Gerald A. Meehl - One Marines War: A Combat Interpreters Quest for Mercy in the Pacific

GERALD A. MEEHL

A COMBAT INTERPRETERS
QUEST FOR HUMANITY IN THE PACIFIC

Naval Institute Press Annapolis, Maryland

Naval Institute Press

291 Wood Road

Annapolis, MD 21402

2012 by Gerald A. Meehl

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Meehl, Gerald A.

One Marines war : a combat interpreters quest for mercy in the Pacific / by Gerald A. Meehl.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-61251-0934 (ebook) 1. Sheek, Bob, 1922- 2. World War, 1939-1945Pacific Area. 3. United States. Marine CorpsOfficersBiography. 4. United States. Navy. Japanese Language SchoolAlumni and alumnae. 5. TranslatorsUnited States--Biography. 6. Translating and interpretingUnited StatesHistory20th century. 7. World War, 1939-1945Naval operations, American. 8. World War, 1939-1945Personal narratives. I. Title.

D767.9M395 2012

940.545973092--dc23

2011051957

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

20

First printing

To Bob Sheeks and his many contributions to
this bookthis is his story; and to Marla Meehl,
whose unwavering support and partnership in
this and all things is cherished greatly.

E very so often I find myself telling stories from a now-distant conflict that took place in the 1940s; stories about events that enveloped my parents generation, the world in general, and the tropical Pacific in particular; stories from exotic locales, tales of incredible happenings, told to me by those who were there. One veterans stories I often relate are unusually compelling and typically evoke questions like, Wow, thats amazing! How did you meet this guy? Anticipating that query from prospective readers of this book, let me start right off by telling you how it happened.

It was in Sabah, north Borneo, in 1979, and one sultry hot day I was walking down a golden-sand beach. Like most tropical beaches, it was narrow, fewer than one hundred feet wide, and it arced off ahead in a gentle, gleaming curve. Feathery palm trees leaned casually over the sand in what could have passed for a classic South Pacific scene, but this was Southeast Asia. This particular beach at Tanjong Aru was near the little city of Kota Kinabalu (dubbed KK by the Malaysians) in a Malaysian part of the huge rain forest island of Borneo. Two Malaysian states had been carved off from Kalimantan, the Indonesian part of Borneo, on the islands north coast. One was Sabah, where KK was located, and the other was Sarawak to the southwest. The tiny, oil-rich sultanate of Brunei was wedged between Sarawak and Sabah and was oddly insular from the rest of Borneo, like a fabulously wealthy, eccentric relative.

It was late afternoon, and the crystalline water lapped quietly on the sand. A few little, green-tufted islands were scattered offshore out by the reef that protected Tanjong Aru from the larger ocean waves rolling in from the South China Sea. Id spent two months looking out at a totally different version of that ocean, having been sent to Sarawak for an international meteorological field project to study the monsoons of Southeast Asia. Another American and I were leading a team of technicians from the Malaysian Meteorological Service to launch weather balloons at a place called Bintulu.

The town was perched between the rain forest, the South China Sea, and the sluggish Bintulu River that drained massive areas of dense rain forest in the interior of Borneo. The rivers muddy, tepid water idled past the beaten-down little settlement and emptied into the ocean, making the waves from the South China Sea look unappetizingly like frothing, liquid milk chocolate. But here I was now at Tanjong Aru and it was totally differentclean, clear, paradise-like. Id taken a weekend off to make the trip up the coast to what I had been told was the best beach in Borneo, and I wasnt disappointed.

Contemplating the idyllic scene, I looked out over the water in the direction of the offshore islands and saw an outboard motorboat in the distance. Though it was still a ways from shore, I could see that it was rocketing in toward the beach, its motor wound up to a high-pitched whine. The little boat was bouncing off the chop, white spray flashing in the low afternoon sun each time the bow slapped down. I tried to see if it was pulling a water skier, possibly justifying the manic speed. But there was no water skier, only four figures hunched low in the boat, hanging on for dear life as it raced toward the beach. As it got closer, it seemed impossible that it could stop before it hit the beach. Sure enough, to my startled surprise, it shot right out of the water and up onto the sand, outboard motor screaming crazily. It slid to a stop about thirty feet past the waters edge. Somebody on the boat quickly cut the motor, and three European men jumped out. Something was seriously wrong with the fourth, who lay motionless in the boat. The others grabbed him, hefted him out, and just as they did, they lost their grip and dropped him awkwardly onto the sand. Then two grabbed an arm each, the third picked up the feet, and they hustled the inert form toward a line of palm trees that screened a small parking lot behind the beach. One of the few cars parked there was a white Toyota. They opened the back door and heaved the unconscious man onto the seat. One jumped in after him, and the other quickly leapt behind the wheel. The car started with a loud rev, and the tires screeched as it accelerated out of the parking lot.

The remaining member of the group was left standing there as he watched his friends head off toward town. He turned slowly and walked back down to the boat, now stranded on the golden-sand beach. It had all happened quickly and within fifty feet of where I was standing. With considerable effort he started to drag the boat back into the water. I decided to walk over and help. Can I give you a hand?

He looked up at me and smiled. Yeah, that would be great. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, and his graying hair was thinning a bit. He was slight and wiry and tan, obviously having spent much time in the sun. From his accent I knew he was American, which in itself was rare in Borneo in 1979.

I introduced myself, and he stuck out his hand and said, Names Bob Sheeks. His grip was strong, he nodded perfunctorily, and we started to move the boat back toward the water.

Glad you came along, he said as the boat slid grudgingly over the sand.

He didnt offer further explanation, so I asked, What was that all about, and what was wrong with that guy you stuffed into the car?

Without looking up he said, Oh, we were going to snorkel on the reef by that little island out there. His head motioned to one of the offshore islands. We had just pulled the boat up on the beach and were wading out and putting our snorkeling gear on, when that guy stepped on a stonefish.