Yanks Don't Cry

By Martin Boyle

Yanks Don't Cry, first published in 1963, opens on the tropical Pacific island of Guam in early December, 1941, a few short days before the attack on Pearl Harbor. The U.S. Marines on Guam, neither equipped nor prepared for an invasion are quickly captured and shipped off to prison in Japan. There they began a nearly four-year imprisonment until the war's end in 1945. During those years they managed to retain the high spirits of free men, to sabotage the Japanese war effort at every opportunity as they worked on the docks and in other areas, to steal extra food rations, and, near war's end, to observe with pride the American bombing raids on Japan (while struggling mightily to free a group of Japanese schoolchildren trapped in a warehouse damaged by the bombs). The author's sense-of-humor shines through on nearly every page, which allowed him and his companions a small measure of comfort and the strength to somehow carry on. Yanks Don't Cry remains a classic recounting of life in war-time Japan for Allied prisoners-of-war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barajima Books
• Release date: Jan 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839741654

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

YANKS DON’T CRY

A Marine’s-Eye View of Four Years in a Japanese Prisoner-of-War Camp

MARTIN BOYLE

Yanks Don’t Cry, by Martin Boyle, was originally published in 1963 by Bernard Geis Associates.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 6

CHAPTER ONE 7

CHAPTER TWO 11

CHAPTER THREE 15

CHAPTER FOUR 21

CHAPTER FIVE 28

CHAPTER SIX 35

CHAPTER SEVEN 41

CHAPTER EIGHT 45

CHAPTER NINE 54

CHAPTER TEN 61

CHAPTER ELEVEN 72

CHAPTER TWELVE 84

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 92

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 102

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 112

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 121

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 133

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 143

CHAPTER NINETEEN 148

CHAPTER TWENTY 157

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 168

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 177

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 184

DEDICATION

Dedicated to a handful of young U.S. Marines, sailors, and soldiers—the happy, hell-raising peons of pre-war Guam and the western Pacific—who learned the hard way that a small joke and a wry grin were often more valuable than an extra ration of rice or even a cigarette.

And to Geraldine, who pointed out to me long ago that things are never so bad they couldn’t be worse.

My deepest appreciation to Saul David without whose guidance this book would never have been written.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MARTIN BOYLE was born in Kansas City, Missouri, where he played cowboys and Indians—and soldier. His first move—in what would become a life of many—was a short one, across the Kaw River to Kansas City, Kansas. Shortly after his graduation from Argentine High School there, he enlisted in the Marine Corps as a private, serving for four years. Boyle next tried his hand at banking, but as a banker he proved himself a first-rate Marine. Happily resigned to barrack-room life, he re-enlisted and found himself on the idyllic tropical island of Guam. On December 7, 1941, life on Guam became much less idyllic. When the Japanese overran the island, Boyle was taken prisoner, and it is upon his forty-four-month experience as a prisoner of war that Yanks Don’t Cry is based.

Still sold on the life of a Marine, Boyle continued in the corps after the war, serving as a public information sergeant and public relations officer in many posts and stations, including wartime Korea. He has written for service magazines and newspapers and, for a time, worked with the Navy and Marine Corps Hometown News Program. His last assignment was as liaison officer in Los Angeles, and he retired from the corps with the rank of captain.

Now happily resigned to civilian life, married and the father of four children—three girls and a future Marine—he lives in California and is an account executive with Chip Cleary & Co., a public relations firm in Santa Ana.

CHAPTER ONE

IT’S FUNNY what you remember—the kind of unimportant things that stick in your head after twenty-odd years. You can ask anyone what he was doing when he heard about Pearl Harbor, and chances are he’ll be able to tell you in detail. It’s like one of those memory courses where you hitch something you want to remember to something you can’t forget. For me, for Eddie Lashio, for Tom Branning, for little Leo Barr who never got back to Peoria—for most of us Marines stationed on Guam in 1941—the war began with a party the night before. You see, Guam is on the other side of the international date line; Hawaii’s six o’clock Sunday morning was two o’clock Monday morning on Guam. And on Guam in those days, the Sunday night party and the Monday morning hang-over were S.O.P. for us Marines. So, I remember the party.

Eddie and I had walked into Sumay from camp. We got there just about dark and headed directly for Sammy’s bar. It wasn’t much of a bar that Sammy ran, and for that matter, Sumay wasn’t much of a place—but we could run a tab with Sammy; it was only a fifteen-minute walk from the barracks, and besides, there were usually three or four lively Chamorro girls hanging around.

