My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  That night while I was in the hospital ward, I overheard two of the medics talking with Doctor Hewlett in front of my room. “We should amputate tomorrow,” said Doc. “He’ll feel better when it’s over with.” Not me, I thought to myself, I’m not going to lose my arm now that the war was over. I’ll just take my chances. About an hour later, Bob Martin came over to see me, to ask how my arm and shoulder were doing. I told him what I had overheard and said, “I’m getting out of here tomorrow morning. I’ll find the Americans somehow. I won’t stay here for them to cut my arm off. No way!”

  Bob agreed with my decision and said he did not want to wait around any longer either. “So we’ll both go and seek our release,” he said.

  We began making plans right then and there to head for Kanoya, where George Weller had told us the U.S. forces had landed. Where was Kanoya? How far away was it? How do we get there? How long will it take? We had a dozen questions in our mind but only one resolve: if we wanted freedom, we would have to find it.

  CHAPTER 17

  LOOKING FOR THE AMERICANS

  Early in the morning of September 11, Bob Martin and I walked out of Camp 17 in search of the Americans. We each carried a small musette bag that contained the few personal possessions we had accumulated during the last three years. I had my bible (Prayer Book for Jews in the Armed Forces of the United States), my Pocket Book of Verse, an extra shirt, a pair of pants, some cigarettes, and a very primitive cigarette lighter. I had made it from a piece of flint, a three-inch piece of steel, and a four-inch piece of hollowed bamboo with some kapok stuffed down into its carved-out center. If I held the bamboo and the flint, which almost touched the kapok, in the same hand and then held the steel in my other hand and struck the steel against the piece of flint, I could cause a spark. When positioned properly, the spark would end up on top of the kapok-filled bamboo, and after blowing on it, the kapok would glow red-hot without a flame. I could then light a cigarette from this contraption.

  Bob and I walked into the little town of Omuta and boarded a streetcar headed for the railroad station. Once we arrived, we asked directions to the train for Kanoya. We were two cocksure Americans without money and wearing Japanese-style prison clothes in Japan after the surrender to the U.S. forces. The humiliated Japanese had just admitted defeat in a war they thought they would surely win. Upon reflection, we were actually very dumb. Anything could have happened to us, from being murdered to being taken prisoner once again.

  Some Japanese told us what train to take and warned us that we would have to transfer trains at the end of this run. We did not care; we just wanted to find our troops. The train arrived about an hour later. We boarded it and sat in a railroad car that was almost empty. Nobody bothered us all day long. Finally we came to the end of that train’s scheduled trip. We got off the train, and the stationmaster escorted us into the terminal. There we were greeted with bows, smiles, and hot tea. The station-master insisted that we wait in his inner office, where inquisitive local citizens would not bother us. We did not argue. We were willing to do just about anything to get to Kanoya, never dreaming of the potential danger.

  That evening the stationmaster informed us that the train we wanted was not leaving till the following morning. He generously brought us a home-cooked meal along with a large bottle of sake. At one point, two Japanese military officers came in. They bowed to us and took off their scabbards and swords. With a flourish, indicating defeat, they handed them to us.

  A little later that night, the stationmaster brought us pillows and blankets. He promised that he would see to it that we were on the train to Kanoya the following morning. He bowed politely, took four steps backward, and then left us.

  It was all so hard to believe. Here we were all alone in a small Japanese city, ten days after the Japanese surrendered, and being catered to by several Japanese people. It felt good and gave us a real emotional lift. By the time we finished eating and talking to the people who had gathered around us, we were so sleepy that we stretched out on the wooden benches in the stationmaster’s office and fell sound asleep, without a worry in the world. What a difference a few weeks makes. We were free, and for the first time in three and a half years, we felt like it.

