by Jeff Shaara
There was general laughter now, even Finley smiling. Biggs stood in again, took one practice swing and waited. Finley wheeled around, the ball coming again, same as before. Biggs could see the laces, the backward spin, no movement on the ball at all. He whipped the bat forward, perfect contact, a loud crack, the ball in a high line drive straight over Finley’s head, then far over the rail, disappearing into the harbor. There was no sound, all eyes watching the path of the ball. The faces began to turn back toward him, and he saw Lieutenant Janz staring at him. Biggs looked toward Finley, the marine with his hands by his side, a curious look on his face.
Janz waved toward Finley. “Give him another one.”
Finley seemed to bear down, hard anger on his face. Biggs smiled at him, then stopped that, knew that taunting a pitcher could be a dangerous thing to do. A ball in your ear…
Finley stared hard past him, the catcher ready. Biggs thought, I tested him. Maybe embarrassed him. Now he’s going to test me, and sure as hell, embarrass me. If he can.
The pitch came now, and Biggs could see the seams spinning sideways, the curveball, hanging, settling in right where Biggs wanted it to be. He swung again, but too low, the ball flying in a high arc back behind him. He turned, saw the ball coming down well astern. Janz and several of the others turned that way, and Biggs heard the ball impact the teakwood deck with a loud whack, saw a high bounce, a few men there scrambling out of the way, the ball coming down again into a cluster of white-suited officers. Biggs looked that way, past the huge gun turrets, nervous now, the bat still resting on his shoulder. The commotion continued on the main deck, sailors coming to formal attention, the gathering of officers looking up his way, one man pointing.
Beside him, Janz said, “Jesus, kid, you almost hit the captain. They might toss you in the brig for this.”
Biggs watched two of the officers moving along the main deck toward the bow, climbing up now, the men on the upper deck snapping to attention. Biggs stiffened as well, the bat by his side. Only one was familiar: Biggs recognized Captain Van Valkenburgh from the first day he boarded the ship.
Van Valkenburgh had the ball in his hand, saw the bat, looked at Biggs with no recognition.
“Somebody lose this, Lieutenant?”
He tossed the ball to Janz, who said, “My apologies, sir. We were just starting with batting practice.”
The lieutenant looked sharply at Biggs, the meaning clear. Say something.
Biggs said, “I’m very sorry, sir. I got under it a little. It was a foul ball. The first one went out the right way, I promise, sir.”
Van Valkenburgh looked at the pitcher, Finley, acknowledged him with a sharp nod. He glanced at Janz, who said, “He nailed the first one, but I think it was a fluke. Mr. Finley’s just getting warmed up.”
The captain seemed to ignore Janz, said to Biggs, “I’d like to see that. Do it again.”
Janz said, “You mean, you want him to hit it again?”
Van Valkenburgh looked at Janz. “That’s precisely what I mean, Lieutenant.”
Finley went back to the pitcher’s rubber, and the catcher settled in.
Janz tossed the ball to Finley, then called out, “Strike him out, Private. No more flukes.”
Biggs saw Finley staring at him with embarrassed fury. He stepped to the plate, thought, He knows he made a mistake. He hung that curveball. I just missed it. So, this one will be fast, to impress the captain. Okay, Tommy, just see the ball.
The pitch came, fast and low, at the knees, and Biggs swung, another hard crack, the ball in a high arc straight over the bow, far beyond the rail of the ship, the fielders turning, watching the ball disappear again into the harbor. The sounds came from the others now, whistles, a few hands clapping. Finley’s anger changed now to surprise, and then, a nod of respect toward Biggs. Biggs looked toward the captain and Van Valkenburgh stepped toward him, stood in front of him, said, “I’m looking for some people to represent this ship on a ball field. I think you’ll do just fine.” He turned to Janz. “I would suggest, Lieutenant, that if you’re going to have this man hit batting practice, you do it out that way, toward Ford Island. He’ll run us out of baseballs.”
