In 1938, when I was being actively recruited for aviation duty by my flying shipmates in USS Nashville, I was led to believe that there was something special about aviators. It was implied that I was a bit of a dolt if I couldn't perceive this myself. I was obviously a fool if I didn't want to become a pilot.
In spite of the persistent propaganda, both subtle and not so subtle, I didn't wholeheartedly accept the thesis, although I acknowledged that naval pilots were thoroughly and painstakingly trained. And, having taxied one whole morning at Guantanamo Bay in the back seat of an SOC without getting off the water, I had to concede that the pilots who flew in those things had guts. But still I was not convinced that they were much different from anyone else.
Six years later, I wasn't giving the matter much thought as I hacked away at my daily task of removing broken hoe handles from hoes. It wasn't a difficult job and fortunately it required no particular skill. As a member of the carpenter shop detail at the Japanese prisoner-of-war camp east of Cabanatuan in northern Luzon, Philippine Islands, I was always busy because my fellow prisoners broke as many hoe handles as they dared in order to escape further labors in the fields.
The carpenter detail was a desirable one for several reasons. The Japanese supervisor was a relatively kindly old gent who had been known to shield his "carpenters" from over-zealous young Japanese guards. Also, the shop was close to the camp gate so we didn't have half-mile tramps to and from work twice a day as did the majority of our fellow POW's. Finally-and best of all-the corn grown in the surrounding fields was hung to dry in the rafters of the shop. Without undue risk we could tote corn into camp in our emptied canteens. This became the source of a substantial surreptitious augmentation of our very meager rations.
Twenty-one September 1944 had started like any other day. We arose with the sun, paraded for tenko (roll call), filed through the galley for our dipper of lugao (watery rice) and cup of tea, and fell in with our usual work details at an early hour ready to march out through the barbed wire gate. Another day, another yen.
We hadn't been at work very long when I became aware of a persistent hum in the east. It gradually increased until we recognized the unmistakable drone of many aircraft. Somehow the sound had a different, more intensive quality. Obviously, I wasn't having hallucinations, for questioning looks were being guardedly exchanged among my fellow craftsmen. Then the guards started stirring uneasily.
As the drone swelled to a roar, our detail leader, Major Webb, sauntered out to a certain primitive, but practical and well-used spot behind the shop. This was the only place we could go outside of the shop without a guard. When he returned all eyes were on him. His step was lively and the grin on his face was eloquent. No spoken word was needed, for his whole being told us, "The Yanks are coming!" No interpreters were necessary; even the guards understood.
Major Webb's actions were contagious. There was a sudden stampede for the rear exit. Never before had the simple needs of the group caused such crowding. And the guards seemed to be similarly urged, although perhaps not entirely because of curiosity.
In the sky was a sight to behold. There could be no mistake. The tight bomber formation with the weaving pairs of fighters on top was like no Japanese formation we had ever seen. Its size and ·unwavering power would have been awesome enough to anyone, but to us POW's, it was a glorious and beautiful thing.
As if to assure us that they were indeed Americans, the pilots tested their guns as they passed over camp. It was clear that someone was going to catch it.
That day none of us earned our keep. Any constructive work was purely accidental. It is difficult to describe the uncontrollable exhilaration we experienced. One would have thought we were about to throw open the gates and go home. The guards gave us no trouble either; they were uncommonly subdued. Ours spent the rest of the morning under the eaves of the straw roof uncertainly peering out toward the sky. For once, we found their antics amusing.
At noon we marched back to camp as usual. Most of us were so buoyed up that we didn't even bother to steal the usual canteen full of corn before leaving the shop. As the work details converged on the gate with their guards, it was hard to tell who were the captives and who were the captors. As we stood waiting to be let through the gates, we saw a Japanese transport plane scurrying along to the east of camp at low altitude. Suddenly a U. S. Navy fighter swooped down from the blue. With one burst of machinegun fire, the fighter smashed the transport into a plunging ball of red flame and black smoke. Then the American pilot wheeled toward the perimeter fence in a taunting gesture toward the guard tower. With that, a spontaneous cheer went up from the prisoners, and the guards were too abashed to do anything about it.
We didn't go back to work after lunch. The day became a spectacular and festive half holiday. All afternoon clusters of happy POW's rehashed every detail as if to convince themselves that it had really happened. The long forgotten slogan, "Christmas turkey in Albuquerque" was heard again throughout the camp.
