UNFACING DEATH

  As I started to write this account of the part of my military service in China when I “faced dangers” in the usual sense, I realized that I never had really faced them.  This thought came to me because, just days before, I had had an experience when, for the first time in my life, I did focus my mind on the reality of risking death and the wisdom of facing it.  In the escarpment cliffs above our home in Owen Sound, I had crawled under a boulder wedged into a crevice, squeezed through a narrow fissure in the rock, and shuffled along a long ledge that skirted a low cave curving downward into darkness at my side.  As I moved cautiously by it, daylight dusked out and I could only dimly see a solid rock wall ahead of me.  It seemed to be the back of my narrow tunnel, but I soon saw that it was the far side of a crevice cross-cutting mine. My flashlight revealed that this fissure was about four feet wide and closed at the top high above.  Fifteen to twenty feet below, jagged rocks were strewn along the bottom.  At the far end I could see the corner of an opening.  Curiosity demanded that I find out what was beyond that corner — A rock-walled closet?  A spacious cavern?  Distant daylight?

Now I was straddling the crevice, with a hand and a foot on each wall.  I moved slowly forward, seeking handholds and footholds one at a time and precariously fumbling the flashlight from hand to hand.  Suddenly the thought struck me: if I happened to drop the flashlight, could I possibly get back out in the darkness?  My mind raced through a succession of other scenarios:  If my foot slipped or a rock handhold broke away, I’d plunge down onto the rocks below.  I shuddered.  In fact, I still shudder at the thought.  If the fall didn’t kill me, inevitable injuries would make it impossible to climb out, even if the flashlight survived the fall. Might I be rescued?  My wife would eventually phone for help.  But she knew only that I was somewhere along the escarpment.  How would rescuers find me?  They’d have a long line of cliff formations to scour.  Not much chance they’d find my little entrance.  Unless they were as skinny as I, they wouldn’t even try this one.  I was too far into my catacomb to hear them if they called.  No use my calling either.  

After a few more moments of reflection, I gave up the attempt to reach the mysterious opening below.  My first thought was to retrace my steps.  But how?  Blindly backing up without turning around would be impossible.  I looked at my footholds on both sides.  Neither seemed sufficient to hold both feet as I turned.  Too dangerous, I thought.  Lower down, on the right side of the crevice, I could see an opening into the curving cave I had seen earlier from above.  It would be difficult to reach it, and there was no assurance that I would find a way to climb up out of it.  But that seemed the lesser risk.  Twisting my body, with my left hand I caught onto a rock protrusion just above the mouth of this smaller cave and cautiously dropped down onto its rocky bottom.  Mercifully, my flashlight showed me a “ladder” of wedged boulders and clefts in the upward curving rock face.  This took me back to the entry-way ledge, and welcome daylight escorted me out of the cave.  When I got home, I promised my wife never again to explore such places without a rope and a companion.

With this experience in mind, I am trying in this account to examine my feelings and motivations in the face of the dangers I encountered in wartime China.  This drew me into an exploration of the question of why my reactions at that time had been so different.  I realized that I had always “unfaced death” — neither picturing a real death scenario nor questioning whether to venture into a situation of real danger.  It made me wonder how often the “courage” ascribed to soldiers, or cliff-climbers, is a deliberate, conscious  “facing” of death:  Bravery or bravado?  Idealism or idiocy?   Naiveté or foolhardiness?  Did any of these words apply to me?  Writing this story has helped me examine the nature of my “unfacings.” 

During my high school years, I had been exploring the pros and cons of pacifism. My parents were not pacifists, but a school friend and several missionaries whom I much admired were. A book about Gandhi had a strong effect on me. How could I ever kill a person? Was violence ever moral? Was war ever justified? Weren’t there better ways to achieve long-lasting peace and justice? I still had not resolved these questions in 1944 when I was teaching in a Chinese high school connected with Oberlin College, Ohio. I had a one-year contract, and I was asked to teach at least another year. The job was challenging and enjoyable. However, I had witnessed the devastation and suffering caused by Japanese terror bombing of Chinese cities, I had read of the mass massacre they had inflicted on Nanking, and I had heard the pitiful stories of refugees. Though I still respected conscientious objectors, I came to the conclusion that the most important moral priority was to take part in bringing this war to an end. 

On August 7, 1944, Private Second Class Donald E. Willmott reported for duty to the China headquarters of the Office of Strategic Services (the US military secret service) at the  Chongqing headquarters of Theater Commander General “Vinegar Joe” Stilwell.  At that time, the OSS contingent there consisted of one man, Major Harley Stevens, a friendly ex-lawyer administrator who needed a secretary.  So, instead of the “secret, important, and dangerous work” I was given to expect, my first assignment was as a “paragraph trooper in the chairborn forces.”  The military attaché of the Canadian Embassy had suggested that I could be most useful as an interpreter for the US Army, but warned me that armies frequently disregard usefulness in favour of immediate vacancies.  I began to fear that he was right.  At headquarters my contacts with Chinese were limited to the “coolie” who emptied the wastebaskets.