Lamar won. Jonathan Wainwright sat down in the presence of his enemy. Lamar turned and said, “General, you are no longer a prisoner. You’re going back to the States.”
Wainwright thought a moment, then asked the one question that had plagued him for so many long days and nights: “What do the people in the States think of me?” His eyes bored into Lamar’s as the major answered, “You’re considered a hero there. Your picture is even in Time magazine.”
Wainwright was not convinced. When he went back to his quarters, he was still not sure what awaited him on the outside.
Lamar and Leith stayed that night at Sian, and had breakfast the following morning with all of the Allied officers stationed there. The OSS men watched as the prisoners carefully counted out each bean for the soup so that no one would be cheated. They were impressed with the general lethargy that dulled the spirits of the men sitting at the table.
Lamar made a decision during the morning. Because his radio was out of order, he could not advise Hennessy at Mukden that Wainwright and the others were alive. Fearing that this special group of officers might possibly be used as hostages by Japanese or Russian forces in the area, Lamar left Leith behind and went back to Mukden that day to make arrangements for prompt transportation.
There, his plans for quick action were foiled by the entry of Russian troops. When he attempted to round up vehicles to accommodate the prisoners, he was met by indifference on the part of the Soviets, who had begun to drink up all the liquor in Mukden.
While Lamar fought his frustrating battle with the Russians, the wait seemed interminable to the prisoners at Sian. Three, four long, restless days passed without American troops appearing on the road from the south. Wainwright and the others moped around, deflated but at least free to go about the camp as they pleased.
Finally, on the morning of August 24, a commotion at the gate announced the arrival of strangers—not Americans, but a thirty-man squad of burly, vigorous Russian soldiers. Their leader, a ferocious-looking bearded lieutenant colonel walked up to Wainwright and said to him through Leith, who spoke Russian: “I’m headed for Mukden with my detachment and these jeeps. If you can furnish your own transportation and be ready in an hour, I’ll take you with me.” The colonel wanted no nonsense and brooked no delay by the Americans. He was still at war with Japanese units straggling through the fluid lines in Manchuria.
The Americans were only too glad to leave under any circumstances. Wainwright turned to Lieutenant Marui, his Japanese ruler for these many months, and asked that buses be provided for the prisoners. Marui, cowed by the sight of Russian troops cradling machine guns, quickly answered “Yes, sir.” Wainwright savored the reply. It was the first time in years any Japanese had shown him that courtesy.
The contingent from Sian headed southwest in the midst of a convoy of American-built jeeps painted with the Red Star of the Soviet Union. The Russians promptly got lost. For almost a full day, the Americans endured the wanderings of the Soviet column as it drove up and down the roads of Manchuria looking for Mukden. Eventually they abandoned the jeeps for a train. When it broke down, they commandeered another one from a Japanese crew. In the meantime, American authorities had become frantic about Wainwright. Search planes scoured the countryside. Rumors circulated that the Russians had kidnapped the general and spirited him back into Siberia. He was alive, but where?
At 1:30 A.M. on the morning of August 27, a weary group arrived at the railroad yards in Mukden. The trip was over. As his coach car came to a stop, Wainwright slumped into an exhausted sleep. Leith went looking for Lamar, who soon came to Wainwright with exciting news. Not only was the general to fly to Chungking that morning but he had been invited to attend the surrender ceremonies on the Missouri. MacArthur had requested his presence. Wainwright was overjoyed. He waved the cane given to him years before by MacArthur, and stepped off the train and away from the past.
Nine men walked into a C-47 transport plane in the darkness of predawn China. Lights on the runway at the Kunming airstrip illuminated the parachutes on their backs and the American flags sewn on their left sleeves. They were dressed in green fatigues and wore the jumpboots of the paratrooper. The nine men were part of Mission Pigeon, a quick and skillful thrust into the Japanese-held island of Hainan, off the coast of South China. They were yet another OSS detachment intent on bringing relief to Allied prisoners still living in misery behind the enemy lines.
