Prisoner of the Samurai by James Gee

Author:James Gee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Casemate Publishers
Published: 2018-05-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Moulmein Jail

Toward the end of October we were jammed into an even dirtier, hotter cargo ship for the trip to Burma. Chuck Satterlee was fortunate in finding a perch atop a large tractor, which kept him high above sweating bodies—but not for long. The rest of us were relegated to the bottom of the hold along with an assortment of machinery and Captain Morgan ordered Chuck down with the rest of us.

“It’s useless to be resentful, Satterlee,” he told the fuming Chuck. “You know one officer is worth ten enlisted men.”

“The day will come, you son of a bitch,” Chuck shot at him, “when the whole world won’t gyrate around your cotton-pickin’ ass!”

We were brought topside for chow but most of us returned to the hold without eating. The food was nauseating and inedible.

We finally fell asleep draped over the machinery and each other. The roar of planes brought us awake in terror. We waited, praying not to be blown to bits, while the planes crossed and recrossed over the ship. We knew the Jap soldiers and guards would be the first to leave the ship in any scramble for safety. The one tiny hatch for hundreds of men was inadequate to say the least. Then there were the sick. A number had been left at Changi, but others had not been considered sick enough to be left behind. They were, however, weak and gaunt from dysentery; the heat and lack of sufficient food and water was not improving their condition. If we found it necessary to abandon ship, they would be too debilitated to swim more than a few strokes.

The roar of planes overhead began to fade, yet sleep refused to come after this incident. The foul air and the heat prevented sleep and the thought that the next few minutes might be our last did not help. We took turns fanning the air over the sick.

We arrived, finally, in Rangoon harbor and, while we were being loaded onto a larger, gravel-bearing ship, we had a pleasant surprise. Allied bombers had been active here. Small boats littered the Irrawaddy River, their keels splintered, masts broken and huge gaping holes in the larger disabled ones. Everywhere we looked, wrecks littered the main channel. Neither docks nor buildings had been spared and all about the town of Rangoon was vivid evidence that this was not, after all, a one-sided war.

The disastrous appearance of the town seemed to have a sobering effect upon our merry guards. Their behavior toward the sick on the voyage could only be described as outrageous, but having observed the chaos that had once been the capital of Burma, they appeared to be thoughtful—gave us time to help the ill without jabbing them with guns—and allowed all of us to stretch out on the gravel.

We scarcely felt the rough gravel—to stretch out was a tremendous luxury. Darkness fell as we started up the Irrawaddy and the guards allowed us to move the sick out onto the decks for fresh air.

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