by Jeff Shaara
Biggs thought of Kincaid. “I’ve heard talk from some who are hoping we get into a hot fight. But then, Dr. Johnson told me not to get too excited about all that. I’m not sure how I feel. Some of the guys in my compartment, they talk about how bored they are, pissed off about going to sea and doing the same drills over and over. I don’t like painting or swabbing worth a damn, but being out there, on the open ocean? That’s aces. Until I did that, I wasn’t really sure why I joined the navy. I kinda got talked into it by a buddy back home. But I love this ship, and I love being out on the ocean. Never expected that.”
Corey moved away toward the doctor’s small office, tossed the magazine onto the desk. “You’re doing just fine, Tommy. You’re no different than me. I love the sea, I love this ship. It’s home. The longer you’re here, the more you’ll feel that way.”
Across the larger room, Vaughan called out. “Hey, Biggs, when’s your next ball game?”
“Tomorrow at 1400, field number two on Ford Island. We’re playing the team from the Marine Barracks.”
Vaughan looked over his way. “I’m not on duty. Maybe I can swing a liberty pass. How about you, Ernie?”
Corey said, “Nope. I’m right here. Dr. Condon and I have to give a safety lecture to a group of new recruits.”
Vaughan went back to work, said, “Sounds like a real hoot. Okay, Tommy, I wanna watch you bust a couple over the fence. If I don’t cheer you, it’s only because I’m surrounded by jarheads. They got no sense of humor.”
* * *
—
“He’s in the army now.
He’s blowin’ reveille.
He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B.”
Biggs clapped along with the rest, kept his eyes on the singer, standing out in front of the band, the voice of a professional. All around Biggs, feet were tapping, hands slapping knees, the smiles contagious. The song ended now, and another began, a slower piece, by Glenn Miller. The singer sat, picked up a trombone and began moving the brass slide. Too soon, the music ended. The singer stood up again, took a low bow, and held both hands high in the air.
“Thank you all! That’s it for now. We have duties to attend to. My name’s Jack Scruggs, and we are damn glad to be your band. We will see you at 0800, as always, for Colors.”
The applause was loud and long, the sailors starting to rise, moving out to wherever they were supposed to be. Biggs still sat, kept his gaze on the instruments, marveled at the talent it took to make that kind of music. There was a hand on his shoulder, and he turned, was surprised to see Vaughan. Vaughan called out toward the band, “This way, gentlemen. You’ve got an appointment in sick bay.”
Biggs looked at the band members, saw no signs of any ailment, but Vaughan was already down the ladder. Most of the musicians zipped a thin cloth around their instruments, some placing them in custom cases. They moved quickly, followed Vaughan off the upper deck, down the ladder. Biggs wasn’t on duty for another hour, but he had too much curiosity, fell in behind them.
They reached sick bay, and Biggs kept back, saw Vaughan leading them in, packing the men along one bulkhead. Biggs ducked, could see into the hatchway now, was still baffled why these men were there.
Johnson emerged from one end of the compartment, saw Biggs, motioned him inside. The doctor scanned the room and said, “Gentlemen, I am Commander Samuel Johnson. I am one of the medical doctors on this ship. First, I want to say that your performances have given a lift to this entire crew, all the way up to the admiral. I commend you all. However, you are here today because one of your most important stations on this ship, in the event of any serious combat or other emergency, is to assist the medical staff in any way they may require, though primarily as stretcher bearers. We all hope you will never need the training you will receive here. But the plain fact is that, in an emergency, you could be responsible for saving the life of one or more of your crewmen. Some of what you might be asked to do is common sense, but there are duties you might not expect.
“Let me offer you one example. You come upon a situation where two men are wounded. One man has a cut on his arm. He’s holding his hand on the cut; maybe his shirt is wrapped around the wound. The second man, he has a major stomach wound, so that his intestines…his insides are plainly visible.”
The doctor paused, the musicians giving him their full attention. After a long moment, Johnson said, “You might not agree with what I’m about to tell you. But it is critical that you obey this protocol. If you are facing this situation by yourself, no corpsman around, your first efforts should go to the man with the wounded arm. It is a wound that is relatively easy to repair. Any bleeding can be stopped with pressure, wrapped up, even if you use the man’s shirt. In other words, this man can be patched up, and he can return to duty. He might have to perform a critical function for this ship, and putting him back at his station might save lives. The second man…his wound will require major surgery. Nothing you can do will allow him to return to duty, and worse, it is possible that nothing you can do will ensure his survival.”
Biggs saw heads drop, gloom spreading over the band members, and over Biggs as well.
Johnson continued, “Your job could be to assist one of my men, or one of the doctors. It is unlikely you will be called upon to administer any medical treatment beyond first aid. But that is not guaranteed. If there are casualties anywhere on this ship, it is far better for you to know what to do and what to expect. Staring at a wounded man wringing your hands makes you a liability. That’s what this training is for—not to teach you to be corpsmen, but to perhaps save a life on your own, if one of us can’t reach you in time to help.”
* * *
—
The lecture from Johnson lasted another half hour, ending with the promise of more to come. Just like the drills at sea, the training was never-ending.
