by Jeff Shaara
“The young have the luxury of believing that war is simple, that when there is success, they should embrace their triumph, with no worries about what will follow. The greater the triumph, the greater the glory. That is certainly true. Do I believe that Nagumo should have pressed his assault? Has he made a mistake in returning home so quickly? Perhaps so. Should he have located the American carriers? Perhaps.
“But consider what would happen if, right now, I issued an order to Admiral Nagumo to turn the fleet around, to steam back to Pearl Harbor, to engage the Americans again. I would strip away the honor that Nagumo has earned. I would be telling everyone, from my staff to the Naval Ministry and every pilot and crewman in the fleet, that Admiral Nagumo has made a mistake that I had to correct. I will not do that, not to a man who has commandeered a great victory. The shame of that would be more than he could bear.
“Admiral, this plan was not created so that we might destroy the Americans, or destroy Pearl Harbor. This was not to be all-out war. The report that Admiral Nagumo has sent shows that our planes did precisely what we intended them to do. The Americans have been crippled. It will take them perhaps six months to put a sizable fleet to sea.”
He paused, tried to show a burst of energy that he didn’t feel. “We have enjoyed success. We must not forget that.”
BATTLESHIP NAGATO, ARIAKE BAY, JAPAN—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1941
He heard his name, the aide making the announcement through the closed door of his quarters, even as Chiyoko was beating him at a game of chess. He did not want to leave her, but the aide knocked now, an annoying insistence that this was something Yamamoto had to address. He stood, said, “A small matter, I’m sure. I will return shortly.”
She smiled at him, said, “Go on. I shall still be here. Your shirts are wrinkled, stuffed together like rags. I shall have plenty to do until you return.”
He pulled his jacket on.
“I would rather stay. I must rescue my game. You have threatened my queen. I trust you not to move any of the pieces.”
Still she smiled, her beauty pulling him toward her.
“I do not have to cheat, Iso. I’m doing just fine. Hurry back so I may defeat you.”
He hesitated, but the knock came again. He had the sudden need to strangle the aide, but he knew that no one would interrupt him here, with her, without a very good reason. He buttoned his jacket and opened the door, saw a look of terrified anguish on the face of the young aide.
“Sir, I am so sorry. But Admiral Ugaki insisted I bring you up. Sir, the prime minister is here.”
Yamamoto said, “Are you certain? Why would he come here? Is he in the wardroom?”
They were moving now, the aide seeming to drag Yamamoto behind him, as though hurrying him without hurrying him.
“No, sir. He insisted on meeting with you on the bridge.”
“The bridge? Why?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just delivering the message. Admiral Ugaki insisted I convey its urgency.”
“Well, you did.”
They climbed a ladder, then another, and Yamamoto stopped at the hatchway to the bridge, the young man beside him.
“You may go. You’ve done your job.”
He could feel disappointment from the young man, but for now, it was not a concern. The aide moved away slowly, and Yamamoto would not scold him for that, thought, It’s not every day our prime minister visits a ship. He’s an army man. Perhaps he’s testing himself for seasickness.
He thought of knocking, but the hatchway was open when the ship was in port, and he laughed at himself now. Dammit, it’s your ship.
He stepped onto the bridge, saw a handful of his officers lined up to one side, as though terrified. They seemed to welcome his arrival, gave a quick glance in his direction, then back to the man standing at the glass, staring out intently at what seemed to be nothing at all. Yamamoto understood. He’s waiting for me to welcome him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Prime Minister. Please, welcome to my flagship.”
Tojo turned slowly, as though enjoying the ceremony of it all, said, “I am greatly pleased to visit those of our military who have struck the first blow.”
There was nothing of sincerity or friendliness in Tojo’s voice.
“If you wish, we can retire to my wardroom.”
“I rather like it right here. Perhaps you can order your crewmen to allow us some time alone?”
Yamamoto saw the odd mix of fear and disappointment on their faces, but he made a sharp motion with his hand, the men filing quickly off the bridge.
Yamamoto said, “I am certainly happy to comply with your wishes, though it is fortunate we are in port. Vacating the bridge at sea is not a wise idea.”
Tojo smiled now. “You will understand that I have not spent much time on the bridge of a magnificent vessel such as this. It has not been a part of my routine.”
“Perhaps you should change your routine, Prime Minister.”
Tojo smiled again. “In Tokyo, I am accustomed to toadies and yes-men. A great many seem to surround me. But you seem to have no fear of my position.”
“Should I?”
Another smile. “Not after this past week. I will admit to you that I was even more skeptical than the Naval Ministry that your operation would have the faintest breath of success—and we are both aware just how skeptical they were. But now, we may share a hearty congratulations for a week that shall become a triumphant part of our history. In case you are not aware, while your aircraft were crushing the Americans in Hawaii, we successfully executed a significant air strike on the Philippines. We will be landing a formidable infantry force there within a few days.”
Yamamoto chose his words. “I was aware of these operations, though perhaps not in detail.”
“Certainly you were aware. My point in coming here was to express to you, in person, that I am dismayed by the reports I have received that Admiral Nagumo opted for the safe result in his decision to, well, cut and run from Hawaii. I am aware you were not pleased with the admiral’s inability to make the aggressive move. I am also aware that the Naval Ministry and the Chiefs of Staff have approved Admiral Nagumo’s decision, and that, even now, as your fleet returns, they are preparing a lavish welcome. No doubt he will receive some extravagant medal, a medal more deserved by your Commander Genda and others.”
“With respect, sir, you are ‘aware’ of a great deal. I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“This is not an interview, Admiral, nor is it a test. I am not courting your favor, nor granting mine to you. We are both warriors on the same field. I am merely saying that I am not at all pleased that there are men who hold seats in the Naval Ministry who approve of halfway measures. There is no patience these days for hesitation, for the meek and mild to supervise our decision-making. I thought you should hear it from me directly that, with world events as they are progressing, the emperor is depending upon us to do everything in our power to crush our enemies, as your people crushed them at Pearl Harbor. It is our supreme hope, and the emperor’s expectation, that all of us work together energetically to achieve victory.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, we did not ‘crush’ the Americans at Pearl Harbor. We wounded them. The attack on Pearl Harbor was meant to accomplish only that. They will heal. They will fight another day, and they will not be timid. I am pleased to allow the young men in my command—Commander Genda, Fuchida, all the rest—to embrace our victory, to believe, as you say, sir, that we have crushed the enemy. But I fear that all we have done is to poke and prod a great power. And now, that giant has been awakened.”
“As have we, Admiral. And every day we are stronger, we have more and better aircraft, we are training a great number of troops, we are building ships. It is clear to me, and I know it will be clear to you: The events of this month and the months going forward shall propel the empire higher in the
eyes of the world, propel us directly to the top of the mountain.”
Tojo turned away, and Yamamoto stared at the man’s back, his words rolling through Yamamoto’s brain, along with the response he could not say to the man.
From the top of the mountain, there is only one way to go.
FORTY
Biggs
NAVAL HOSPITAL, HOSPITAL POINT, OAHU—MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1941
The morphine had been enough, allowing him to sleep past the agony of the burns on his head and the horrifying wound on his arm made so much worse by the oil. Some around him did not sleep, their suffering far beyond what the doctors could offer them, men whose bones lay bare, flesh stripped away by the fires and the violent confrontations with bombs and the shrapnel they created. The men riddled with machine gun fire were much more fortunate, housed now in a vast number of aid stations and hospitals, and if their vital organs hadn’t been ripped through, it was almost certain they would survive. For the burn victims, nothing was certain but the torturous pain they would endure. Throughout the first night, many did not endure, cries and screams growing silent, the doctors, nurses, and corpsmen removing those men from the ward, adding to the death toll that no one could yet compute.
For Biggs, the forced sleep provided one more gift: oblivion.
Throughout the early evening, machine gun and antiaircraft fire had sprayed over and around Pearl Harbor. It came from nervous gunners, men with jittery fingers on so many triggers, waiting for the next inevitable attack by the Japanese. The rumors had spread through Oahu with the speed of a typhoon, that Japanese invasion parties had been spotted to the south, Japanese ships sailing close, local Japanese citizens already plotting a wave of sabotage.
From the ocean to the west, Admiral Halsey’s aircraft carrier, Enterprise, had received word of the attack, and Halsey had ordered several of his own planes to fly to Oahu, seeking more specific information, adding at least a token of firepower to Oahu’s defense. But those nervous gunners on the ground saw what they wanted to see, and Halsey’s planes were shot out of the sky, killing three of the pilots, while the men on the ground convinced themselves they had thwarted another attack.
Not all the gunfire was skyward. Around every one of the military installations, whether the Japanese had struck it or not, guards had been posted, frightened men staring into darkness, more nervous fingers on so many triggers. The shots rang out toward any sound, or any suggestion of sound, real or imagined, whether the wind, a reflection of moonlight on the water, or the unfortunate dog that happened past. And when one machine gun fired, many more responded, adding to the panic, the determination that this time, there would be no surprise. And so, the toll increased, men struck down by friendly fire, some of it from deadly foolishness, some purely accidental.
Rumors came from Honolulu as well, that the Japanese had launched part of their attack straight at the city, committing atrocities against civilians. It took artillery experts days to examine the evidence, to realize that Honolulu had also been the victim of friendly fire. Around the harbor, American antiaircraft guns were aimed high, and if the shells didn’t impact or explode, they fell back to earth. Some fell harmlessly into cane fields, or into the harbor itself. But a great many tumbled onto random targets in the city. And so, there were civilian casualties, some of them the Japanese citizens that the more paranoid had come to despise.
By morning, most of the rumors had been put to bed, as the happy machine gunners examined their prizes only to find shredded trees, slaughtered goats, or, more often, nothing at all. Most were too embarrassed to admit that they had simply panicked. The rumors of another Japanese attack had quieted as well, none of the “definite” sightings proving to be anything more than fishing boats. As a measure of calm returned to Oahu, the officers took command, restoring order, and in some cases apologies were issued for so many hysterical mistakes. For the three pilots who’d flown in from the Enterprise and lost their lives, there could be no apology.
