No Ordinary Joes (37 page)

Tom Courtney continued to write in his journal:

• 8/8/45 Uncle came today! Blew hell out of factory. Incendiary bombs all over, thousands of them. The hand of God was over us. He will see us through
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• 8/9/45 Stayed in camp today. Sirens went five times this morning. Uncle hasn’t come back though. He better be here tonight or we go back tomorrow. God be with us in that factory. Everyone optimistic now. Think it will end soon.
  Please God, end it soon!
  
• 8/12/45 Shelter again. Still no work. Heard factory hit again. Also heard Russia at war and well in Manchuria. Also Red + coming now. This war about over. It is so hard to imagine what it will be like to be free again, to America that is HOT DOGS, HAMBURGERS and BALL GAMES—FREEDOM AND HOME the sweetest words in the world
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• 8/13/45 Uncle again. Dive bombers. Shelter almost all day. Some jobs went back to factory. God I hope I never see it again. They want to kill us for sure. Keep praying
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• 8/15/45 23-years-old today. No work today. Also no more work in factory. The scuttle really strong and spirits up. Maybe war is about over. All parties come in from factory at noon. Everything points to the end. (God in Heaven make it so. You have been with us through it all Father and have answered my prayers.)
  

On the morning of August 16 a Japanese soldier entered the barracks and ordered everyone to assemble outside in the quadrangle near the guards’ barracks, the largest open space in the camp. There was something ominous in his tone. Chuck noticed several men close to him offer a quick prayer.

Chuck wasn’t relying on prayer or God in Heaven for his strength. Since the bombing of the factory, and with the end of the war and of their captivity possibly near, he was doing his best to keep his mind focused on the same thing he had for the past two years and four months: that honor would come in his survival and in seeing the Japanese defeated. That, and making sure he got enough to eat.

More than at any time since the crew’s capture, the rumors were flying: the American invasion was set to begin; a big bomb had wiped out an entire city; there would be mackerel for dinner tonight; there were only enough rations to last one more week. The rumor Chuck worried about
the most, of course, was the one that had been circulating the longest: that an Allied invasion was imminent, and as soon as it started, the POWs would all be lined up and gunned down. Certainly the Japanese had done their part in spreading this fear, including every day since the factory was bombed.

He took a spot at the rear of the quadrangle. Every prisoner in camp who could walk was there, the crowd spilling out of the quadrangle and down the main street. None of the men had slept more than a few hours in over a week. A stepladder was placed at the front of the crowd. Behind it stood the guards, all of them armed with rifles and bayonets.

Maybe this is where they finally kill us, thought Chuck.

A Japanese colonel climbed the stepladder, which was steadied by a sergeant major. The colonel looked out over the prisoners, his glare slowly shifting from one side of the silent crowd to the other. Finally, in almost perfect English, he spoke.

“The war is over,” he said. “Japan has lost the war.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction from the POWs. There was no shouting, no rejoicing, no slaps on the back.

Chuck wasn’t sure how to react or what to think. For too long he’d gotten his hopes up that this nightmare would end, and the one thing he’d come to know for sure was not to believe anything until it happened.

Was this just another cruel hoax? Given the destruction and devastation the Japanese had suffered recently, it certainly seemed logical that they would surrender. But Chuck remembered the countless times he’d heard his captors talking about the code of Bushido, and how true warriors never give up, only cowards surrender, and that a Japanese soldier would never put down his arms.

The colonel continued: “His Imperial Majesty, in an effort to put an end to the death and bloodshed, has agreed to an unconditional surrender and cessation of war. All hostilities have been terminated. His Majesty and your General MacArthur will sign the terms of surrender on September 2, 1945. I have been ordered to inform you that as of this moment you are no longer prisoners of war. You are free. I have also been instructed to ask that
you all remain here until your authorities come for you after the surrender has been signed.

“Please do not think harshly of those who were in charge of you, your guards. Have compassion for them. Many have lost their entire family and homes. Food is scarce. I would suggest that Red Cross food parcels in the warehouse be given to them, that they might have food to eat, while they too readjust. They were only doing their duty, as you would yours.”

He stepped down off the stepladder and returned to the office, followed shortly by the guards, leaving the prisoners still staring in stunned silence. It was hard for Chuck to fathom. Was he really free? If he wasn’t, then the colonel had done an amazing job of acting. And what was he to think about the colonel’s request for the POWs to be forgiving of the guards? Could that Jap possibly be serious to think that all these prisoners who’d been surviving on a cup of rice a day for more than two years were going to give what little rations were left to the same men who had treated them worse than dogs? Was there no end to these people’s audacity?

That night the 670 former POWs dragged their blankets out of the barracks and set them on the hard dirt of the street. They would all sleep out under the stars, leaving the barracks to the bedbugs. As midnight came and went, most stayed awake talking, their first night of freedom spent in dazed and elated conversation.

The next morning, Chuck awoke to one of the men running down the main street of the camp yelling at the top of his voice. “The Japs are gone … the Japs are gone!”

Sure enough, in the dark of night, the camp commandant and all the guards had snuck away unnoticed, leaving the prisoners on their own. Many of the POWs went scrounging for food, but found little.

Later that morning, the top-ranked officer in the camp, Army major W. O. Dorris, addressed the prisoners, cautioning them to sit tight until American forces arrived. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take them to get here, a week, maybe two,” he said. “But I can assure you that anyone caught leaving camp early will be court-martialed.”

