On the Road North
Lawrence F. Farrar
December 1970 – Yokosuka, Japan
Perched on a stool, Jack Perry, Boatswain’s Mate 3rd, stared at the glimmering images in the mirror behind the bar. It was well into the evening, and the Crossroads Cabaret was hopping. Sailors, some in uniform and some in civvies, mingled with heavily made-up bar girls. Laved in amber light, slow-moving couples crowded the compact dance floor. Dominated by a tenor sax, a four-piece band moaned away on When a Man Loves a Woman. In the mirror, Jack kept tabs on his girlfriend, Kimiko, snuggling on the lap of a Chief Petty Officer off the Oriskany. Jack hoped she would not take the Chief to the nearby Kanko Hotel for a short time; but he understood how things functioned in that port city. Besides, he had other things on his mind—important things, life-changing things.
Jack was twenty-three. For two years he had served aboard the USS Washoe County, an LST home-ported there in Yokosuka. He’d early on become a regular in the warren of neon-lit bars and cabarets that clustered outside the base gate. Of medium height, long-faced and long-necked, Jack had pale blue eyes, short-cut brown hair, and thin lips which, as he did now, he manipulated when he felt nervous. Outfitted in jeans, a watch sweater, and low-topped boots, little in Jack’s appearance distinguished him from his shipmates.
Jack could hardly be described as a deep thinker. Nonetheless, he came across as opinionated and never reluctant to share his views with whomever happened to sit next to him. Among other things, in unguarded moments, he pontificated about how the war in Vietnam had become a losing proposition, prolonged by political big shots for their own purposes.
It had been after just such an exposition that a fragile-looking, blond civilian, with what struck Jack as an Australian accent, had sidled up to him.
“Hello, Jack. I’m Andy. We’ve had an eye on you.”
“Yeah. Who’s we? What do you want?”
“How would you like to avoid that unpleasantness down there in Southeast Asia?” Andy said.
“What do you mean?” For once, Jack became a listener.
“I gather you don’t like what your country is up to, crushing the will of Viet Nam’s freedom fighters. My friends and I are activists for peace and justice.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
Despite his criticism of the war, in fact, Jack reckoned the moral protests back home to be nothing more than “a lot baloney.” However, it now occurred to him that, whatever his reason, if this guy was searching for an expression of moral concern, Jack could play that card.
He looked about and then said, “Yeah. I guess plenty of people think what we’re doing there is wrong.”
In fact, Jack’s most pressing concern was that his prospective involvement in the war could lead to his death. It was no perception nurtured in morality. Simply stated, he did not want to go to Vietnam; he did not want to die in Vietnam. The reason he’d joined the navy in the first place had been to evade the draft.
“We know you’ve received orders,” Andy said. “Leaving in a week, as I understand it.”
“Damn Kimiko,” Jack said. “She talks too much.”
Andy smiled wittingly. “Perhaps. In any case, I am associated with an organization that can help people like you; people who don’t want to sacrifice themselves in Johnson’s War.”
Jack trailed Andy to a booth in search of greater privacy.
Once there, Andy said, “We can facilitate your travel to a place of safety.”
“Canada? Do you mean like Canada?”
Andy smiled, shrugged, and opened his hand in a gesture that implied, I can’t say it, but that’s right.
Jack had avidly listened to stories about American servicemen who’d been smuggled out of Japan and who now lived in Canada. Given the war’s unpopularity, they assumed that, when it ended, they’d be forgiven and could return to the States. It seemed, just such an opportunity had come Jack’s way.
“How do I know you’re not from Naval Intelligence?”
“You don’t. But I’m not. I can, however, assure you that each man who leaves with us does an honorable thing.”
For a few moments, they explored Jack’s view of the war’s legitimacy and what Andy had to offer. Accommodating his interlocutor’s point of view, Jack proclaimed his opposition, characterizing the war as really evil.
Andy nodded his approval.
“If I decide, what is the . . .?”
“Tell no one. Be at Yokosuka Station at ten o’clock Wednesday night. Bring $500 or Japanese yen. Unfortunately, we need money to obtain cooperation from certain persons who assist us—at some peril to themselves, I might add.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“The driver of a gray Toyopet will sound his horn twice. Get into the back seat and your journey to freedom will have begun. Oh, yes. Bring warm clothing; the weather in the north of Japan is quite cool.”
“What if I don’t show up?’
“Then you will have missed an opportunity, one that could save your life?” That said, Andy slid out of the booth and wended his way through the crowd and out into the street.
Jack had been non-committal. But fear of deployment to Viet Nam roiled through his gut. Ever since the orders arrived, the notion of running had intrigued him. No way he’d let himself get gunned down on some stinking waterway in the Mekong Delta. No way he’d step on a mine in a rice paddy. Beset by anxiety, he resolved to take up Andy’s offer.
~ ~ ~
Jack drank heavily, often enough to get really drunk. On this night, however, he nursed a single whiskey and water. He wanted to stay sharp because this was the night, the night he planned to ditch everything connected to the US Navy. Going over the hill, going AWOL, deserting—it no longer mattered what you called it. He intended to bag it; to get the hell away. Others had done it; and so could he.
Yet, now that the once abstract idea of desertion and flight to Canada hovered on the edge of reality, his stomach churned. It would be easier just to go back to Kimiko’s apartment and spend the night with her. But, like some demonic presence, the Armed Forces Network casualty reports from Saigon burrowed deeply into his mind. The time had come. Jack gulped his drink and made for the door.
Kimiko made a puzzled face, as if to ask, where are you going? Jack smiled warmly and waved. He supposed he would miss her, but what the hell, she was too old for him, anyway. He’d been granted four days’ pre-departure leave, so neither she nor anyone else would realize he’d gone until he was well on his way.
In the street, Jack hailed a cab and climbed in. “Yokosuka Station,” he said.
During the ten-minute ride, he was afflicted with nagging doubts; had he made a decision he would come to regret? He sought to bolster his resolve. Hell no, we won’t go. Wasn’t that what the draft dodgers and college punks said? Well, he wouldn’t go either.
Once at the station, Jack retrieved his canvas bag from a locker where he’d stowed it. The bag contained a jacket (the man said it might be chilly), a change of clothes, tooth brush, razor, a roll of toilet paper (always good to have), a flashlight, a folding knife, a tourist map of Japan, a small Japanese phrase book, a half dozen candy bars, and two bottles of water. Jack convinced himself he had to travel light.
Jack lingered in front of the station; he turned away when a sailors’ liberty party back from Yokohama spilled out of the entrance. Should anyone recognize him, they might be curious about what brought him there so late at night.