So Sammy’s was our hangout between paydays. When we had a couple of bucks in our pocket we often took the bumpy twelve-mile jitney ride into Agaña for a taste of the brighter lights and bigger joints of the capital village. On this particular Sunday night though, Lashio and I weren’t looking for bright lights or even girls. We had just blown the last of our ready cash on a couple of bar girls in Agaña, and we were beat. Broke, we had gone back to the barracks for a few beers on the tab at the Enlisted Club and a couple of hands of cribbage. After losing three straight games Lashio got itchy to see what was going on at Sammy’s and talked me into going with him. We didn’t want to make a night of it; we were just going to top off a hectic weekend with a couple of drinks before hitting the sack. It shaped up like a quiet Sunday night.

We walked past the straw-thatched, stone, and bamboo native huts toward the heavier, Spanish-built shops that served the needs of the village. A few lights filtered through the curtains of the open windows of the stilted huts, and they cast a soft glow over the street. As we got near Sammy’s we could hear a gramophone grinding out Tommy Dorsey’s Song of India. I remember the tune, remember the sound of high-pitched female voices trying to stay with the tricky stateside song that was one of the big hits of the island.

Lashio quickened the pace. Sounds like a party, he said. He lengthened his stride even more and I had trouble keeping up with him.

What’s your hurry? I thought you said you were all crapped out and didn’t feel up to making a night of it?

Who said anything about making a night of it? Lashio said. Like I said. We’ll just have a couple of quick drinks and then head back for the sack.

Yeah, but whose sack? I knew damn well what to expect when Lashio picked up the scent of a woman. Any woman.

But Lashio was in full cry. He took the steps two at a time, crossed the porch in one big stride, and pushed through the screen door. I was right behind him.

Wow! Stuff’s here! And already warmed up and waiting for us!

I looked over Eddie’s shoulder and saw that a party was well under way. Seated at a table in the corner of the small bar were Bump Ellson and Red Kaminski, feeling no pain. On the table in front of them were two bottles of VO—one half empty—a bucket of ice, and some partially filled glasses. Three young Chamorro girls, eighteen or nineteen years old, were on the dance floor a few feet from the table. They were entertaining the two Marines with a hip-waving island version of the swing.

I remember how they looked in their colorful cotton skirts, and how their white sleeveless blouses, mail-ordered from the States, gleamed against their smooth copper skin. All three of the girls were barefoot.

Tom Branning and his steady girl friend were sitting at another table watching the impromptu floor show, and there were a half dozen other Chamorro girls in the bar with another bunch of Marines. Everyone was having a ball.

Lashio didn’t waste any time. He bounced across the floor and grabbed one of the dancing girls in a big bear hug and swung her around like a rag doll. The girl struggled to get free, but her bare feet were six inches above the floor; she was helpless in Eddie’s grip. Lashio finally let her go—but just long enough to grab her by the buttocks with both hands, pulling her up tight as he began to move his hips in rhythm with the music. The girl worked herself loose and sat down next to Bump, who looked half asleep. She was breathing hard. Her blouse had come loose and was open to the waist and the ends of it were hanging outside her skirt. Her dark pretty face was flushed. She had got the message. No, no, Eddie. I’m Bump’s girl tonight!

Like hell you are! Lashio sat down and pulled the girl to his lap. No square-headed rear rank peon’s going to steal my girl—even if he is a friend of mine!

Your girl! Why you goddam spaghetti bender! What the hell you think you’re talking about? Bump Ellson, red-faced and a little glassy-eyed, was standing up now, glowering at Lashio, I pulled Josie and these other girls off the bus myself. They were headed for the hospital dance in Agaña and I talked them into coming over here instead, and here you come barging in to screw the whole deal up! Ellson was shook. He had the night’s activities all mapped out, and none of his plans called for any outside help.

Relax, Bump, old buddy, soothed Lashio you know damn well that little Josie here and I are old friends from way back, and she won’t even look at you as long as I’m around—right, Baby? Lashio nibbled at Josie’s neck. Josie giggled and snuggled a little closer.

I was tired of standing up. I sat down and poured myself a drink from Ellson’s bottle. He gave me a dirty look when he watched me fill the glass clear to the top, and I knew he would have chewed me out too if his mind hadn’t been so occupied with Josie. I guess he figured he had Josie all lined up for the night, and he didn’t like the idea of starting out all over again with someone else. He was unhappy. He turned to Lashio, his hand fingering the half-empty bottle of VO. For two cents on payday I’d crack this bottle over that thick Italian skull of yours and have it over with, and the only reason I don’t do it right now is that I don’t want to waste good whiskey on a bum like you!

