God's Arms Around Us

By William R. Moule

God's Arms Around Us, first published in 1960, is author William Moule's account of his and his family's harrowing 3-1/2 years in the Philippines during the Second World War. Moule, an American miner working in the Philippines, his wife (who was expecting a baby), and their two young children found themselves caught up in the brutal conflict being waged by the occupying Japanese. Rather than go into an internment camp - and believing that the war would soon be over - the Moules attempted to find refuge in the mountainous terrain of Luzon. However, the Moules were forced to be continually on the move, climbing mountains, fording streams, hiking through unfamiliar terrain at night, with an ever-present threat from roving enemy patrols. Yet through it all, William Moule maintained his strong faith in God ('He would keep His arms around them') and his Irish sense of humor. His wife, Marge, very seldom failed to smile with him. By 1943, however, severely weakened by malaria, the family could no longer stay on the run. Captured, they were taken first to Japanese garrisons, then to Camp Holmes, and later to the infamous Bilibid Prison in Manila. While imprisoned, Moule was tortured in an attempt to uncover his presumed part in guerrilla activities. Finally, the Moules and other prisoners were freed by American soldiers, and make their way back to the United states. "Marge and I," said William Moule, "brought three little kids through an ordeal that most single men couldn't survive, but we had the will to survive, and we had faith." Sadly, William and Marge Moule were killed in a car accident in Nevada in 1989, leaving behind their now large family of 12 children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barajima Books
• Release date: Jan 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781839741845

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Publisher’s Note

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.

GOD’S ARMS AROUND US

One Family’s Struggle to Survive in War-torn Philippines

By

WILLIAM R. MOULE

Sketches by George Mathis

God’s Arms Around Us was originally published in 1960 by Vantage Press, Inc., New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 5

FOREWORD 6

CHAPTER ONE 7

CHAPTER TWO 11

CHAPTER THREE 16

CHAPTER FOUR 18

CHAPTER FIVE 21

CHAPTER SIX 26

CHAPTER SEVEN 30

CHAPTER EIGHT 33

CHAPTER NINE 35

CHAPTER TEN 41

CHAPTER ELEVEN 58

CHAPTER TWELVE 70

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 77

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 86

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 91

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 97

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 105

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 109

CHAPTER NINETEEN 113

CHAPTER TWENTY 117

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 128

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 132

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 138

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 144

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 154

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 157

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 157

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 157

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 157

CHAPTER THIRTY 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT 157

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE 157

CHAPTER FORTY 157

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE 157

ILLUSTRATIONS 157

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 157

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William R. Moule was born in Seattle, Washington. During the Depression the sixteen-year-old boy struck out for himself, thumbing rides and hopping freight trains. He saw most of Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and California. Then he worked in a paper mill. Later, following an accident, he went back to finish high school, and afterward joined the CCC. Mining intrigued him, so he got a job in California, then in Colorado, Alaska, and back to California. Glowing letters from a miner friend in the Philippines led him to try his luck there.

And it was in the Philippines that Moule and his wife and children were trapped by the Japanese in 1941—as told in this book.

William Moule is no longer a miner. The ravages of malaria and polio contracted in the Philippines forced him into another type of work. He owned and operated a paint-and-glass store in in Grass Valley, California, and was also a licensed painting contractor. Moule ran the business until retiring in 1975, at which time the couple had 12 children.

The Moule family, which now consists of William, Margaret, and their eleven children—eight of them born after Mr. and Mrs. Moule returned to this country from the Philippines—appeared in February, 1959, on the It Could Be You television program from California.

Sadly, William and Marge Moule were killed in a car accident in Nevada in 1989.

FOREWORD

Fantastic as it may appear, the events in this book are true. My attempt to relate them on paper may seem dramatic, but when we were fighting, praying, and running for our lives, the terrifying drama existed. Likewise, with very few exceptions, the character names are their own. The Moulaka-Odine Clan still get together whenever it’s possible and celebrate. Ironically enough, our last big dinner was held at the Tokyo Sukiyaki. As Virginia McCuish jokingly said, A fine place for ex-Jap-prisoners to celebrate!

Our get-togethers aren’t to remind us about our suffering and losses, but to hash over the days when we had faith and lived for tomorrow, above all to appreciate our freedom. Prisoners of war have a language all their own, but the little settlement including Moulaka, Odine, and Ted’s hideout has its own dialect.

My primary purpose in writing this book was to leave a true account of our lives in the Philippine Islands to my children. When I mentioned to a friend of mine about writing a book, he very tactfully told me I was capable of painting a house, cutting glass, and raising a family, but writing a book was for someone with something I wasn’t supposed to have. That was when I knew I could write a book.

The Lord has been very good to me since the war, but very niggardly with my spare time. Part of this book was written in the Marine Hospital in 1945-46 as I was convalescing from a muscle transplant on my leg. Two years ago the children gave me a tape recorder. This helped me in outlining the material, most of which I wrote in longhand to be typed when deciphered. I would write when I came home for lunch, during commercials, in doctors’ and dentists’ waiting rooms, and at retreat. (Father Damian won’t like that!) Two years now and I haven’t fixed the screen doors or painted the house. Many times on my trips to Sacramento for supplies I’ve pulled off the road and written on every scrap of paper I could find when suddenly I became satisfied with something that had bothered me. I felt a collection of data beyond what I held in my head would be an attempt to create a historical or military piece; therefore, I write as we lived from the day of the news of Pearl Harbor until we started down the gangplank in San Francisco.