Cars came and went. People scurried by to catch departing trains. Jack shifted from foot to foot. Where was the damn Toyopet? Finally, a small car stopped at the edge of the parking lot and dimmed its lights. Jack waited. Twice the driver softly sounded the car’s horn, then twice more. Jack scooped up his bag, hustled over to the car, and dropped into the back seat.
The Japanese driver, his face barely visible in the dim light, did not turn around. He said, “Perry?” Nothing more.
“Yes, I am Perry.”
They drove away into the darkness and headed up the Miura Peninsula toward Yokohama. The journey north had begun.
“Where are we going?” Jack asked.
No answer.
“Where are we headed now?” Jack asked again.
“I just drive,” the Japanese man said.
Jack assumed it likely all had to do with security. Still, he’d hoped for more information now that he had committed himself and the trip had started. Desperate for a smoke, Jack ransacked his pockets without success. In his haste, he’d left his Luckies on the bar. The ride had just got longer.
He slumped into the seat peering out into the night. There were plenty of lights and cars for forty minutes or so. Then they turned into what Jack believed to be an industrial area. Cars and lights became fewer. They rolled along for another twenty minutes, turning from time to time. Like an inductee into some secret society, he had no idea where he was or, in fact, where he was going.
Finally, they stopped. Jack guessed they must be near Yokohama. A warehouse loomed before them, only a portion of it illuminated by the headlights. The driver touched his horn and a shuttered gate rose, revealing a barely lit interior. They drove in and the gate clattered shut behind them.
The driver killed the engine, got out, and opened the back door. He motioned for Jack to leave the vehicle. Two shadowed forms approached.
“I am glad to see you made the right choice,” Andy said. “This is our friend, Saburo. He will be your guide.” Saburo grunted, barely acknowledging Jack’s presence. A tough-looking individual, he looked more like a yakuza than the peace activist Jack had envisioned.
“What now?” Jack said.
“You will change to another vehicle,” Andy said. He gestured toward the shadowed outline of a small covered truck. “Saburo’s colleague will drive. He is already in the truck.”
You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” Jack was hopeful. But Andy shook his head.
“Do I have time to take a piss?”
“Of course.” Andy indicated a door to an office work area. “And be assured the truck will make periodic rest stops as you continue your journey to freedom.”
“Where the hell are we going?”
“You will travel to Aomori. I cannot reveal exactly where. From there, arrangements have been made to take you across the Tsugaru Strait and to a port in Hokkaido. Beyond that, again, I cannot say. The police are working hard to discover our movements.”
“Jesus. That’s a long way. I thought . . .”
“Be assured, my friend, it is the safest route we have found.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“For now, yes. Do you have the money?”
“Yeah. I have it. Four seventy-five. Best I could do.”
Without explanation, Jack had borrowed most of the money from shipmates. He questioned the need for it. Weren’t these peaceniks acting for moral reasons? But he kept the thought to himself. He extracted a roll of bills from under his shirt and handed it to Andy. He did not mention another $200 in yen he had borrowed from Kimiko’s apartment and stashed in a back pocket. You never could tell when you might need a little insurance.
Twenty minutes later, Jack hefted his sea bag, clambered into the back of the truck, and settled in on a quilt that lay on the floor. One of the Japanese men secured a tarp that covered the back of the truck. Ensconced in an ink dark space, flashlight in hand, Jack squinted at his map. He calculated the distance to Aomori to be around 500 miles. It would be a long ride. He really wished he had a cigarette.
~ ~ ~
As the truck bounced along through the night, Jack’s mind danced, again beset by tremors of self-doubt. Immersed in darkness, Jack could not rid himself of the realization that at this moment he had little—perhaps no—control over his life. He had placed his fate in the hands people he didn’t know. He had become totally dependent upon them.
In addition to grappling with such self-tormenting thoughts, Jack found the ride itself to be damned uncomfortable. While the truck rattled over the road every shudder, every vibration from the axles and worn shocks jolted his body through the thin quilt on which he sat. He tried to nap, but sleep eluded him. And a nauseating odor, like that of decaying fish, assaulted his nostrils. Clearly, the truck had recently carried some foul-smelling cargo.
After several hours, the truck finally stopped. Jack heard voices outside, and then one of the men came around the truck and released the flap. Jack rose stiffly, picked up his bag, and climbed out. When sharp chill air smacked him in the face, he felt glad he’d brought the jacket.
The apricot glow of dawn illuminated what appeared to be a gravel pit, with derelict vehicles and machinery. Jack could vaguely discern two or three shadowed buildings.
“What now?” he said.
“No English.” Saburo said.
Saburo pointed toward one of the structures, one little more than a shed.
Jack’s unease mounted. He spoke no Japanese. Not only did he not know where he was or where he was going. He could barely communicate; he might just as well have been a man without speech. He tugged up his collar and followed Saburo to the shed.
“You stay. Rest here.” Saburo handed over a small box in which Jack discovered a lunch of rice balls, fish shavings, and pickles.
From security to insecurity; from being with people to being alone. Had he detected nervousness, or perhaps animosity, in Saburo’s voice? Indeed, had the Japanese man eyed him with ill-concealed belligerence? Jack felt as if he had entered a waking nightmare.
As morning light permitted, Jack peered through a grime-covered window. The place seemed deserted. Apparently, it served the smugglers as a safe stop. His Japanese minders had disappeared, and he hesitated to venture outside. Seized with hunger, he wolfed the food and washed it down with swigs of bottled water. He would save the candy bars. He relieved himself in a corner of the shed, rolled up in his blanket, and sank into an exhausted sleep.
In early afternoon, Saburo rapped on the door. “We go now.”
Jack struggled to return to the sentient world. Despite his jacket and his blanket, he still shivered in the cold. When he stepped outside, the gray sky was ripe with wisps of snow. He very much wanted to understand the men’s words.
The most he could extract from either of them was, “Maybe some trouble.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
With no answer, he resumed his place in the truck. They secured the tarp behind him and drove off. The tarp was no match for the damp cold that filtered in.
Trouble? Had his flight been revealed? Had some complication arisen further along? His imagination propelled him in multiple directions—none with good outcomes. He rued the fact he’d failed fully to contemplate the possibility this venture might not end well. Seized with something like buyer’s remorse, he became increasingly convinced that, indeed, this venture might not end well.
He felt exhausted, dispirited—at a loss. Trying to occupy his mind, he imagined himself back in Kimiko’s apartment. For a moment, libidinous fantasies distracted him. But marrow- grabbing cold and chattering teeth wrenched him back into reality. He yearned for the truck to stop soon. He prayed for it to stop soon. He wanted nothing more than to find a stove, a fireplace, a hibachi –anything; he was so cold.
Jack’s mind engaged in a relentless round of what ifs. What if no boat waited to take him across to Hokkaido and beyond? What if the destination was Russia and not Canada? What if his minders feared detection and planned to abandon him? Or do something worse? What if? What if?
