It is now 80 years ago that Lt Fred Hargesheimer was shot down over the Pandi River on New Britain. 

It is 60 years since Fred returned to New Britain in 1963 to build the Airmen’s Memorial School at Ewasse, near present day Bialla in West New Britain.

The diary of 8th Photo Squadron for Saturday 5 June 1943 recorded:

“Once again we face an empty chair as word comes from Dobudura that Lt Frederic Hargesheimer has been missing since 1700 o’clock this evening.

“Our finest reconnaissance pilot and one of the mainstays around which this squadron has been built, he will be sorely missed, first as one of our finest friends, and second for the work and talent of which he was so unsparing.

“Hargey was flying the coastline reco of New Britain and his last radio message placed him at Open Bay.

“Men have come out of that area before and will again. If there is the slightest chance, Hargey is a good bet to make it.  It is our fervent hope and prayer that such is the case.”

The 8th photo squadron was the first photo, charting, and mapping squadron to leave the United States for the Pacific in March 1942. 

The squadron initially disembarked in Melbourne and then moved to Charters Towers before transferring to Port Moresby where it was based at Schwimmers strip on the Laloki River at 14 Mile. 

Later a flight was also based at Dobudura where the Americans had established a large air-force base following the defeat of the Japanese at Buna in January 1943.

The squadron was equipped with Lockheed P4 Lightnings (the photo-recon version of the famed P38).

These planes were unarmed with cameras mounted in the nose of the fuselage. 

The Squadron Diary records that 16 officers and men of the squadron were killed or missing in action in New Guinea.

Frederic Grant Hargesheimer had flown 48 photo-reconnaissance missions over Buna, Sanananda, Wewak, Lae, Salamaua, Kavieng and Rabaul. 

He had learned to fly prior to the outbreak of war but had only seven solo hours prior to joining up in 1942.

Fred survived the crash and this is the story of Photo-Mission 49 (5 June 1943 to 4 February 1944 as first published by Fred Hargesheimer in 1951.

 

Part 1 - FRIENDLY FRUITS by Fred Hargesheimer

‘Eager Beaver’ and I had just finished snapping a couple of pictures of a Jap aerodrome and were cruising peacefully at 8,000 feet along the north coast of New Britain. 

The ‘Beaver’ was a grey-blue P38, equipped with cameras instead of guns.  Her only defense against Zeros was her speed and cunning, of which she had plenty. 

Her wing tips had cast vapor trails high above the Nip strongholds at Rabaul, Lae, Kavieng and Wewak. 

The big cameras packed in her long sleek nose had helped to chart the wild unexplored regions of New Guinea where our troops would soon be tangling with the Japs. 

She got her name because you have to be eager to go out looking for trouble without guns.

But trouble was far from my mind that afternoon.  I was thinking about my leave in Sydney, coming due next week: a bed of clean sheets, of real eggs, of butter on my toast, of the beach at Bondi with my girl. 

Then all of a sudden I was brought out of my reverie and almost out of my seat by a series of staccato noises. 

Before I was hardly back from my day-dreaming, a sheet of flame shot out of a large hole in the left engine cowling. 

Instinctively I snapped forward and sent the ‘Beaver’ into a screaming dive.  Only then did I sneak a glance over my left shoulder.

I found myself looking straight into the snout of a Jap twin-engined fighter.

I felt my plane shudder as a burst of lead ricocheted off the armor plate behind me. 

For a second I was able to side-slip out of the line of fire.  Cutting off the left engine – it was now spitting pretty red flames – I tried to get ‘Beaver’ under control.

 She was losing altitude fast and I cast my eye toward a bank of low clouds to the south wondering if I could hide in them. 

I got my answer when the right engine died with a short gasp and I saw the needle on the fuel pressure gauge begin to waver – and then plop down to zero.

It was only when the blood running down my forehead got into my eyes that I realized I’d been hit. 

Well, I thought, maybe my time has run out. 