There was reason to believe that the Japanese on Hainan, cut off from normal communications with their headquarters, were unaware that the war had been over for twelve days. The men settling down in the C-47 for the long ride to the drop zone expected trouble at the other end.
The leader of the team was a wiry, twenty-four-year-old blond from California, Major John Singlaub. He had achieved that rank within the last few hours and it was only temporary. It had been decided that giving him such status would allow him more leverage in dealing with any Japanese officer who refused to concede that the war was truly over. Singlaub would act as spokesman, and on his actions might depend the fate of the entire group.
He had a radioman, Sergeant Tony Denneau; a medic, Corporal James Healey; Intelligence officers Charles Walker, John Bradley, and Arnold Breakey; an adjutant, Captain Len Woods; and interpreters, lieutenants Peter Fong and Ralph Yempuku, a short, stocky Nisei from Hawaii. A veteran of OSS campaigns in Thailand and Indochina, here Yempuku had a particularly ticklish job. It would be up to him to communicate quickly with possibly belligerent Japanese, to interpret for both sides, to smooth over any rough spots.
None of the men had ever worked together before. They had been called to Kunming from various assignments to fly as a unit onto an enemy island. Singlaub had organized the many details of the mission under great pressure, including a flood at Kunming which had inundated the city. Now the C-47 gained speed down the Kunming runway and took off into the night. Mission Pigeon was airborne.
As the team flew southeast, it discussed the strategy to be used in meeting the Japanese. Singlaub knew that the first moments of the confrontation would be crucial to their fate. If the Japanese who saw the OSS men land were inclined to continue the war, Singlaub and his men might be quickly despatched. It all depended on that initial reaction.
In the early light of August 27, the C-47 droned over the South China Sea and came to its landfall, the Bakli Bay section of Hainan. Somewhere near this inlet, there was a prison camp housing remnants of Australian and Dutch armies that had been annihilated by the Japanese over three years ago in Java and other islands of the East Indies. Photographs taken recently showed a cluster of buildings about a mile or so in from the seashore. Without any other positive information, Singlaub could only assume that this compound was the target.
As the plane came down toward the island, he ordered the pilot to fly in very low over the terrain in order to pick a suitable landing place. Seeing a fairly clear field, he gave instructions to the men. They would jump from six hundred feet and quickly assemble the various supplies being dropped with them. When the Japanese appeared, Singlaub would talk to them through Yempuku.
The plane circled the designated landing area and nine men leaped out and floated down under billowing parachutes, followed by medical and food supplies.
Yempuku smashed his chin on landing and stood up with blood streaming from it. Captain Len Woods hit his head and was groggy as he reached for his camera to record the unfolding action. The others landed without mishap. Medic Jim Healey put a butterfly bandage on Yempuku’s cut.
Singlaub looked about and saw in the distance a huge crowd of Chinese civilians, coming over the brow of a hill toward the group. From the other direction, he saw three trucks filled with Japanese troops speeding down a road from the general area of the prison camp. The OSS unit had reached its crisis almost immediately.
Affecting unconcern, the nine men went about picking up supplies and gathering them into a pile while the speeding trucks headed straight into the grassy meado
w. When the trucks stopped, Singlaub turned to face the first man who got out and walked toward him. He was a lieutenant challenging the Americans at once:
“Who are you?”
Yempuku repeated the words to Singlaub, who shouted: “We have come to help the Allied prisoners now that the war is over. Send your soldiers to the far side of the field to protect my people and equipment from those civilians.”
Prefacing his speech with “The major says,” Yempuku translated for the Japanese. Obviously confused by Singlaub’s abrupt command, the lieutenant hesitated. The two groups stood fifty feet apart, silent, alert and apprehensive. Singlaub and his men wore sidearms but kept their hands away from them. The Japanese troops, far outnumbering the Americans, held their rifles ready and waited for the lieutenant to make a move.
The Japanese officer’s slow reaction lost him the initiative. Finally he spoke to his men, who quickly moved out across the field toward the Chinese bordering it. He had already committed himself to the Americans, and Singlaub followed up the advantage, saying, “Turn them around to face the Chinese.”
