by Jeff Shaara
Lockard pointed at the screen, and Elliott leaned in closer, said, “What the hell is all of that?”
Elliott slid in front of the screen, adjusted one of the knobs, sharpening the signal. “This thing’s gotta be busted. No wonder they sent us up here. We got nobody to bitch to.”
Lockard put a hand on his shoulder, said, “Move. Let me look at this mess. Go to the plotting board and do what I tell you.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Elliott waited, could feel an itch of urgency, Lockard staring hard at the screen. Lockard said, “Mark five degrees northeast of azimuth at one hundred thirty-two miles. Jesus, this is an enormous signal. At least fifty planes.”
There was no humor now, and Elliott drew the line on the board, then said, “All right, what now? We call this in to Shafter, the Info Center?”
Lockard sat back, still looking at the screen. “Maybe not. Christ, it’s Sunday morning. Their shifts ended at 0700. I bet nobody’s home.”
Elliott moved back to the screen, stood over Lockard. “Let’s call ’em anyway. They like having drills, and this is a perfect test, something they’re not expecting. Maybe we’ll get stripes for this.”
“And maybe we’ll get chewed out by the captain.”
Elliott stared at the mass on the screen, said, “It’s still there. If this is a glitch, it’s a hell of a big one. And that can’t be seagulls.”
Lockard leaned forward, rested his chin on one hand, eyes still on the screen. “God, that looks like fifty for sure, maybe more. I guess it’s navy planes. All right, call Shafter. Just be ready to get yelled at.”
Elliott picked up the phone, dialed, the answer surprisingly quick.
“Private McDonald, switchboard.”
“Yeah, this is Opana. Is the controller there? We have a report.”
“Yeah, well, the office is off-duty. The shift here ended at 0700.”
Elliott looked at Lockard, who had not moved from the screen. “Look, Private, our shift ended too. But we’ve got an unidentified image we need to report.”
“Hang on, let me write this down. Opana, right? Nice up there, ain’t it? Wait, damn pen’s got no ink. Hold on.”
Elliott looked over Lockard’s head to the screen, said, “That getting closer?”
“It’s getting closer.”
The switchboard operator returned, said, “Oh, hey, I’ve got Lieutenant Tyler here. He hasn’t left yet. Hold on. Sir?”
“This is Lieutenant Tyler. Who is this?”
Lockard was there, his hand out for the phone. Elliott said, “Lieutenant, please hold for Private Lockard.” He whispered as he held out the phone. “It’s Lieutenant Tyler.”
Lockard took the phone, his eyes still on the screen. “Lieutenant, this is Private Lockard at Opana. Sir, this is the largest sighting I’ve ever seen…”
* * *
—
The lieutenant took the report, the details of which seemed overwhelming. But the notion of incoming planes sparked his memory, a report he had received the day before. Like so many others, he had passed the time in the early morning hours enjoying soothing music, courtesy of KGMB radio in Honolulu. Tyler had been told what many of the more senior officers already knew, that when any squadron of planes was inbound, usually from the mainland, the radio station would broadcast its music all night. This would signal to any command on Oahu to expect the planes, while also providing a pleasant welcome to the planes themselves, a homing beacon the navigator on each aircraft could latch onto.
On this night, the army was expecting the arrival of twelve B-17 bombers, making a stopover on their way across the Pacific.
As Lieutenant Tyler digested the report he was receiving from Lockard and Elliott, he eased his own concerns, and theirs as well, recalling the incoming flight of bombers from the West Coast. Despite what the Opana signals seemed to suggest, the incoming aircraft appearing on the screen were nothing to be alarmed about. Lieutenant Tyler’s last words to the two men at Opana:
“Well, don’t worry about it.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Biggs
USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 5:20 A.M.
He woke early, still too dark to see his watch. He heard the usual snoring around him, Wakeman’s worst of all. It was a permanent argument in the compartment, the victims of Wakeman’s nightly chorus of snorts razzing him about it nearly every day. Wakeman of course denied any offense, and so, the back-and-forth would ensue. Last night, Biggs actually slept fairly well, even with Wakeman nearby. He had no idea why.