Come on, knock off that crap, Lashio said softly as he looked up from Josie’s neck. Go make some time with Sue there. She’s always hard up, and she’ll probably jump at the chance for a shack-up job even if it’s only with a blockhead like you.

Sue, the extra girl at the table up to this time, brightened up. Her teeth were stained from chewing betel nut and her face was a little pock-marked from some childhood disease, but she wasn’t bad. Like most of the younger Chamorro girls, she had a real nice body, but even so she wasn’t in the same league with the likes of Josie. She pulled Ellson into the chair next to her and mixed him a fresh whiskey and water. Ellson gulped a big drink but he was still glowering at Lashio. He didn’t relax until Sue put her arm around him and whispered something in his ear.

Everyone settled down; the night’s preliminary negotiations were over; all the girls were paired off for the night; and the party picked up speed.

Red Kaminski was all wrapped up with his girl. I forget her name, but I do recall that every now and then Red would glance in my direction to check on whether I was going to try to move in on him. The Marines at the other table were on their third bottle and were raising a lot of hell. I didn’t pay much attention to the girls they were with because I had my eye on the girl sitting at the next table with Tom Branning. Her name was Ann Castillo, or something like that, I never could remember any of their last names. I looked over to their table, and Tom and Ann had their heads together, quietly sipping their drinks, not paying much attention to the rest of the people in the bar. It figured. Tom had been stationed on Guam for over a year and had set up housekeeping with Ann the day after he hit the island. Ann was getting along in years for a Chamorro girl, she was twenty-three or twenty-four, but she was a real beauty and still had one of the best-looking bodies on Guam. What was even more interesting about Ann, she was one of the few native girls who even made the slightest pretense of being faithful to her boy friend. I knew that a lot of guys had tried to score with Ann. As far as I knew, though, no one had yet managed to share Ann’s shack even when Tom was tied up with guard duty at the barracks. But I always thought Ann might play a little on the side. I’d already made a few mild passes with just that in mind, and I knew that I’d made some progress. Ann had even gone out of her way a bit to offer me some veiled encouragement. I could see, though, that this wasn’t the right time to make my move.

I looked around the bar. All the girls were set for the rest of the night so I didn’t feel like hanging around any longer. Besides, the next day was Monday, and I was on an early morning working party so I decided to go back to the barracks. I stopped by Tom’s table on my way out and got a warm smile from Ann, and I was aware of the inquiring flicker of interest in her raised eyebrows when I told Tom that I was taking off—alone.

As I walked out the door I made a mental note to myself to check the watch list to see when Tom would have the duty. The warm smile and the look in Ann’s eye as I said good night had set the machinery in motion. I knew the time was at hand. My next trip into Sumay would depend upon a neatly typed sheet of paper posted on the barracks bulletin board—the guard list—a list that would include the name of my good buddy, Tom Branning.

A half hour later I was in my bunk. I don’t know what time it was, but the Enlisted Club was closed when I got back so I know it must have been after midnight. As I dropped off to sleep I remember thinking that it hadn’t been much of a party for me, but what the hell, that’s the way ball bounces sometimes. Anyway, I still had a lot of time to do on Guam, and the girls weren’t going anyplace. I had plenty of time, plenty of time....

CHAPTER TWO

IN 1941, before all hell broke loose and we got into the shooting war, there wasn’t much to distinguish Guam from the thousands of tiny specks that dotted the maps and charts of the Pacific Ocean. Only a handful of Americans had ever been on the island, and only the more serious students of world geography had even heard of it. Militarily and politically, Guam was a nonentity—an obscure and isolated American outpost all but lost in the vast expanse of the sparkling Pacific. But the lucky few who saw Guam before the war found a beautiful and lush piece of real estate. It was as colorful and picturesque as the pictures you see on those fancy travel folders. Shaped something like a pork chop, only twenty-two miles from tip to tip, Guam was an honest-to-goodness tropical paradise virtually untouched by the turmoil and confusion of the rest of the world.

The weather was always warm and balmy, even during the rainy season when the mild tropical rains gently dampened the island. During the typhoon season the high winds would almost blow the island away, but the people were always braced for them, and after a couple of exciting days the winds would move on, soon to be forgotten, and the people would resume the lazy ways of the tropics. The island itself was a thick mass of pathless mountainous jungles that were broken only by villages and native clearings and the thin ribbons of dirt roads that connected the inhabited areas. The only sign of a paved road, before the war, was a narrow, two-lane asphalt truck route that swept gracefully along the shores of quiet lagoons before cutting into the jungle as it wound its way from the capital at Agaña to the larger villages. The primitive, wooden-wheeled native carts, drawn by oxen or carabao, governed the speed of the jitneys and the occasional military vehicle. The drivers couldn’t do anything but cuss and fume when forced to move at a fast idle—so it can be said that the dumb oxen and carabao had a lot to do with maintaining the leisurely pace of the island.