Now that the book is finished, and I’ve had time to read it, I feel Margaret may have suffered from her association with me in it. My side of it needs no clarification, but Marg’s does. She came from a good family and lived a quiet life in the same town from the time she was born until she was eighteen years old. One would wonder how or why she came to marry me; but as this book will testify, I can be damn persistent. Once we fell in love we never changed. We have as many problems as most people, and maybe more, but we never let them get us down because we tackle them together.

CHAPTER ONE

Idaho-Maryland Mine

Grass Valley, California, 1939

Some damn fool from the Lava Cap Mine went to the Philippine Islands. That in itself was okay. But he had to write back to a friend what a wonderful job he had and all the dough he was making. News was first circulated two days ago by said friend and today as I waited at the shaft to go underground a very disturbing word kept repeating itself somewhere in the far corner of my mind and that word was Philippines. This drive was no stranger to me. It had pushed me around for years. When I worked at the Lava Cap Mine, my partner was a fellow from Climax, Colorado. Before long I could see Climax in my sleep. One night the hoistman and I got into a mild argument that ended up in a first-class battle. When the watchman and assistant super separated us, I was informed that I was fired. Two weeks later I was working at Climax, and fell heir to a Swede for a partner who had spent most of his life in Alaska. Three months later, half frozen, I disembarked from a freight train in Anchorage, Alaska. That out of my system, I came back and married Marg, and settled down. After two and a half years at a mine I hated, she and I had our little home paid for, so I quit and after a time got on at the Idaho-Maryland Mine. Three days ago the only thing that bothered me was getting on a contract. Now for the past two days, I’d been having that restless feeling again; but it was impossible even to think of it now as we had Bill, Jr., and Marg was pregnant. But on the other hand, what difference would that make?

The ore skip roared past the collar of the shaft; and when it dumped its load into the bin, I got ready to go underground. As I started for the skip, the shift boss, Jim Barry, came up to me and asked if I was a shaft man. That was the same as asking me if I liked money. Shaft work was the toughest of the lot, but it was a chance to double my day’s pay, and I was just young enough to think I could outwork any man in the camp. Anyway I planted that little morsel in Barry’s bonnet. He looked me over as if to say, What started all this? then said, See Jack Langley the leadman.

I introduced myself to Jack Langley, and he told me where to go and what to do when I got there. It wasn’t to hell, but I had the feeling he wouldn’t have cared much if it was. Now I wished I’d been a little more modest with my qualifications to Barry.

Jack was about thirty-two years old, six feet four, and weighed about two hundred pounds. He talked very little and didn’t give one little tinker’s dam what anyone thought about him. I knew I was getting the treatment that first week, so I put my head down, rear up, and every time Jack raised up with a shovel full of muck, I was there to match it. On the drilling shift, I’d crowd my machine for all it was worth; and when Jack happened to stick a steel, I kept my machine roaring right in his face. The madder he got the more I gloated, and at the end of the shift, when we were about to drop from exhaustion, I’d pick down the loose rock or start getting the machines ready for the opposite shift just to gripe him. Pound for pound I was just as ornery as he.

The first week in the shaft was murder, but I was determined to keep up with Jack if it killed me. I found out later he about knocked himself out to try to make me quit. Might have saved his life and a lot of misery for me if he had, but in spite of our ornery dispositions we became very good friends.

Jack pushed the switch and simultaneously the cut holes exploded. The concussion shook the station, and loose rocks rolled off the shaft timbers. We counted the explosions; and when the lifters gave the muffled sound of moving tons of rock, we reached for our lunch pails and climbed on the skip. As we were being pulled to the surface, my new friend came to mind again, and out of a clear sky, I said, Jack, when we finish this sink, let’s go to the Philippine Islands.

There was a slight pause, and then Jack said, Okay.

Now I had sold Jack on it, but I had a little maneuvering to do to get an okay out of Marg, especially since she had recently presented me with a beautiful daughter. We named her Eileen Elizabeth. But Marg had one weakness. I hadn’t exploited it yet, but if need be I would. She was still in love with me, and couldn’t stand to see me unhappy. Yes, that might be the solution.

That night after we did the dishes, and Billy was tucked in bed, I brought up my favorite subject. Marg had done a little research on the subject also. Bill, don’t you think it would be awfully foolish to go to the Philippines when there’s a war going on in Europe?

What’s that got to do with the Philippines? Anyway, if something started over there, we would come home. It is only rowboat distance from Hawaii.

Just how far do you think it is from Hawaii to the Philippines?

Oh, I don’t know, five hundred miles or so.

Add another zero and you about have it Don’t expect me to help with the rowing. But, outside of that, honey, we have our place paid for. We’re out of debt, and we could start enjoying ourselves. Besides, honey, we now have two children, and we can’t go running around the world with children, can we?

No, I guess not, Marg. It was just an idea. Let’s forget about it. Maybe we didn’t talk about it, but for sure we hadn’t forgotten it. During the day the bottom of the shaft smelled of tropical vegetation as I dreamed of a new life in the Far East. Weeks ran into months and the shaft would soon be finished, but I wasn’t any closer to the Philippine Islands now than I was six months ago.

