by John Hersey
* * *
—
Before dawn, Kennedy started out in the canoe to rejoin Ross on Naru, but when day broke a wind arose and the canoe was swamped. Some natives appeared from nowhere in a canoe, rescued Kennedy, and took him to Naru. There they showed him where a two-man canoe was cached. Kennedy picked up a coconut with a smooth shell and scratched a message on it with a jackknife: “ELEVEN ALIVE NATIVE KNOWS POSIT AND REEFS NAURO ISLAND KENNEDY.” Then he said to the natives, “Rendova, Rendova.”
One of the natives seemed to understand. They took the coconut and paddled off.
Ross and Kennedy lay in a sickly daze all day. Toward evening it rained and they crawled under a bush. When it got dark, conscience took hold of Kennedy and he persuaded Ross to go out into Ferguson Passage with him in the two-man canoe. Ross argued against it. Kennedy insisted. The two started out in the canoe. They had shaped paddles from the boards of the Japanese box, and they took a coconut shell to bail with. As they got out into the Passage, the wind rose again and the water became choppy. The canoe began to fill. Ross bailed and Kennedy kept the bow into the wind. The waves grew until they were five or six feet high. Kennedy shouted, “Better turn around and go back!” As soon as the canoe was broadside to the waves, the water poured in and the dugout was swamped. The two clung to it, Kennedy at the bow, Ross at the stern. The tide carried them southward toward the open sea, so they kicked and tugged the canoe, aiming northwest. They struggled that way for two hours, not knowing whether they would hit the small island or drift into the endless open.
The weather got worse; rain poured down and they couldn’t see more than ten feet. Kennedy shouted, “Sorry I got you out here, Barney!” Ross shouted back, “This would be a great time to say I told you so, but I won’t!”
Soon the two could see a white line ahead and could hear a frightening roar—waves crashing on a reef. They had got out of the tidal current and were approaching the island all right, but now they realized that the wind and the waves were carrying them toward the reef. But it was too late to do anything, now that their canoe was swamped, except hang on and wait.
When they were near the reef, a wave broke Kennedy’s hold, ripped him away from the canoe, turned him head over heels, and spun him in a violent rush. His ears roared and his eyes pin-wheeled, and for the third time since the collision he thought he was dying. Somehow he was not thrown against the coral but floated into a kind of eddy. Suddenly he felt the reef under his feet. Steadying himself so that he would not be swept off it, he shouted, “Barney!” There was no reply. Kennedy thought of how he had insisted on going out in the canoe, and he screamed, “Barney!” This time Ross answered. He, too, had been thrown on the reef. He had not been as lucky as Kennedy; his right arm and shoulder had been cruelly lacerated by the coral, and his feet, which were already infected from earlier wounds, were cut some more.
The procession of Kennedy and Ross from reef to beach was a crazy one. Ross’s feet hurt so much that Kennedy would hold one paddle on the bottom while Ross put a foot on it, then the other paddle forward for another step, then the first paddle forward again, until they reached sand. They fell on the beach and slept.
* * *
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Kennedy and Ross were wakened early in the morning by a noise. They looked up and saw four husky natives. One walked up to them and said in an excellent English accent, “I have a letter for you, sir.” Kennedy tore the note open. It said, “On His Majesty’s Service. To the Senior Officer, Naru Island. I have just learned of your presence on Naru Is. I am in command of a New Zealand infantry patrol operating in conjunction with U.S. Army troops on New Georgia. I strongly advise that you come with these natives to me. Meanwhile I shall be in radio communication with your authorities at Rendova, and we can finalize plans to collect balance of your party. Lt. Wincote. P. S. Will warn aviation of your crossing Ferguson Passage.” *
Everyone shook hands and the four natives took Ross and Kennedy in their war canoe across to Bird Island to tell the others the good news. There the natives broke out a spirit stove and cooked a feast of yams and C ration. Then they built a lean-to for McMahon, whose burns had begun to rot and stink, and for Ross, whose arm had swelled to the size of a thigh because of the coral cuts. The natives put Kennedy in the bottom of their canoe and covered him with sacking and palm fronds, in case Japanese planes should buzz them. The long trip was fun for the natives. They stopped once to try to grab a turtle, and laughed at the sport they were having. Thirty Japanese planes went over low toward Rendova, and the natives waved and shouted gaily. They rowed with a strange rhythm, pounding paddles on the gunwales between strokes. At last they reached a censored place. Lieutenant Wincote came to the water’s edge and said formally, “How do you do. Leftenant Wincote.”
Kennedy said, “Hello. I’m Kennedy.”
Wincote said, “Come up to my tent and have a cup of tea.”
* * *
—
In the middle of the night, after several radio conversations between Wincote’s outfit and the PT base, Kennedy sat in the war canoe waiting at an arranged rendezvous for a PT. The moon went down at eleven-twenty. Shortly afterward Kennedy heard the signal he was waiting for—four shots. Kennedy fired four answering shots.
A voice shouted to him, “Hey, Jack!”