ONBOARD USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—THURSDAY, JULY 17, 1941
Dr. Condon had completed his shift, Dr. Johnson now taking over. Biggs was learning that the routine for the doctors meant that his own shift might not be coordinated with either one of theirs. He didn’t mind. He enjoyed working with both men, was already learning far more than he had expected to in such a short time.
He noticed a faint bloodstain on the floor beneath the operating table, thought, Good God, I missed that one. He knelt low, rag in one hand, disinfectant in the other. He rubbed the area with the wet cloth, the harsh smell of the cleaner burning his nostrils. He straightened up, still on his knees, and cursed to himself, attacked it again.
The voice surprised him: one of the mates, Bill Vaughan.
“Hey, Tommy. You working on that stain?” Vaughan laughed now. “Every damn one of us has tackled that thing ever since we got here. Let it go. Nobody knows how it got there, or even what it is. Dr. Johnson thinks it’s been there as long as he has, thinks maybe it’s grape juice. Block thinks somebody dropped a piece of cherry pie.”
Biggs climbed up to his feet. “Thanks for letting me know. I’d have worked on that stain all day. I figured it was my fault.”
Vaughan laughed. “That’s what we’ve all thought.”
Dr. Johnson emerged from the office, saw the rag and bottle in Biggs’s hands. “Going after that stain, eh? Well, the first one of you gets it cleaned up earns a Navy Cross; I’ll sign the paperwork. Personally, I think it’s been there since they were building the ship. Some high-flying bird took offense and left his mark.”
Biggs heard an odd noise, looked up toward the turret above them, then toward the hatchway. “What’s that?”
Johnson stared at the ceiling. “It’s music.”
Vaughan looked up as well, shook his head. “Somebody’s in Dutch. Radios were labeled contraband a while ago. Anybody caught playing one lands in the brig.”
The doctor kept his eyes toward the direction of the sound. “I don’t think that’s a radio. It’s too loud. Could be our band, but they don’t play anything with that much…jump.”
Vaughan said, “Other than Colors, I’ve never heard our band play anything worth listening to. A bunch of highbrow stuff.”
Johnson continued to look up, said, “Careful, Mr. Vaughan. That highbrow stuff is what some of the old boys like to listen to.”
Vaughan said, “You actually listen to that stuff, sir?”
The doctor smiled. “No. I said the ‘old boys.’ I’m an ‘almost.’ And I agree. I can’t say I’ve ever heard our band do anything that sounded like that. Mr. Biggs, why don’t you go topside, try to find out just what’s going on.”
“Certainly, sir.”
He moved out through the hatchway, and the sound grew louder. Others were around him now, moving in the direction of the music. He heard questions, puzzled men moving up the ladders, following each other to the upper deck. The music grew louder still, and he stepped out to bright sunshine and a lively tune. The deck was crowded with crewmen, officers sprinkled through the crowd. The music came from nearly two dozen musicians, all in uniform. The songs came one behind the other, lively jazz, then a modern pop song, some of the men singing along.
Biggs scanned the musicians, most of them young, playing instruments of every kind: trombones, saxophones, clarinets, cornets, drums, and bass. The instruments were polished and perfect, every note as professional as anything Biggs had ever heard. He knew he should go below, report back to the doctor. But he was riveted, the music holding him in place, the sheer pleasure of the sounds overwhelming.
As a song ended, he asked a man beside him, “What’s going on? Who are
these guys?”
In the group closest to him, he saw an officer, an ensign, turning toward him, smiling with him, and the man said, “They just came aboard, sailor. The Arizona just got a brand-new band.”
