Authors: Larry Colton
Just as before, Goldtooth Maizie lifted a teakettle and poured water up Fitzgerald’s nose while another guard held his hand over the captain’s mouth. After the fifth teakettle of water, Goldtooth pulled a chair next to the bench and climbed on top. Looking down at Fitzgerald, he readied himself, like a bully at the pool getting set to execute a giant cannonball. Then he jumped, butt-first, landing directly on Fitzgerald’s stomach. Fitzgerald convulsed, the force of the landing shooting water up and out his nose and mouth. Then the other guard climbed atop the chair and did the same thing.
After ten jumps apiece, the guards removed the straps from Fitzgerald and dragged him back across the courtyard and up the stairs.
Like everyone else on the crew, Bob had never questioned why America had gone to war. Seeing firsthand the destruction at Pearl Harbor had only intensified his belief in America’s commitment to fight an evil enemy. But now that he’d seen the enemy up close, it was even more evident to him that the Japanese were not human.
I
t was Tim McCoy’s turn to be pulled from the line by Snake. That’s the name the crew had given the guard who slithered in and out of the lines. Snake always carried a stick like a policeman’s billy club, and his specialty was the Devil Dance.
Using his club, he spread Tim’s feet two feet apart, then ordered him to go into a half knee-bend up on the balls of his feet, arms raised straight over his head, palms together. Slowly, Snake circled, tapping him with his club on the calves, then the thighs, making sure Tim maintained the Devil Dance stance.
Tim had won the state 880 as a freshman back in Lubbock and had always thought of himself as having strong legs, but after several minutes, his legs wobbled and his heels touched the floor. Snake smacked his butt with his club, hard.
After a couple more minutes, the exhausted nerves in Tim’s calves, thighs, and arms began to twitch, his whole body vibrating as he struggled to maintain the position. Snake grinned, summoning Goldtooth Maizie to join him watching Tim suffer.
Finally, unable to hold the stance, Tim straightened his legs. Four sharp whacks to the back of his legs, harder than anything his father ever administered back in Texas, sent him sprawling to the floor.
“Fuck you,” he muttered.
* * *
Dragon had once lived in Hawaii and spoke limited English. “You kill our pilot,” he spewed at the crew. “Now you pay.”
It was true. The return fire from the deck of the
Grenadier
had hit the pilot of the dive-bomber that had tried to sink it. He’d managed to fly his plane back to land, but he died soon after landing.
Dragon stepped in front of Tim.
He swung his club, hitting Tim square in the shoulder. Tim braced himself, determined not to flinch. Dragon swung again, hitting him in the elbow, then the hip, knees, and shins. As Tim absorbed each blow, barely moving, Dragon got madder with each hit.
Tim had no doubt he could survive this. He was resolved to be not just tough but the toughest of all the crew, even if it put others in danger, even if it cost him his life. He had no doubt that if all things were equal, he could kick any of these guards’ butt. He would have the same attitude he’d had as a teenager: he’d put a chip on his shoulder and dare anyone to knock it off. The guards would never be able to get anything from him. He would live to marry Valma and to show his father he was more of a man than he.
Dragon turned and handed his club to another guard, then whirled around, unloading a right cross to Tim’s jaw. Still, Tim didn’t flinch or go down, standing stoically, staring straight ahead.
“You think you tough,” yelled Dragon. “You will break.”
After a few hours Dragon came back. He told the crew that they were not prisoners of war but captured enemy, and the only reason that they were still alive was because of the humane treatment they were receiving. “We feed you now and let you rest.”
Dragon ordered them to sit down. Easing his body to the concrete floor, Tim felt a huge relief. This was the first time the crew had been allowed to sit in the four days since they had been brought to the Convent on Light Street. His legs trembled.
Another guard entered, carrying an armload of straw mats. He dumped them in the middle of the floor and motioned for the men to
each take one and roll it out. To Tim and the other men the two-foot by five-foot, half-inch-thick mat felt like a mattress.
