Now here I am in the same boat again, facing another bout of blood poison with no Epsom salts.
I doubt if my Japanese friend knew anything about those. But then maybe they were available in Japan under another name. And maybe his mother had treated him the same way. Somebody had because he knew just what to do.
He opened the partially healed wound with his scalpel and poured the powder of two shells into the wound. This was a time-honored treatment for bullet wounds on the frontier. I knew it was going to hurt and so did he. He had a vile of morphine. He partially filled one needle and then turned his back after injecting it into my arm. He waited about 15 minutes or so and then; turning toward me, he set the powder on fire. There was a flash and then a terrible burning pain. He hadn’t given me a large enough dose to make me unconscious, just enough to keep me from crying out and then fainting. When I went to sleep, he pulled the top of the wound together and tightly wrapped it with tape from his kit.
Again, four days later, he was at my “front door.” Like a good doctor making a house call, he went right to work. He had a magnifying glass, part of his survival kit for starting fires. He looked my wound over then nodded his head that he approved. Then he walked me out into about three feet of water and made me stand there. I got the idea this was some more of the Epsom salt phase of the treatment. I knew the rest of the drill without being told. I was to boil some water and put packs on my leg for a few hours every day.
This time when he left, we were closer to becoming friends than we were of staying enemies.
Gone were my plans to exact revenge for his country’s atrocities. I wasn’t going to hold him responsible any longer.
I went back to sleeping all night, a sure sign my peace of mind had returned.
Last night I had my first dream of Joyce in a long time. And I soon went back to talking to Gene. I told Gene everything that happened and laid it on a little thick, thereby, eliciting her sympathies all the more. But it was still in my mind that I could communicate with Joyce. I don’t know how exactly, maybe some kind of Zen astral projection. But I would come to understand much later, after I lost this internal feeling, this malaise; I would realize after having extensive professional counseling that it wasn’t anything supernatural it was just plain loneliness that was causing my brain to play tricks on itself.
It was the same affliction Ben Gunn suffered from. And incidentally, Ben was more than a character in fiction; he was very real to me. And I sometimes talked to him.
I can’t remember just when I first began talking to Joyce during the day. Slowly at first, feeling as though I was being disloyal to Gene. But after several days that feeling subsided, and I felt very comfortable even energized at the thought.
It was then I treated myself to her second letter. I had been looking forward to it in the same way I used to wait anxiously for Christmas. I began counting the days, and I made a kind of calendar to keep track. This was another of the mind games I was continually playing. Nothing very new about it, but now it was much more serious, much more intense and much more real.
I found the second letter to be even more interesting. Here was a young woman with a bubbling personality and a keen insight into things of the world. I thought she might be very well educated, a personality that was anything but common place. And of all things she was even warmer than I thought. And this time she had enclosed a picture of herself lounging on the beach on the Gulf. It was of course for her husband but nevertheless I was ecstatic; I was carried away with my thoughts of meeting her. I knew it was a fantasy but I didn’t care. It thrilled me no end and I just didn’t care. I had changed these past years, grown more primitive in my goals, in my hopes and fears, and my conscience had been diluted to the point where not much was left. But I didn’t know that at the time. Not that it would have mattered if I had.
There was one thing that escaped me, however. In my present state of mind, I might not have been acceptable. Not to a genteel woman of good breeding. Maybe to a wild gypsy woman or to members of a primitive savage tribe, I would have been accepted. But the simple truth was: I had been living like a savage and it showed.
I never noticed any change, just as Ben Gunn never noticed he was becoming a little peculiar. Certainly his thoughts were much more primitive, and his fantasies more action packed than were those of most men. We were not unique. There are men like us running around in many civilized societies; but many are frowned upon if not jailed for anti-social behavior. The veneer of civilization had worn thin on all of us.
I read the same letter over each day, limiting myself to once a day. I want to stretch-out the pleasure. I don’t want it to become commonplace. I want to hold off until just before sunset, why I don’t know.
It was one of those afternoons, late in the day. Thoughts of Emerson had been circulating through my mind. Now I was eager, I wanted to see if it was possible to concentrate, and by doing so to conjure up Joyce’s spirit. But I knew if anything happened, I was going to like it beyond measure. And then I would be in danger of becoming addicted, like an opium eater, like De Quincy had in his essay, The Confessions of An Opium Eater and in the same way the Englishman, Samuel Coleridge had. Then the gates of hell were going to open and consume me as they did all space travellers who altered their conscious minds with drugs. This thing I was doing involved a drug. At any rate adrenalin was a drug, acting on my spinal cortex and my central nervous system just the way opium and other mind bending drugs acted on the minds of intellectual New England writers of the eighteen hundreds; those who were seeking the elusive state of Nirvana.
I began to concentrate on her, not allowing any other thoughts to enter my mind. I began to feel different but I paid no attention. Within a few minutes I felt as though I was free at last of my body, free of the loneliness that had engulfed me these last few years, as free as the wind and the sea behind me.