More hours dragged by and the truck seemed to have slowed. Jack sensed they’d left the highway. He strained to push back the canvas to capture a view of the outside world, but he found the tarp firmly secured. Motivated by worry, he retrieved his knife, slashed a slit in the cover, and looked out. He’d been right. No longer on the highway, the truck now passed along on a snow-mantled, barren road. He recognized no sign of human habitation. Moreover, the dying sun would soon breathe its last; long cold shadows shaded the woods.
What did it mean? Perhaps they had taken a short-cut, avoiding more heavily traveled roads. That had to be it - a short-cut. But his sense of relief quickly dissipated. What if the men in the cab pursued a deadlier purpose? What if, fearing discovery, they now intended to be rid of him? His mind worked overtime. Why else this remote place? A more encouraging answer evaded him; his mind felt depleted.
He again concluded the whole idea of desertion had been a cockamamie one. If only time could be snatched back. What had he been thinking?
Perhaps he could undo his error. It was not too late. Two days of leave remained. Perhaps he could get back to Yokosuka and back to his ship. If he asked the men in the truck cab to let him off in the next town, how would they react? They might fear he would betray them. Then what? He’d learned of no military men who had changed their minds and come back. Reason abandoned him; a single inclination permeated his thought process. He had to be free of his minders.
Jack stuffed his blanket into the bag. Once more, he recovered his knife. Good bosun that he was, he had kept it well-honed, and he easily slashed open the canvas. Now committed, he grabbed the bag, pushed through the tarp, and tumbled out of the moving vehicle into the snow
He lay there for a short time, then staggered to his feet, and took several deep breathes. His arms and legs throbbed from the hard landing and a hostile coldness enveloped him. He immediately regretted his impulsive decision.
Too late for that now. The truck vanished into the gray-white winter dusk.
Jack looked about, smothered by apprehension and dwarfed by the deep silence of the place. Other than the gradually filling tracks left by the truck, he still saw no sign human beings had ever been there. No lights. No buildings.
Rooted like the trees that surrounded him, he stood for a moment in the ankle-deep snow and watched puffs of breath evaporate into nothing. What to do next? Little more than a rutted trail to begin with, the snow-laden road would likely deny his minders the possibility of a return once they discovered he’d gone. They would not be back, at least not soon. Perhaps, he thought, they might actually be relieved to be free of him.
Above all, he had to find shelter; and soon. Come on, Jack. You can do it. He wind-milled his arms and stared into a curtain of thickening snow that melded seamlessly into the white expanse before him.
The road’s trace sloped downhill. There was a valley below; perhaps he could find a farm, a ranger station—something. He converted a second shirt into a make-shift hood, slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder, and thrust his ungloved hands into his pockets. In this way, he squelched through the snow, following the fading tire tracks.
Jack’s feet ached. But after slogging on for only ten minutes, his spirits vaulted. To his left and up a slight incline, in the fading light he spotted a structure. Salvation — or at least temporary salvation. As he approached it, he determined the structure to be little more than a tumble-down hut — likely a wood cutter’s shelter. Piles of cut wood surrounded the hut. Jack pushed into the interior, unlit except for such light as filtered through the doorway. Save for an axe and saw propped against the wall, the place was empty. Scraps of kindling were neatly piled in a corner.
Thank God, his lighter worked. He chomped down two candy bars and, utilizing the wrappers as a starters and small kindling for tinder, Jack managed to light a fire. Smoke rose through a hole in the roof. The fire kept the shelter tolerably warm and huddled before the flames, Jack removed and dried his shoes. He also dried his socks and put on a fresh pair.
His plan for defection had gone a-glimmering; beyond that, Jack could conjure no clear image of how it all would play out. Perhaps in the morning someone would come by on the road. He’d find help; eventually make his way back to Yokosuka. Could you be punished for trying to defect and then changing your mind? He realized that if what he’d done came to light, it might well result in a court-martial and punishment. Even that dire outcome, however, seemed better than freezing, better than going to Russia, and better than dying in Viet Nam.
When he emerged to retrieve more firewood, the world seemed buried in silence. The snow had halted, and a mild sheen of stars arced across the sky. Jack cocked his head; did he hear the somber tolling of a temple bell in the distance?
He draped himself in the blanket, spreading it like a cape to better catch the warmth from the crackling flames. Periodically feeding the fire, as the logs burned and crumbled, Jack struggled to stay awake. He longed for a cigarette. He knew he needed to maintain control; he knew he needed to think clearly. Yet, his frightened self challenged his calculating self. Awash in unshackled emotion, he felt his isolation to be complete.
He ate another candy bar.
~ ~ ~
In the morning, contrary to his hope, Jack saw no movement on the road. He realized it had, at least temporarily, likely been rendered impassable for vehicles. He felt exhausted from having kept the fire going. He munched his last candy bars, relishing each sticky, sugary bite until none remained. His stomach demanded more. He could not remain in this place. He had to go on.
Jack strained to fit one pair of pants over another. He did the same with his socks. He’d already put on a second shirt. None of this helped much.
He was constantly cold, and the outside air was bitter. His bag felt heavy and he opted to abandon it. He slipped the knife into a pocket. He shoved the phrase book under his shirt. He hesitated about the flashlight but decided it would slow him down. He pored over his map but could not figure out with any accuracy where he was — most likely in the vicinity of Mount Hakkoda, but that was only a guess.
The outside air crystalline, Jack waited for an hour, reluctant to leave the modest warmth of the hut. He hoped the sun would emerge and the temperature would go up. It did not happen—quite the opposite, the temperature plummeted.
Nonetheless, after a long swig from his last bottle of water, he set out. He slogged forward, watching his breath appear and disappear in the air. He encouraged himself — he would make it back; he would make it back. He still had two days of leave — still had time to reach the base and report aboard the ship. If he overstayed his leave a bit, there would be some minor punishment. What they didn’t know about where he had been wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even if no serviceman in Japan had started out for Canada and then turned back, there could always be a first.
Jack pushed on for what seemed an hour, but a check of his watch indicated it had only been half that much. He slipped frequently and fell hard twice. He had to keep going.
His feet and his hands again became a problem. First bitterly cold, his feet now began to feel numb. And, despite massaging his hands and trying to keep them in his pockets, he saw small ice crystals forming on exposed skin. The surface of his jacket had frozen stiff as cardboard.
Jack desperately wanted to believe he would find help soon; perhaps a farm. Japan was a small country with lots of people. He imagined himself inside a farm house eating food and drinking hot coffee. The image, of course, was dream-like. He’d never met a Japanese farmer in his life; never crossed the threshold of a Japanese farm house. His feet suffered, and his muscles felt stiff. He wanted to stop and rest, maybe lie down in the snow and take a nap. The temptation nagged at him relentlessly, but he knew such sleep would be fatal. He pushed on.