Then one evening Marg took the paper out of my hand, let it fall to the floor, then sat on my lap. Bill, darling, would you be unhappy if we didn’t go to the Philippine Islands?

No.

Bill, you don’t fool me. I’ve never been farther east than Reno or west of San Francisco, and have no desire to leave Grass Valley. I am happy here. But, if you have your heart set on going, I’d never forgive myself if some day you regretted the fact you hadn’t gone. If you think it is the thing to do, I am willing.

Things were going just the way I had hoped. Now to try and not sound too anxious. Marg, this is the way I look at it. I am short on education, but long on actual experience. I can work in these mines until I am one hundred and fifty and still end up a miner, but I am confident I can go over to the Islands and do the job of a mining engineer. We don’t need to stay long. Then we can come back. I will be satisfied with myself, at least.

As I headed for the shaft that afternoon, I wasn’t mad at anyone, but by the time I reached the collar, I realized how fast a man’s luck can run out. Someone was being loaded into an ambulance. We climbed on the skip and started our descent to the 1,000 foot level. Unfortunately, this fellow was killed in the shaft and worse yet parts of him were still on the hanging wall timbers.

Jack and I went to San Francisco and applied for jobs at Marsman and Benquet mining companies. They weren’t very overwhelmed at my experience at Marsman. The fact is I didn’t bowl them over in any department. But, they were quite impressed with Jack, although they didn’t have sense enough to let him know it. He later found out that they were in the process of sending him over when he arrived in the Philippines. At Benquet Company we met a Mr. Gerry who informed us that there were mining engineers walking the streets in Manila. After we left him, Jack said, What do you think?

I don’t know, but I say if they’re mining in the Philippines, we can get jobs. That old baloney about mining men walking the streets in Manila just doesn’t add up. I’ve got very little money, but I’m willing to gamble, now that I’ve gone this far.

And that is one of the deadliest things about my make-up. If I get an idea, it consumes me.

We went to the American President Lines, and asked to have our names put on the list for reservations. It seemed it wasn’t too easy to book passage. They said they would notify us when the time came if there was room on one of the liners.

I went back home a little bit frightened and a little more excited. The more I talked to people and the crazier they thought I was, the more excited I got. Near the end of June I received a telephone call from the President Lines wanting to know if we would accept a reservation for July 8 on the President Cleveland, making ports at Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Hong Kong, and Manila. My heart took a double jump as I evened my voice for a Yes, we will take it.

That last week before we sailed was one of excitement and anticipation, pulling up all the old roots, and starting a new life. What would it be like? The foremost obstacle in my mind was: Will I find a job? How long will it take? Will I have to come home disappointed?

Now that I burned my bridges I had to find a way to finance this operation. After I bought my ticket and allowed myself seventy-five dollars for the trip and to live on until I found a job, it left Marg with one hundred dollars in the bank. Now to find a way to finance her passage over when I got a job. I needed five hundred dollars and banks were the only people I knew of with that kind of dough. So to the bank I went.

Mr. Rector, I am going to the Philippine Islands to work and I need five hundred dollars for Mrs. Moule when I send for her.

As soon as I mentioned the Philippine Islands, Mr. Rector was like an old friend. He asked me if I knew Mr. Dougleby, and I said I did, and quietly passed out a fast prayer to the Lord to forgive me. But at this point I needed something to make up for the lack of collateral. All the time we were talking, Mr. Rector was making out the papers; and when he finished, he passed them over to me to sign, which I did, then he said, When Mrs. Moule is ready to sail, all she has to do is come in and sign, and she will have her money

I thanked him, and he wished me lots of luck. I walked out of the bank feeling like a financial wizard, a liar, and a cheat. I didn’t tell him I had a job. I didn’t tell him I didn’t, either.

I kissed Marg good-by and walked up the gangplank to the President Cleveland. Jack and I found our stateroom, parked our suitcases, then went topside to wave good-by to our family and friends. Shortly afterwards we were towed out into the channel and heading through the Golden Gate. Marg was game, but her eyes just wouldn’t behave themselves. The last thing I told her was, Don’t cry, Marg, we will be together in two months.

I only missed it by a few days.

CHAPTER TWO

Jack and I spent the remainder of the day looking over the ship, getting assigned to a table for meals, and filling out the usual forms at the purser’s office. We had made the trip from Seattle to Seward, Alaska, so sea traveling wasn’t entirely foreign to us.

We occupied a cabin with three beds in it. The other occupant was a fellow about thirty years of age with a flair for bad politics and a passion for good liquor. He came aboard with a suitcase containing one extra shirt, plenty of neckties, and the rest was whisky and gin—enough, I was sure, for the voyage. But, I was soon to discover this was a truly honest-to-goodness drinking man; and as is usually the rule with drinking men, he was very generous with his stock. Consequently, on the second day out, our friend was waiting for the bar to open in the morning, and he was the last one to be poured out in the evening. He was on his way to Midway Island to build airports. He knew of some dirt about the New Deal in Los Angeles, and how he loved to spill it. You couldn’t tie him down on anything, but he would always end up with, I could tell you things about the New Deal you wouldn’t believe.

I very likely wouldn’t have.