He nodded toward the perimeter of the quadrangle, where six American Marines, armed with sabers the guards had left behind, stood guard.

Chuck glanced at Tim McCoy, who was sitting next to him, perplexed. Many times they had talked about what they would do when and if they were ever free again. Nowhere on either man’s list, however, was anything about hanging around the prison camp after the war was over.

“I don’t know who’s coming to get us,” said Chuck, “but they better get here soon, or I’m leaving anyway. They wouldn’t dare court-martial us.”

I
t was August 15, 1945, six days after the atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. Lying on his straw mat in the Death Hut and floating in and out of sleep, Bob was awakened by his friend and crewmate Len Clark.

Using Clark as a crutch, Bob shuffled across the wooden floor to the door, his swollen legs throbbing. In the middle of the dusty compound, all the guards stood at attention in a circle around the camp commander. They all carried rifles and they were all wearing white gloves. On the ground next to them, a voice blared from a radio: Emperor Hirohito was addressing the nation.

Every few sentences, the guards bowed toward Tokyo, their expressions as solemn as those seen in a funeral procession as Hirohito’s words sunk in:

After several more minutes, the emperor’s voice stopped and the guards closed their circle around the camp commander. Soon, they backed away and started walking toward their barracks, each leaving behind his rifle stacked upright with all the others.

It would take several more minutes for the camp commander to confirm to the barracks leaders that the war was indeed over. As word spread through the camp, members of the
Grenadier
crew came to the Death Hut to share an embrace with Bob.

Bob smiled, the first time he’d done so in months.

Ten days after the emperor had announced the Japanese surrender, Bob hobbled across the camp, steadying himself with a tree limb Len Clark had crafted into a crutch. He was heading toward a large box. It had just been dropped in the center of camp by a low-flying F4U, which had come swooping down out of the sky with its pilot canopy open and wheels down.

This wasn’t the drop of supplies. Immediately after the surrender, the prisoners had painted a large
POW
sign on top of one of the barracks and had spelled out
POW
in white rocks in the middle of the compound. One of the drops had included Army-issued clothes, with more than enough to go around.

Bob was one of the first to reach the new box. He had been feasting on packages of Canadian Red Cross food that the prisoners had found in a storage room after most of the Japanese guards had fled the camp. For the last three days Bob had been splurging on bacon–Hershey bar sandwiches. He’d also been getting heavy doses of vitamin B1, likewise found with the Red Cross food. Although he’d gained 5 pounds and his physical condition had improved enough that he’d moved out of the Death Hut back to
the barracks, he was still easily confused. He’d been told that he could try to contact Barbara when he reached Guam in a few more weeks. “What’s Guam?” he asked.

Bob and the other prisoners quickly opened the box; it was full of Viceroys. Wrapped around the cartons was a handwritten note. “Frank Sinatra #1.”

Bob furrowed his brow. “Sinatra is president?” he asked.

The next day several POWs met and made a list of Japanese mineworkers who had treated them nicely. They rounded up as many of these men as they could find and brought them to the center of the camp, where they presented them with supplies that had been dropped from planes. Every one of the mineworkers cried when given their gift of American food and clothing. So did the ex-prisoners.

On the morning of September 5, 1945, thirty days after the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Bob limped out of the Ashio prison camp, using a newly carved tree limb as a cane. Along with the other prisoners, he walked two miles to the train station and boarded a train for the Yokohama-Tokyo area. The tracks had been repaired. At the station, he saw no civilians, only members of the
kempeitai
posted menacingly around the station.

Climbing aboard the train, Bob felt an overwhelming sense of joy and relief. Over the twenty-eight tortured months as a POW, he’d survived on less than a cup of rice a day, received more beatings than he could remember, spent nine months in solitary confinement, performed slave labor in a smelter, watched other prisoners die, lost half his body weight, had no contact with the outside world, and battled beriberi, amoebic dysentery, and dengue fever. And now he was heading home.

Despite his sense of liberation, he knew one hard truth still remained. “I’m not capable of a logical decision,” he admitted.

That did not, however, stop him from asking when he’d be allowed to try to contact Barbara. In Guam, he was told. He could barely wait.

I
n the days immediately following the end of the war, Tim was practically coming unglued waiting to leave Fukuoka #3. There were promises of B-29s dropping in supplies, but so far, nothing had arrived. There were also daily threats of a court-martial to anyone leaving camp.

“I’m not sticking around much longer,” he vowed.

Some men had bribed the posted guards to let them out of camp so they could walk around the town or go down to the ocean for a swim. A few even talked about going out and killing some random Japs. As much as he hated the Japanese, Tim didn’t want any part of that. He was, however, interested in making a raid on the nearby sake plant. For his first unguarded venture outside the camp, he and Chuck walked a mile to the sake plant and traded a Red Cross parcel for a couple of bottles, and then came back to the camp and got drunk.

Top military officials in all branches had determined that POWs would return to America and be assigned to a hospital, and then be reassigned to a base. Tim had it all figured out; as soon as he got home he would bring Valma to America with the help of the War Brides Act and then get married. He’d buy her a one-way ticket with the back pay that all the POWs were rumored to be getting.

As for a career after the Navy, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d talk to his uncle about going into the insurance business. Or maybe he’d stay in the Navy. Either way, he figured he’d have plenty of time to make a decision.
There was a rumor that all the POWs would be getting a ninety-day leave once they were stateside and had been checked out at a hospital.