To Wake the Giant Page 4

  “That doesn’t give him permission to disrespect his commander in chief.”

  “You’re right. And so, right now, I have to perform the parts of this job that are both happy and miserable. I have the power to fire people who don’t do what they’re told. And sometimes I’m forced to fire someone who has served his country honorably for decades. In this case, it’s the same man.”

  “So, you’re going to relieve him?”

  Roosevelt looked down, nodded slowly. “Hawaii is a long way away. We need a man out there who recognizes that there are capable people in Washington who know what they’re doing, and when we tell him what to do, he doesn’t bitch about it.”

  U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C.—TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1940

  He respected the secretary of war, could see the age in the man’s face, the slow effort to pull himself up the stairs. Henry Stimson was four years older than Hull, and had even more experience in the highest workings of the government than Hull did. Stimson had been secretary of war for President Taft, secretary of state for Herbert Hoover, and in between had served in two wars, including a stint as governor-general of the Philippines. Now he was secretary of war yet again; in an unusual move by Roosevelt, he had chosen the man based on his extraordinary depth of experience, regardless of the fact that Stimson was a Republican.

  Stimson was also staunchly in favor of Roosevelt’s policies regarding the war, extremely aware that whatever the situation today, everything could change tomorrow, and probably would.

  “Is he going to fire Admiral Richardson?”

  Stimson leaned back in the chair, nodded slowly. “I believe the correct word is ‘relieve.’ Military people put a great deal of stock in those kinds of details.”

  Hull said, “Not sure if you know this, but there is a new ambassador from Japan. He’ll be here next month sometime. Maybe we can reach some sort of understanding, find a way to defuse any potential problems.”

  Stimson laughed. “You still talk like a politician. Here’s what you do. You meet with the Japanese ambassador…what’s his name?”

  “Nomura.”

  “Right. You meet with Mr. Nomura, and the first thing you do is smack him on the side of the head. Nice crisp shot. Knock his glasses across the room. I assume he wears glasses? They usually do.”

  “Actually, he has only one eye.”

  “Well, don’t smack him too damn hard. Point is, you show him, Look, Mr. Ambassador, this is what we do to our enemies. You wanna be our enemy? Should work miracles in Tokyo.”

  Hull knew when he was being poked. “I assume that’s what you did, when you sat in this office?”

  “Oh, hell no. Might have started a war or something. But it looks to me like we’re headed for a war anyway. Might as well get the first lick in.”

  Hull shook his head. “Or, I could talk to him first. Maybe avoid a war. Isn’t that part of my job?”

  Stimson stared at him. “Question is, is it a part of Mr. Nomura’s job? Or is he just here to observe us, to see how we’re observing him? Chess match. And I don’t trust those bastards one bit. They’ve cozied up to Hitler, for God’s sake. Whatever they’re trying to do, it won’t be in our favor.”

  “I suppose it’s my job to figure that out, and if there’s a bomb here, like so many of you military people seem to believe, it’s my job to defuse it. That reminds me, I need to inform our own ambassador to Japan, Joe Grew, just what’s going to happen with Admiral Richardson. If there is a front line to all this potential mess, Grew’s on it.”

  Stimson thought a moment, said, “You know, it’s one thing for a man to argue his principles, to defend what he thinks is right. You might even suggest a thing or two to your superiors. But Richardson made a mistake. No, he made two. First, he forgot that our president is an old navy man himself, that the United States Navy might as well be called Roosevelt’s Boats. The president loves his ships, loves that service more than any other. If he could serve on a ship today, he would. Admiral Richardson treated his commander in chief like Roosevelt’s sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong. That’s mistake number one.”

  “Number two?”

  “By God, Cordell, he did the worst thing he could have done to his commander in chief. He hurt his feelings!”

  * * *

  —

  On January 5, 1941, the order was sent from Washington to the Headquarters of the Office of the Commander in Chief, U.S., at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. If Admiral James Richardson had no wish to maintain his command in Hawaii, his wish was being granted. Though the fleet would remain, Admiral Richardson would not. He had been relieved.

