The core temperature of the human body is well known to be about 99F (37C) and to be carefully stabilized in maintaining a balance between the heat produced by internal metabolism and that lost to the environment through conduction, radiation, and transpiration. The production of internal heat is essentially constant—unless increased by exercise—and must therefore be continually dissipated, even under ordinary circumstances, to prevent body temperature rise.
Without clothing, in 75 degree air, the skin temperature is about 90F (32C). We perceive an air temperature in the range of 75F as neutral or benign because that fifteen degree difference is enough to allow the body—through conduction, radiation, and transpiration—continually to lose the appropriate amount of heat to retain its balance.
As the ambient air temperature rises emergency measures must come into play. If possible we can limit the internal heat production through resting. If that is insufficient we begin to sweat and perhaps to seek breezes to enhance their evaporative cooling effect. This works well, especially if the air is dry, but not so well in already wet and humid air. And, ominously, it works not at all if the air is already as humid as it can get.
Let me explain:
Behold the Psychrometric Chart:
This diagram (augmented for relevance) shows various physical relationships between air and the amount of moisture it holds under various temperature conditions.
1. The vertical lines are lines of constant ambient air temperature; for example everywhere equal to 80F on the vertical 80F line.
2. The horizontal lines are lines of equal moisture content; for example everywhere equal to 0.016 pounds of water vapor per pound of dry air on the horizontal 0.016 line.
3. The sweeping curves are the loci of equal per-cent relative humidity, i.e., the ratio of the vapor in the air at a point to the most vapor it could possibly hold at 100% relative humidity. At 100% RH we call the air saturated with moisture—it cannot take on any more. Evaporative cooling ceases.
4. The straight sloping lines are more mysterious; they represent the temperature a wet rag would cool down to if held up in the ambient wind as it dried—your wet swim suit in a gale. The interesting—and crucial—thing about this is that from any air temperature starting point on a sloping line—say 80F/60%RH—the evaporative cool-down end-point is always the same, 70F! Check out: 100F/20%RH. This end point is called the wet-bulb temperature because it is measured with a thermometer whose bulb, cooled in the wind, is covered with a wet sock.
When water evaporates it cools, and keeps cooling until the wet-bulb temperature is reached. Thus, the human body can cool itself by sweating only as long as the ambient wet-bulb temperature is cooler than the skin temperature. Once the ambient wet bulb temperature hits 90F evaporative cooling ceases and the skin can no longer be cooled by sweating. In the absence of artificial cooling, the body temperature will then inexorably rise until death ensues.
For example, referring to the Chart:
When the air temperature reaches 110F/43C—as it has already in parts of the world—and the relative humidity is what we might think of as a modest 46%, the wet-bulb temperature is 90F/32C and an outdoor population faces death by heat stroke, e.g., body temperature over 104F/47C.
The thing is that it’s not strictly the ambient air temperature that counts; it’s your proximity to the sloping 90F wet-bulb line that determines your danger. See .
In terms of the climate crisis this is no joke. Severe temperature events will become more and more common as the world heats. As I write [01/01/20], today’s record high temperature in Australia is 121.8F/49.9C! (I can find no concurrent %RH data.)
Therefore I think it important in extreme temperature conditions for world weather services routinely to publish concurrent humidity/wet bulb data so that danger can be properly evaluated by the general populace. Therefore, too, I think it important for the general public to have a rudimentary understanding of the psychrometrics of existential heat.
See  Record wet-bulb: 92F/33C.
See  Cooking: @131F/55C.
But wait, there’s more:
The dew point temperature– In addition to the wet bulb temperature there is another psychrometric entity used by weather services to find the relative humidity. It is a more accurate means of determining %RH than by using the wet bulb temperature, but its accurate determination is out of reach for those without special equipment.
It’s as if one set out a glass of pure water—at the prevailing air temperature—and adds ice cubes (cooling it down) until vapor condensation first appears on the outside—your cold wet glass of beer. The temperature of the water (beer) at that precise point is called the dew point.
On the chart horizontal lines of equal moisture content are parallel to—the “same” as— lines of constant dew point. And at 100.0 %RH (and only then) the air, the dew point, and the wet bulb temperatures are all the same.
Now, for example, if it’s 90F/32C out and the weather service says the dew point is 75F/24C then following the 75F horizontal line rightward to its intersection with 90F vertical line shows a %RH of 60.0% (and—going leftward up the sloping line—a wet bulb of about 78F).
It is more common for weather services to cite the dew point than to publish the wet bulb or the %RH, especially in weather record keeping.
The paper, published in July of 2018, concludes “…recent research suggests that human societies will experience disruptions to their basic functioning within less than ten years due to climate stress. Such disruptions include increased levels of malnutrition, starvation, disease, civil conflict and war – and will not avoid affluent nations. This situation makes redundant the reformist approach to sustainable development and related fields of corporate sustainability. Instead, a new approach which explores how to reduce harm and not make matters worse is important to develop. In support of that challenging, and ultimately personal process, understanding a ‘deep adaptation agenda’ may be useful.”
IT IS WORSE, MUCH WORSE, THAN YOU THINK.
The slowness of climate change is a fairy tale, perhaps as pernicious as the one that says it isn’t happening at all, and comes to us bundled with several others in an anthology of comforting delusions: that global warming is an Arctic saga, unfolding remotely; that it is strictly a matter of sea level and coastlines, not an enveloping crisis sparing no place and leaving no life un-deformed; that it is a crisis of the “natural” world, not the human one; that those two are distinct, and that we live today somehow outside or beyond or at the very least defended against nature, not inescapably within and literally overwhelmed by it; that wealth can be a shield against the ravages of warming; that the burning of fossil fuels is the price of continued economic growth; that growth, and the technology it produces, will allow us to engineer our way out of environmental disaster; that there is any analogue to the scale or scope of this threat, in the long span of human history, that might give us confidence in staring it down.
The original quickdraw was the product of trad route desperation. And had nothing whatever to do with “sport” climbing—which hadn’t yet been introduced (1983).
The next pitch looks gnarly. You see a pin up there—or a possible nut slot—but, jeez, no place to rest while clipping the piece and wrestling up a bight of rope for the final clip. Maybe there’s a quicker way—a lesson from the Old West—and so the “quickdraw” was born.
Thus, be prepared: In advance, before committing, clip one sling end to your harness and the other free end to the rope. Then, at the pin, it’s just one quick draw from your harness to the piece. No wrestling with the rope.
To illustrate how well this works I commend you to the following memory of my climbing partner of forty years—Wes Grace:
I’ve known Bill since 1970 at which time he was an icon to me. After a year or so he
deigned actually to climb with me. From that humble start our relationship grew from mentor and novice to camaraderie. It was now possible for me to make suggestions.
Some time around 1980 we walked down the carriage road. Bill was reflective and silent. Eventually he looked up and said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about leading High Exposure. I don’t know if I am up to it, but if I wait any longer I certainly won’t do it.
Bill, I said, “You can do it.” Of course I had no idea whether he could do it or not. It
seemed the right thing to say.
The first two pitches aren’t hard. But then we were under a gigantic roof where you can see what you can’t see, the entire top pitch. You know it goes straight up and you know that once you get started you pretty much have to keep going but you can’t see. You back up to the edge, get your toes right on the edge of a 200 foot drop, reach around for a pin you can’t see, and then duck under the roof and swing out into the void holding on with your fingers jammed in the crack. Bill clipped that first pin, and then there was just Bill from the knees down—then he was gone.
The rope paid out. Then…
The rope started to come back in. It came in bits and jerks and then stopped. For a long time. Then it paid out again.
I had my turn, gasping as I swung out holding on with jammed fingers, later diving into the little depression where it goes from dead vertical to easy for a few feet.
Then the top.
Bill, what happened? In his excitement he had clipped the wrong ‘biner on his quickdraw to the second piton thus connecting his harness to the pin. He had to climb down until he could reach it, clip it to the rope and then unclip from his harness.
It wasn’t too many years later going down the same carriage road that Bill said he knew what we were going to do. We’re going to do High Exposure and YOU are going to lead it.”
Bill was good at knowing what others were going to do. On our annual trip to the west in 1999 he knew what we were going to do. A classic climb every day. Dark Shadows at Red Rocks, Mental Physics, Sail Away and Walk on the Wild Side at Joshua Tree and Cat in the Hat back at Red Rocks. And he knew I was going to lead every one.