Our first meal in the dining room found us seated at a table with a Mr. and Mrs. Christian, their son, and a young couple on their honeymoon. All of them were Seventh-Day Adventists on their way to China. Mr, Christian proved from the start he was a boy of the old school by immediately making introductions and putting us at ease. At first I believe Jack’s reactions were the same as mine: What a mess! Tied down to a bunch of missionaries for the remainder of the voyage.

But, we soon found Mr. Christian to be a regular fellow, and we swapped mining for missionary yarns. Three years later I met another Seventh-Day Adventist in concentration camp who had been to China, and asked if he had ever met Christian and the young married couple. He knew them well and added, I took the young man and started him in his work and very shortly he contacted an incurable disease and died. His wife returned to the States.

You read books and advertisements and hear people rave about a place; and when you finally see it for yourself, it is never as it was described. I kept this in mind when we slipped into Pearl Harbor five days out of San Francisco. As we slowly made our way up to the pier, all the story-book docking at Hawaii began to reveal itself. The Royal Hawaiian band was ushering us in with the refrains of Aloha, then Sweet Leilani, and we docked while they were playing Song of the Islands. That music in that setting really did things to me. Americans and Hawaiians at the pier were throwing leis to their friends on board ship with shouts of laughter and Welcome back. These leis are long necklaces made of white and red flowers and are very fragrant. So far the story books hadn’t done justice to the real thing.

The ship’s notice said we were to sail at midnight, and it was about nine o’clock in the morning when we docked. That gave us a good day to look over the island. Someone said to be sure to see Dole Pineapple Plant; so in a very few minutes we were going from process to process of the pineapple industry. Some of the machines are Goldbergs in reverse. They do everything to a pineapple but eat it. The company hires young girls as guides, and they take you through, explain all the machines, and answer all the dumb questions.

Our next adventure was a ride around the island, and again my enthusiasm kept increasing. From Mount Pali you look out over the city of Honolulu bathing in a tropical sun, cooled by a perpetual breeze. Flowers and vines of vivid colors grow profusely all about the island with the bougainvillea standing out in its purple splendor, which no other can equal. The air is filled with the perfume of the gardenia. A flower lover could feast his eyes and satisfy his nose for months, if not forever.

That night we took in a few night clubs. I think every sailor in Uncle’s Navy was in Honolulu and every last one had a full head of steam. There was never a dull moment. If they couldn’t find anything else to do they fought among themselves. Jack and I made ship just before sailing time. To me these islands were Paradise Isles. I suppose if I lived on them I might change my mind; but as I stood on deck watching the lights disappear, it was my Paradise Isle.

From Honolulu our passenger list was composed mostly of missionaries on their way to China as teachers and nurses, a few mining men, and the rest were buyers for big companies in the U.S. The voyage into Yokohama was uneventful but a very pleasant opportunity for a couple of shaft miners really to take it easy for a change. The food was grand, and Jack never failed to have his steak for breakfast, then a stack of hot cakes, eggs, all the juices on the menu, and several cups of coffee. It was really the Life of Reilly.

Twelve days out of Honolulu we tied up at Yokohama, Japan. We watched the little men of Nippon come on board and inspect the ship and our passport visas. After we passed through customs we hired a taxi and asked the driver how much he would charge to take us sight-seeing around Yokohama. He said, Twenty-five yen. So we headed for the city of Tokyo. Of course this transaction wasn’t carried out as smoothly as it is written here. It took a good deal of sign language, and the help of a bystander whose three words of English put it across to our taxi man. We started out, and our man at the wheel talked incessantly, what about Jack or I never knew, but that was of little concern to him. I believe he thought he had just so much to say, and it had to be gotten out. So out it came. I never knew when I was out of Yokohama and in Tokyo or vice versa, but it was all new, and all interesting. The people seemed friendly enough but reserved.

Wherever we went, Jack’s height was always an attraction to the people; and you could see them nudging one another and pointing to Jack. He looked like a Gulliver around these short, squatty Japanese. Whenever we ran into the military, and it seemed often, they showed an open contempt for us. You could feel it more than anything they did. When a man looks at you with contempt, you can tell it no matter what his race may be. As I look back on those days in Japan I can’t help but recall the absence of soldiers or officers in Tokyo, Yokohama, or Kobe. I can’t recall seeing any in the stores, on the streets, or in places of amusement. There were plenty of sentries on duty around military zones, and I saw one tank corps come through the city. Where they were keeping them and how is a mystery to me.

Our taxi driver had apparently soaked up a good deal of Japanese propaganda about Americans, because we would invariably stop some place and Jack and I would look out one side, then the other, and like a couple of babes in arms ask, What’s of interest here?

After viewing waving arms, hearing pidgin English, and some of the same of Japanese, we made out: Americans want Japanese girl?

No. No want Japanese girl; want see temple, stores, tea garden.

We would be on our way again. The temples were interesting. Whenever you enter one you have to take your shoes off and leave them at the entrance. This proved a very convenient custom for me, because when we were in Kobe I lost Jack several times. I would just make the rounds until I found those No. 12’s parked somewhere.

One thing that impressed me in Japan was the industriousness of the people. Everyone seemed to have work to do and was in a hurry to do it. But, this isn’t hard to see now, after the horse is out of the barn. It was 1940, and the Japanese were all out for war production by that time. At the time, I especially looked for heavy industries and all I saw were small shops throughout those cities. I picked up the erroneous idea that Japanese industries were five-and-dime stuff. I have had plenty time to meditate on that score and am convinced the Japs were content to let tourists pick up that conclusion. The big stuff was around and beyond those sentries and signs marked Military—No Passing.

