Annapolis, page 61
“NOW, GO ON, you two.” Katherine picked up the check. “Have a nice dance.”
Most of the young diners had already gone off to the Sunday afternoon hop at Smoke Hall. The Stafford House had quieted down, but there was a sudden commotion in the hallway, the sound of female voices, of scurrying feet, of high-pitched nervous chatter. Then several of the girls came into the dining room, followed by two armed marines who had escorted them back.
Tom was ordered to return immediately to the Academy. And no time for any lingering good-byes. Because the United States was at war.
The shock of it all overwhelmed Tom and Betty.
But Katherine had been shocked before. “This is the stupidest thing the Japanese could have done,” she said after Tom had gone off.
“Are you still an America Firster?” asked Betty.
“We’re all America Firsters now.” Katherine squeezed her hand. “We’re all on the same side, and I’m on yours when I tell you this: now that we’re at war, you better love that boy as hard as you can for as long as you can.”
FOUR TIMES IN fifteen hours—a new record.
“Now”—Jack slid down to Lois’s foot again—“let’s talk about the Pacific.”
There was a knock. “Room service.”
She pushed her foot against his cheek. “Answer that, beautiful. You could use a little energy.”
Jack put on a white terry cloth robe with a gold P embossed on the breast pocket and told the bellhop to put the tray by the window overlooking Fifth Avenue.
“Beautiful afternoon, sir. Hard to believe what all’s happened.”
“Yeah?” Jack flipped him a half-dollar and lit a cigarette. “What all’s that?”
“Japs. They gone and bombed Hawaii. Just come over on the radio.”
For a moment, Jack stood there, cigarette lighter flaring beneath his nose.
“What did he say?” Lois came into the room in a matching robe.
Jack snapped his lighter shut. “We’re at war.”
“Yes’m,” said the bellhop, inflating with that sense of self-importance that comes to people delivering bad news. “Word is, Japs are plannin’ to invade Hawaii.”
“Jesus.” She slipped the cigarette from Jack’s lips and took a long drag.
Jack looked at his watch: three o’clock, Eastern Standard Time, which made it nine-thirty in Hawaii. His first instinct was to call his brother at the Naval Academy. But he was a reporter now. A reporter called the city room.
“Goddammit, Jack,” shouted the voice in his ear, “where are you?”
“I’m… I’m with a”—Jack glanced at Lois—“a friend.”
She shoved his cigarette back into his mouth and began to pace back and forth in front of the windows.
“A friend,” grunted Jack’s editor, bilious old Harry Dowd, who always smelled of hot dogs and had mustard on the corners of his mouth. “Aren’t you a navy brat?”
“My brother’s a lieutenant on the Enterprise. Do you know if they got her?”
“We don’t know much.” Harry burped into the phone. “And there’ll probably be censorship, but American Press Service wants to get some bread in the gravy out there while it’s still hot. ’Course, if a lieutenant’s the best you can do—”
“My father’s on Admiral Kimmel’s staff. Kimmel’s the CINCPAC.”
Lois stopped pacing and puffing.
Harry Dowd burped again… probably drinking a Moxie with his hot dog. “What the hell is a sink-pack?”
“Commander in Chief, Pacific Fleet,” said Jack. “But if I know the navy, heads’ll roll tomorrow. My father’s might be one of them.”
“Well, we’ll gamble. Pack your bags.”
After Jack hung up, Lois said, “Honey, CBS may be able to use you after all. How would you like to be our stringer out there?”
“You mean, send you stuff that somebody else will read on the radio?” Jack grabbed a bottle of beer from the room-service ice bucket.
“Sounds swell, doesn’t it?”
“No, thanks.” He stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth. “No lines on CBS, or a byline on wire service stories picked up by half the papers in this country?”
She took another drag on her cigarette. “You’re a hard one, honey.”
“When you’re ready to put me on the air, call me.”
Lunch went down fast. He dressed fast. He had the feeling that from now on, everything would happen fast.
