by Jeff Shaara
Wakeman said, “What about you, slugger?”
Biggs thought a moment, hesitated before giving them an easy reason to razz him. “Well, it was Woody who kinda put the idea in my head. He said I’ve got a natural swing, all that kind of stuff. I’d love to stand in against somebody like Bob Feller, just once. He might strike me out on three pitches, and I’d never even see the ball go by. But, still, I’d like to know.”
He expected laughs, but the looks were serious, some of the others even nodding.
Wakeman said, “That’s good, Tommy. And I bet you’d see that ball.” He laughed. “But I bet you wouldn’t hit it.”
The laughs came now, and Biggs played along, stood, swung an imaginary bat, spun himself down to the deck like a corkscrew.
“Well, here’s all my babies in their playpen. How sweet.”
Biggs saw Kincaid by the hatch, pulled himself upright, noticed a dark scuff on his trouser leg. There was no covering it up, and Biggs waited for the inevitable.
“So, what the hell was a jarhead doing in here? One of you idiots insult his sister? This bunch would be stupid enough to do just that. Had to be you, right, Biggs?”
“No, sir. That was Private Finley. He’s the pitcher—”
“Shut your damn mouth. So, he thought he’d hop by here so you could brown-nose him, right? I see the stain, Biggs. You kneel in front of a marine, you deserve a stain.”
Biggs fought to keep silent, knew the eyes behind him were squarely on his back.
Kincaid glared at Biggs, said, “I saw your request for leave from that baseball lieutenant you love brown-nosing too. It’s not happening. You’re ordered to report to sick bay in thirty minutes. You wanna bitch about it? Bitch to your short-arm inspectors.” He looked past Biggs, faked a smile. “Enjoy your evening, boys.”
Kincaid moved out through the hatch, and Biggs sat heavily. Wakeman said, “Holy cow, Tommy. That’s rough. He’s got it in for you something awful. He’s been a bad-ass ever since I been here, chewing out a bunch of us for no good reason. But he’s square on you now. If you could file some kind of complaint maybe he’d ease up.”
Mahone said, “Bad idea. He’s an old-timer, probably counting the days for his pension. You muck it up for him, he’ll do you worse than he’s doing now.”
Biggs shrugged. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll report to sick bay like I’m supposed to. I know he hates my guts. I’ve just got no idea why.”
Wakeman said, “Tommy, I been here nearly three years. I’ve heard about those kinds of guys, who just need somebody to bust up, take out their anger on. Looks like, for now, it’s you. There ain’t much you can do. Just try not to piss him off any more than he is right now.”
Biggs shrugged. “I’ll try. Well, I better get up to sick bay. The doctors wouldn’t have ordered me to report if it wasn’t important. There’s other days for liberty. Besides, it’s just Hawaii. Next time, it’ll be Seattle.”
USS ARIZONA, AT SEA—WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1941
Thoughts of Bremerton were set aside for now, the Arizona engaging yet again in sea drills. They moved in convoy as usual, with several smaller ships maneuvering around and behind the Arizona and her frequent partners in these drills, the battleships Nevada and Oklahoma.
Biggs had reported to duty for the late shift, found Dr. Condon there with two of the pharmacist’s mates. Condon sat in his office, a book in hand, the other two playing cards. Biggs did his usual job: ran a mop around the edges of sick bay, then through the center of the spaces, the decks beneath his feet brought to a wet shine.
He completed the job quickly, stowed the mop, checked the wetness of the deck, found it already drying. Vaughan came through the hatchway now, wiping his face.
“Man, I never saw rain like this, not out here. The guys on deck have it pretty miserable.”
Condon put the book down. “That means we’ll have a flock of guys coming in here thinking they’re dying of the flu. Mr. Block, Mr. Corey, when you finish your game, put together a tray of various cold medications, the usual drug store stuff. That should solve any of those problems. How bad is the rain, Mr. Vaughan?”