He stared into the darkness, knew he couldn’t climb down, not yet. Expelling yourself from the hammock was a clumsy exercise, certain to wake up most of the men around you. Just relax, he thought. Dawn will come soon enough.
Last night, he’d watched a movie, shown on a screen on the fantail, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, with Spencer Tracy. Biggs knew almost nothing about Hollywood, but he’d heard stories from some of the older veterans about how the actor James Cagney had once visited the ship. It was a source of pride, the men around him clearly impressed, though Biggs had hidden his ignorance of just who this Mr. Cagney was. But he knew Spencer Tracy now, and after seeing the film, he likely wouldn’t forget him.
He thought of the bizarre images he had seen. How do they do all that stuff? Is every movie like that one? There had been no theater in Palatka, and no chance that a young Tommy would be allowed to go all the way into Jacksonville just to waste money on a movie. He shifted his weight slightly, loosening a kink in his back. You don’t know much about anything, he thought. I guess the longer you stay in the navy, the more you’ll learn.
Beside him, Wakeman made a loud grunt. Biggs smiled and thought, I wonder what it’s gonna be like for Ed’s wife, if he ever finds one.
The whistle sounded now, shrill and loud. The compartment came alive, the first lights switched on. It was the usual routine, groggy men emerging from their hammocks, stowing the canvas in the cabinets, making way for the mess tables to be set up. Biggs hit the floor, moved to his small locker, glanced at his watch. It was 0530.
He knew Wakeman had been in town, had listened to him stumbling into the compartment close to midnight. Biggs watched him now, saw a slight stagger.
“Have a good time, Ed?”
Wakeman sat in one of the metal chairs. “I’m starting to think there’s no such thing. I pissed off some big lug of a Hawaiian, said something he didn’t like to his girlfriend or sister or who knows what. I was just slipping away from that crisis when I knocked a beer out of a marine’s hand. Splash, right on his shoes. There must have been four hundred of them, like they were coming up outta the floor. I’m lucky I’m alive.”
Biggs started to dress, said, “You don’t have to go to town, you know. You keep blowing your pay on that stuff, you’re gonna be broke forever. And you look like hell.”
Wakeman fumbled with his clothes. “Thanks, pal. But if I hadn’t run like hell from those marines, I’d look a whole lot worse.”
The lights were fully on now, other men going about the task of preparing the compartment for breakfast. Biggs checked his watch again. “Why don’t you get a shower? You’ve got time.”
Wakeman tugged on his pants, said, “For the twelve seconds they give you to get the job done, it’s hardly worth it. I’ll shower in a couple of years, when I’ve finished my hitch. You can put up with me until then.”
Biggs finished dressing, thought of the crew’s shower. Twelve seconds was an exaggeration, but thirty? Take any longer than that and some petty officer might grab you and toss you out. Kincaid would probably make you eat a bar of soap just for good measure.
The thought of Kincaid made Biggs probe the pain in his face, the swelling mostly gone. Wakeman was struggling with his shoelaces, looked over at Biggs. “I see you poking around. You look
a hell of a lot better than you did yesterday.”
Biggs thought of Dr. Johnson’s assessment: A slap, no matter how hard, is a good way not to leave evidence. Biggs continued to probe the soreness, said, “Yeah, it doesn’t hurt too bad. Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“Sure. Nothing we need to talk about. Hey, what’s your duty today? Time off?”
“No, I’ll be in sick bay. Sunday morning’s usually our busy time, when we get all the sailors worse off than you.”
“Well, I’m gonna find me a secluded place somewhere up top, get me a suntan. Hell, this is Hawaii, and when my time is up, I wanna go home all crusty burnt, so’s the gals will know I’ve been here.”
The mess attendants appeared now, with platters of eggs, pancakes, and a heaping stack of fried Spam. Biggs sat in his usual seat, watched as the eggs made their way toward him, followed by the customary ketchup bottle, the only way to add flavor to powdered eggs.
