The Greatest Generation

As you all know, Saturday was the 9th anniversary of what is now seared into all of our memories and vocabulary-- simply as 9-eleven. I spent the evening with my mother and brother, Doug at a reunion for civilians who served as P.O.W.'s during WWII. And what a patriotic evening it was.
It was also nine years ago that my mom and I flew (with Holland as a 3 month old) to Great Falls, Montana for one of their reunions. At the time, my mother was knee deep in researching her book. My great grandfather spent nearly five horrific years as a P.O.W. at the hands of the Japanese. While in Montana, I helped my mom interview 85 former prisoners. And coming from a woman who used to tell peoples' stories for a living-- the stories of these men were spellbinding, amazing and inspiring.
Saturday night's reunion was a bit on the bittersweet side... there were only ten of the guys in attendance this time. They are all too rapidly passing on. The guy in the middle (below) doesn't remember much these days. But 9 years ago, while in Montana, we had dinner with him on a couple of occasions (and in the years since). His name is Bill Taylor and he was mentored by my great grandfather. Bill has quite the story to tell. In fact, he wrote a book a few years back-- but honestly, by the time he got it written, I think his mind was starting to fail him. The book does not even come close to capturing his experiences on paper. Anyway, he was one of the very few to sucessfully escape the Japanese. He and a buddy jumped a train as they were being transported from one death camp to another. His friend shattered his ankle and did not end up getting away. But crafty old Bill Taylor somehow made his way through enemy territory and ended up taking refuge with Mao Tse Dong's band of guerrilla warriors. He even has a picture of himself with Mao. Can you imagine?

This is dear old Mick Johnson. After the convention 9 years ago, baby Holland, my mom and I took a trip to some tiny, dot of a town in Arizona to Mick's house. He showed us all kinds of pictures and memorabilia and told us harrowing story after story. Get this, while we were there, he showed us in a closet where he had buried many of his priceless pictures and mementos from the camps-- under the carpet and the cement. We offered to have it dug up and the floor fixed-- but he said he would have it done someday. Well, the other night, we asked him about it-- if he'd ever unearthed his treasures-- and he couldn't remember where they were buried. How sad. We told his step-son. Hopefully, he'll find it.

This is Glen Newell. All of these men are truly heroes. And they all love my mom. She went back to the National Archives in Washington, D.C. and dug up all kinds of information for each of them-- including their original P.O.W. cards the Japanese kept on each man. She gave them all copies. And she was able to clear up a lot of housekeeping details on each of the camps in China and Japan-- details that had grown cloudy with the memories of the men.

This is J.O. and Pearl Young. We spent a lot of time with them at the reunion and at subsequent reunions. J.O. was close with my mother's grandfather. I will never forget sitting over dinner with J.O. and him telling about how desperate the conditions were at the camps. From the maggot infested rice gruel (I think on average 3 men died a day in each camp due to starvation and dysentery) to the daily beatings by the Japanese. Most of the men were worked to death if not starved to death. J.O. was working under inhumane conditions in a factory when he took the incomprehensible step of slamming his own leg into a machine until it broke-- just to get sent to the infirmary to get a few days of rest.

And this is LeRoy, one of the cutest characters you'll ever want to meet. I don't think I've ever seen him without a cocktail or two, or three or.... But, hey, after what these guys went through, he deserves it! LeRoy, unlike a lot of P.O.W.'s will talk your ear off and tell you story after story. Stories that make your jaw drop lower and lower with each passing minute. All these men were working as civilian contractors for Morris Knudsen Construction company building Naval landing strips on Wake Island in the Pacific when they were attacked by the Japanese on the day after Pearl Harbor. This relatively small group of construction workers somehow outsmarted and out fought the Japanese for a couple of weeks before the island fell. 98 of their co-workers were executed on the beach in cold blood. The survivors (my great grandfather included) were shipped in the most heinous conditions to Japan. When they left Wake Island, many had been stripped down to their underwear. It was hot and muggy and after hours of having to stand or sit as prisoners on the island's tarmac-- many were badly sunburned. They were stacked in the hull of an old ship, forced to sit in a foot of human waste for several weeks as the creaky, old ship zig zagged the ocean, trying to avoid U.S. Submarines and Warships. When they finally arrived in Japan, it was in the throes of a bitterly cold winter. What they suffered is beyond my comprehension.

I remind myself that my sufferings cannot even be placed in the same room with these amazing men. Stop me if you ever catch me saying woe is me. I sure hope these guys are around for next year's reunion.