This Japanese pilot was down but he was alive and he carried a pistol. And he will shoot me if he gets a chance. And I have nothing with which to defend myself. My pistol is still in the airplane soaking these many months under seawater.
I have had more than enough time to get a pig. I could have at least made a sling or a sling propelled spear. It’s not that I haven’t had some experience with both of them, because I have.
It was after my friends and I saw one of Cecile B. DeMille’s classic movies, maybe the Crusades or the Sign of The Cross that we made our version of both of these weapons. In my neighborhood, we did these kinds of things. I remember after we saw Young Tom Edison, we tried making an explosive.
Mickey Rooney, who played Tom, made a bottle of Nitro-glycerin. He carried his bottle aboard a train, where in a casual conversation he showed it to a passenger. It almost scared him to death. The passenger took the bottle, opened a window and through it out. It so happened that they were crossing a river. It missed the bridge and landed in the water below, making a terrific explosion. After seeing this movie, we decided to duplicate this explosion. We poured gasoline in a pipe and then put a green apple in the barrel of our improvised canon. The apple went nowhere and we managed to set the field on fire.
I set out with two fish for bait and a length of vine rope left over from my cistern construction. I went east of my camp to where I had seen the swine prints. I planned to make a loop and cover the ground with leaves. Then I would attach the other end of the snare to a bent branch and stake it down, anything to hold a pig until I could get back. The bait was hung from another branch just above the loop.
I went back the next day. There were fresh prints but the snare was intact. The only thing different was the baitfish, the longer it hung there the more to a pigs liking it became. And, furthermore, the longer it was there the more likely it was to attract more than one pig and from farther away.
I attached the hunting knife to one of my spears by several strips of a sinewy vine. I preferred not to get too close. The pig I snared might be a tusker, and the best way to get killed and eaten is to get hooked and knocked down by an enraged pig.
I went back several more times before I caught one. Each time there was more pig activity, but they had made no attempt to yank the fish from the bait branch where it had been hanging.
The next time, I could see before I got to the small clearing that the fish was gone. But there was no sign of a snared pig. Just because I couldn’t see him from where I was standing didn’t mean he hadn’t caught a leg in the loop and was now hiding waiting for me to get closer.
Wild pigs are smart and they are dangerous. That’s not to say domesticated pigs are exactly tame. Never trust one and above all never let children near them. That’s the watchwords from farmers who have been around them all their lives.
But a wild pig in danger is more likely to remain quiet than he is to be squealing. Both kinds are highly intelligent. Supposedly, the so called domesticated are number one smart in the barnyard, smarter even than the family dog and that is saying quite a bit.
Wild boars, like Cape buffalo, are known to stalk hunters. They have been known to lie in wait in cover and attack as they pass by. That’s why big game hunters consistently list them as number one and tuskers as number two on their list of the most dangerous and, therefore, the most hunted. But is a snared boar really smart enough to lie quietly when he hears his enemy approaching? I don’t know that’s why I am taking no chances.
My only experience with wild boars comes from another movie, The Lives of a Bengal Lancer. This was one of my all time favorites. It had been nominated for several academy awards, which didn’t interest me in the least. I liked it because it was a rip-roaring adventure story that took place in India.
It seems that these lancers had been invited to hunt wild boar by their archenemy Mohammad Khan, a renegade chieftain that lived in a mountain stronghold. During the hunt, one of the younger lancer officers stuck a pig with his lance. He had been warned at length by his commanding officer never to dismount from his horse because of the danger. The experienced senior officer explained what a man on foot would be up against if he did. And how it was likely he would be killed when the wounded boar ambushed him.
I didn’t see anything but more hoof prints. I even saw where one had been using his hoofs to paw the ground, and there was a peculiar smell as though there was a female nearby. Taking advantage of this, I left two more fish.
I wish I had some corn. I know from experience that hogs like corn. In fact they like corn about as well as anything, but I also know from experience that they will eat almost anything. I have never seen them eat a fish but then I have never seen them fed one, either.
The following day produced nothing but more signs of boar activity and a need for more bait. So far I have confirmed that hogs are smart and they like fish. But then I knew that already. After four more tries, I concluded they are smarter than I am. But I have gained something; if not a boar, then a sure knowledge that I’m getting in shape from the trips back and forth to my camp.
That night I turned in early, all the better to think. I promised myself I would leave off my favorite thoughts, which of late had included Joyce and what it will be like meeting her.
I have to tell you, I still love Gene and that Joyce is a fantasy and not part of the real world. She only comes around at night, while Gene occupies my thoughts during the day, and Gene is the one I talk to.
I read someplace where men think about women every fifteen minutes, and of course they dream about them most of the night–at least some men do. And I guess I am no different. Certainly, my forced captivity here on this island has not changed any of my former habits.
Last night I went to sleep thinking about how to make a foolproof boar trap. Actually, my problem is not getting them to come around it is catching one after they do. But one thing for sure, they are getting used to the free handouts of fish. And I have a hunch there are more than one that’s coming around.
I spent several nights of pleasant thoughts thinking about any number of contraptions to trap one, leaving off those that might injure the pig.