“Coming down in sheets, sir. Worse is the fog, though. That’s something new for me. Got to be the darkest night I ever saw. Glad somebody smarter than me is steering this ship.”
Biggs said, “What are we doing? I don’t hear any firing. Last time it was all the antiaircraft guns.”
“No, not now. We’re doing ninety-degree turns, other maneuvers. Twisty turning stuff. Don’t ask me why.”
The alarm bell erupted in the passageway. Condon shouted, “Collision alarm. Hang on to something.”
The ship lurched hard, no time to react, the men tumbling, rolling across the deck to the port side of sick bay, the deck sloping that way, then rolling back to starboard. Biggs held tightly to the legs of a surgical table, his heart racing, questions roaring through his mind. Around him, the others fought to stand, questions from all of them, a chorus of loud voices out in the passageway, curses and more questions. He rolled over to one side, looked through the table legs. He saw Vaughan sitting on the floor, holding his arm.
“What the hell’s going on? Jesus, my shoulder.”
Condon braced himself against the table above Biggs, said, “Just sit there. Not sure what happened, but we’ll probably have casualties. It felt like we ran aground, but we’re in the middle of no place, and it’s gotta be two miles deep. If it was a mine or a torpedo, we’d probably smell it. Or maybe not. Mr. Biggs, you all right?”
Biggs pulled himself to his feet. The deck was sloping to port, but the rolling had stopped. “Yes, sir. I’m okay. What do you want me to do, sir?”
“Go up on deck. If you can, find out what the hell happened. If they need stretchers, get back here quickly. Dr. Johnson is on his way here, pretty sure of that. It’s gonna be a long night. But it would sure help us to know what’s going on.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll come back quick as I can.”
Biggs made his way to the hatch and stepped into the passageway, men moving past him in a rush. He fell in with the flow, reached the first ladder, climbed up with others behind him and one man above. The way cleared, and he climbed the final ladder, emerged onto the upper deck, beneath the massive guns of the first turret. Men were lined up in the rain and darkness along the port side, the ship listing that way. He heard orders shouted out along both flanks of the ship, fought to keep upright, the deck slippery from the rain. He made his way to the rail, saw rainy blackness beyond, but off the port side was a hulking shape, more lights and noise. It was a sight he had never expected. It was the Oklahoma, and it was very clear that she had collided with the Arizona.
* * *
—
The collision had taken place late in the night, in the midst of a drill to avoid submarines—tight turns, zigzag maneuvers. But the rain and the dense fog had added one more challenge to the routine, with visibility cut down to no more than shouting distance. Before the ships collided, the commander of the Oklahoma, Captain Edward Foy, had realized what was about to occur. He had ordered his engines to immediate full astern, which lessened the impact and possibly prevented the Arizona from sustaining enough damage to sink her. The Oklahoma received only minor damage, but the Arizona suffered a triangular gash in her port side more than twelve feet long and four feet wide. Though the damage caused the ship to list nearly ten degrees to port, within a short time the starboard ballast tanks had taken on enough water to balance the ship.
* * *
—
Condon ran a hand over his face, let out a breath of exhaustion. “Lots of shook-up people, but I don’t want to hand out pills just to calm people down.”
Johnson said, “Agreed. That part will pass soon enough. I spoke to Commander Register. He told me how damn lucky we were.”
Condon shook his head. “Lucky fo
r the skipper of the Oklahoma. If we’d have gone down? They’d have hanged him.”
“Let that go. Nobody was killed, nobody knocked overboard. Lousy weather means problems. Always has. If they’d put radar on these boats, we’d all be better off.”
Biggs was working with Vaughan, tightening the sling that held his shoulder. “Sir? What’s ‘radar’?”
Condon said, “It means ‘radio detection and ranging.’ It’s a way of finding out if another ship, or plane, or anything else is out there where you can’t see it.”
Johnson laughed. “You see, Mr. Biggs? This is why he should outrank me. The younger they are the more they know.”
