January 31, 2004-I awakened a while ago thinking about the time, in the early morning of June 4, 1942, an American Navy PBY was shot down by Japanese fighter planes near the Aleutian Islands, and soon three of the nine-man crew aboard were the only survivors, clinging to an inflated two-man raft floating on the turbulent, frigid waters of the Bering Sea, under abominable weather conditions, hundreds of miles from any sort of land. Even a glimmer of hope for survival would have been considered by most as a forlorn exercise of fantasy.
After a time, length uncertain but at least three hours—more likely five, as later determined—a ship (or were there more?) was seen, dimly, through rain, sleet, and fog, seemingly resting on the horizon. Was it soon, or hours later, that a Japanese battle cruiser was alongside, stopped, and the crewmen aboard were "fishing" the three near frozen American sailors from the heaving seas?
Looking back now, more than 60 years later, I am awed by conjectures as to what must have gone through that Japanese commander's mind while arriving at such a momentous decision, fraught with dangerous implications—to stop or not stop his great and valuable ship to effect rescue of three enemy warriors from their awful predicament, which promised, all considerations weighed, so little compensation. The rescue took time—valuable time; time during which an enemy bomber, or more! might appear to zero in on this "sitting duck"; time during which an enemy submarine, lurking near unseen, might fire torpedoes that could hardly miss.
Getting such a huge ship under way again and reaching full speed would take time—nerve-wracking time, as had the slowing down to a stop.
This was wartime! How would these American fighting men fare aboard a warship manned by enemy sailors?
For a short while, to their surprise and immense relief, in a fashion seemingly in accordance with the higher aspirations of humanity, as demonstrated previously by the rescue under such risky, even dangerous, conditions. But soon—very soon—that changed. Just as a calm often precedes the storm, the feelings of compassion once perceived succumbed to the pressures of immediate needs. In the manner of moths that seem irresistibly drawn to bright lights, men so often become compelled to abandon their feelings of primal brotherhood, and these three found themselves subjected to threats, even as far as death, if these needs were not promptly met.
Toward that end, they experienced cruel, sometimes prolonged, beatings. To no avail; true to their pride, their sense of honor, and the flag of their country, they stood firm against the inhuman forces arrayed against them, only to be subjected later to even worse.
When the fleet, of which this ship was a part, arrived at its home base, the three were transferred to a secret compound located far out in the hinterland. The light of day was waning when they approached the only entrance through a high wooden fence, to be ushered past a sentry box in which stood an armed guard. A short walkway led straight to the door of a low, rambling wooden structure. Upon entering, they were directed to the right a short distance, along a passageway leading to a door which, when opened, revealed a small room. The dim glow from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling above a desk illuminated the center of the room, leaving edges gloomy and corners darker. Behind the desk sat a Japanese officer , glaring silently at the three, who had been motioned to stand lined up in front.
An abrupt hush after the loud clatter of their guard's hobnailed boots stomping along the wooden floors had ceased; the officer's intent stare,coupled with the eerie effect of the lighting, was unnerving. The very air seemed tainted with impending evil, and more so when the officer abruptly rasped, "You will sit down!"
Leaning forward then with elbows on desk, he spoke harshly in broken English, "You are still on the battlefield, and therefore I cannot guarantee your safety!" meaning, of course, they could be killed at any time, with no record existing to show them having been in Japan, or even captured. Had they, by means of what some would call a miracle—perhaps a series of miracles—escaped lonely deaths only to again be confronted with another circumstance from which hope had fled?
At intervals, during the dreary days that followed, spent in a little six foot by eight foot cell for each, the three were questioned again, singly, of course, along the same lines as before. There were times when all the inmates of this terrible place would be herded into an area within the compound, ordered to line up and stand at attention, to watch one or more of their number be beaten unmercifully for commission of "crimes" little understood, if guilty of any fault at all. Again, the needs of men devoid of concern for primary rights meant to distinguish human beings from the lower animals were placed above feelings of compassion and good will. Such is, unfortunately, all too often a part of, but not confined to, war: War is, indeed, a terrible affliction that has plagued man from the beginning.
After a month and a half of this near isolation, the separation of the three became complete when each was sent to a different official prisoner of war camp. Once more they had escaped the terrifying possibility of unaccounted for obliteration to find a new basis for hope. Finally, the outside world was being informed of their survival, though horrendous uncertainties and many realities remained to be faced—among them illness or injury with few medical facilities available at best. However, at long last, they were free to associate openly with others of their kind, including men of other nations, with whom deep and lasting friendships often developed.
For more than three long years they endured conditions once generally associated with slavery—abuse, starvation, few rights, always under threat of punishment for commission of petty misunderstandings that arise any time one culture butts shoulders with another. Worst of all was knowledge that the time might come, any day, any hour, any minute, when they and their fellow American men, as well as those of the other allied nationalities in the encampments—more like jails—might be herded, as if so many cattle, to a place of slaughter.
The separation was partially ended when two were later united at one camp, but they had no connection—not even news—with the other until after the war had ended, and even then no physical meeting of all three.
And thus it has remained to this day.
"Joe, you must have dreamed all that. It sounds like the plot for a good novel."
"No, it really happened."

Continued in this companion piece: The Story by Johanna Evans (fiction)

Joe Brown, a World War II veteran, recorded his experience as a prisoner of war in We Stole to Live. He wrote a column for The Bloomfield Vindicator for years (until 1996). His columns have been collected in From the Himmel Post Office, edited by Katie Beseda, and From the Himmel Post Office VOL. II by Joe Brown. He lives in Bell City, Missouri.

Copyright © 2005. Do not reproduce without permission.

Home Contents