Extracted from: May, 1970, Sky and Telescope, Page 318 & ff. GLEANINGS FOR ATM’s CONDUCTED BY ROBERT E. COX
A Slitless Spectrograph for the Flash Spectrum
IN 1963, after reading S. A. Mitchell’s exciting book on solar eclipses , I became especially interested in his detailed descriptions of the flash spectrum of the sun’s chromosphere, which is observed for a few seconds at the beginning and ending of totality. I constructed a small concave-grating spectrograph and took it to that year’s eclipse at Stetson, Maine. But the equipment was never used, for the very thin crescent of the sun dissolved in clouds five seconds before the second contact.
This year  I tried again, taking the spectrograph mounted on my 4-1/4-inch f/28 reflector to Nantucket Island. Spectra were obtained at second contact, at mid-totality, and at third contact, the last being shown in color, four-times enlarged, in the center of this issue. A good flash spectrum is not only colorful but very informative scientifically – an important means for studying the composition and physical properties at different levels in the sun’s atmosphere.
What I needed was a compact instrument that could be attached to a portable, clock-driven equatorial  and pointed directly at the sun, eliminating the need for the coelostat arrangement professionals use for their larger equipment (see, for example, pictures on pages 280 and 284 of this issue). At the same time I sought good spectral resolution and large plate scale, in order to record many lines in the flash spectrum instead of just the few brightest ones revealed by direct-vision spectroscopes.
In Amateur Telescope Making—Book Three, Strathmore  R. B. Cooke and Robert A. Wilson give a complete geometrical treatise on the Wadsworth mounting for a five-foot laboratory spectrograph. This compact arrangement includes a collimating paraboloidal mirror and slit, without which the light source would have to be an infinitely distant slit. However, at an eclipse this requirement is essentially met by the thin crescent of the solar chromosphere produced by the advancing moon.
Thus, my spectrograph has the great advantage of only one optical element, the concave (spherical) diffraction grating, which focuses monochromatic images of the chromosphere directly on the strip of 35-mm. film that is held at the parabolic focal surface. The instrument’s size, configuration, and performance are completely determined by the grating constants. Replica gratings are perfectly acceptable for most amateur and laboratory purposes, and are offered by Edmund Scientific Co., Central Scientific Co., and others for less than $100.
I chose Edmund’s “instrument-quality concave grating,” which is made of glass 3″ in diameter that has been optically figured and aluminum coated. Its radius of curvature is 1,000 millimeters, and an area 1-1/2 in square is ruled with 15,000 lines per inch. It forms a solar image about five millimeters (1/5 in) in diameter, which easily fits in the width of 35-mm. film and allows room for coronal images. When the grating arrived, I measured its radius of curvature, finding it 10 mm. longer than advertised; my final design was adjusted for the difference in focal length.
Attention was then turned to the geometry of the Wadsworth mounting. The formula
. nλ = s(sin i + sin θ) (1)
gives the relation between i, the angle of incidence of the light on the grating, and θ, the angle of diffraction, both measured from the normal (perpendicular) to the grating, as shown in the diagram. Also, n is the order of the spectrum (always a whole number), λ the wavelength in centimeters, and s the spacing between the grating lines, in centimeters.
Because a compact instrument giving maximum image brightness was required, I was limited to the use of the first-order spectrum, so that n was fixed as unity.
The dispersion of the spectrum, expressed in angstroms per millimeter along the focal surface, is given by 107 s/nf, where f is the focal length of the grating (half the radius of curvature), or 505 millimeters for my grating. For s, I used 1/590 millimeter, corresponding closely to 1/15,000 inch, which gave the dispersion as 33.6 angstroms per millimeter.
The spectral range that I wanted to cover lay between 3000 angstroms in the ultraviolet and 8000 in the infrared. This would occupy about 150 millimeters or 6″, that is, 3″ on either side of a central wave length of 5500 angstroms in the green region.
To place this central wavelength of the spectrum upon the grating normal, we set θ = 0 in Equation 1, which becomes
. sin i = λ/s. (2)
Expressing- both lengths in millimeters, λ is 5.5 X 10-4 and s is 1/590. We obtain sin i = 0.3245, and i = 18° 56′.
Using this value of i in Equation 1, we can calculate the values of θ corresponding to 3000 and8000 angstroms. We find that these extremes are symmetrically placed 8° 29′ on either side of 5500 angstroms.
This last calculation is important to be sure that there is enough clearance between the incident rays and the red end of the spectrum to accommodate mechanical and structural elements, such as shutter, film spools and pockets, and the camera walls. For my spectrograph, the clearance is 18° 56′ – 8° 29′ = 10° 27′. Had this been insufficient, I would have set a longer wavelength on the grating normal, obtaining a larger angle of incidence.
The focal curve is not an arc of a circle (a parabola), but is defined by the relation
. D=R cos2 θ/(cos i +cos θ), (3)
where D is the focal distance at the diffraction angle θ, and R is the radius of curvature of the grating. We can lay out the focal curve by calculating D for selected values of θ, preferably employing logarithms for accuracy.
Completion of the calculations permitted me to design the spectrograph itself: a lightproof box with suitable covers, access openings, grating support, and film support. In addition, baffles, screens, and light traps were placed to eliminate spurious reflections and stray light. The entire assembly was painted flat black on the inside.
The film was supported at its edges by two strips of Masonite 6″ long and 1/8” thick, filed accurately to fit the calculated parabolic curve. The top and bottom runners were cut and filed together, for a perfect match. Slotted holes in the film support brackets permit slight shifts for the focusing adjustment. A film transport arrangement was devised to fit standard 35-mm. cassettes for winding and rewinding with slotted cranks inserted from the outside. The shutter must be large enough to illuminate the grating area fully, with additional clearance for the field of view (2° in this case). Shutters of large aperture are hard to find, but I came across an old 2-1/2” bulb-operated Packard shutter which worked well after cleaning and oiling. The shortest exposure that I can manage with it is about 1/5 second.
At an angle of reflection equal to the angle of incidence, the source produces a bright zero-order image. To absorb this, I made a black-velvet light trap, as shown in the diagram. But the trap can be opened to allow the strong direct image of the sun to fall on a target, thus providing a convenient means for aiming the spectrograph without opening the film plane access door. The grating holder should be rigidly mounted but adjustable, as in the design by Cooke and Wilson. All but the ruled area should be masked to reduce the intensity of the direct image. To preserve the grating surface, it is essential that the grating cell be fitted with an air- and dust-tight cover.
Provision must be made to set the film curve exactly in focus, not only at the center wavelength on the grating normal but at the other wavelengths along the spectrum. This requires, in the workshop, setting up a collimator and a bright, sharp source such as a slit illuminated by an arc. At the focus of a good 2-inch f/20 achromat I put an adjustable slit like one described by John Strong in ATM-3. To be sure the slit was exactly at the focus of the lens, I pointed the telescope at the star Sirius and moved the slit along the optical axis until the objective darkened uniformly as the star drifted past the optical
axis (as in a knife-edge test).
. Disassembled cameraCollimator
Then the collimator was aimed at the grating and the slit illuminated by an arc, one carbon of which had been soaked in a mixed salt solution (NaCI, KNO3, or SrNO3). This produced a rash of bright lines all along the visible spectrum. Using a strip of frosted acetate as a ground glass, and setting the slit for best apparent parallelism with the grating rulings, I used a jeweler’s loupe to focus each section of the film curve. That is, I adjusted the film holder for best focus at each point along the spectrum; the sodium D line was easily resolved into its two components (0.2 mm. separation).
Not apparent when focusing with a slit is an astigmatism which is zero on the normal and increases to either side, becoming very noticeable in the zero-order image. It causes the crescent cusps and other eclipse features not essentially parallel with the rulings to appear somewhat out of focus at the ends of the spectrum. Physicists use cylindrical lenses and other means to overcome this astigmatism, but such a refinement is not necessary for the flash spectrum.
Observing the Eclipse
I loaded two 20-exposure 35-mm. cassettes to permit trying out two kinds of film at the same eclipse. The leaders were taped together before loading; after loading and closing the camera the splice and a predetermined length of film were wound into one cassette to draw in an unexposed length of film from the other.
After this exposure the winding was reversed and the splice moved from the first cassette into the second for subsequent exposures on the film thus drawn from the first cassette. I did not use 36-exposure cassettes because these might make this operation difficult. I made sure to return the splice to the grating normal before opening the camera for removal of the cassettes.
I was unable to find a complete record of grating constants, exposure time, and film speed for some previous flash spectrum photograph. The speed of the grating is f/Ae, that is, the focal length divided by the equivalent aperture. The latter is Ae = (4As/π)1/2, where A is the actual grating aperture.
