Back in the mine, work went on as usual. We had a fairly good gauge of what was happening with regard to the war: if the Americans bombed a city in Japan, we would be beaten but for no apparent reason. If the Japanese lost a ship during a naval battle, we would be beaten once again.
The guards and the civilians would also get mad as hell when we would not believe their stories about how the war was going. At one point, one of the Japanese civilian workers brought into the mine a copy of that day’s newspaper. On the front page as big as life was a picture of Hollywood, California, showing the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. Standing next to a street sign were four Japanese soldiers with their arms around two of America’s famous movie stars, Rita Hayworth and Ginger Rogers. The headline I was told, said, “Hollywood beauties meet Imperial Japanese soldiers in United States’ most famous city, Los Angeles.” When I started to laugh, a Japanese overseer hit me across the face with the scoop portion of a coal shovel, breaking my nose, cutting a two-inch gash under my lower lip, and knocking a couple of my teeth loose. He simply wanted to remind me that the Japanese paper told its citizens the truth, and we should not laugh at or doubt the stories.
Most of the crews working in the mine had at least two Japanese civilians as overseers or guards. This arrangement made trying to get even for beatings an almost impossible task. Also, we could not do anything or escape afterward much less muster the energy or stamina to retaliate. We found out early that each of us had to play the game openly the Japanese way, but secretly, we had plenty of ways of evening the score with our enemy.
On one such occasion, we found ourselves working just a few hundred feet from a Japanese crew. Both of our crews were shoveling coal. First we drilled, then we blasted, and finally we started to shovel coal into the trough that carried the coal out to the waiting cars. We noticed that although they started at different points, the Japanese crew’s loaded cars ended with our cars on the same single track leading to the unloading bin topside. As each car was loaded, we placed a metal disk bearing our group’s number on a hook on the front of the car. These disks were used to monitor the number of loaded cars that each group produced, for an attendant would remove the numbered disk from each car that arrived at the unloading bin and would record it as a credit toward each group’s assigned quota.
This particular day I was leader of our group, and we developed a plan to get credit for the Japanese group’s cars. First, we had to take up some of our track leading to the main tunnel and move it so that we could push the Japanese workers’ cars from their location onto the new track and into our location. Once we had accumulated six cars of coal produced by the Japanese, we moved the track to its original position and then placed our tags on the newly acquired coal-filled cars.
Our quota was ten cars of coal that day, and when the day was over, we produced ten cars: six from the Japanese crew and four of our own. When we arrived topside and waited for roll call, we were greeted with a gift of appreciation—a pack of cigarettes and an apple. We silently laughed and accepted our reward with grace and dignity while the Japanese group that had been working near us was chastised for only producing four cars of coal. Not one in the Japanese group would speak out and explain that something was wrong. Instead, they just stood at attention and responded with a loud, “Hai.” That day we worked twice as hard stealing the coal as we would have if we had shoveled it, but we had the satisfaction of outwitting the enemy as well as making our small contribution to the war effort.
It was the beginning of winter, a light snow was falling, and our barracks were as cold as an icebox. Working in the mine at least kept us warm, so one day the Japanese told us, “For your health and welfare we will allow you to work in the mine an extra hour each day.” Of course, no clock recorded our comings and goings; when we stopped working was all up to the civilian workers. Obviously, if we were still shoveling coal from a recent blast, we had to stay until it was all done. This one extra hour usually stretched to two.
One of my most interesting recollections of the years I spent working in the mine occurred around Christmastime. One of the Japanese civilians who was then working with us told me that he loved flowers and plants and asked me if I knew anything about flowers. I realized at once that if I said yes I might very well get out of doing some hard work. So I said, “Yes, I also love flowers. What would you like to know?” He explained that he wanted to be a horticulturist and wanted to know the English names for many of the plants and flowers. “Of course, I will help,” I said. “Bring some pictures down into the mine, and I will give you the English names.” This pleased him very much.