The road swung down through the woods and into the valley. Jack experienced a sudden surge of excitement. Through bleary eyes, he could see the coast. Even more uplifting—ahead to his left he saw wisps of smoke wafting into the mid-day sky. Like a frantic animal, Jack scrambled toward the thatched roof house sending up the smoke. A dwelling of his imagination had become a dwelling of reality
He could make it; now he knew he could make it. As he drew closer, he surveilled the dwelling as best he could. It was a poor-looking place. He detected no sign of a car or any other vehicle. A pair of round snow shoes stood propped in the snow next to the entrance.
Minutes later, Jack leaned on the shuttered door of the little dwelling, pleading for help in English. The barking of a dog in the house mingled with Jack’s calls for help and his labored pounding.
The door opened, and Jack confronted an elderly Japanese man and his wife. The couple seemed at once terrified and amazed. When the man attempted to slide the door shut, Jack pushed his way inside and stumbled to the small charcoal fire at the room’s center.
These upland dwellers had never encountered anyone or anything like this strangely dressed foreigner. He had burst through their door like some vengeful mountain goblin straight out of folklore. While they appeared at a loss, their little white Spitz wagged his tail in greeting.
Jack could comprehend nothing the couple said, although he did not miss the agitation in their voices. Unable to communicate, he simply ignored the discombobulated pair and savored the warmth of their little house. In time, he shakily pointed at the tea pot suspended over the sunken hearth. The bent-over woman poured a cup of hot tea and hesitantly placed it on the floor before their intrusive visitor. He clutched the cup with trembling hands and managed to gulp its contents, burning his tongue in the process. When Jack patted his stomach, the woman provided a cup of cooked brown rice. In the course of these activities, the couple maintained a wary watch over each move he made.
After he had cleaned up a second portion of rice, Jack collapsed onto the floor and dozed. Speaking in low voices, the couple knelt nearby watching him. Half-awake, Jack realized the man cradled a hand axe. Jack did his best to not be seen as a threat.
Restored by food, drink, and warmth, Jack studied his watch. His leave would not expire for another day. He shook his head as the irony struck him. Lost, half-frozen, in some little farm house, trying to avoid a charge for desertion — yeah, on leave.
Jack massaged his hands; the circulation restored, it felt good. His feet, too, seemed better. He fumbled inside his shirt and brought out his phrase book.
“Eki. Station. Eki,” he said, separating the words. No response.
He thumbed through the little book and settled on densha (train).
Jack extracted the Japanese currency from his pocket. Okane. Yen. He knew these words for money and they elicited a response from the old couple. Jack extended his hand with a five thousand-yen note and placed it on a low table. The man responded with a gap-toothed grin and nodded. Whether the old fellow was lured by the money or intimidated by the foreigner, Jack could not tell. Probably both.
After consultation with his wife, the old man laid the axe aside, donned an outer coat, and signaled for Jack to follow him. Jack hesitated, uncertain of the man’s intention and not eager to desert this warm place. Yet, even though the couple had shown no hostility, Jack grasped that he’d best leave. The longer he remained the more likely would be an encounter with others who might ask questions or, worse yet, inform the police of his presence. And so, Jack, the beneficiary of a proffered pair of mittens, followed his new guide. At the entrance, the man slipped on his boots and, once outside, stepped into a set of snowshoes; Jack could only wish he had a pair.
For fifteen or twenty minutes, with the dog romping ahead, they plodded down the twisting course of the unplowed road. As they came around a bend, the man exclaimed in surprise, Ara! He pointed twenty or thirty yards down the slope among the trees.
There, slid off the road, Jack spotted the truck. It lay on its side, a silent piece of black wreckage in the snow. No sign of people.
The old man trundled down the slope and examined the vehicle. Hen desu, ne (It’s strange, isn’t it?) He worked his way around the truck, stopping to peer into the cab and then into the back. He seemed perplexed when he came back up to the road; so, too, was Jack, but likely for different reasons. With no common language, Jack could merely shrug to display incomprehension at what they had come upon.
They gazed at the truck for a moment longer and then resumed their trek. Struggling to keep up, Jack envied the old man his agility on the snowshoes.
In the distance, an ambient orange tinted the gray clouds —perhaps the promise of a city. Jack’s hopes rose. And well they should. In late afternoon, the two men cleared a rise, and Jack’s guide stopped. There spread out below them in the distance Jack could see the early evening lights of the city and the flickering reds, greens and whites of vessels out in the strait.
“Aomori,” the old fellow said, again displaying a toothless grin.
Even better than seeing the city, fifty yards or so before them a plowed road crossed their path.
“Aomori,” the old man said again and gestured. “Aomori. Densha.”
They soon stood together, Jack and the old man, at the side of the road as traffic went by. Neither spoke. Finally, a small taxi, a white light mounted on its top, slid to a stop and backed up.
“You from Misawa base?” the driver said.
“Yeah, I’m from the base.”
“We see many Americans from base.”
Jack slumped into the back seat and said, “Please take me to the train station.” Relief saturated his voice.
As the taxi pulled away, Jack waved at the old man. What might he have made of Jack’s appearance at his door? Would he somehow link Jack to the truck? And what had become of Jack’s minders?
“What you do out here on cold day?” the driver said.
“Hiking,” Jack replied. True enough, as far as it went.
In the station restroom Jack shed the outer layer of clothing and made himself as presentable as he could. His feet hurt, and his body shook. But his spirits soared. He’d almost pulled it off; and he still had time. Thank God, he’d kept the Japanese currency. He made his way to a ticket window and purchased a ticket for a south-bound train to Tokyo. A Yokosuka line train would take him from there back down the Miura Peninsula to Yokosuka and to the base.
Jack painfully climbed the stairs to a platform, just as the train’s doors slid open to receive passengers. Exhausted, shaken, and sleep-starved, Jack entered a coach and settled into a seat. He closed his eyes.
The possibility of discovery, he supposed, still existed; but it seemed unlikely his minders would report what happened to the authorities; to do so would reveal their own activities. In any case, he would be on a plane. Vietnam might be dangerous, but at least it was warm. Fragmented and blurred thoughts transiting the landscape of his mind, Jack plunged into a deep long sleep as the train glided south.
~ ~ ~
In the morning masking his discomfort, Jack walked up the ship’s gangway. “Request permission to come aboard, sir.”
The Chief on duty said, “Permission granted.” Then, as Jack stepped onto the quarter deck, he added, “How was your leave, Perry?”
“Great.” Jack said. “Just great.” He headed for the petty officer’s mess and a cup of hot coffee.
