After walking up the mine tunnel and then walking the three miles back to camp with twenty packs of cigarettes tied to my thighs, I realized that I had earned my ten-pack commission. As I had expected, when we arrived at the entrance to the camp, the guards simply opened the gates and herded us in. Once inside, the guards started to give us a cursory search, just patting our bodies for contraband.
Oh my God, I thought, I forgot about the notebooks of paper. What would happen if they found them? When the guard got to me, he patted my jacket, and when he reached the pocket, he stopped. He inserted his hand and brought out the two books of paper. He opened the books and flashed through them. He looked at me, laughed, and said, “lie o-kane” (no money). He was only looking for Japanese money coming into camp illegally, not for paper notebooks. It seemed that if the guards were given orders to search for one particular thing, that was all they looked for that day. Any other type of contraband could come in unchallenged. When the guard finished flashing through the two notebooks and found nothing in them, not even any writing, he put them back into my pocket and waved me through to the barracks.
I had sweated profusely during the search. I was scared not knowing what was going to happen and knowing I was breaking the rules. As I walked toward my barracks that morning, I said to myself, “Yep, I made it! I made it, and tomorrow I will eat good. I’ll buy an extra ration of rice.”
I felt good that night, and as I got ready to sleep, I wondered what would be next on my list of wants. I wanted to go home, but this was not possible now. I wanted to hold my wife in my arms and to caress her and tell her how much I missed her, but this also was impossible. It seemed that the few things I really wanted, I could not have, so I resorted to the desires that I could fulfill. I was not alone in dreaming about my home, my family, my wife. Whenever a small group of us got together to talk about the past, we would always come around to our loved ones and our home life. What else was there to dream about, live for, and want to come home to?
CHAPTER 11
CAMP 17
As time went on and our work became more routine, many of us were virtually able to fall asleep while shoveling coal. Our bodies were so totally exhausted and our energy so sapped that we were able to do the shoveling as an action of our subconscious, sort of from rote memory. Like Pavlov’s dog, we were conditioned to respond a certain way under a certain set of rules or circumstances.
When the work or conditions became unbearable, when a man felt that another day down in the hole might be his last, either he paid to have someone break a bone in his body, or he broke his own hand, arm, or foot. We had some experienced bone breakers, who, for five rations of rice, would break a hand or foot. It would cost ten or twelve rations to have an arm or leg broken; after all, they needed greater expertise to ensure a clean break with no repercussions once it was healed.
Different methods to get out of work had a long-term negative impact in a few cases. We found out that after smoking iodine-soaked tobacco, one’s lungs would show up on X-ray film with dark spots similar to those found in tuberculosis (TB) cases. A few enterprising men smoked cigarettes that had been soaked in iodine. Then they started imitating a bad cough. After a few weeks, they went on sick call and continued the annoying cough in front of the Japanese and American doctors. The Japanese were deathly afraid of TB, and when they heard the man coughing, they would order him into town for a chest X ray. Then the news would come back that the man had signs of spots on his lung and that he should be isolated from the rest of the men and the Japanese guards. A special room had been set up far from any other camp activities, and the men with signs of TB were placed here for the duration. They were allowed outside for exercise only thirty minutes a day; the rest of the time they were confined. Unfortunately, the TB room housed some men who really were infected with tuberculosis. As a result, the ones who were faking it ended up catching TB from the ones who were truly afflicted.
Although Doctor Hewlett was very capable, competent, and extremely innovative in treating us, we were still well aware that all of his treatment and operations were performed without the necessary surgical instruments, medical supplies, or sterile conditions one could expect in a more normal hospital. To put it mildly, Doc operated wherever and whenever he could and under whatever conditions that prevailed at the time. He would not help us get out of work, but he always made those of us who took matters into our own hands more comfortable. Once one of us would get out of work due to an illness or accident, Doc would do everything in his power to keep us out for as long as possible, bearing in mind that the Japanese placed pressure on him to send at least 95 percent of the men from each barracks to work.
While working in the mine one night, I felt that if I had to go down in the mine the next day it would be my last. So I picked up a steel cable-car locking pin, about ten inches long and two inches in circumference, and placed it close to my bento box: I waited for the time when the Japanese miner working close by would leave and check on what was happening at one of the other laterals. Then I picked up the pin with my right hand, placed my left hand on the end of a skinned tree trunk used to support the ceilings, and with one mighty blow, hit my hand as hard as I could with the steel pin. The pain was excruciating. I did not yell but tears came to my eyes. I saw a huge red bump on my hand, and where the pin had pierced the skin, my hand started to bleed, just a little at first. I was sure I would not have to go back into the mine for a few weeks. A two-week vacation—with full rations because the injury occurred while in the line of duty, working for the emperor—was due me.