  His replacement was a man known well by the president, a former subordinate of Roosevelt’s who had worked his way up the navy’s chain of command by efficient, if not altogether brilliant, service. The fifty-eight-year-old was a Naval Academy graduate, which was almost essential for this level of command, an enormous stepping-stone to an even higher position. The command at Pearl Harbor would put him squarely in the spotlight, giving him the responsibility and authority for the entire Pacific fleet. Where Admiral James Richardson had tried to shape Washington’s strategy in the Pacific by his own bluster, his replacement was seen by the War Department, and by his president, as a man who would be far more agreeable and would follow the instructions Washington wanted him to obey. His name was Husband E. Kimmel.

  THREE

  Biggs

  JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA—SUNDAY, JANUARY 12, 1941

  He had followed the instructions sent by the navy, riding another bus up to Jacksonville, where he would board the train taking him most of the way north, a journey halfway across the country. It was more than two weeks after Christmas, but the grimy walls of the train station were still decked out with giant wreaths. There were other holiday decorations as well, and Biggs couldn’t help asking himself if someone had forgotten to do their job. Maybe by March, someone would realize it was time to take them down.

  The Christmas season had not meant anything to Biggs for many years. Like most children, he had embraced the joys that came from innocence and gifts, any gifts. With age came reality, that his father had nothing to celebrate. His mother had still tried, baking sweets, but even that effort had faded away, the small pie or cake now more likely owing to the generosity of a neighbor.

  This year had been one more dismal experience, made worse by a visit from a pair of his mother’s cousins, making the short drive from the coast, near St. Augustine. They came with presents that no one wanted, Biggs feigning gratefulness for a box of assorted fishing tackle. He offered up as much enthusiasm as he could, smiling promises that they’d serve him well on his next outing. Even his father had chuckled at that, a discreet wink between them, both men knowing that Biggs had never fished.

  But useless gifts could be ignored. What was worse was the subtle message brought into the Biggs home by two women too judgmental toward the meager furnishings in their cousin’s home, the lack of an automobile, and the unfashionable dress of Biggs’s mother. Biggs despised one in particular, a large, jiggly woman who knew nothing of moderation when it came to perfume. Within minutes of her arrival, the entire house had been infected with the aroma that Biggs could only guess had been squeezed from flowers that prospered at the town’s garbage dump.

  They had stayed for two days, finding accommodations at one of Palatka’s meager motels, reinforcing their arrogant sense of superiority about their place in the world. After two insufferable days, the women had slid into their car, with too many hugs and fake smiles. Biggs had satisfied his obligation to his mother by giving a brief hug to each, the perfume now a part of him. He had then made his own escape. He had nowhere to go, but he knew that once the two women were gone, his parents would erupt into their inevitable fight. It was completely predictable, his father blasting out the customary insults toward his wife’s family. But she defended
them, always, as though it were required, no matter their subtle insults to her, their self-satisfied victory over their station in life. No matter her own embarrassment, they were, after all, family. Even the hostility of her husband couldn’t erase that.

  As his father’s voice had risen behind him, Biggs had wandered toward the Russo home, knowing that the Christmas season there had a far different meaning. Ray had always embraced the holiday, the notion of family meaning so much more to him. Even now, with the holiday past, there was a delicious aroma drifting out of the Russo kitchen. Ray’s mother was a magnificent cook, and if there was little money for an elaborate feast, she created one from her own ingenuity and the wisdom handed her by generations of family from Southern Italy.

  He was tempted, drawn by the smells, but he wouldn’t just wander in. He could never avoid a sense that he was trespassing on the kind of joy he wasn’t allowed to feel, though he knew that Ray and his entire family would have welcomed him. It was a spirit Biggs would never feel in his own home. There was always room, always a plate for one more.

  * * *

  —

  As he and Ray waited for the train, Biggs had been surprised to see others waiting as well, young men sizing up each other. He didn’t know them, some younger, likely right out of high school. Scattered about were teary-eyed parents, hearty handshakes from proud fathers. From Ray’s family, the tears flowed, Luca Russo cradling his son’s head between his hands, soft words, Ray nodding, tears of his own.

