Lost in a Foreign Land Read online

  He really was getting desperate for a change of diet but he decided to observe the goings on at the base one more time before putting his plan into action. He would go again and watch the base for a few hours, all the while studying the routine.

  Just as before, he walked on the highway but ducked for cover if a vehicle came along. Several did. He had decided to dress in his ‘disguise’ so that he would become accustomed to wearing it. Today it was too warm for the jacket, so he carried it draped over his shoulder most of the way.

  When he closed with the base he took to the trees again and carefully approached the same hiding place. Peering carefully from the undergrowth, he was startled. There were—he counted—eight military green buses parked in two rows by the highway, and an equal number of trucks with canvas coverings. The place was over-run by people in military uniform. There were hundreds of them, and they were everywhere, crowding around the dining hut, occupying tables, casually lounging by the buses and even sitting or stretched out on the gravel in groups of eight to ten very close to his hiding place. Most were consuming food or drinking directly from bottles. Almost all had one of those brown paper sacks in their possession.

  He noted there was not a single weapon in sight. These soldiers were obviously being moved to some point west and, since there was no enemy here, they didn't need to be armed. All their kit was undoubtedly in the trucks. Little do they know the enemy is here, he muttered. But he couldn't bring himself to feel any animosity to them. These were men serving their country just as he was serving his.

  Shinichi surmised they simply stopped here to break their long journey and would not be staying for the night. A line was formed by one door of the small wooden building where the food was being doled out. He noticed there were not only military personnel but a few civilians also standing in line. A constant stream of people came out of the second door with a plate, a paper sack, and a bottle in hand. This was a food line like he had seen on the bases back home in Japan. You have no choice of menu, just take what is served and pass along.

  Could he dare to join the line? It was a spur of the moment decision. Maybe the sight of so much food emboldened him. He reviewed his attire quickly, Why not? No time might be better than the present. There was safety in such large numbers. He would have to leave his pistol and holster in some safe place.

  No good walking out of this hiding place. That would attract attention right away. He decided to work his way quietly through the trees and brush to the back of the huts and then approach from that direction. Anyone observing might think he came from one of those buildings.

  Bravely he did just that. Once out of the cover of the trees he took the jacket and casually shook the dust off it—all part of the act—then he slung it over his shoulder and walked nonchalantly to join the tail-end of the food line. Almost immediately several other men fell in behind him. Hardly anyone was speaking to the person next to them so he didn't feel out of place. In fact, there were a couple of men approaching who looked decidedly Japanese. He could see the shape of their eyes was definitely Asian. Surely there were not Japanese—traitors working with the enemy. The two joined the line and didn't seem to give him more than a cursory a glance.

  He did his best to appear relaxed—though his insides were churning—he was relieved that his attire was not attracting any attention. Only the military men were uniformly dressed, others wore varied outfits and some, to Shinichi's eye, were downright scruffy. A few were obviously truck drivers, road construction workers or mechanics, and their clothes were dirty and greasy. He almost felt too cleanly dressed. That was something to remember. A bit of dirt would be an advantage, an effective part of the overall disguise in this kind of situation, when it was essential to blend in.

  The line moved quite fast. Shinichi soon found himself inside the building. It was a room about thirty feet wide by fifteen feet deep. Almost the entire length of the rear wall was formed from a long counter and serving hatches. He could see several people working feverishly in a large kitchen behind the openings. Each person in the line simply passed by the first hatch and received a plate of hot food. At the second hatch they were handed a bottle of liquid and at the third hatch picked up a bulging brown paper sack before exiting. Shinichi studied the routine carefully. It was important to get it right—as if he had done it many times.

  It was Shinichi's turn. He suddenly realized he still had his jacket slung over his shoulder and he needed to have both hands free. A moment bordering on panic as someone behind commented gruffly because Shinichi—in his moment of indecision—was holding up the line. Quickly he slipped into his jacket, freeing up his hands, took the plate in his left hand, moved along and accepted the bottle of liquid—tucked that under his left arm—ouch! Watch those sore ribs. Just as everyone else had done he picked up a brown paper sack at the last hatch. Pleasantly heavy, he noted, then, he strode confidently out the door with his loot. He had not had to speak and, other than the rebuke, nobody had spoken to him. He couldn't believe how easy it had been.

  He was tempted to flee and hide with his spoils but he had to maintain control. He stood a moment and glanced around—as if undecided which to go—before making his way, as casually as possible, around the corner in the direction of the huts. Then, looking around again to ensure nobody was watching, he slipped quietly into the cover of the forest.

  When he was a safe distance away from the camp he stopped to see what he had acquired. He could hardy believe he had carried it off so easily.

  The tin plate was stamped to form three sections. One held a generous helping of thick stew with cubes of real meat, the second a serving of mixed vegetables, the third section a pile of creamy white stuff. A thick slice of bread lay on top. He looked into the paper sack. There were two individually wrapped packages, three small metal cans—military green—and a bottle of liquid.

