Lost in a Foreign Land Page 6

  It was a long night. Shinichi slept fitfully, waking many times when there were unusual sounds—and it was cold too. Finally, when it was barely light outside, he heard heavy footsteps approaching, there were several people—he could hear them talking as they drew closer. His heart was in his mouth.

  The driver's door of the truck squeaked open and he detected a little movement. Footsteps crunched on the gravel then there was a thump, thump, first up front then moving down the right side—thump, thump—now it was moving along the left side where he was. The footsteps stopped right near his hiding place—there was a tug on the cover—then after a brief pause, the gravel crunched and the thumping continued. The driver was ensuring each tire was correctly inflated by striking them with a heavy object.

  Now there was a metallic sound and some rattling up at the front. More metallic sounds and then silence. Ah yes! He's checking the engine oil level and the radiator. Like a pre-flight check, thought Shinichi.

  Truck engines down the line were rumbling into life, a door slammed and the truck engine started. After a couple of minutes there was a jolt and they were rolling. Shinichi finally took his first big breath. He had made it. Next stop—he had no idea where—but he knew it was the last time he would see the cabin which had been his salvation and comfortable home for fifteen days.

  Chapter Eight:

  Captured

  It was a terrible bumpy, dusty, and noisy ride. Fine dust swirled up from the tires and percolated under the tarp. Shinichi found it hard to breathe, trapped as he was in the small space. There was nothing he could do except keep his eyes closed and bury his face into his clothes in an attempt to filter out the dust. Stones from the road pinged, and occasionally crashed, against the underside of the trailer in an incessant drum-beat of sound. All too often there was a lurch that sent shudders through the whole trailer and its load. His still sore ribs were taking a pounding. There was a lot of jolting around and shifting of gears as the driver negotiated twists and turns and the fickle grade of the road. The packing cases against Shinichi's back constantly shifted back and forth an inch or two and the tie down ropes creaked under the strain. Twice the truck stopped for a while—with engine idling—and he could only conclude it was because there were problems with other vehicles on the road ahead.

  The convoy had been on the move for an hour when it slowed and came to a halt again. This time the engines stopped and there was silence. He stayed perfectly still and waited to see what would happen. Then he heard voices and the sound of approaching boots on the gravel. They stopped near the cab and he, through a tiny tear in the tarp, could just make out the silhouette of two people standing and conversing with the driver. Had he been discovered? Were they about to search the vehicle and find his hiding place?

  No! After a couple of minutes, the two figures moved away down the line. The truck didn't move but it seemed the formalities were over. Maybe this was just a vehicle check-point. Could it be they were crossing the border into Alaska?

  Ten minutes passed and he heard the revving of engines up and down the line then the engine of his truck cranked into life and they started moving again. His terrible ordeal of dust, noise and bone jarring bumping around, started all over again.

  When Shinichi first crept into this hiding place it seemed comfortable and he had visualized he might sleep. However, the first mile convinced him that was totally out of the question. And, that's the way it was. He cringed in that narrow space for mile after tortuous mile and tried to protect his body from the pounding as best he could. All the while he prayed the heavy cargo would not break loose and crush him.

  After what seemed hours the truck slowed and crawled slowly through a left hand turn. He heard the tail-end of the convoy continuing straight ahead. His truck had separated from the rest of the group. Now it went at a more leisurely pace and there was a steep down-grade. A mile or so and the truck came to a halt. More voices, above the sound of the idling engine, then, it moved on again.

  This time the truck went slowly and Shinichi could see through the peep-hole in the tarp that it was passing some buildings. Then it jolted to a halt and the engine shut down. For a moment there was blessed silence and—even more appreciated—stillness.

  He heard the driver's door squeak open and slam shut. Footsteps receding, then there were voices. He could sense a little agitation in those strange words. Footsteps approached—three shadowy figures moved to the side of the trailer. They stopped at his location. There was a tug on the ropes holding the tarp and it relaxed. This was it. He was about to be captured.

  The figures retreated a couple of paces, then a voice said; “Okay. Come on out. We know you are in there.”

  Shinichi couldn't understand the words but he recognized the tone of the voice. There was no mistaking this was a command—he could guess what it was. He stayed still, his heart pounding, and the command was repeated. More forcefully this time and something poked at the tarp. He cringed, fearing a bayonet thrusting into his hiding place. After all, he was a Japanese pilot, the hated enemy of the USA.

  The game was up. Shinichi reluctantly slid out of his hiding place dragging his knapsack behind him.

  What happened next amazed him. Three men stood there; two were in military fatigues but only one wore a side arm. The other was in civilian work clothes—the truck driver. When he emerged from his hiding place they simply took one look at him, pointed and hooted with laughter. He was befuddled. Why would they laugh at him this way?

  Then it dawned on him. They assumed he was just a common stowaway hitching a ride up the highway to Alaska. Covered from head to foot as he was with fine brown dust, really covered, and in fairly respectable civilian clothes, they obviously did not recognize him as being Japanese.