* * *
—
Biggs awoke to the smell. It seemed to swallow him, sickening and raw, and he turned his head, a painful mistake. But the stench was overpowering, very much as he had experienced on the ship, but different, a blend of other smells from wounds and antiseptic. Above him was a dull white ceiling, a pair of lights to one side, and he had a flicker of memory. The hospital. He tried to call out, but the sharp jab in his throat squeezed away the sound. Sit up, he thought. Try. He moved his arms, one wrapped in a thick blanket of bloody gauze. He tried not to look at that, pushed himself up with his good hand. But he was too weak and the effort was useless. He lay back, enduring more pain from the soft pillow. He raised his head slightly, easing the sting, settled back again, slowly, carefully, surrendering to the white cotton. He felt himself breathing heavily, every breath a knife jabbed into his throat. He tried to relax, but the mystery and curiosity were giving way to fear. The words came out of him, his voice a low-pitched gargling. “Am I gonna die?”
He was startled by voices, close by.
“He’s awake. This one over here, Doctor.”
“I knew he’d make it. Not nearly as bad as some. No, sailor, you’re not going to die. Not today, anyway. Nurse, how’s the bandage holding?”
“Which one?”
“I don’t need jokes, nurse.”
“It’s not a joke, sir.”
Biggs eased his head sideways, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, his mind drifting through a soft mist, like rain, distorting the figures, a man and woman, both in white. The voices continued, and he thought of a radio show, a comedy that wasn’t funny. He saw a face above him now, leaning over, startling him again. “Change the dressing on the arm. I don’t know how long he spent in that oil, but it took them an hour to clean it out. With all of that, plus the water in the harbor, there is likely to be infection. Clean it out again, then bandage it up. All right, tell me about this one over here.”
The voices seemed to move away, silencing words that meant something, something about him—his arm. He raised it slowly, looked at the thick wrapping of white, his fingertips barely visible. He tried to flex them, an immediate mistake, cried out. The faces appeared again, hovering, both of them. The man’s voice was older, in command, like Dr. Johnson.
“Give him another quarter grain. We have too much to do here. The worst burns are more than I can…Well, let’s not talk here. Go ahead with this one. I’ll get another nurse.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The woman came back, hovering again, holding his right arm, and he felt the quick jab of a needle.
“This will help, sailor. Your burns probably hurt the worst. Don’t touch the bandage on your head. Well, don’t touch anything. We’ll keep checking on you.”
She pulled away, and he felt sick, overwhelmed by the awful stink.
“Nurse, come back.”
She was there, but his mind was clouding over from the morphine, her voice far away.
“Ma’am. What’s that smell? It won’t stop. It’s making me sick.”
She stood over him for a few seconds, and he held on to her image, wouldn’t let go, fought the drug.
“You’re in the burn ward, sailor. It’s just…what it smells like. It’s hard for all of us…No, I didn’t mean that.” She paused, and he thought he heard a cough. “I have to go outside. I’ll be back. Sleep now.”
He felt her hand on his, soft, wonderful. His mind faded with the morphine, her hand a dream, all of it—the stink, the screams, the fire and oil and water—a dream. A very bad dream.
* * *
—
He woke to the soft hands, gently removing the bandage on his head.
“Oh, you’re awake. Sorry if I woke you.”
Biggs tried to see her face, blinked through the haze he was getting used to. “No, ma’am, it’s okay. It really hurts. Worse now.”
His
own voice surprised him again, like flowing gravel, stinging pain in his throat.
“I know. I have to apply a salve to the burned areas, then I’ll bind it up again. You lost most of the skin on your scalp. We have to protect it from infection.”
That word again.
She worked quickly, even her soft touch bringing more pain. He fought the need to flinch, to cry out, to resist what she was doing. She seemed to know what he was feeling, said, “Almost finished. Hang on.”
He closed his eyes, his right hand curling hard on the sheet beneath him, short breaths, unable to help a soft cry.
“I’m sorry. There. It’s treated, wrapped again. I’ll stop now. I’m sorry, I have to go out for a minute.”
She was up and gone quickly, and Biggs wanted to bring her back, the soft hands, taking away the agony. The stink was there still, but he was growing used to it now. It was more than the nausea it brought him. It was memory: the bodies, the pieces, black skin, bleached white bones. He tried to push that away, pulled himself up a few inches off the pillow, saw a row of beds along the far wall, another row spread out on both sides of him. He couldn’t stay up for long, dropped back down, the effort forcing him to breathe more heavily, the familiar misery in his throat.
He braced himself, pulled his right arm in under him for leverage, pushed up again. He could see the men, like him, wrapped in white bandages, hiding faces, arms, and legs, some bandaged over most of their bodies. There was a growing chorus of sound, some of the men waking up, nurses appearing, doing whatever they could for the worst of the suffering. But with the waking came the louder cries, and then, the screams. He lay back down, closed his eyes, tried to keep it away, but there was no escaping the agony of so many of the men around him. He heard a shout for the doctor, a woman’s voice, the nurses moving past quickly. He didn’t need to know what was happening, tried to find some comfort in the soft pillow beneath his head.