When the Japanese worker returned, I was pretending to shovel coal from a wall that we had just blasted down. After a few minutes and with the precision of an engineer, I placed my shovel far enough under the wall of coal to cause a slight break. Coal fell from the top and crashed down on the floor. As soon as this happened, I let out a yell and held out my hand so the supervising Japanese worker could see my damaged and, I hoped, broken hand. All went well so far. All the workers felt sorry for me and within minutes brought me a clean piece of cloth to wrap around my bleeding hand.
That night when our group entered camp, I was taken at once to the medics’ office. Doctor Hewlett took a look at my hand and said, “Looks pretty bad, but you’re lucky. It’s not broken. You’ll be able to go back to work tomorrow.” I thought, Did the Doc know what I went through to try to get this darn hand broken? Did he know the pain I endured, the chance I took? Next time, I determined, I will get an experienced bone breaker to do the job, and get it done right.
When I went back to the mine the following day, I was sort of a hero in the eyes of the Japanese, who thought I was coming back in spite of a painful broken hand. I felt what they did not know would not hurt them, and I did not tell them any different.
Although I failed at my first attempt to break my hand, I succeeded the next time, and despite my earlier resolve, I did it myself. I did not want to run the risk of someone else doing it wrong and then having to suffer the consequences. I broke my hand about a month after the earlier botched-up job. It hurt so much more the second time. As I was right-handed, of course, it was my left hand that I damaged; after all, I did not want to take a chance of permanently injuring my good right hand.
One of the more ingenious inventions to get out of work was the homemade ulcer. Making an ulcer was really quite simple. One time when I wanted to get out of work in the mine, I first took a sharp instrument, like a pointed knife or pin, and pricked my foot, just above the ankle, about twenty times to make it bleed a little. Then I made a paste out of a little piece of our lye soap and some of the powdered lye we used in our latrine to sprinkle over our excrement. I then formed this paste into a small ball, about the size of a nickel, and placed it over the bleeding area and secured it with a bandage. The following morning when I removed the bandage, I found a nice burn scab. With a little work and a little pain, I removed the scab and in its place was a beautiful, fresh-looking ulcer the size of a nicke
l. The medics confirmed that I had an ulcer forming and issued me a no-work order for a few days so the ulcer could start to heal. I was determined, however, that my ulcer would not heal until I wanted it to.
To get out of work a little longer, I waited a few days and then did the same thing except I made the ball of soap and lye the size of a quarter. I placed it on the open sore and bandaged it overnight. The next morning—voilà!—the new ulcer had grown to the size of a quarter. I did this for about a week, until the ulcer was half-dollar size, then I started to let it heal so there would not be any undue questions asked of either the medics or me. That one more week out of work was a great vacation.
The reason for always putting the ulcer on the lower leg was to prevent me from walking to the mine, and certainly it kept me from working in that dirty environment. The homemade ulcers were so real that no one could distinguish them from the genuine thing, not even the medics, though I am sure that somewhere along the line they had a pretty good idea of what was going on. At least two hundred other men used this ulcer ruse, and we put a crimp in the Japanese war effort. Although it was a minor crimp, it sure made us feel good at the time.
Getting out of work in the coal mine was a real challenge. Not only did a man have to break a bone, get caught in a mine cave-in, or develop ulcers on his legs, but he wanted to be sure that, whatever happened, it happened in the mine. That way, if he stayed in camp on sick call, he would still get full rations. If he had an accident while in camp that prevented him from working in the mine, he would only get half rations. And if he got sick, he only got two meals a day.
On a few occasions, a man in our group would start screaming, literally going berserk. The confinement within the mine, the working conditions, or the constant fear of dying caused many men to go off their rockers—some for just a few days, others for the duration. If the Japanese thought a man’s dementia was incurable, they placed him in an isolation room adjacent to the TB room. If they thought he was faking it, however, they took him out to the parade ground, and three or four guards would hit him with wooden planks, rocks, sticks, their wooden slippers, and anything else they could get their hands on. This beating could last for upwards of an hour or two, depending on how the guards felt at the time.
In the meantime, I guess the word got out about my trade with Moto San, for I was approached by another Japanese worker in the mine who said he would pay fifty packs of cigarettes for a pair of size eight shoes. Another civilian worker in the mine wanted an American watch. I was in great demand as a trader of items found in our camp; I even traded with a few of our camp’s guards. I got a kick out of it, and I always insisted that each trade include some kind of writing paper as part of my payment. I realized that this much-needed paper was crucial for keeping the medical records of those men, myself included, who would survive this ordeal. But for now, my job was to find a pair of size eight shoes.
I let the Javanese prisoners know that I was looking for a pair of size eight shoes, in good condition. I also announced that the price was no object. As I expected, it did not take long before one of the Javanese men contacted me, saying he had a pair of size eight shoes. He even brought them over to show me that they were just as good as new. He told me he wanted thirty packs of cigarettes and ten rations of rice and soup. I countered with twenty packs of cigarettes and ten rations of rice and soup. He accepted. All I had to do was arrange the trade, smuggle the shoes to the mine, and get the transfer of ten rations of rice and soup. None of these problems would be easy to solve.
