Baa Baa Black Sheep (37 page)

He just kept smiling and said: “Ohio,” several more times. I later found out he didn’t know a damn word of English, but that
ohio
means good morning in Japanese.

Apparently there was no food shortage at Truk, for the Nips passed so many rice balls and salty dicon pickles under the door we couldn’t eat them all. Not even Boyle. But Don did eat until he became swollen up like a horse that had access to an unlimited oat supply.

Then we had a new friend, diarrhea. This is when the six-inch-wide rectangle in the floor came into full play. The person occupying the rectangle couldn’t sit down, he had to straddle, bending his knees and leaning his body forward to balance himself.

In these crowded circumstances where one couldn’t move his face more than a couple of feet from somebody’s hairy old thing to begin with, privacy was a forgotten word. Don had our new friend real bad. We didn’t have a watch, but at the time I would have bet a sizable sum that Don muscled his way to our lower ventilator every fifteen minutes. He would
let fly, time after time, until it was getting on the others’ nerves. In the daytime there was just enough light to see this almost constant stream of slightly used rice, so we could keep from getting splashed too much, but during darkness it was impossible to get away by merely the use of one’s ears and nose. Somehow, I was reminded of half-melted gold nuggets being poured out of a ladle.

I can never forget Brownie, or his accent, and what he did in these trying times. He was unusually neat. He became so frustrated after one of Boyle’s bowel explosions he began to lecture him. At the same time he was lecturing he was busy scraping some of the nuggets that had overshot their mark with his bare hands. The rest of us started laughing as we watched Brownie pushing this stuff into the hole while he talked on. He said: “For goodness sake, Boyle, why don’t you stop overeating for just a little while? You’re not getting much good out of this food; can’t you see for yourself?”

Two other American prisoners were brought into camp two nights after that task-force raid on Truk. They had been picked up on some coral reefs where they had been able to conceal themselves for a couple of days after being shot down in the raid. One of these new prisoners was out of his head, delirious, and they beat him. They beat him many times and then finally packed him out. I imagine they shoved him in a hole somewhere and covered him up.

But the other American prisoner was placed alone in the cell next to ours and we whispered to him through a crack in the adjoining wall many times. We could also hear the guards beat him unmercifully outside his cell several times. At night we could peek through the bamboo matting against the lanterns out of doors and saw he was a big redheaded guy, and the Nips were whacking him with clubs approximately two inches thick. Of course we finally learned his name through the crack in the wall, without the guards ever knowing. And we heard him tell the guards who were beating him: “Why should I tell you anything? You are going to kill me anyhow.”

When we communicated through the crack in the wall, I suggested a few things I knew would make it a lot easier for the poor guy. I suggested: “You might try talking to them, Red. You don’t have to tell them any secrets. Just feed them a good line of bullshit, it works just as well. But stick as close to
the truth as you think wise, so you can remember what you said, because they will keep on questioning you.”

“Is that what you fellows did?”

“They will beat you to death if you don’t pass the time of day with them. I found out they’re funny that way.”

“Who are you?”

“Boyington, 214.”

“Pappy?”

“That’s what they call me. What’s your name and outfit, Red?”

“Now ain’t this something. Everybody thinks you’re dead, and I have to go to all this trouble to find you alive. I’m George Bullard. I was Butch O’Hare’s exec until he was killed, then I took over his squadron.”

“Gosh, I never heard about that, what happened?”

“It was an accident. He was joining up on some TBFs at night. One of the rear gunners thought he was a Jap and shot him down. We never found him.”

I knew Butch, he was my kind of guy, and I was truly sorry to learn about him. I recalled at least one occasion that fate had seen fit to change her mind. She had dealt a lousy hand to start with but smiled when she saw the guy had the guts to draw to it, leaving him a royal flush for his nerve.

He had been unable to take off with the rest of the carrier fighters because of engine trouble, and the others had gone on without him. Later, after they were out of sight, he had gotten his engine going and took off, intending to join up on the others when he located them. But instead of finding his own planes he found five Nip torpedo planes shortly after taking off, and he joined up on these. He was able to shoot down all five; he just barely nailed the last one as it was making its final approach on his own carrier. Naturally, everybody aboard the carrier loved the guy, and along with it he became the first American to become an ace on a single hop.