It was a pleasant feeling, as pleasant as any Coleridge or De Quincy had experienced and written about. I seemed to be one with nature as Coleridge said. I lost the concept of space and time. It was Nirvana. My soul had merged with my over-soul and I was experiencing Nirvana; I was happy beyond measure.
I found myself walking down the beach in the gathering dusk. In the distance I saw somebody walking toward me. I thought at first it was the Japanese. But this time I harbored no ill will toward him. I saw him as my brother and hastened to shake his hand and to embrace him. And to thank him properly for all he had done for me.
But as he grew closer, I saw it wasn’t him. It was a beautiful young female–it was Joyce. I had only a few minutes before the dream faded away. But during that brief moment, which seemed like a lifetime, I saw what I wanted to see. The woman in the letters, the warmest kindest creature I had ever known. And wonders, she knew me. And then she told me she could hardly wait to meet me. And she told me how lonesome she was also. And why this experience was as much a pleasure for her as it was for me. Then she told me everything was going to be all right as if she was a gifted sear, who had certain knowledge of things to come. I had no time to question her further, only to wish her well and to watch her turn and walk up the beach. And then she faded away and I was left in the pitch dark to ponder the mysteries of the mind that allowed me to see her. And as I followed the edge of the water back, I gave silent thanks for the few years I had of higher learning that allowed me to find the writings of Emerson and Coleridge and to accept their transcendental thesis that emotion ruled reason.
The next day I went to see the Japanese and to convey my newly found feelings for him, but also to look at his chart. I was interested to see if he knew where we were and how far it was to Fiji. I wanted to leave now in the worst way. I wanted to leave the island. I wanted to see Gene and I wanted to see Joyce.
If it was less than 300 miles to the Solomon’s, I wanted to build a native dugout and make a try for it. He showed me where we were and pointed to Fiji, which looked at a glance to be half way across the South Pacific.
H
e knew exactly what I wanted to do from the stick picture I drew in the sand. Then he shook his head and told me in sign language the islands to the west were occupied by our forces and he was afraid to be taken prisoner, and to the east was Fiji but much farther away. The idea of Fiji was foolish, he said. The reason it was foolish was the prevailing winds that blew from the southeast. They made the sea choppy and prevented the use of a sail. Then I recalled voyages were most often made from east to west. The trip to Fiji in the other direction would be long and treacherous and was best left to an experienced seaman.
Then he drew a submarine and told me in Japanese but easy to discern that it was coming as soon as the shooting stopped. He was sure. He pointed to the radio, meaning even if the War was over his captains had the highest regard for him and he could trust them. He made me understand they were coming. He was easy to understand, because I had already figured him out.
I asked him how long he had been here and he told me he came right after The Battle of The Coral Sea. He showed me the area and spelled out battle for me in English and then the date. I took it to mean The Coral Sea. He had been here almost exactly one year longer than I had. Then he wanted to know how long for me. I told him since Yamamoto, meaning since early April in 1943 when a Lightening pilot by the name of Rex Barber shot him down at Rabaul. As he slowly began to understand, his countenance changed abruptly. I rightly guessed he knew Yamamoto and they might well have been close friends. He was hurt, I could tell. He looked at me, the arrogance gone from his face. He said Yamamoto and then said something in Japanese I took to mean the War was over if we had killed Yamamoto, and soon the submarine was coming. I wasn’t at all sure he was going to leave when it did. Back in my mind, I was thinking right at that moment he wanted to take his own life, as was customary for high-ranking officers with close ties to the Samari. He was only waiting to make sure I was aboard and that no harm would come to me. After that anything was possible.
I figured he was going to ask me to stay for dinner, a treat, because he knew more about the vegetables that grew wild. And he would know how to make a great stew. But now under the circumstances, he wanted to be alone. And I figured the best thing I could do was to go on home.
On my way back, I couldn’t help thinking that the navy pilot was a scout for an American carrier on its way from Pearl to the Coral Sea. This battle was one of carriers and their escorts. It preceded Midway by about a month. And at the Coral Sea the Japanese had their full carrier complement operational.
I thought my friend had been a major commander at Midway. Now I have changed my mind, he was at the Coral Sea, a victory for the Japanese if naval losses are all that counted. But in truth, the Americans won. They stopped the occupation of New Guinea and stopped the Japanese invasion of Australia. And above all it demonstrated to the world that the Japanese were not invincible.
I can also see now why he was flying to see Yamamoto. It was for a conference to determine tactics for the next battle at Midway. And for this one, the Japanese had to get it right or they were going to lose the War. And I can see now if he was going to be a participant, he was well placed at the top of the Japanese Navy. There was no doubt he would be rescued if for no other reason than the Emperor wouldn’t want him taken prisoner. He knew too much that was damaging in the legal action awaiting them all.
Chapter 9
It started abruptly but not if you had the skills to interpret correctly what you were experiencing–first the change of humidity, then high cirrus at night the harbingers of a coming cold front–a day later, the sight of flocks of gulls moving from west to east, seemingly with purpose.
A western breeze that started in the morning and was not associated with the evening on shore flow. The following day the air was moisture laden, stagnant and sultry, the morning breeze conspicuous by its absence.
