Lost in a Foreign Land

by Douglas Anderson

  Shinichi, closely followed by the other plane, dived out of the sun and strafed the A-20. He could see his projectiles blasting pieces off the enemy aircraft and it staggered under the vicious onslaught.

  Unfortunately, as he and his wingman very soon discovered to their cost, the American plane was well armed and quite capable of shooting back. It was spitting fire from a gun turret on the top of the fuselage—even as Shinichi squeezed the trigger of his own weapons—and it fired again as he banked his plane away. During that very brief encounter, Shinichi's plane was struck by a few bullets and shortly after inexplicably lost all engine power—No smoke, no fire, it just simply died.

  Shinichi was also wounded in his rib cage when a round penetrated the left side of the cockpit, tore through his flotation vest, and buried itself in the instrument panel.

  Now his powerless plane was losing altitude rapidly. With no idea what lay beneath the cloud layer, Shinichi reached down to the left side of his seat and pulled the lever to jettison the two bombs and lighten the plane. He contemplated bailing out—something he had never had to do before except in practice—but opted instead to stay with his aircraft and guide it blindly through the clouds to whatever fate lay below. Surprisingly, he broke out of the clouds into clear air with just enough time to set up for a crash landing.

  Skillfully he brought his plane to a quite respectable carrier-type landing, stalling and belly-flopping at the lowest speed possible, into a level area covered with small trees and thickets of willows. These had cushioned the landing somewhat and the plane came to a shuddering halt, battered and torn, but relatively intact. He survived that ordeal only to be faced with the prospect of dying from exposure and starvation if he stayed with the plane.

  After a short while resting to get over a spate of weakness and nausea brought on by the loss of blood, Shinichi gathered a few items from the plane and tended as best he could to his wound. The bullet, or piece of shrapnel, had passed right through his flotation vest to graze his ribs and for sure one or two were broken. His entire left-side rib-cage was extremely painful and a considerable amount of blood soaked his clothing. However, it seemed to stop bleeding after he wedged his silk scarf tightly against the wound and refastened his kapok-filled flotation vest tightly around.

  He then took stock of his possessions. They were few indeed—his loaded service pistol and a spare clip of 9mm ammunition—a knife sheathed inside his flying boot. A small pack of rice cakes, half a flask of water, a small battery powered flashlight and a map. He already wore one valued possession, a wristwatch, which was a treasured wedding present from his father. He could find nothing else that would be of any practical use given his present circumstances. The Japanese Imperial Navy obviously did not expect their pilots to survive a crash on land.

  The map he had been given was primitive, showing very little detail of the interior terrain except for representations of major mountain ranges, rivers, a few towns and a crudely drawn line representing the military road. Not much help at present but he decided it might eventually be useful.

  It wasn't too cold but since it was raining he had no doubt the night would be damp and chilly. He counted himself fortunate to be clad in a warm flight suit, and calf-length boots. The snug-fitting flotation vest offered some warmth and a degree of protection for his injury. He also had a fleece-lined leather helmet, and gloves. They would be invaluable at this northern latitude this time of the year.

  He very soon realized there was no point in staying with the plane. He doubted anyone had seen it descending from the clouds to the ground—only about thirty seconds in clear air and with a dead engine there had been little noise. Immediate rescue—capture in his case—seemed unlikely in such a remote, swampy place as he found himself.

  In those last seconds before the crash he had glimpsed a narrow road slashing through the trees perhaps a mile away to the east, even thought he might land on it, but instantly realized his plane would never glide that far. However, he thought he knew roughly in which direction it lay, so he eventually took a last look at his wrecked plane—shook his head in wonder that a few bullets had somehow killed the surprisingly rugged fourteen-cylinder Mitsubishi radial engine—and then he set off through the forested land.

  Shinichi had no way of knowing where he had crashed except it had to be in the Territory of Alaska or the Yukon Territory of Canada.

  In actual fact he was in Alaska Territory, just a couple of miles from the Yukon border. Not too far south of a place known as Beaver Creek. Much of the terrain was swampy but did support swaths of weedy tamarack, a tree common in the boreal forest spanning the northern latitudes. Larger trees, white spruce, northern black spruce, silver birch, aspen, and an occasional cottonwood grew on better-drained land. Dwarf willows, alders and vicious thorny Devils Club grew in dense profusion over areas where there were no larger trees. Within sight on any clear day one could see massive snow-capped mountain ranges to the south and west. Somewhat lower ridges lay to the north, but to the east—for a considerable distance—the terrain was relatively flat with occasional rolling hills.

  It was a remote, raw area, very sparsely populated. Without question it was also a very mean place which frequently registered the lowest of temperatures during the long winter. A few hardy souls found their way into the area on horseback or on foot and settled for the purpose of prospecting for gold or hunting and trapping. The new Alaska-Canada military road, constructed in a hurry by the U.S. military with help from Canada, was still being continuously upgraded. Though access was currently limited to military traffic, it would eventually lead to an opening up of this area to more intrepid settlers.

  The immediate area where Shinichi found himself was about 2,000 feet above sea level, mainly swampy and fairly flat with evidence of rising land a short distance to the north and the east.