They filed out through the hatchway, Biggs moving closer to the doctor.
“Holy cow, sir. I can’t really get used to that. The first time you gave me that talk, I guessed the other way around—attend to the belly wound. It seems like the right thing to do.”
“Most people feel that way, Mr. Biggs. It’s instinctive. But this isn’t a lesson in compassion. In a combat situation, nobody can afford to be kind.”
“Yes, sir. I guess so.”
Vaughan moved over, said, “Don’t worry about it, Tommy. First time I heard that, I went crazy. Thought it was cold as hell.”
Johnson said, “It might be. But it has to be that way. The welfare of the ship has to come first.”
Vaughan stepped away, the doctor moved into his office, and Biggs was surprised to see one of the band members at the hatchway.
“Excuse me?”
Biggs said, “Yeah, sure, come in.”
“Could I get the doctor to look at my hand? Well, it’s my finger, actually.”
Johnson emerged from his office, said, “What’s the trouble, sailor?”
“Sir, I play the clarinet and saxophone. After the last concert, I got a pretty bad blister. Fortunately, it’s not where I have to put the most pressure. But it hurts pretty bad.”
Johnson said, “Right over here, sailor. Have a seat. You have a name?”
“Yes, sir. Jerry Cox, sir, musician second.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Cox. I love the reed instruments.”
“Thank you, sir. I suppose I do too. I play a few others too, even the Hawaiian guitar.”
Johnson said, “Mr. Biggs, hand me that tube of ointment, and the thin gauze. This won’t be any problem at all, Mr. Cox. It might be sore for a while, but we’ll keep any nasty bugs out of there. The last thing we want is an infection. Hawaiian guitar? That’s a strange one.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve found out that most of the crews who have spent time in Hawaii aren’t too keen on hearing t
hat one. I think they get enough as it is.”
Biggs brought over the ointment and gauze, and Johnson went to work. He said to Biggs, “Aren’t you curious where this man is from?”
It was a familiar cue, to occupy the patient’s attention.
“Yes, sir, I am. Where are you from, Mr. Cox?”
“East Moline, Illinois. Not many people have heard of it, I guess.”
Biggs and Johnson both laughed. Cox was obviously baffled by their response, and Biggs said, “I’m from a place in Florida that would fit inside the Moline Post Office. And, the doctor’s hometown would fit inside that.”
They all laughed, the distraction working like it was supposed to. Biggs kept his eyes on Cox’s face, felt a hint of recognition.
“You go through basic at Great Lakes? Back in February?”
Cox said, “Yeah. Finished up in March.”
Biggs smiled. “I knew you looked familiar. I was there too. Not sure if we bumped into each other, but after six weeks you remember some faces.”
Cox said, “You play an instrument?”
Biggs sniffed. “I wrapped a paper napkin around a comb once. Played ‘Yankee Doodle’ for my mom on her birthday. My buddy, Ray, slapped a cardboard box for the drums. He’s on the Curtiss right now, seaplane tender.”
Cox laughed. “I guess we might use a comb-player in the band once in a while.”
Johnson held up Cox’s hand. “All done, Mr. Cox. It was a little worse than you described it. I wanted it cleaned out to keep any creatures from sneaking in. And, like I said, it’ll be tender, but you can still use it, if you don’t press too hard.”
Cox looked at the gauze wrapping his finger. “Thank you, sir. I might take a day off. We’ve got the band contest on Saturday at Bloch Arena. If you can get liberty, you oughta come out.”
Biggs said, “Where’s that?”
“New place built over near Hickam Field, right across the harbor. Supposed to be real nice, holds a bunch of people. There’s gonna be four bands, and we’re competing for a pretty nice trophy. Our director, Mr. Kinney, says that if we win, he’ll get us all promoted to ensign. Kinda doubt that. But it’ll be fun.”
Biggs looked at Johnson, who nodded. “Sure, I’ll write up a pass. I think I’ll go myself.”
ONBOARD USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1941
He was soaked through with sweat, the dirt from the ball field invading every part of his body. He climbed the ladder slowly, made his formal greeting to the officer of the deck, who stood back, seemed to give Biggs a wide berth. Biggs knew he had to be carrying a fragrant aroma no one wanted to experience, but he was too tired to apologize. He stepped inside the hatchway, stayed back as an officer came up the ladder, a lieutenant Biggs had never seen before. The man looked at him with a frown of disapproval.
“What’s your problem, sailor? You ever hear of a shower?”
Biggs stiffened, said, “Yes, sir. I just came off the baseball field, sir. I’m headed down for a shower now.”
The officer’s mood changed, a smile. “Good. How’d we do?”
“Um, sir, we played the Marine Barracks boys. They won.”
“Hmm. Well, get ’em next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant moved down the passageway, and Biggs didn’t hesitate, quickly descended the ladder, then the next one until he reached his compartment. He stepped through the hatchway, was startled by the angry scowl of Kincaid.