I thought about making an Argentine “bolo.” This thing has a two-foot length of leather cord, fastened to the ends of two weights. I used a vine rope and two small coconuts. The idea was to throw the bolo affair at the back legs of the pig. The weights wrap around his legs and keep him from running. A good idea but it needed a lot of practice to be effective. Still I made one and began to practice.
However, the best idea I came up with was a hole in the ground. If you’re going to match wits with a pig, you can’t give him a chance to think, as the bolo might have. You have to keep it so simple he will have no reason to exercise his brain. Now all I have to do is find something to dig it with.
I don’t want to, but I’m going back to the navy plane to see if I can find a piece of sheet metal. That’s all it has to be, I don’t need a shovel the sand is soft and probably goes down for more than four feet.
At the airplane next morning, I found something suitable. It was even a little concave, resembling a shovel. I also found something else. More small footprints, the size of those at the beach were all over the place, some even leading back through the jungle. I had no desire to follow them. I knew they led to his camp where I could expect to find this crashed airplane full of bullet holes.
I took my shovel and left in a hurry. I was scared. He was armed and he knows I’m here, and he knows where I am. And worse yet, he might have even seen me. I had forgotten about him for a few days, now he was back in my mind and it was racing a mile a minute to say nothing of my heart.
But if he has seen me, why hasn’t he shot me? I know these people, they are ruthless and we are at war. Even if my presence means nothing, he is still going to shoot me. But why hasn’t he done it? It must have been several months since I first left my footprints at the airplane. Why is he waiting?
Then it came to
me. He is waiting for somebody to come and rescue me. He has taken the machine gun from his airplane, set it up and he is waiting.
He figures he is not serving his emperor lying around on this island, so he is going to do something–even if it means losing his life. I know these people. Every American by now knows a lot about the Japanese and how they think. And let me tell you there’s a world of difference between where they are going to spend eternity if they commit suicide in battle, and where they are going if they are captured without a fight. And they get more credit if they kill several combatants rather than ambush one unarmed American that is unable to defend himself. Of course if push comes to shove, killing me is better than nothing. But I don’t think it will get him into any special Japanese heaven if he does.
I ran part way back. I have been putting it off; I need to find a piece of rosewood or some other kind of wood, something with spring in it. Bamboo won’t work. I need to make a bow and arrow. And I need to do it now. I have to go after this guy before he changes his mind and comes after me.
I am serious. What I was doing before, thinking about javelins and slings, was more for amusement than anything else. Now I am, indeed, serious. I need a weapon, one that is easy to make and easy to shoot and not made from leather. For that matter, I could have gotten by with using a length of braided vine for a “David,” type sling. It would have needed a leather pouch to hold the rock. But I could have made-do with one cut from the canvas parachute pack. Maybe I will try that later, but right now I need something simple and more accurate. I don’t think I could hit the broadside of a barn with either one of the other two. And it’s for certain if I tried it and missed, I would get myself shot.
I took half a dozen small bamboo rods with me when next I went to dig my pig trap. I looked for some rosewood on my way to the clearing but didn’t see any.
It doesn’t have to be rosewood, rosewood just happens to be the first thing coming to mind. And that was because I had made a bow from some when I was a boy and it worked.
I finally got a pig. I had scooped out a small deep hole and covered it over with my poles. Then I covered them with dead palm branches and laid the fish in the center.
I roasted the pig Hawaiian style under the sand. Not only because I had been thinking about it for so long, but also because I didn’t want to build a large smoky fire to roast it on a spit.
It was while I was eating that the thought came to me. Why don’t I set a pig trap for my Japanese friend? It wouldn’t have to be that deep. He couldn’t crawl out; the sand would be too loose. I think I could do it in an hour. I would take a vine rope and pull myself out after I finished.
Once I had him, I could either leave him there or throw my modified bamboo spear at him.
No doubt it would solve a lot of my problems. For one, my peace of mind would return. I missed the nights thinking about Joyce. And talking to Gene in the daytime wasn’t the same. I was scared of him. And that’s all I could think about was being ambushed and stabbed in the back.
Then too, I could check out his camp for a radio. If he hadn’t run down the battery, I might get an SOS out to some station that was listening.
The more I thought about it the more I liked the idea. What I didn’t like was the idea of shooting him with my bow and arrow while he stood helpless in the pig pit. Then too, all pilots carry side arms. The navy pilot had one, but I would rather die than get that close and go through the unpleasant rigmarole of taking it off him.
Even if the Jap were trapped in a sand pit, he would shoot me if I tried shooting him. And the pit might not hold him for that long, either. I visualized him starting at one end and pulling sand down on top of him to increase the level of the pit floor and then climb out.
It’s a given that Japanese aviators are smarter than pigs. But I’ll tell you what; there were many Americans who would give you an argument about that right after Pearl Harbor. Most of us figured they were as dumb as a box of rocks for attacking us. And it would turn out to be true, it was a huge mistake on their part.
I would have to do it at night–it would give me better odds of not being overtaken while digging. If he should happen by, well it’s a chance I had to take.
