Jake scrambled wearily to his feet. As he stood up, he flinched. Stabbing pain shot through his chest and arms. He steadied himself and took a deep breath—more pain. He took shallow breaths as he unzipped his jacket and felt inside. The pain became unbearable as he felt his rib cage. It was obvious to him that he had broken several ribs when he collided with the ground. He carefully zipped up his jacket and pulled the parachute toward him. He then pulled the knife from his jacket pocket and cut off a length of the parachute fabric. This would give him a little protection from the rain.
With the silk fabric draped over his head and body, Jake stood up and began walking. It didn’t much matter in which direction he went; he was surrounded by rice paddies. He sloshed through the mud, bending slightly as he went to lessen the pain of his ribs.
Jake was thoroughly soaked by the time he came to a tiny building, about the size of a broom cupboard. Inside he found some incense holders and concluded that it was probably some kind of shrine. He cleared out the holders and backed inside. The building was just wide enough for him to get in and sit down with his legs pulled up to his chest. The building was not comfortable, but it was dry.
Within minutes of sitting down, Jake was sound asleep. He did not wake up until the sun was up the following morning. When he awoke, it took him several seconds to remember what had happened to him the night before and where he was.
Somewhere in the dark, stormy night Jake had lost his rations, and he had nothing to answer the growl in his stomach. Gingerly, he pressed his hands against either side of the shrine and pulled himself to his feet. He stepped outside, getting his first glimpse of China in the daylight.
The countryside was lush and green, and Jake could see a track leading off to the left. He waded through a rice paddy toward it. He stepped up to the track and started walking. The mud dried and caked to his body and uniform as he walked along. His heart thumped as he saw two men coming in the opposite direction. One was carrying a bucket. As they got closer, Jake waved. Soon they were just feet apart, and Jake started talking slowly. He pointed to the U.S. insignia on his jacket and tried to communicate that he was American. The men looked at each other, said nothing, and moved on. Jake found the men’s behavior odd, but it happened again, and then again. No one seemed the least bit interested in a strange white man, filthy from head to toe, walking through rice paddies.
Jake came to a small stall where an old man sat selling colored eggs and vegetables. He felt sure that he would make progress now. He gestured for a pencil and paper and drew a picture of a Chinese insignia and a Japanese insignia on a page and then drew a question mark. The old man shrugged and went back to picking bugs off a cabbage.
Jake could see the old man was not going to be any help either. He walked on, wondering whether people wouldn’t talk to him because they were afraid of being punished by the Japanese or because this was Chinese-held territory and no one was interested in the war. He walked past small Chinese houses and was surprised to see that not only people but also chickens and pigs all lived together inside the ramshackle homes.
The farther Jake walked, the more invisible he felt. No one smiled at him or nodded in recognition. It was as if Jake were a ghost to them—albeit a very muddy and hungry ghost. He passed a cluster of houses with several soldiers standing around. Two of them were washing clothes in a ditch. Jake hesitated for a moment. Should he approach them or not? He remembered the advice about telling a Japanese person from a Chinese person by how spread out their toes were. But in military boots, he thought glumly, all toes are equal! Because he didn’t want to risk approaching the soldiers, he walked right past the houses. No one shouted at him or tried to intervene.
As Jake continued walking, he realized that he would have to make some kind of move toward someone, as no one was going to initiate any move toward him. His heart began to thump wildly as he saw another house in the distance. This, he decided, was the one he was going to approach for help. He felt for the pistol in his pocket, checked the ammunition clip, and made sure that a bullet was in the firing chamber.
Within minutes Jake was standing at the open doorway of the house. Chickens squawked around his feet. Jake took a deep breath and stepped inside. Sitting at a table were two soldiers playing a game with several local children. Words came out of Jake in a rush, along with a jumbled attempt at sign language. He pointed to himself and said, “American,” and mimicked a plane flying overhead. Then he pointed to the older of the two soldiers. “China or Japan?” he asked.
“China,” the soldier replied.
But instead of relief at the answer, Jake felt a sense of dread, something was not right. His right hand curled around the trigger of his pistol—he had seven bullets left.
Jake backed up toward the door, when suddenly he was aware of a commotion outside. He turned his head to see ten soldiers, armed with bayonets, pistols, and swords, gathered in the yard. “China or Japan?” he yelled, aware of the desperation in his voice.
“China,” one of them yelled back.
Jake smiled and gestured for them to come in. There was nothing else he could do unless he knew for sure they were Japanese, and then there were more of them than bullets in his pistol.
The soldiers slapped Jake on the back and smiled at him. Through the language barrier Jake could tell they were trying to joke with him and make him feel at ease, but he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.
After a few minutes the soldiers gestured for Jake to come with them, and they left the house together and set out down the road. After about five minutes they stopped for a moment, and Jake turned to find a bayonet pointed against his back. Then, as if on cue, all of the soldiers pointed their weapons at him, and one of them reached into Jake’s jacket pocket and pulled out his .45 pistol. Then they walked on as if nothing had happened.
