The Following pages include “Sample Text” from
Where Eagles Fly…Remember Me
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Table of Contents
FOREWARD
CHAPTER 1………………………John Junior Arrives
CHAPTER 2………………………He Had A Dream
CHAPTER 3………………………The Funny Little Man With The Mustache
CHAPTER 4………………………The Eagle Has Landed
CHAPTER 5………………………The European Theater
CHAPTER 6………………………The African Theater
CHAPTER 7………………………The South Pacific Theater
CHAPTER 8………………………The Waterway To Nowhere
CHAPTER 9………………………The Ugly Side Of Java
CHAPTER 10……………………...P.O.W. Do or DIE
CHAPTER 11……………………...V.J. Day Victory Over Japan
CHAPTER 12……………………...The Long Way Home
CHAPTER 13……………………....John Campbell III Civilian
CHAPTER 14………………………The Globe Trotters
CHAPTER 15 ……………………...Sunset at the Old Pueblo
REDs BIO SUMMARY
REDs RESUME
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Where Eagles Fly
Foreward . . .
It is amazing, when we look back at our lives to review the paths we found ourselves upon, sometimes with shame and other times with honor and pride. This is a story of such a path. The path that led a young boy of dreams hurtling towards his destiny. A destiny that would overflow with excitement, adventure, fear and pain and would sway upon the edge of torture, hopelessness and maybe even death. Yet, while on the brink of demise, a military action, taking place thousands of miles away would alter his life’s path, forever. A change in the destiny that lay before him. After his dance with the demons, he found himself back from the brink of death, living within the real world, where people loved, and babies cried and where all seemed to be balanced harmoniously. His scars would become his nightmares, that would eventually become distant memories. Memories that were his scars. This was his vicious circle!
It is understandable why he made the decisions he did. They started out as simple boyish fantasies that grew into a love for the thrill. The thrill of traveling faster than any grounded machine he had known. Faster and higher he saw himself. But yet it was only a dream. How would this impoverished child ever see the dream come true? What deals with the devil would he have to solidify before he could taste the freedom he so longed? And what would his debt be for such a barter? Was it worth it? What would he have to sacrifice in order to soar Where Eagles Fly?
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Chapter 9 - The Ugly Side of Java
Much of the allied forces have evacuated Java, leaving the 605 Squadron and their ground support with the daunting task of fighting off the multitudes of Japanese troops. The enemy was generous with their attacks with daily bombing raids. The target in which the Japanese focused on was the Batavia Harbor, known as Tanjong Priok. There were still plenty of American, British and Australian vessels arriving and departing and this made the Japanese very nervous. As the exodus started winding down, the USS Houston, the Flagship for the U.S. Asiatic Fleet, along with her support vessels, tried to evacuate through the Straights of Sunda, between Java and Sumatra. On her way out, under the cover of night, she ran into a Japanese invasion force heading for Java. A hot battle commenced and the Houston fired everything she had into the enemy fleet. The Houston, along with every support ship was lost that night. Some of her crew swam back to Java, only to be captured later on. Some of the crew were plucked out of the water by the Japanese, stripped of all of their clothing, beaten and then thrown back into the chilly seas. Most of them did not survive the night. The USS Houston, from that day on, would be known as the Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast.
After leaving Sumatra, Red finally arrived on Java. It was February 21st when he arrived at the hospital for delousing and to have his minor wounds tended to. He had survived the invasion of Sumatra and was now ready to climb back into the cockpit and even up the score. Being pretty much in good health, especially compared to the others he had traveled with, Red was given the green light to get back into the fight. The Japanese attacks were relentless. On the morning of February 23rd, Red got to fly his first sortie after his medical treatment was complete. He went up a couple of times on the 23rd, and again on the 24th.
February 25th would be a day that Red would remember for the rest of his life. Just like the past two days, the Japanese attacks were constant. Red scrambled first thing in the morning of the 25th to try and deter two Japanese bomber formations of twenty seven, along with their fighter escorts. By the time the alarm rang and the lads got airborne, the first waive of bombers had already passed and were completing their bombing run. So, the logical thing to do was to focus on the second waive of bombers and to try to knock them out, while their bellies were still full with explosives. The RAF chaps climbed to get into attack formation and started the assault before the bombers could drop their load. As the RAF started in on the bombers, the Japanese escorts came in from below, trying to intercept.
Young Red was flying behind Squadron Leader Ricky Wright, as his wing man. Everything started to happen all at the same time. As Red looked up and to the right he saw Harry Dobin coming in for the attack while six Japanese fighters were trying to intercept. One of the escorts turned and attacked Ricky Wrights Hurricane. This was when Red lost his focus on everything around him. His job at that moment was to protect his Squadron Leader, at any costs. After a few short bursts were fired, Red got another confirmed Kill, and saved Ricky Wrights life at the same time. Red also made one mistake, a serious error in judgment, a miscalculation. And it was going to cost him big time. When you shoot down an enemy airplane, you should immediately break away fast and hard, just in case the victims wing man was in the area.