Vaughan flinched, and Biggs pulled his hands away, said, “Oh, sorry.”
“Nah, wasn’t you. Just hurts like hell. More of a bad bruise than anything busted. Hope so, anyway.”
Johnson said, “We’ll be back in port soon. It’s slow going. And then they’ll put us into dry dock. Commander Register said the hole wasn’t too bad, considering how we got hit, and it should be a fairly simple repair. If there’s any such thing on a battleship.”
Biggs absorbed that, said, “Sir, how long’s that gonna take, dry dock? We’re supposed to head out to Bremerton soon.”
Johnson looked at him, and Biggs saw gloom on the doctor’s face.
“I love that area, Mr. Biggs. Great place to fish, to eat; the mountains are spectacular. I was really looking forward to seeing it again. But I’m afraid it’s not going to happen anytime soon. Commander Register says the move east has been canceled indefinitely.”
Condon said, “For crying out loud, I’ve got family planning on meeting me there.”
Biggs could only guess what this would do to the morale of his buddies. “Wow, sir. That’s a shame. Everybody I’ve talked to was looking forward to it.”
Johnson moved back toward the office, said, “I know. Now they’ll just have to look forward to spending a whole lot more time in Pearl Harbor.”
TWENTY-THREE
Yamamoto
THE NAVAL MINISTRY, TOKYO, JAPAN—SATURDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1941
He was exhausted. The meetings had lasted far longer than he wanted, though as long as he had expected. The debates were mostly tiresome, the senior admirals offering their points of view with their usual flair for self-importance. But there was one surprise, and Yamamoto could not complain. The admirals all seemed eager for the assault on Hawaii to take place at the end of November. There were fears that December could bring storms and dangerously rough seas, a serious handicap for the oilers who were charged with the refueling operations for the rest of the fleet. Yamamoto knew from the beginning that refueling was essential to the assault, and in rough water, what was virtually untested might become impossible.
But the schedule the Ministry had suggested would have compacted Yamamoto’s training. The air commanders were already nervous that their pilots were not quite ready. Yamamoto knew that Genda was even more concerned about the usefulness of the torpedo bombers. To Genda, the torpedo was the most valuable weapon they could use against the American fleet, but the technical experts had still not designed an effective way to flatten out their trajectories, allowing the torpedoes to motor toward their targets without plunging too deeply into the shallow waters of Pearl Harbor.
In addition to the headaches and challenges of training so many pilots in the different types of aircraft, Yamamoto also had to put up with the loud boasts of those officers who felt the need to shout their patriotic claims about the inferiority of the American military. When possible, Yamamoto had silenced that. He knew that the wrong words, even from an officer with no knowledge of the details of the Hawaii operation, could offer clues that someone else, an intelligence officer or an American diplomat, might interpret in such a way as to raise alertness in the United States. His weapon against the big talkers was simple and direct. He told them that big words came from small men, that it would be far more useful if the words were replaced by actions. Yamamoto had yet to hear an argument.
* * *
—
The discussion had gone on for so long his voice was fading into a painful hoarseness. But permission for adjournment would come from the chief of staff, Admiral Nagano, and there was no hint from the older man that he had anywhere else to go.
The papers were being shuffled, small speeches still droning past him.
Alongside Admiral Nagano, Tomioka was speaking endlessly, a speech about nothing. With a shuffling of papers and a look of self-satisfaction, he seemed to wait for praise. Yamamoto ignored him, could see Nagano sagging, his shoulders stooped, his eyes closing for a brief moment. Good, he thought. Let us move on, stop this chattering about the glory of Japan. Then he can go off and take a nap. Next time I should send Commander Genda to meet with these biddies, and he can march all over them with the kind of energy they’ve never experienced. That might even keep Admiral Nagano awake.
Yamamoto was fidgeting, and his impatience pushed him to ignore protocol, to speak out of turn.
