Lost
In A Foreign land
A tale of survival and intrigue set in Alaska
and the Yukon during World War II
Douglas Anderson
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
[email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.comn
ISBN 978-1-59433-115-2
ebook 978-1-59433-172-5
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2009938048
Copyright 2009 Douglas Anderson
—First Edition—
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in
any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means
including photocopying or recording, or by any
information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form,
and in any case not without the written permission
of the Douglas Anderson and publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Douglas Anderson, already the author of two books; Gold in Trib 1 and Mystery in Trib 2, has penned yet another tale. This new book, Lost in a Foreign Land, picks up a thread from Mystery in Trib 2 and provides a fascinating conclusion to what was formerly a matter of question. Herein, the story describes a desperate situation for the main character. As the story unfolds, his dilemma is resolved in a clever and intriguing way.
Foreword
Residing in Alaska in the late 70s and early 80s I flew my plane, hiked in the wilderness and prospected for gold with my good friend, Hagen Gauss. With gold fever surging in our veins, and undoubtedly in control at times, we explored an area, north of the Al-Can Highway, close by the Alaska-Yukon border. Together—by one means or another—we became very familiar with the raw wilderness territory described in Gold in Trib 1 and Mystery in Trib 2. Now Lost in a Foreign Land is set in the same area. While we were never actually lost, it was easy to understand how fraught with danger such an experience might be. It is a wild and varied land; high dry ridges, low swampy valleys, and in between these, densely forested land or vast areas of almost impenetrable brush. It is moose, black bear, wolverine and grizzly country and people venturing out must always be on guard. We experienced it all during our exploits.
In Lost in a Foreign Land I have tried to impart a sense of what it is like to be dropped, unprepared, into such an unforgiving area. To be totally lost, not knowing where you are or what lies in wait over the next low ridge, or—as is the case with the main character—how to survive and find a way out of a terrible situation so as to return to a far away homeland.
Douglas Anderson.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter One: NAMC Osaka
Chapter Two: Lost in the Wilderness
Chapter Three: A Cabin in the Woods
Chapter Four: Eighth Day
Chapter Five: Discovery on the Highway
Chapter Six: Taking a Big Risk
Chapter Seven: Hitching a Ride
Chapter Eight: Captured
Chapter Nine: Heading South
Chapter Ten: Interrogation
Chapter Eleven: A Change of Direction
Chapter Twelve: To a New Abode
Chapter Thirteen: The Unexpected Honor
Chapter Fourteen: And the War Continues
Chapter Fifteen: A Fitting Conclusion
Epilogue
Chapter One:
NAMC Osaka
Shinichi Oda stood by a very large, angled drafting board and studied an equally large blueprint. During the past couple of years he had diligently examined hundreds of similarly complex manufacturing drawings. He was constantly comparing details of one drawing against other drawings, against references in volumes of technical manuals and, when possible, against actual hardware. It was a very complicated task, which he took very seriously. He felt he had been awarded a unique opportunity by management to work on a pioneering project, and he was not about to disappoint them.
Even as a youth Shinichi dreamed of being an aeronautical engineer and had studied and worked very hard to eventually arrive at a responsible position with NAMC. In 1952 the Japanese Ministry of International Trade and Industry encouraged local aerospace companies to combine their resources to tackle what would be their most challenging project since the end of World War II.
Eventually, after much discussion, six companies, Mitsubishi, Kawasaki, Fuji, Shinmeiwa, Japan Aircraft Manufacturing, and Showa, formed a consortium under the title of Nihon Airplane Manufacturing Company (NAMC). Together they were to design and build the first postwar Japanese passenger transport aircraft.
It was now September 1961. There had been sixteen difficult years of recovery since the Japanese surrender. Shinichi had had to overcome a lot of obstacles during that time—not the least of which had been prejudice by some of the staunchly traditional Japanese. Some of his wartime escapades while he was a Navy pilot were frowned upon in Japanese culture. Perhaps a good thing most of his exploits were still a closely kept secret or the castigation would have been more severe. However, Shinichi was smart and tenacious and he had one distinct advantage over many of his peers: by a strange turn of events he had received some unique training and thus had a very good command of the English language. It helped enormously and provided many opportunities, especially in the world of aviation.
In 1952, coincident with the inception of NAMC, Shinichi had been privileged to meet W. Edwards Demming. He was so impressed with the business principles Demming espoused, that he went to great lengths to attend Demming's lectures. It was a pivotal point in Shinichi's career. In the post-war years Japan had pumped out inferior goods in the belief that it was volume, not quality, that was important for export revenue. Cheap Japanese goods flooded the world markets. Their image around the world suffered as a result. “Cheap Japanese Knock-off” was a household expression, and Shinichi thought it was well deserved.
Demming lectured the Japanese that the answer to their postwar economic woes was to produce and export only high-quality goods. He added to their ancient philosophy of perfection, a new concept: that there is no such thing as perfection, that one must strive for continuous improvement. Make every model, every new release, just a little bit better than the last.