However, this calculation is confused by the fact that only part of the reflected light is concentrated into any given order. My grating has an advertised efficiency of 50 to 75 percent and a blaze wavelength of 4000 angstroms, meaning that 50 to 75 percent of the reflected light is concentrated in the first order and further concentrated locally in the 4000-angstrom region.
I decided to try about twice the exposure times recommended for use with a 40° objective prism , since substantially all of the light leaving a prism falls within its only spectrum. The exposures used this year on Nantucket Island were 1/5 second on Ektacolor-S (ASA 100) for the flash spectrum at second contact and 1/3 second on High Speed Ektachrome (ASA 160) at third contact (see center pages). Also, a 1-second exposure was made on Ektacolor-S at mid-eclipse, to record the coronal emission.
Before the eclipse the direction of the moon’s relative path was calculated, in order to orient the instrument so that the rulings would be tangent to the midpoint of the chromospheric crescent; this would produce crescents set vertically along the length of the spectrum. However, at Nantucket we were a substantial distance north of the eclipse’s central line, and the crescents could not be made to appear this way at both contacts.
[My assistant and friend Frank Dow manned the hour-angle and right ascension slow motion adjustments to be sure the sun’s image remained centered by cancelling accumulating errors in the motion of the weight-driven clock.]
Without practice from previous eclipses, and in the excitement of the moment, it is very hard to determine exactly when to operate the shutter. The flash lasts only the few seconds it takes the moon’s limb to traverse the solar chromosphere. I placed a small 5,000-line plane transmission grating (Wabash Instruments and Specialties, Wabash, Indiana) over one objective of a pair of binoculars, oriented so the rulings were perpendicular to the moon’s path.
With this, the Fraunhofer absorption lines (crescents) could be seen darkening and sharpening as the “slit” of the photosphere narrowed in the moments before totality. Fleetingly the crescent cusps gleamed and finally the chromosphere’s bright-line spectrum flashed into view as the bright arc of the photosphere was fully extinguished.
At this moment, the stopwatch was started, to provide a countdown for the recurrence of the flash spectrum at third contact, two minutes later. Of course, with good time-signal reception and an accurate prediction of the duration of totality, second and third contacts could be timed without visual watching, but surely one would not want to trade the beautiful spectacle of the sudden appearance of the flash spectrum for the small cost of a plane transmission grating.
WILLIAM C. ATKINSON (1970)
343 South Ave.
Weston, Mass. 02493
 Eclipses of the Sun, Samuel Alfred Mitchel, Columbia University Press, New York, Fifth Edition, 1951, 445 pages.
 Amateur Telescope Making – Book Three, Edited by Albert G. Ingalls, Scientific American, Inc., 1953, 644 pages.
 Solar Eclipse Photography for the Amateur, Eastman Kodak Co., Rochester, New York, Pamphlet No. AM-10, 1968.
 In 2017 the spectrograph and equatorial mounting (tripod with clock drive) were donated to Cornell University’s Fuertes Observatory, in Ithaca, NY.
From Paris I set out for Bay-sur-Aube in the cool morning air early on a Friday in our small and “friendful” rented Peugeot accompanied by my new friend parisienne Catherine Lion-Meric, as navigateur. After a hesitant start at the Pte. de Clignancourt we attained the peripherique interieur and rocketed east and south toward the exit for Dijon—the electronic panels overhead announcing the route ahead to be “toujours FLUIDE”.
I had written to Bay in June in the hope of having some advanced help in finding things there as I had no photos of Bay, my mother having not received a camera from home until June of 1919 in Paris. The mayor had answered me (by e-mail) and Catherine had confirmed by phone that we were to meet in Bay at ten.
Through Langres, off the A-31, then turning north at Auberive we came into Bay and turned left over a small stone bridge to see a couple of boys. We asked the way to the mairie. They pointed ahead and there on the sidewalk in the dappled sunlight stood five men obviously in casual attendance upon our arrival. We were greeted by M. le maire, Henri Lodiot, who introduced us to M. Edgar Cudel (Bay historian), M. Rene Rousselet (village doyen, 86), Mr. Sebastian Price (Englishman, owner of the Chateau), and M. Jean Royer (a local genealogist). All were gracious and obviously delighted to meet us. They ushered us into the one cavernous village schoolroom in the back of the mairie where we sat at a huge wooden table and talked for two hours.
Rousselet, a contemporary of Cécile Mongin, remembered her and the family with whom Elsie had beeen billeted; we were later shown the house where she had a room on the second floor and where the Orderly Room had been on the ground floor. He remembered the (Co. F) cook who was wont to chase the kids away when they gathered around looking hopefully for handouts. M. Royer had sought out that Cécile had died a few years previously in Marseilles at the age of eighty-one. When shown some of Elsie’s photos taken at Le Bourget M. Cudel revealed his interest in antique airplanes and so I gave him my copies of the pictures. He had been a navigator in the French air force.
We gave them, too, a copy of Elsie’s letters and journal whereupon the Englishman offered to translate it into French for use by M. Cudel in his plans for a Bay historical retrospective to be held in the summer of 2001— and to which he invited us.
At noon the mayor had to leave for another appointment but before he left glasses appeared, a bottle of champagne, and a basket of pink frosted champagne biscuits. We toasted Elsie and the AEF and some others and stepped out into the sunlight for a round of photos in the courtyard.
At once it became clear that we were to stay for déjuner at the home of M. Cudel. His house sat above the now disused lavarie in the square on a steep open street with a view of the town amid terraces of plants and beautiful flowers. His wife Janine had prepared a lovely gourmet lunch in the French style: pineapple with homemade mayonnaise, red wine, a delicious pork dish with fruit and cheese, followed by a lemon sorbet scooped in the center to accommodate a small pool of triple-sec.
We were then taken on an auto tour of the high ground above Bay with views toward Vitry across the valley of the Aube. We saw the traces of a Roman road, the village of Germaines, and ended above Bay at the ancient Roman church. Along the way Mr. Price revealed to us that above the town runs a straight “magnetic” line having tangible effects upon people in the region. He cited as proof of the magnetic theory a “line” many miles long in England discovered when it was realized that all the churches lying on it were dedicated to St. Mark. Catherine and I gradually came to the conclusion that Mr. Price was somewhat of an otherworldly visionary.
In the churchyard at Bay a majestic lime tree stands planted, they told us, along with others in churchyards all over France, to commemorate the Edict of Nantes. Mr. Price expounded upon how, on a certain day of the year, the sun at its rising, shines through a narrow opening above the altar of the church casting a light exactly in the center of (or at least upon some spot of significance on) the opposite wall; the implication being that the church had been originally and mystically oriented toward this end. Catherine and I accepted these revelations as colorful if somewhat fanciful.
M. Royer showed us the field immediately adjacent to the churchyard where Elsie’s “hut” had once stood . The hut had been razed many decades earlier but we all convinced ourselves that we could find, in the churchyard wall, the spot where the doughboys had temporarily “liberated” stones for Elsie’s cheminée only to have had to replace them at the behest of an irate mayor.
Mr. Price took us on a brief tour of the Chateau. His quick reading of the journal in the morning had led him to believe that Elsie had described an evening spent there but, in rereading her words, I think the chateau she described was not in Bay but in Germaines or in Aulnay nearby.
Promises were made to exchange photos and to stay in touch at least until the next summer.
M. Cudel drove us the three kilometers to Vitry. I wanted to walk back to Bay by the road that Elsie had so often taken after her visits to Juliette Whiton. In Vitry Edgar made a few inquiries aimed at finding where Juliette had been stationed and billeted but there was no one old enough to make the eighty-one year connection.
Edgar left us. We walked back to Bay along the side of the hill overlooking the valley of the Aube in the early evening sunlight— in France in July it stays light until eleven. The valley was green and beautiful and of course I thought of my mother on this same walk so long ago. We then came back into Bay and took our leave in the car; back through Auberive (literally, Aube riverbank) and on to Troyes where we had a Youth Hostel reservation.
Catherine had made a reservation at an andouillette specialty restaurant where we had a pleasant dinner. Andouillette is akin to tripe and is, in fact, a tripe sausage famously favored in the Troyes region. Catherine suggested that I might not like it and suggested I try something else, which I did. I tasted hers and remained doubtful about whether it really could have been to my liking.
Outside the hostel we searched in vain for a comet that I had heard about.
