by Jeff Shaara
He saw a man in a helmet, his dungarees and shirt perfect, as though he had just come aboard. The man was holding a fire extinguisher high, a small stream shooting into an opening in a bulkhead. Biggs felt a sudden need to kill the man, screamed, “What are you doing? It’s up there, the bow! Don’t you see the fire?”
The man stepped back from him, said, “Easy, pal. There’s no water. The hoses are gone. This is all we’ve got. We can’t do anything about the bow. There are small fires everywhere.”
Biggs backed away, every part of him shaking. The man watched him, then returned to whatever job he was trying to do. Biggs continued aft, past men and bodies and shouting, every hatchway alive with men coming out, some with burns they would not survive, finding the open air only to die on the deck. There was a new horror now, an awful mystery. As he moved past the scorched and charred men, a sickening smell rolled over him. He flinched from it, but there was no escape, and he understood now. It was them—the burned men, their burned flesh.
Biggs pushed past them, fought tears through the gooey crust in his eyes. He passed a man vomiting; no wounds he could see. The man was bent over a corpse, white bones and black burned flesh. But the face was there still, recognizable, and Biggs had to turn away, knew that this man had found someone who mattered to him. He pressed on, past the astounding carnage, sights and smells.
Biggs could see the fantail now, smoke rising beyond, from fires on other ships. He pushed himself that way, fought the misery of the burning pain in both feet, the soles of his shoes partly melted, sticking to the deck. He slipped the shoes off, felt the heat in the deck beneath him, but he could move now. His mind was clearing, appraising, nursing the burning in his lungs, trying to avoid the searing pain on his face, much worse on his scalp. Only his legs seemed undamaged. He leaned on the railing, away from the men who were working, the gunners and firemen.
He thought of Condon. He sure as hell needs help, he thought. It’s my job. My damn job. He looked toward the fire again, shielded his face, staring into a furnace. His tried to see the first turret, thought of sick bay beneath it, the familiar passageway, the hatchways and ladders. The pain of the heat still ripped at his face, his eyes burning, his hand only a meager shield. He stared for a long moment, but the heat was swallowing him again, and he could not stay, had to keep going, get to the stern. He danced slowly, lifting his feet from the scalding heat of the steel deck. Beside him, a man stood silently, his clothes burned away, then another, his arm hanging like a bloody piece of rope. There were others still, all along the decks, the dead and horribly wounded, burned and broken, some curled into black heaps, some of the wounded staring at their own bones, their own guts.
Biggs could offer them nothing. He shared the shock of those who could still understand, the least injured knowing they had to back away, that every second could bring another blast. Some of the men looked above them, toward their own duty stations perhaps. They all understood that those crewmen, those commanders who had been on the bridge, or forward of the bridge, in or beneath the forward gun turrets, those men were simply gone. As they moved away from the immediate danger of the fire, some, like Biggs, turned again, staring toward the fiery abyss, absorbing the raw shock of what the Japanese had done to their ship.
For Biggs, there was one vision he could not accept. But his mind latched onto the horror, no matter how much he tried to keep it away. He knew that somewhere down there, in the midst of the boiling storm of fire, was the doctor who would know what had to be done, who would have done everything to help the wounded, who would have sent the medicine and the bandages and the men with the stretchers.
THIRTY-FIVE
Kimmel
RESIDENCE, MAKALAPA HEIGHTS, PEARL HARBOR—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 7:50 A.M.
He dressed hurriedly, angry at himself for having overslept. He would never be tardy to this particular appointment with General Short. It was one show of personal pride he could demonstrate to the army, since it was a near certainty that when it came to golf, Walter Short would usually win. Try as he might to improve his game with lessons and practice, Kimmel could never seem to gain any proficiency. Short was sporting about it, and never gloated. But the same message was always there for Kimmel to chew on, that the army would nearly always win this particular battle.
He tied his shoes, still sitting on the soft bed, not quite ready to start the day. Still, he thought, It’s only golf, and it’s Walter Short. He can wait if he has to.
He stood, checked himself in the mirror, straightened his collar. Thank God for golf, he thought. There’s no predicting how long I’ll have to enjoy this job. You’ve already made one mistake: showing too much anger toward the president. That can’t possibly be a good idea. He knew very well what Jim Richardson had done, thought, He spit too much angry mouthiness into too many prominent faces. But damn it all, I’m right. The president probably knows I’m right, but he has to keep everybody in Washington happy, Knox, Stimson, Marshall, and God knows who else.
There’s something to be said for having a command thousands of miles from those kinds of eyes. And yet, all those men in their exalted positions, too far away to understand the vulnerabilities we’re facing out here. Fine, we should be concerned about the Philippines. But our defenses there are strong and getting stronger. They’re well equipped and well led. Even the president is in the fog about all the islands I have to worry about—Wake, Midway. Hell, I can’t even remember half of them without looking at their little dots on a map, places that are an asset because they happen to have enough sand to build a runway. How the hell would we ever fight a war by sticking a handful of fighter planes in the middle of absolute nowhere?