Although we had nicknamed him “Happy San” after the character in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, his real name was Sato Kibi San (Mr. Sugar Cane), and he asked me to call him “Sato San.” His nickname came about because he was always happy-go-lucky; nothing seemed to bother him. He was only about five feet six inches tall, weighed about 140 pounds, and was all muscle. Sato San said he was thirty-five years old and that he had been married since he was twenty. Unlike most of the Japanese men I had come into contact with, he was polite to everyone—to his own countrymen as well as to American prisoners of war. In his own way, he seemed to apologize for his countrymen’s cruel treatment of us POWs.
The following day, Sato San came down into the mine with a magazine filled with pictures of flowers, trees, and shrubbery. He was so excited he could hardly wait for our lunch break. Then, as we all sat down to eat, he came over and asked me to sit with him over in a corner of the tunnel. I knew right away what he wanted, only I did not know one flower from another. What in the hell was I going to tell him? Just the day before I had told him I knew all about flowers, but I sure did not expect a “test” on flowers the very next day. I flipped through the pages of the magazine quickly, spotting those few flowers that I did know. A rose is a rose is a rose, so that was the first one I recognized. Then I spent a long time telling him the colors of the various roses, four different shades of red, white, pink, and any other color I could think of. After about an hour, we all went back to work, and Sato San told me he would bring the magazine back the next day. What was I going to do? Then it hit me. He would not know the English name of one flower from another. So I developed a plan.
After returning to camp, I asked my friends who were from the southern part of the United States just to name a few flowers for me. I did not want their descriptions, just their names. I thought people from the South saw and understood more about flowers than city boys like me, who only recognized flowers when they were in vases on a table.
After getting a dozen or so names of flowers, I went to sleep that night feeling that the next few weeks could be more relaxing than normal, in other words, with less work and more talk. I felt really good, not just for myself, but for our whole group, as we were all in the same boat together. If one sat out, we all sat out; that was the way our group voted when we started out. We had all assumed that a supervisor or civilian worker would someday take time out to converse with me, because I understood the Japanese requests better than most of the men in our group.
The following day, just as we had expected, our Japanese worker wanted to talk about flowers during our lunch break. All of the men sat down in a corner of the tunnel, took off their headlamps and buried them in the coal, laid back, closed their eyes, and did not make a sound. While the men rested, I took Sato San to a far corner of our work area, sat down with him, and went over some of the flowers in the magazine. Even though I did not know a tulip from a violet, here I was ready to bullshit this Japanese into believing I was a horticultural, hotshot. I convinced myself all I had to do was remember names of flowers; after all, he would not know which flower was which.
On one occasion, when I reported for sick call and was allowed to stay in camp because of my “ulcers,” Sato San asked a friend of mine whether he would take a gift to me. My friend certainly agreed. The next day Sato San brought a can of sweetened condensed milk into the mine a
nd passed it to my friend to give me. The only way the man could bring a can of this type and size into camp was the same way I was smuggling in cigarettes, tied between his legs with dynamite cord.
That night, after our evening meal, my friend came to my barracks and presented me with Sato San’s magnificent gift. I invited a few of my barracks mates to partake in a spoonful of this gold-plated treat. We all gathered around my sleeping mattress and, with happy smiles on our faces, started to savor the can’s contents. We saved enough to put on our rice the following morning. I paused to think about what a friend I had in the mine and about my friend in the camp and the risk he took in bringing the gift to me.
After a few days out of work, I finally went back to the mine. On that first day back, Sato San was there to greet me. With a big smile on his face and a gleam in his eyes, he asked me in English whether I received the milk and if it helped me get better. I told him how much I appreciated the gift, and I was sorry that I could not give him a gift in return. He was such a gentleman. He said he understood and that all he wanted was for me to stay healthy until I returned home. Then we sat down and started all over again with the flower magazine.
