1941: Honolulu, Hawaii
Flynn grinned as he ran his rag over the spills on the counter before him. Smith’s Union Bar was alive with noise. Men in white naval uniforms and rounded caps threw back a couple of cold Primos before shouldering their way onto North Hotel Street and the more exciting temptations of Honolulu’s red-light district. There was no room for gambling set-ups, live bands or opium smoking in Smith’s Union Bar. The long timber counter ran the entire length of the narrow room, with tables pushed against the latticed-straw wall coverings on the other side. Stools became occupied early in the evening, and men used whatever standing space was left to down shots while making plans for where to go next. The crew of the USS Nevada were loyal to Shanghai Bill’s, and the USS Maryland to Four Aces, but Smith’s Union Bar was the favourite haunt of the USS Arizona men. Flynn counted himself lucky; it meant work—and the decent tips that came with it—would never dry up.
‘Throw me another one, would ya?’ said a man who couldn’t have been more than twenty, sliding his empty beer glass over. ‘That’s exactly what a fella needs on his night off.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Flynn said, holding the glass beneath a silver tap and letting the beer flow. He waited until a thin head of white foam just peeked over the lip, then slid it back.
The man threw some money on the bar, then tipped his head and drained the beer in one. When he came up for breath he closed his eyes and let out an ecstatic moan.
Flynn couldn’t help laughing. ‘Good as that, is it?’
‘Nothing better. If the navy weren’t so good to me I’d up and work with you here, just for the beer. Say, what brought you to Honolulu? You don’t sound like a local.’
Flynn shrugged. ‘I’ve got no family to speak of on the mainland, so no point sticking around there. I was lured to the island by the opportunity to earn good coin off the anchored fleet and meet pretty girls. You lot take all the girls’ attention, but you do keep a man in laulau and Aloha shirts.’
‘If you swapped your bright patterns for some whites, the girls might notice you too,’ the sailor said with a wink, before heading for the door.
Flynn threw him a wave. He knew he’d see him again soon. They all came back in between beach visits and dances with nurses or local girls. He was glad of it. Sure, some got up to mischief in the surrounding streets, but that was part of the fun of this area. It gave people like Flynn the opportunity to live a life relatively free of responsibility. All he had to do was serve drinks, count the change correctly, keep the place clean and send the fights outside. A good job, and a good life. They hadn’t lied when they said Hawaii was paradise.
After finishing his shift in the early hours of the morning, Flynn locked the doors then treated himself to a couple of shots of okolehao using the tips he’d just earned. He switched on the wireless behind the bar and turned the dials, but it was too late for any programming. Still, he liked the way the static filled the sudden quiet of the bar which had bustled with noise all night long. Leaving it on, he poured himself another shot and dragged a stool to the corner where he could lean back against the wall and prop his feet on the bar. If the owner came in and saw him like that he’d be in trouble, but the chances were slim. The guy rarely checked on the place outside of his own shift. Flynn still had to take care of the cleaning, but he’d do that in a bit, when he didn’t feel so hot, so fuzzy-headed.
He must have drifted to sleep, because the next thing he knew his feet had slid off the bar and he almost toppled from the stool. He caught himself, straining to listen. Was it a sound that had woken him? Or something else?
He stood and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. That brought the world into sharper focus. His mouth was dry and tasted sour. As he headed for something to swill it out with, he realised the ground felt … what was it exactly? Unstable? As though some kind of tremor was running through it.
The wireless was still crackling, and with an irritated flick of the wrist Flynn turned it off. Was there an earthquake somewhere distant perhaps?
Forgetting his drink, he made his way to the front door and unlocked it. He stuck his head out and glanced up and down the street. North Hotel Street was usually a night-time place, only coming to life well after the bright blues of the Hawaiian sky darkened into near-navy, but this morning sleep-lined faces peered out from many of the buildings, and one or two locals had already stepped outside. Flynn joined them. They weren’t looking towards the Iolani Palace, which would have been his first instinct, but in the opposite direction.