Saturday, July 22, 2000
Catherine had not seen much of eastern France and we both remarked the “big-sky” flatness of the region we traversed between Troyes and the valley of the Marne. We were on our way north to Hautvillers in the Champagne region armed this time with some photographs that Elsie had taken in the summer and fall of 1919 during her time in Nanteuille-la-Fosse with the Brits of the American Red Cross.
We had a picture of Mme. Legal and her son Leandre taken in front of an iron gate in Hautvillers, a town of about five-hundred houses; we hoped to find the gate. After having drawn a blank at the tourist acceuil, although there were very few people out and about, we began accosting souls in the street to show them the photo. A man said “Je ne sais pas, mais Mme. Boquet saura“. The Mme. was called from her gate, threw open her casement above, and a minute later descended into her court— she is the sole and aging owner, we were told, of La Cave Dom Perignon. “Ah. Je crois que c’est par la“, and we followed her around a corner. “Voila“, she said. But no; similar gate and details (a local founder undoubtedly made all the gates in the region and put upon them his mark) but not right. “Alors, par ici” and we followed her around another corner but, again, not the one. While the three puzzled in the street I found a young man, showed him the picture and he said, “Suivez moi“. He led me down through steep back courts, pigs and geese scattering as we went, emerged on a lower street, walked down a couple of doors, pointed, and said, “C’est la“. And he was right.
Leandre et Mme. Legal 22 Rue St. Martin, Hautvillers
Bill with photo
It was lots of fun. We took photos. The lady of the house came out and now, of course, we had to send her a copy of the pictures too.
After déjuner at a nice restaurant we drove along the Marne through the vinyards and then north to the high ground of the Montagne de Reims and to the village of Nanteuille-la-Fosse (now la-Forêt) where Elsie had lived and worked during the summer and fall with the British Quaker ladies of the American Red Cross.
We wanted to find the house for which we had a picture of the courtyard containing a military truck and of a circular pool in the backyard as well as some others around the town. After a disappointing hour or so of wandering around (the streets were empty) peering at the pictures we found a young man mowing his side yard. He cut his mower and we showed him the photos one after another: “Pas a Nanteuille. Pas a Nanteuille. Pas…“. We began to think we were in the wrong town. Then:
Benjamin & Jock at 110
110 Rue de Bre, Nanteuil
“Mais, Mme. Trinquart saura, parceque son marie ramasse les cartes postales anciennes de la ville.” So, next door, the bell was pulled, Mme. came out into her court and let us in. She looked at the picture, spread her gaze and her arms expansively and said, “Mais oui. C’est ici!” And sure enough, of hundreds of houses in the village, we happened by chance to be standing in the very courtyard we sought .
She led us through her house and there, in the back, was the little circular pool of Elsie’s photo, filled with grass and no longer “reflecting the mood of the sky above”. We found the site of several of the other pictures, too, and one man (a M. Marcoup) asked me to send him a copy of the old photo of his street.
At Verzy that evening we visited Les Arbres Faux (a disappointment) and stayed at the hostel there.
Sunday, July 23, 2000
I had hoped to follow parts of Elsie’s battlefield tour but Catherine didn’t have much interest in that. So we drove to Reims in the morning and got her a ticket to Paris and then spent the time until her train visiting the Cathedral. I dropped her off at the station and headed off for the WWI front to the east, eventually reaching as far as Fort Douaumont at Verdun.
I had a couple of pictures. One of the village of Forges— completely razed by battle. And one of a wrecked house by the road. There was one that I didn’t actually have with me but was pretty sure had been taken at Vauquois (Elsie’s “Split Hill”).
In the Argonne forest, after having visited a massive and sombre French monument and having revisited the Crown Prince’s Dugout , I parked by the side of the road more or less at random in an isolated stretch and walked into the forest. All of the trees are the same size— eighty-two years old. I hadn’t walked thirty meters before I came to a decaying battlefield trench deep over my head and zig-zagging off into the forest in each direction. Ten or twenty meters farther on there was another one. As far as the forest would permit a vista the “level” ground above the trenches was scalloped on a scale of three to six meters into an endless sea of huge “waves” each about one meter from trough to crest— the ancient shell holes now overgrown with low brush and trees. My father, Kerr Atkinson, saw service in this region in 1918, but nearer to Grand Pré and Thiaucourt.
I passed through Varennes where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were arrested and returned to Paris after their attempted escape during the Revolution.
At Vauquois I told the Mme. at the visitor center I had a picture taken in 1919. She wanted me to send it (and I later did. She says it’s on display there now). At Forges I drove through town from the direction of the former Cumières and then turned around having passed a group of gay people sitting at tables. I asked if it was a restaurant and they said no but beckoned me over anyhow. I showed them the photo of Forges and they passed it all around amazed— for it showed not a brick or stone standing; nothing but a hand-painted road sign indicating the center of town. They offered me a beer and I stayed for a while to chat.
I stopped for a minute at Le Mort Homme, finding trenches in the forest there as well, and then went on to Verdun and Fort Douaumont where the massive iron view-ports and gun turrets are slowly rusting away on the crest of the fortification. I looked for my mother’s “queer little narrow-gauge railway” but didn’t have time really to search it out— if, indeed, it still exists.
From Verdun I went on to the A-4 to Verzy again where the hostel lady was upset that I was too late for dinner for which I had made a reservation. The next morning I briefly revisited Nanteuille and Hautvillers on my way back to Paris to meet Catherine for dinner at her bureau in the rue Le Courbe.
 Elsie revisited Bay on her honeymoon in August of 1921 and took a photograph of the church with her “hut” on the right in the foreground. She noted at that time: “… my hut is still there, ivy and all.”
 I have to wonder about this “chance”. Upon returning home to Weston I found later some further photographs taken by my mother when we were in France in 1939 as a family when I was fourteen. I have a diary entry for July 23rd in which I note that we “saw… the house [in Hautvillers] where she stayed”. However, one of the 1939 photo’s is of the same courtyard in Nanteuille leading me to know that I had actually seen the house myself sixty-one years ago. I have no recollection whatever of this particular visit but I have to wonder whether something other than chance urged me to stop next door to that particular house to query a young man mowing his side yard.
 There is a photo of Holley and me taken at this dugout in 1939.
On the morning of April first I made some huge letters out of computer paper—six feet tall—and taped them to the inside of the twenty-fifth floor windows of the LollipopBuilding at 100 Summer Street in Boston. Our offices looked out over the roof top of the Jordan Marsh department store a few blocks north where my friend Susie worked as a fashion photographer.
After having called Susie on the phone—with a desperate story of a man about to jump to his death from the height of my building—I waited.
And, sure enough, soon I saw her small figure emerge, camera in hand, from a doorway onto Jordan’s roof. Here is her photograph:
Every few years we, in the Boston climbing group, would go for a week to Seneca Rocks in what was then the town of Mouth of Seneca, West Virginia. We would climb at the ‘Gunks on the way there and again on the way back.
As early as 1973 there was no climber’s shop—only Buck Harper’s general store and an old covered wooden pavilion with a stage at one end and no electricity. Here was where we camped. A wildly swaying suspension bridge over the Potomac’s North Fork gave access to the Rocks.
We went again in 1980—by which time there was a new climbing store called the Gendarme—an eponymous reference to the fifty foot stone sentinel standing guard in Gunsight Notch between the north and south faces of the cliffs. On each visit it was considered obligatory to climb it.
But we climbed it with reservation owing to its precarious aspect, narrower at its base than in its body—more like a Popsicle than an obelisk. Topping out below it on the climb Banana one could actually see “air” through its base—the “stick” of the Popsicle—a slab of rock seemingly not more than three feet by twelve in cross section. Over beer in the dark at the Pavilion we would speculate about the effects of the weight and motion of climbers or about how much wind it might take to de-stabilize it. We marveled over what geologic forces might have produced it and wondered about its age. The cliffs in near their present form have been there for millions of years.
Again in 1987 I was at Seneca for a week in late September with my friend Sarah. The suspension bridge had been carried away by floods in 1985—replaced by two cables, one high and one low, for the hands overhead and the feet below. And, of course before we left, we had climbed the Gendarme.
Four weeks later at the ‘Gunks, at the end of a day of climbing, Sarah ran up to me and said:
“Guess what happened at Seneca?”
Without a moment’s hesitation I replied: “The Gendarme fell.”
And so, on October 22nd—a sunny, windless Thursday afternoon—the sentinel collapsed and, with a roar, dashed itself into thousands of shards below.