Lawrence F. Farrar
December 1970 – Yokosuka, Japan
Perched on a stool, Jack Perry, Boatswain’s Mate 3rd, stared at the glimmering images in the mirror behind the bar. It was well into the evening, and the Crossroads Cabaret was hopping. Sailors, some in uniform and some in civvies, mingled with heavily made-up bar girls. Laved in amber light, slow-moving couples crowded the compact dance floor. Dominated by a tenor sax, a four-piece band moaned away on When a Man Loves a Woman. In the mirror, Jack kept tabs on his girlfriend, Kimiko, snuggling on the lap of a Chief Petty Officer off the Oriskany. Jack hoped she would not take the Chief to the nearby Kanko Hotel for a short time; but he understood how things functioned in that port city. Besides, he had other things on his mind—important things, life-changing things.
Jack was twenty-three. For two years he had served aboard the USS Washoe County, an LST home-ported there in Yokosuka. He’d early on become a regular in the warren of neon-lit bars and cabarets that clustered outside the base gate. Of medium height, long-faced and long-necked, Jack had pale blue eyes, short-cut brown hair, and thin lips which, as he did now, he manipulated when he felt nervous. Outfitted in jeans, a watch sweater, and low-topped boots, little in Jack’s appearance distinguished him from his shipmates.
Jack could hardly be described as a deep thinker. Nonetheless, he came across as opinionated and never reluctant to share his views with whomever happened to sit next to him. Among other things, in unguarded moments, he pontificated about how the war in Vietnam had become a losing proposition, prolonged by political big shots for their own purposes.
It had been after just such an exposition that a fragile-looking, blond civilian, with what struck Jack as an Australian accent, had sidled up to him.
“Hello, Jack. I’m Andy. We’ve had an eye on you.”
“Yeah. Who’s we? What do you want?”
“How would you like to avoid that unpleasantness down there in Southeast Asia?” Andy said.
“What do you mean?” For once, Jack became a listener.
“I gather you don’t like what your country is up to, crushing the will of Viet Nam’s freedom fighters. My friends and I are activists for peace and justice.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
Despite his criticism of the war, in fact, Jack reckoned the moral protests back home to be nothing more than “a lot baloney.” However, it now occurred to him that, whatever his reason, if this guy was searching for an expression of moral concern, Jack could play that card.
He looked about and then said, “Yeah. I guess plenty of people think what we’re doing there is wrong.”
In fact, Jack’s most pressing concern was that his prospective involvement in the war could lead to his death. It was no perception nurtured in morality. Simply stated, he did not want to go to Vietnam; he did not want to die in Vietnam. The reason he’d joined the navy in the first place had been to evade the draft.
“We know you’ve received orders,” Andy said. “Leaving in a week, as I understand it.”
“Damn Kimiko,” Jack said. “She talks too much.”
Andy smiled wittingly. “Perhaps. In any case, I am associated with an organization that can help people like you; people who don’t want to sacrifice themselves in Johnson’s War.”
Jack trailed Andy to a booth in search of greater privacy.
Once there, Andy said, “We can facilitate your travel to a place of safety.”
“Canada? Do you mean like Canada?”
Andy smiled, shrugged, and opened his hand in a gesture that implied, I can’t say it, but that’s right.
Jack had avidly listened to stories about American servicemen who’d been smuggled out of Japan and who now lived in Canada. Given the war’s unpopularity, they assumed that, when it ended, they’d be forgiven and could return to the States. It seemed, just such an opportunity had come Jack’s way.
“How do I know you’re not from Naval Intelligence?”
“You don’t. But I’m not. I can, however, assure you that each man who leaves with us does an honorable thing.”
For a few moments, they explored Jack’s view of the war’s legitimacy and what Andy had to offer. Accommodating his interlocutor’s point of view, Jack proclaimed his opposition, characterizing the war as really evil.
Andy nodded his approval.
“If I decide, what is the . . .?”
“Tell no one. Be at Yokosuka Station at ten o’clock Wednesday night. Bring $500 or Japanese yen. Unfortunately, we need money to obtain cooperation from certain persons who assist us—at some peril to themselves, I might add.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“The driver of a gray Toyopet will sound his horn twice. Get into the back seat and your journey to freedom will have begun. Oh, yes. Bring warm clothing; the weather in the north of Japan is quite cool.”
“What if I don’t show up?’
“Then you will have missed an opportunity, one that could save your life?” That said, Andy slid out of the booth and wended his way through the crowd and out into the street.
Jack had been non-committal. But fear of deployment to Viet Nam roiled through his gut. Ever since the orders arrived, the notion of running had intrigued him. No way he’d let himself get gunned down on some stinking waterway in the Mekong Delta. No way he’d step on a mine in a rice paddy. Beset by anxiety, he resolved to take up Andy’s offer.
~ ~ ~
Jack drank heavily, often enough to get really drunk. On this night, however, he nursed a single whiskey and water. He wanted to stay sharp because this was the night, the night he planned to ditch everything connected to the US Navy. Going over the hill, going AWOL, deserting—it no longer mattered what you called it. He intended to bag it; to get the hell away. Others had done it; and so could he.
Yet, now that the once abstract idea of desertion and flight to Canada hovered on the edge of reality, his stomach churned. It would be easier just to go back to Kimiko’s apartment and spend the night with her. But, like some demonic presence, the Armed Forces Network casualty reports from Saigon burrowed deeply into his mind. The time had come. Jack gulped his drink and made for the door.
Kimiko made a puzzled face, as if to ask, where are you going? Jack smiled warmly and waved. He supposed he would miss her, but what the hell, she was too old for him, anyway. He’d been granted four days’ pre-departure leave, so neither she nor anyone else would realize he’d gone until he was well on his way.
In the street, Jack hailed a cab and climbed in. “Yokosuka Station,” he said.
During the ten-minute ride, he was afflicted with nagging doubts; had he made a decision he would come to regret? He sought to bolster his resolve. Hell no, we won’t go. Wasn’t that what the draft dodgers and college punks said? Well, he wouldn’t go either.
Once at the station, Jack retrieved his canvas bag from a locker where he’d stowed it. The bag contained a jacket (the man said it might be chilly), a change of clothes, tooth brush, razor, a roll of toilet paper (always good to have), a flashlight, a folding knife, a tourist map of Japan, a small Japanese phrase book, a half dozen candy bars, and two bottles of water. Jack convinced himself he had to travel light.
Jack lingered in front of the station; he turned away when a sailors’ liberty party back from Yokohama spilled out of the entrance. Should anyone recognize him, they might be curious about what brought him there so late at night.