Jake still wasn’t sure whether he was in the hands of friends or foes. He could imagine the Chinese not wanting to escort someone who was armed and did not understand a word they said. He could also imagine the Japanese tricking him into walking with them. Which scenario was the right one? He wished he knew.
Eventually the group reached a camp, where a friendly officer greeted them—a good sign, Jake concluded.
Another officer came outside. “Please to be inside with us,” he said in fractured English.
Jake smiled weakly and entered the house, knowing that the next few minutes could determine whether he lived or died.
Chapter 7
Captured
The room into which Jake was led was lined with photos of Asian military men, all with numerous ribbons and medals pinned to their chests. Jake studied the photos and asked the interpreter the men’s names. He did this to buy himself a little time while he adjusted to his new surroundings, and also in the hope that he might recognize one of the names as either Japanese or Chinese. Unfortunately, this did not happen, and when Jake finally sat down, he still did not know whose hands he was in.
The questions started immediately: “Did you come from an airplane? Where is the plane now? Where are the other airmen who were on board? What are you doing in China? Were you part of the bombing of Japan? If so, where did the planes take off from, and how many planes were there?”
Jake struggled to stay calm as he gave the same answer to almost every question, either “I don’t know” or “I won’t tell you.”
The interrogator smiled. “How about something to eat?” he asked. “You must be very hungry by now.”
Jake nodded. “Some food wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he replied, hoping that he did not sound too hungry and give the idea that he could be made to give answers in exchange for food.
Moments later a peasant woman appeared at the door with a tray of cakes and tea. Jake was offered one of the cakes. It tasted delicious, not quite like anything he’d ever had before, almost like apple butter, but not quite.
The cake eaten, as Jake sipped the tea, the interrogation began again: the same questions, and the same answers. Eventually, the interrogator became impatient and gave a new set of instructions to the interpreter.
“They say to tell you they are Japanese. Do you understand you are in the hands of the Japanese?” the interpreter relayed.
Jake’s heart sank. He understood perfectly well.
“Aren’t you afraid?” the interpreter asked.
“What should I be afraid of?” Jake replied as a thousand answers to that question raced through his head.
The questioning continued, but Jake continued to stonewall until eventually the interrogator gave some kind of instructions.
Immediately Jake was hauled to his feet and marched out the door. He was escorted at bayonet point down the road for several miles to another compound that looked very similar to the one he had just left. This time he was shut in a room with guards at the door and window. As the time passed, it grew dark and cold, and Jake huddled in the corner for warmth. This was his second night in China. Last night he had hoped that by some miracle he had parachuted into free China. Now, twenty-four hours later, he knew better. He was now a prisoner of war, held by the Japanese.
As the night dragged on, Jake tried not to think about the stories he had heard of how the Japanese treated their prisoners. He remembered hearing that in Japanese culture it was a great shame to be taken alive in battle and that it was honorable to take your own life if you were captured rather than submit to the enemy. That is why, rumor had it, the Japanese were so cruel to their prisoners. They looked down on them as too weak and too cowardly to commit suicide rather than be captured.
Several commotions took place outside his window in the night, and Jake thought he heard American voices. Had some of the other men from the Bat been picked up as well?
In the morning Jake was brought into a large room where two other crew members were sitting—Will Farrow and Harold Spatz. Jake nodded in their direction. He longed to talk to them but did not want the Japanese to know they were from the same plane.
Will and Harold were hauled to their feet and marched outside with Jake. In the morning light they had their photographs taken, and then they were marched back inside. Jake wondered what had happened to their other two crewmen. Had they made safe landings? Were they still wandering around the countryside waiting to be captured?
Before long his questions were answered when George Barr and Bob Hite were brought to the compound. Now all five crewmen were in one place. George looked the worst. He was limping from having sprained his ankle and bruised his knee when he landed.
With the arrival of the other two men, the interrogation started up again and went on for much of the day until it finished abruptly. All five men were then blindfolded, handcuffed, and leg cuffed with a chain between so they could walk. A wave of helplessness surged over Jake. As long as he could see his comrades, he had hope. But now all he could see was darkness, and morbid thoughts overcame him: Would the Japanese blindfold them when they killed them? Would they be shot or beheaded?
Time dragged on, and then Jake felt himself being led out of the house and loaded onto a truck. He heard George and Will say a few words and figured that all five of the men were being taken away together.
After a long drive, the five crewmen, still blindfolded and cuffed, were pulled off the truck and led up a ramp. Jake took a deep breath. He knew that smell anywhere—aviation fuel. They were boarding an airplane!
The plane was obviously a military aircraft, and Jake sat on a hard bench with his back against the side of the plane. Inside, the noise from the droning engines was deafening, and the plane seemed to rattle so much that Jake though it might fall apart in midair. As they flew along, Jake could almost hear his empty stomach screaming out for food.