His education continued for about four weeks, and each day he would bring into the mine a little something for each of us. One day it would be candy; the next day, a can of fish for us to put on our rice to add a little flavor. A few of the days he would give each of us a pack of cigarettes. He just wanted to show his appreciation for the time I was willing to spend with him and his sorrow for what we had to go through. Each day he would point to a flower in the magazine and ask, “In America, what is name?” I would then recall one of the names I had memorized. I would slowly pronounce the flower’s name, try to spell it, and then write it down for him to take home and study. Each day when we finished, I felt like a fool, not knowing any of the true names for the flowers he showed me. I also felt guilty giving him these god-awful names for all of those lovely flowers. It became harder and harder to face him each day and to accept the little things he was always trying to do for us. During one of our sessions, Sato San told me about his always wanting to move to the United States after the war and to become a horticulturist at the Golden Gate State Park in San Francisco. That was his big dream.
Eventually, the workday would end, and we would make the same march back to camp, face the same guards, and do the same things at the same times. To relieve the boredom in our lives, I asked the Japanese officer in charge of our work detail if we could have a little entertainment on the day set aside for changing the shifts in the mine, or our day off, so to speak. To my surprise, he was happy about the idea, but he wanted me to give him more specifics before making a firm decision. In addition, he also suggested that I talk to Major Mamerow. The next few days I was filled with excitement. Planning something to do out of the ordinary—something that would require creativity, organization, and a different kind of hard work—was music to my soul. No doubt it was the best therapeutic medicine I could have had at this time of my life and in these circumstances.
CHAPTER 12
FUN AND GAMES
We were all tired of our forced labor and felt that we could not go on much longer. It was not just the work that got to the men, but the fact that we had nothing to keep our minds busy. Everyone in camp was bored with the daily routine of twelve hours of working, a little eating, and then a lot of dreaming. We needed something to take our minds off of our miserable circumstances.
I listened to some of my friends singing, others telling stories, and a few just hamming it up. Four fellows in my barracks had the sweetest harmony I had ever heard, and they entertained us by singing a few songs. That is when I got the idea for putting on some type of formal entertainment in camp, something we could look forward to each day off.
Based on the Japanese officer’s suggestion, I asked Maj. John Mamerow what he thought about our putting on some type of entertainment in the camp. Major Mamerow quickly agreed it was a good idea and something we needed for the men’s morale. He then gave me permission to address the group during evening roll call. I wanted to tell them about my idea and get some feedback from them. I asked first if they were even interested in this idea. Second, I wanted to know if any of them played a musical instrument or had other talents that we could use in putting together a show. If anyone was interested and able to recite poetry, act, sing, tell jokes, or do anything else that could amuse or entertain us on our day off, I asked them to see me in the mess hall after roll call. Imagine my surprise when I got to the mess hall and found about twenty-five or thirty men waiting for me.
Our inventory of interested and talented men consisted of two piano players, six men who played a variety of musical instruments, a quartet that had been singing together for almost a year, a variety of actors and storytellers, and five men who simply loved the idea of being female dancers in a musical. As the evening wore on, I realized we had the makings for a good musical comedy show. Everyone agreed to practice whatever part they would get in the upcoming event. The volunteers gave me unofficial authority to come up with an idea for a show and assured me that they would be behind me 100 percent.
Major Mamerow was present at that first meeting; he was as excited about it as I was. He said, “Ten-Spot, we need to do something to break the monotony here. If we don’t, the men will go berserk. You can count on my help. I’ll do anything I can.” He then got permission from the Japanese to proceed with our plans.
The major was quite a man who never asked the men to do anything that he was not prepared to do first. He stood at least six feet tall and was well built, even under these conditions. With his nose a little out of shape and a firm jaw, he looked just like a prizefighter who was willing to take on all comers. Major Mamerow was about thirty-seven years old, an old man for what we had to endure.