Like his staff, like the intelligence officers he respected, he found it very difficult to believe that the Japanese would be so absurdly stupid as to strike out and purposely start a war with a power as strong as the United States. The navy alone, he thought, our carriers and battleships could reduce that country to rubble in short order. Admiral Halsey believes that, and he’s right. Surely the Japanese know that.
He looked at his nightstand, a copy of the Honolulu Advertiser, folded to its editorial page.
“Japan is the most vulnerable nation in the world to attack and blockade. She is without natural resources…She has a navy but no air arm to support it…”
He tossed the paper aside and pulled his white jacket off the wooden hanger, slipped his arms through the sleeves. He tugged it tight, took another look in the mirror, began to work the buttons, looked toward the black telephone.
The morning’s first phone call had accomplished what his alarm clock had not, jarring him from some pleasant dream about palm trees. The call had been from Commander Vincent Murphy, Kimmel’s assistant war plans officer, who happened to be on duty when the report of the Ward’s contact with the unknown submarine had worked its way up the chain of command. Kimmel barely knew the Ward’s skipper, Lieutenant Outerbridge, and was completely skeptical of the report that the destroyer had actually sunk a submarine. There were too many of those kinds of sightings, and Kimmel knew that along the shores of Oahu, the broken carcasses of whales were testament to the runaway imaginations of overeager ship captains and their gunnery officers.
For the second time that morning, the phone rang.
“What is it?”
“Commander Murphy, sir. Another report from Destroyer Ward, sir. She reports a sampan in the area of their submarine contact. They’re escorting it out of the area, to deliver him to the Coast Guard.”
“A sampan?”
“Fishing boat, sir. The Ward says the thing had no business wandering into the area.”
Kimmel was annoyed now. “What about the sub they sank? Is there confirmation?”
He heard a sudden commotion on the other end of the line, voices, a man shouting, and Kimmel said, “What the hell is happening there, Commander?”
“S
ir, the Japanese are attacking the fleet, all across the harbor. Sir, this is no drill.”
Kimmel heard a rumble, then another, what seemed to be a long drum roll, the cascading thunder of a distant thunderstorm. He glanced outside, the early morning sun showing only puffs of white clouds. The thunder came again, closer, then farther away, and he dropped the phone, ran quickly down his main stairway. The thunder was continuous now, and Kimmel ran outside, stood in the yard of his home. His fingers still fumbled with the buttons on his jacket, his eyes fixed on a scattering of aircraft, all directions, all altitudes, smoke rising from every part of the harbor he could see.
He realized he wasn’t alone, his neighbor, Captain Earle’s wife, staring silently. Kimmel moved toward their yard, a clearer view. The woman stood frozen, soft words, “What’s happening?”
He tried to comprehend what he saw, planes in a steep bank, diving low across the water, others straight overhead. The words rolled through his brain: This is a mistake, it is a foolish mistake, the army, some drill. It has to be.
A plane flew in from behind them, close overhead, no more than fifty feet, and he flinched, saw clearly the red balls beneath the wings. Beside him, Mrs. Earle said, “It’s the Japanese. My God. Why is this happening?”
He had no strength in his legs, stood frozen, trying to understand. The planes were everywhere he could see, and he looked at Mrs. Earle for a brief second. She returned his look, a strange expression. “I am so sorry, Admiral. So very sorry.”
He realized it was pity, pity for him. He had no answer for her, tried to pull his brain from its stupor. After a long moment he said aloud, to her, to anyone at all, “What have they done? What are they doing? It’s my fleet.”
HQ, CINCUS, PEARL HARBOR—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 8:05 A.M.
Kimmel had little memory of the ride that brought him to his office, his car and driver appearing at his residence as though on their own. Part of him still clung to the hope that this was all some god-awful dream. But there was no hiding from what was so very clear. From the second deck of his headquarters building, he could see it all, the panoramic view he had always enjoyed. Now there was smoke and planes, shattering explosions and plumes of water. The battleships were the most clearly visible, including the astounding horror of the Oklahoma rolling over, its hull no more now than the belly of a dead whale.
His office had filled with other officers, their low comments adding details he didn’t need to hear. He heard Commander Layton behind him, nervously chattering, another man calming him. No one spoke to Kimmel, no one breaking the spell he could not break himself.
They all jumped at a sudden explosion that blew a fireball a thousand feet in the air, black smoke rising in a dense cloud, hiding the ships that lay beyond, far across Ford Island. They could see the specks of debris, sprinkling the water, showering the ships close by, and Kimmel said in a soft voice, “What was that? What ship?”
Beside him stood Admiral Pye, the man who commanded the battleship fleet.
“The Arizona. Jesus. Just like that. How can that be?”
“And the Oklahoma’s capsized?”
Pye seemed to gather himself, no one else speaking. “Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t we know they were coming?” Kimmel knew there was no answer. He knew as much as anyone that they had ignored the answers to questions none of them had bothered to ask. “Do we know where their carriers are?”