  Just as promised, the following morning we woke up to find a train standing at the station with steam coming from its engine and a crowd of people milling around the closed train doors. The stationmaster came into the waiting room, where we had been sleeping and brought us breakfast. We had a small glass of sake, a bowl full of rice, two small pieces of fried fish, a cup of hot soup filled with vegetables, and, of course, a cup of tea. Bob just looked at me, and we both burst out laughing. Could this be real? Was it really happening? Only a few weeks ago I was being beaten to within an inch of my life, and today the Japanese could not do enough for us. I said to Bob, “Take advantage of everything offered. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring.”

  After we finished eating and thanking the people who brought us the food, we went to board the train. We quickly saw that there was no room for us in any of the cars. The train was jam-packed with men, women, children of all ages, and a few soldiers. I saw a Japanese army officer standing on one of the car’s steps, holding onto a railing. I moved closer to him and said in Japanese, “Give me your sword. We are the winners.” Without a moment’s hesitation he stepped off of the train steps, unbuckled his sword and belt, and handed both to me. He then bowed and in Japanese said, “We are sorry. Take this in friendship.” With that he got back on the car steps and began to cry. I felt sorry for this soldier, but not enough to give him back his samurai sword.

  With the train filled to capacity, the stationmaster led us to the engine of the train. There, he told us to climb aboard; we were going to ride in the engineer’s and fireman’s seats. We played engineer for the three-hour ride to Kanoya, while the fireman and engineer hung onto handles on the outside of the locomotive. I blew the whistle and rang the bell, proclaiming our victory and our freedom, all along the route. It felt good. Happiness like this may never come again, so I made the most of it.

  The engineer and fireman were very polite to us. In fact, they even offered us the contents of their bento boxes for our lunch. We were so thrilled just to be there, however, that we refused their gracious offer. Then at about noon our train started to slow down as we approached what we thought was Kanoya. Within minutes our train came to a sudden stop. The engineer bowed and smiled, then he stood at attention and pointed to the east. “Koko ni Kagoshima, Kanoya roku-bamme mariu” (Here is the city of Kagoshima, Kanoya is six miles east, that way). “That way” meant we had to go the six miles in a boat, for Kanoya was across a small bay.

  When we got off the train in Kagoshima, Bob and I were shocked to discover that on this train were five other American ex-POWs who had heard the same rumor that the Americans were in Kanoya. We had a good laugh about how all seven of us, from three different prisoner of war camps in Japan, were roaming around Japan, with little knowledge of the language and absolutely no money but with lots of guts, determination, and happiness.

  Getting to the other side of the bay meant we had to commandeer a vessel of some kind that could safely make the trip and carry seven of us. We found three boats at the dock that we thought could make the trip. We chose one of them and went over to talk with the captain. We explained as best we could that we had to get to the other side of the bay to meet with the Americans who were there. We got excited because the skipper of the boat confirmed right away that Americans were on the other side of the bay in Kanoya.

  When we asked to be taken across, the skipper replied, “Ni-ju-bamme yen” (twenty yen), stating his fee for the trip. We did not have any Japanese money, and I was the only one who had anything of value, about ten packages of cigarettes. In response to his fee, I pulled up on the sword I was carrying, took the ten packs of cigarettes from my pocket, and made a deal. I could tell by the way he looked at us that he did not like my terms, but realizing the position he was
in, he agreed, “Watashi wo kimasu” (I will come). With that, we all boarded his thirty-five-foot fishing boat and were off to our final destination in this search for the U.S. Army Air Force.

  While we traveled the six or seven miles across the bay, we sang and joked. We must have seemed mighty strange to the captain, because with a laughing gesture he put his hand to his head and slowly made a circular motion with his fingers, indicating “crazy.” We did not care; we were free and happy. In just a short period of time, we knew we would find what we were looking for.

