No Ordinary Joes

by Larry Colton

  As the train slowly pulled away, Tim nervously surveyed the guards. Since the stools with the false bottoms had been built, contraband had been smuggled in and out on a semiregular basis, and nobody had yet been caught. The train entered the mile-long tunnel. A few weeks earlier there had been a discussion among a group of POWs about jumping the guards in the dark of the tunnel and stealing their guns. That idea was quickly dismissed, the prisoners concluding that their chances of survival if they escaped would be zero.

  Inside the tunnel, Tim closed his eyes and tried to relax. When the train reached the camp, he would calmly climb down and walk past the guards stationed at the main gate, just like he did every day, carrying his stool in his hand, just like all the other prisoners.

  As he often did, he let his thoughts drift to Valma back in Perth. Did she know he was alive? Was she still wearing the engagement ring he had given her? He and Chuck had talked about how they’d both fallen in love during their last leave, and how fast the time had flown by in those exhilarating days. For Tim, Valma was his first real love. Back in high school in Dallas, he’d been too busy to have a steady girl, always working after school to help support his mother. The few girls he’d met since joining the Navy had been a challenge to his Texas Baptist morals—that and the copious amounts of beer he’d become fond of imbibing. But Valma was different: beautiful and smart and devoted. He’d heard a rumor before the last patrol that there was going to be some kind of legislation enacted back in America that would allow war brides to be given special consideration in moving to America. Tim and Valma had discussed taking advantage if something like that was available. She had seen photos of California and movies that made America seem beautiful and glamorous, and once they were engaged she had made it clear she was willing to follow Tim back home. In his last letter home he’d told his mother about Valma and included her address, encouraging his mom to write her. He wondered if she had.

  As was usually the case, when he thought about his mother, he also thought about his father. Even as a POW, he had not been able to let go of his anger toward his father for abandoning him and his mom. It had been a long time since he’d seen his father, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to again; it was hard not to remember the image of his mother ironing other people’s clothes in their scorching hot Dallas apartment. But he did wonder if his dad knew what had happened to him.

  The train slowed to a stop, and Tim grabbed his stool and closed ranks with the other prisoners, his heart pounding. He knew that if he was caught, he’d probably be beaten and thrown in the little cement box next to the entrance so everyone could look at him as they marched in and out of camp. It was too small to even stand up in; surely he’d go crazy in there.

  A guard eyed him as he approached the prison entrance. Tim looked straight ahead, not changing his stride. In a few more strides, he was safely past the entrance and walking down the camp’s main passageway toward his barracks.

  Later that evening, he delivered the blade to Dr. Markowitz. His bravado was renewed.

  Tim pointed to his shoes. “Shoes,” he said.

  A young Japanese boy standing next to him in the welding shop nodded and repeated the word. Tim smiled.

  It was part of his daily language lesson. When he and his crewmates were first captured, they had absorbed a lot of face slaps and rifle butts to the shoulder because they didn’t understand the guards’ orders. A few of the prisoners had made no effort to learn any Japanese other than their prisoner number, which they needed to know during roll call. Their attitude was: “Let those little Nips learn to speak English, because they’re going to need to when they figure out they ain’t going to rule the world.” But Tim was doing his best to learn as many Japanese words as possible and to teach his captors English. Being able to converse with the guards and civilians, he believed, might give him some small advantage. Anything to beat the system and help him survive.

  A month earlier, he had been transferred from the pipe shop to the welding shop. He missed not working side by side with his buddies Chuck and Gordy anymore, but he was really happy with his transfer; he thought he had just about the best job of anybody on the crew, even if he’d had to lie to get it. Because of a shortage of Japanese welders, the factory administrators had put out a call to the prisoners for experienced welders. Tim had never welded anything in his life, but a fellow prisoner named Ripper Collins, who’d been a first-class welder on the USS Houston before it was sunk and its crew captured, told him he’d put in a good word for him to get the job. “It’s a great place to work,” Collins said. “There are no guards and they have a bunch of Jap kids to work for you.” When Tim said he didn’t know how to weld, Collins assured him, “I’ll just tell the Japs you’re rusty. They’ll never know. I guarantee I can teach you how to be a great welder in just two weeks.”