  What? No chopsticks! Shinichi just had to eat the food while it was warm, so he snapped a couple of twigs off a bush and used them as crude implements to scoop up the food. It was very good. He wasn't sure what the white stuff was, but it was very tasty. He wiped the plate absolutely clean with chunks of bread. What a meal that was. Certainly the best he had consumed for a long time. Even better than those plain meals—always with rice—that they served on board his ship.

  Then he turned his attention to the bottle. The label was meaningless, so he pried off the top and tasted it. Wow! It was beer and very good beer too. He sat there with his back against a tree and savored it to the very last drop.

  He thought about what he had just done. That had taken all his nerve and he had been lucky. There were so many strangers around today that he had been able to blend in easily. Perhaps on a more normal day it would not have been possible to pull off such a daring stunt.

  Now he had some food in his belly and some reserves in the sack. However, he was still no closer to getting away from this place. That made him think, getting away from this place, but where to? It was not like he could hide on one of these trucks and expect to arrive in Japan. That simply was not possible. It had to be one step at a time. All the while he had been thinking of going east. That would eventually take him south down the military road through Canada to the continental USA. What then?

  It dawned on him that Alaska, though it was sparsely populated, was much closer to Japan than was Canada. He really should consider going toward his home, not further away from it. Even then, there was a lot of ocean between Alaska and Japan.

  That meant he had to find a way to head west on the highway. He was determined to look for a way to do just that. For now he had to survive by his own wits at the cabin. Make these few supplies stretch as far as possible.

  Shinichi recovered his pistol and made his way back to the cabin.

  Chapter Seven:

  Hitching a Ride

  Earl Taylor resided near a small, remote town in Raymore, Saskatchewan. He was the owner of a farm five miles south-west of town. When he was a youngster, helping his fat
her, it was hard just to manage a half-section of land using old fashioned methods. When his father passed away and Earl inherited the farm, he realized there was a better way to operate. He had taken on additional land until he had a total of two and a half sections—two and a half square miles of arable land—with a sizable creek running through the middle.

  Nowadays, he was really only a farm manager. All he had to do was take care of the farm house, a few horses, a couple of cows and a few chickens. Everything else was contracted to a specialist company. Seasonally they swept through the area with a fleet of large machines, harrowing, seeding, or harvesting. His wife and two sons could take care of things quite well while he was away on his driving job.

  In the spring of forty-four, Earl answered an advertisement calling for drivers to take freight to Alaska. It was just what he had been looking for—chance to go to Alaska, the ‘Last Frontier’ they called it. During the long prairie winter he had read all about the early pioneers and the gold rush era, first a frantic dash to Dawson City and to Fairbanks and Nome. The tales fascinated him and now it was possible to drive to Alaska on the new Al-Can military road—completed in November the previous year—and get paid quite handsomely for it too.

  Earl felt a pang of guilt for not being able to join the armed services. It was not for the want of trying, but he had been rejected on medical grounds. He had—according to the doctors—something wrong with his feet. It was an affliction he had learned to live with quite well—hardly a notice-able limp—hell, even many of his close friends didn't know he had a problem—but it wouldn't pass the scrutiny of the military examination board. He was however quite capable of driving a truck and it was a way to make a worthwhile contribution.

  This was his fourth run up the military road. The first, in late May, had been really eventful because there was a period of wet weather and it was winter break-up in northern areas. The primitive highway was flooded and washed out in many places and he had been stuck for days—along with many other drivers—while construction crews repaired the road. They were constantly working on it at one place or other and, even under the most favorable conditions it was one hell of a road to drive. Few sections could be called good and the more traffic there was, the worse it became. Trucks frequently sunk to the axles in the thawing ground or slid off the narrow and often muddy road bed. One second of distraction was enough to get a person killed. Earl had seen many bad accidents on a route that was littered with wrecks—a stark reminder of what can happen. Then, there was the dust—after a dry spell, the driving was generally safer but the dust was awful.

  However, what marvelous and varied country he had seen on these trips. A far cry from the flat featureless farm lands of his birthplace. It stirred Earl so much it was in his mind to sell the farm and move to the northwest once this cursed war was over and done with.

  So far this trip had not been too troublesome. The weather was cooperating for the most part and there had been no problems except for the dust being horrible. This time he was hauling a low trailer with a mid-sized caterpillar tractor and three large packing cases containing aircraft engines. The engines were for an airfield called Northway, the first place of any significance over the Alaska border—he had been there twice before—the dozer was destined for Fairbanks.

  Moving supplies to Alaska for the support of the military was a Herculean and seemingly never-ending task but, he was told, it could stave off an anticipated invasion by the Japanese who had already occupied some of the Aleutian Islands far to the west.

  As usual his vehicle was part of a loose knit convoy—moving as a group but maintaining a reasonable separation, depending upon road conditions. At least they would be together to assist each other if things did get bad. This time, in his convoy, there were six vehicles carrying a variety of goods and heavy machinery. His own truck was the only low, flat-bed.