ABOARD THE BATTLESHIP Nagato, on the Inland Sea, Captain Hiroaki Tanaka studied a chessboard and made a move. When Admiral Yamamoto had a moment, he would make a move of his own. But there was a grander game being played, with airplanes and warships as the pawns and knights, and the great map on the wardroom table as the chessboard.
At fifty-seven, Hiroaki was the oldest member of Yamamoto’s staff, older than the admiral himself. They had been shipmates aboard the Nisshin at Tsushima Strait, and Yamamoto—father of Japanese naval aviation, architect of Japanese naval strategy—still respected Hiroaki’s knowledge and good counsel.
Like Hiroaki, Yamamoto had lived for a time in the United States, had felt the energy that lay fallow in the American earth, and did not want war with her. But when the Japanese leadership insisted that war was inevitable, Yamamoto had decided to neutralize the American fleet so that he would not have to face an attack on his left flank while he was sweeping into the oil fields of the East Indies.
“In the first six to twelve months of a war with the United States,” he had told the cabinet, “I will run wild… But if the war continues after that, I have no expectation of success.”
Now the rampage had begun. At 0300, the radios—silent for days while Kido Butai, the carrier striking force, slipped across the Pacific—had begun to sing.
“Tora! Tora! Tora!” Complete surprise has been achieved. Then the litany of destruction from the pilots; then the messages of shock from the Americans: “Air Raid Pearl Harbor X This is no drill.”
The officers in the Nagato wardroom had taken their example from their leader, showing little emotion. A few handshakes, glasses of sake, and plates of dried squid were the only show of celebration.
By 0500, two attack waves had sunk or damaged eighteen American ships and left most land-based aircraft at Hawaii in smoking piles. The First Air Fleet had been so well trained that they had even delivered torpedoes into a mine layer at the 1010 dock, where they had expected to find the aircraft carrier Enterprise. But she wasn’t there. Neither was the Lexington.
What Americans would later call a sneak attack had actually been a brilliant surprise attack delivered on an enemy whose enormity had guaranteed its complacency, whose bureaucracy had assured that no controlling intelligence would see what was about to happen, and whose bickering diversity had guaranteed its refusal to confront the reality of war. But by dumb luck, or the grace of God, the carriers had escaped.
A third attack wave had been planned, to destroy oil tanks, submarine pens, and drydocks. But Admiral Nagumo, in command of Kido Butai, feared those missing American carriers, even though he had six of his own. When he was told that the damage he had done would keep the Americans reeling for six months, he decided to withdraw.
And no one aboard the Nagato could persuade Yamamoto to overrule him.
So Hiroaki went out on the bridge to drink in the cold December air and compose a haiku for his wife and son: “The birds fly eastward/ To bring freedom from the west. / The cold gray sea smiles.”
Then Yamamoto appeared in a winter coat with a collar of rabbit fur.
“Had we destroyed the oil tanks and drydocks, we would have forced them all the way back to San Diego,” said Hiroaki. “But we have our six months.”
“And yet”—Yamamoto tugged at the glove on his left hand, which covered the stumps of the fingers lost at Tsushima Strait—“I fear that we have awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.”
“At least you know your enemy.”
ii
Christmas in Hawaii
Jack Stafford was shocked, not by the devastation at Pearl Harbor but by the sight of his father.
Will Stafford had suddenly gone gray, and the color draining from his head seemed to be pooling under his eyes. He looked as wrecked as the ships still smoldering in the distance.
The new commander in the Pacific, Chester Nimitz, had called his first meeting for 2000 on Christmas night. No one complained. This was war, and the Japanese did not celebrate Christmas. But Will Stafford expected that he and several other good men would be sent packing that night.
It was a bleak Christmas, just about everywhere.
On one side of the globe, Japan’s German allies were reaching ever farther east and west. The German army was within sight of Moscow, and U-boats were feasting on Allied ships.