It was a concept that fired Shinichi from the very beginning and it gave meaningful direction to his work in a way that exasperated his employer and many of his peers. Shinichi had persevered, with Demming as his mentor, and succeeded with his employer's backing, to convert others within the company to the same line of thinking. It eventually paid off. A lot of study, a lot of work, and, after a series of promotions, his title was now senior project engineer. That in itself was quite an achievement, since he was just forty-three years of age.
Since the design of the aircraft was being shared by six companies, and major parts supplied by seven, it was of paramount importance that they be integrated correctly so as to ensure that all the elements of the design complemented each other. Parts manufactured in many factories had to eventually fit together without problems. It was an enormous logistical task and, of course, he wasn't the only one involved. It took a whole team of project engineers to cover specialized areas such as airframe, landing gear, controls, hydraulic and electrical systems, and even such mundane subjects as air conditioning systems, to make sure everything would fit together.
Shinichi's particular area of responsibility was flight controls. This involved all the mechanical levers, push/pull rods, cables, actuators, linkages, and the actual control surfaces such as flaps, ailerons, elevator, and rudder. The material specifications, geometry, dimensions, centers of gravity and the like must be absolutely correct on all the manufacturing drawings produced by each co
mpany before a single piece of hardware could be made. They were already in the manufacturing phase for many components.
It was an evolving process. As components were produced and assembly of prototypes commenced, there were inevitable snags to be overcome and alterations to be made where necessary. Every alteration had to be vetted by Quality Engineering and any changes meticulously documented until the final design could be sealed. It would culminate in flight certification, and production of airplanes for sale could begin in earnest.
As a project engineer, Shinichi had oversight of many elements of the design, manufacture, and testing. His task was made even the more difficult because Japanese manufacturers were used to making military aircraft—good ones such as the Zero and the Showa L2D cargo plane. Breaking their stubborn military mind-set for the design and manufacture of a comfortable passenger plane was a constant challenge.
The sixty-seat commuter plane, powered by two Rolls-Royce turboprop engines, was already designated YS-11, and the assembly of four prototypes—two for mock-up and structural testing and two for the flight test program—had begun. If they were to meet their target for the first test flight of the YS-11 in August of the next year, there was still a tremendous amount of work to be done.
Shinichi was in the home offices of NAMC this day, which made quite a change, because he spent a lot of time traveling to the other company facilities around the country and even been overseas to the USA on three occasions. The first flight test aircraft #1001 was coming together in the nearby huge assembly building. Elements of the second test plane #1002 were being fabricated. He now spent much of each day in the assembly building, returning to his office later in the day to complete any necessary documentation.
For weeks Shinichi had been burning the midnight oil as he tried to keep up with the volume of work. Today was no exception. He had started at seven-thirty that morning and now it was—he looked at his wristwatch, the watch that was old but was still a treasured possession—7:35 pm. It was the end of another, all too common, twelve-hour work day. He still had a twenty-minute commute so it would be well after eight o'clock by the time he reached the apartment. At least much of the Yokohama rush-hour traffic would have tapered off, or his commute might be more like one hour.
In recognition of his position in the company Shinichi was fortunate to have the use of a company vehicle. It was a nice perk, but also as a matter of convenience, since he had to travel to the other factories quite frequently. It also meant he had the flexibility to leave work at whatever time he pleased. Typically, that was much later than his coworkers. Car parking was becoming a big problem for many in the thriving city, but he had an assigned space in the basement garage of his apartment building.
Another tough day and he was relieved to park the car and climb the stairs to the third-floor apartment where he knew Masako and their two children, Myumi, sixteen, and Songi, eleven, would be waiting. Masako understood why he worked such long hours and was very patient.
After all, he mused, she had proven this as she waited for his return after a long absence during the war. He said goodbye to her in June 1944 for what was expected to be a four-month deployment as a Navy flyer but had instead been away for eighteen months. Shortly after the war ended, Masako had been reunited with a much changed man. Shinichi, for his part, was able to hold his daughter, Myumi, for the very first time.
As he passed a dim light in the stairwell Shinichi again glanced at his wristwatch—twenty minutes after eight—just about his usual time. It was amazing where this watch had been and how much it had endured while in his possession. Years ago a total stranger, who at one time held Shinichi's entire future in his hands, had quietly commented; “Swiss. It's very good quality. It will last many years if you take good care of it.” That very statement has given him hope when his future looked dim. He had treasured the watch and so far it had never failed to keep good time.
His mind often recalled those times, eighteen years ago when Japan was at war and his own survival had depended on, skill, determination, and most of all, a measure of luck.
Chapter Two:
Lost in the Wilderness
It was a small, rustic cabin snuggled against a growth of silver birch and aspen. The walls were constructed from rough-hewn logs laid horizontally and crudely dove-tailed at the corners. The low gable roof, sagging in the middle, was covered with sod. A chimney poked out of the roof where a single piece of corrugated iron sheet protected the sod from any stray embers. There was no sign of smoke from the chimney although a large stack of firewood lay close by the door.