  There are many rest camps at intervals along the highway. Spartan at best, they provide the basic necessities, a place to bunk, eat and, if you were really lucky, to take a shower to get rid of the dust. Some are situated within the limits of small towns on route and some in remote places, many miles from anywhere notable.

  Earl joined his assembled convoy at Edmonton, Alberta. A lot of the freight was being brought from the USA and marshaled in Edmonton. From there the road went east to Grande Prairie, White-court and Dawson Creek. That's where the real Alaska-Canada military road started. From there to Fairbanks, Alaska, were 1,523 mostly tortuous miles.

  The military highway—a tremendous feat of engineering—had been forged through the wilderness in only eight months. The main towns on the military road were; Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, Watson Lake, Whitehorse, Haines Junction, Tok, Delta Junction, and finally Fairbanks. There were also emergency landing fields at intervals for the thousands of planes being ferried to Russia on the Lend-Lease Program. His first destination, Northway, was one of those emergency fields to off-load the spare engines.

  It is at one of these service camps, called Beaver Creek that Earl stopped for the night—the last rest and refueling station before crossing into Alaska Territory.

  He dismounted stiffly from the cab just as it was going dark and filled up the truck tanks with fuel. Then he parked the vehicle parallel with the road. The rest of his convoy was in the process of doing the same.

  As was normal, he did a walk around to ensure the tires were okay and that the load was secure. It was, though everything was covered uniformly with a thick layer of mud and dust.

  The inspection finished, he headed toward the buildings to grab a bite to eat and to check into the bunkhouse for a few hours of well deserved sleep.

  The truck was moving. Shinichi was relieved that his plan was working so far and he had not been discovered.

  For a three consecutive evenings he had hiked from the cabin and watched the base. Staying hidden most of the time in the shrubs just outside the circle of lights bathing the gravel pad. Both nights, after activity quieted down, he crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle, checking in the cabs for food. He found a surprising amount; a left over sandwich, some of those mysterious green cans and one time a bag of nice rosy apples. He took only two of these so as to not attract attention to his thievery. It seemed most drivers carried some food in case they broke down in a remote place, so he was well supplied.

  He was always amazed there were no guards posted by the trucks and he had not been challenged, although he had a few close calls when someone appeared unexpectedly.

  The worst aspect of these evening trips was the return hike to the cabin after sunset. Presently there was a little moonlight and the road was easy to follow. However, the trail from the road to the cabin was the scariest part. At the best of times the entrance was hard to find, the trail narrow, poorly defined, and quite possibly guarded by one of those huge deer or something worse. Each time he was awfully relieved to make it to the safety of the cabin with his loot.

  Tonight, determined to make an escape attempt at the first opportunity, he had with him the knapsack with just the bare minimum of contents; his flying boots—the bulkiest item—wool socks, his shirt and scarf, a tightly rolled blanket, a couple of ‘green cans’ and a flask of water. He knew he would be able to survive for a while. There had been no chance to join the food line again so he was surviving on what he could pilfer.

  He decided there was no point in ever putting up a fight if he was discovered, so he buried his flying suit and other Japanese items by the cabin. He had no idea what the future held, so he didn't want to draw attention to the fact he had been there. However, he did bring his pistol and ammunition and stashed it at trails end—it gave him a feeling of security. He still carried his knife attached to his belt. He had noticed that many people wore a knife so it would not seem out of place. Fearing it would draw attention he put his wristwatch inside one of the boots in the knapsack.

  This night he decided to make his move. He observed as a truck loaded with a tractor and some othe
r freight pulled in to refuel then parked parallel with the road. It was part of a convoy of six vehicles but was the exception because it was the only one with a low trailer in tow. The rest were canvas-enclosed, three-axle trucks.

  He was checking the trucks for food when he came to the one with the low trailer. There was a caterpillar tractor toward the rear where there were tandem axles but something square, covered by tarps, up front. The way the tarpaulin was arranged attracted him, it was almost like a tent, narrow at the top and wide at the base. There was a small triangular space on each side. If he could sneak in there, and make sure the tarpaulin was still lashed down tightly, nobody would notice—it would make a good hiding place

  This was the chance he had been waiting for. The convoy was heading west and he was determined to go with it. He went back to his hiding place and took care of relieving himself before bringing the knapsack to the trailer. He unlashed one corner of the tarp, shoved his pack inside, and then crawled into the space himself. Then he carefully—with difficulty—re-threaded the rope through the metal loop on the edge of the trailer in such a way he could pull it tight from the inside and tie a knot. He hoped it would look undisturbed.

  There was just enough space to lie down alongside the packing cases with the knapsack under his head. He must be careful not to touch the taut side of tarp or he might be detected. It occurred to him he must have left telltale footprints in the mud and dust on the edge of the trailer. The dirt must surely have shaken off the canvass too. Would that be noticed? He had seen the drivers carefully checking around their vehicles before departing, so he was concerned about it.