  Within a week, Tim was welding flanges like he’d been doing it for years. He had also made friends with some of the Japanese boys assigned to help him. They were in their early teens, not quite ready for military service yet required to report to the factory every morning at 6:00 a.m. and work until 3:00 p.m. and then go to school until 9:00 p.m. Tim would work on his vocabulary with several of the boys who were interested in learning English, especially with one he’d nicknamed Babe because the boy liked baseball.

  “Kenchi?” he asked, offering Babe a cigarette during lunch break.

  Babe smiled and accepted.

  The boys liked to think they were “big guys,” so Tim offered them one or two Japanese cigarettes a day from the pack he’d get each week. He wasn’t much of a smoker himself, so he’d trade his smokes to them in exchange for their bento, which was usually some rice wrapped in a corn-husklike leaf with a tiny slice of either fish or pickled white radish to go with it. To make his supply of cigarettes last longer and to get more food in return, he cut the cigarettes in half. In the two months he’d been working as a welder, he’d put on several pounds and gained back some of his strength. He’d even developed a taste for the pickled white radishes. He was, however, cautious in these cigarettes-for-food trades, aware that the guards would punish him if they found out. But so far he hadn’t been caught.

  After finishing Babe’s bento, Tim relaxed, waiting for the factory whistle to end the lunch period. Instead, the quiet was interrupted by the loud, shrill wailing of an air-raid siren. With everyone else, he hurried to a reinforced area of the plant.

  Tim listened for the drone of airplane engines overhead. In the last two months, air-raid drills had become an almost daily part of the routine at the steel factory. Although there had been no actual bombings as yet, some of the men who’d been captured most recently were saying that American B-29s would soon start bombing Japan. Allegedly, these planes would be taking off from airfields being built on the recently captured Marshall and Solomon islands. Tim had mixed feelings about these rumors. On the one hand, he wanted to see Japan leveled by American bombs. But he knew that the Yawata steel mill and the surrounding industrial complex would most likely be a primary target. He did not want to die from his own country’s bombs.

  Soon, the all-clear siren rang out and he breathed a little easier.

  Sneaking into the storeroom next to the food galley, Tim looked back over his shoulder to make sure there were no guards in sight. A stack of fifty-pound burlap bags filled with soybeans sat straight ahead.

  Of all of his limit-testing capers, he knew this one was the most daring and the one most likely to land him in the dreaded guardhouse. When he’d first spotted the unguarded stack of soybeans, he’d become fixated on pulling off this heist. He knew he couldn’t steal a whole bag, but he thought he could drain out three or four pounds and cover his tracks so that they would never be missed. He planned to sneak them back to his barracks, and each day he could take a couple of pocketfuls to work and bake them with his welding torch.

  Quickly, he moved to the stack of soybeans and pulled out a two-foot piece of bamboo he’d hidden inside his shirt. He had cas
ed the job the previous day and knew that the bags were stapled at the top and could not be opened without cutting the bag, so he’d sliced off one end of his bamboo stick at a sharp 45-degree angle.

  With a quick jab, he punctured the side of a bag, and then pulled out a pair of borrowed dungarees that he’d knotted at the cuffs. With the hollowed-out bamboo serving as a drain spout, he placed a leg of the dungarees at the end of the drain and watched as the beans flowed smoothly out of the bag, filling a part of one leg, then the other.

  Satisfied, he withdrew the bamboo from the bag and watched as the slit closed behind it, resealing the bag good as new. Although he’d taken more beans than he’d initially planned, it was only a hundred yards back to the barracks, where he planned to stash the beans under his bunk.

  With the dungarees slung around his neck like an Ivy Leaguer’s sweater, he slipped back out of the storeroom and headed for the barracks, trying to stay calm. But standing directly between him and his barracks was a guard, and the guard was staring directly at him.