  Biggs’s mother had made the bus trip with him, an eye-opening experience for a woman who had rarely been outside Palatka. Biggs had not expected his father to come, but he saw him now, a sudden surprise. It was obvious that Clarence had taken the next bus, and Biggs watched him moving slowly, sheepishly through the entryway of the station. Biggs waved toward him, caught his eye, Clarence moving closer, no bluster, no anger, just a tired, embarrassed man who rarely went out in public. As he drew closer, Biggs understood his father’s hesitation. He smelled strongly of fish.

  “Thanks for coming, Pop. I’m glad you did. It might be a while before I can see you again.”

  His mother said nothing to her husband, took Biggs’s hand, an emotional squeeze. “We’ll miss you, Thomas. It won’t be the same with you gone.”

  He put a hand over hers, no words. His father ignored the gestures, seemed distracted, eyeing the crowd, as though some kind of threat might suddenly appear.

  “Not been here in a while. Looks like they cleaned the place up a little.”

  Clarence still avoided Biggs’s eyes, noticed the Russo family, said, “That your buddy, right? Italian kid?”

  “Yeah, Pop. Ray Russo.”

  Clarence grunted, offered nothing more. The voices of the crowd seemed to drift over them like a blanket, hiding the awkwardness of their own silence. Biggs eyed the train schedule, flapping numbers on the wall.

  “Looks like they’re boarding.” He looked at his mother, saw her tears. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m gonna be great. It’s a good place for me to be. And there’s Ray, too. I already got a friend.”

  She squeezed his arm one last time, released it, said slowly, “You’ll do real good. Make sure you write us letters. Tell us where you are.”

  “Sure thing, Mom.”

  He looked at his father, still gazing around the tall ceilings.

  “I gotta go, Pop.”

  “So, how far does the train go?”

  “I’ll end up in Chicago. It’s a bus the rest of the way.”

  “Long damn way. I thought the navy floated boats. Not sure what you’re gonna do in Illinois, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s the training center, Pop. Basic training. I gotta start there.”

  There was another grunt, then a long silent minute. Biggs checked the board again.

  “I need to go. They’re boarding.”

  His mother clasped her hands in front of her, managed a smile. “Be careful, Thomas. You can come home anytime. We love you. Don’t forget that.”

  Clarence looked at his son finally, seemed to struggle for words. “Listen…um…Look, I ain’t never had nothing to give you. A man’s supposed to take care of his family, and I know I ain’t done such a good job.” Biggs wanted to interrupt, something holding him back. Let him speak. “Your mother knows how hard it’s been.” Clarence looked down. “I’m nobody. I done nothing. I gave nothing to nobody. Except I gave you to her. You and her…you’re all I got.” His eyes came up again, and Biggs saw him blinking away tears. “Boy, I just want one thing from you. Do good. Do something you’ll be proud of. Do something they’ll remember you for.”

  GREAT LAKES, ILLINOIS—FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1941

  “Take a good look around you! Look every man in the eyes. Do it!”

  Biggs obeyed, the rest of the company as well, the faces so familiar, all those men who had been through so many weeks of the same ordeal. No one was smiling, every man expecting some arbitrary punishment merely for turning his head. They were used to that now, the part of basic training that served no more purpose than to remind them just who was in charge. Biggs stared again to the front, eyes on the man they all knew as the “Recruit Division Commander.” He stood in front of them, hands locked behind his back, his winter jacket open to the brutal cold, a familiar display of toughness from the man nearly all of the recruits had grown to hate.

  After a long moment, he said, “That’s enough. Eyes front!” He paused, a quick scan through the formation. “Are you cold, pukes? Hell, it’s damn near spring! You got your damn jackets on, so if I hear any teeth chattering, or anybody bitching, you can all strip down to your skivvies. Any complaints? Good. Now listen up!”