Maybe, Tim hoped, things would improve. There was still a guard with a rifle and bayonet stationed at the door full-time, but the other guards in the room now carried wooden clubs instead of guns, and with the exception of Goldtooth Maizie and Dragon, they seemed less inclined to hit the prisoners. One of the guards even hinted that he’d try to find sulfur pills to help relieve Taylor’s suffering.
A couple of hours after the mats had been delivered, Dragon entered. “You will eat now,” he announced.
Two soldiers entered carrying two buckets, one filled with a watery porridge, the other with bowls. Tim joined the other men in a line and received a bowl and a ladleful of the gruel, but no spoon. Returning to his mat, he studied the contents of the bowl, uncertain of what it was. It was opaque, with some sort of grassy substance floating in it; he would later learn it was millet. Cautiously, he put the bowl to his mouth and began to sip. He finished everything in the bowl, but it did nothing to stop the gnawing in his stomach.
Another soldier entered carrying a bucket of water with a ladle and set it near the door. Swatting away a mosquito, Tim waited his turn in line, then scooped out a ladleful and gulped it down. When everyone was finished, the soldier threw each prisoner a Japanese cigarette, lighting one man’s smoke, having the rest light theirs off a lit cigarette. Tim inhaled deeply, savoring his smoke, smoking it down to his fingers. The guard walked down the line, collecting the butts.
Tim returned to his mat, and when the guards gave no additional orders, he curled up and fell instantly asleep for the first time in five days.
Fifteen minutes into his sleep, Tim and the others were awakened and ordered to do push-ups. A push-up contest was becoming part of the routine, the guards taking delight in kicking the fallen men.
Tim’s arms quivered. It was hard to concentrate, not just because he was so weak but because he was distracted by Charles Taylor’s moaning.
The venereal infection had worsened, and his testicles were even more swollen. Pleas by the men for medical attention for Taylor had gone unheeded.
Tim finally fell. A guard stared down at him and kicked him in the side. Tim didn’t flinch.
The guard ordered the men to line up and stand at attention. At the end of the front line, Taylor tried to stand erect but the pain was too much; he doubled over at the waist. The guard with the rifle and bayonet approached, prodding him with his blade to stand up. Taylor slowly, agonizingly, straightened, the pressure in his testicles unbearable.
The guard poked toward Taylor’s midsection with his bayonet, the blade coming within inches of his testicles.
“Get away from him,” warned Tim, lined up next to Taylor.
The guard ignored Tim, pressing the blade even closer.
With a flick of his wrists, the guard jabbed the tip of the steel blade into Taylor’s testicles, releasing the pressure and the infection. Taylor gave a horrific scream. Blood and pus exploded, splattering the guard’s uniform and face. Shocked, he stumbled backward, dropping his rifle. Taylor, writhing, fell to the floor.
Impulsively, Tim charged out of the line.
The guard didn’t have time to pick up his rifle. Tim plowed into him like a linebacker, knocking him straight over backwards. Before Tim could regain his balance, the guard scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door, leaving his rifle on the floor.
As his crewmates moved to attend to Taylor, Tim picked up the rifle and flung it out the door into the courtyard.
F
eeling a pounding on the bottom of his feet, Gordy Cox awakened to see Goldtooth Maizie hovering over him. He’d been asleep only twenty minutes. Goldtooth and the other guards were rousing everybody, ordering them to line up at attention.
A Japanese corporal entered. Short, fat, and bucktoothed, he was dressed in leather high-top shoes, knee-high socks, matching beige knickers and shirt, brown belt, pith helmet, and riding crop; he looked like a caricature Gordy had seen on a Victory poster after Pearl Harbor. In broken English the officer ordered the men to form a single line and file out the door, warning that they’d be shot if they didn’t stay in order.
In the courtyard, the crew from the other room joined them, the first time since arriving at the Convent on Light Street that the enlisted men had all been together. Gordy could see that the men from the other room were just as battered, bruised, and bedraggled as he and his companions. Three other Japanese officers, each with a machine gun, joined the corporal and flanked the men.
The corporal announced that they’d be questioned soon, and if they lied and didn’t tell the “Christian truth,” they’d be killed.
The Christian truth? Gordy had not gone to church much as a kid, but he was thoroughly convinced that these people knew nothing about God and the Christian truth.
