by Jeff Shaara
With the oil rinsed away, the blood came, one of the crewmen wrapping his arm with a rag. Biggs clamped his good hand on the cloth, the only thing to do, slowing the flow of blood as much as he could.
He laid his head back, staring now at the Arizona, beside him Kincaid doing the same. He could see a nasty wound on Kincaid’s left leg, blood oozing through the oil, nothing the crewmen could offer him. Biggs wanted to say something, but he was too broken up himself, the searing pain on his head now taking over, his lungs feeling torn apart. He coughed the words. “There’ll be doctors. We’ll be there pretty quick.”
Kincaid said nothing, a slow nod.
Biggs scanned the row of battleships, saw smoke on every ship. A crowd of small boats moved quickly past the oil, the surface fire spreading with the breeze, closer to the other battleships, a new fear, but there were tugboats moving nearer, fountains of water aimed at the many fires. Thank God, he thought. Nobody’s alone here.
The boat slowed suddenly, the engine idling, the boat rocking, and behind Biggs the boatswain called out, “Hello? You okay?”
Another of the crew said, “He’s done for. At least he’s whole. I’m damn sick of looking at pieces of people.”
“We oughta fish him out. Jesus, can’t just leave him out here.”
“Yes we can. You know the orders. We’ll retrieve the dead later. Let’s get these fellows to the ramp, and find out where they want us next.”
The engine revved again, the boat moving forward, each wave sending a shock through the wounded men. Biggs fought the nausea, the film of oil still in his mouth, down his throat. He wanted to ask where they were going, knew it didn’t really matter. He had never thought he’d ever need a hospital, and besides, there was always the sick bay…
He looked out again to the Arizona, felt a different kind of sickness. He wouldn’t think of who was still out there, who all those pieces belonged to. He looked at the others in the small boat—no one he knew.
Beside him, Kincaid said, “They’ve taken my life away. My home. It’s all I know, all I wanted to know. I’m a plank owner, and I thought I’d die that way. Maybe I have.”
Biggs didn’t know how to respond.
Kincaid coughed, a groan of pain. “She’s gone, Biggs. Maybe we all are. No telling what the Japs are gonna do now.” He paused, another cough. “I had three weeks. I thought my life would be over—I couldn’t be a civilian. I don’t have to worry about it now.”
Biggs fought for the right words. “We’ll make it. Both of us. We’ve been rescued.”
Kincaid sat silently, the boat cresting a wave, a jolt of pain through them all. “You’ve been rescued, Biggs. Go on, enjoy what you’ve got. Maybe you’ll become a PO, bust some kid’s whiny spoiled ass. What I had…all I had was right out there. Now it’s gone.”
There was nothing Biggs could say, but he looked skyward, saw something new.
“Hey. There’s no planes. The Japs are gone again.”
Others looked up as well, heads turning, the boat’s crew calling out with enthusiasm.
Beside Biggs, Kincaid said, “What the hell’s the cheering for? They’re not done. For all we know, they flew back out to their carriers just so they can reload. Bastards.”
Biggs looked at him, said nothing, thought, He probably knows.
He felt the boat slowing, and behind him the boatswain said, “Here we go, fellows. The nurses will take over now. You’re in good hands. Prettier hands too.”
Biggs turned slightly, flinching from the burning pain in his face and the agony in his arm. There were men in white, women with them, stretchers and wheelchairs, a concrete ramp that led up to several buildings. One by one, the men were led or lifted from the boat to the shore, every touch bringing a scream from the burned, careful hands aiding them along. Biggs wanted to step out of the boat on his own, but his feet betrayed him, the pain of the concrete landing shocking him. He staggered, hands quickly under his arms, a woman in a clean white uniform in front of him, guiding a pair of men to carry him to a stretcher. He was lowered, laid flat on soft cloth, and she leaned down close to him, said, “Just stay put, sailor. I’m Lieutenant Fox. I’m a nurse. My job’s to make sure you walk out of here better than you came in.”