Before the day was through, another fighter zoomed at treetop level along the road that paralleled the northern edge of the camp. As the pilot whizzed over the Japanese guardhouse, he wiggled his wings and showed us at close hand the star and bar insignia which had been confounding us. The old star-in-a-circle emblem had been in use during our Bataan-Corregidor campaign. The rest of that day we acted like a bunch of high school sorority girls at a slumber party.
The next day the raiders were back. They strafed the nearby Cabanatuan air strip, where a detail of Americans had been working until the previous day. It was rumored that they surprised a group of rubberneckers standing unsuspectingly on the hangar apron. In spite of this, we went to work as usual. The atmosphere was changed; our guards were delightfully meek. It took them about four days to recover their customary cockiness and swagger.
We had a new project in the carpenter shop. We were to fabricate a "B-Nee-JooKoo" (B-29) and a carrier-based fighter from bamboo and burlap, to be used as targets. None of us had ever seen a B-29, but neither had our guards, so the commission was executed with very little finesse. A few days later we were convulsed by the ludicrous spectacle of a guard running like crazy with our target plane on a long bamboo pole while his countrymen shot at it with their rifles.
No doctor could have prescribed a more potent tonic. For weeks we had been drawing lots to avoid the drafts destined to be shipped to Japan. A smell of freedom seemed to be in the air. Unfortunately, it wasn't as close as we thought. We enjoyed the carrier planes several more times after that, however, and each time they reinforced my admiration of aviators. We in the Navy also took sly delight in pointing out to our Army friends that these were Navy airplanes. Where, oh where, were the Army aircraft?
On 13 October, some of us were moved south to Bilibid Prison, in Manila. The next morning we had dive bombers for breakfast. All we saw was a series of sparkling flashes high in the sky like flecks of dust in a beam of sunshine. Then planes seemed to be coming from every direction at once, dropping bombs before the alarm sounded. There was bedlam for several minutes and then dead silence. It was over almost before we could be chased into our barracks by the excited guards. The fury of the attacks was unbelievable.
These attacks continued intermittently through October and November. We on the second floor of the only two-storied building in Bilibid had a box seat. We had to close the shutters during air raids, but we always had a spotter stationed at a conveniently warped shutter to give a play-by-play account. There were also other less strategic openings, where we were able to snatch an occasional peek at the sideshow. The guards showed their disapproval by crashing their rifle butts against the shutters, but up on the second deck we were spared this annoyance. The daring and accuracy of the bombers was such that some of the Japanese antiaircraft guns stopped firing lest they get a bomb down their muzzles. One night a Japanese general and his staff moved into the sanctuary of one of the prison buildings, so we guessed things were getting pretty hot for our captors. Under these circumstances, it is little wonder that we reassured each other after each raid that, "The Japs don't have a prayer of getting us out of here while these attacks continue."
On 13 December, 1,500 prisoners were marched to the wreckage-strewn Embarcadero and stuffed into the holds of Oryoku Maru bound for Japan. In spite of our admiration for the skill and abandon with which the damage had been inflicted, the scores of sunken hulks in the harbor were little comfort. Our prison ship got underway late that night to join a departing convoy.
The next morning those determined and efficient carrier pilots were back. Our ship wasn't attacked initially, but the noise of guns and the concussion carrying through the water left no doubt as to the fate of the other ships of the convoy. Then we were pounced upon briefly. Of course, there was no way for the pilots to know we were in the ship. Our guards had taken great pains to keep us out of sight below decks. In spite of the brevity of the attack on us, ·the damage was sufficient to force the disembarkation of all Japanese civilian passengers that night.
At first, we hadn't been overjoyed to hear our dive bombers, thinking of the wrecks in Manila harbor. But as the strain of the passing hours became too great, the prisoners in the stinking black hold turned into a screaming, crazed mass, clawing at each other like terrified animals. Many were killed, some died of their exertions, and others suffocated. Then, in the stifling darkness, we prayed that the bombers would come back and hit our ship. While some of us would undoubtedly be killed, it was our only chance of escape from the horrors which engulfed us.
The dive bombers did not fail us. At daylight they were back, more dogged and workmanlike than ever. Oryoku Maru's antiaircraft gun crews fought back savagely and courageously, but without effect. The airplanes kept right on coming, and they didn't miss. They blew the stern off our ship, and she sank in flames.
As I dog-paddled ashore in Subic Bay, I thought back to the blandishments of my flying Nashville shipmates. Maybe they had something, after all. The carrier pilots who had battered us were without doubt the most wonderful people in the world.