In contemplation of this event, in relation to the geologic time-scale, it seems Sarah and I had a pretty close call.
by S/Sgt. Francis (Frank) E. Reynolds
498th BG [T-Square], 874th Squadron, Saipan
1944-45 [From a manuscript e-mailed to me by Gib Buckbee, whose father was a friend of Reynolds.]
(Some disturbing graphic content has been redacted thus: [. . .])
In mid-October we departed for Saipan. American forces had taken Tinian,
only two miles from Saipan, and Guam located 100 miles [south] of us. All islands were 1500 miles from Japan with the Japanese stronghold, Iwo Jima, being midway.
When we arrived on Saipan, it was hot and rainy. We spent a few days in tents while we built quonset huts near the shoreline to live in. The officers and enlisted men lived in separate huts but close to each other. Showers were saltwater and located on the beach. We filled our canteens from steel drums. The food was all canned—no fresh food. Flight lunches were individual packets of canned food called K-rations.
We dug trenches outside the huts that we could get in if we had air raids. On November 2 at 0130 Japanese bombers dropped bombs for the first time. There were plenty of scares, but no aircraft destroyed, and two enemy were shot down by antiaircraft guns. We got bombed or strafed every few nights. The strafing was the worst. The enemy planes would come in low under the radar and start shooting. I remember one night we awoke with tracers going by the end of the hut. I was the first one in the trench and landed on the bottom with three or four guys lying on top of me. I thought the bullets would have to go through them before getting to me. I did not even notice the coral digging into my back.
Those raids did kill some people and destroyed aircraft. At night we took turns guarding the aircraft. Usually an officer and an enlisted man paired up to guard against Japanese still hiding in caves. One night in December, I was guarding our plane with an officer when the plane next to ours was hit by a rocket, fired from an attacking plane, and started burning. We got out of the bunker and ran to escape the coming explosion.
After a big raid on us New Year’s Eve the raids ended, due to B-24s bombing the airfield on Iwo. Planes would fly from Japan to Iwo, land, refuel, load bombs, and bomb us. B-24s were given the job of keeping the airfield on Iwo knocked out. They dropped bombs every hour and the Japanese could not fill in the bomb holes as fast as the B-24s made them.
We flew two practice missions to enemy occupied islands. The Marines made certain there could be no possibility of a tipoff from Japanese holdouts on Saipan by conducting a “rabbit hunt” around the runways, which netted them over 200 killed. Then the planes were loaded for our first mission. Bad weather caused delays, but finally on Thanksgiving Day, November 24, 1944, 100 aircraft in nine plane formations, flew over Tokyo and dropped bombs on an aircraft factory. This raid was the first such attack since the Doolittle strikes in April, 1942.
The B-29 was under-powered, and taking off fully loaded with fuel, bombs and ammunition was hazardous. We had a 10,000 foot runway ending with a 300 foot cliff drop-off. All of the runway was used, and sometimes the 300 feet altitude that could be lost before hitting the water saved us. We flew low altitude to a climb point off the coast of Japan and then climbed to 30,000 feet bombing altitude. We had never made a maximum weight takeoff or been higher than 25,000 feet until that first mission. Flight time was 15 hours [round trip].
We saw many enemy fighters, but only had a few attacks on the first mission. On our third mission the fighters were more aggressive, and I shot down the first confirmed fighter in our Squadron. I shot down two others on later missions. The Japanese were doing anything to knock us down. They put up heavy flak, swarms of attacks, kamikaze rams, and even dropped phosphorous bombs above our formations. Major Krause was our well-liked operations officer. What happened to him as stated in official records illustrates their determination.
This is an eyewitness story given by Lieutenant Webster, who was in the flight commanded by Major John E. Krause which was flying over target 357, Tokyo December 27, 1944. His plane, T-Square 25, was leading the third element of a nine ship tight formation at 31,500 feet on the bomb run between Mount Fuji and Tokyo when they ran into trouble at 0425, one minute before bombs away:
“A Japanese Tony came in head-on with a closing rate of 700 mph or better, slightly high with guns blazing. The top gun sight blister blew off from gun fire, probably killing the gunner instantly. The right side of the ship, from nose to leading edge of the wing, was torn open with a gash three feet wide and emitting a sheet of yellow flame, no doubt killing co-pilot, engineer and radio operator. Parts and pieces of equipment came flying out of the wide cut in the side section. It is possible the Tony rammed the nose with his right wing, no one knows for sure. The ship held formation for 30 seconds, then dropped out abruptly losing speed and altitude faster than accompanying planes could slow down for her.
Fighters swarmed in from all sides, levels, and directions, each pressing home their attacks, trying for the kill like a bunch of hornets. At approximately one minute from the time T-Square 25 left formation, a Tony rammed it on the right side knocking off parts of the wing and either No. 3 or No. 4 engine, which came off and tumbled through the air. This was at an altitude of 28,000 feet and they were going down fast when another Tony rammed them from underneath in the belly near the gunners’ compartment. They finally went out of control and were heading nearly straight down until last seen at 20,000 feet. None of the crew was reported to have bailed out. Nine Japanese Tonys were seen to be shot down by the crew of T-Square 25.”
[. . .]
On a mission to Tokyo in February of 1945, we were under heavy fighter attacks when a 20mm cannon shell exploded against the fuselage just above my head. It knocked the plexiglass blister out and I hit the gun sight with my chest breaking it off as I was blown* outside the plane. I was pinned against the outside of the fuselage by the slip stream. The only thing that saved me was the seat belt. It was just above my knees, holding my legs inside from the knees down. The rest of me was outside.
God gave me superhuman strength and I got my hands on the rim where the blister was mounted and pulled myself back into the ship. The slip stream had stripped my flak vest, helmet and oxygen mask off, and tore the oxygen hose off the outlet. I had to have oxygen or pass out in 30 seconds and die in 3 minutes. Again, God came to my rescue. I unsnapped the seat belt, ran into the radar room where there was an extra outlet and mask and got on oxygen.
The plane took more hits; the controls were shot out, and the order came “Prepare For Bail Out.” Everyone was getting their chutes on. Mine was blown out in the explosion so I was trying to put on the spare, but it did not fit and I could not adjust it. In sheer desperation, I grabbed the radar operator and pleaded, “Don’t leave me!” He adjusted the chute for me. The pilots regained control of the plane by alternate controls and canceled the bail out.
Outside of some small shrapnel in my hands and neck, I was in good shape when we landed. The flight surgeon picked the flak out and gave me a tetanus shot.
I thank God for saving my life.
When word got around about what happened, for several days people would yell at me, “Hey, Reynolds. Don’t leave me!” Followed by loud laughter.
A Wing of B-29s moved into Tinian across the water about two miles from us in January, 1945. They flew a few bombing missions and then switched to dropping mines. We were envious of their “milk runs” as we called them. Dropping mines in harbors could not be as dangerous as bombing Tokyo. One night I was sitting on the hillside that faced Tinian to watch an outdoor movie. The Wing started taking off on a mission. Just as the first plane got a short distance from the runway there was a blinding flash and the aircraft blew into a million pieces. The second and third — the same thing. Ten out of the first fifteen planes blew up before the takeoffs were stopped. It was the most horrifying thing I ever saw.
Later we learned the mines they carried were detonated by sound, and the salt air had affected their fusing, causing aircraft engine noise to trigger the explosions.
In January, 1945 we lost an engine soon after takeoff and aborted the mission. The standard procedure was to salvo the bombs, and land. But our crew had worked hard the day before using hand-cranked hoists to load the bombs, and hated to see all that work wasted. Why not land with the bombs and use them on the next mission? The pilot requested permission to land with the bombs. Permission was granted.
The weather was dear with gusty winds. As the plane neared the cliffs, which as also the end of the runway, the wind abruptly decreased. This caused the heavy plane to drop onto the runway extra hard. The gasoline tanks located in the wings were almost full, and the hard landing ruptured the inter-connections between the tanks. Gasoline poured from the underside of the wings as we rolled down the runway. Engines and electrical power were quickly cut off to prevent a fire. The airplane was stopped. We evacuated and ran a safe distance from the gasoline-leaking ship. Crash crews hosed down everything. A refueling crew unloaded the remaining gasoline. The plane was towed to a hard stand and we unloaded the bombs.
The next morning the eleven-member flight crew reported to the crew chief and were given screwdrivers. The bottom wing panels had to come off so the mechanics could repair the connections. There were easily 1000 long screws on each wing that held the panels in place that had to be removed. After repairs by the mechanics, we reinstalled the panels and screws. There were a lot of sore hands and arms when it was over. To my knowledge no aircraft was ever allowed to land with bombs again.
