A few days after planning our strategy, we arrived at the mine and picked up all of our equipment only to be told that we would be walking down the tunnel that day because the rail car was broken. We marched down single file. About halfway down, we saw the motor. It looked like a fifty-horsepower motor, huge by anyone’s standard. The first man to pass the motor, as planned, loosened the wing nut to the oil reservoir. The second man removed its cover, and the next six men dropped into the open oil reservoir rocks, hard coal, and anything else available in the mine that could cause damage to the motor. The last two men in our group were responsible for replacing the oil cover. We continued to our work area, knowing that sooner or later the motor would stop. Then we would have accomplished two things: first, we would be able to stop working for a while, and second, we would have contributed, in some small manner, to the U.S. war effort.
An hour later, all hell broke loose. The belt in the main tunnel, the one taking the coal topside, stopped. We found out about the stoppage when the coal in our side lateral trough started to bunch up; it would not move out onto the belt. This backup of coal signaled that something was wrong with the main coal-carrying belt, and our work group had to stop shoveling coal because we had no place to put it. Our plan had worked! We just sat down and rested for about three hours, until the motor was replaced or repaired and things got back to normal.
Each day, once we reached our workplace in the mine and got ready for work, we always had to wait for a supervisor to come into our tunnel and tell us how many cars of coal he expected our group to produce. At the beginning of one shift, about ten minutes went by before in strode a Japanese man, standing about six feet tall, with a husky build and a wide smile covering his face. He was dressed all in black in a high-necked tunic and tight-fitting trousers. His uniform had four white stripes on the tunic’s sleeves; I later found out they indicated he was a high official of the mine. We referred to him as the “Four Striper.”
The Four Striper began tapping the walls of our area with a stick he was carrying that looked like a cane. After a few minutes, he looked at me and said in Japanese, “Twelve cars of coal today.” I was amazed. Did he really know how to calculate the number of cars of coal just by tapping the walls? He must have noticed my surprised look, for he said, “Yatte mini” (try it). I then realized he knew no more about coal mining than we did. Because I was the one who understood and could communicate with the Japanese, I decided to test him right there and then. I borrowed his cane and tapped the walls all around us. When I finished, I looked him in the eye and said, “Dai-hachi, yatte mimasho” (eight I will try for; that’s the best we can do). He looked me in the eye and stared me down for what seemed like one full minute. He then smiled and said in English with a Japanese accent, “OK.”
At the end of our shift, we did in fact produce eight cars of coal. When we got topside, the Four Striper looked for me and with a big smile said, “Yeroshi” (good). Then he proudly handed each man in our crew a big red apple. We tried to imagine how coal miners back in the United States would respond to a reward of an apple. What the Four Striper did not know, however, was that we completed our work in just five hours. We then sat down in our lateral, took off our headlamps, buried them light first in the loose coal, and slept. That was the beginning of an almost daily routine for the next few months.
We negotiated the number of cars of coal each day, and I might add, the Japanese always settled for the number we bargained for. Then after we made our quota, we would find a place to rest where we would not be discovered. This scheme usually meant at least four or five hours of rest each day. Unfortunately, we hungry men did not get an apple each day.
When the work day was over and we walked up the mine shaft to reach topside, we had a choice of bathing there or going back to our barracks. The men on our shift always voted to return to camp unless we were the first ones finished. Only if we were on the first shift did we vote to take a hot bath in crystal-clear water. When we were ready to march back to the barracks, we would line up four abreast in front of the mine entrance and start our three-mile march back to camp.
Our daily routine of marching to the mine, working in the mine for ten hours, being forced to walk up the mine shaft to topside while carrying all of the coal-digging equipment, and then walking the three miles back to camp became almost impossible. Those first few weeks in the mine were devastating, by far the most trying of my three years in Japan. Each day became worse than the day before, as we started to hate the very thought of working in the mine. We knew that each day brought additional challenges and dangers. Our continued forced labor exhausted us and exacted a heavy toll on our emotions and our survival attitude.