Biggs settled onto the cloth stretcher, saw her still looking down on him. “Ma’am, what happens now? Oh, God, I can’t breathe. My face hurts. It’s still on fire, feels like. My arm…”
She turned away, called out, “Tourniquet here. Left arm.” She looked down to him again. “From the looks of you, you walked through a blast furnace and drank a gallon of oil.” She knelt beside his feet, put a hand out slowly, probed one foot.
“Ah! Damn, hurts like hell. Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m a hospital apprentice—I’m not supposed to say that. But, it hurts bad. And I can’t breathe hardly. Feels like I can’t hardly move my arm without it falling off.”
Fox waved to a corpsman, then looked down at him again. “Don’t worry, Hospital Apprentice, we’ll treat your burns, and the doctors will do what they can to help your breathing, and your arm. You’ll be parked out here, outside the building for now. No space inside. We’ll fix that soon enough.”
He heard a fresh chorus of screaming, blending with the sound of another boat pulling close. There were loud voices, manic activity, rushing corpsmen, more screams close around him. He knew not to look, that there was nothing else for him to do; for now, his duty had ended.
The rush of movement was all around him, a mix of sharp sounds, burned men reacting the only way they could. The boats continued to come, some moving back out, more men and more of the dead to fish out of the bay. And pieces, he thought. They’ll pick those up too. Men need to be buried, remembered, not just left for the crabs to eat. The thought sickened him, his horrors all flooding though him; the man’s leg in the oil, sailors torn in two, the terrified voice, I can’t swim. And Kincaid, the man’s utter lack of what…life? So maybe I saved him. Does it matter?
The screams seemed to grow quieter. The boats had moved back out into the harbor, the sounds of the engines fading, but more were growing close, a steady caravan.
Close to him, stretcher bearers were carrying their patients past him, oil soaking through the white cloth, oozing over the sides, the awful cries of agony. He tried not to cry, said in a low voice, through the burning pain in his lungs, “I tried to help ’em.”
He was surprised to see Lieutenant Fox looking down at him again.
“Well, Hospital Apprentice, that’s our job now. There’s just a whole lot of you, and more are coming. We’ll give you a half grain of morphine. That will help, I promise. Once the more serious cases go in, we’ll get to you. Oh, hell, here’s two more. Corpsman! Two more boatloads. Pretty bad. Get the doctor if he’s free.”
She was gone now, a quick jog toward the concrete ramp, the sounds of boat engines, and still the screams. He closed his eyes, didn’t see the nurse suddenly kneeling beside him. His eyes opened: white uniform, curly brown hair, a needle jabbing his arm. He saw her hand, something silver. She leaned close to him, said, “Your forehead’s not burned too bad. I’ve got to do this, to prevent mistakes.”
He felt her rub something on his head, the pain dulled by the quick effects of the morphine. He was fading quickly, said, “What was that?”
“Lipstick. I drew an M on your head. Tells the doctor you’ve had the drug.”
He wanted to say more, even a thank-you, but the drug was taking everything away. He felt himself floating higher, the pain left behind, a dream sweeping him to another place, a cradle, soft, comfortable, enormous, beautiful, his mind still backing him away, a boat carrying him across the harbor, the men around him, so many others, arms and legs burned and blackened, so many whispers and so much sadness, and Kincaid’s words, All I had was right out there.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Hull
&nbs
p; THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C.—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941, 2:00 P.M. (8:30 A.M. HAWAII TIME)
The message had been intercepted first by the navy’s listening post near Seattle, then was forwarded to Washington, to be decoded and translated through the usual Magic resources. The fourteen-point message from the foreign ministry in Tokyo to Ambassador Nomura and Washington spelled out in specific terms how and why the Japanese were completely rejecting the proposals Hull had presented to Nomura in late November. The message seemed to up the ante, making demands that were so provocative it might seem that the Japanese were actually promoting a war.
Throughout the negotiations with Nomura, Hull’s primary goal had been to bridge the yawning abyss that separated the points of view on each side. Whether or not the ongoing impasse was frustrating or even infuriating to Hull, he had to continue to try to find common ground.