Certainly one thing was plain.  If I was ever to eat fresh eggs anywhere again, ‘Eager Beaver’ and I were going to have to part company.

Then my memory flashed back to the day at Operations when I’d told the boys that I’d never bail out of a P-38. 

Not me.  Too dangerous.  I’d rather take a chance on walking away from a forced landing.  

I remembered joking with Sergeant Bowers, the parachute rigger, telling him he was wasting his time taking such good care of my chute – that I’d never use the thing anyway.

But the ground seemed to be coming up hellishly fast and nowhere in the maze of jungle and jagged cliffs below could I find a spot for a belly landing. 

Then the red handle of the emergency release dangling from the top of the escape hatch caught my eye. 

How often I had pondered its use while sitting in the ship back at base! 

How many times I had been tempted to pull the handle just to see what would happen!  Now, almost instinctively, I reached up and gave it a jerk, pulling the pins from the safety catch. 

The slipstream whipped up the canopy, snapping it back over the cockpit with a sharp crack. 

Unfastening the safety belt, I raised up in the seat to have another look, still uncertain what the next move should be. 

Socko! A 200 mile per hour blast of air slapped me under the chin and sent me skyrocketing into space. 

When I took my next breath I was swinging like a pendulum beneath the 24 foot umbrella of Sergeant Bowers carefully packed silk.

For a moment it looked as though I were going to drift smack into the hillside where ‘Eager Beaver’ had crashed and burst into flames. 

I tried to make the chute slip to one side by pulling on the shroud lines and spilling out the air. 

Suddenly Mr Tojo came wheeling around in a steep dive, bent on finishing me off.  But luckily he couldn’t turn sharply enough and the flash of his tracers passed harmlessly to one side. 

Before he could swing about for another shot, I crashed down through the trees, burying myself in the mud at the base of a huge Eucalyptus. 

The deadly bark of machine guns stirred the stillness as the Nip fighter made two more strafing runs over the area before he ran out of ammunition and flew away to the north.

The realisation that a more or less routine flight had, in a few seconds, been turned into a complete disaster was almost too much for my comprehension. 

It was over, and gone, and here I was.  It had happened as quickly as that.

Less than a week before, our squadron had been operating at Laloki airdrome at the foot of the hills near Port Moresby. 

Then, because the air task force commander at Buna needed more photo ships for a special assignment, the order came to move one flight to the advance base. 

As flight leader it was my job to make the preparations for the immediate movement of the air echelon. 

So, at noon of the day the order to move had come over the teletype from Buna, I climbed into ‘Eager Beaver’ and pointed her nose across the 12,000 foot peaks of the Owen Stanley Range which divides central Papua. 

An hour later the wheels touched down on the freshly graded airstrip at Dobudura.  A jeep carrying a checkered flag bounced across the runway and waved us to a parking revetment.

Up in the operations room some officers stood by a huge wall map discussing the next day’s operations. 

The Intelligence Officer introduced me around and then explained our part of the show.  It seemed that the Japs were sneaking supplies up and down the coast of New Britain in barges. 

We were to patrol that area in our P-38 camera ships, reporting any sightings by radio to the medium bombers standing by on ‘alert’ at the airbase.  All this sounded very interesting to me; certainly it would be a welcome change from the routine photo reconnaissance flights.

I went out on the sweep the first day but failed to see anything.  Next day bad weather forced the pilot on the second trip to return early.

I set out on the third day determined to stir up something. I left Dobudura shortly after lunch, heading out across the Bismarck Sea toward Gasmata. 

Though the weather was threatening all the way, ‘Eager Beaver’ pushed her nose right through the mush until, in a few minutes, the dim outline of the south coast of New Britain showed through the overcast. 

I radioed the home base and tapped out a weather report, but after much confusion I learned that I had been using the wrong ‘code’ of the day and the operator at Port Moresby was unable to understand me.