Kennedy said, “Where the hell you been?”
The voice said, “We got some food for you.”
Kennedy said bitterly, “No, thanks, I just had a coconut.”
A moment later a PT came alongside. Kennedy jumped onto it and hugged the men aboard—his friends. In the American tradition, Kennedy held under his arm a couple of souvenirs: one of the improvised paddles and the Japanese gas mask.
With the help of the natives, the PT made its way to Bird Island. A skiff went in and picked up the men. In the deep of the night, the PT and its happy cargo roared back toward base. The squadron medic had sent some brandy along to revive the weakened men. Johnston felt the need of a little revival. In fact, he felt he needed quite a bit of revival. After taking care of that, he retired topside and sat with his arms around a couple of roly-poly, mission-trained natives. And in the fresh breeze on the way home they sang together a hymn all three happened to know:
Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so;
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me; yes, Jesus loves me…
*The wording and signature of this message are as Kennedy gave them to me in Boston in 1944. The message was in fact slightly, though not substantially, different; and many years later, after Kennedy had become President, the identity of the actual signer was uncovered—A. Reginald Evans. Wherever the name Wincote appears in the rest of this story, the reader will understand that that of Lieutenant Evans should be substituted.
STRENGTH FROM WITHOUT
Joe Is Home Now
STRENGTH FROM WITHOUT
THIS IS a story of a man evading a living death—of how an American G.I., crippled by war and discharged from uniform while hostilities continued, tried to grope his way back to some kind of civilian survival. Joe Souczak’s strength, such as he had, was drawn from without, from a loyal friend; love can be a mortal enemy of death, especially of living death.
Something needs to be said about the reportorial technique used in this story and the one that follows. These two accounts, unlike the orthodox journalistic tales that constitute the rest of the book, are dovetailings, in each case, of the actual experiences of a number of men. In the spring of 1944, a year before the end of the Second World War, by which time a million and a quarter soldiers of the United States, casualties of the worldwide fighting, had been turned back into civilian clothes, so that the problem of human reconversion had already become a heavy one, I drove up through the valleys of New York State and gleaned the first of the
se two accounts from long talks with forty-three discharged wounded soldiers. The story of this veteran’s struggles is not “fictionalized,” because nothing was invented; it is a report. Joe does and says things that were actually said and done by various of the men with whom I talked; I simply arranged the materials. Let us say that the story was “cannibalized”—the expression our mechanics use for the process of putting together one flyable airplane from the parts of several. The reason—an ample one at the time—for employing this technique was to protect individual veterans of the war, who were as yet by no means sure of their ability to survive whole in a civilian world, from an exposure through publication that might have made their trials more severe than they already were.
Joe Is Home Now
THE BOY with one arm stood in the Rochester station and looked around. He was on his way to Onteoga, New York, and he was full of going home.
He glanced up at the iron clock—five fifteen, it said. Above the clock he saw the service flag showing that the railroad had sent 25,602 men to the wars. Jeepers, the boy thought, more than a division.
A middle-aged civilian came up to him and said: “You’re in the First Division. I seen your shoulder patch.”
Joe Souczak said, “Yeah.”
“Where’d you get hurt?”
“Africa.”
“God, I got hurt myself.”
“Yeah?”
“I was in the First in the other war. Company H, Eighteenth Regiment.”
“No kidding, I was in G Company of the Eighteenth. Neighbors, huh?”
“God,” the older man said, “where you headed?”
“Home,” Joe said. “I got thirty days’ leave. They’re going to discharge me later, only they given me thirty days first. I’m going to hit this town before I catch the train on home. I don’t know how my mother will take it. About the arm. I’m going to hit the town first, you know, get a little happy for my mother’s sake.”
“God, what are we waiting for?”
They went to the Seneca Grille. Joe ordered whisky with beer for a chaser. He found out the civilian came from Auburn and was a policeman off duty. The cop had a Purple Heart ribbon with him and some small articles he had picked up off Germans in the First World War. Joe said he was sorry, but he had checked his souvenirs in his barracks bag at the station. The cop asked, “How you feel about getting home?”
Joe said, “I’m almost as scared as I’m happy. I don’t know how it’s going to be.”
They had several, then went across the street to Odenback’s. The cop kept telling about his experiences; he told about chasing Pancho Villa in Mexico before the other war. He called Joe “my old regiment pal.”
The cop said, “I’m going to ride out home with you. Least a guy can do for an old regiment pal. Maybe I can help out with your old lady.”
Joe had had enough drinks to think that was a fine idea. They bought a quart of whisky to take along, and went to the station, and Joe called home and arranged for his sisters to meet him. Then the pair caught the last train for Onteoga. After pulling on the bottle for a while, the cop fell asleep.
Joe moved across the aisle and started talking with a girl. It turned out that she worked in a Rochester camera factory. Joe said, “Among my souvenirs I got this French camera, I wonder could you look at it and inspect it all the way through and find out does any American film go in it?”