When Red nailed the Japanese fighter, he was amazed at how the enemy’s wings just folded, sending the plane spiraling down. Red was watching as his prey got closer and closer to the ground, waiting to see it the pilot would eject. That was his blunder. His attention was snapped back into reality by the loud pinging sound of rounds hitting his tail. It sounded just like church bells ringing. His Hurricane was starting to bounce around. Red tried to look around to see what was going on. It didn’t dawn on him, at that moment, that he had been shot by his victim’s wing man. As soon as he heard the pinging sounds resonating throughout the cockpit, Red dove his bird downwards and then tried to level off. This was when he heard, and felt, a powerful “whoom” sound, the sound of air tanks exploding in his tail. He also noticed smoke and debris being blown forward, between his legs, within the cock pit.
Every time he tried to level off, his plane would go into a left spiral. The only way he could control his plane was when it was in a dive. His ailerons were badly damaged and he was going down, quickly. After trying one more time to pull up his nose, without success, and noticing that his cockpit was starting to fill up with smoke, he decided it was time to bail. As Red pulled the canopy release lever, nothing happened. It remained closed. He tried again and again, but still nothing. His fuselage was too badly damaged. “A few of the rounds probably bent the release mechanism” he thought to himself, while reviewing his limited options.
Young Red’s Hurricane was hit at twenty thousand feet sending him hurtling towards the earth below. He was now quickly spiraling pass ten thousand feet. The ground was coming up quickly. The scenery was spinning past the cock pit canopy. Red was stuck in this uncontrollable spin and realized that he wasn’t going anywhere, but down. His Hurricane was destined to be his tomb, to encase his spirit, and remains, forever.
Realizing his mistake the moment he got hit, and realizing that he had, maybe forty five seconds left in this world, he cursed at himself for being so stupid, for making a classic mistake. He knew better. He had that gut instinct, the gut instinct that tried to save him. For some reason or another, this time, he ignored that little voice. All it took was letting down his guard just once, and there was not going to be any second chances. His resolve was not flashbacks of his family or friends. He had no thoughts of Gladys. He didn’t even think about his error anymore. He just thought about how thankful he was that it would be quick and painless. Just hold on and maybe scream a little, but that was it. Within a few moments, if would be over, twenty years of life’s experiences, gone up in smoke.
Just as Red sat back in his seat, and started to relax, as his fate unfolded before him, a thought popped into his head. It was that little voice speaking and it was coming in loud and clear. “Push, push with all you have,” it told him. Without a second thought, Red climbed up and stood on his seat with one leg, while placing the other leg onto the control stick. With his back arched into the concavity of the canopy, Red heaved and pushed with all he had. Nothing! Didn’t work! But his little voice was still yelling at him to push harder and harder and so he did. He figured if he was going to hit the ground, and perish, at least he will fight all the way down.
All of a sudden, the noise of the plane was gone. Red saw the canopy, along with the tail end of his Hurricane pass him by as they continued to spiral into the ground. He was free falling. Actually, he was tumbling with arms and legs flailing, screaming loudly. His focus now, wasn’t the plane, but instead, controlling his fall and not waiting too long to open his chute. Opening the chute too early could also be a hazard, as the enemy was known for using parachuting pilots for target practice. Once the rip cord was pulled at three thousand feet, Red started looking around to see what was above as well as below him. He saw his Hurricane hit the ground exploding on contact. Red also noticed an airplane pass over head quickly.
He was still a little dazed and couldn’t make out the markings. Then at a thousand yards in front of him, his nightmare came true. The plane turned and was now coming straight at him. Again, he realized he was about to die and was hopeful that the pilots aim was good enough to make it quick and painless. While hanging there waiting to get shot, watching the plane get closer and closer, he noticed that it wasn’t Japanese. It was a Hurricane. It was Harry Dobin. Red could see directly into the cockpit as it flew within twenty yards under his feet. Harry was slumped over the controls, either dead or seriously wounded. Red watched in horror as Harry’s plane pitched and yawed a few times before crashing. Too bad he thought. Red liked Harry. Great pilot and a great guy. But for now, Red had other things to worry about. All kinds of thoughts were rushing through his head. The 605 Squadron, would be documenting losses for this battle as two killed in action. Officially, Red and Harry were shot down. Perished! Dead!
As Red looked down between his feet, at the up coming ground, Red thought it all looked so beautiful. He actually wished he had his Kodak camera with him. I was all so surreal. The river below would be too dangerous to land in, as he didn’t have his floatation device. He was actually using a borrowed chute. His was in for repair from being damaged in Palembang. The borrowed chute he was wearing was actually sized for someone much smaller in stature. The harnesses were tight and binding and rode up so fast, they actually pushed his gun and knife out of there holsters, sending them free falling, never to be seen again.