By the end of the first month, we were accustomed to the routine. We then needed something to take our minds off the continued harassment and beatings by both the Japanese soldiers and the civilians in the mine. As our group marched back to camp, I kept searching the streets, the people, and the terrain for telltale marks that would give me some relief from the tensions of the workday. Surprisingly enough, some of the people lining the road from the mine to our camp seemed to have a very sad and questioning air about them. If only I could talk to them, to ask them how the war was going and what the future held for us, maybe then I could carry on in a more positive spirit.
When we arrived at camp, the guards searched our bodies as well as all of our clothes. What were they looking for? The guards did not communicate with us or give us any indication that anything was wrong. We did not know what was happening. Finally one of the officers explained that on selected days they would conduct searches for specific items. This day the guards were looking for contraband. They wanted to see if any of us had picked up items that belonged to the Japanese civilians in the mine. They did not find anything, so we were ordered back into camp, then dismissed. We were allowed to go to our barracks, to the showers, to the mess hall for our evening meal, or just to wander throughout the camp.
That evening as Doc Hewlett and I were talking about the day’s events, Doc explained that he could not keep records of the men’s health conditions and wished that he had some way to write down each man’s sick call diagnosis and the treatment given. This information would be quite valuable to the men in the future, Doc felt, for a record of a man’s condition, his treatment, and his prognosis during the time he was a prisoner would help immensely in treating an illness, sickness, or injury once back home. Then Doc said once we were released the proper authorities would have a better chance of improving our overall physical condition if we had medical records available detailing what happened to us and the treatment we received while prisoners. I promised Doc that I would try to obtain some writing paper for our medics’ use. I did not know how, but I felt that I could find a way.
My chance came only a few days later while shoveling coal in the mine. One of the Japanese civilian overseers, knowing that I spoke a little Japanese, approached me and asked whether I knew where he could buy a tube of American toothpaste. I told him that I would try to locate one when I got back into camp. He instructed me not to say anything to anyone else, to keep quiet. I smiled a knowing smile and said I understood. Then I asked what he would pay or trade for a valuable tube of American toothpaste. He said in Japanese, “Anything. How about tobacco?”
Tobacco really meant cigarettes, and cigarettes were our medium of exchange in camp. So I agreed. “How many?”
He replied, “Ten, twenty, maybe thirty.” I told him I would try to find some toothpaste, but whether I could get any was going to depend on how many packs of cigarettes he would trade for the toothpaste.
I started to think. Would he be able to get me some writing paper, in any form—a booklet or loose sheets—that our medics could use for record keeping? I felt that I had found someone with whom I could begin a good trading relationship. He and I both knew that this bartering or trading was against Japanese policy and that we would be punished if caught. But, what the hell, I was already living on bo
rrowed time. I figured I might just as well have a little excitement in my life and at the same time help the medics keep health records of the prisoners for their future use. Little did I know then how important a copy of my wartime medical records would be when seeking assistance from the Veterans Administration once I got back to the United States.
I introduced myself to the overseer as Tenney San (Mr. Tenney). He said his name was Moto San; he came from Kyoto and was here just to work in the mine and train the prisoners on how to produce coal. He asked where I came from and in what city in the United States was I born. When I replied Chicago, he laughed, pointed his finger at me, and said, “Caponeee—Gango.” I understood what he meant at once. First, I was from Chicago, Al Capone’s town, and at that time, everyone knew that Capone was a gangster. Second, I was about to do the same things a gangster would do, things that were against the law.
Moto San was a small man, about five feet four inches tall and not more than 120 pounds. He had jet-black hair, which he kept short because of all the coal dust, and he looked much younger than his forty-five years. The one thing that set him apart from the rest of the prison guards were his eyes. Bright, shining, and the happiest eyes I had ever seen, they looked mischievous, but loaded with fun. Although Moto San spoke a little English, he was very patient with my speaking what I later learned was “gutter” Japanese. He explained that I had learned the language from the soldiers on Bataan, who undoubtedly were from the poorer areas of Japan and did not receive as good an education as their compatriots.