Cars came and went. People scurried by to catch departing trains. Jack shifted from foot to foot. Where was the damn Toyopet? Finally, a small car stopped at the edge of the parking lot and dimmed its lights. Jack waited. Twice the driver softly sounded the car’s horn, then twice more. Jack scooped up his bag, hustled over to the car, and dropped into the back seat.
The Japanese driver, his face barely visible in the dim light, did not turn around. He said, “Perry?” Nothing more.
“Yes, I am Perry.”
They drove away into the darkness and headed up the Miura Peninsula toward Yokohama. The journey north had begun.
“Where are we going?” Jack asked.
No answer.
“Where are we headed now?” Jack asked again.
“I just drive,” the Japanese man said.
Jack assumed it likely all had to do with security. Still, he’d hoped for more information now that he had committed himself and the trip had started. Desperate for a smoke, Jack ransacked his pockets without success. In his haste, he’d left his Luckies on the bar. The ride had just got longer.
He slumped into the seat peering out into the night. There were plenty of lights and cars for forty minutes or so. Then they turned into what Jack believed to be an industrial area. Cars and lights became fewer. They rolled along for another twenty minutes, turning from time to time. Like an inductee into some secret society, he had no idea where he was or, in fact, where he was going.
Finally, they stopped. Jack guessed they must be near Yokohama. A warehouse loomed before them, only a portion of it illuminated by the headlights. The driver touched his horn and a shuttered gate rose, revealing a barely lit interior. They drove in and the gate clattered shut behind them.
The driver killed the engine, got out, and opened the back door. He motioned for Jack to leave the vehicle. Two shadowed forms approached.
“I am glad to see you made the right choice,” Andy said. “This is our friend, Saburo. He will be your guide.” Saburo grunted, barely acknowledging Jack’s presence. A tough-looking individual, he looked more like a yakuza than the peace activist Jack had envisioned.
“What now?” Jack said.
“You will change to another vehicle,” Andy said. He gestured toward the shadowed outline of a small covered truck. “Saburo’s colleague will drive. He is already in the truck.”
You don’t have a cigarette, do you?” Jack was hopeful. But Andy shook his head.
“Do I have time to take a piss?”
“Of course.” Andy indicated a door to an office work area. “And be assured the truck will make periodic rest stops as you continue your journey to freedom.”
“Where the hell are we going?”
“You will travel to Aomori. I cannot reveal exactly where. From there, arrangements have been made to take you across the Tsugaru Strait and to a port in Hokkaido. Beyond that, again, I cannot say. The police are working hard to discover our movements.”
“Jesus. That’s a long way. I thought . . .”
“Be assured, my friend, it is the safest route we have found.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“For now, yes. Do you have the money?”
“Yeah. I have it. Four seventy-five. Best I could do.”
Without explanation, Jack had borrowed most of the money from shipmates. He questioned the need for it. Weren’t these peaceniks acting for moral reasons? But he kept the thought to himself. He extracted a roll of bills from under his shirt and handed it to Andy. He did not mention another $200 in yen he had borrowed from Kimiko’s apartment and stashed in a back pocket. You never could tell when you might need a little insurance.
Twenty minutes later, Jack hefted his sea bag, clambered into the back of the truck, and settled in on a quilt that lay on the floor. One of the Japanese men secured a tarp that covered the back of the truck. Ensconced in an ink dark space, flashlight in hand, Jack squinted at his map. He calculated the distance to Aomori to be around 500 miles. It would be a long ride. He really wished he had a cigarette.
~ ~ ~
As the truck bounced along through the night, Jack’s mind danced, again beset by tremors of self-doubt. Immersed in darkness, Jack could not rid himself of the realization that at this moment he had little—perhaps no—control over his life. He had placed his fate in the hands people he didn’t know. He had become totally dependent upon them.
In addition to grappling with such self-tormenting thoughts, Jack found the ride itself to be damned uncomfortable. While the truck rattled over the road every shudder, every vibration from the axles and worn shocks jolted his body through the thin quilt on which he sat. He tried to nap, but sleep eluded him. And a nauseating odor, like that of decaying fish, assaulted his nostrils. Clearly, the truck had recently carried some foul-smelling cargo.
After several hours, the truck finally stopped. Jack heard voices outside, and then one of the men came around the truck and released the flap. Jack rose stiffly, picked up his bag, and climbed out. When sharp chill air smacked him in the face, he felt glad he’d brought the jacket.
The apricot glow of dawn illuminated what appeared to be a gravel pit, with derelict vehicles and machinery. Jack could vaguely discern two or three shadowed buildings.
“What now?” he said.
“No English.” Saburo said.
Saburo pointed toward one of the structures, one little more than a shed.
Jack’s unease mounted. He spoke no Japanese. Not only did he not know where he was or where he was going. He could barely communicate; he might just as well have been a man without speech. He tugged up his collar and followed Saburo to the shed.
“You stay. Rest here.” Saburo handed over a small box in which Jack discovered a lunch of rice balls, fish shavings, and pickles.
From security to insecurity; from being with people to being alone. Had he detected nervousness, or perhaps animosity, in Saburo’s voice? Indeed, had the Japanese man eyed him with ill-concealed belligerence? Jack felt as if he had entered a waking nightmare.
As morning light permitted, Jack peered through a grime-covered window. The place seemed deserted. Apparently, it served the smugglers as a safe stop. His Japanese minders had disappeared, and he hesitated to venture outside. Seized with hunger, he wolfed the food and washed it down with swigs of bottled water. He would save the candy bars. He relieved himself in a corner of the shed, rolled up in his blanket, and sank into an exhausted sleep.
In early afternoon, Saburo rapped on the door. “We go now.”
Jack struggled to return to the sentient world. Despite his jacket and his blanket, he still shivered in the cold. When he stepped outside, the gray sky was ripe with wisps of snow. He very much wanted to understand the men’s words.
The most he could extract from either of them was, “Maybe some trouble.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
With no answer, he resumed his place in the truck. They secured the tarp behind him and drove off. The tarp was no match for the damp cold that filtered in.
Trouble? Had his flight been revealed? Had some complication arisen further along? His imagination propelled him in multiple directions—none with good outcomes. He rued the fact he’d failed fully to contemplate the possibility this venture might not end well. Seized with something like buyer’s remorse, he became increasingly convinced that, indeed, this venture might not end well.
He felt exhausted, dispirited—at a loss. Trying to occupy his mind, he imagined himself back in Kimiko’s apartment. For a moment, libidinous fantasies distracted him. But marrow- grabbing cold and chattering teeth wrenched him back into reality. He yearned for the truck to stop soon. He prayed for it to stop soon. He wanted nothing more than to find a stove, a fireplace, a hibachi –anything; he was so cold.
Jack’s mind engaged in a relentless round of what ifs. What if no boat waited to take him across to Hokkaido and beyond? What if the destination was Russia and not Canada? What if his minders feared detection and planned to abandon him? Or do something worse? What if? What if?