I was impatient to be on my way, so I flipped off the transmitter and returned to my flying.

Splotches of coastline were barely visible through the broken clouds; I decided to drop down for a closer look.  Now I could see the breakers as they rolled up on the shore.  Two dark skinned natives in an outrigger canoe stopped paddling for a second and waved a greeting.  I let Beaver dip her wings in an answering salute.

We circled Rooke (Umboi) Island while I peered through the binoculars, but Tojo and his barges must have been away for the day; so we headed for Cape Gloucester on the Western tip of New Britain. 

The airdrome there was just a single deserted looking grass strip stretching from the beach to about a mile inland towards the high mountains. 

The parking area flanking the sides of the airstrip were vacant.  The only visible sign of any recent habitation was a lone footpath which crossed the corner at one end of the runway. 

Just to be sure that I hadn’t overlooked some camouflaged gun pits or living quarters we made two photographic runs across the area from 4,000 feet to take back to the Intelligence Officer.

The weather began to turn bad as I flew eastward along the north coast.  I throttled back and decided to go through on instruments. 

The air was quite rough at times, but ‘Eager Beaver’ took the bumps as smoothly and gracefully as a meadowlark.  A light drizzling rain was falling at Talasea and it was too dark for pictures.

I could just make out the red tops of the little houses at the government station peering up from beneath a carpet of green banana and coconut trees.  The hull of a sunken coastal schooner stuck up through the whitecaps which covered the harbor.

Swinging away to the south I started a slow climb, trying to get above the clouds.  At 8,000 feet I levelled off and altered my course 90 degrees to the left. 

I hoped this sudden change in direction would upset any bearings the Jap coastal stations might have picked up on us.

East of Cape Hoskins the clouds began to break.  In the distance, resplendent in the sunlight was Lolobau Island.  As this was supposed to be a favorite hiding places for barge traffic, I eased back on the throttle and circled the island twice in an attempt to locate some sign of activity.

The attempt was fruitless and I had just about decided to turn back when I saw the Jap fighter base at Ubili stretching out before me several miles to the right. 

Though it didn’t fit into my original plans, I now felt that the least I could do would be take a few pictures of the place and hope that the photo interpreters at home base would find something interesting in them. 

I had just completed my run across the airdrome, with the cameras still rolling, when I was bounced from behind by the Jap twin-engined fighter. 

In a second I was out of ‘Eager Beaver’ and descending in a parachute; in another I was on the ground hugging the trunk of an eucalyptus.  Several minutes later, as the sound of the Jap fighter died away in the distance, my brain began to function again and began the attempt to separate the past from the present.

I picked myself out of the mud and found that I was all right except for a long cut in my head which was bleeding profusely.  According to our parachute sergeant, I should find an emergency kit tucked in the back cushion of my chute. 

I pulled on the zipper and dumped everything out to look for some medicine. The iodine syrettes had dried up.  The sulfanilamide tablets were crushed into powder.  I sprinkled some of this onto my wound and then bound my head in a clumsy manner with strips of parachute silk.

The rest of the jungle kit contained a compass, large machete knife with a razor-like edge, waterproof match box, extra ammunition for my pistol, fish line and hooks, medicine, two bars of chocolate, a canvas water bag, and several sticks of twist tobacco for gifts to any natives I might meet. 

Fastened to the bottom of the chute was a tiny life raft to be used in case of a forced landing over water.

I also uncovered a small booklet entitled Friendly Fruits and Vegetables or Advice to Air Crew Members Forced Down in the Jungle. 

The Book-of-the-Month Club couldn’t have made a better selection for me at the moment. 

The first page started with, “What to do if forced down in the jungle”.  I read fast and furiously.

“Above all else,” it said, “keep calm”.  Well, that should be easy, the big excitement was over.  The next paragraph cheered me up a little.  “The two bars of chocolate should last you for 10 days, and by that time you are sure to find friendly natives.” 