Biggs sipped carefully from the coffee cup, then ladled the eggs and Spam onto his plate, stabbed at a pair of pancakes, coated them with a small ladle of syrup. Beside him, Wakeman said, “Pancakes are extra rubbery this morning. Make good life preservers. Not sure what would happen if you dumped these eggs in the harbor. Don’t wanna know.”
Biggs ate in silence, listened to the usual chatter from down the compartment, a flood of complaints, as though griping was required. He grabbed an orange from a large bowl, thought of holding on to it for later, but was too tempted, ripped at the peel. He stuffed a section in his mouth, but it was sour and now he had a mouthful of pits. Nothing like back home, he thought. He ate a piece of Spam, savored that, a luxury his parents could never afford. Mom would love making this kind of meal, he thought. The eggs would be fresh and she’d make better pancakes for damn sure.
“Hey, Ed, your family do a big Sunday breakfast?”
Wakeman squeezed the words toward him through a wad of pancakes stuffed in his mouth. “Corn flakes.”
Kincaid suddenly stepped through the hatchway, his expression no worse than usual. Biggs expected some kind of nasty comment, or even an acknowledgment of the damage he had inflicted on Biggs. But Kincaid ignored him, said, “Listen up, worms. At 0755, morning Colors will sound, followed by ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ I’m ordered to tell you what you morons already know, so that at least some of you will attend the ceremony on the fantail. I am told that this suggestion is so the crew will show support for our band. If you don’t show up, I’ll discuss that with the admiral, the next time he and I have tea. If you do show up, don’t use that as an excuse for being late for your duty shift. Now finish your damn breakfast.” He paused, faked a smile. “Ain’t the navy fun?”
He spun around, was gone.
Biggs felt a heaviness to the silence, knew that word had spread about the punishment he had taken from Kincaid, some of the evidence still on his face. But no one but Wakeman would speak of it, and then only in a private place. Biggs stood, his plate clean, the mess attendants swarming through, removing the plates and the remnants of food. Others were standing as well, stretching backs, rubbing stomachs.
Wakeman said, “So, you gonna go aft to the fantail and rub shoulders with the officers, or you gonna go to work?”
“Actually, I’m going to see the band. I’ve met a few of ’em—nice guys. It would be great if they won that contest.”
“If you say so. I’m gonna go hide out from Kincaid, in case he decides he wants me to scrub the head with my toothbrush. Have fun.”
USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 7:55 A.M.
Biggs breathed in the salt air of a cool, perfect morning. There were sailors along the main deck, some already on duty, manning various stations. He moved past a cluster of junior officers, and realized one of them was Lieutenant Janz.
“Excuse me, sir?”
The men turned to him, Janz lighting up. “Mr. Biggs. One more game tomorrow. You ready?”
“Yes, sir. We’re playing the marines again, right, sir?”
“Yep. Good way to end our season. They’re tough. So, you’ll be on the team again next year?”
“Yes, sir, if that’s okay.”
“You’re not a reservist, are you?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Good. Wasn’t sure. Hate to see you jump ship just when our team was getting really good. Woody will be back, I know that. Several others.”
He could see the other officers checking him out, knew Janz would fill them in.
“Well, sir, I’m heading to the fantail. I’d like to see the band, the Colors ceremony.”
“See you on the ball field, Mr. Biggs. Tomorrow at 1500. The passes will be with the OOD.”
“Thank you, sir. Sirs.”
Janz returned to his conversation, a pair of the officers watching Biggs as he moved away. Well, that feels good as hell, he thought. We’ll put a decent team together for sure. It had never occurred to him that he might play baseball more than one season. He felt a wave of pride, as though he belonged to something on the ship that had value. Officers knew his name. I wish Kincaid would come to watch a game, just once. No, don’t be an idiot. You’d strike out three times, and he’d kick your ass.
He hurried now, hoping he wouldn’t miss the music. He glanced out toward Ford Island, saw sailors lining the rail, all of them staring out that way. He heard the rumbles now, saw a burst of fire, smoke rising. Beside him, “Hey! Some jackass is bombing the base!”
“Head aft. Looks like a better view.”