The men were ordered back to their rooms and to stand at attention.
The corporal entered Gordy’s room and walked around it very slowly, stopping to glare at each man. He turned and pointed at an electrician’s mate and motioned for him to follow him out the door. Gordy watched them exit, figuring this was the start of the questioning. But where were they going? How bad would it be?
The crew had received no training on how to respond if captured and interrogated. All they knew was what the captain had told them when they were on the deck of the merchant ship: that they were from the USS
Goldfish
, based in San Francisco, and had been dispatched on a search and photographic mission of the area.
Gordy’s strategy for survival was simple: Keep a low profile. Don’t try to overanalyze or overthink anything; just put your head down and get it done. His philosophy would be I’m alive today, and that’s what matters.
Ten minutes passed, then thirty, and an hour, and there was still no indication of what was happening to the electrician’s mate. Gordy hadn’t heard any gunshots, so at least his crewmate hadn’t been shot.
After an hour and a half, the corporal appeared again, alone. Once again, he walked around the room, staring at each man. He motioned to Bernie Witzke, one of the tallest men in the crew. Gordy wished he’d picked him. If he was going to die, might as well get it over with.
The guards had taught the crew to count off in Japanese, each man given a number to shout out at roll call twice a day. Any man forgetting or mispronouncing his number got hit. They learned other words, too.
“Benjo?”
asked Gordy, motioning toward the toilet.
Snake pulled him and Robert York from line and led them to the head, tapping his stick as they walked. Gordy glanced to his right, noticing an open gate across the courtyard. He looked at York, who’d also spotted the opening, and they both knew what the other was thinking: if they took off running, they could be out the gate in seconds. Snake didn’t have a gun.
It took only a second for them to abandon their escape plan. They didn’t know what was on the other side of the gate; they were on an island controlled by the Japanese; they were exhausted; and they had been
repeatedly warned that if anyone tried to escape, ten crewmates would be killed.
Inside the darkened head, Gordy spotted something scrawled on the wall. He edged closer, straining to make out the words.
York leaned over to look, and read: “Keep your peckers up, men.”
It had been written in blood by Captain Fitzgerald.
Gordy had lost track of the days. How long had they been captives? A week? Ten days? Since the interrogation of the crew had started, the hours seemed to pass even more slowly. None of the men who’d already been questioned, including Tim McCoy, had been seen since they were led away.
No one had seen Captain Fitzgerald since he’d been taken away after the last round of torture. What had they done with him? Was he still alive?
One by one, the men left the room for “questioning” and didn’t return. For the ones remaining this was torture; not rifle-butt-to-the-jaw cruelty, but a mind game even more brutal. Each time another shipmate didn’t return, it seemed more and more likely that the guards had extracted whatever information they could and then killed them.
Gordy wondered whether he really knew anything that would be of value to the Japanese. Surely they already knew about submarine engines and what the Americans were running. And as far as war strategies, or naval planning, or secret codes, he didn’t know anything about that. He was just a first mate, an enlisted sailor, doing what he was told.
Since the start of the questioning, the harsh nature of the torture to the men still in the classroom had lessened, but only slightly. They were given food daily—a hardtack biscuit in the morning and a bowl of watery rice soup for dinner. Sometimes the guards seemed bored, so to amuse themselves they took delight in finding new forms of torment, such as making the men do push-ups with a guard’s foot pressing down on their back.
Goldtooth Maizie entered the room and ordered everyone to pair off in twos and stand face-to-face. Gordy stood with York, noticing how drawn his crewmate’s face looked, welted from mosquito bites. Two weeks with
almost no food was taking its toll, evidenced in the men’s lack of energy, hollow eyes, and prominent rib cages.
“You slap other man,” ordered Goldtooth Maizie.
At first the men didn’t understand the order. Goldtooth Maizie stepped between Gordy and York and demonstrated, slapping Gordy hard across the cheek.
“Now you do it!” Goldtooth Maizie screamed.
Gordy slapped York on the cheek.
“That not right!” yelled Goldtooth Maizie. “Hit hard … like this.” He slapped York and the crack of hand against face echoed around the room. “Now you do right.”