More hours dragged by and the truck seemed to have slowed. Jack sensed they’d left the highway. He strained to push back the canvas to capture a view of the outside world, but he found the tarp firmly secured. Motivated by worry, he retrieved his knife, slashed a slit in the cover, and looked out. He’d been right. No longer on the highway, the truck now passed along on a snow-mantled, barren road. He recognized no sign of human habitation. Moreover, the dying sun would soon breathe its last; long cold shadows shaded the woods.
What did it mean? Perhaps they had taken a short-cut, avoiding more heavily traveled roads. That had to be it - a short-cut. But his sense of relief quickly dissipated. What if the men in the cab pursued a deadlier purpose? What if, fearing discovery, they now intended to be rid of him? His mind worked overtime. Why else this remote place? A more encouraging answer evaded him; his mind felt depleted.
He again concluded the whole idea of desertion had been a cockamamie one. If only time could be snatched back. What had he been thinking?
Perhaps he could undo his error. It was not too late. Two days of leave remained. Perhaps he could get back to Yokosuka and back to his ship. If he asked the men in the truck cab to let him off in the next town, how would they react? They might fear he would betray them. Then what? He’d learned of no military men who had changed their minds and come back. Reason abandoned him; a single inclination permeated his thought process. He had to be free of his minders.
Jack stuffed his blanket into the bag. Once more, he recovered his knife. Good bosun that he was, he had kept it well-honed, and he easily slashed open the canvas. Now committed, he grabbed the bag, pushed through the tarp, and tumbled out of the moving vehicle into the snow
He lay there for a short time, then staggered to his feet, and took several deep breathes. His arms and legs throbbed from the hard landing and a hostile coldness enveloped him. He immediately regretted his impulsive decision.
Too late for that now. The truck vanished into the gray-white winter dusk.
Jack looked about, smothered by apprehension and dwarfed by the deep silence of the place. Other than the gradually filling tracks left by the truck, he still saw no sign human beings had ever been there. No lights. No buildings.
Rooted like the trees that surrounded him, he stood for a moment in the ankle-deep snow and watched puffs of breath evaporate into nothing. What to do next? Little more than a rutted trail to begin with, the snow-laden road would likely deny his minders the possibility of a return once they discovered he’d gone. They would not be back, at least not soon. Perhaps, he thought, they might actually be relieved to be free of him.
Above all, he had to find shelter; and soon. Come on, Jack. You can do it. He wind-milled his arms and stared into a curtain of thickening snow that melded seamlessly into the white expanse before him.
The road’s trace sloped downhill. There was a valley below; perhaps he could find a farm, a ranger station—something. He converted a second shirt into a make-shift hood, slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder, and thrust his ungloved hands into his pockets. In this way, he squelched through the snow, following the fading tire tracks.
Jack’s feet ached. But after slogging on for only ten minutes, his spirits vaulted. To his left and up a slight incline, in the fading light he spotted a structure. Salvation — or at least temporary salvation. As he approached it, he determined the structure to be little more than a tumble-down hut — likely a wood cutter’s shelter. Piles of cut wood surrounded the hut. Jack pushed into the interior, unlit except for such light as filtered through the doorway. Save for an axe and saw propped against the wall, the place was empty. Scraps of kindling were neatly piled in a corner.
Thank God, his lighter worked. He chomped down two candy bars and, utilizing the wrappers as a starters and small kindling for tinder, Jack managed to light a fire. Smoke rose through a hole in the roof. The fire kept the shelter tolerably warm and huddled before the flames, Jack removed and dried his shoes. He also dried his socks and put on a fresh pair.
His plan for defection had gone a-glimmering; beyond that, Jack could conjure no clear image of how it all would play out. Perhaps in the morning someone would come by on the road. He’d find help; eventually make his way back to Yokosuka. Could you be punished for trying to defect and then changing your mind? He realized that if what he’d done came to light, it might well result in a court-martial and punishment. Even that dire outcome, however, seemed better than freezing, better than going to Russia, and better than dying in Viet Nam.
When he emerged to retrieve more firewood, the world seemed buried in silence. The snow had halted, and a mild sheen of stars arced across the sky. Jack cocked his head; did he hear the somber tolling of a temple bell in the distance?
He draped himself in the blanket, spreading it like a cape to better catch the warmth from the crackling flames. Periodically feeding the fire, as the logs burned and crumbled, Jack struggled to stay awake. He longed for a cigarette. He knew he needed to maintain control; he knew he needed to think clearly. Yet, his frightened self challenged his calculating self. Awash in unshackled emotion, he felt his isolation to be complete.
He ate another candy bar.
~ ~ ~
In the morning, contrary to his hope, Jack saw no movement on the road. He realized it had, at least temporarily, likely been rendered impassable for vehicles. He felt exhausted from having kept the fire going. He munched his last candy bars, relishing each sticky, sugary bite until none remained. His stomach demanded more. He could not remain in this place. He had to go on.
Jack strained to fit one pair of pants over another. He did the same with his socks. He’d already put on a second shirt. None of this helped much.
He was constantly cold, and the outside air was bitter. His bag felt heavy and he opted to abandon it. He slipped the knife into a pocket. He shoved the phrase book under his shirt. He hesitated about the flashlight but decided it would slow him down. He pored over his map but could not figure out with any accuracy where he was — most likely in the vicinity of Mount Hakkoda, but that was only a guess.
The outside air crystalline, Jack waited for an hour, reluctant to leave the modest warmth of the hut. He hoped the sun would emerge and the temperature would go up. It did not happen—quite the opposite, the temperature plummeted.
Nonetheless, after a long swig from his last bottle of water, he set out. He slogged forward, watching his breath appear and disappear in the air. He encouraged himself — he would make it back; he would make it back. He still had two days of leave — still had time to reach the base and report aboard the ship. If he overstayed his leave a bit, there would be some minor punishment. What they didn’t know about where he had been wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even if no serviceman in Japan had started out for Canada and then turned back, there could always be a first.
Jack pushed on for what seemed an hour, but a check of his watch indicated it had only been half that much. He slipped frequently and fell hard twice. He had to keep going.
His feet and his hands again became a problem. First bitterly cold, his feet now began to feel numb. And, despite massaging his hands and trying to keep them in his pockets, he saw small ice crystals forming on exposed skin. The surface of his jacket had frozen stiff as cardboard.
Jack desperately wanted to believe he would find help soon; perhaps a farm. Japan was a small country with lots of people. He imagined himself inside a farm house eating food and drinking hot coffee. The image, of course, was dream-like. He’d never met a Japanese farmer in his life; never crossed the threshold of a Japanese farm house. His feet suffered, and his muscles felt stiff. He wanted to stop and rest, maybe lie down in the snow and take a nap. The temptation nagged at him relentlessly, but he knew such sleep would be fatal. He pushed on.