Actually, one hundred miles of thick jungle and two hundred miles of open sea stood between me and home base, but Friendly, Fruits and Vegetables made it seem as if it were just over the hill.

My next move was to cut several sections of silk from my chute for use in making a shelter.  I then salvaged the straps of the chute, for they looked as though they would form a good belt for a pack harness in which to carry my personal effects. 

With these preparations completed, I felt ready to cope with anything.  Then, for the first time, I became aware of the deadly silence around me.  There was the occasional caw of a bird or the soft stirring of the wind in the treetops.  That was all. 

There were no paths, no signs of human habitation; just a solid mass of dark green foliage.  Dark clouds indicated approaching rain.  Anxious to be on my way, I set a compass course for New Guinea and plunged into the bush.

When it began to get late I looked around for a camp site.  A level spot under a huge tree looked as though it might offer protection from the rain.  Once more I turned to Friendly Fruits for guidance. A sketch showed me how to construct a tent from the strips of parachute cloth and I set to work with the vigor of a Boy Scout earning a merit badge.

Rain began to fall about nine o’clock and the tent worked out just as the booklet had predicted. 

“This type of shelter will not be absolutely water-proof, but if constructed properly should afford ample protection from severe storms”. 

If properly constructed!  I spent the rest of the night dodging streamlets of water which poured through the roof.  The whole thing seemed like a horrible nightmare. 

At times when I did fall asleep I dreamed I was home in bed.  Then the throbbing pain in my head would waken me.

I thought about the boys back at our operations hut “sweating me out”. Ole, that’s our intelligence officer, would cheer them up.

“Hell, Hargie’s probably forced down on some island and shacking up with a chocolate blonde.”

Somebody else would add, “Now I’ll have an excuse to meet his girl in Sydney.  Understand she’s fair dinkum.”

Then I wondered if someone would remember to water the zinnias in my victory garden.  Fantastic schemes of escape swept through my mind.  Maybe I could get to a nearby Jap airdrome and steal a Zero. 

Perhaps I could signal friendly aircraft and be picked up in a flying boat.  Finally, I decided that actually I would have to find a native and go back to New Guinea in a canoe. 

Ah, find a native – that’s the first step.  Well, according to Friendly Fruits, I should do that at least within the next ten days.

The next morning my head had stopped bleeding but I was reeling from the effects of my sudden change in living conditions.  I sucked on a tiny square of emergency chocolate for my breakfast, trying to keep the taste in my mouth for as long as possible. 

A lizard dashed across the front of my tent and vanished in the bushes before I could get my pistol out of the holster.  High on the top of a nearby tree, a lone cockatoo stretched his wings in the first light of the morning sun.  This would be a beautiful experience, I thought, if I didn’t have to worry about such prosaic things as food and the way home.

But it was time to start again.  I wrapped the articles from the jungle kit in the parachute, checked directions with the compass and started out.  The air was cool and damp.  The foliage was still wet with last night’s rain and every time I brushed against a tree or bush I got a drenching.

At midday the stillness was broken by the drone of an approaching plane.  I rushed to a clear spot, hoping it might be someone from my own squadron out searching for me.  The plane was almost overhead when I saw the two red spots on the silver wings.  I stepped back out of sight and let the plane go overhead without a word or a gesture.

Travelling was getting rougher all the time.  After spending the entire afternoon trying to pull myself up the side of a steep ravine, I decided to abandon the idea of holding a compass course.  I knew that if I followed a stream I would eventually reach the ocean and find a native village.

At times the dense undergrowth along the banks of the stream forced me to wade.  Then my heavy Aussie flying boots would quickly fill with water, weighing me down.  When I tried carrying the boots, my feet would slip on the moss covered rocks, and I’d go crashing down into the water.  Each time I fell I got madder, but by the end of the day I was too tired and disgusted to swear at anything.

I permitted myself another square of chocolate for supper and then turned to Friendly Fruits to see what kind of fauna and flora I might expect to find. 