This new message, which Hull could assume would also be delivered to him by Nomura, was at best a disappointment. At worst, it spelled out all the reasons the Japanese were terminating any further discussion and negotiation, as though they were deeply offended that the United States or any other nation would intrude into their internal affairs. It seemed not to matter to the Japanese that those “internal” matters included their ongoing war inside of China, their invasion of Southeast Asia, and their continuing alliance with Hitler’s Germany. Now, this latest message was either an all-or-nothing negotiating ploy by the Japanese that Hull accept their outrageous demands no matter what, or they were issuing the final word, that there would be no more talk. The tone of the Japanese fourteen-point message was direct, the meaning clear enough. The Japanese were telling the United States to go to hell.
The Magic decoders had picked up other nuances that had seemed unusual. The Japanese were ordering Ambassador Nomura that as the transmitted message arrived and was decoded, he would present it to the secretary of state with appropriate formality, typed out neatly on official embassy letterhead. But Nomura was ordered not to use any of his secretarial staff, none of the usual typists who would prepare such a message. Even more unusual, Nomura was instructed in the strongest possible terms that he present the message to Hull on Sunday, December 7, at precisely one P.M. There was no explanation why.
As the final pieces of the lengthy message were received by Nomura’s own decoding machine, his greatest challenge was to obey the instructions to prepare the typewritten message by his own hand. As a typist, Nomura was very much of the plodding two-finger variety. Struggling to complete the transcription of the message, he simply ran out of time. As one o’clock came and went, Nomura telephoned Hull’s office, requesting the meeting be delayed for forty-five minutes, to one forty-five. Even that did not give him enough time to complete the work. By the time he and Kurusu reached Hull’s office at the State Department, it was after two o’clock.
* * *
—
Hull had gone into his office early that morning. There were too many headaches that seemed to be erupting from every corner of the world. He knew if he stayed at the hotel, his wife would make every effort to defuse his frustrations. But there were too many annoyances, and he would not wrap her up in any of that. None of his anxieties had anything to do with her, and he would rather carry his foul mood to his office at the State Department. There, it seemed right at home.
He sat at his desk, hands folded, staring toward the portrait of Andrew Jackson. To one side sat one of his experts on the Far East, Joe Ballantine. Hull checked his watch, 2:20 P.M. Nomura’s tardiness was adding to his foul temper. He continued to look at the portrait, said, “Do you think our predecessors had to deal with these kinds of people?”
Ballantine chuckled. “Certainly, sir. All day long.”
Hull nodded. “I know. I hate to think that duplicity and double-talk are simply human nature.”
“Perhaps it’s just the nature of government.”
Hull looked at him. “Not this government. At least, that’s what I want to believe.”
The phone rang in the outer office and was picked up by his aide, Logan Cook.
Hull said, “I wonder if Nomura needs even more time. Perhaps he’s having a long lunch, and cannot be inconvenienced.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Sir, that was reception downstairs. The two Japanese ambassadors are here. They’re in the outer waiting room.”
“Mr. Cook, there’s one ambassador. The other fellow…I’m not certain what we call him. Never mind. Have someone escort them to the diplomatic waiting room. We’ll bring them in shortly. They made me wait.”
He heard the phone ring again, and the young man appeared again at the door.
“Sir, it’s the president.”
Hull looked at Ballantine, thought, What now? He picked up the phone, said, “Good morning, Mr. President.”
There were no pleasantries, Roosevelt’s words precise and grim.
“There’s a report that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor.”
Hull felt a cold chill. “Has the report been confirmed?”
“No.”
“Do you believe it to be true?”
Hull could hear Roosevelt breathing, an anxious pause.
“Yes, I do.”
Now Hull let out a breath, his heart pounding, his fingers with a hard grip on the phone. “I have the Japanese ambassador in my waiting room.”
“Cordell, handle this as you feel is best. I’m working now to receive confirmation.”