Our mission to bomb industrial targets was costing heavy losses. Some missions were running at ten losses. Also, we were not hitting the targets. Weather was the main problem. Clouds covered the target area time after time. Frequently, 200mph jet streams played havoc with the bomb runs. If it was downwind, the ground speed was greater than what the bomb sight was designed for. Upstream antiaircraft fire was deadly or the planes ran low on fuel to return home.
The Air Corps Commander, General Arnold, decided a change in the command was in order. He assigned Major General LeMay, the most innovative Air Corps General of WWII, as Commander [of the 20th Air Force]. The General and his staff made a study and found that a high percentage of the buildings in Japan were constructed of wood. Also, there were very few antiaircraft guns suitable for defense against low altitude attacks. New tactics, copied after those the British used against Germany, were developed. Instead of high altitude precision bombing against industrial targets, it would be low altitude night area bombing of the cities, using incendiary bombs to burn them down.
March the 9th of 1945 was the first mission. Bomber streams of 300 planes from Saipan, Tinian, and Guam, their first mission, bombed assigned sections of Tokyo at 7,000 to 8,000 feet altitude with incendiaries. The glow from the fires could be seen for over 100 miles as we flew home. Fifteen and a half square miles, an area equal to Dallas, Texas, was laid waste. Within ten days five raids had taken place against the major cities of Tokyo, Nagoya, Osaka, Kobe and Nagoya the second time, causing incalculable damage. Aircraft losses were low. Fire bombing was such a success it became the tactic that destroyed Japan’s war capability.
The fire raids were frightening to the bomber crews. When we arrived over Tokyo it was a sea of fire. Looking down at it, we knew if something happened to the plane we would have to parachute out and would probably land in the fire. What was terrifying was to get caught in the heat thermals from the burning fires. The airplane would suddenly shoot up 1,000 feet in altitude and just as suddenly sink 1,000 feet. We were tossed about like toys, with the pilot fighting for control of the plane. One plane was flipped on its back and miraculously the pilot got it righted. The fuselage and wings were warped. Another plane had the bomb bay doors torn off and one of them bent cross-wise with the leading edge of the wing and stayed there until the plane landed. A gunner on a new crew caught in a thermal was sure the plane was going down and he bailed out. Those thermals were much worse than any thunderstorm I was ever in.
In March, 1945 we were taking off overloaded with bombs, as usual. We used all the runway and went off the cliff still below flying speed. We lost the 300 feet altitude from diff to ocean and skimmed along on top of the waves so close that the propellers were throwing water on the gunners’ blisters. The nose of the plane was unusually high, but the pilot had to hold that altitude or we would hit the water. The flight engineer said, “Everybody get up front!” The five of us in the rear scrambled through the tunnel and joined the navigator and radio operator in the cockpit. The airspeed slowly built up as the tail lifted from the shift of our weight, and the pilot managed to climb enough to get the nose down.
Full power from the engines was only used for take-off which only took two to three minutes. The use of full power was not to exceed five minutes under emergency conditions because it could cause engine failure. We used full power for ten minutes.
Target 357, the [Musashino] aircraft factory on the outskirts of Tokyo, had been our first mission’s target and we had been back several times, but had inflicted very little damage. Now our Wing was told to destroy that factory. Low altitude bombing had been so successful it was decided to try it on [target] 357 with 500-pound explosive bombs.
Easter Sunday, April 1, 1945 [Atkinson’s first mission] was the date I was promoted to staff sergeant and this was our crew’s 17th mission. Take-offs started at 0700 at 30-second intervals. We were near the end of the stream. The plane in front of us crashed on take-off at the end of the runway and bulldozers pushed the burning debris off the cliff into the water so we could takeoff. This caused a 45-minute break between aircraft arriving at the target. All antiaircraft guns knew our route and could concentrate on us. It was a beautiful fall moon, as forecast, and I could clearly see the small island in Tokyo Bay where we began the bomb run over. There was probably only one gun down there and their first shell knocked out No. 2 engine. As we proceeded, searchlights picked us up and shell blasts rocked the plane. The interphone went out, which meant the pilot could not communicate with us. Another engine on the other side went out. The bomb bay doors came open, the bombs fell out but the doors would not close. The plane turned left, as briefed, toward the coast. We ran out of [the] searchlights and antiaircraft fire.
For a few brief moments it looked like we were going to make it. But in the center wing section a few sparks grew into a stream and quickly into flames. I grabbed a fire extinguisher and went into the bomb bay hoping I could reach the fire, but could not. With horror I saw flames licking around a hung-up bomb and knew we were doomed.
I went back into the gunners’ compartment and said, “Let’s get out of here, this thing is going to blow up!” We proceeded to the rear escape hatch. The tail gunner had come forward and was crouched in the door. The last thing I did was take my .45 caliber pistol from its holster and leave it in the plane, thinking, they may kill me but not with my own gun.
We jumped through the hatch one by one. I delayed opening the chute until well below the flames, now shooting past the tail. When the ripcord was pulled the chute opened with the expected jolt. I swung around to see the burning plane just in time to see it explode with a loud boom.
A Japanese fighter had been trailing below and behind us, and he passed below me. I fell through his propeller wash which started me swinging violently. I fought the swinging, using the shroud lines, as taught in training. I observed a chute on each side of me, and tried to see where I was going to land. Suddenly, I was brushing tree branches and came to a halt with the chute caught in the top of a tree, but I was hanging in the clear. After my vision adjusted, it looked like I wasn’t very far off the ground, so unsnapping the harness, I lowered myself as much as possible and finally let loose and fell about ten feet.
I thank the good Lord for getting me out of that burning plane and safely on the ground.
It was 0400, April 2, 1945. I was on a hill and moved up to the tree trunk and sat down awaiting daylight. I was unhurt with only a couple of scratches. I had a lot of melted metal on my clothes, but no bums. It was cold, probably around freezing, but I wore a khaki uniform, covered by flight coveralls and flight jacket so I was fairly comfortable. I thought we were on the briefed withdrawal route from the target, and this must be the foothills of mountains northwest of Tokyo.
When it got good and light, I decided to go toward one of the chutes I saw while descending. I found the chute but no one was there. So, I climbed up a hill, saw a village and a path leading to it and headed that way.
As I approached the village, I saw someone on a bicycle. We both stopped. I saw it was a boy who must have been twelve to fourteen years of age, and approached him slowly and smiling not wanting to scare him. I had a couple of coins in my pocket and gave them to him. He turned his bike around and rode ahead of me a few feet. The path turned into a road. As we approached the village, an old man in a robe with writing on his long shawl was waiting for me. I saluted him and he bowed to me. He motioned me down the street. People started coming out of the houses and lining the streets, looking at me and laughing. A big teenager grabbed my arm and tried to twist it behind my back. I resisted and pushed him away, firmly but gently, and he walked along beside I thought, this is not too bad.
After walking about two blocks, I came to two policemen at [a] train station. They blindfolded me and tied my hands behind my back. School children started gathering around us and when the train came, we all got on it. Several of the kids came by and greeted me with a kick or punch. After a thirty- to forty-five minute ride, I was led off the train and walked to a police station. The blindfold was removed. Five or six policemen were in the room. One of them in very broken English asked me a few questions. The last one was, ‘”Who do you think will win the war?” I replied, “America.” He translated my answer and they all laughed.
About two hours passed before a truck stopped outside and military personnel came in. I instinctively knew the good times were over. The blindfold went back With shouts, punches, and kicks I was driven like a blind animal onto the truck bed and placed with no support for my back. I heard other voices and knew there were prisoners and guards aboard. Every time the truck took a sharp turn, I fell over— which gave the guard an excuse to jerk me back up by my hair and abuse me for falling over.
The truck finally stopped after a long ride, and we were herded into a field and tied to posts. I could hear voices and knew we had an audience. I thought, this is public execution time. I hoped they would shoot us and not behead us with swords.
A voice shouted with the equivalent of “Attention!”. The crowd grew quiet. Another voice gave a short speech and when he stopped, the guards started beating us. The crowd cheered. This was repeated four or five times. Then we just stood there for a while. We were untied and herded towards the crowd. They were lined up in two long rows and as we walked between them, they hit and kicked us. At one point my blindfold was knocked down and I saw our tormentors were high school age kids. It was a very terrifying experience.