“If you are on the coast,” it said, “you should expect to find plenty of fruit, especially bananas.  If they are green roast them in a fire.  If you are in northern Australia, try building a signal fire and you will probably be picked up by friendly aboriginals.”  I felt a little grim about that advice.  I was at least fifteen miles from the nearest coast and fifteen hundred miles from northern Australia.

Profiting from the previous night’s experience, I set the sides of my shelter at a much steeper angle and the rain rolled off the silk very nicely.  But the comfort was short lived.  One of the supporting ropes broke and the whole works came crashing down on me. Except for some catnaps, I spent the night bailing water out of my bed.

The next few days were much the same.  Every time I discovered what I thought was a path, I’d follow it for a while only to have it suddenly disappear in a maze of tangled vines and fallen trees. 

Huge logs were so decayed that oftentimes when I sat on them to rest, they’d crumble into powder and disgorge scores of big red ants.  The novelty of playing Robinson Crusoe was wearing very thin.  And I had thought that powdered eggs, powdered milk, bully beef, and dehydrated potatoes were hard to take.

When I looked up at the vine-covered trees that hemmed me in, I recalled my days at college when I thought I was an isolationist. 

“If war ever comes (I told myself in those days) I’ll pack a load of food and camp on some secluded island on a northern Minnesota Lake for the duration.”  Now fate was grinning at me.  I’d probably be here for the duration all right, but this wasn’t Minnesota and that food supply that had seemed like such a minor thing back at college was missing.

One morning the stream I was following widened considerably.  An idea dawned … Why not launch the rubber dinghy?  I thought of those big colored posters in the travel bureaus – A summer cruise in the South Sea Islands!  I always liked travelling by boat. 

Besides, walking was getting to be old stuff and I needed a change.  I pulled the release on the carbon dioxide bottle attached to the boat.  Puff! The yellow sheet of rubber I’d been using as a ground sheet became a boat.  Very carefully I loaded my jungle kit and then climbed aboard. 

A shove from the bank and I was off; homeward bound at last!  For the first time in several days I felt my spirit rise.  Majestically I christened the dinghy ‘Little Beaver’ after my airplane.

Though I guided the boat more or less expertly with a long pole, at times the stream narrowed and the water flowed so swiftly that ‘Little Beaver’ almost upset.  Whirlpools spun the boat around like a top. 

Schools of colored fish swam alongside me, inspecting the yellow bottom of this strange vessel of mine.  In the quiet water below the whirlpools, huge masses of green under water plants covered the muddy bottom of the stream and patches of air bubbles drifted lazily to the surface.  Twirling vines hung across the water.

Up ahead two decayed logs poked out of the water.  One of them suddenly sunk.  Then it reappeared.  This time it opened two shiny black eyes and came to life a huge crocodile.  He was mad too; in a moment he had lashed the placid stream into a maelstrom. 

I was so terrified that I almost capsized ‘Little Beaver’ trying to get ashore.  I remembered tales about crocodiles being able to outrun a man on land, and I kept one eye glued on the stream as I frantically gathered up my belongings. 

Then I made quick tracks into the bushes.  I’m sure I must have covered more distance that afternoon than I had the whole previous day.

On the tenth day my hopes rose when I discovered what seemed to be a well-travelled path.  It led over a high bluff along the river, dropped to water level, finally breaking out before a native lean-to. 

Freshly cut kunai grass covered the roof.  Even more heartening was the sign of recent cuttings on the nearby trees.  Maybe Friendly Fruits was right about finding natives in ten days after all!

With my shelter problem solved, at least for the time being, my next thought was to build a fire.  When I had finished gathering what dry pieces of wood there were, I opened the water-proof box and counted ten matches.  It seemed like a plentiful supply.  I struck the first one and waited expectantly for the wood to catch.  No luck. 

The next six matches flared up and died with no better success.  I glanced at my precious box and counted three matches left.  Only three left to go and without a fire my chances of survival seemed very slim. 