“So, here’s one of our losers right now. You know what you did today, Biggs? You let the damn marines embarrass us. I’m just giving the word to all your shipmates here.” The others were sitting along the sides of the mess tables, and Kincaid pointed at Biggs. “This worm let them score fourteen runs. I guess the whole team must have pissed themselves when they saw those jarheads.” He turned to Biggs again. “You too, I’ll bet. Too scared to come out of your dugout, right?”
Biggs was in no mood for this. He wondered how Kincaid already knew about the game.
“I hit two home runs and a double, sir.”
That seemed to pause Kincaid’s harangue, but he summoned the disgust again. “Sounds like you’re awfully proud of yourself. Well, it wasn’t enough, was it? All right, since you embarrassed this ship today, tomorrow at 0800, you will report to holystoning duty on the main deck, starboard. You may or may not have any help, but I don’t care. You’ll work until 1600, or until I tell you to stop.”
Biggs thought of the band concert. “Sir, the doctor gave me a liberty pass for tomorrow. Our band is playing, a contest with other bands.”
The look on Kincaid’s face didn’t change. “I don’t care if you’re going dancing with Ginger Rogers. You will report as ordered.”
Biggs was too exhausted to hold back, his anger rising. “Sir, I really want to go to that concert. Dr. Johnson says I’ll have a pass. You have no reason to be such a son of a bitch…”
Kincaid seemed to light up. “I been looking forward to this.”
He stepped forward, the fist coming straight at Biggs’s nose. Biggs ducked quickly to one side, Kincaid’s blow missing him completely. Kincaid rose up, a low growl, “You little bastard. You talk to me like that…”
“What’s the trouble here, Petty Officer?”
The voice came from behind Kincaid. Biggs saw the white uniform, the rank, recognized the lieutenant as the man he had just seen in the passageway.
Kincaid hesitated, then turned around, said, “There’s no problem here at all, sir. Just teaching one of my men some respect.”
The lieutenant looked past Kincaid to Biggs, said, “No shower yet, Mr. Biggs?”
“No, sir. On my way.”
“You did a fine job out there, Mr. Biggs. Our pitching was a little off, that’s all. I spoke to Lieutenant Janz. He says that without your bat, it would have been even uglier. They’ve never voted an MVP before, but you’re in the running, for sure.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The lieutenant said to Kincaid, “It would be a real problem if our best hitter had some kind of mishap. There are a lot of people on this ship who are pretty happy with this sailor’s contribution to our baseball team. Do you understand, Petty Officer?”
The words came out slowly, barely audible. “Completely, sir.”
“Good. We’ll be going into dry dock on Monday. Just some minor repairs and maintenance for a few days, but I would guess there will be ample opportunity for liberty.”
Behind Biggs, the others responded with low sounds of approval.
The lieutenant said to Kincaid, “Petty Officer, I would suggest that you take advantage of the opportunity as well. From where I stand, I think you could use a little down time. As you were, gentlemen.”
The lieutenant moved out through the hatchway, the compartment deathly silent. Kincaid turned to Biggs, spoke with the snarl of a vicious dog. “When does baseball season end, worm?”
Biggs felt the heat from Kincaid’s wrath, said, “Don’t know exactly, sir. They haven’t posted the full schedule yet. December, I think.”
Kincaid started for the hatchway, took a look back toward him. “I’m counting the days.”
TWENTY
Yamamoto
TOKYO, JAPAN—SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1941
His impatience had been increasing daily. There were still so many roadblocks put in the way of his plan by his superiors, who dismissed his strategy as outrageously risky. But Yamamoto was still commander in chief of the combined fleet, and did not need anyone’s approval to order the training programs for ship captains, air commanders and pilots, and everyone else who would be a part of his attack plan. Even now, Commander Genda and several of Genda’s subordinates were analyzing and debating the possible routes the fleet would take on its approach to Hawaii. As w
ell, Genda was selecting the appropriate air commanders, mapping out their potential flight paths, and increasing the training for the pilots, men who still had no idea just what they were training to do.
As Genda and his men labored, Yamamoto continued to confront the naysayers. Most were admirals, some above him in rank and seniority, men with the power to terminate the operation altogether. Others had served under him, including Fukudome, his former chief of staff.
Yamamoto couldn’t truly fault anyone for their doubts. He had plenty of his own. What he railed against was the utter lack of imagination among the men who were charging ahead with their own plans for war, a foregone conclusion that it would involve the United States and Britain, if not the Dutch and the Soviets. The sheer magnitude of what they were trying to accomplish had caused some of the most vocal among them to pull back just a bit, as though they were finally taking seriously that all-out war against everyone in the Pacific Rim might be a disastrous mistake.
He knew that the skepticism toward his plan could become contagious even among the men who now supported it. There was one effective method for quieting much of that, while solidifying the numbers and statistics that could buoy his case. On September 2, he had scheduled war games, a traditional exercise usually called for later in the year. But Yamamoto wouldn’t wait. He knew that Japan was entering a precarious time, and with the embargo now in effect, the prime minister and the Naval Ministry would quickly bend to the noisy will of the army. To the army, war was no longer a point of discussion—it was happening. The only variable Yamamoto could see was just how much time it would take for the Japanese military to adequately prepare.