The flow of men moved that way, and Biggs saw more plumes of smoke, heard the whine of airplanes, more thumps. All of it seemed to be on Ford Island.
He followed the crowd, curious, more men jogging along the rail, comments around him, “Jesus, what’s going on? Some army idiot using live bombs?”
“Hell, it’s a drill. Musta needed to blow up some extra stuff.”
“Or some dumb son of a bitch got the wrong orders. Leave it to the army.”
The men around him had slowed, hugging the rail, staring out. Biggs looked out toward the fantail, thought of the band. Damn! I’m gonna miss it. More men were emerging from the passageways behind him, and now, from the loudspeakers,
“Battle stations. All hands. Battle stations.”
Biggs looked again toward the smoke on Ford Island, thought, What the hell is going on? Battle stations? Men were still rushing past him, both ways now, some of them angry, one man laughing, and he heard more jokes about the army’s stupidity. He knew he was supposed to report to sick bay, still hesitated, saw more smoke billowing up from the island. There was a new sound, screaming overhead, and he looked up, saw the plane, heard a loud voice: “Jesus, it’s a Jap!”
Another plane sped past, moving out past the bow. The plane seemed to roll over, made a looping turn, came in fast toward the ship. Biggs could see the flickers of fire along the wings, sharp whistles in the air close by, the deck behind him punched and torn, shells skipping across the steel of the bulkheads. Men dove out of the way, and Biggs dropped down against the rail, staring at the splintered deck. He rose to his knees, his heart pounding, saw the open hatchway, men crowding inside. He pushed himself up, made the short scamper into the passageway, the other men making way. Around him, men were shouting, all at once, a chorus of angry questions. He moved farther down the passageway, saw others moving past, some with helmets, more questions, cursing. The machine gun fire came again, outside the next hatchway, the pinging of lead against the ship’s steel, a man screaming. An officer hurried past, shouted to him, to the others, “Get to your posts! Now!”
Biggs ran down the passageway, climbed the ladder, and raced into sick bay. Both doctors were there, Johnson talking with urgency on the telephone receiver, three of the pharmacist’s mates and a handful of corpsmen as wide-eyed as Biggs, waiting for their instructions.
Biggs was out of breath, looked at Condon, said, “Sir, what the hell’s happening?”
Condon raised a hand, silencing him, pointed toward Johnson, who put down the receiver, said, “We are being attacked by the Japanese. We have casualties throughout the ship. Dr. Condon, take a couple of medical kits, and you and Mr. Biggs go aft. I’ll stay here with the mates. Corpsmen, spread out forward and amidships, check all the decks.”
Condon said, “Are we sure of this? It’s the Japanese?”
Johnson was angry, said to Condon, “Dan, I spoke to the captain. It’s the Japanese. No more questions. You and Mr. Biggs make your way aft. There are people down who need our help.”
Johnson looked up toward a rattle of popping sounds, shells impacting the steel above them. The deck beneath them suddenly shook, staggering the men, the ship listing slowly. Across from Biggs, Vaughan said, “What the hell was that?”
Block said, “A collision, felt like.”
Johnson said, “Don’t think so. Something hit low, belowdecks. Christ, could be a torpedo.” He looked at Condon. “Go! We’ll be doing what we can here.”
Biggs followed Condon down a passageway, down a ladder, out onto the main deck, the sounds of airplanes in every direction. The wounded were scattered along the deck, and Condon stopped, knelt down. Biggs saw blood on the deck, saw the man’s chest ripped apart, a bloody gash. Nearby, a second man was screaming, rolling side to side, his arm nearly severed. Condon shouted to Biggs, “Bandage! Sulfa!”
Biggs obeyed frantically, Condon working quickly, Biggs watching. He understood that all the doctor could do out here was stop the bleeding. But there was too much bleeding.
Condon shouted something, his words drowned out by the roar of a plane racing past. Biggs felt desperate, didn’t know what to do, but Condon grabbed his arm, began to move again. The doctor slowed, glancing at one man out near the rail, but he didn’t stop. Biggs looked at the man, saw a piece of his skull missing, the man’s blood flowing across the deck, more blood than Biggs had ever seen.