The befuddled lieutenant turned his men and their weapons away from the Americans.
“Bring a truck over here to help load up the supplies.”
The truck moved across the field to the supplies. By sheer nerve, Singlaub had won the first round.
The Americans sat in the back of a truck as it sped over the hills to a cluster of buildings where 356 soldiers and sailors lived in this August of 1945.
The OSS men were taken to a long barracks-like building which served as a mess hall for the Japanese. Their gear and supplies were brought inside and stacked up. At the moment they were still free men.
Singlaub would not discuss anything with the Japanese lieutenant, who appeared to have recovered his poise somewhat. Instead, he insisted on talking to the ranking officer at the camp, and told the lieutenant to get in touch with the colonel or general or whoever had authority to treat with the American unit. The Japanese, still compliant, went into the next room to telephone. Ralph Yempuku eavesdropped as he spoke excitedly to the person on the other end.
“Colonel, they jumped in here in broad daylight.… He says the war is over.… But they landed here in the middle of the day.… Yes, but the major says the war is over.… Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant came back to his visitors and asked them to be patient. The colonel could not arrive until the next day, and until that time, they would be housed in the mess hall. They could also keep their guns.
The OSS men went into their new home and got settled. Unobtrusively, a full complement of Japanese troops took up positions around the perimeter of the building. The Japanese, still unsure of whether or not the Americans were telling the truth, had carefully balanced themselves on both sides of the issue. Though still armed, the team was under house arrest, and until the Japanese heard otherwise, the war was officially on.
As darkness settled over the compound on Hainan, Major John Singlaub did not know whether his bluff had worked or not. The guards outside were not a reassuring sign but at least his team was alive.
A Chinese cook came to the mess hall to cook dinner for the Americans. At first surprised and pleased by the friendly gesture, Singlaub and his weary, nervous men then began to consider the possibility of being poisoned. The Japanese could dispose of the bodies and claim that the Americans had met with foul play at the hands of the many bandits who infested the hills of Hainan.
The excellent food went down slowly and laboriously as the OSS men watched each other for spasms. None occurred. The last course was as good as the first.
During the night the nine men talked and dozed fitfully. The next morning, the guards were still outside the building. They offered no opposition to the Americans as they came and went, but obviously they were there in case an order came down from someone on the island to take action against the invaders.
The morning was nearly over before a procession of cars arrived at the gate. A colonel stepped out; at last Singlaub could deal with a ranking officer. They met across a long table, each surrounded by his own staff.
Major Singlaub was blunt: “We have come here to help the Allied prisoners under your control. The war is over and we want to get them medical treatment.”
The colonel looked for a moment at the young American, who could gauge nothing from his reaction. Suddenly he smiled: “I have just learned about the ending of the war from headquarters.”
The suspense was over. The American gamble had succeeded. The elated Singlaub launched into a discussion of the needs of the prisoners. He asked that a senior officer among the captives be brought to the conference to detail the most pressing problems. Reluctantly, the Japanese colonel agreed.
An Australian, Lieutenant Colonel William Scott, appeared. A tall, very lean military professional, Scott had endured the harsh years of captivity without breaking. Rather he had worked to maintain the morale of men gradually destroyed by disease and calculated privations. At the end, the Australians under his command were in far better condition than their Dutch counterparts.
When Scott stepped into the room, Singlaub immediately told the Japanese colonel to move and make room for him. The Japanese stiffened at the order. Singlaub repeated it in a harsh voice. The Japanese moved his chair to one side and Scott sat down as an equal.
He outlined the situation. Food was the main requirement. Medicine would come later. When the Americans adjourned the meeting, Scott passed Singlaub on his way out and furtively pressed upon him a worn collection of papers. It was a diary of his years of captivity and an indictment of the Japanese keepers.