SEVENTEEN
Hull
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.—FRIDAY, AUGUST 1, 1941
As Hull moved toward the Cabinet Room, he could still feel the weakness, his recovery not quite whole. For most of the past month, he and Frances had secluded themselves at White Sulphur Springs, in West Virginia. He knew the symptoms of exhaustion, and his wife had seen it more clearly than he had. She’d insisted he take time off and so, with no protest from him, they had journeyed to the pleasant coolness of the mountains, the hot springs, and a great deal of pampering. As much as the trip was recuperative for him, he knew she would appreciate a bit of pampering herself.
His appointments had been handled mostly by his undersecretary, Sumner Welles, a man who clearly saw himself as capable of filling Hull’s shoes. Hull had no real problem with Welles’s obvious ambition, but Welles had the unfortunate habit of going over Hull’s head, offering various pieces of information directly to the White House without consulting Hull in the process. Roosevelt didn’t seem to mind the breach of protocol, as long as what Welles provided him was useful. Hull didn’t necessarily dislike Welles, but he had detected too often that Welles, a much younger man, had his eye on Hull’s chair. As far as Hull was concerned, Welles could wait his turn.
Now back in Washington, Hull had made it a point of visiting with a number of reporters, if only to demonstrate that he was completely healthy and back to work. Rumors that he might be suffering from some affliction would help no one, and Hull knew that with the extraordinary amount of tension rolling through the capital, the president would need him.
* * *
—
The men had filed into the Cabinet Room, low banter between them. Hull took his place behind a chair immediately to the right of the space Roosevelt would occupy.
He saw Frances Perkins coming in, the men making way with smiles and empty chatter. Perkins was the secretary of commerce, the first woman ever to occupy a position in any president’s cabinet. Hull acknowledged her with a friendly nod, though he knew she would keep her smiles to herself. If any of them regarded her presence as less than serious, she might remind them that her position was no less significant than their own. A few of the less experienced cabinet members had been subjected to her devastating jabs.
Hull put his hands on the back of his designated chair. He waited for the rest to take their places, and met their glances with polite acknowledgment. Stimson was there now, and Hull was not surprised that the secretary of war had very little cordiality to offer any of them. While Hull and his wife had enjoyed their weeks in the West Virginia mountains, Stimson had been working harder than ever.
Roosevelt entered, today using his crutches instead of his usual wheelchair. Hull knew it was often a personal challenge, the president doing whatever he could to strike back at the effects of the polio. Behind Roosevelt, a young marine followed, keeping his distance. The president made his way slowly, finally reached his chair at the center of the table. Hull knew, as did they all, that no matter Roosevelt’s discomfort, he would not allow anyone to lend him a hand.
Hull ached to assist him, thought, He must be feeling pretty chipper today to use the crutches. Or at least, he wants us to think so.
Roosevelt slid into the chair in an awkward maneuver and, as always, Hull stood prepared to assist. On Roosevelt’s left, the treasury secretary, Henry Morgenthau, did the same. Roosevelt settled in and the marine discreetly removed the crutches. The president spread his arms out on the table as though the effort had been perfectly routine.
Roosevelt said, “Be seated, please, Miss Perkins, gentlemen. I want to get right to it.” He looked past the end of the table at two young men, the recording secretaries, seated at small desks. “You ready?”
The two men had pens in hand, both offering the president a crisp response, “Yes, Mr. President.”
Roosevelt scanned the members of his cabinet, then pulled a small stack of folded papers from his coat pocket, spread them out in front of him. “As you all know, it is unusual for me or the secretary of state to bring to this cabinet matters of foreign relations. That has never been a reflection on any of you. Most of you have important duties and responsibilities within your own areas of authority. However, today, I will make an exception. There are events now occurring which could eventually involve all of you in one way or another.”
He looked at Hull. “Proceed at your convenience, Mr. Secretary.”
Hull cleared his throat, looked down for a moment, then over to the papers in front of Roosevelt, which were a handwritten copy of what he was about to say. He let out a breath. “Thank you, Mr. President. As you know, on July twenty-fourth, this cabinet approved a measure whereby the president would issue an order freezing Japanese financial assets in the United States. That order was put into effect, and was stated publicly two days later. This action was in response to an agreement reached between the government of Japan and Marshall Henri Pétain, president of the government of occupied France, which we know as Vichy. That allows the Japanese to occupy French Indo-China with whatever strength she wishes to employ there, without any resistance from France.
