A NARROW ESCAPE

My radar wasn’t functioning the day Mr. Newell put me in charge of a so-called “soft detail.” I shoulda smelled a rat when he chose Clyde, Kermit, three hulking Georgia Boys and another half-dozen of the strongest men in the Butai to go with me. That was a harbinger of “bad news ahead.” (Wisely, Mr. Newell chose to remain behind.) At the Pier, we found a small 8’ by 30’ barge waiting with a cargo net rigged to a bollard to use as a rope ladder down to the barge. Three Japs were on board already, a weather-beaten old Honcho at the tiller, a Kendo stick and short-barreled Arisaka rifle across his knees, and two Jap non-coms with sub-machine guns. On seeing their insignia was KempeiTei, the secret police, my radar started to chatter loudly. The old Honcho pointed out our destination, a ship anchored near the breakwater and, goosing his engine, we were under way. Coughing and wheezing, the under-sized one-lunger Diesel strained to move the barge and its heavy load of small wooden boxes tied with rice-straw ropes. The water was smooth as glass that day, allowing us to see the schools of big sharks swimming alongside and under us. Those sharks actually escorted our barge all the way to where the Maru was gently rolling at anchor. As the old Honcho reached for the ship’s gangway with a boat hook, one of the larger sharks bumped our little vessel and then surfaced so near I could’ve touched its huge dorsal looming over the barge’s gunnels. I groaned, “What in hell is this farmboy doing here!” Then the Honcho screamed and I looked up, wondering what new calamity was at hand. A big freighter churning through the pass in the breakwall was sending a twenty foot bow wave straight at us! Hollering a warning to my pals, I dropped flat on the deck as the rogue wave crashed into us, grinding our barge against the ship’s steel hull. From all the screeching and wailing of structural decking, I thought we’d surely go to the bottom but our sturdy little barge held together. After the waves settled down, the old Honcho calmly tied us to the Awa Maru’s gangway.

As we lay quietly in the lee of the big ship, one KempeiTei went up the gangway to confer with the Awa’s Captain. Their conference over, we began to lug those little boxes up the gangway and onto the ship’s foredeck. It was then I realized why we had been chosen for the detail. At 180 pounds, I was the smallest man there and it took every bit of my strength to lug one of those little boxes up the gangway. They must have been filled with gold! With a beady-eyed guard watching at each end, we finally had all the boxes neatly stacked on the Awa’s foredeck. Leaving the two KempeiTei on the Awa to guard the boxes, we then loaded kome no shiro (Top grade white rice) on the barge to take back to Manila. As “special rice,” it came in small 50 kilo bags so we made short work of moving it from the ship’s hold down the gangway and onto our little barge. The vessel was loaded to the top of its gunnels when the old Honcho bellowed, “Ju-ni motto kome,” (a dozen more bags of rice) as interpreter, I told him: “Stick it up your ass. This load already has the freeboard down to less than 18” above water level!” Scowling and blustering, the old Honcho finally gave in but when he angrily yanked his engine’s starter cord, nothing happened. After another dozen pulls the stubborn little diesel started, sending clouds of black, sulphurous smoke wafting over us. One more bad omen, I thought, as we began our return trip to Pier 7 at a creeping two mph. The sun felt good so I lay back on the rice sacks to rest and savor my memories of the good life back in the USA. But my reverie was soon shattered by one of my comrades shouting, “We’re taking on water!” A quick look at the freeboard confirmed that we had indeed sprung a leak, probably from the crash with the Awa Maru. Now, somewhere under the bags of rice, a hidden damage was slowly sinking the little vessel!

Alerting the Honcho to the emergency proved useless. He just scowled, spat overboard and, turned his back, refusing to answer. Looking longingly at Pier 7, my stress level climbed. It was still a long ways away and each time the diesel coughed, the barge seemed to sink deeper into the depths of Manila Bay. A larger concern was the number of big sharks now swimming around us, their huge dorsal fins smoothly cleaving the glassy waters like surface torpedoes. When one monstrous fellow swam up to our little barge to give it a curious bump, I began to berate the obstreperous old Honcho, demanding that we be allowed to jettison part of the cargo. He answered, “I’ll shoot the first Horyo who touches one grain of this precious rice.” It was impossible to argue with him so I looked around for a spare timber, anything for flotation should we founder. The only thing remotely fitting the description was a sculling oar carried on all small lighters to use in case of engine failure. Another lusty bump from one of the increasingly aggressive members of the “sea-wolf-pack” made me realize that no kind of emergency flotation would help if one were forced into the company of that throng of killers. So we continued to inch along, hoping and praying that the coughing, tubercular, little engine would get us to Pier 7 before sinking into The Bay.