Insects of various species went undercover, the ground around the ant hills vacant as though the occupants had moved. The birds and the jungle sounds had fallen silent the night before, noticeable and significant if you had the power of discernment and the instincts of the lowly cricket.
I was surprised when I saw the Japanese running at a measured trot, coming this way–but odd he was carrying a brief case. He was agitated and jabbering in his peculiar language, emitting an occasional grunt for emphasis. To me the words were meaningless; I did understand that things were not right, however. And by his gestures, punctuated with more gutturals, coming from deep in his gut, I gathered there was danger coming. It was coming soon, and it was coming from the sea.
Tsunami, I thought. Then I asked myself how he would know that.
Maybe it was a hurricane or typhoon its first cousin in the South Pacific. By any name it struck terror in the hearts of the animals and the natives of the low islands. He was waving his arms, measuring the heights of expected waves.
Then he picked up my water can, opened it and filled it half full. He grabbed my parachute and a coil of vine rope and handed me my digging tool. I grabbed my briefcase, which by now had become part of me. Before I could say anything, he took off as fast as his legs would carry him. The thing that surprised me was how fast he could go and without tiring. We made it to a point about 40 feet above the ocean, way short of where I had observed the light.
We made our way into the thickest part of the jungle. He began to whittle out a small area where we intended to make a foxhole, protected by heavy undergrowth and palm trees.
It took the two of us an hour to dig a small hole and to cover it with my parachute. He found some heavy fall down and beckoned me to help him carry it to the hole. He used it to pin the parachute to the ground. He joined me in the hole that was several feet over our heads when we sat down. Our danger now was not from the wind but from the pelting rain that might flood us out.
I was afraid the wind would blow the parachute away. He was confident the thick jungle surroundings would protect us. But then he had not seen the Dorothy Lamour–John Hall movie Hurricane as I had. The fictional island of Manakoora was blown clean of any foliage. Nothing was left but the one tree they were tied to. I felt it was a fair representation of a hurricane
We were being shelled. Above the roar of the wind, we could hear coconuts and whole trees crashing around us like a scene from “All Quiet on The Western Front”.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he had movies in his country and what they were about if he did. Would he understand if he could see the scenes on the Somme where the heavy shells were falling on the dug in Germans? And what will the movies be like when they picture the combat at Guadalcanal? Will they be lasting, meaningful and as anti-war as the Lou Ayres movie written by Erich Maria Remark? The same German, Remark, who left Germany before the War and whom Hitler denounced as a traitor. Remark didn’t care in the least what Hitler thought. In fact, he changed his name from German to the French spelling of “Remarque.”
But when I had the time to stop and think, I wondered why he came for me. Why was he risking his life? Why didn’t he seek shelter in his airplane? After all it was cover and it was mired in the sand. It was going nowhere–the perfect shelter, safe and comfortable.
It took another hour before the wind reached a hundred miles an hour, a full-blown hurricane; one that the state of Florida would have been proud of.
So far we had survived the coconut barrage without incident, both of us hunkering down scared to death, seeking reassurance from the presence of the other.
The sand was eating up the deluge of water as fast as it fell. How long would this go on? Another hour and the ground would be saturated. Another two and we would start bailing but with what?
A few minutes later the top branches of a large palm fell across our shelter. Nothing happened. It served to pin the parachute to our dugout even tighter. It was welcomed as though a guardian angel was looking out for us. I began to wonder how much of the beach was left and how much of the jungle would sur
vive? Where was Dorothy, was she still tied to the tree? Had the screaming wind kept her from breathing? I heard it would. And would Raymond Massey, the puritanical governor, would he ever forgive the transgressions of the local native hero Terangi. Would he have if their lives had not been put in danger? I wondered if when this was over, would I ever think again about killing my Jap.
********
When I was growing up on the farm, some of our neighbors hired Japanese migrant labor. Some of them became attached to these families and they stayed on, living in small homes built for the purpose. Always they were referred to affectionately as “my Jap.” After Pearl Harbor, they were called by their last names or just “the Jap” now a term of derision. We never associated with them. We never helped those that had become landowners nor did they ever ask.
Our closest neighbor while I was growing up was Japanese. I recall the day he left his farm to his brother, while he went back to Japan to bring back a wife. And I remember the gossip among the women of my extended family about how pretty she was and what a hard worker she was. And I recall how my mother and aunt were asked to deliver her first baby, because her husband had no telephone and no one else to turn to. And I also remember, as a little boy, how the two races only associated with each other when it was absolutely necessary. In this case it was necessary but it shouldn’t have been. If the neighbor had not been Japanese there would have been no need to ask for help.
We were the narrow-minded. We were the ones standoffish. In fact, we never encouraged them to become our close friends–we kept them at a distance. I’m convinced they would have been, though, given half a chance. But although we lived in very close proximity to each other, we seldom spoke. Looking back now, I don’t know why that was. There was no reason it’s just the way it was.
They were good people and we knew it. In fact, all the Japanese families I knew were good hard working people. And I knew quite a few, in fact I preferred using many words from their language and I could swear fluently in Japanese before I was four years old.
Somewhere West of Fiji Page 9