“By freezing Japanese assets in the United States, we have sent a stern warning to Japan that we do not approve of this formal incursion. It was our hope that the Japanese could be persuaded to avoid the occupation of that part of Asia by diplomatic means. We have been severely disappointed in that effort. We did not anticipate that Vichy would, in effect, hand over their colonies in Southeast Asia free of charge.
“In any case, our greater concern is that the Japanese will not accept this gift from Vichy and stop there. This permission granted to Japan by the French allows the Japanese to build air and sea bases, and to establish troop bases without any restriction or limitation on their size or disposition. From all we can determine by the various means at our disposal, the Japanese have clear designs on the Dutch East Indies, Thailand, Singapore, and would likely expand their belligerence aggressively toward any nation that might offer easy pickings. One has to look no further than Nazi Germany to understand how this practice takes shape. There is a considerable threat to our own territories as well, including our islands in the South Pacific, and the Philippines.”
He paused, his voice straining, his heart pounding. He took a drink of water from a glass in front of him, and began again. “The Empire of Japan has received notice from us of our severe displeasure at their recent actions, and we have presented them with a complete explanation of our justification for freezing their financial assets. Their response continues to be one of belligerence and bluster. In other words, there does not appear to be any hope of altering the dangerous course they are pursuing.”
He looked toward Roosevelt, who had followed his comments on the paper.
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary. Based on the knowledge we now have of these and other Japanese actions, and their likely intentions, and with no sense that their government has any intentions of reversing course…in accordance with the Act of Congress of June second, 1940, I am exercising the authority granted the president to order a complete freeze on all goods and products from the United States to the Empire of Japan, most specifically, oil, gasoline, and other petroleum products. This total embargo shall go into effect immediately.”
The reaction was swift and vocal, most of the cabinet reacting with enthusiastic approval. But that response was not unanimous. Hull scanned the faces and saw Frances Perkins looking down, a couple of the others reacting with disappointment or uncertainty. Hull wanted to reassure them all that this was not the end of anything, that it did not tie anyone’s hands, nor cut off dialogue, but there was nothing he could say, unless the president asked him to.
He looked at Stimson, the man staring quietly toward the blue sky outside the window, betraying none of his thoughts. All through the spring and early summer, Stimson had increasingly pushed for the Pacific fleet, possibly the entire Pacific fleet, to be shifted to the Atlantic, still insisting there was no threat in the Pacific. But the aggressiveness of the Japanese over the past couple of months had forced Stimson closer to Hull’s point of view. As hawkish as Stimson might have been, an attitude shared by Secretary of the Treasury Morgenthau, both men had seemed to come around to Roosevelt’s way of pressing the issue: diplomacy first, and action, if necessary, to follow. No matter what we tried to believe, Hull thought, the Japanese have ignored every effort we made for a reasonable solution. Their goals are very specific and very inflexible, and to us, very dangerous.
He looked at Roosevelt, who was basking in the positive responses from most of his cabinet. No, Hull thought, we had no alternative. If conversation and reasonable compromises wouldn’t reach the Japanese, the president had to get their attention another way.
THE CARLTON HOTEL, WASHINGTON, D.C.—SUNDAY, AUGUST 10, 1941
Hull sat at his desk, had given up trying to work. He fought through his fatigue, stretched his back, suddenly caught her in the corner of his eye. It was her usual perch, just outside his door, leaning, arms crossed, watching him. He did his best to keep his back straight, scrolling now through a stack of papers, pretending they mattered. Sometimes that was enough to satisfy her, but this time, she wouldn’t leave. He gave up, turned to her, said, “What? Something wrong?”