We tried to obtain permission from the Japanese Military to ride by train from Tokyo to Osaka but were unable to obtain a permit so we went by ship to Kobe, the site of Japan’s great shipyard. Kobe is a tourist attraction for its Komomachi, which is a market center, and maybe more notable among tourists for its red light facilities. The other tourist attractions are the pearl shops where you can buy the most exquisite cultured pearls in the world. The silks and Japanese carvings and paintings were very poor at that time because most of them were cornered by the government in an effort to obtain capital to buy war goods. We saw no leather goods and no radio or electrical equipment. Jack and I took in all the sights in the market places and bought a few little items to send home.

Everyone began to get ideas about where he wanted to go and what he wanted to see and do. I was in the land of the geisha girls so I thought I’d better take a gander at a geisha. Jack and some others were for seeing the night clubs so we split up and agreed to meet at the Bee Hive at one o’clock. The boat was to sail at three o’clock.

We hailed a taxi. Our guide gave the directions, and we were off! Our taxi stopped at the rear of a two-story framed building built mostly from split bamboo. We entered a little patio and as the guide slid off his sandals we followed by taking off our shoes. Then we were taken up a short flight of stairs where the hostess met us, dressed in the latest Japanese style with one of those elaborate hairdos. The Japanese women have a reversed figure as far as an Occidental is concerned. They are large around the stomach and it makes the chest seem flat. They have a natural rosy complexion and beautiful skin. Most of them were very attractive, or had I been away from Marg too long?

Our hostess bowed us into a reception room where we tried to find some place to put our feet while we sat on mats on the floor. Soon an old lady came in with some tea in little tea cups without handles. We, being the true artist type that we were, polished off the whole works in one gulp before the old lady could get out of the room. She looked a bit worried, but came in a little later with some more. By this time some of the fellows were getting anxious to see something. Our hostess came just in time to stem a riot and escorted us into another room about the size of a living room in our houses in the States. Again we tried to master the art of squatting on a mat. The room was decorated with Japanese prints, and hand-painted bamboo screens hung on the wall. It was evident that this room was partitioned off by sliding bamboo-panels, and was very likely used as bedrooms except on these occasions. They were using electric lights with colorful shades.

The music started; and if there is any music in the whole world that is worse than Japanese, I hope I never have to listen to it. The geishas did their traditional dance which was less impressive to us than if it had been a waltz. Anyway, I am sure the whole audience of five was expecting to see something on the order of a strip tease. Those people, wise to the ignorance of Americans about what geisha girls are like, were making a very good and also decent living from it.

After making the rounds I finally found those No. 12’s of Jack’s but instead of disturbing the party, I went out in the street and waited about half an hour; then I went back and took off my shoes and went upstairs looking for Jack. There wasn’t a sound coming from any place. I walked down a little hallway and put my ear to a door panel. I heard noises so I slipped the door back, and sure enough there was Jack sitting in a big wooden tub. A Japanese woman was giving him a bath. They saw me, and the woman smiled, apparently unashamed, as she continued to soap up Jack’s back. Why she should be ashamed might better be realized if you saw her as I did—bare from her head to her belly button, from there on down she was hidden by the tub. Jack looked as if he was enjoying every minute of it, as he grinned from ear to ear. In one hand he held a glass of beer while the other was busy with some sort of food, which he had taken from a stand on my side of the tub. I am not one to break up a party, so I reminded Jack of sailing time and took my leave. He said he would be down soon.

I took off up the street. These streets in Kobe, Japan, weren’t exactly any place for a lone American to be strolling around at 1:00 a.m. The only safe place was the bar and that meant something of a hassle with everyone in the place. I decided to go back and borrow some money from Jack and take a taxi to the pier. I went around the alley and ducked into the anteway—and no shoes! I was panicky and rushed out of the Komomachi, but no Jack. I was sunk because I didn’t have enough money with me for a taxi. I started out for where I thought the Cleveland might be and got myself lost. I walked along the piers. I never saw so many ships in my life and all of them had the same three large letters on them NYK. Finally a Japanese set me on the right road, but in order to reach the Cleveland I had to walk past several warehouses. At each one a sentry would come out, stop me and look over my passport and port permits. Finally, I walked right down the middle of the street and my leather heels on those cobblestones gave them ample time to come out into the light and be ready for me. I reached the ship just as Jack was setting out to look for me.

I asked him if he got clean, and he smiled and said, Sure did. These Japanese women are fine women.

You would never think that such a small thing as a bath would develop into such a beautiful friendship.

Our stop at Hong Kong was canceled so we headed for Manila and pulled into Pier 7 on July 31, 1940. I couldn’t enjoy it much because of a panicky feeling about what was in store for me. Would my luck stand up? Old Gerry’s words kept coming back: Men are walking the streets in Manila looking for work.

CHAPTER THREE

Filipino boys came aboard and carried our luggage into customs. Anyone who walks into customs in Manila, unaware of what he is in for, is pure sucker bait. All the luggage we had was one small and one large suitcase apiece. The only reason we didn’t carry them ourselves was because we didn’t want to look like Luke just in from Fourcorners. But before the night was over we both wished we had pitched our suitcases into the bay and skipped the organized graft that started with the first porter and ended hours later at the Great Eastern, when we threw our uninvited guest out of our room.