Like a passage from an Edgar Allen Poe novel, a “squabble of sea-gulls” then swooped down on us as though in aerial attack on our ill-fated little craft. Amazingly, they landed quite sociably among us, showing no fear of humans. Squawking and arguing among themselves, they immediately began to relieve themselves on the white bags of rice. I silently marveled, “Nothing could be more macabre. Like Poe’s best prose, this flock of “Ravens,” all dressed in white, is saying Requiem over us and our doomed vessel!” My ghoulish thoughts were interrupted then by the Honcho screaming, “Tell your men to chase those damn birds off my precious rice.” Perverse to the end, I grinned and nodded my understanding. Instead, I told my pals, “The old bastard loves birds. He says he’ll shoot anyone who raises a finger against those gulls. Watch your step!” So we slowly chugged onward in the weirdest situation of my life, surrounded by a flock of drunken sea-gulls acting like they were Ravens solemnly mourning our coming demise.

In the breathless air, the rank stench of human fear was now mingled with the choking, diesel fumes, alerting even the dullest mind among us to our life and death struggle. Our quandary, “Can we reach Pier 7 before the fickle little engine fails or will the sharks win by simple default as our sad, little barge slowly sinks into Manila Bay?” I’d like to say that we won by a margin of two hacking coughs from the tired, little engine but that’s not true. It ended in a draw with the climax coming just as we touched Pier 7 where, thankfully, the cargo net still hung in place. As the tired, little engine gave a final staccato belch, the barge and its precious cargo slowly tilted aft to slide backwards into the depths of Manila Bay as we Horyos leaped frantically for the net to madly claw our way up to the safety of Pier Seven. Without a life preserver or line to throw the Honcho, I could only watch him tread water amid the swirls of his foundering barge. When the irascible old cuss looked up and made eye contact, I saw no fear or plea for help in his eyes. Doubly burdened with arthritis and an acetic personality, he tried vainly to reach the net. Then it came to me: In a smidgen of perverse justice or a bit of overweening fairness in the psyche of The Goddess of Fate, she was at work right there before my eyes. In my jaundiced observation, it seemed even the sea-wolves eyed him hesitantly and with distaste. Then came something totally unique to the many times I had watched the sharks in the Bay. Graceful as a svelte dolphin from Sea World, the huge leader of the wolf pack leaped high in the air and crashed down on the Old Honcho. As it tore great chunks from its victim, the waters turned crimson and the pack assumed the feeding frenzy known to sharks all over the world.

Lest I seem uncaring in telling you how the old Honcho stoically faced his death, allow me to share one of Nabesan’s Tankas. It may help explain the old man’s fatalism. When I asked Nabesan one day why he chose to sail the dangerous, war-torn seas rather than live safely on shore, he said, “Joeey, listen closely and learn. There was an Old Man grown tired and ill. Resigned to facing death honorably and alone, he slowly climbed a faint, rocky path into the mountains, intent on finding and challenging his life-long foe, ‘The Great Bear.’ Stoically proceeding until at last he faced his enemy, he drew his sword and rushed forward to do mortal combat with the towering beast. The great bear, still young and strong, crushed the frail old man to the ground. Admiring his opponent’s bravery, the bear was moved to kindness. With one tremendous bite, the beast killed the Old Man quickly, making sure he died with honor and without pain.” Pausing, Nabesan said, “That same tanka also tells how the Old Man’s blood flowed so strongly and bravely that it covered all the other colors in the sunset.” Remembering how bravely the cantankerous old Honcho died, I thought, “Like the Old Man with the great bear, the Honcho died according to the true code of Bushido. In so doing, he became as great a hero as though he had killed all of us infidels by delivering us to the sharks. When push came to shove, I’ve always believed there are worse ways to die, especially if you were born Japanese. I might have hated the Honcho and his irascible manner but I did admire his spirit.

The author of this short story was a private in the 17^th Squadron, 27^th Bomb Group (L) at the time he was captured on Bataan in April, 1942. After his capture, he was taken to Old Bilibid Prison in Manila to recover from the wounds he received during the Bataan Campaign.

After his recovery, he was assigned to work as a POW in Manila’s Port Area as a stevedore for the Imperial Japanese Army. This true incident occurred in the course of his work at Port Area. The names of all individuals are true and correct.

The writer welcomes comments or questions. He can be reached at mailto:jdnlin@swfla.rr.com

Joe D. Merritt copywrite 2005