On the other side, the Japanese were fulfilling Yamamoto’s prophecy. Ten hours after Pearl Harbor, Japanese planes struck Philippine airfields. Two days later, they caught Britain’s new battleship, Prince of Wales, and her consort, Repulse. If there had been any doubt that the battleship was no longer the queen of the seas or that Japanese pilots were now the princes of the air, both sank with the ships. The American-held island of Guam fell the same day. The mid-Pacific airstrip at Wake Island fell on December 23, and Hong Kong on Christmas Day.
Season’s greetings.
One of Jack’s fondest memories was of his mother, keeping Christmas in a very simple way for her three little boys, no matter where they were stationed.
Each Christmas Eve, they strung popcorn, lit candles, and hung just five ornaments, one for each member of the family—a star at the top of the tree for Dad, a small woodcut of a manger for Mom, a brass trumpet for Billy, a three-dimensional silver snowflake with points going in every direction for Jack, and a simple red ball for Tom. And it always looked right—in family housing at Norfolk, in the commandant’s house at Boston, or on a potted palm in Hawaii.
Traditions were good, thought Jack, especially in bad times and strange places. And what could be stranger than wearing a flowered aloha shirt to celebrate Christmas on a tropical hillside, in a light tropical rain, in a bungalow that looked as if it belonged on Cape Cod? Unless, of course, it was the sound of “Silent Night” played on the upright in the living room.
“That song takes me back,” said Will Stafford.
“I see snowflakes,” said Eddie Browne, who was doing the playing.
The great-grandson of John Browne had gone to college in the NROTC program as a way of paying for his education at Dartmouth. He was slender, soft-spoken, and the Staffords were glad that he had looked them up in Hawaii.
“So, Eddie,” said Jack after the song was finished. “How did you go from a lieutenant on the West Virginia to naval intelligence in two weeks?”
“Classified.” Will Stafford handed his son a bottle of Primo Hawaiian beer.
“It seems that everything on this damn island is classified, Dad.”
“This is a war,” said Will.
“When they heard I was a musician,” said Eddie, “they put me with Station Hypo, in that sweaty bunker at CINCPAC.”
“Classified,” said Will, taking another swallow of bourbon.
“All the boys from the California band are there, too. We’re cryptanalysts.”
“Classified,” said Will.
“Why musicians?” asked Jack.
“They figure we know one alternate language already—sharps, flats, notes. Maybe we can figure out a lot of meaningless symbols and read the Jap code.”
“Any luck?” asked Jack.
“Classified,” said Will.
“Dad,” said Jack, “do you know how stupid you look, wearing dress white shoes and trousers, and a shirt with giant red camellias on it?”
Will Stafford’s face seemed to stagger, as if it could not decide to frown or smile. Then he laughed for the first time in nearly three weeks.
The sound was so alien that Jane and their daughter-in-law, Maureen, and Juan, the Filipino houseboy, came running into the living room.
“Did someone crack a joke?” asked Jane. “We could all use a laugh.”
“The joke is these shirts,” said Jack. “At least Eddie had the good sense to wear his officer’s jacket.”
“Well, it’s good to hear a little laughter again,” said Jane.
But dinner was still served on a bed of tension.
Will worked his way through a third bourbon, then a fourth.
Jane kept reminding him that he had an important meeting with Admiral Nimitz that night, a not very subtle code for “Shut yourself off.”
Their son Billy was on patrol with the Enterprise, which was worrisome enough.
Billy’s wife, Maureen, a dark-haired, dark-eyed New York girl, picked at her ham and said how much she hoped she could get a military job so she would not have to return to the States with the rest of the military dependents.
And Jack, whose decision to become a reporter had been disappointing enough, kept annoying his father with questions about the attack.
Finally Will growled, “Read the damn press releases.”
“Dad, I need an angle. They wouldn’t have sent me out here unless they thought I had an inside track at CINCPAC.”
“You mean me? I pulled the strings to get your press credentials, but after tonight the only inside track I’ll be able to give you is how to find the head on the minesweeper I’m banished to. My career’s finished.”
“Dad, you shouldn’t have to take the rap. I’d be willing to bet the navy had warnings popping off all over the place and they just didn’t see them.”
“So you want me to tell you everything, and you’ll blow the lid off the navy’s incompetence at Pearl Harbor, and somehow it’ll save my career?”