The Japanese had stalled Singlaub overnight in order to do some housekeeping in the compound. An electric barbed wire fence had been removed but Singlaub saw holes in the ground where the poles had been. The prisoners’ food had improved somewhat, but their cadaverous bodies testified to the systematic maltreatment given them for years. Systematic was the correct term, for a Japanese doctor had used the prisoners in a grim experiment. He had deliberately brought men to the edge of starvation to test his theories about nutrition. The staple food, rice, was frequently polished to rob it of its vitamin content. Though the men ate, they derived nothing from the diet. They had survived only by trapping and eating rats and other rodents.
When the American soldiers moved through the camp in the afternoon, captives wrapped their bony arms around them and cried with joy. For some it was too late. The rigors of prison life had sapped their strength too greatly and they died within days. For most, the arrival of the OSS saved them from certain death. The huge graveyard behind the prison testified to that fact.
In the Home Islands, American prisoners had begun to taste the heady wine of freedom. At a camp in Nagoya, 287 men pooled their meager supply of money and bought a bull that the Japanese had used to haul off each day’s residue of human excrement. The bull was slaughtered and cooked. The prisoners gorged themselves for days on the carcass.
At other camps in Japan, captives had different designs. The Japanese Imperial General Headquarters advised Manila:
… THE PRISONERS HELD AT KOBE HAVE SINCE THE NIGHT OF AUGUST 19 BEGUN TO REFUSE TO LISTEN TO THE ORDERS OF THE CAMP AUTHORITIES; THEY RAN AWAY … IN SMALL GROUPS, BROKE INTO STORE HOUSES IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD AND STOLE CANNED FOODS, BEER, ETC., OR ENTERED CIVILIANS’ HOMES AND ANNOYED WOMEN AND GIRLS …
The Japanese Government was concerned about possible violence between Americans and natives. They had good reason for worry. Years of pent-up hatred festered in the minds of thousands of Allied prisoners, who had wasted away under the acute conditions of Japanese detention. Hunger was the main complaint. Medical treatment for the sick was almost nonexistent. At Shinigawa Hospital in Tokyo, more patients died of neglect than were saved by care.
American Army and Navy planes had instituted relief measures immediately after the Emperor’s broadcast. Drums of food were dropped into prison compounds where starving men tore them open and ate
ravenously. As the day of occupation arrived, thousands of skeletal human beings waited impatiently for the sight of a friendly force at the camp gates. In the meantime, they slowly adjusted to the prospect of freedom.
TWENTY
The Enemy Lands
Colonel Tench and 146 men left Okinawa at 3:00 A.M. on the morning of August 28. Forty-five C-47’s formed a long trail to the northeast in the pre-dawn darkness. In the lead plane the colonel hid his own apprehensions by talking to his officers about details of the work to be done upon landing. None of the men spoke of danger ahead, but most were worried about being murdered.
As conversation petered out, men tried to catch some sleep in the cold, uncomfortable seats. At dawn, Tench and the others rose to look down on the conical slopes of Fujiyama. They were snowless, causing one man to remark that the Japanese had purposely melted them down to annoy the Americans. More important and reassuring to the advance group was the sight of American warships and fighter planes under and around them as they headed in for a final approach to Atsugi.
When the C-47’s appeared near the airfield, they caused consternation on the ground. General Seizo Arisue could not believe it when an aide told him that the Americans had been sighted, because Tench’s party was not due for nearly an hour. He raced outside and looked toward the sound of motors. There they were, coming lower and lower, preparing to descend to the runway. Arisue was stunned. No one was ready to receive the enemy.
Orders were barked out. Uniforms were buttoned. Ties, swords, the paraphernalia of ceremony was sought for and found. The reception committee hastily formed a loose line in front of tents set up to accommodate the party. Arisue stood gazing anxiously at the planes circling for the final approach.
He was a nervous man that morning. Within a mile of the airstrip, sullen patriots lurked and brooded. On the airfield itself, hundreds of Japanese troops stood guard, protecting the enemy from danger without. Yet one of these men could easily forget himself and fire on the Tench party now arriving. If even one American was hurt or killed, the consequences could be severe for both the nation and himself. Arisue shuddered at the thought.
The World War II Chronicles Page 29