There were some sour-grape versions made by pilots who didn’t happen to be around at the time, concerning the spectacular achievement, but I discounted these completely, for I knew what kind of a person Butch was. As a matter of fact, I have heard derogatory remarks made, whether there was any basis for them or not, about every pilot who ever did anything important.

However, there is really only one case about which I can
speak with authority, and that one is my own. I will have to admit that there is a sound basis in what they say about me. There was a particular crack I had heard in a Navy bar out in the islands before I was shot down, and it came from an officer who was obviously more drunk than I was at the time. Not knowing that I happened to be standing in this crowded island club, or even what I looked like, he said:

“I have searched the seven seas, but never have I been fortunate enough to run into one enemy plane. How is it that some drunk like Boyington decides he feels well enough to even go on a mission, and without even looking runs into all the luck? He is surrounded by Japs, and has to shoot his way out to get back to the free brandy to cure his hangover.”

As a general rule it had been my habit of clobbering a gent for such a remark. I believe the only reason I let this guy off the hook was that he was drunk and I felt sorry for the dumb bastard. Besides, I couldn’t take the time out because these clubs didn’t serve more than a couple of hours.

Suyako came out to see us twice during our stay at Truk. One time a few clouds begrudgingly released a few drops of moisture while he was at the prison, and he talked the guards into permitting the six of us out in this light rain.

How relative things appear cannot be repeated too often, as far as I am concerned. If you could have witnessed the delighted faces, the laughing, and cavorting around by the six of us in this light sprinkle. How we scrubbed the moisture into our naked bodies. How we pointed our swollen, opened lips heavenward, cupping our filthy hands around them to try and receive more moisture in our parched mouths.

At last Suyako came with good news: we were to leave Truk, and probably the most uncomfortable existence I have ever experienced. The reason for the lengthy stay, as he explained, was that the task force had destroyed every piece of available transportation, and we had to wait for some to come in from the north. What a job they must have done, we thought, without trying to show any outward emotion.

Again we were blindfolded and our hands tied loosely together for a change. We were riding in a regular twin-engine passenger plane, a DC-3, or somebody had stolen the blueprints.

Should ever I return to Japan any of these days or years, one of my biggest novelties would be in knowing just how I
was going to get there, or exactly where I was day by day while traveling. For on that first trip, while being flown from island to island, we were not told anything. All we could do was try to guess where we were and try to remember our geography.

Our first stop was overnight at what we presumed to be the island of Saipan, and I still think it was. After landing we were taken away from the airstrip about four or five miles and put into a chicken coop. Here we were kept overnight with several guards with bayonets guarding us in the chicken coop. During my brief stay at Saipan life began to take on a new look. I was served my first civilized meal in over two months. The fact that the last of the booze had been sweated out of me at Truk might have had a great deal to do with this good feeling.

The farmhouse adjoining our chicken coop was occupied by a Japanese warrant officer and his family. He was a kind, gentle person who insisted that we were fed properly. I know this because we were introduced to him by Suyako, who interpreted this man’s words of friendliness. He said: “I would like to have you meet the man who is responsible for all this. He says he would like to explain a few things to you.”

“Okay with us, anything after a meal like this.”

“I’m not able to translate the exact words, but I will give you the message as best I can. He says he would like to have you know the majority of the Japanese are ashamed of the way you are being treated, but to have faith, because the horrible war shall be over before too long. Then we shall all be friends again.”

For some reason I believed this man, I was satisfied that he was sincere and honest. As I watched the stars in the universe above me that night, as long as I could remain awake, I felt calm and comparatively happy. It was truly a heavenly sleep I had, among the leavings of the barnyard fowl, and I didn’t begrudge the henhouse folk a single thing. Prior to this point in my life I never dreamed it possible to feel that a Japanese could be a true friend, a friend of mankind. So I was not saying good-by with my tongue in my cheek. For my money the warrant officer and his wife and children, who waved good-by to us as we left the farm, were a swell family in anybody’s world. Even Suyako was so touched he forgot the blindfolds until we were driving on the
airstrip. When he suddenly noticed this, he said: “For gosh sakes, put on your blindfolds or I’ll be the one that’s in hot water.” We complied with grins.