The next morning I took a train for Baguio; Jack stayed in Manila.

I knew of the master mechanic at the Balotoc Mine, although I had never met him, so decided to take a bus out to the mine and see him. I bought my ticket and the fellow looked at me as if I had green hair.

I had about thirty minutes to wait and during that time about fifty natives arrived on the scene. Some had little pigs in their arms; some had chickens; all had bundles of some sort; and all the women had children. Most of the women were smoking cigars and believe me it was no ordinary cigar. I’ve never seen a cigar as long or as large in circumference. It amazed me that they could hold it in their mouths. It may be a contributing factor why those natives carry things on their heads so they can manipulate those big cigars. I was enjoying the sights, especially the way some of those people dressed. Some natives looked like Americans—slacks, sport shirts, black-and-white shoes; then a native would walk up for a ticket, dressed in a hat, shirt, and a G string, and that was it. Of course, only the males wore the G string. It was quite a contraption. It’s a band about two-and-a-half inches wide and comes from the waist down between the cheeks of the buttocks up between the legs and pulled tightly at the waist again, securing everything from harm and sight. It looked uncomfortable, but then you never know until you try. The women wear long, woven skirts, and when they squat they pull their skirts between their legs. It eliminates the necessity of wearing underclothes. Of course, this is my own conclusion. Other native women seemed to be dressed in party dresses of a very fine mesh. No matter what the dress, they all took a look at me and then had a little conversation in their various dialects about me.

At the time, I began to wonder if we were all waiting for the same bus and how come I was all alone in the American department. Didn’t Americans come out in the daytime? The bus arrived, and sure enough we were all waiting for that one little old bus. I saw that the natives also rode on top. I was jammed in a long seat running the full width of the bus. Once you were in, you were cooked. Fortunately, most of the livestock went on top, but most of those poor mothers had to pile their children two and three deep to make room for everyone.

The driver slammed the doors and chit-chatted like a carnival man about to send you up in the Ferris wheel. Then he jumped in and took off. And that about explains it. Take off we did. From then on it was a volleyball game, with me retrieving the poor women’s children from the floor, the back seat, front seat, and myself. The roads are in good shape, but nowhere in the world are there more curves per mile. I immediately promoted my driver from the Ferris wheel to the roller coaster. Things were bad enough, but before we reached Balotoc most of the children were sick and vomiting. To add to this those cigar-smoking gals still had about six inches to go on those awful things. At last we rolled to a stop at the Balotoc gate, and much to my surprise the top of the bus was still loaded with natives and livestock.

I asked the first person I saw for Scotty Thompson, the master mechanic, and he showed me where to find him. I had written Scotty about work in the Islands. His answer was encouraging, and mostly on the strength of it I decided to take the chance. However, I had never answered his letter saying I was coming. So when I stuck out my paw and introduced myself, Scotty was set back on his heels a bit.

Scotty is a character in a class by himself. He’s a Scotsman with a brogue so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Scotty took me up to the mine office and introduced me to Fleming, the mine superintendent. Fleming wanted to put me to work, but one of Balotoc’s shift bosses had just returned from the States, so that left no openings. However, he said, I have a friend across the hill at Itogon Mine. I will give him a ring and see what he says.

I was trying to follow Fleming’s conversation on the phone. As I was being introduced to a Mr. Burton, Fleming hung up and said, Crawford wants to see you.

I was anxious to be on my way, but Scotty insisted I stay for dinner and leave the next morning. Mrs. Thompson was as Irish as Scotty was Scottish; their daughter, who was about sixteen, had the poise and common sense of a girl of twenty. Scotty fixed us a drink which was almost fatal to me. These people become used to their Scotch and soda, and when they mix, it’s equal proportions. The only thing that saved me was that dinner was ready. Mrs. Thompson is a marvelous cook, and she had taught her Filipino cook to prepare her special dishes. Now she just supervised the meal and added her feminine touch.

The Itogon Mine is just over the hill from Balotoc. Underground, some of the working places join, but in order to reach the mine one had to go by bus from Balotoc into Baguio, then travel about twelve miles by bus or taxi to Itogon.

The road from Baguio to Itogon winds around a rugged range of mountains, with an occasional descent to the river bottom to escape some hills that insist on moving during the rainy season. Road building is a real problem in the tropics. Geologically speaking the Philippines are young, and the mountains, unlike some of our coast ranges in the States, have a layer of top soil several feet thick. When you cut a road through this, it makes a fine place for the water to settle. When the weight becomes too great, the earth moves down the side of the mountain. Where there was once a road all you can see is a huge scar on the side of the hill. Consequently, road gangs must be maintained the year round, building retaining walls. If you could visualize the amount of rain that falls in such a short time, you could easily realize the damage it causes.

CHAPTER FOUR

Itogon Mine

The bus came to a stop in front of an iron gate flanked by a high steel fence on both sides. A sign in English and dialects said in effect that this was Itogon Mine, no trespassing, no entering of property unless with a permit, and just to put emphasis on it there were three armed guards at the gate. This was puzzling to me, as I didn’t have a permit and hadn’t heard of one, but I soon learned that the sign just applied to natives. The reason was that the mines furnished the native laborers with houses. If a restriction wasn’t put on to regulate visitors, soon the man working would have not only his family living with him, but his wife’s family, and all the distant cousins in the Islands.