Whatever my commission was on this transaction, I was really going to earn it. The only way I could get size eight shoes to the coal mine was by putting them on my size ten-and-a-half feet and walking them three miles to the mine. Getting the rations to the Javanese prisoner was another story. This part was going to be more difficult because he was in a different barracks, did not work on my shift, and had a different job. I was a shoveler, and he was an explorer, so we did not see each other in the mine. I did have an alternative, however. During the past six months, I had had occasion to negotiate with a friend of mine who had broken both legs in a mine cave-in and was since assigned to the kitchen staff as a “nail pusher.”
Let me explain the role of a nail pusher. At mealtime, all the men from the same barracks went into the mess hall at the same time. When we first arrived in camp, the Japanese assigned to each man in a barracks a number that was his alone and was printed on his shirt or jacket. When the barracks leader was ready for the men to come through the chow line, the nail pusher would set up that barracks’ board with all of the men’s numbers on it. At each man’s number there were two holes, one above the other, and when a prisoner came through the chow line, the nail pusher moved the nail from the top hole to the bottom hole to show that the prisoner had received his ration for that meal.
Because I traded for cigarettes and the men pulling kitchen duty within the camp had no such opportunity, I supplied some of the kitchen crew with cigarettes in exchange for extra rations. The first time I went through the chow line the nail pusher would only pretend to move my nail from the top position to the bottom. He would move it only after I went back in line for my second ration, the one owed me for the cigarettes I had traded. This worked out so well that I had planned on using it to pay the Javanese prisoner for his shoes. Unfortunately, when I explained what I had in mind to the nail pusher, he refused, fearing it could lead to a shakedown by others in the Javanese man’s barracks if someone saw him returning for a second ration. I had to agree.
I renegotiated my deal for the shoes, and the Javanese prisoner settled for thirty packs of cigarettes and no meals. A pack of cigarettes increased in value as more time elapsed after the last cigarette issue, but at no time did a ration cost more than one pack of cigarettes. So, with the extra ten packs, the Javanese could at least get the extra ten meals he wanted.
All went well on the day I walked gingerly to the mine in the pair of size eight shoes. The cigarettes and writing paper were there waiting for me, and I was able to get them into camp with no trouble, just large blisters on the heels of my feet and my skin on the inside of my thighs rubbed raw.
My friend in the kitchen had been right about the shakedown. On one occasion, while I was collecting my payment of cigarettes and the nail pusher did not move my nail to show I had already been through the chow line, I heard the man behind me say to the nail pusher, “The guy in front of me has gone through twice. How about me? You don’t want me to tell, do you?” After we went through the line and had finished eating, I waited for this fellow at the door to the mess hall. When he finally came out, I grabbed him by the collar, turned him around, and told him, “Don’t horn in on someone else’s deal. Go find your own. If I’m told about this kind of pressure again, I’ll see you floating in the fire-water pool, and if I can’t do it, I’ll find someone else who will.”
He did not say a word for what seemed like one full minute. Then he said, “You’re right, I was trying to horn in. I was thinking of blackmailing the nail pusher, but that’s not right. Don’t worry. It’ll never happen again, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
In spite of my trading, there still were many days that I went hungry. I was fed, but the small bowl of rice I got for each meal just did not satisfy my hunger. I knew others were hungry, too, so I got together a plan with three friends of mine in our barracks. We designed and cut a solid block of wood just a fraction smaller than a bento box. Then when we carried our ration of rice with us into the mine, one of us would also bring the small piece of wood. Once inside the mine, the one whose turn it was that day would eat all but a few spoonfuls of his rice. Putting the rice aside, he would place the carved block of wood into his empty bento box and then spread the leftover rice over the false bottom. It would appear that his box was full of rice. Then he would store his bento box in a very hot part of the mine so that the rice would sour. That night in the chow line, the man with the sour rice would show his bento box to the cook. Aft
er looking and sniffing at it to make sure it indeed was a full box of sour rice, the cook would say, “Throw it in the waste barrel. You have an extra ration due you today.” Then the man two places behind the one who had just received the extra ration would dig down in the barrel for the piece of wood, and the next day he would get the extra ration.
This scheme went on for six or eight months but not every day. Sometimes, we would wait three or four days before the next person would use the carved block of wood for his free ration. We hungry men thought up more ways of getting more food. After a while we would sell the block of wood to someone in another barracks, and the “better eating system,” as we called it, would continue for another few months.
It is important to understand that we did not take food out of the mouths of other prisoners. Maybe the cooks did not eat all they could hold that day, or the Japanese issued the kitchen crew more rice for feeding the men. We knew that the cooks gave rations away anytime they received something of value in exchange, so we figured that made what we did an acceptable practice. And not only that, we had fun doing something to help ourselves. In spite of the trading I did in the mine to earn cigarettes for extra rations, fully 90 percent of the 840 days I spent in that camp I did not get enough to eat.
My Hitch in Hell Page 21