I carefully re-arranged the twigs in teepee fashion and struck another match.  A gust of wind caught the flame as it danced on the tip of the match and then flickered out.  I wanted to kick myself for being so clumsy. 

Cautiously I struck the next last match and shuddered as it flashed up and then fizzled out a dud.  It seemed impossible that nine matches had failed to start the fire.  I became panicky wondering whether to use the last one now or wait for a real dry day.

Suddenly I remembered the newspaper that the sticks of tobacco were wrapped in.  How stupid could one really be?  I tore open my escape kit and carefully place a crumpled piece of the Rome, New York social column in the center of the wood pile and then knelt down carefully to make the last try. 

The paper burst into flame.  A few breathless seconds later the wood caught and my heartbeat slowed down to normal.

A search along the banks of the stream finally produced a lily-shaped plant that the booklet described as a wild taro.  I placed the bulbous root in the fire as per directions.  But the results were disastrous. 

The first bite left my throat stinging with a horrible bitterness.  Either my cooking or Friendly Fruits was at fault and I had no way of knowing which.  Just to be on the safe side I scratched “wild taro” off the list of potential edibles.

Searching about I uncovered some snail shells in an old firebed.  Referring to Friendly Fruits, I read that snails, living on the moss in rocky streams, were easy to find and very nourishing.  The rapids in front of the lean-to proved to be a bonanza.  I gathered two huge fistfuls of snails and carried them back in triumph to the hut. 

I roasted them in the hot coals and learned after a few minutes that I could extract the meaty part with the point of my knife.  I also learned to hold a quarter of a salt tablet in the back of my mouth while I ate the snails.   

I thought of the boys back at base eating bully beef and biscuits while my own menu was second only to caviar.  Friendly Fruits was now back in my good graces.  That night I went to bed with my belly full of snails.  It was a peculiar night.  I counted snails instead of sheep to get asleep and then dreamed they were crawling around in my innards and sticking out of my ears.

The next morning I saw something else that promised a tasty addition to my menu.  Two spotted fish dashed in and out of the rocks where I got my drinking water.  At first I tied to snare them with a fish net made from strips of parachute silk. 

Then I fashioned a spear from a sapling by tying three pointed sticks on one end.  The fish were too clever.  That night I tried luring them to the surface by burning a bark torch.  The effort was futile.  Evidently these fish were kings of their breed and would take nothing but a genuine lure skilfully cast.

I had given up on the idea of a fish dinner when one morning a grasshopper flitted across the front of my hut and landed on a blade of tall grass.  Here was a lure made to order!  The South Bend Bait Company couldn’t have done better! 

But the grasshopper was as clever as the fish.  Though I stalked him in the grass around the hut for several hours, each time I had him cornered, he’d leap out of reach.  Finally, however, he came to roost on the end of a log.

“My move’, I whispered, freezing on the spot like a hunting dog on point.  I slid my right hand forward an inch at a time.  Eighteen inches more to go.  Easy now.  Two shiny black eyes bulging out from the armor-plated head stared up at me. 

The green jungle camouflaged body settled back on its haunches.  Then quicker that the eye could see, the hind legs suddenly snapped out, catapulting him over my head in a sweeping arc.  Before I could turn to follow, the jungle had swallowed him up.  My fish dinner was as far away as ever and I cursed aloud as I climbed back to my feet.

Coming back from a swim later that day, I spied the grasshopper again.  He was perched on the tip of a bamboo stalk, swaying in the light breeze and apparently unaware of my presence.  I approached him cautiously from behind, pausing after each move, I gauged the distance between us. 

Then, viciously, I struck a side-sweeping blow, clenching my fist at the same time.  The grasshopper was mine.  I could feel his wings twitching against my hand as he struggled to escape.  I relaxed my grip ever so slightly allowing his head to wriggle through the tiny opening between my thumb and forefinger. 