When I arrived, the shifters were just coming out of the mine. I stopped one and inquired about Paul Crawford. He said Crawford would be up on the next skip and invited me to wait inside the mine office, which was a long, screened building facing the shaft. I watched the skip tender raise the iron grill, and soon three Americans stepped off the skip and started toward the mine office. They were all business, and it was apparent that something wasn’t working out too well. It was very apparent by now which one was Paul Crawford. His gestures and snarl, then his arguments contained that unmistakable super’s tone. (You might be right, but I still want it done my way.) The thing that seemed to be agitating them was boos-boos, whatever that might be. A fellow with a limp came by and said, Paul, there’s a fellow here who wants to see you.

That broke up the discussion, and Paul, seeing me for the first time, said, Be right out as soon as I take a shower.

Paul has a pleasing personality. He can best be described as an engineer with all the attributes of a ten-day miner. He was then about thirty-eight years of age, of slim build, and had an unlimited amount of energy. He was an exacting boss, but knew what he wanted and expected it to be done as he wanted it. If you knew your stuff, you didn’t have anything to worry about. But someone who didn’t, or who was stubborn about adopting Itogon methods, was in for a bad time.

After introductions he gave me a fair picture of the mining setup. Most of the mines are owned by large companies, he said, and at the head of each mine is a manager. He runs the layout. Under the manager come the mine superintendent and mill superintendent, then mine foremen and shift bosses. Paul said, If you’re a mother lode miner, I can sure use you. Here it’s imperative that you know how to mine so you can show these natives how to do it. Of course it’s up to Robinson. I have nothing to do with the hiring.

We started up to the mess hall to meet the Old Man, as the manager is called, be he twenty-one or eighty years of age. It was a steady climb from the mine to where the staff houses and mess hall were situated. Again as usual, the space is carved out of the side of the mountain to make room for the houses. The grounds around the houses were all in flower, and poinsettias bordered the drive. Banana plants and papaya trees made up a large part of the landscaping greenery and the ever-beautiful bougainvillea was in full bloom. Paul took me into the mess hall where the single men lived, and introduced me.

Here comes the Old Man. I’ll introduce you.

The Old Man turned out to be Louis Robinson, not so old, heavy set, sandy complexion; a thinning process was in progress as far as hair goes, but it seemed to add to his dignity. Robby, as he finally was tagged in jail, is worthy of a few pages in any book. If for nothing else, for simply this: If you have a correction, and satisfied in your own mind that you are right, regardless of criticism, stick to it, even if it does take three years to prove it.

Louis Robinson is one of the slowest men to make up his mind that I have ever met; not because he is confused but simply because he has to figure it out from all angles. He doesn’t trust his impulses. It just has to work out mathematically. When he offers some suggestion you can be sure he will be ready for all your answers—the payoff for being an engineer. It just has to equal X or no soap. I told Robinson I had just come from the States and was rustling a job. I also added I wouldn’t qualify as an engineer but had worlds of experience in all types of mining.

In his usual slow manner he summed it up and said he would give me a try. He also told me of his difficulties with engineers since he had been at Itogon. Something like fifteen had been sent back before their contracts were fulfilled and some didn’t last the first six months.

When I left Mr. Robinson, I headed for the mess hall to find a ride into Baguio. I may not have showed it, but I was the most excited man in the Orient. I had dreamed until I made it a reality. Now the dream was taking shape; but with the fear of not being able to do the work. Robinson’s words kept coming back to me: We have sent several back to the States. Then I would analyze myself and come up with some encouraging facts. One was experience, a prime factor in this country. Two, I could work as hard as any man or harder. After meeting Paul, Pearson, Harris, Connors, Renfrow, Green, and others, I wanted very much to be a part of this organization. God, please that I make good!

I met a mill man named Charlie Rice in the mess hall, and he offered me a ride into Baguio. So off we went. I guess I answered all his questions, but all the time I was thinking of that little gal I call Marg and what I would say in my telegram.

I sent my telegram to Marg and then went over to the Pines Hotel to wait for a ride back to the mine. I no more than crossed the threshold when someone called me over to the table to make introductions. One fellow said he was H. Harris and saw me out at the mine and heard I was hired. Then he introduced me down the line and invited me to have a drink. I ordered a bourbon high and Harris commented on that.

He said, You won’t be here long until you are a Scotch-and-soda man or beer.

I didn’t agree, but it didn’t make any difference. So one drink ran into two, and on my second drink I began to think of some of the stories I had heard about white men out in the Islands. It stuck in my mind that the number-one miner of all men in the Orient was liquor. How many men reached their opportunity only to lose it by getting drunk. I had been praying for over a year now for a chance to make good in the Islands, and I thought of how proud I was to be able to send Marg that telegram and how anxious I was to see her and show her the Islands and above all make good. I got to my feet, made a hasty excuse, and half ran out into the street. If I blow this one, it won’t be because of getting drunk.

With that I hailed a taxi, sank back into the cushions, and enjoyed my man-made heaven all the way to Itogon. The beautiful part of being so simple. Heaven is only the short distance from your ears to the top of your head. Incidentally, I found out that any time an American wants to go any place he hires a taxi.