Behind him, Murphy said, “No, sir. We’ll find them, sir, if you order it.”
Kimmel turned, was surprised how many of his staff were there.
An aide said, “Sir, you and Admiral Pye should not be here together. A shell could do great harm to this command. You understand, sir.”
Kimmel looked at Pye. “He’s right, Bill.”
He felt himself surfacing, as though finally coming awake: the job, the duty. He put a hand on Pye’s shoulder. “Bill, let’s do what we can. Right now. Get our planes in the air, get Short’s planes in the air. Find those damn carriers. They can’t be that far from here, and they can’t escape us if we locate them quick enough. Radio Halsey to get the Enterprise back here, use his planes. He’ll find them.”
Murphy spoke again. “Sir, I would suggest we spread recon patrols to the south and west. That’s the most likely position, the most likely route they took to get here.”
Kimmel felt anger shooting through him. “Then why in hell didn’t we find them before they did…this? Didn’t General Short have his planes out there? Isn’t that the army’s job?”
Behind him, McMorris. “Sir, I’ve spoken to General Short’s aide. I’m sorry, sir, but it seems that the army believes that reconnaissance was the navy’s job.”
Kimmel kept his eyes on the swirling formations of planes, more hits rocking the larger ships, small blasts rocking destroyers, some of those near the dry dock close by. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, but the sounds pulled him back. A plane sped past, close overhead, met by a chorus of firing from the ground.
There was a loud crack, and Kimmel staggered back, felt a sharp pain in his chest, the window in front of him punched with a jagged hole. Men held him, urgent voices, and he touched his chest. But there was no wound, only a black stain on his shirt. He saw the mashed fragment of a shell on the floor, and one of the aides picked it up, said, “Fifty-caliber, sir. A spent shell. Are you okay, sir?”
Kimmel took the shell from his aide, rolled it over in his fingers, and looked again through the cracked glass. He saw another great blast near the dry dock, pieces of a smaller ship blowing apart, pieces of the men who served her. He felt the lead in his hand, said, “It would have been merciful if it had killed me.”
THIRTY-SIX
Biggs
USS ARIZONA, PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 8:55 A.M.
Though the roar from the fire hadn’t subsided, the men who had survived the initial blast had begun to work together. Most hadn’t noticed, but the word was spreading that the planes were gone. The only sounds now came from the great fire and the screams of the wounded men. Biggs kept his eyes skyward, many others noticing now the empty skies, wondering just where the Japanese had gone. To those survivors on the Arizona, who could only count the damage closest to where they stood, it seemed obvious that the Japanese had accomplished exactly what they had set out to do.
From the fantail, what seemed to be the safest place on the ship, those men not working in rescue parties belowdecks could make out bits of details from the other battleships along the quay. The most obvious casualties were Arizona and Oklahoma. Some of the ships had been berthed side by side, and the ones closest to Ford Island, Maryland and Tennessee, had been shielded from the worst assaults by the ships beside them. But none of the great ships was undamaged.
Already, rescue boats were swarming around any ship that had been struck, including ships on the far side of Ford Island, and others across the harbor itself, some in and around the dry dock, where Pennsylvania had absorbed its own share of punishment.
* * *
—
With none of the medical staff to be found, Biggs was doing as much as he knew how, lining up the wounded beside each other, making his own appraisals of their status. Finally, a pair of corpsmen appeared, one man carrying wounds of his own. They did as much as the conditions would allow, Biggs offering his help in any way he could. He tried to ignore his own misery, could see that some of the men spread along the deck were in far worse shape, and that certainly, many of them would not survive. He had done most of his work on the starboard side, something inside him keeping him close to the open water. The fire still engulfed the forward half of the ship, the searing heat relentless, small pops and blasts adding punctuation marks to the utter destruction.
He leaned back against the rail, easing the cramping in his back, shifted the weight on his stinging feet, curled over, trying to escape the b
oiling heat. He looked forward through a break in the smoke, saw the repair ship Vestal still in place close to the side of the Arizona. He stared, realized there was no fire. The Vestal had been engulfed by a blaze of its own, but men now swarmed over the decks, rescue boats working around the ship. If they put out their fire, why can’t we?
A voice in his head scolded him. Shut up. We have to get the hell off this ship, and damn soon.
Sailors emerged from the closest hatchway, one man helping another with a bloody wound, the man’s leg bent in a grotesque shape. Biggs moved that way, said, “Put him down right here. There’ll be a doc here soon.”
It was a lie he had to tell, the only comfort he could offer.
He knelt by the wounded man as he had done with so many others, the two corpsmen working farther along the deck, too many patients of their own. Biggs saw terror in his patient’s eyes, and tried to speak calming words. But there was no calm, and no words. Biggs was now gasping through the burning in his lungs, suffering though the agony on his head. He stood, staggered by the pain in the soles of his feet, aimed for the rail, easing down with the slope of the deck. He looked out to the water, tried to take a deep breath, to clear the smoke, but the burning was digging too deep, his scalp still too painful to touch, his face red and aching.
