved closer, alarm bells in his head, felt a wave of impending doom.

  Wakeman said, “The Arizona.”

  “Woo-hoo. Hotshot battleship swabbies.”

  Wakeman seemed to run out of words, and Biggs said, “Sorry, just asking the time.”

  The marines seemed disappointed they hadn’t gotten a rise out of the two sailors, and the one with the watch glanced at it. “It’s 2350.”

  Wakeman seemed too far gone to be paying attention, and Biggs said, “Thanks, marine.”

  Biggs pulled Wakeman with him, let out a breath, felt as though he had just avoided losing his teeth. Wakeman seemed to come awake, pointed, said, “And there they be. Told you.”

  Biggs saw the taxis, and both men staggered toward them. They reached the first cab in line, the driver another old Asian man with a gap-toothed smile.

  “We wait for more sailors. More coming.”

  The wait wasn’t long, five more staggering in, most smelling as bad to Biggs as he knew he did. The quarters changed hands, Biggs now completely broke. This time, the ride covered the nine miles with a speed that would have drawn praise from a race car driver. Biggs held his arms tightly around his middle, willing himself not to be sick again. He stared out through the fog in his brain, focusing on the ships at their anchorage, blurry clusters of lights. He kept his eyes on the lights, the row of battleships, feeling a desperate need to focus on anything but the jerking motion of the taxi.

  The cab disgorged them at the pier, no one more grateful than Biggs. Immediately, the shore patrol gathered them up, directing them onto one of the fleet of shore boats. Biggs held on to Wakeman’s shirt, stepped down unevenly into the launch, was suddenly packed tightly alongside several dozen more men, most in the same condition he was. The boat moved out quickly, most of the men silent, others moaning in outright misery. The atmosphere was distinctively different than earlier that evening, the raucous enthusiasm for the adventure replaced n
ow by sailors suffering the consequences.

  The launch reached Ford Island in a few minutes, some of the men climbing out on their own. Biggs tried to help Wakeman, fell on his backside, Wakeman now bending low to help him. A hard hand gripped Biggs’s shoulder, a harder voice barked in his ear, “Get your ass out of my boat. Come on, move.”

  The hand lifted him up, and he fell forward, another pair of hands pulling him up and out of the boat. He stood on his own, wavered slightly, heard Wakeman, “They were certainly polite. Come on. We’re there. Kinda almost.”

  Biggs saw the lights along the berth, the massive shape of the Arizona. He followed Wakeman, who followed the slow river of men, all of them bound for the same place. At the ladder, the men climbed in slow single file, some helped by others, some climbing up on hands and knees. Biggs waited his turn, his mind drifting everywhere at once, until he felt a shove in his back, the ladder clear in front of him. He gripped the rails, blinked, took the first step. Behind him, he heard the voice of Wakeman.

  “You can do it, Tommy. Don’t look at the water. No thoughts of the water. Try not to feel the ship moving.”

  There was laughter above and below, and even through his fog, Biggs knew what Wakeman was doing. He said nothing, thought, I’ll get you back. You’ll see.

  He reached the top step, forced himself into a straight-backed stance, his eyes finding the OOD, his words coming in a gummy slur.

  “Report my return aboard, sir.”

  The officer of the deck waved him aboard without looking at him, seemed weary and impatient. Biggs thought, I bet he got this job because he did something stupid. Who the hell would volunteer for this?

  Wakeman was aboard now, repeating the same formality. Behind them, at the top of the ladder, a pair of men stumbled onto the deck, one man throwing up. Biggs looked at the OOD, wondered what would happen, but the officer waved toward a pair of men standing to one side, stationed there for exactly this purpose. The drunken men were propped up, struggled to say the required words, the OOD waiting patiently, one of them finally offering some coherence.

  “Report my return aboard, sir. Mister officer, sir.”

  He broke into sloppy laughter, and the OOD waved him aboard.

  Biggs started forward, staggered, his knees not cooperating. Wakeman said, “Hey, do you need to go to sick bay? You look awful. Stink too.”

  Biggs’s knees buckled again. “Maybe.”

  “Then go. I’m not holding your hand. I gotta find my hammock.”

  Behind him, Biggs saw more men coming aboard in perfect shape, a bounce in their steps, no hint of any impairment. Biggs tried to focus on those, the only conclusion: YMCA. He turned, looked for Wakeman, saw him leaning against the rail of the ship. Wakeman blinked hard, said, “Go on…sick bay. You look like hell, and you don’t need to be puking out the top of your hammock.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m below you, remember? Won’t nobody care.”

  The dizziness seemed to be getting worse, and Biggs tried to respond, no sounds coming from his mouth. He managed a slight wave of one hand, then looked for the hatch that would lead him forward, toward sick bay. He passed one of the hatches, knew he had to reach one more. There was a grunt beside him, and he jumped crookedly, saw a man just inside, hidden by the dark. The man stepped forward now, the ship’s lights catching his face. It was Kincaid. The sight of the man’s glare startled Biggs into a brief second of sobriety, and he said, “Hello, sir.”

  Kincaid said nothing, just looked at his watch, then stared for a long second at Biggs. Then he turned, back into the darkness, and was gone. Biggs felt the icy butterflies in his stomach, not a sensation he wanted. Well, he thought, he said he’d be checking. So, he checked. Maybe that’ll piss him off too, that I’m on time. He’d’a been more pissed off if I’d puked on his shoes. The thought struck him as supremely funny, and he steadied himself, tried not to laugh out loud. No, he’ll hear me, and read my mind. Sure as hell.