The morning I started to work in comes Jack Langley. The big bum had been hired for Itogon by Marsman and Co., in Manila.

The assistant mine-super took me over my section of the mine. The mine is divided up into sections called beats, and a shift boss is given a beat. He is responsible for getting it mined, keeping it timbered, and getting out his tonnage. My beat had exceptionally good ground to mine as the vein was narrow, and the walls on the foot and hanging were solid.

Mining at its worst is interesting, but under these conditions, where you have the privilege and responsibility of running your own beat, it became a pleasure. My beat had one of the richest ore veins I have ever seen. It was Itogon’s sugar barrel.

Needless to say, the day Mr. Robinson said, ‘You are hired," a telegram went off to the States.

It said: Dearest Marg: Working for Marsman and Co. Come at once. Love. Bill.

CHAPTER FIVE

Grass Valley

Seeing Bill off on that boat, heading toward a world we knew nothing about and into a life of new adventures, made me feel alone and frightened. The words of my sister Mary, who was with me, will forever ring in my ears. Smile, she said. Never let them leave you with tears in your eyes.

Mary’s husband had been in the Navy and two years previously had been killed, just a few months before his three-year term was up. So I smiled and waved, but my heart was heavy, for without Bill life lost its sparkle and fun.

The children and I remained with my sister Betty and her husband in San Francisco for a week. Betty was expecting her first baby and was a dear about taking care of my two whenever I wanted to go anywhere. Mary and I went to the World’s Fair on Treasure Island several times. I remember on the fifth day, after Bill’s departure, stopping in one of the buildings in the fairgrounds, looking at a clock, and thinking, At this very moment Bill is landing in Honolulu.

I felt as if I was living a dream and was awaiting life to pick up reality again. Back in Grass Valley, one day was the same as the other until around the first part of August when the phone rang. Hello. Yes, this is Mrs. Moule. A cable? Yes, please read it to me. Swell. Will you read that again, please? Thank you.

Billy, Daddy did it! He wants us to come. I have to call Mom, Ben, Helen, Betty, and...Operator...

That was the first of August and the next ten days were the most hectic days I have ever put in or hope to put in in the States. First thing was passports, and with passports went birth certificates for the children as well as myself. My birth certificate couldn’t be found until a second search was made at the Jackson courthouse. The pictures were taken for said passports. First taken too small—Take some more. Finally, we had our passports. Now to find something to sail on. President Lines was booked solid; freighters—no available space. Finally, a Japanese ship was leaving Seattle the eleventh; could accommodate a woman with child. Wired to Seattle to reserve it for Mrs. Moule and two babies. The house had to be rented, dishes packed and stored, car sold, and a five-hundred-dollar loan obtained from the bank. I was on the fly night and day until I boarded the train with Bill’s mother for Seattle. We stopped off at Vancouver to see Bill’s sister and grandfolks, then on to Seattle. Before we reached the boat we lost Billy in a crowd and found him. Then lost a ten dollar bill but didn’t find that. Mother helped me on board ship and shuddered every time she looked at a Jap. I kissed her good-by, and we pulled away from Seattle. I had time to reflect that twenty-eight years ago a child was born here in Seattle that was to be my husband.

I wasn’t even out of Puget Sound before I found out I was no sailor. Billy was just like an eel. First he was here, then he wasn’t. Then I had difficulties with food for the children. Of course, Eileen was only seven months old, so hers was just a bottle. They insisted Billy should eat fried potatoes and food I stayed away from at home. There was nothing prepared for children. I soon met my stateroom neighbors, who were mostly all missionaries on their way to Japan and China. Those people knew all the ropes and were always getting me straightened out of my difficulties.

The boat was manned entirely by Japanese; very few could speak English. My stewardess was a shy, attractive girl who was making her first trip. She spoke little English so I had great difficulty getting things across to her. Sterilizing Eileen’s baby bottles seemed very foolish to her. It took a couple of days to get her to realize they had to boil twenty minutes instead of just being put in hot water. Finally, I had her bring Billy’s meals to our cabin, as it was too difficult trying to keep Billy under control at the table and manage Eileen, too.

Eileen had no crib, and since she was always pulling herself to & standing position, was continually falling out of the bottom berth. There were two double-deck beds in my stateroom. At first I put Billy and Eileen in the bottom decks, but as soon as I climbed into the top deck, I became seasick. Finally, I crawled into the bottom deck with Eileen and used the pillows and mattress from the top deck on the floor to break Eileen’s fall. She was a happy baby. Soon, a lovely missionary lady, Mrs. Cobb, from southern U.SA., helped me by taking her on walks on deck while I did washing or chased Billy around the ship.

We had been out only a few days when I thought I would do some washing while Billy and Eye were asleep.’ I did my washing in the bathroom washbowl; and when I came back to the cabin, the door was open. No Billy. I ran into the neighbors and no Billy. On deck, no Billy. I asked everyone, and finally the Japanese sent out a search party. Billy had made his way down to the engine room, and a Japanese oiler was carrying him around showing him the sights.

My seasickness rose and fell with the tempo of the sea, and as we were in sight of the Aleutian Islands, the tempo of the sea dislodged all remaining evidence of food from my overworked stomach. I had heard of people losing their stomachs, and I was beginning to wonder if they