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.