It was a pretty scene. Afternoon sunlight brought a glow to the yellow and golden autumn leaves still clinging to the branches of the trees. Nearby a small unseen stream babbled gently. It was the only sound breaking the silence of the wilderness.
A man stood amongst the trees twenty yards away watching for any sign of life in the cabin. Despite being fatigued, wet, and injured after thirty hours of wandering in the wilds, he had carefully circled the cabin once and checked the first hundred yards of a trail leading away to the north. No sign of any other structures close by.
Now he quietly observed for ten minutes, leaning against a tree and a crudely made staff for support. Seeing no sign of movement he finally decided he must take the chance. The desire for shelter and a place to rest and get dry and warm was overpowering. Relying heavily on his staff, he staggered painfully the few yards to cabin and cautiously peered into the one small window set in the front wall. Shading his eyes, he could see very little inside. The corner of a table was visible near the window, some kind of wooden chest near the back wall, the rest hidden in the depths of the gloomy interior.
For a minute he stood wondering what to do, finally deciding to rap on the door. A gentle rap first, then after a moment, a more forceful thump. There was no response from inside. Tentatively he tried the heavy iron latch. It appeared to be locked and wouldn't move. Then he noticed a nail positioned in a hole so as to prevent to latch from lifting. Now, as it was locked from the outside, he knew nobody could be there. He wriggled the nail free, the latch lifted and with a little coaxing the door swung open with a squeal of rusted hinges.
The cabin was a single room about twelve feet by twenty feet in size. The interior walls were similar to the outside; simple, irregular logs with the gaps chinked with moss and clay. The uneven floor was adequately covered by rough-sawn planks. The roof, six feet high at the eaves, was formed from many saplings laid tightly together. A couple of logs spanned the cabin from wall to wall, barely above head height, with vertical braces to support the ridge. Against the end wall was a rusting cast-iron woodstove and a small stack of split wood for fuel.
The furnishings were spartan at best; near the window was a long table, simply four roughly sawn planks fastened together and braced against the wall. On the table a few pans and dishes were piled in a large metal bowl. A crudely fashioned wooden chair stood by the table. Against the back wall was a wooden chest with metal strap bindings. There were two narrow bunks; one against the back wall and one at the end wall.
Crudely built shelves on the wall over the table held several tin cans, glass jars, bottles, and a miscellany of bits and pieces. A few large cooking utensils and a small mirror hung from nails in the wall. A lantern was suspended on a piece of wire and hook over the table.
In the far corner were stacked some metal buckets, and two flat metal pans, a couple of axes, a pick-ax, a shovel and a broom. Hanging on wooden pegs was a small-gauge rifle, a couple of fishing rods, a bow-saw, some coiled rope, a canvas knapsack, and two pairs of snowshoes. These latter items were homemade by the look of them. A bundle of animal traps and wire snares hung from another wooden peg. Everything was arranged tidily but was dusty and rusty, evidence that nothing had been disturbed for quite some time.
Surveying all of this, the man gave a sigh of relief. Sparse as the cabin was, it was just what he needed for shelter after his grueling ordeal in the wilderness. He le
aned his staff against the wall near the door and set about seeing what could be of use. Getting clean and dry, tending to his wound and finding food were high priorities. He had eaten little in the last thirty hours except a few bites of rice cake and some wild berries.
Shinichi Oda, at twenty-five years of age was—or at least used to be—the pilot of a Japanese Mitsubishi A6M-2 Zero and he is still dressed in a flying suit and kapok-filled flotation vest. The previous morning he had been part of a Japanese carrier attack group sent to disrupt the flow of goods to Alaska along the newly constructed Alaska-Canada military road. The Americans were moving thousands of tons of supplies northwest through Canada to Alaska in anticipation of an attempted Japanese invasion. These few navy fliers could never hope to permanently sever the supply line but any disruption would be a lesson to the enemy that they were not entirely safe on their own continent.
It hadn't gone quite as planned. Launched from the aircraft carrier Agachi in the Gulf of Alaska, the six planes had flown for one hour to reach the Alaska coastline. Then they flew inland at a low level over awesome glaciers and through spectacular mountain passes with snow-covered peaks towering high either side. Unfortunately—and much to their disappointment—northeast of the mountains a low-lying layer of clouds prevented any view of the ground. According to their prearranged plan, however, the group split into pairs with each searching for a way down through the clouds with the hope of selecting a likely target for their bombs and bullets. A bridge, a base camp, or better still a military convoy would be the most suitable objective.
However, after searching further west for an hour—and not being able to see the ground at all, he and his companion pilot had gotten carried away with youthful exuberance and attacked a lone American aircraft flying westward just above the cloud layer. Shinichi identified it as a Douglas A-20 twin-engine attack aircraft. They rationalized that chalking up any kill would be better than nothing.
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