Back in camp I had to find someone with toothpaste. We Americans had never received any Red Cross packages, so when seeking something that would normally be found in a Red Cross box, we contacted some of the POWs in our camp from as far away as Australia, China, England, and Java. The Javanese soldiers arrived in excellent health, not having endured the Bataan march, and the Japanese did not hate them as much as the guards hated us Americans. Of course, the English and Australians were Caucasians, which led the Japanese to dislike them almost as much as they despised us Americans. Generally, the Javanese prisoners were treated much better than the Filipinos or Americans.
In my search around camp the next few days, I found that the Javanese prisoners had hoarded dozens of items, from toothbrushes to cans of coffee. Apparently, when a Javanese prisoner received a Red Cross box while a prisoner in Java, he kept the contents for future use. When I questioned them about this practice, they said they had saved the goods for a “rainy day.”
The fact was that I could find almost anything simply by passing on the word that I wanted an item. Cigarettes would buy just about anything in the camp, from rice to having an experienced bone breaker fracture a bone or two, just to keep a man out of work and the mine for a week, a month, or maybe forever. I could also purchase it with U.S. currency or IOUs that were properly signed and witnessed by our camp commander and made payable after the war ended. These IOUs were supposed to be paid in U.S. dollars once we received our back pay from the government. Maj. John Mamerow, our American camp commander, told me privately that the notes would not stand up in any court and were not even worth the paper they were written on; but, if they were what the Javanese men wanted, it was agreeable with him. One of the reasons Major Mamerow felt the notes could never be collected was that the prices asked were outlandishly high and undue pressure was applied to influence the exchange. For example, an aspirin tablet would require a promissory note for one hundred dollars, or for a ration of rice, an IOU for one hundred dollars. None of the note signers ever intended to renege on their debts, but hunger and pain can cause anyone to promise anything to get relief.
Before long, I found someone in the Javanese barracks with a nice new tube of Colgate toothpaste, still in its original box. He wanted ten packs of cigarettes for it. At this time in camp, a bowl of rice cost three cigarettes, so the Javanese prisoner asked a mighty handsome price just for a tube of toothpaste.
The price of rice fluctuated daily, depending on the probability of cigarettes being issued that day or the length of time since they were last issued. Our experience showed that we could expect one pack of ten cigarettes every four to seven weeks, give or take a few weeks in either direction. In other words, it was anybody’s guess as to when cigarettes would be issued. This measure of uncertainty kept the value of rice and soup constantly fluctuating. In addition, of course, the value of everything else varied along with the inventory or availability of cigarettes. One thing was certain: the number of cigarettes available for trading diminished daily. While the non-traders smoked them, the traders kept their supply safe and well hidden—safe not only from theft but from the possibility of the tobacco drying and falling out, which would make the investment (the cigarette) lose some of its trading value.
At my next meeting with my newfound Japanese friend, Moto San, I told him I had located a tube of toothpaste, but the owner wanted twenty packs of cigarettes for it. Moto San did not blink an eye. He said, “OK, tomorrow I bring tobacco.” I then said that I would like to have some paper to draw or write on and asked if he could bring me a little paper notebook as my gift for getting him the toothpaste. He was excited and seemed very happy to accommodate my request. He said, “Tomorrow, tomorrow I bring you gift.” Thus, the stage was set for a new enterprise; a new business was going to operate right here in Japan with a partnership between Moto San and Tenney San. What experiences lay ahead?
The difference between what my Javanese friend asked for the toothpaste and what I told Moto San was my commission, or profit, for the risk I was taking, the risk of being caught and put to death. Why was I willing to do this? Was it for the excitement or just the chance to eat a little better? I really did not take the time to think this through; I just decided to start trading. It seemed like an easy way for me to get more food and, at the same time, to provide some good benefits to my fellow prisoners in the camp. Of course, I liked the thrill of doing something daring, something different, and I would enjoy the attention from the medics after I was able to supply them with the paper necessary for recording our medical histories.