“Now you’re talking.” Jack leaned back, beaming. “I might even tell the truth about how many ships were sunk.”
“Don’t forget, Mr. Reporter”—Will pushed back from the table and stalked toward the bedroom—“what’s good for the U.S. Navy may not be good for someone sniffing through the droppings of the worst day in American history, but what’s good for the U.S. Navy is good for the U.S.A.”
Jack furrowed his brow, repeated that to himself, shook his head.
“It’s something your grandfather used to say, dear,” said Jane.
“But the newspapers said we only lost one battleship. I expected a little censorship, but… the whole damn fleet is sunk. Isn’t the truth good for the U.S.A.?”
“Remember, dear, we can’t always tell the story exactly the way every little reporter would want.” Jane’s voice began soft and sugar-sweet. Then, it grew a little harder, then a little louder, just as Jack remembered. “We’re expecting a Japanese invasion, dear, at any moment. We’re fighting for… our… goddamn… survival! If your father tells you not to blow the lid off a pot that was blown to smithereens three weeks ago, you should pay attention… dear.”
And so ended Christmas dinner.
For dessert, they had pineapple upside-down cake, Kona coffee, and brandy. Juan served on the veranda, with the gentle rain falling beyond.
“Your mother right,” said Juan. “No goddamn reason to be botherin’ you father like he some kind of fuckin’ Tojo Jap or somethin’.”
“Juan,” said Maureen, “Mrs. Stafford keeps telling you about your swearing.”
“Ladies like Maureen don’t like that kind of language,” Jack said sternly.
Maureen laughed, a good throaty sound, the first sign of animation Jack had seen from her in two days. “Don’t worry about me. But someday, Juan, somebody might not realize you were raised by a bunch of American sailors at Cavite, and they won’t understand why you swear so much.”
“Yeah,” said Juan. “Little goddamn Filipino orphan. No mammy, no pappy, just Uncle Sam… and the Staffords.”
Just then a flight of planes came in low from the north, roaring over the house, rattling plates, and scaring the hell out of Maureen.
“Don’t worry,” said Eddie. “They’re not Japs. They’re Dauntlesses.”
“Dauntlesses?” She jumped up and ran out on the lawn.
Jack and Eddie followed her, and for a time, the three of them stood there squinting up into the rain as the big blue planes roared down to Ford Island.
“I can’t see the insignia,” said Maureen.
“It’s not VS-Six, so they’re not from the Enterprise.”
“Christ… you never know if it’s Japs or Billy or… Christ.” She ran back into the house, once more the worried little rag she had been during most of the two days that Jack had been there.
“For a minute, I thought they were Japs, too,” Eddie said to Jack. “After what they did to the West Virginia, I’m happy to be in a bunker lookin’ at ciphers all day.”
“What about those ciphers?”
“Sorry, Jack.” Then Eddie thought a minute. “But if you want a good story, talk to a colored messman by the name of Dory Miller.”
THERE WAS AN old navy saying: “One ‘awshit’ wiped out a thousand ‘attaboys’ in an instant.” And they had just been through the worst “awshit” in American history.
Most of the men who gathered for the night meeting at CINCPAC—Vice Admiral Wilson Brown, Captain bald-as-an-egg “Poco” Smith, Captain Walt Delaney, Will Stafford with his hangover—expected no “attaboys” from the new commander in chief.
Chester Nimitz’s hair, once Aryan blond, had turned white without any help from the Japanese. His complexion was red even before the Hawaiian sun got to it. And his eyes were blue, as Prussian as his name. But for all the German in his background and all the stars on his collar, he was soft-spoken, gentlemanly, almost unassuming. He wished them a Merry Christmas and gave them an “At ease.”
Will sat and shielded his eyes from the overhead lights that glared off the white uniforms like searchlight beams boring right into his hungover head.
But Nimitz made him feel better fast. “We were lucky they got us where they did. If they’d caught those battleships at sea, they would have sunk them all. We’d never be able to raise one of them. And they would have killed a lot more men.”