Duty for the hundred and fifty Marines stationed on Guam was relaxed and pleasant—particularly after the tough San Diego training and the rugged field maneuvers at Camp Elliott. And though barracks duty was a snap, most of us were eager for an assignment to the Insular Patrol, the police department of the island. The patrol was choice duty—especially in the outlying villages where a Marine patrolman, a Navy corpsman, and a native constable were the sole representatives of the United States Government. Away from the brass at Agaña, the patrolman was the boss of his village, so it’s easy to see why most of us were anxious for that kind of duty. The possibilities, to say the least, were almost unlimited. But there were only so many villages to patrol so most of us were based at Sumay Barracks. But even there the guard duty and the monotonous painting and cleaning details—the distasteful and traditional lot of a peacetime Marine in barracks—were reasonably agreeable.

It was the off-duty hours, though, that made Guam even more appealing to us. The long pleasant hours whiled away with young, soft-eyed, full-bosomed, copper-skinned Chamorro girls were enough to make us forget the painted faces of the women of South Broadway—or even the higher class girls along Michigan Boulevard for that matter. The graceful, high-cheeked native girls were always gay, always laughing, and always willing. With a can of beer going for a dime and the best stateside bourbon selling for a buck and a half a bottle, there wasn’t anything more that a young hot-blooded Marine could ask for. It was generally agreed that Guam duty beat the hell out of Iceland.

The impending war was no strain. Most of us had pulled a tour of duty with the highly trained Fleet Marine Force and figured that if war did break out everyone on Guam would be promptly transferred to a crack FMF outfit. In our case, this meant joining the elite Fourth Marine Regiment that had just been deployed from Shanghai to the Philippines. We had excellent and experienced officers at Guam, most of whom had been around the Corps for a long time. Most of them, as well as a good many of our non-coms, were veterans of the Central America and Caribbean banana wars. We knew, of course, that there was a good chance for war, and it was no secret that Japan would be the enemy. Christ only knows that almost every maneuver or fleet exercise that was planned and conducted during the thirties was aimed at the Pacific, and it didn’t require much gray matter to figure out whom we would be fighting. Yet those of us stationed at Guam in 1941 didn’t give much thought to war, even though we were the only Americans in the Marianas and were sitting right in the middle of the Japanese. All the other islands of the Marianas were Japanese, and they formed a long chain that was loosely connected to the Japs’ home islands fifteen hundred miles to the north.

Joseph Grew, our Ambassador to Japan, had reported that the Japanese were secretly building up a big war machine—and we knew that a lot of it was being gathered a few miles from us on Saipan and Tinian. In contrast to the Japanese preparations, Guam didn’t have any heavy guns or supporting weapons. No defense positions and no air support. Our Navy consisted of two PT boats, a mine sweeper, and an antiquated supply ship.

Still, we weren’t very much concerned. In those pre-war days, the military experts had timetabled a war with Japan to last about ninety days. The United States Fleet was slated to wipe out all Japanese Naval opposition and that would be it, the end of a short nuisance uprising smothered within ninety days. What’s more, we felt that if the shooting did start we would be shipped to the Philippines and from there help carry on the war in the shadow of the great, impregnable fortress of Corregidor. In 1941 the war was no sweat.

Most of us were casually aware of the critical negotiations then going on between Washington and Tokyo. But, like the ordinary citizens back in the States, we never knew exactly how serious the negotiations were or just how close the nation was to war. We knew that the special Japanese envoy, Saburo Kurusu, had stopped overnight at Guam’s Pan-American Hotel on his way to Washington to join in the high-level conferences with Roosevelt and Nomura, the Japanese Ambassador to the United States. But from our worm’s-eye view, Kurusu was merely on his way to Washington to save as much face as he could for Japan. We figured that President Roosevelt would chew Kurusu’s ass out but good—just as he had Nomura’s. Then, in the grand Rooseveltian manner that we all loved, send him scurrying back to his Tokyo bosses with the final word that would keep Tojo and his gang quiet for the next fifty years.

Kurusu didn’t impress anyone very much, and he certainly didn’t look very warlike to those of us who got a look at him at the hotel. Tony Chasta, who was born and raised in Bozeman, Montana, and who hadn’t seen a Japanese up close before, summed it up neatly when he came back to the barracks after seeing the diplomat and said, No problem, boys. If all the Japs are Kurusu’s size I’ll take on a dozen of them myself! Christ, that little fart isn’t big enough to whip a sick whore with a beer bottle!