They put us back on the truck and after another long ride we were unloaded and taken through a gate into a courtyard. We stood there for hours waiting our turn at interrogation. I learned by listening that five of my crew were there: Lieutenant Houghton and sergeants San Souci, Le Marca, Evans and myself. Lieutenant Houghton was injured and burned. I could smell his burned flesh. There was also a flyer from another plane. Sergeant Peterson, the top gunner, was missing. As we were going to the rear of the plane to bail out Peterson approached me, very scared, and without his parachute on. I told him he had better get his chute on, the airplane was going to blow up. I thought he probably had time to get it on and bail out before it did explode.
When my turn came I was led into a room, untied, and the blindfold removed. The interrogator was in civilian clothes, looked to be about 55 years old, and shouted every question at me in very hard-to-understand English. At the slightest provocation he would bang me on the head with a three foot long stick. If I flinched or anything he shouted, “Act like a soldier!.” I learned immediately I was never to show fear or pain or I was treated worse. The interrogation was a list of questions and he wrote down the answers.
I was led back to the courtyard. The whole time we were there people were coming out of the building, looking at us, laughing and getting in their kicks and hits. Probably around 2000 my guard said something, and a voice answered him in perfect English by spelling my name. He explained to me the guard wanted to know what the name tag on my jacket was.
Again, I was led into a room, my blindfold removed and wrists untied. This time I was facing a young Japanese officer. He told me that I was in Tokyo, in the hands of Military Police, that I was there for interrogation; and after they had obtained their information, which would take about two weeks, I would be moved to a Prisoner of War camp where conditions would be better. He was drinking hot tea and offered me some. He filled his cup and handed it to me. That was the best thing that happened to me all day.
The guard again blindfolded and tied me up and we returned to the court yard. After waiting an hour or so I was herded into another building. When the blindfold was removed I was standing in front of a wooden cell. After removing my shoes I crawled through a three-foot by three-foot door onto a wood floor. The door closed and was locked with a huge padlock. I was alone. In the left comer was a hole in the floor with a cover on top and a box below which was the toilet. There was a blanket and wrapping myself in it, I lay on the floor and slept soundly all night.
The building was a long single story, that had a concrete walkway on one side and six cells on the other. The cells were ten-feet wide and twelve-feet deep. The front was wood posts set about one inch apart. A small opening six inches high and twelve inches long at floor level cut in the posts was used to pass food and water into the cell. The walls were wood planks dividing the cells and you could see or whisper through the cracks in some places. The back wall had a small window placed against the ceiling that could not be reached, but at least you could see daylight. A light bulb was placed in the center of the ceiling and burned all the time. Behind this building was a pig pen. The pigs ate the Japanese mess hall garbage and supplied the cells with swarms of fleas, ticks and flies.
The main building where we were interrogated was the Kempi Tai Headquarters of a special military unit, like the Gestapo in Germany. It was a two story concrete structure with cells in the basement similar to those in the wooden building in the rear. We had a routine enforced by a patrolling guard which changed every eight hours. No talking or moving about in the cells. We were awakened at 0600 in the morning, sat with our backs against the walls until 2100 when we lay down. We were fed a baseball-size rice ball at 0800, 1300, and 1600 supplemented with a tablespoon full of greens, beans or vegetable one or two times a day. A small cup of water followed the food.
The Japanese never released any names or information about their prisoners. My mother and Rickie only knew that I was missing in action. But God gave my mother a dream. In this dream she saw me in a wooden cell counting out beans to other cell mates. This is exactly what we did and each person might get ten or twelve beans. From that dream she believed I was alive.
In the next few days I underwent three or four interrogations during which the Japanese wanted to know my personal history, military training, information on each mission flown, where the bombs hit, etc. When it came to the five fire-bombing missions, the interrogator insisted I say the fires killed innocent civilians. In the process, with him shouting, “Act like a soldier”, I asked him why I wasn’t being treated like a soldier under the Geneva Convention for treatment of POWs. Bang! Bang! Bang! Came the club. ‘”You are not a soldier! You bombed and killed innocent civilians! You are a criminal!”, he screamed at me. In the end I signed a fourteen-page confession containing the statement that I had killed innocent civilians on the five fire raids.
The flight engineer, Lieutenant Houghton, was in the cell to my right. I could not see him through the cracks but knew he was injured and burned. I tried to find out what happened to those in the front of the plane. But he was in shock and could not tell me. After about two weeks the Japanese knew he was dying and came and got him. They told me he was going to a POW camp. He was never seen again. [. . .]
On my second or third night in prison at 0900 P.M., the guard came down the cells telling us it was “lie down and sleep time.” When he came to my cell he told me goodnight in Japanese, and asked me how to say goodnight in English. I pretended to not understand that he wanted me to learn the Japanese phrase and teach him the American phrase. He repeated the phrase three or four times and started getting angry at no response from me. Thinking he understood very little English, when he said in Japanese, “Goodnight and American ……..?” I said, “American go to hell.” He immediately started cursing me in Japanese, ran down to the end of the cell block, filled a bucket with water, ran back to my cell and threw the water on me. My clothes were soaked, the floor in the cell was wet, the temperature was probably 40° and I was cold, wet and miserable for two or three days and nights. I caught a cold that lasted two weeks. I learned to be more cautious with the guards.
From that time on he became my personal tormentor. I named him “Double Ugly.” When he came on duty he delighted in coming to my cell and making me stand against the wood posts while he shoved his bayonet at me through the space between the posts. I would jump back avoiding the thrust. It was a big game to him, but could have been deadly for me if my timing was off.
[. . .]
I had been in the cell about a week when an injured P-51 pilot from Iwo Jima was brought to my cell. His forehead had a gash about three inches long and deep into the skull. Also his face and hands were burned. He was doing low altitude strafing and collided with some utility lines and crashed.
I poked food into his mouth, gave him water, helped him use the toilet, and kept him from scratching the scabs off his face and hands. He said the itching was almost intolerable. He lived but healed very slowly due to malnutrition.
[This] pilot attended Massachusetts Institute of Technology before entering the Army Air Corps. He told me he recognized the young Japanese officer, who had given me the cup of tea the first day, as a graduate of M.I.T., class of 1941 and that he had obviously just returned to Japan a few months before Pearl Harbor. No wonder he spoke perfect English.
San Souci, the right gunner, was added to the cell after about ten days of captivity. About four or five days later we got a shock when the guard came to the cell and said, “Reynoldo, we have your friend.” There stood Peterson, the top gunner. We had been wondering what had happened to him.
Like the rest of us, he had landed in the hills but he had decided to evade capture. (There was no escape plan from Japan.) All he had to eat was some plants and one craw fish. After fourteen days hunger drove him to approach a farm house. He saw the farmer and family were just starting to eat supper so he held his gun on them until he ate their food. Then he gave the startled farmer his gun and surrendered. The farmer got the police and then gave Pete a good beating for eating his food.
Pete had lost more weight than we had, but looked pretty good except for his foot. In his evasion he had gotten his foot wet and it had frozen and was black and swollen. It started paining him badly, so San Souci and I thought if we could get it lanced it would drain and reduce the pain. We talked the guard into lancing it by sticking his bayonet in it. We got the guard to get us a paper concrete bag from the construction outside and wrapped it around his foot to hold down the odor and drippings. We got a bag change whenever we could from a cooperative guard.
Prisoners were being brought in every day or so and they were segregated from the older prisoners. One time I was moved 10 the basement cells in the Headquarters building. When the cell door opened, I saw that the cell contained six or eight Japanese. One of them wore a military uniform. When the cell door closed, one of them asked if I was American. I replied, ‘”Yes.” He immediately stuck out his hand to shake hands with me. I backed away from him wondering what was happening. He said, “I Socialist. I Socialist.” It finally dawned on me he was talking about a political party. I got into a shoving hassle with the soldier about food once. I did not sleep very well lying down beside the enemy, but we shared the common miseries of hunger, cold, lice, and fleas.
By late April there were thirty to forty flyers in the jail brought in from all over Japan. One morning several guards came to the cells and started calling out names, giving them shoes, and saying they were being taken to a POW camp. Peterson was on the list. But six of us were left behind: four from my crew, the crew member captured the same day we were, and the P-51 pilot.
We were very disappointed. The next time the young Japanese officer came by I asked him why we were not taken to the POW camp. He said, “It has been determined that you six people have killed innocent civilians and are war criminals. You will be put on trial and executed.”
The propaganda radio program known as Tokyo Rose had said that flyers that attacked Japan would be killed. Some of the captured Doolittle flyers had been executed. We did not bother putting on our parachutes for the first three or four months of combat missions. But we were briefed in March that some flyers were being taken prisoner. We were not too shocked by his statement.