The road swung down through the woods and into the valley. Jack experienced a sudden surge of excitement. Through bleary eyes, he could see the coast. Even more uplifting—ahead to his left he saw wisps of smoke wafting into the mid-day sky. Like a frantic animal, Jack scrambled toward the thatched roof house sending up the smoke. A dwelling of his imagination had become a dwelling of reality
He could make it; now he knew he could make it. As he drew closer, he surveilled the dwelling as best he could. It was a poor-looking place. He detected no sign of a car or any other vehicle. A pair of round snow shoes stood propped in the snow next to the entrance.
Minutes later, Jack leaned on the shuttered door of the little dwelling, pleading for help in English. The barking of a dog in the house mingled with Jack’s calls for help and his labored pounding.
The door opened, and Jack confronted an elderly Japanese man and his wife. The couple seemed at once terrified and amazed. When the man attempted to slide the door shut, Jack pushed his way inside and stumbled to the small charcoal fire at the room’s center.
These upland dwellers had never encountered anyone or anything like this strangely dressed foreigner. He had burst through their door like some vengeful mountain goblin straight out of folklore. While they appeared at a loss, their little white Spitz wagged his tail in greeting.
Jack could comprehend nothing the couple said, although he did not miss the agitation in their voices. Unable to communicate, he simply ignored the discombobulated pair and savored the warmth of their little house. In time, he shakily pointed at the tea pot suspended over the sunken hearth. The bent-over woman poured a cup of hot tea and hesitantly placed it on the floor before their intrusive visitor. He clutched the cup with trembling hands and managed to gulp its contents, burning his tongue in the process. When Jack patted his stomach, the woman provided a cup of cooked brown rice. In the course of these activities, the couple maintained a wary watch over each move he made.
After he had cleaned up a second portion of rice, Jack collapsed onto the floor and dozed. Speaking in low voices, the couple knelt nearby watching him. Half-awake, Jack realized the man cradled a hand axe. Jack did his best to not be seen as a threat.
Restored by food, drink, and warmth, Jack studied his watch. His leave would not expire for another day. He shook his head as the irony struck him. Lost, half-frozen, in some little farm house, trying to avoid a charge for desertion — yeah, on leave.
Jack massaged his hands; the circulation restored, it felt good. His feet, too, seemed better. He fumbled inside his shirt and brought out his phrase book.
“Eki. Station. Eki,” he said, separating the words. No response.
He thumbed through the little book and settled on densha (train).
Jack extracted the Japanese currency from his pocket. Okane. Yen. He knew these words for money and they elicited a response from the old couple. Jack extended his hand with a five thousand-yen note and placed it on a low table. The man responded with a gap-toothed grin and nodded. Whether the old fellow was lured by the money or intimidated by the foreigner, Jack could not tell. Probably both.
After consultation with his wife, the old man laid the axe aside, donned an outer coat, and signaled for Jack to follow him. Jack hesitated, uncertain of the man’s intention and not eager to desert this warm place. Yet, even though the couple had shown no hostility, Jack grasped that he’d best leave. The longer he remained the more likely would be an encounter with others who might ask questions or, worse yet, inform the police of his presence. And so, Jack, the beneficiary of a proffered pair of mittens, followed his new guide. At the entrance, the man slipped on his boots and, once outside, stepped into a set of snowshoes; Jack could only wish he had a pair.
For fifteen or twenty minutes, with the dog romping ahead, they plodded down the twisting course of the unplowed road. As they came around a bend, the man exclaimed in surprise, Ara! He pointed twenty or thirty yards down the slope among the trees.
There, slid off the road, Jack spotted the truck. It lay on its side, a silent piece of black wreckage in the snow. No sign of people.
The old man trundled down the slope and examined the vehicle. Hen desu, ne (It’s strange, isn’t it?) He worked his way around the truck, stopping to peer into the cab and then into the back. He seemed perplexed when he came back up to the road; so, too, was Jack, but likely for different reasons. With no common language, Jack could merely shrug to display incomprehension at what they had come upon.
They gazed at the truck for a moment longer and then resumed their trek. Struggling to keep up, Jack envied the old man his agility on the snowshoes.
In the distance, an ambient orange tinted the gray clouds —perhaps the promise of a city. Jack’s hopes rose. And well they should. In late afternoon, the two men cleared a rise, and Jack’s guide stopped. There spread out below them in the distance Jack could see the early evening lights of the city and the flickering reds, greens and whites of vessels out in the strait.
“Aomori,” the old fellow said, again displaying a toothless grin.
Even better than seeing the city, fifty yards or so before them a plowed road crossed their path.
“Aomori,” the old man said again and gestured. “Aomori. Densha.”
They soon stood together, Jack and the old man, at the side of the road as traffic went by. Neither spoke. Finally, a small taxi, a white light mounted on its top, slid to a stop and backed up.
“You from Misawa base?” the driver said.
“Yeah, I’m from the base.”
“We see many Americans from base.”
Jack slumped into the back seat and said, “Please take me to the train station.” Relief saturated his voice.
As the taxi pulled away, Jack waved at the old man. What might he have made of Jack’s appearance at his door? Would he somehow link Jack to the truck? And what had become of Jack’s minders?
“What you do out here on cold day?” the driver said.
“Hiking,” Jack replied. True enough, as far as it went.
In the station restroom Jack shed the outer layer of clothing and made himself as presentable as he could. His feet hurt, and his body shook. But his spirits soared. He’d almost pulled it off; and he still had time. Thank God, he’d kept the Japanese currency. He made his way to a ticket window and purchased a ticket for a south-bound train to Tokyo. A Yokosuka line train would take him from there back down the Miura Peninsula to Yokosuka and to the base.
Jack painfully climbed the stairs to a platform, just as the train’s doors slid open to receive passengers. Exhausted, shaken, and sleep-starved, Jack entered a coach and settled into a seat. He closed his eyes.
The possibility of discovery, he supposed, still existed; but it seemed unlikely his minders would report what happened to the authorities; to do so would reveal their own activities. In any case, he would be on a plane. Vietnam might be dangerous, but at least it was warm. Fragmented and blurred thoughts transiting the landscape of his mind, Jack plunged into a deep long sleep as the train glided south.
~ ~ ~
In the morning masking his discomfort, Jack walked up the ship’s gangway. “Request permission to come aboard, sir.”
The Chief on duty said, “Permission granted.” Then, as Jack stepped onto the quarter deck, he added, “How was your leave, Perry?”
“Great.” Jack said. “Just great.” He headed for the petty officer’s mess and a cup of hot coffee.