  “And, where the hell do you think you are going by hitching a ride on my truck, young fellow?” said the one who was obviously the driver.

  Shinichi couldn't understand the question so he spread out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender and remained silent.

  It wouldn't be long before the truth of his identity would be revealed and the game would be up.

  The driver—chattering all the while—led Shinichi over to a nearby building. On the way, Shinichi noted, this was an airfield with a long gravel strip and there were several planes parked in a row some distance away. Before entering the building, the driver removed his rough wool shirt and gave it a good shake and used it to beat away the road dust from the rest of his clothes. Shinichi took the hint, took off his jacket, and copied what the driver did—except he had a lot more dust ensued and it took more time. He also whacked the dust off his knapsack—then they entered the building together.

  It was all strange to Shinichi but he quickly recognized this was where he could clean up and remove the residue from that horrendous trip. There were two toilet cubicles and a urinal trough along one side and a large shower stall on the other. A large, round communal wash basin in the middle.

  The driver picked a towel from a shelf and tossed it to Shinichi, smiled pleasantly and said; “Go ahead young fellow and clean up,” indicating a shower stall and then simply walked out and left Shinichi alone.

  Shinichi understood he was expected to take a shower and make himself presentable. He also realized there was no possibility of escape. Outside were acres and acres of open gravel, an airfield and goodness knows how many miles of cruel wilderness. He would be seen before he could go fifty yards in any direction and besides, he had no desire to get lost again out there in the unforgiving forest and swamps.

  He relished taking a shower even though the water was only slightly warm. He still had to be gentle with his wound—which was nicely healed over—and with his still painful ribs.

  He knew this was the end of his freedom. Cleaned and dressed it would be immediately obvious to anyone that he was a foreigner—that he was Japanese—hardly able to understand or speak more than a few elementary words of English. It would be best to make a clean breast of it and let
his captors determine the outcome. They didn't seem the type to simply stand him against a tree and shoot him. Probably ship him off to some miserable prison camp for the remainder of the war.

  Shinichi was torn between honor to his Emperor and country and what his heart told him to do. He had cheated death many times but all he really wanted to do was survive so he could return to Japan. It might take a long time—maybe years—but deep down that's what he wanted. To be allowed to return to Masako and to see his father and mother.

  Shower finished, Shinichi carefully dressed, picked up his backpack and went outside. Nobody was guarding the building, as he had thought they might. In fact there was no one in sight except way down the row of parked aircraft. The truck he had arrived on was now parked over that way too—a hoist was already working to unload some of the cargo. Twenty-yards to his right stood a building with two Jeeps parked by the entry. In large letters across the front it said; NORTHWAY ALASKA. Shinichi swallowed hard, it was time to give in to common sense because there really was no other option.

  Shinichi pushed open the entry door and found himself in a well-lit office with four desks and several shelf units and storage cabinets. Three people were busy but they looked up from their work as he entered. One stood and moved in his direction. Shinichi could see a look of surprise register on his face but also a little puzzlement. He started to say something, but Shinichi preempted him.

  He lowered his knapsack to the floor, stood to attention and gave a slight bow. Then, in the best English he could muster, said, “I Shinichi Oda—Pilot—Japanese Imperial Navy.”

  There was a stunned silence. Everyone just stared at him like he had come from another planet.

  He didn't bow again but, remaining at attention, repeated; “I Shinichi Oda—Pilot—Japanese Imperial Navy.”

  The soldier that had been approaching stood rooted to the spot and the other two gasped audibly. After a few seconds another man stood up from behind a desk at the far end of the office and approached.

  “Well, I'll be damned. How in the hell did you get to this God forsaken place?”

  Shinichi didn't understand he was being asked a question. He just stood there at attention and remained silent.

  The man walked over and looked more closely at Shinichi then nodded slowly. “Damn, I think you may just be telling us the truth.”

  He said something sharply to the other soldier. This man stepped forward and deftly patted Shinichi down and, of course, found the knife at his waist and quickly retrieved it from the sheath. He looked at it and commented about the distinctive Japanese marking on the blade. The men nodded. It seemed to confirm what they had been told. One man searched the kit-bag and checked each item carefully. The presence of the green cans of food prompted considerable discussion. They found his wristwatch too—with the Japanese inscription on the back.

  Within minutes Shinichi was led to a side office where there was another soldier. He suspected they were going higher in rank with each encounter. He was right—this soldier had more stripes on his sleeve—sergeant or maybe he was a staff sergeant. In any case Shinichi felt it best to stand to attention.

  He stood quietly for a minute while they studied at him and conversed back and forth. Then he repeated; “I Shinichi Oda—Pilot—Japanese Imperial Navy.” It was the third time he said it.

  His being forthright seemed to work in his favor. Nobody pushed him around, the more senior man indicated the chair in front of the desk so Shinichi sat—stiffly upright. The two other men remained standing.

  The officer sat and looked at Shinichi steadily for a full minute with his fingers intertwined on the deck top. Judging by the size of his hands, thick neck and military hair-cut he didn't look like the type of person you would want to mess around with. Shinichi decided to be as cooperative as possible and perhaps be treated well in return. However, he didn't shrink under this officers steely gaze. Instead, belying how he felt inside, he looked calmly back at the officer. He had a name patch on his uniform with the single word, CARTER.