  Tim continued walking, eyes straight ahead, arms folded across his chest in hopes of camouflaging his contraband.

  It didn’t work. The guard stepped in front of him and signaled him to stop. For an instant, Tim thought about running. But he knew that would be useless.

  The next morning, he lay curled up in the guardhouse, barely able to move, as the other prisoners filed past him on their way to catch the train to work. Standing next to his cage, a guard angrily pointed at him: “Daszu dotabo!” he shouted. (“Bean thief!”) “Daszu dotabo!”

  32

  Bob Palmer

  Ofuna

  A guard summoned Bob to join a work party in unloading a newly arrived truck. It held seventy-two cases, each containing eight cartons of Canadian Red Cross food. Bob wondered how many boxes the Japs would steal. He hoped Captain Fitzgerald, the ranking officer in the camp, would demand all of it go to the prisoners.

  Bob now had another reason to admire Captain Fitzgerald: the captain had started secretly keeping a journal in case an accurate account of their treatment would be needed after the war. Fitzgerald scribbled his thoughts in a small notebook he’d stolen from the hospital and kept it hidden under a plank in his cell. In case it was discovered, he was careful about his language.

  Jan 6, 1944. Questioned again. They have been at me every day since my capture off Penang. This time mostly political and history of naval officers in U.S.N. Back in cell took a lot of will power to take the last part of starch from my rice bowl in order to stick a snapshot of my wife to a piece of plywood.

  Jan 24, 1944. 21 men left camp today for another camp. Was questioned again yesterday, general topic, why was the U.S. submarine force morale so high. The tobacco situation is becoming very acute—looks like we might all become non-smokers in a couple days. I believe they are short of this commodity and no ships to provide same, ok by me!

  Jan 25, 1944. Q.K. again morale of submarine [force] and what makes it high in U.S. Wonder what the Japs are driving at? It snowed, first I’d seen since Nov. ’41 in Portsmouth, N.H. Physically am much colder here—no heat whatsoever, and barracks are well ventilated.

  Feb 2, 1944. Peg’s birthday. Hope to be present for the next one. Coffee and cigarette particularly good today. Exceed my chocolate ration for the occasion.

  Feb 3, 1944. Are we prisoners? Unarmed enemies! Have been told many times that we’re not POW’s and names not sent in—a helluva note!

  Mar 3, 1944. Had my first piece of steak since capture, was about 3⁄16 inch thick and about 2½ inches in diameter, was very small but enjoyed very much.

  Mar 5, 1944. Sleet, rain and snow, high wind and cold as hell—the most miserable day this winter; while taking the bi-weekly bath, snow was blowing into the bathroom—slightly chilly!

  Mar 14, 1944. 20 men left today. I’ve missed five transfers out of here so far, maybe the next time, I hope.

  After his entry of March 14, Fitzgerald talked briefly with Bob during the exercise period, letting him know he’d requested that all of the men from the Grenadier be transferred to another camp, but obviously it hadn’t helped. One of the reasons Bob had hoped to be transferred was that at a new camp the prisoners might be allowed to get mail. Nobody at Ofuna had received anything.

  Robert Kunhardt stood in the doorway of Barbara’s apartment on Pine Street, fumbling for the right words. In a couple of days, the Sawfish would be sailing for Pearl Harbor to rejoin the war. The overhaul had taken longer than expected, and Kunhardt had been in San Francisco for two months. He and Barbara had seen each other every possible chance during his leave. Sometimes she’d walk straight from her job as a file clerk at Southern Pacific and meet him for dinner; other nights they’d go dancing or out for drinks. He was usually in his dress whites, and other patrons often bought them drinks, a way of contributing to the war effort.