  Finally the boat pulled in at a small dock, about twenty feet from shore. We grabbed our meager possessions and hurried onto the land. As I got off the boat, I screamed, “Free, free at last!” All seven of us walked to the road and then sat down and had a good cry or laugh, depending upon our emotional reaction. The area was out of a picture book, with lush green grass and bushes, flowers blooming in all the colors of the rainbow, and the water lapping at the shore. As we looked toward the mountain just south of our position, it was obvious to us that the Americans, if any, were going to be somewhere up the mountain. We decided just to wait until we found some form of transportation before venturing uphill.

  We waited about twenty-five minutes, and all of a sudden we heard the sound of a motor straining up the hill. As the truck approached us, we stood in the center of the road and flagged it to a halt. We simply told the two Japanese men to get off the truck and rest, for we had decided to take the truck up the hill until we ran into an American someplace on the mountain.

  I guess because of both my knowledge of Japanese and my personality, I took over as leader of this small contingent of ex-prisoners. I asked Bob to do the driving, and I sat in the seat next to him while the other guys piled into the bed of the truck. We were all as happy as could be. About a half hour later, at dusk, there in the middle of the road stood a man about six feet four inches tall in a military uniform and what appeared to be a German army helmet. In all the photographs I had seen prior to World War II, the German soldiers wore helmets that came down close to their ears. The helmets we wore were World War I vintage, known as “Doughboy” helmets, or nothing more than a domed top with a brim about three inches deep.

  The soldier we had come across stood in the middle of the road with his arms outstretched, signaling for us to stop. As we did so, I jumped out of the truck to look this guy over. I noticed he was wearing a dark blue armband with the initials MP emblazoned on it. Could he be an American military policeman? I walked up to him, made a fist, and hit him square in the stomach. The punch was sort of a “Hi ya” punch, not hard, just a friendly gesture. He did not even flinch. He just looked at me and the way I was dressed and demanded, “Who in the hell are you? Where the hell did you come from?”

  All seven of us hollered at the same time, “It’s about time! Where you guys been?”

  I told the MP who we were, where we came from, and who we wanted to see—his commanding officer. He jumped on the running board of our truck and led us into the camp. Within minutes we were surrounded by army personnel, wondering who the hell we were. At last, the flight commander came over to our truck to welcome us on behalf of the U.S. Army Air Force and the United States of America. It was a thrill I never in my life will be able to forget. We really were free men now.

  That evening we had dinner with all the men. The officers allowed us to order anything we wanted. And the first thing we said was, “All the rice we want, a steak, and to drink, milk.” We ate whatever they gave us and drank whatever was put in front of us. We were like kids at a picnic, eating and eating until we could not hold any more. They told us that the following morning we would be flown to Okinawa aboard a B-24, a new bomber, so this evening we should do whatever we wanted. I asked for a hot shower, white sheets, and a real pillow. After talking to the men most of the evening, I finally went to the barracks assigned me for the night and fell sound asleep within minutes on a bare bunk without white sheets or a pillow.

  At 7:00 in the morning, I heard the men starting up the airplanes’ engines. I got out of my bunk, found the latrine, and had a good, old-fashioned bowel movement. I had not had anything like it for years, and all seven of us talked about our similar experience that morning over breakfast. It was not exactly table talk, but then again, no one knew us or our health problems the way we did. Our talking about it produced happy talk, talk that made us all laugh and, I might add, made all of the airmen in the mess hall laugh, too. At about 8:30, we boarded a B-24 bomber and took off for Okinawa. It flew smoothly like a bird in the sky—not a ripple, not a bounce, nothing to indicate that we were on a military aircraft.

  CHAPTER 18

  MEETING MY BROTHER

  Our plane landed on the Okinawa airfield that was built by the U.S. Navy Construction Battalion, otherwise know as the Seabees. When our plane finally came to a stop and the stairs were lowered, allowing us to deplane, the seven of us just stood and stared out the door in total disbelief. There on the runway were hundreds of airplanes, all sizes and types. We had never seen anything like this in our whole lives.