She looked it over and said, “A three-twenty would fit it perfect.” She promised to put in a priority and send Joe some film. After they got more friendly, she said, “Sometime you’re in Rochester come down to my house for Sunday dinner and all that.”
Joe said, “Thanks just the same, only I’m interested in getting home and I got a girl there. I don’t know how she’s going to take to the one-arm idea.”
“Oh, she won’t care,” the girl said.
Joe said, “I don’t look so good to see her tomorrow. I’m kind of disgusted on the point of view my clothes don’t fit me. I don’t have any others, they’re used uniforms they hand out to us at the hospital.”
“You’ll do all right,” the girl said.
When the train was nearly due, Joe wrote a note and pinned it on the lapel of the cop’s coat, using the Purple Heart ribbon to pin it on with. The note said, “Figure I’ll make out all right with my mom. Thanks for everything, regiment pal, Joe.”
Joe left the cop sleeping and got off the train. His sisters Anna and Mickey were waiting for him in the old car. Joe was excited and he said, “Well, after so long a journey I’m almost home, I only got nine miles to go. How’s the car run? It still running? Those girls you taught driving lessons to ruin it? Can we get any gas?”
Anna said, “We waited a long time for this. You’re gone a long time from home. We’ve been praying every day you’d come home.”
Mickey said, “We hated to hear about the arm.”
They all started out with a crying jag and wound up laughing.
They drove out to Onteoga, and as they crossed the tracks into town, Mickey said, “I’m sorry we don’t have the brass band out for you.”
Joe said, “Let the band go to hell; I don’t need the band. Riding up Genesee Street, that’s all the welcome I ever wanted. This is my home-coming, the streets are out to greet me.” And he said, “Hello, streets.”
The first stop was home, naturally, 143 Front Street. By this time it was nearly four in the morning, and Joe was rather drunk. He had only meant to have a couple so as to be cheery when he first saw his mother, but now he was pretty far gone.
He walked up to the front door and banged on it. His father shouted from bed upstairs, “Who is it?”
Joe Souczak shouted, “Does Joe Souczak live here?”
His father shouted, “He ain’t home yet.”
Joe shouted, “Who you think this is, dad? It’s me.”
Right away Joe’s father and mother came downstairs together in their night things. The two kid brothers, Anthony and Sam, came crashing down after.
Joe’s mother went straight to him and embraced him. All she said at first was, “My boy.”
She held him and moved her hands up and down his back. She said, “You’re all one piece, I’m so glad they didn’t molest your face at any point, you’re very thin, my Joey.” She did not speak of the arm.
Joe’s father stood by smiling and said to Anna, “Looks like mother took first choice at embracing the boy.”
Finally Joe’s mother let go. She smelled the alcohol on his breath and started crying.
Joe’s father stepped up and said, “Son, a good many days I wished our Lord that if you could only come back, our Lord could take me then, only I wanted to see you just one time.” Joe’s father was fifty-three, a railroad worker.
Joe could not think of anything except to reach out the bottle to his father and say, “Take a drink.” His father took the bottle and drank. That only made the mother cry harder.
Joe broke into a temper in spite of himself and said to his mother savagely, “What’s the sense of crying, for God’s sake, I’m home now, ain’t I?”
His father said, “Come in the house, son.”
They turned on the lights and sat in the living room formally.
The father said, “How was it in this war, son?”
Joe said, “I don’t know, but it’s rougher than the last.”
Joe’s young brother Anthony said, “How many Germans you kill, Joe?”
Joe said, “Nobody who is a soldier answers that, Tony. You don’t like to talk about it, mostly you don’t even know, the range is big.”
Anthony went over and touched Joe’s empty left sleeve and said, “What happened, Joe?”
Joe said, “I remember it was nighttime, doing a patrol action, well, that’s when I got hit. It was a rifle bullet.”
“Sniper, son?”
“That I couldn’t say, maybe it could’ve been a sniper. They took me to the Thirty-eighth Evac, that’s a hospital. They took the arm in Algiers…. Could I have something to eat?”
Anna asked, “What you want?”
“Could I have some eggs, plenty of eggs anyhow? Then they started bringing me home, see.” Joe looked at his mother crying, and talked fast, feeling bad because he had spoken sharply to her. “I stood in Gibraltar couple days. I took an English boat, what was it, the Jervis. I went to near Bristol, I stood there till I had three more operations. From there I left in June, it was on a Canadian boat, the Nova Scotia, that was the second trip she took, she went to Halifax. I stood a while at Fort Devens in Lowell General, then it was Walter Reed. Now I come home.”
They sat talking till it got light. Joe asked about different things that had happened at home, who was married and so on. No one volunteered any information about Mary Ellard, his girl. Joe’s voice was shaky and his one hand trembled. At one point someone said maybe Joe was tired, but he said, “Let sleep go to hell, sleep is a luxury.”
When it was day Mrs. Souczak stopped crying and went to the telephone. She dialed a number and said, “Joe is home now,” and hung up. She dialed many numbers and all she would say was: “Joe is home now.” Then she would hang up.