  Walking anywhere in this area was by no means easy. To make things worse, everything was soaking wet and slippery. Progress was made especially difficult by his weakened condition and his extremely painful ribs. Every step was excruciatingly, every deep breath sent wracking spasms of pain through his body. He moved as carefully as possible, didn't try to hurry—couldn't hurry—and protected his injured side as much as possible.

  The land was not really as flat as it had first appeared. Now he found there were low mounds and shallow depressions. While the higher, drier land supported a growth of small, weedy trees and clumps of impenetrable dwarf willow alders and thorny brush, the lower areas were swampy with rafts of marsh grass that barely supported his weight. He was frequently calf deep in water and muck and he had to navigate his way around impenetrable brush and small ponds. His flying boots became waterlogged and very heavy.

  After an hour of struggling through this tortuous terrain, all the while getting more fatigued and wet, Shinichi was completely disoriented. He had covered perhaps half a mile and was now convinced he was going in the wrong direction to converge with the road that he had glimpsed. He decided to make a course correction forty-five degrees to the left. Visibility was severely limited by the foliage but it seemed like the ground might be rising in that direction. Maybe he had mistakenly been following a course parallel to the road? It had looked straight when he saw it from the air but there would undoubtedly be bends as it followed the contours of the land or avoided the worst swamps. Distance could be deceiving too. He wished for some sunlight to provide orientation but it was simply too gray and overcast—still raining—difficult to tell which way might be north or south. He could have been walking in a circle and would not have known it.

  Hours later he was still wallowing through the bush and swamp and there was still no sign of the road. In this terrain, he realized, it could be a hundred yards away and he might not see it. Darkness was fast approaching and, despite his exertion, he could tell the temperature was dropping significantly too.

  “This is no good,” he muttered to himself, realizing he was totally lost and absolutely exhausted. “I need to find a p
lace to spend the night before it gets really dark.”

  He chose a drier mound where there was a large evergreen tree forming a meager, dry tent-like shelter beneath its lower branches. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night. Nearby were some clumps of tall, hardy grass. It was wet but almost like straw, so he unsheathed his knife and cut a fair pile of it for use as a mattress and cover. He trimmed some spruce boughs from a nearby tree, knowing that anything over his body, even those damp boughs, would provide some insulation against the inevitable penetrating cold of what would undoubtedly be a long and miserable night.

  Shinichi sat under the shelter with his back to the tree trunk as darkness gradually fell. He was hungry, having eaten nothing but a couple of bites of rice cake since leaving the carrier, so he reached into his small pack of supplies for a little of the cake and took a sparing drink of water. Wisely—not knowing what lay ahead—he saved some for the next day. Water, he thought, should not be a problem out here—food well might be. He cursed the fact that he had no means of lighting a fire. It would have been such a comfort.

  It was so quiet. Not a sound to be heard save for rainwater dripping from the trees and the croaking of some frogs now and then. How far was he from civilization? He had no idea. He knew from his preflight briefing on board the carrier that this was an immense and rugged territory. He considered himself extremely lucky not to have crashed into a mountainside or onto one of the huge glaciers he had observed as his group flew in over the coast. It occurred to him there must be wild animals—bears or wolves.

  What did he really know about the Territory of Alaska—or was he in Northwestern Canada? It was far north, largely uninhabited and very cold in winter? He shivered, because he also knew it was home to some of the largest bears in the world. He visualized them sniffing the air and picking up the fresh scent of his blood. That terrifying thought in mind, he fastened his vest, put on his hat and gloves and arranged the damp straw and spruce boughs over his aching body. He settled for the night with his flashlight and pistol close at hand and his knife stuck into the tree-trunk within easy reach.

  Totally exhausted, he slept quite well for several hours. It was, however, still dark when his aching wound awoke him. His whole left side was so stiff and painful he gasped when he tried to change position. He was chilled to the bone and shivering due to his wet clothing.

  No point in getting up while it was pitch dark. Nothing he could do but huddle in silence under the coverings, shivering and contemplating his situation. It did not seem very hopeful.

  Here he was, a Japanese airman lost in a foreign land. Not just a foreign land, but a land that was mostly unexplored and uncharted wilderness. He knew very little of the language. If he was found he would be quickly identified for what he was. If he surrendered, something his culture reviled, he would be a prisoner of war. If he tried to escape capture or offered resistance he could certainly be hunted down and shot. He knew his future was tenuous at best.

  How long could he stay hidden and survive in this wild land? Not very long, he knew. Even now he was on the borderline of hypothermia. He already sensed that winter was approaching. It would arrive early at this northern latitude. The weather could turn mean at any time and he knew he wouldn't survive more than a few days on his own without shelter, warmth, and food. He had to find his way to that elusive highway; only then might there be a chance of rescue and he would have to decide whether to surrender. How could he ever possibly rejoin his ship or get back to his faraway homeland? It seemed quite impossible.

