LOST THOUGHTS OF WAR RETURN: A DIARY OF THE
MIND
Tanka 56 to Tanka 60
San Francisco,
January, 1943 Journey of a Naive
Warrior: Boxing Matches Aboard Troopship
Tanka 56
troopships five
decks deep
canvas cots stacked
like cord wood
hour long lines for
food ~
zigzag to escape the
subs
where to – Down
Under to fight
Tanka 57
demonstrate manhood
enter ship boxing
matches
and win several ~
he hopes he will
earn respect –
but respect is not
earned
Tanka 58
men do not follow –
leaders are not
created
men identify ~
men may follow whom
they know,
not who has ability
Tanka 59
where, when will we
fight
we are not told
where – just wait
Sydney – New Guinea
~
island hopping,
beach landing
march, lock and
load, aim, shoot, kill
Tanka 60
Townsville,
Australia
is this where the
fight begins?
ready to go North ~
north is where
Japanese are
we will soon get to
meet them
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After a few months in the Army, I
knew I had to bolster my reputation as being tough, which I had demonstrated by
several successful fist fights with some rednecks who felt that a New York
college boy was fair game for bullying.
If I could prove that this was not so, I had a chance of being left
alone; fortunately, it worked.
Several thousand men with nothing to do aboard a ship must have some
diversion, and so the officers arranged some boxing matches to keep us
occupied. I used the opportunity
and volunteered to
fight, listing my weight as welterweight.
The results of the starvation rations aboard ship brought my weight down
several pounds and so I was actually lighter than the147 pounds that I weighed
when I boxed in college; but since there was no scale aboard ship, I registered
as a welterweight. I recall being
stunned at the sight of my first opponent as he entered
the ring. He clearly weighed considerably more than I
did, and the referee stopped him cold before we got to the center of the ring,
and blasted him, "Hey, what the hell do you weigh?"
My prospective opponent, obviously a
large heavyweight, muttered something about weighing about 200 or so. The referee, one of the divisional officers,
who apparently had some experience, asked him, "What the hell are you
doing in the ring against a welterweight? You weigh fifty pounds more than
him." He looked sheepishly at the
referee and answered that he was taking his buddy's place who had changed his
mind and decided not to fight. The
referee just shook his head in disbelief and announced that the fight was
off. He waved his arms from side to
side indicating that the fight was canceled and gestured for us to leave the
ring, but the crowd, unaware of the reason for the cancellation, and sensing
that they were going to be deprived of entertainment, started to boo loudly.
I felt pressured by the crowd so,
foolishly, instead of allowing the ref to cancel the match, which would have
given me a win because of default by my original opponent, I told the ref that
I would fight him. He seemed shocked
and asked whether I was sure, because the guy was indeed considerably
larger. I assured him I could handle
him, and so he permitted us to fight; that
eliminated the
pressure from the protesting crowd, and they cheered. The referee should never have allowed a welterweight to be in the
same ring as a super heavyweight, but perhaps as the referee, he felt he could
prevent mayhem if it appeared that I was likely to be badly hurt.
I decided not to adopt a
"slugging" approach — this guy was too big, and had to be
avoided. I couldn't risk being hit by
him, so I boxed him skillfully and remained untouched by him, while I
rhythmically worried his face with jabs.
I won the fight easily, and, as my hand was raised in victory, I could
peer about and see that the observers from my own company, all sitting at
ring side, were
cognizant of my easy win. I was pleased
since they would realize I would not be easily bullied, since I did not retreat
and beat a much larger opponent.
The next day, our first Sergeant
encountered me on the deck and upbraided me for not shaving. He was always alert to find fault with me,
but I countered that I had volunteered to box and represent our company, and
fighters never shave before boxing since it leaves their skin vulnerable to cuts. He seemed surprised, but had no reply except
to say I would have had to
shave after my
match. I argued, however, that if I won
the next match, there would still be one more the next day and I wouldn't be
able to shave for that one as well. I
rubbed in my former victory and the possibility that I would win even another,
and he walked off sullen.
The second fight was with a very fast
opponent who was the same weight, but who had only a single form of defense: He
only ducked to his left. After the
first round, I decided I would feint broadly and swing a hard right in the
direction where I predicted his head would be.
I hit him hard, he staggered, and barely recovered, so I coasted to an
easy win.
My third match was against one of the
men in my own company, Larry Larragoite, a pleasant guy from the New Mexico,
and neither of us felt much like fighting each other, but after the first very
passive round, the referee sensed our reluctance and admonished us to
engage. We picked up the pace although
we didn't punch hard, and despite my loss in a close decision, the advantages
of being seen entering the ring, and my willingness to fight enhanced my
immunity from the bullies who were reluctant to engage men who did not retreat.
Sir Sidney Weinstein
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The Philosopher’s
Response:
The question of military leadership has exercised the minds of
strategists, historians, and philosophers for centuries. A man I respect for his quality as a field
commander and as a professional soldier was Lieutenant-General Adachi
Hatazo. He was born in Tokyo in 1890
into a family with samurai traditions.
There was refinement about him as well as the ruggedness of a soldier. He wrote tanka and was skilled in
calligraphy as well as being an expert in karate and kendo-. He graduated from the Tokyo Military Academy
in 1910 and from the War College 1n 1922 becoming a member of the Japanese Army
General Staff in 1925. He was made a
lieutenant general in November 1942 and took command of the Japanese Eighteenth
Army in New Guinea. He had to leave
immediately for the war zone and could not attend his wife’s funeral. New Guinea was one of the major battle
grounds of World War II with immense suffering on both sides. Adachi was a brave soldier, but the battles
read as a litany of defeats: Buna, Gona, Salamaua, Wewak, Lae, Hansa Bay,
Rabaul and Aitape. He surrendered at
Cape Wom in August 1945 and was sentenced to life imprisonment. The incontestable facts of atrocities
involving the Eighteenth Army are there, but he argued innocence for himself
and for his senior commanders. However,
there is an inexorable logic in all armies at war, whether at Agincourt or
Aitape, shown beautifully in Shakespeare’s Henry V. Silence of generals condones the crimes of the least
soldier. This must not be allowed to
impugn Adachi’s skill, daring, compassion for his soldiers and his own
willingness to lead from the front, and to endure hardship for the sake of his
troops. He committed suicide in his
prison cell at Manus Island on 10 September 1947.
There are two swords in the magnificent War Memorial in Canberra. The first, Adachi’s personal sword is a
shin_gunto- of possible date 1511, although this date may be doubtful. The second is also a fine sword of 1596
forging style. It also is a shin_gunto-
but is a sword from one of Adachi’s senior officers.
*****
From Lieutenant-General Adachi’s Last Will and Testament. [Gavin Long, The
Final Campaigns. Australian War
Memorial; Canberra, 1963; p 342.]
“I have demanded perseverance far exceeding the limit of endurance of
my officers and men, who when exhausted succumbed to death like flowers falling
in the winds. Only the gods know how I
felt when I saw them dying but at that time I made up my mind not to set foot
on my country’s soil again. I will
remain a clod of earth in the Southern Seas with my 100,000 officers and men,
even if a time should come when I would be able to return to my country in
triumph.”
One can only imagine this man’s anguish. His wife and daughter had both died after long illnesses. He had failed the Emperor. After a lifetime of service all his world
had come to nothing.
Kata_uta In
the cell’s darkness,
5
Bitter thoughts my companions:
7
My death my only honour.
7
Hugh Bygott
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