  He crossed his arms now, his fierce expression mellowing. “This is a day every one of you will remember. Every man here has made it through basic training. You don’t need a drill instructor, no more RDC. From now on, you will refer to me as Chief Monroe. But remember this. When you arrived here, there were a hell of a lot more of you. Some of you washed out. Just quit. They’re back home now, crying to their mamas that this was too hard. Why? They weren’t any weaker or any stupider than you pukes. They just didn’t believe me. Six weeks ago, I told them, like I told you, you can do this. You want to be a sailor, you’ll have to do this. The first day you were here, I told you that if you’d work, you’d make it through basic training. I told you that all you had to do was pay attention to me, and do what the hell you were told.

  “Most of you, once in a while, you needed a boot up your ass. But every one of you, you had to learn to eat right, walk right, talk right, you had to learn what a head was, a piece, boondockers, swabs, the brig, chow, galley, and fish. You did enough push-ups to shove this ground halfway to China. You ran so many miles around this base, you coulda run back to your mamas. But you didn’t. You’ve learned what the navy expects of you, what the officers will expect of you, what the men around you expect of you. When you arrived here, most of you thought a ship was just a big boat, and a screw was something you did in the back of your daddy’s car. You’ve learned about mechanics, about gunnery, about what you need to do to function on a ship, any ship in the navy. And a hell of a lot more.”

  He paused. “The army’s out there somewhere, ground-pounders getting all impressed with the rifle in their hands, playing with a bayonet, covering up their tender ears when a single artillery piece goes off. But you…a good many of you will either be serving aboard or serving alongside a floating weapon that is more powerful than your granddaddies could ever imagine. A light cruiser today has more firepower than any fleet of ships from years ago. The entire Union Navy in the Civil War couldn’t stand up to a single destroyer today. And even today, right now, there is no modern navy anywhere in the world superior to ours. To yours.” Monroe stopped, scanned them all. “It is my duty to inform you, all of you, no matter how useless you might be, that officially, my job is finishe
d. Your basic training is complete. You may stand at ease.”

  The outburst was spontaneous, hands in the air, a hard cheer that Biggs shared. Monroe allowed himself a slight smile, but he wasn’t done just yet.

  “Listen up, you pukes. I got one more thing to say, and you better pay attention. Your assignments will come later today, and I had nothing to do with that. So don’t come bitching to me if you end up on a garbage scow on Lake Erie. There’s a good chance you’ll be assigned to duty in the Atlantic, whether escorting cargo or helping find those damn Nazi U-boats. Some of you might keep in tight to the East Coast, but don’t think that’s easy duty. I’m hearing that in places like Miami or Charleston, Boston, even New York, there’s more stupidity from civilians than even from you misfits. They won’t shut down the city lights at night, and U-boats are taking advantage, using those lights to locate and silhouette merchant ships. A damn freighter goes up in a fireball, and Miami Beach gets all excited, like it’s the damned Fourth of July. The war isn’t just way the hell over in Europe. It’s close by. So no bitching if you get assigned destroyer duty out of Norfolk, or Savannah, or anyplace else.

  “Those of you who showed more brains on paper than you ever showed me, you might get assigned to engineer or radio school. If you put in for some other kind of specialty, you’ll find out if you measured up, if the navy thinks as much of you as you do. Most all of you will leave here as an E-1. Bottom rung. Some will be notified they’ve advanced to E-2. Don’t get a swelled head. Doesn’t mean you outrank anybody, or you’re gonna get a big fat raise. What it will do is give you a better chance at whatever job you’re hoping to get.

  “And hear this. Those of you who are sent out to deep water, you might end up in England, protecting the route that’s keeping our ally from starving. This Hitler fellow is a bad problem. Your mamas don’t want to see a bunch of Nazi bastards marching down Main Street. So do whatever it takes. Do your duty, and make sure the brass knows it was me who taught you how to do it. Unless you screw up. Then I never heard of you.” He paused, an afterthought. “Oh, and some of you might get sent to the Pacific. Probably will. They say there might be some trouble in the Philippines, and that the Japanese are stomping hard all over China. But it’s a big ocean, and one island’s pretty much like another out there. At least you’ll get a suntan.”