Beyond the treetops and roofs a great plume of black smoke was staining the sky. Small shapes whizzed through the air around and above it, looking like birds from this distance. The shapes swooped, rose up, and this time Flynn heard it—a faint boom. The hairs on his arms rose. The navy carried out manoeuvres every now and then, and he tried to tell himself that’s what this was. But something was different. Something was off.
The others must have felt it too, for their mouths were drawn in tight lines, brows furrowed in concern. Another column of smoke, likely resulting from the boom they’d heard, joined the first.
The wireless. Flynn raced back inside, skidded to a stop and twisted the wireless knob so hard it almost came off in his hand. He made himself slow down and inch the dial a bit at a time, desperate to catch a voice that would tell him what was going on.
Finally, a man’s tinny voice reached out to him, caught mid-sentence: ‘… by enemy planes. The mark of the rising sun has been seen on the wings of these planes and they are attacking Pearl Harbor at this moment.’
Attacking? Flynn’s stomach turned over. How was that possible? America wasn’t part of the war.
‘Keep off the streets and highways unless you have a duty to perform,’ the radio announcer’s voice continued. ‘Please don’t use your telephone unless you absolutely have to do so. All of these phone facilities are needed for emergency calls.’
The presenter ended with the call for all military personnel and police to report for duty at once, and urged listeners to keep their radios on for further instructions.
Flynn’s back hit the wall. He hadn’t even realised he’d been moving. The room seemed to be shrinking in on him, trapping him like a frog in a shoebox. He was desperate for more news, desperate to try and understand what was going on.
The radio crackled again, and the voice came back; a second wave of aircraft was attacking the same area, and locals were warned to remain indoors. Flynn thought of all the men who came into Smith’s Union Bar, gleaming and proud in their dress whites, generous with their tips and their jokes. Most of them would have still been in bed, their sleep deepened by the drink he’d served them and the fun they’d found. Would they have had enough time to react?
He ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair, then buried his face in his palms and let out a long, low moan.
The wait for more information was interminable. Every second seemed to last an hour; every breath a reminder to Flynn that he was safe and in one piece, and absolutely no help to anyone at all. Finally, the words he was waiting for came. The bombing had stopped. Rescue operations and firefighting were underway.
Flynn grabbed the keys to the bar and ran to the door, ready to help, but the urgent voice of the radio presenter pulled him up. He was instructing all citizens to stay inside unless they had medical expertise. His stomach sank. As much as he wanted to do something, Flynn would only get in the way of those equipped to handle such a situation.
He returned to his seat at the bar, hating himself for being useless, for only knowing how to pour a beer and lindy hop with the ladies. Why hadn’t he learned any practical skills?
He kept seeing the faces of the navy men from last night. Would the bombing mean fatalities? It seemed impossible in this place of palm trees and beaches. Yet if medical assistance was needed … Perhaps it was only for injuries. Yet even as he thought this, Flynn knew it was a naive hope.
He was silently calling himself a fool when the radio announcer spoke again, his static-filled voice making Flynn jump.
‘Eyewitness accounts have told us of catastrophic hits to numerous battleships and destroyers. Many are still ablaze, although the USS Arizona has been completely lost.’
A rough sound escaped Flynn’s lips. His knuckles were white around the edge of the bar, and he pressed his face hard against the wood, inhaling the scent of stale beer. The Arizona. His men, his customers. The kid from last night.
Tears stung his eyes. How could this have happened?
America would have to retaliate. Flynn knew it as clearly as if the voice on the radio had already confirmed it. There was no way their nation could ignore the insult of this sneak attack, the cowardice of an enemy bombing them without a declaration of war. This was the end of counting themselves lucky to not be a part of the war. The end of complacency.
America was going to fight back. And when she did, Flynn was not going to sit around like a useless lump, allowing better men to take on all the risk. He was going to be a part of it.