  Finally Carter spoke; “Do you speak English?” He had a strong southern accent, but Shinichi didn't know that.

  Shinichi understood the words; speak English, so he replied; “Hai! Err—a little.”

  “How did you get to Alaska? Then realizing Shinichi had come by truck from the other side of the border he corrected himself and said; “How did you get to Canada?”

  Shinichi understood the words Alaska and Canada so he guessed what the question was but could not find the appropriate words to reply in length.

  He simply said; “Airplane.”

  “What kind of airplane? When did you arrive?”

  Shinichi was stumped. He couldn't understand enough of these strange words.

  The officer persisted but was really not making much headway. Shinichi on the other hand didn't want to give too much precise information about his ship or plane. Perhaps he could give the impression he simply got lost, ran out of fuel and crashed.

  After a few frustrating minutes of questioning they were getting nowhere very fast. Shinichi finally took the initiative, reached over the desk, selected a pencil and piece of paper and started drawing.

  The two men watched patiently and obviously fascinated, as he deftly sketched a rough diagram. He drew a ship amid ocean waves, then a shoreline and some mountain peaks then a small single engine plane. He surrounded the plane with little trees. Then he drew a meandering line of arrows between the ship and the plane and indicated going down into the trees.

  In his own language and with extensive use of his hands, he described leaving the ship—knowing they didn't understand a word—crossed the coast, then followed the wandering line and how he was lost and disoriented, going in circles and finally how he crashed. He didn't mention firing upon an American plane or that he had been shot down. Rather, he left them with the impression he had simply got lost, run out of fuel and crashed.

  At this point, to add credibility to the story of the crash, he opened his jacket and shirt and showed them his injury. It was scabbed over but the ribs were bruised—blue, turning yellow—and still quite painful. It no longer looked like a bullet wound, it could well have been a more general injury caused during the crash.

  They were shaking their heads at his unfamiliar language and his story but seemed to understand his graphic description of events. There was some discussion between the three, and then more questions;

  “How long have you been in … in Canada?

  Shinichi obviously didn't comprehend. The officer thought a moment and then took down a calendar from the wall. He pointed to the square representing the fifth of September and said; “Today.” Stabbing his finger on the square and repeated; “Today. How long Canada?” he moved his finger back one day at a time, fourth, third, second—then pointed to the Shinichi's rendition of the crashed plane.

  Shinichi suddenly understood; the officer wanted to know how many days since he crashed?

  He studied the calendar and, not wanting to be too precise, pointed to August 20th. About fourteen days had passed.

  “Where did you get these?” Carter tugged at the sleeve of the jacket Shinichi was wearing.

  This, Shinichi quickly understood, so he drew a wandering line from the plane to a log cabin and the road close by. To embellish it further he drew a convoy of little trucks on the road.

  Carter was thoughtful for a moment. “Were you alone in the airplane?” He noted the blank look and added; “Pilot one. Pilot two; holding up one finger and two fingers respectively. Carter thought

  he was getting mighty good at this Pigeon English and he saw the other guys grinning.

  Shinichi pointed to himself.

  “Somebody look after you at this cabin?” Again he was rewarded with a blank stare from the captive.

  Carter pointed to the cabin and to Shinichi then to each of the men in the room; one, two? Again he pointed to the cabin. Shinichi caught the gist of the question.

  “Me,” Again poi
nted to his chest.

  “How about these?” Carter held the green cans.

  “Shinichi pointed to the trucks he had drawn on the military road.

  “Sneaked in and stole them. Well I'll be damned.”

  The officer stared keenly at Shinichi for a few seconds but seemed to be satisfied with his answers. He had been alone. The only person on the plane and nobody had helped him at the cabin. He had robbed a few items from the trucks before stowing away.

  He addressed the other two in the room. “It seems we have ourselves a Jap pilot as a POW. I'll let the MPs in Fairbanks know then they can come down and handle him. Damn!” He slapped the desk top. “There's going to be hell to pay about this. I mean, Jap planes flying over our patch without us knowing about it. Anything could have happened. Meanwhile, either keep him locked up or don't let him out of your sight. We don't want him stowing away on another truck and there's no other way out of this sorry place. It'll be chow time soon and I guess he'll be happy to eat as well. On second thoughts, after he sees the crap we put up with nowadays, he might not be hungry.”

  They all laughed and Shinichi wondered why? These Americans seemed to be awfully relaxed, even in the presence of their senior officer.

  “Yes. Sir,” they saluted casually, one took hold of their prisoner by the arm and they turned to the door.

  Then, as an after thought Carter added; “Better get our medic to look at his injury. It looks a bit angry and might need some attention.”

  Shinichi—realizing they were treating him with considerable respect—bowed his head and said politely; “Arigatou Gozaimatsu.” It was the Sergeants turn to look blank.

  Chapter Nine: