them now, I thought. God knows they can use the rest, after last night. They looked peaceful yet pathetic in their dirty, tattered and torn clothes. The sun, sea and thirst would soon be our enemy for the day. They would need all their strength, and then some, to face what lay ahead.
Repositioning my body against the side of the raft, I realized how wet my butt and legs were. But then, all of us had the same problem, as the bottom of the float had only woven canvas straps that were open to the sea. The Japanese raft was made out of light-weight balsa wood and wrapped with gray cloth strips. The soggy craft was about fourteen feet long and six feet wide. There was no survival kit, no oars, no nothing. It was seaworthy, but that was about all.
Turning my head, I began watching the light show in the east. My mind was racing, my thoughts not really clear. I knew the month was March…the year 1945…but I had no idea what day, and I had no idea where we were or where the tides might take us. I had no idea about anything to do with the future. I did know that we had escaped, last evening, from a rusty old Jap POW freighter that had come under attack from the air or from a submarine. Something had blown a hole in the side of the Hell Ship we were imprisoned in. The breach in the hull was big enough for some prisoners to jump into the ocean to escape.
Luck had smiled on me in many ways, last evening. First, I was fewer than twenty feet from the blast when the shell hit. Second, any shrapnel from the explosion had missed me. Third, when I jumped into the water, no rifle fire pursued me as I swam away from the mired boat. The guards topside of the freighter still had their heads down and lights out. And, finally, I was lucky that I had only been in a Jap POW camp for the past twelve months and still had most of my wits and strength. The other poor devils on that doomed ship had been in captivity for years and had little of either remaining. Yes, I was lucky…but then I have always been lucky when it comes to surviving.
Reflections
A water drop ran down the fogged window. The outside lights of a passing town shone through its clear path. My mind was lulled, not so much by the reflecting lights as by the rhythm and movement of the train. The sound of its wheels racing over the ribbons of steel made a melancholy melody. The noise was muted, yet loud. Focusing on the window of my small compartment I could almost make out my reflection. My body was tall and trim, just over six feet and 168 pounds. Clean-shaven, with a full head of brown hair, I had a square jaw with a small cleft in my chin and dark-blue eyes. Some might say I was good-looking but the reflection I saw was just ordinary. Born in May of 1920, I was twenty-two years old and, after a year of surviving in the rain forest of British Columbia, strong and healthy. But something else glared back that was less encouraging. My fate was in doubt; I had no idea of where I would sleep or where my next meal might come from. Still, I comforted myself with the thought that thousands of young men were feeling the same emotions, this very night. Why not? It was June of 1942. The whole damn world was at war, and millions of men would be making this same journey in the coming years.
Laura and her parents had said their good-byes to me almost three days ago, in Ketchikan, Alaska. When the wheels of the plane lifted off the tarmac for Seattle, I began missing her, and the long, lonely train trip to California had not helped. Missing her was an understatement; loving, longing and craving would be more real. We had shared a true adventure during the last year in British Columbia, an adventure full of sadness, splendor and love. While we had not yet consummated that love, I knew that someday, God be willing, we would. She is my soul mate, my future, and my love…
I had to let go of these thoughts and get her out of my mind! Where I was going, I could not afford the luxury of a personal life, and for me to dwell on her and her family would only make my immediate future seem more bleak.
A knock on the compartment door jolted my mind back to reality. A black face beneath a black cap soon appeared in the half-opened doorway.
“Mr. Clarke, we will be arriving at the station in an hour. Anything else I can get you, sir?”
Looking at my watch, which read 9:30, I replied to the porter, “Yes, if the club car is still open, I would like one last beer for the road. Is that possible?”
“Sure is, sir. It would be my pleasure. Even if the car is dark, I’ll get you that beer. What kind you want?”
“Falstaff, if they have it…or any other. It really doesn’t matter.” Getting up, I reached into my pants pocket and retrieved a five-dollar bill. Handing it to the porter, I said “You keep the change. Where I’m going, I won’t have much use for it!”
“Yes, sir! I’ll be right back. Don’t you worry none. I’ll get you that beer.”
Stretching my legs, I looked around the small drab drawing room. It was dark and musty-smelling. I was sure that I was not the first -- nor would I be the last -- recruit to make the thirty-hour train trip riding in this room. When I’d boarded in Seattle, I had expected Uncle Roy to be at the station. Instead, I received a telegram with his apologies. It seemed like the petroleum business and war both made for good excuses. Still, I really didn’t blame him; it was three thousand miles from New Jersey to Seattle, and plane tickets were hard to get, even for a person with priority standing. What he did send me was the upgraded train ticket to my Pullman compartment and a short note about keeping my head down and my eyes open. His closing words still rang in my brain: “Don’t be first, don’t be last, don’t volunteer and, most of all, don’t lose your life in Mr. Roosevelt’s war!” A grin crossed my face as I thought, Good old Uncle Roy, one last dig about the war and Mr. Roosevelt. He just doesn’t understand why I enlisted in the Marines when he could have gotten me deferred and working at some safe desk job at one of our gas plants.
“Shit, he’ll never understand,” I said out loud. But then, he was doing his part for the war effort. America needed petroleum products, and one thing that Uncle Roy and my late grandfather had built were the refineries to provide those very products.
After Grandfather passed away, I inherited half the business but couldn’t envision myself parked behind some desk, counting up columns of numbers and lunching at faceless country clubs. Even if the world hadn’t been at war, I couldn’t have envisioned that. I had other things to do, other ways of proving my worth. No, Uncle Roy could take care of the business and the money while I searched. But searched for what? Maybe a way to avenge Pearl Harbor and Laura’s dead husband entombed aboard the Battleship Missouri. Maybe for some answers to a world gone mad. And maybe for a way to contribute to my country and, most of all, to Laura and her family. What I searched for was as elusive as the black gold my grandfather had sought.
The porter reappeared at the door carrying two beers on a small tray, each with a glass inverted over the top of the bottle. “Thought you might like two for the road, sir. One is compliments of the Southern Pacific Railroad, with our best wishes.”
With a smile on my face, I remarked, “Two beers! How nice. Thank you, and thanks to the SP railroad!”
Taking the tray, I slid back down on the seat behind the small compartment table and reached for my Bull Durham.
The porter, still in the half-opened door, said, “You take care, sir, and God bless you and all the young men on this train.” As he closed the door, he ended, “I’ll call ya just before we get to the San Diego station.”
While taking swigs from the first bottle of beer, I rolled and lit a cigarette. The beer was cold and smooth, the tobacco strong and harsh. “All the young men on this train,” the porter had said, and yes, I had seen them when I boarded. There were four day-coaches filled with young recruits who looked no older