  As we walked down the plane’s stairs, a group of U.S. Navy and Army Air Force people assisted us with our walking and with our minimal but precious personal possessions. As I handed my musette bag down the stairway, a voice called out, “Lester, Lester, you’re here!” I was slowly able to identify this voice. It was that of my brother, Bunny. (Willard was his real name, and his shipmates called him Bill, but he was always Bunny to me.)

  “Oh my God,” I said, “is this for real?” With tears in my eyes and happiness in my heart, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me toward my brother. While I was trying to reach him, he was also running in my direction and reaching out to grab me. We touched hands, then hugged each other as best we could. We both cried tears of happiness. I just never expected anything like this to happen to me. I was so surprised to see my own brother here in Okinawa. Bunny was in the navy, a member of the construction battalion, and built airfields. I was so excited, I could not wait to start asking him questions about the folks back home and, of course, about Laura, my dearest Laura.

  What had happened to make this meeting with my brother possible was another chance meeting my brother had had with a medic from Camp 17. A few days earlier the medical corpsman had come to Okinawa the same way I did. My brother had met him and asked if he happened to know me. The medic exclaimed, “Oh, you mean Ten-Spot. Yeah, he’s OK. You just wait a few days. I bet he’ll come by—but be prepared for a sick-looking guy, with some medical problems.” That was all my brother had to hear. Although Bunny had enough points to get out of the service and go home, he decided to wait a few more days, just to see if I came through. (Points were earned by such things as years of military service, overseas duty, marital status, one’s number of children, and so on.) What a surprise for both of us when I showed up—we hugged, laughed, and just about went crazy walking away from the airplane. I was not sure who was the happiest, he for finding me or I for seeing him. Either way, Bunny had found his proverbial needle in the haystack.

  The Red Cross had arranged for a photographer to record this happy occasion, but all I wanted was a few minutes alone with my brother to ask a few questions. Bunny told me that everyone was fine, even Bill, my athletic brother, the one I wanted most to imitate because he had always been able to do just about anything he wanted and do it well. “Yes, even Bill is OK now. He lost a leg during the war being a good Samaritan during a snowstorm in Cleveland. Everyone else is fine. Joe and Fay are still in Detroit. Harriet married Martin, and he’s in the Navy. Lou and Edith are doing well; they have a new son, named him Richard. They’re all doing fine.”

  Lou, hearing his name brought back memories. When I was thirteen years old, I decided I wanted to run away from home and go to California. I visited my brother Lou at his office in downtown Chicago, told him my plans, and waited for his offer of help. After all, I did not have any money for such a long trip, but I was sure Lou would help me o
ut. Just as I had expected, he said, “Please write mom and dad every week to let them know how you’re doing.” Then he asked, “Do you have enough money?” That was just what I had been waiting for, so I answered by saying, “I don’t have much. Can you help?” Without a moment’s hesitation, he went to the cash box he kept in his desk drawer, pulled out twenty three-cent stamps, and said, “Here, at least you’ll have stamps to send a letter home each week.” I was devastated; that was not the offer I had expected. Without money I certainly had no place to go. I left my brother’s office, boarded a street car, and headed back home. Funny how some memories never leave me.

  It was good hearing about the family, I thought, and just mentioning their names gave me a chill. But why has Bunny not said anything about Laura? By now he had to know I was not interested in hearing only about everyone else. What is wrong? I wondered.

  Just as I was about to interrupt, Bunny continued, “You know, Les, Laura was informed that you were missing in action, presumed dead. She waited three years; she’s a wonderful girl. Les, Laura thought you were killed in action, and she didn’t hear anything about you for, oh, so long. Les, Laura got married a few months ago.”

  My legs felt like rubber, and my face must have turned stone white. My body started to shake, then tears welled up in my eyes. Laura! I could not, or better still, did not want to believe it. How was I going to survive without her? All those days, weeks, months, years—all I ever dreamed of was coming home to my wife, Laura. Now my dream was shattered.