  There was so much Barbara liked about Robert Kunhardt, including the fact that he was an officer and a graduate of Annapolis, where he’d been captain of the sailing team. He talked of one day becoming an admiral. Clearly he had ambition, and her parents had repeatedly told her that she should find somebody who would be able to provide for her, and not just on a sailor’s salary. Kunhardt had grown up in affluence in Greenwich, Connecticut; his family owned a successful import-export business and was able to send him to fancy prep schools during the Depression. He talked about taking her back east after the war to meet his family, and spoke fondly of his mom and dad. He wanted to own his own yacht and told her he’d take her to fancy lawn parties on Long Island’s North Shore like something out of The Great Gatsby, a book he loved. She couldn’t remember Bob ever reading a book.

  Lieutenant Kunhardt seemed mature and sophisticated. Barbara had never been anywhere outside of Oregon and California, and his stories of New York and Washington, D.C., sounded so worldly. She also liked to listen to him talk about the submarine and his duties as an officer. It all sounded so brave, yet at the same time frightening. She’d already lost Bob, and the thought of losing another man seemed unbearable.

  But for all the attraction and all the promise of an entrée into a world of privilege and class, she wasn’t yet ready to completely give up hope for Bob; it seemed almost unpatriotic. After all, they were still married. What if he was still alive? What if one day he came home and learned that she’d run off with another man? It had been only ten months since he was reported lost. What kind of wife wouldn’t wait twice as long, or ten times as long? Her dilemma wasn’t helped by the fact that she didn’t know any of the wives or family of the other men on the Grenadier; there was no one to share her grief with or seek comfort with. There was also the simple fact that he was, after all, her first true love, and down deep, she still loved him. Of all the guys she’d dated, he was the most passionate and romantic and daring. Kunhardt, for all his intelligence and bright future, was a by-the-book guy. The first time she’d brought him back to her apartment (her roommate was in the hospital), she had been the one to initiate making love. “You’re still married,” he hedged. “I don’t know if this is right.” She assured him it was. On another occasion, he invited her to a party at the officers’ club at Hunter’s Point but asked her not to tell any of the officers that she was married or that her husband was missing in action. She did as he asked, infatuated with being part of the elite world of commissioned officers, something that was never going to happen with Bob. The only possible red flag she saw with Kunhardt was that he’d imbibed a little too much on a couple of occasions and had been rude to waiters. But she liked to drink, too, so it wasn’t something she worried about.

  Standing in the doorway of her apartment, she and Kunhardt fidgeted, both having trouble saying good-bye. During the two months they’d been together, he had repeatedly talked about recent American victories in the Pacific—the Marines taking Bougainville, U.S. troops invading Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands and New Britain in the Solomons, and most recently the capture of Kwajalein in the Marsha
ll Islands. These were places she’d never heard of, but when he talked of the inevitability of a Japanese surrender, there was strength in his voice and believability in his conviction.

  After their final good-bye kiss, he asked if she’d wait for him to return. “Of course I will,” she promised.

  * * *

  Back in the prison camp at Ofuna, Captain Fitzgerald wrote in his journal:

  Apr 16, 1944. During the past week the rice ration has taken another 25% drop. By actual test the quantity we now receive can and has been fitted into a tea cup. It’s said that rice is now short but if so how about the truck which backed up to the kitchen last night and hauled several bags of it away.

  Apr 17, 1944. Rations throughout Japan cut, ours to 213 gms/meal. So it looks like tightening the belt and forget it! For two years this camp has had a full bowl, now only a ½ bowl or less, don’t suppose we’ll starve but the midsection is somewhat lean and this launches a bit of complaint.

  May 29, 1944. They must realize that Japan cannot win the war and are beginning to think what the reactions will be upon return home, if this rather harsh treatment continues, some days it’s fairly good, but when it’s bad it’s a bit of hell around here.

  June 8, 1944. Questioned by naval j.g. He stated that if Japan were to be destroyed, so would prisoners, therefore, we should hope for Japan’s victory. My reaction and statement to that was to the effect that if this government chose to put a bullet into me there would be nothing I could do to prevent it and doubted that it would help the Japanese war effort.