He squirmed and heaved when I tried to pierce the hook through his body.  It seemed like a cruel thing to do.  There was so little life around me that I thought for a moment I would keep him as a companion to relieve the monotony.  But then in my mind’s eye I saw a juicy fish roasting over the fire.  The grasshopper’s chances of survival were gone.  A dark oily fluid dribbled from his moth as I thrust the hook into his hind quarters.

I failed to get even a nibble with him that day, so I set the pole out at night.  The next morning I was up at dawn to haul in my catch.  My heart almost broke.  Both hook and line had been carried away.  A few minutes later I saw one of the fish swimming about and the proud look on his face told me where the grasshopper had gone. 

I felt my blood rise.  I ran into my hut and grabbed the pistol.  Crawling up to the edge of the bank I spotted the fish in shallow water.  Taking careful aim, I fired.  A geyser of water shot up.  As the water cleared I saw the fish lying on his side on the bottom of the pool, stunned by the fore of the shot. 

I saw his tail waver a little and fearing that he might come to and escape again, I dropped my pistol on the bank and scrambled into the water, fully dressed to get my dinner.

But getting food was a minor problem compared to keeping my fire going.  Many times I’d awaken to find only a tiny ember glowing and have to use all my strength blowing it back to aflame. 

Once, when searching for some berries to supplement my diet of snails, some sixth sense warned me to return to the hut at once.  I raced back breathlessly, straining as I ran to catch a glimpse of the tell-tale wisp of smoke.  I could see nothing and became panic-stricken.  I ran faster.

“Oh God,” I pleaded, “Please don’t let the fire go out.”

Another turn in the trail and I reached the camp site.  The firebed was as cold as a gravestone.  The once comforting fingers of flame had disappeared.  Not even the faintest tinge of smoke showed.

I dropped to my hands and knees.  The fire was my very life.  I couldn’t eat the snails raw.  I needed the fire at night as a sentry against intruders.  I was in a cold sweat, trembling.  Was my escape from the P-38 to be merely a reprieve from a worse death from starvation?

I poke the stick into the ashes. A little puff of smoke arose.  I bent closer down and brushed the ashes away.  A live ember!  I caressed it with a soft whisper.  A faint glow flickered.  I rushed for some twigs and dry bark shavings and in a few minutes my fire was going again.

I could understand now why people worshipped the fire god, but all I could say was, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”  My prayer had been answered.

It was during those rain-soaked days of waiting and wondering what the next morning would bring that I came to realize a new significance n prayer.  Out here the words seemed to strike a more realistic note. 

I spent many hours in quiet meditation kneeling before a cross which I had carved from green saplings and tied together with a parachute cord.  My sanctuary for those daily communions was a patch of green grass overlooking a pool of deep blue water at a bend in the river.  Overhead, were the sunlight and the trees.

My prayer wasn’t for miracles of material benefits but simply a plea to God asking for the courage to see the light of the next day.  These periods of worship gave me a tremendous lift.  Whenever I became discouraged or was on the verge of giving up, I found solace in the 23rd Psalm.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.  He leadeth me beside still waters.  He maketh me to lie down n green pastures.  He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”  Today I was re-living the story of the beautiful old Psalm and finding a great deal more meaning in it than ever before.

And so the days went by.

A month had now passed since I had bailed out of ‘Eager Beaver’  A month of rainy sleepless nights.  A month of nights filled with wild, terrifying dreams. 

The thirty-one notches of dreary, lonely existence, three hundred miles from friendly forces and thousands of miles from my family back in Minnesota. 

Once or twice a day I found myself humming or whistling a Phi Delta Theta drinking song.  It brought back pleasant memories and kept me company.  Moreover, it seemed a good idea to check my vocal cords occasionally, just to make sure they were still there.

I dared not think whether I’d ever have any practical reason for using my speech again.  Though I was hungry, and tired, the greatest misery of all could be summed up in one simple sentence.  I was alone.