Again, captured flyers were brought into Kempi Tai a few at a time until the cells held thirty to forty. About May 20th all prisoners were again taken to a POW camp, we were told, except the six of us.
I found out after the war was over that both groups of prisoners did not go to a POW camp as claimed, but were in fact taken to another part of Tokyo and put in another jail. The building they were in caught fire on the 24th of May from the 600 B-29s fire raid and all were killed. U.S. authorities eventually identified sixty- six airmen that had perished.
I praise and thank God that He prevented the Japanese from carrying out their threats.
I spent most of my four and a half months at Kempi Tai in my original cell. It had contained a Doolittle flyer in 1942. On the wall he scratched his name, the date he arrived, and a calendar of sorts with thirty-seven scratches representing his days there. Below he had scratched, “I TRUST IN GOD.” I used to look at that and wonder what it really meant to trust in God. It was 1954 before I found out.
On May 24th and 26th, six hundred B-29s fire bombed Tokyo and destroyed the rest of the city. Fire bombs rained all around us, but none hit our wood building. The flames and smoke nearly choked us and the heat was almost unbearable, but we survived.
Thank you. Lord, for your mercy.
The Japanese defenses had been strengthened against the low-flying bombers. Antiaircraft guns had been moved on top of all concrete buildings and many into open lots. Since electrical power always failed, they devised a primitive but effective warning and firing plan.
The city was divided into small areas. Gongs were put in these areas to alert the gunners. When a B-29 was sighted, a gong would sound. The guns would start shooting at the plane if they could see it; if not, they shot as fast as they could with shells set to explode at the bombing altitude, expecting the plane to run into their fire. They shot down twenty-four planes the first night and twenty-eight the second night.
The planes carried canisters similar to fifty-gallon oil drums, loaded with little five-pound fire bombs. These canisters were dropped and then detonated at 2,000 feet altitude, raining burning fire bombs over a large area.
This is what it sounded like to us on the ground. We would hear the gong, the antiaircraft firing, the B-29 engines; then if the plane was hit, the crowds in the street would clap their hands. This was followed by the explosion from the detonator, and the little bombs exploding like firecrackers and falling down with a whistling sound. Then we would hear the shrieks of the people and the clatter of their wooden clogs as they scurried about dodging the falling bombs and the pools of fire.
In the next few days a lot of flyers were brought into Kempi Tai, several in bad condition. They were burned, injured and beaten by the population. Three or four that had inhaled flames died in a day or so. One flyer two cells from me was badly burned and in terrible pain. He alternated screaming with pain, begging the guards to kill him, and taunting them with every four-letter word imaginable, for two days and nights, before he quieted down. After about a week when it seemed like he was going to live, two guards took him out of his cell and killed him with their bayonets.
A co-pilot, who was the only survivor on his crew, told how as he was descending in his chute that the crowd followed under him on the ground. When he landed he was beaten, hung from a lamp post with his parachute shrouds, choked unconscious, cut loose and rescued by a soldier.
The cells became crowded as more flyers were brought in. We had fourteen in my cell. The small cells did not allow much floor space per man. With heads against the walls our legs overlapped to the knees. Most of us had to lie on our sides all night. For months after liberation I could not sleep on my sore sides, and to this day I cannot sleep with anyone touching me.
Abuse by the guards was getting worse. If we were caught talking, a common punishment was to do the Japanese kneel-down. On days when bombings had taken place, we all were made to kneel by the hour. Or they would make us stand up with arms raised. As things got worse for them, they retaliated against us more. Our water was reduced to three men per cup full, and one time we went without water for three days.
Another day around this time, there was a dull thud in the court yard and the guards were laughing. They told us a flyer had been pushed off the Headquarters building balcony and was killed when he struck the pavement in the courtyard.
I had a strong will to live fueled by two motivating forces—hate and love. I hated those Japanese guards. I spent hours upon hours planning how I would get even with them, finally deciding that when we were liberated I would capture the civilian interrogator and the guards, and put them in the cells we were in, and treat them like they treated us. That was the worst punishment I could think of.
My love for Rickie was the strongest motivating force. I could dose my eyes and visualize her in all her beauty. Though I could not feel her touch, I could just see her and know that she would be there when I got back to her.
In July the guards started telling us that the day U.S. forces invaded Japan all prisoners would be killed. It was obvious orders had come down from higher authority to this effect.
The Japanese were preparing for the invasion. Concrete pill boxes were being built in the prison area. Civilians were undergoing military training. We could hear a formation that met in the early morning once a week. They started off by singing their national anthem, then did exercises and close order drill, followed by bayonet practice with bamboo spears. If an invasion had taken place the loss of life would have been horrifying for the Americans and Japanese.
Around August 10th a Navy aircraft carrier pilot was brought in. Word from him got around that he heard on the radio just before take-off that some kind of new bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima and destroyed the city. We could not imagine that, and thought perhaps it was an exaggeration.
On August 15th we were awakened at 0500 in the morning, one hour early. Breakfast rice was brought at 0600 instead of the usual 0800. Shortly thereafter a group of guards came in and started calling off the names of prisoners, one cell at a time. Shoes were made available, blindfolds were put on and arms were tied as usual. But it was strange that the guards were not knocking us around. I complained that the rope around my wrists was too tight and it was loosened. We were told we were going to that long awaited POW camp. There were 125 prisoners.
After a long truck convoy ride, followed by a wait on the trucks for an hour or so, we were unloaded, untied, and blindfolds removed. We were near a sandy beach on a small island in a bay. Next, we gladly obeyed the order to strip our filthy lice and flea-ridden clothes off and get in the water. It was warm salt water and felt wonderful. A couple of tanned and muscled British POWs appeared and with sticks gingerly loaded our clothes on a cart and left to wash them.
After wading around in the water for a while, we were directed to a fenced compound and taken to a barracks. A fiber mat was provided to lie on and we were ordered to stay in the barracks. Lunch was brought to us on a cart. The rice was hot, tasteful and more than we got for all three meals previously. Our clothes were returned dean and bug-free. The British said they boiled them to kill the lice.
That afternoon a Colonel Charmichael came to our barracks. He was a B-29 Group Commander in China when he was shot down. He told us another Group Commander from Saipan named King and forty-eight other flyers were in a nearby barracks, but were kept segregated from the British. Even so, he heard from the British that Japan had surrendered, but the guards were not saying anything. He said if we were patient we would surely know something in a few days. Sure enough, in a day or so a Navy fighter buzzed the camp and dropped a carton of cigarettes with a note that said the war was over and they would be in to get us in a few days.
In the meantime we were living in hog heaven. Our hair was clipped down to the scalp because we had scabies. Razors were supplied and we shaved. A big wooden tub was filled with hot water. We soaped up and rinsed off and then entered that steaming hot water for a few minutes. All of this was a first in five months for us six “war criminals”. The food remained plentiful and tasty. We relished the freedom of lazing in the sun and talking to each other until we were hoarse.
I was a skeleton, but in good health, except my knees and ankles were swollen and ached. Also, my lips and the end of my tongue had bad cracks in them. We got to see the British doctor in three or four days, and he said my condition was caused by malnutrition and vitamin shortage. The Japanese gave us some Red Cross supplies they had been withholding, and we got several boxes containing 3000 vitamin tablets which we ate like candy.
After a few days the guards painted large PW letters on the roofs of our buildings. General McArthur had ordered them to identify all POW camps by this means.
A couple of days later a B-29 appeared flying low and parachuted us oil drums filled with food. So, during the last week in captivity we had all the meat, vegetables, and fruit we could eat. With all that good food for two weeks, I gained at least ten pounds, but I was still very weak.
The last few days we mingled with the other group of flyers. There were 3000 flyers missing in action during the air war on Japan. Only 175 lived to the end of the war. I thank God that I was one of those who survived.
Sixty-two years ago, in September of 1956, I arrived at the Uberfall—a total neophyte; an Appie beginner.
That first climb! All the way to the top of the cliff on a rope led by Bob Larsen.
Wow! Who knew?
It was The Easy Overhang.
Bob led many of my early climbs; I felt that he was looking out for me. The next spring he offered my first “leg on a climb” toward becoming an Appie leader.
It was the top pitch of Baby.
We became friends. On long drives from Manhattan I learned with fascination about the Merchant Marine, the arcane social entanglements at the Uberfall, and the stirrings of a new sub-culture unfettered by convention—a culture to which Bob was an early adherent:
There was a john in the kitchen of his East Village pad. There I smoked my first joint.