  Biggs continued forward, made it to the hatch, stepped into the passageway, started up the first ladder, slow careful steps. The familiar smells came up toward him, disinfectant. Somebody’s gotta be there, he thought. He paused on the ladder, gripped the rail tightly and took a long breath, tried to settle everything that was so unsettled. He continued up, saw a light from sick bay, felt desperately grateful. He was there now, said aloud, “Hello? Sir? Who’s on duty?”

  The face appeared, Dr. Condon, a smile of recognition, turning to concern.

  “Good Lord, Mr. Biggs, what happened to you?”

  “Liberty happened, sir.”

  Condon laughed, tempered it with a quick glance up and down to assess Biggs’s condition.

  “Come on in here. Let me check you out. You get into a fight?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “What did you drink?”

  “Six beers, sir. Um…no, there were more.”

  “Was it that green Primo stuff?”

  Biggs nodded silently. He liked Condon as much as he liked Dr. Johnson. Now he was just embarrassed, and was beginning to feel supremely stupid. “I’m sorry, sir. I never did anything like this before.”

  Condon laughed again. “It shows. Let’s get you cleaned up. You smell like something I’d usually toss over the side. Let me guess. You and your buddies went to Hotel Street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Biggs sat where Condon directed him, removed his shirt, saw for the first time the stains, realized he looked as awful as he felt.

  “Hotel Street is a pretty seedy area, Mr. Biggs. Not advisable to spend much time there. Are we going to have to include you in the short-arm inspection?”

  Biggs dropped his head. “Guess so, sir. But God, she was beautiful. Never done that before, never. Not sure I ever will again.”

  Condon laughed. “You will, probably. Just be careful, take precautions. But don’t make a habit of that sort of thing. There’s plenty more to do out there.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He felt his stomach turning over again. “Uh, sir, is there something you can give me to settle my belly?”

  Condon handed him a clean shirt, said, “Put this on, and then, if you can manage the ladder, head down to the gedunk stand.” Condon reached in a pocket, searched, pulled out a dime. “Here. Go drink a Coca-Cola. Best remedy there is. But next time? You’re buying.”

  TWELVE

  The Spy

  The ship was the Nitta Maru, arriving like so many others in the commercial harbor close to Honolulu, a passenger list of tourists and businessmen, some American, most Japanese. They passed dutifully through U.S. Customs, the few Americans familiar with the routine, many of the foreigners finding their way with the help of passengers who spoke English, or even of the customs agents. As the Japanese tourists passed out into the warm fragrant air of Honolulu, some marveled at the green, softly rolling hills, while others were drawn to the city and its nearby beaches.

  One man carried papers that passed him through customs without complication: the official documents of the Japanese foreign ministry. He was met and assisted by an official of the consulate, the usual practice for a new government employee serving his country. The documents listed his name as Tadashi Morimura.

  Immediately upon his arrival at the Japanese Consulate, introductions of this new man were made to the staff. The consul general himself, Nagao Kita, seemed unusually enthusiastic welcoming Morimura, assuring all who served there that Morimura would be a valuable and useful asset to the duties of the consulate.

  With introductions complete, the two men withdrew into the consul general’s office. To the rest of the staff, Morimura seemed to be distracted and unfriendly, but not rude. But the staff had greater concerns, struggling with mountains of paperwork, a variety of official tasks both serious and mundane. Any new man, especially an assistan
t to the consul general himself, was welcomed for whatever load he might bear.

  What no one but the consul general could know was that Mr. Morimura was not remotely who he seemed to be. His name was in fact Takeo Yoshikawa, and he had been sent to Honolulu with a very specific mission, which had nothing at all to do with managing the Japanese Consulate. He was a spy.

  * * *

  —

  Kita sat, pointed to a chair, but Yoshikawa stood, staring out a window.

  Kita said, “You do realize we must maintain the appearance that I am your superior, that you are here to perform all manner of services for this office, on my authority. No one will be told any more than that.”

  Yoshikawa glanced around the office, showing mild interest in the documents, plus a photograph of a family, which he presumed to belong to the consul general.

  “Nice photo.”

  There was nothing genuine about the compliment, but Kita was accustomed to the shallow politeness of diplomats.

  “Why, thank you. I have been in this post only for a few weeks, and my predecessor advised me to decorate my office with sentimental artifacts as I saw fit. My family is to join me here in several weeks, for which I am very pleased. Do you have any such photographs, or other mementos? If so, please decorate as you wish. You will be housed in the compound here, a cottage among several out back. The Ministry suggested in strong terms that you not establish a residence outside our walls. I concur. Here, you are free from observation.”

  Yoshikawa was already bored, said, “I have nothing to hang on walls. All I require is a bed, and perhaps a small stove.”

  Kita tried to maintain the smile, and Yoshikawa looked at him now, could see the strain it required.

  “Mr. Consul General, you need not accommodate me in any other way. I know my instructions, what the Naval Ministry expects of me. My job is straightforward, and I shall approach it as that.”

  “Very well. I appreciate bluntness.” Kita leaned to one side, pulled an envelope from the bottom drawer of his deck. “This came for you by special courier. No one here is aware of the contents.”