  By now, his plane would be logged as lost and he would be marked as “missing in action.” His wingman—if he had survived the brief conflict and returned to the Agachi—had most certainly reported him as shot down. They had absolutely no means available to search for him or to rescue him. He took little solace in having registered a hit on the A-20 and wondered if it had also crashed somewhere. The last he saw of it, it was diving for the safety of the clouds. He also wondered if any of his companion fliers had found a more worthy target and in that way achieved some measure of success for their poorly executed mission.

  Fortunately, Shinichi was a smart, athletic, and practical twenty-four-year-old. Despite the government propaganda, which constantly expounded otherwise, he knew the war was not going well for his nation, He knew they were still making gains in some areas but, little by little, they were also yielding valuable territory that had been taken over in recent years. The opposition was building and he sensed it would all be over before too long. Japan, he was certain, would lose in the end.

  He was not at all fanatical, as were some of his senior officers and flying companions. They constantly preached that death was more honorable than surrender and many of them pushed the limits unnecessarily and died as a consequence.

  Conversely he had a strong desire to live to fly another day and was usually more cautious. He flew because he had been conscripted and that was what he had been trained to do. Fortunately, he actually enjoyed flying and fervently hoped he could survive the war to realize his ambition of becoming an aeronautical engineer.

  Back home in Gobo, a small coastal village south of Osaka, his wife, Masako, waited for him. They had been married a little more than one year and he had seen her for only a few weeks during that time. The last time they were together was six weeks ago. She was staying with his own parents in Gobo while he was away. Maybe, he thought wryly, she will never really know what happened to her husband. Would the navy even tell her that he and his plane had simply disappeared? It made him even more determined to survive this ordeal and somehow see her, and his parents, again.

  He was lying there in a fetal position, only half awake, trying to keep warm and waiting for it to get fully light, when he heard a distant rumbling noise. Pushing aside the blanket of spruce boughs, he crawled painfully out of his shelter and tried to determine where the sound was coming from. It sounded like vehicles on the move but quite some distance away.

  Listening carefully he determined where the noise came from. Was that northeast? Yes, it must be, there was a streak of light emerging on the horizon on his right so that must be east. The sky was clearing. Now there were patches of cloud instead of those heavy ones that had blanketed the area the day before, and it was no longer raining.

  Over there must be the road he had been searching for. He now knew he had been heading in entirely the wrong direction for most of the time. Shinichi listened as the sound slowly faded away. He took note of a tree a little taller than the others in that direction. That was the way he must go. Last thing he needed was to get disoriented again. He needed no reminding that it was a matter of life or death for him to get to that road.

  Daylight came gradually this time of the year. The sun crept along below the horizon at a shallow angle then rose slowly. First a bright orange streak, slowly turning golden; finally sunlight flared through a morning mist, tinged the edges of the clouds, and eventually highlighted the autumn leaves at the top of nearby trees. Shinichi, despite his predicament, couldn't help but note it was quite beautiful the way dawn unfolded—like the emblem of his country, the rising sun.

  As soon as it was light enough he would set off again toward that elusive road. At least now, due to the sun, he could maintain some sense of direction. First, however, he munched on a little of his remaining rice cake and swallowed the last of the water. He almost discarded the empty flask then realized he might need it to collect some water from a stream if he encountered one. Not much to do about his campsite. Simply make sure he hadn't left any of his precious few belongings behind.

  Trying as best he could to maintain a true course he set off in the northeasterly direction. Just as before, he encountered tree-covered mounds and low-lying swamp. The foliage snagged his clothing and the wetness slowly soaked deeper into his clothes. He was soon soaked all over—not that he had dried at all from the previous day's travel. Fortunately the activity warmed his chilled and cramped body.

  He pressed on, a
ll the while acutely aware of his terribly sore ribs and protecting them as much as possible. Don't hurry, just keep going, he told himself over and over again. Just keep going. All too frequently he had to stop to catch his breath and while doing so he listened for more noise from the highway. Yes. There it was again—he was satisfied he was still heading in the right direction.

  The sun was moving on a low arc. He was aware of this and tried to determine his course accordingly. His experience as a pilot helped in this regard and he used the shadows cast by the trees and his wrist-watch like a compass. After five hours of tortuous floundering though this miserable country he finally struck gently rising, drier ground. The sun was about at its highest. More or less mid-day he calculated.

  Totally exhausted, he stopped to take a longer rest and finish the last of his rice. No water this time, and he had not dared to drink any of the swamp water for fear of some sickness. The sun was quite warm against his face so he struggled to remove his flotation vest and his boots and opened the front of his suit—maybe his clothing would dry a little. He lay down and allowed his aching body to soak up some of the comforting warmth.

  He was so fatigued he fell asleep almost immediately. When he woke an hour and a half later he felt quite rejuvenated but awfully stiff. However, he knew had to keep moving and make the most of the remaining daylight. As he painfully got to his feet, and rearranged his clothes, he realized some berries were clinging to nearby low-growing bushes. Tasting them tentatively, he found they were familiar succulent blueberries, just like those in the highlands back home. Here was a source of nutrition not to be missed. He crawled around and picked as many as possible, eating many as he went but gathering a few for later and storing them in his water flask.