But once I had him, how was I going to feed and water him? Not so easy as I first thought but the idea definitely had possibilities. And his radio might be the only way I have of ever being rescued. For some time now, I have been thinking I might be in line to beat Ben Gunn’s record for inhabiting an uninhabited island.
For the next week, thoughts of how I was exactly going to trap him were hashed and rehashed in my mind.
It was three nights later that I awoke with a start. I sat up in a sweat, my heart was pounding my throat was dry. I got up and took a drink of water. I had almost made the mistake of my life. I had not considered there might be another passenger, a gunner in the back seat of the Japanese plane. I couldn’t remember if they carried one or two crewmembers.
We had studied aircraft recognition at preflight school. In fact it was one of our major subjects. There were even cadets who washed-out because they couldn’t identify enemy airplanes fast enough. It is easy to do if you have plenty of time but not so easy if all you have is maybe a half-second.
And it wasn’t only enemy aircraft but it was our own and Great Britain’s as well. And each air force had half-dozen airplanes.
I went back the next day to measure the footprints to determine if they were all the same. If some of them were not mine, and if they didn’t match my Japanese pilot, then he was probably carrying a gunner. I stayed there as long as I thought prudent, while listening for somebody coming through the jungle.
I couldn’t make up my mind for sure. I was leaning toward one crewmember, though. After all it was a rather insignificant thing at the time I was in pre-flight school, and that was over a year ago. But it was not one of the classes I daydreamed through. This one, like Morse code, mathematics, and navigation required my complete attention. So it came to me now, I should have known the answer.
Then I got to thinking; maybe I was losing my memory, because I couldn’t remember what the airplane looked like, and then I changed to thinking it was caused by stress coupled with an inadequate diet.
Why he hadn’t shot me was another thing bothering me? The reason was not that important, but whether he would do it at some later date bothered me for sure.
I had dug this hole in the middle of his path just a few feet inside the far edge of the clearing, almost next to the navy airplane. From where I was digging, I could see the navy pilot and it gave me the shivers. I would rather be someplace else.
The digging went faster than I thought it would. I had finished and was climbing out when it happened. The worst possible thing; the vine rope broke. One minute I was the aggressor and the next minute I was the captive.
I had chosen a night when the moon was nearly full. I had plenty of light, and I thought I had plenty of time to finish the job, but it seemed only a few minutes before the sun came up and I heard him coming.
My heart leaped into my throat, filling it up so that I couldn’t swallow. But before I had time to dwell on it for very long, he was standing over me with his pistol drawn. The only thing I could think about was how small he was and how large the pistol was.
I raised my hands and smiled. At the same time I said “ohayo gozaimasu” one of the half dozen words I remembered. And then in case I had gotten it wrong, I followed up with “kinichiwa.” He never laughed or even smiled, which he should have because the situation was funny in any language.
I had been “hoisted on my own petard.” I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar and I had been checkmated. The game was over. Why didn’t he shoot me?
But he must have thought I was crazy. The thought crossed my mind quickly along with a lot of others. He had waited too long. If he were going to shoot me, he would have done it. Then I thought about the Chinese and how the Japanese shot thousands of their prisoners.
He
took one long look and holstered his pistol. Then he kicked a fair amount of sand in my face as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do.
All I could think of was Charles Atlas. Frivolous, but that’s how the mind works under extreme stress. Charles Atlas: you know, the body builder who flooded the pulp magazines in the 30’s and 40’s with adds to sell a bodybuilding course? Repeated many times, they featured a well-developed bully kicking sand in a skinny kid’s face at the beach. They were meant to grab the attention of every underdeveloped boy in the country. You, too, could develop some muscles if you bought an Atlas’ course. And then you not only would get the girls, but nobody at the beach would dare kick sand in your face again.
But I was almost six feet tall and had a carload of muscles, while a small man of a little more than five feet had just kicked sand in my face. That started me laughing again. I don’t know if it was that funny or I was just relieved he was not going to shoot me. Maybe not right then but he would. He was just going to play some cat and mouse with me. I had heard they did this.
I had seen in the newsreels at the theatres where they let Chinese prisoners think they were safe, and then when they were least expecting it they shot them in the head. A gruesome sight to be sure and I never forgot it. It was supposed to make you angry enough to either enlist or buy some war bonds for sale in the lobby. It worked, too, feelings against the Japanese were running at fever pitch and they were very slow to cool down.
He never said a word to me. He just looked me over real close and then sneered. That sneer said it all, he held me in the utmost contempt and I was sure now he was going to shoot me without further ado.
I don’t know when I came by the idea that he was kamikaze–a suicide pilot. Anyway it was fleeting, he definitely was not, and who he was and what he was would occupy my mind at night for some time to come.
I didn’t know anything about Japanese navy rank but he had a lot of stripes on his shoulder epaulets. I didn’t think it was important at the time, but I was to find out much later just how important to my survival it was. And my thinking about him being as dumb as a box of rocks was way off. He was smart, just as smart as his rank indicated he was.
Somewhere West of Fiji Page 7