So even though we knew that the diplomatic talks were going on, none of us figured that they were proper business for the happy peons. Clearly, the talks were top-level business that could only be conducted in Washington, and Washington was on the other side of the world. As for us, the only thing we wanted was time enough to join the Fourth Regiment if and when it became necessary. Meanwhile, we had much more important business at hand. The lively Chamorro girls for instance.

Sergeant Josh Mackery didn’t think this way. A career Marine then on his second cruise, he had served most of his time in the Fleet Marines and in bullying boots at San Diego, and he had little stomach for the soft life of a barracks Marine. All in all, Mackery was a smooth operator. Though born in a small Iowa town Mackery was a big city boy at heart—having spent most of his teenage years in Chicago. He joined the Marine Corps a few days after graduating from high school, and after kicking around the Corps for almost eight years, he had picked up a distinct air of sophistication almost like an officer. These traits weren’t easily found in a pre-war Marine Corps sergeant. Most of the old time sergeants had a vocabulary spiced heavily with earthy, four-letter words, and their idea of a good time was grabbing a case of beer and heading for the nearest hot pillow joint. But Mackery was a rarity of the day. He was warm, soft spoken, well read—and one hell of a good Marine.

Some of his best friends were wary of him because he had his own idea of how to spend his liberty hours. When he’d been stationed in San Diego, for instance, Mackery had saved up his pay for a few select dates. He had always dated the nice girls and taken them to the best night clubs where you had to wear a tie—or maybe even to a concert. He rarely followed the rest of the gang to the noisier and wilder watering holes. Some of us thought this strange because a pick-up on boisterous C Street was almost always a sure shot—so why take a chance on one of the girls from staid North San Diego?

Yes, Mackery was a strange guy, and even though I was his pal I could never figure out how a guy could make any progress just by innocently holding hands with some serious-minded nice girl at an open-air concert in Balboa Park. But as I said, Josh was a smooth operator and he was well-built, athletic, sandy-haired and blue-eyed—very handsome in a rugged sort of way—so he went his own silent way, content to let the rest of us spend all our dough on the B girls while he built up a following on the North Side of town. Almost alone among a bunch of hell raisers who couldn’t have cared less, Mackery was never very optimistic about the future of Guam.

I’d sure like to get off this island before a war starts, Mackery said to me one night in early December as we were walking back from town. It was a typical Guam night, cool and pleasant, and after we had climbed the steep path leading from the village we stopped to smoke a cigarette. Below us I could see the dim, yellowish lights of Sumay, nestled snugly along the shore line of Apra Harbor. Beyond the village the shimmering lights of the Navy transport Gold Star, twinkled gaily across the gentle swells of the reef-sheltered harbor. It was a tranquil, peaceful scene, and it reflected my mood; I wasn’t anxious to break the spell by talking about war. As I had on many occasions, I pointed out to Mackery that we would be long gone from the island before anyone pulled the trigger.

Maybe you’re right, he conceded. That is, if we have time. If we don’t have the time we’ve had it. We’ll be left sitting on this rock with four lousy machine guns and a beat-up mine sweeper. We wouldn’t have a chance. The door will be wide open and all’s the Japs will have to worry about is running aground on those reefs out there. There’s just nothing to fight with and no place to go.

Frankly, I didn’t like to think about it. I had better things to worry about in those days so I interrupted Mackery to tell him what Eddie Lashio thought about the entire matter. Eddie was my slap-happy pal whose only ambition was to set a new island record with the Chamorro girls, and he only occasionally had time to think about anything else.

If the Japs ever decide to hit this rock, Eddie liked to say, I’d be the second guy ever to walk on water.

Such was the attitude among the peons of Guam in 1941.

It was Monday, December 8, 1941. A new dawn was just beginning to cast the first pink blush of light in the east. For most of the Marines on Guam, the weekend parties had been a rousing success. The parties were over now and the barracks were quiet. Sated, without a worry in the world, the Marines slept peacefully. The sentries, wrapped up in their own thoughts, walked their lonely posts.

CHAPTER THREE

I KNEW something was wrong as I woke up to the brassy sounds of a bugle. I could tell from the misty pale light sifting through the screen windows that it was too early for reveille but you couldn’t mistake those clipped, saucy notes for anything else. A spluttering engine, coughing a couple of times as it came to life, joined with the bugle to make an early morning duet. It was the guard truck. Someone threw the engine into gear, and before long I heard the truck laboring up the slight incline of the winding black-top road that led