The phone went dead, and Hull placed the receiver down slowly. He said to Ballantine, in a low voice, “The president has an unconfirmed report that the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor.” He chose his words carefully. “I’m reasonably certain I know what Ambassador Nomura is doing here. They’re rejecting the terms I offered them on November twenty-sixth.” He paused, looked at Ballantine. “It is also possible that they are here to tell us war has been declared.” He stood and paced around the office.
Ballantine said, “What are you going to do? Why see them until the president gets confirmation? We don’t have any facts.”
Hull stopped at the wide window, stared at a gray sky. “I’m rather inclined not to see them at all.”
Ballantine leaned one arm onto Hull’s desk. “You said the reports are unconfirmed. What if they’re flat-out wrong? The president isn’t immune from receiving reckless misinformation.”
Hull wrestled with his instincts, shook his head. “Confirmation or not, the president wouldn’t make that phone call unless he knew more than he was telling me. But I suppose if there is one chance in a hundred that the report isn’t true, then there’s a chance we’ll still talk.” He paused. “In that case, I should see them.”
“Yes, sir. I think that’s the correct decision.”
“Do one thing, Joe: Take notes. Write down what is said. I want no mistakes, no misunderstanding. Sit back there, beside the door. You’ll be behind them, and they won’t be as squirrelly about you taking notes.”
He stood, moved toward the outer office, said to the aide, “Go get them, Mr. Cook. I’m ready.”
He returned to the desk, Ballantine now in the far corner, a pad on his knee. Hull sat again, hands folded in front of him, fighting for composure. The two men stepped into his office, Kurusu first, always in the lead. They offered him the customary bows, Nomura with his usual smile. Hull stared at them for a long silent moment, saw Nomura glance to the chairs beside Hull’s desk, but Hull offered no invitation to sit.
Nomura stepped forward, an envelope in his hand. “Mr. Secretary, thank you for receiving us on a Sunday. I have been instructed by my government to deliver this document to you. I was to deliver it by one o’clock, and I regret the delay. There was some difficulty in decoding the message from our government’s transmission, and regrettably, neither of us is a proficient typist.”
Hu
ll fought hard to control himself, speaking through clenched teeth. “Why was it so important to deliver this into my hands by one o’clock?”
Nomura seemed surprised at the question. “I do not know. That was the instruction I received.”
Hull looked at Kurusu, who shrugged, no change in his expression. Perhaps he knows precisely why one o’clock was so very important. And he will never say.
Hull took the envelope from Nomura’s hand, slid the papers from it. He knew immediately what the document would say, the words already familiar from the intercepts. He read it anyway, could tell that Nomura was fidgeting, as always, the man supremely unhappy with the job he had to do. Hull slid the papers apart, the pretense of studying them with a thoughtful eye. He stopped now, had confirmed in his own mind that these were the same points he had seen that morning. He shuffled the papers, tried to slide them neatly into their envelope, but his hands were shaking, roaring anger in his mind.
He glanced at Ballantine, thought, So, they are not here to declare war. But there might be a war anyway. Do they know? Is Nomura so much more devious than I’ve believed? Or is his government so deceitful that they would deceive their own ambassador? He looked again at Nomura, thought, He is still smiling, as though he is my friend.
Hull looked again at the envelope in his hands, struggled to hide his boiling anger. “I must say that in all my conversations with you during the last nine months, I have never uttered one word of untruth. This is borne out absolutely by the record. In all my fifty years of public service, I have never seen a document that was more crowded with infamous falsehoods and distortions, on a scale so huge that I never imagined until today that any government on this planet was capable of uttering them.”
Hull forced himself into silence, could not say anything to them about the president’s call. He ignored Kurusu, stared hard at Nomura, who seemed ready to cry. Nomura raised his hands slowly, as if to respond. Hull held up one hand, Stop. He motioned toward the door, a sharp nod, the message clear: Get out. Kurusu turned quickly, as though he expected to do precisely that. Nomura hesitated, then bowed his head, and without speaking followed Kurusu out the door.