“Admirals, there is little more for us to discuss. The air training is going extremely well. The fleet has been engaged in maneuvers required for such a mission. We have challenges, certainly, but all of them are being addressed with great skill. What I require of you is the approval of the date of the assault, the X-Day. I know that the Ministry has proposed the last week of November. I believe it is too soon. We require more time to ready the fleet, to rendezvous the various ships as necessary. There are details being addressed about the types of weaponry we will have available, and we cannot rush those arrangements.”
Nagano was more awake now, nodded slowly.
To one side, Fukudome said, “What do you propose?”
Yamamoto was prepared for this. “We have determined that the Americans put the bulk of their fleet to sea during the week, and bring the ships home to roost each weekend. They do this with astounding consistency. Therefore, it is logical to make the attack on a Saturday or Sunday. It is customary for Americans to regard Sunday as a day of rest and rejuvenation. I witnessed this very often in my tour of their country. I am not suggesting that they would all be asleep, but I do anticipate that their posts would be more lightly manned, compared to other days of the week. With that in mind, I believe the most practical time of the assault should be a Sunday, at first light. I would beseech you to approve the attack date of December 8. That would be, of course, December 7 in Hawaii.”
Fukudome slid a paper from under his table, smiled at Tomioka, at the far end. He held the paper toward Yamamoto, the smile now directed at him.
“Admiral, it will please you to know that we have considered December 8 to be the appropriate X-Day for several days now. It was thought necessary to have you confirm our judgment.”
Yamamoto was annoyed, repressed the urge to shout at his former chief of staff. He took a deep breath, would not allow his temper to jeopardize their approval, not now. “I am pleased to hear that the chiefs agree. We shall now proceed with the final preparations.”
Tomioka said, “Have you made a decision with regard to the use of submarines? There has always been concern that they could easily be detected from the air, and thus endanger the entire operation.”
Yamamoto had heard too much of that already. “At first, I shared that concern. But there is risk throughout this entire operation. We are talking about making war, about an aggressive attack against another country’s navy. Nowhere on earth could that occur without risk, and certainly, without loss. I have chosen Admiral Shimizu, who commands the Sixth Submarine Fleet, to oversee this part of the operation. I am now convinced that the submarines can be very useful as an additional weapon against any ships that are outside of Pearl Harbor, and the five midget submarines could find a path into Pearl Harbor itself, and cause havoc as well.”
Fukudome cocked his head to one side. “Shimizu? When I was your chief
of staff, I knew him well. He has little experience in submarines. What does he know of the midgets?”
Yamamoto felt an itch in his back, thought, There was a time when you did what I told you to do. “Admiral Shimizu has an entire fleet of well-trained submariners serving him, including those familiar with the midgets. The most important trait he brings to this operation is his skill as a leader. I have complete confidence in him, as I do in every man in my command.”
He eased his chair from the long table, stood slowly, made ready for the usual formalities of adjournment. But Nagano held up a hand, and Yamamoto knew he was expected to sit again.
“Is there something else, sir?”
“You should know, Admiral, that no decision we have made assumes an outcome that will bring us all glory. If we allow the United States to determine our future, as they seem to intend, Japan shall likely perish. Even if we fight a war with them, we may perish, and the Japanese people shall likely disappear from the earth. Therefore, it is our duty to bring a fight to the United States that demonstrates to them our spirit, our love of honor, our love of our country, of our emperor. If we succeed in that, it matters not if we are defeated in battle. The enemies of Japan will recognize that spirit, that willingness to sacrifice, and we shall survive, our children shall survive, to rebuild our nation. I truly hope, as do we all, that there is a solution to our conflicts through diplomacy. But if that is not to be, then we must be prepared for the great fight to come.”
Yamamoto was surprised to see tears in the older man’s eyes. He pondered the words, sensed confusion in the odd sentiment. He stood again, the air around him stale with cigarette smoke and closed windows, said, “I assure you, Admiral, we shall do all within our power to ensure Japan’s survival.”