On the day our group met, we agreed it would be great if we could have some type of entertainment every “rest” day. Major Mamerow warned us that we would get no special consideration and that we would still have to work every day in the mine, just like the rest of the men. We all agreed to the terms set out, and now we were ready for some action. When I analyzed the group of the volunteers, I thought immediately of Ziegfeld—not the man, but the follies.
During the following week, I used whatever spare time I had to plan a show. While walking to and from the mine, while eating, and even while shoveling coal, my mind was on getting a show together. My mind kept coming back to the film The Great Ziegfeld, and the more I thought about it the more I liked the idea of a follies. I reasoned there would be music that all the men would enjoy, dancing “girls” who would get a roaring welcome, comedians to make fun of our situation, dramatic scenes and poetry readings that might bring a little seriousness to the occasion, solo singers, and of course, our prize quartet to sing songs that would stir up memories as well as allow all of us the opportunity to sing along whenever we knew the words.
With this as our nucleus, six of us—all extroverts interested in doing some creative thinking—got together to develop plans for the show. We agreed to call the show “The Ziegfeld Follies of 1944.” We would use the following introduction: “Brought to you through the courtesy of our camp commander, Captain Yuri, and his Camp 17 guards, here in the heart of Omuta, across the bay from Nagasaki, and through the courtesy of the emperor.”
Now we had to locate a few musical instruments that our men could play, keeping in mind that those who played a wind instrument might not have the energy, the lip, or the chops for it at this time. Our Japanese commander obtained the few instruments we did get. The two fellows who played piano said they thought they could play with just a little practice. The rhythm man, the one who played drums, said he would have no problem at all following the others. His drum set was a series of empty boxes, with cymbals made from pieces of scrap metal found around camp or in the mine. He fashioned drumsticks from pieces of hard wood we found in the mine.
So, it was all set. We would start
rehearsal the next time we had a day off. These were the only truly happy days of all the three and a half years I spent in prison camp, and I found that the men involved with the show had the same feelings. We felt good doing something creative, and the show got our minds off of the horrible past, the dismal present, and the uncertain future. Although we toiled in the mine for our full shift, after work we still found the energy to plan for the show. The show was our therapy. We rehearsed every spare minute, many times in lieu of resting or of doing something with other friends. The practice paid off, the show started to take shape, and we liked what we saw.
Then we faced the problem of making the dancing “girls” look their part. We wanted them to be scantily dressed and to wear huge headpieces. Our camp tailor, a man named Timmons, was too old to work in the mines so he repaired the men’s garments and shoes. He had a sewing machine that made the work easier. Timmons was a jolly guy, and despite his wartime weight loss, he still had a roly-poly look. When we asked him to sew the costumes—skimpy bottoms and halter tops—he agreed at once. In fact, Timmons told me that he would use his influence to obtain anything we needed.
Finally, I came up with an idea for the headpieces. We would use cardboard boxes that the Japanese usually threw away, cut them into various shapes and sizes, and then glue on some sparkling pieces of crushed glass. The Japanese let us have the cardboard boxes and reluctantly gave me a few dozen empty glass bottles of various colors and textures that we deliberately crushed into tiny particles. We then sprinkled them onto the headpieces to act as glitter. We then asked the cooks for a couple of cups of raw rice, rice that was never washed or hulled. They complied, with Major Mamerow’s encouragement.
Then began the creative part of this endeavor. First, we cut the cardboard into shapes representing diamonds, hearts, circles, triangles, and so on. Each headpiece shape was about fifteen to eighteen inches high and eight to twelve inches wide. We then took the raw rice, placed it on a smooth surface, and rolled it with one of the large empty bottles. In no time at all the rice started to form a powder, or a rice flour. We mixed it with water to form a paste, which we smeared all over the headpieces. We then sprinkled the glittery crushed glass over the sticky cardboard headpieces. A headpiece was then secured to each dancer’s head atop a turban-style headdress. Under the circumstances, the “girls” looked great, and they loved every minute of it.
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