His attitude had changed gradually since leaving Rabaul and by that time we regarded him much the same as a drill sergeant, because he yapped only when he thought somebody was looking our way. I had the feeling he must have thought we were his permanent wards after saving our lives and keeping the Japs from beating us up. Under these circumstances he had done his best to see that we were watered and fed.

The night after Saipan we spent at—well, I was not to learn the name of the island until after the war. Then, while being flown home, I happened to recognize a picture of the island while thumbing through a magazine. The island was Iwo Jima. In the picture I recognized Mount Suribachi. We had been kept in an open board-covered lean- to overnight at its foot, and anybody who ever has seen the volcanic cone that is Mount Suribachi will never forget it.

The place felt so quiet, so forlorn, so desolate, while I was there. Why anybody was on it in the first place was beyond my comprehension. So you can imagine how I must have felt when later I read and saw the picture of the Marines who had taken this desolate rock. And the Marines must have thought it worth over nine hundred per cent in casualties.

We were free as the cold breeze during this evening in the little board lean-to. The guards shared their food with us, and side by side—guard and prisoner alike—we ate from some cans of plums they had opened. I remember how cold it was, and we huddled together next to a large rock that was helping to hold the lean- to off the ground. These guards also shared their cigarettes and matches with us prisoners. We smoked plenty. We didn’t stop to realize how scarce cigarettes were for them.

On the next leg of the trip Suyako didn’t insist that we wear the blindfolds, which didn’t make me unhappy in the least. As we were waiting to take off in our DC-3, there were any number of Japanese peering through the glass windows into the plane. They were ragged, not dressed exactly like the soldiers or sailors, at least no insignia of any nature. In peering in through the windows they plastered their noses flat against the panes and just stared and stared, much the
same as a little waif at home would look into a department-store window filled with toys. I asked Suyako: “What are they looking at? And who are they?”

Suyako, for lack of better words—and I’m certain he meant no insult—said: “They are workers. Same as your Seabees. We call them Hee.”

“What does Hee mean?” I asked curiously after I had seen him go to the windows and shoo these lookers away, several times, but more always came back in their places.

“Hee means flies in Japanese.”

I felt that this expression was quite appropriate for these people, but somehow I had the feeling that the already-industrious Seabees would double their efforts if they could have heard Suyako make the comparison to them.

That afternoon we were flown into an airport near Yokohama. I never will know just which one it was. Then we were walked to a junction on the outskirts of the city. From there we were taken some distance by truck and part of the way by streetcar.

Now that we were on the mainland of Japan, I rather imagine they felt that it was safe to remove our blindfolds for good. I never did learn of a white man escaping, once he was on the mainland. The people in the streets and on the streetcar just gawked and gawked at us. They couldn’t seem to tear their eyes away. Come to think of it, we were such a mess that people back in the United States would have gawked at us too.

During our streetcar ride we put a multitude of questions to our host, Suyako, some of which I doubted he could have answered if he had wanted to. I asked: “Where in the hell are you taking us?”

“A navy camp, Ofuna, it’s a suburb of Yokohama, the same as your Hollywood in Los Angeles, where they make motion pictures in Japan.” And my hopes began to rise.

After we left the streetcar we sort of marched loosely back into the hills on a dirt road. The scenery was beautiful, like being out in the wooded countryside back home. We passed one of their ancient shrines, and Suyako explained about this as best he could. And nearby we were able to listen to the tinkle of prayer sticks, a sound that went on endlessly in the clear air, coming from somewhere outside of our prison stockade at all hours. Finally we approached a
wooden stockade, which, except for its fragileness, reminded me of those used by early Americans to keep out the Indians. Suyako said: “Well, boys, this is it, at last. This is going to be your new home.”