I knew I had to be careful. First, I had to figure out how to avoid handing over the toothpaste before getting paid. If I did not receive my payment, I would still be obligated to pay the Javanese for his toothpaste. My second concern was to come up with a way to carry twenty packages of cigarettes in my clothes without being detected by the guards. A Japanese pack consisted of only ten cigarettes, making them smaller and easier to carry back to camp and to hide than the larger American packs of twenty cigarettes. And last, I had to face the fact that on the day I was carrying in the contraband the guards might search me upon my entry to camp.
Finally the day came for the trade. The arrangements were all made. Moto San knew I was bringing the toothpaste down into the mine that day and that he had to have twenty packs of cigarettes ready for me in just a plain wrapper. No one was supposed to know anything about our transaction. For my part, I carried the toothpaste out of the camp in one of my pockets. I knew the guards never searched us on leaving camp, only on coming back in. So I left camp, anxious for my first trading experience.
We walked our normal route to the mine. Once there, the Japanese guards turned us over to the civilian workers. We arranged for the tools we would need that day: a jackhammer, four five-foot long bits, a can of lubricating oil, three picks, four coal shovels, our headlamps, batteries and belts, and of course, five sticks of dynamite, blaster caps, and dynamite cord. Once we gathered all of the equipment, we entered the room where our Japanese civilian supervisor was waiting. I spotted Moto San at once, and he acknowledged me. That day, our group started down the mine shaft in a rail car, which was a real treat.
Once in our lateral, we assembled the jackhammer and inserted a starter bit into the head. At about that time Moto San spoke up, “Today we get only seven cars of coal, no problem.” With that he sat down on the outside of the lateral and called me over. He asked me if I had the toothpaste,
and when I responded, “Yes,” he opened his tunic and displayed twenty packs of cigarettes, just as he had promised. I explained as best I could that I did not want the cigarettes then; I would get them right before we started to go topside. He agreed to this and instructed me to go back and work with the group to get seven cars of coal.
All during that workday, I was as nervous as a cat. All I could think of was what I would do and say if I got caught. How was I going to get these cigarettes back to the camp? Then I had an idea: I could tie them around the inside of my thighs with some of the dynamite cord. That way, even if I was searched, the guards would not find them. They rarely did a complete body search, especially on the 4:00 A.M. shift I was working. The Japanese had instituted three twelve-hour shifts, and every ten days we rotated shifts. We used to joke wryly that the Japanese invented the thirty-six-hour day with the ten-day work week.
Anyway, the day shift got searched most often and the other shifts just occasionally, so I waited to trade until I was on a shift that was met by only a few guards at the camp’s entrance. If the Japanese wanted to do a complete search, they would have to search about six hundred men.
When we filled our required seven cars of coal, we were told to rest for a while. Each of us knew that meant to bury our lights in the loose coal and stay quiet, for even the Japanese civilians wanted a little rest now and then. I approached Moto San and showed him the piece of dynamite cord I had saved for tying the cigarettes to my thighs. When he saw and heard what I was going to do, he said, “Very good, very good.” He opened the top buttons of his tunic and slowly brought out the cigarettes, which were wrapped in two packages of ten packs of cigarettes. He placed these two packages next to my bento box. At the same time, I picked up my jacket and pulled out from one of the pockets the tube of toothpaste in its original carton. When I handed Moto San the tube of toothpaste, his eyes flashed a warm, happy acknowledgment. I then attached the cigarette packages to the inside of my thighs with the dynamite cord. When I finished, Moto San handed me two notebooks of plain lined paper. The notebooks were small, about three inches by five inches, and without thinking I slipped them into my jacket pocket.
My Hitch in Hell Page 20