So he started steering for the Rice fields by slipping his chute ever so gently to the east. Everything was happening so slowly. It seemed as if the entire world was running in slow motion, that is until he reached the tree canopy. At that point the ground came up hard and fast. Red was now almost waist deep in mud, with a slightly pulled muscle in his left thigh. But he was alive. He didn’t get shot by the enemy while hanging from his chute and he didn’t perish with his Hurricane. So far, so good, at least for now. Next task at hand was to free himself from the deep mud that now encased his entire lower torso.
Once Red was able to free himself from the mud, he headed towards the river, where he noticed a village while parachuting in. This was where he would be able to get some help. As he entered the village, he thought how odd, that there was no one around, no kids playing, no women preparing food, no animals roaming. Nothing. So he headed to the shore of the river, thinking they might be there fishing. All he found were large duck pens, lining the shore. The lattice tops of the pens were covered in drying fish. Stinking, rotting, drying fish. The stench was enough to make Red sick to his stomach. While sitting by the rivers edge, feeling sorry for himself, Red was startled by a rustling sound coming from the trees just behind him. Red was unarmed, and extremely nervous. Was it a Japanese scout or even worse, was it a Jap Patrol? If it was a single scout, at least he would have a chance in a hand to hand duel to the death, as long as he didn’t get shot first. If it was a patrol, his destiny would be in their murderous hands.
Red spun around not knowing what to expect. A sign of relief was let out. It was just some local kids, coming out to see who he was and why he was there. Between his poor attempt at their language and their even poorer attempt at English, they were able to communicate. Red told them that he was thirsty and with out a second thought, a couple of them climbed a near by tree and harvested a few coconuts, giving Red some refreshing coconut milk to quench his thirst. They asked Red to follow so he did, all the way back to the village, where the people were slowly coming out from hiding. Red sat down with the elders and explained his story. Once they were convinced he wasn’t Japanese, they warmed up and welcomed him into their mix.
The chief spoke some English so it was easy to communicate. They walked Red to the crash site of his Hurricane. It was an area within the jungle, only a mile or so from the village. There was a dirty, oily crater in the middle of the burnt out clearing. The only thing Red could recognize was the tail, which was sticking out, with ID numbers in tact. It confirmed that this was where his grave would have been, if he gave up the fight for escape at ten thousand feet. Red didn’t need to see anymore. He was starting to feel weak in the knees.
The men were starting to get a little aggressive with Red. For some reason or another they were loosing their trust in him. He had seen first hand what they could do with those machetes and everyone but Red was carrying one. He had to even the odds and the only way to do this was to use his poker skills and start bluffing. He indicated that he needed to relieve himself and headed over to the tree line, just out of sight. The locals respected his modesty and waited. Knowing that if only he didn’t loose his gun, he would be fine, Red reached down and picked up a piece of tree limb lying on the ground. It was almost the exact size of his side arm. Red tucked it up under his shirt, insuring the bulge was noticeable. As he returned to the waiting tribesmen, he took a handful of bullets from his pouch and started rolling them in his left hand while touching the bulge under his shirt with his right hand. Seeing the ammo and the bulge of Reds gun, the locals all of a sudden became Reds best friend. They respected or feared superior weaponry. Once back at the village they asked if he was hungry and of course, Red was never one to turn down a free meal. “Yes I am, Thank you,” was his reply. With that said, the food was served. Next thing Red knew, he was waking up. Apparently, right after the meal he fell into a deep sleep. They allowed him to rest.
A small Chinese man appeared just after Red woke up. This man traveled up and down the river in a big canoe and must have been a man of influence as he had two younger men doing all of the paddling. He just sat in the middle, in his chair, like some sort of king or master. He offered Red a ride out of the jungle and Red readily accepted. Red thanked his hosts as he boarded the wobbly water craft. Approximately five or six miles down river, they came to another village with a huge home built in the middle. This was the Chinese mans home. Red was invited to a meal. The protocol was for the older men of the village to sit and eat first, followed by the younger men. Then it was time for the women and small children to fill their bellies. Red got to partake during the first sitting with the elders. Early that evening, it was back into the canoe, heading further down the river.
They traveled all that night and early the next morning, they ran into a Dutch river patrol truck and pulled to the shore. Red was handed off to the Dutch and continued his journey along bumpy, dusty roads, being handed off two or three times along the way. In one of the trucks, Red noticed part of Harry Dobin's kit. The Dutch had come across the crash site and this was all that was left. Red lowered his head and quietly mourned.
After one and a half days of travel, the truck pulled up in front of the hotel that Red and the other 605 used as a barracks. Young Red was home. He bounced up the stairs laughing to himself. “Are they going to be surprised” he snickered to himself as he bolted into his room. All of his stuff was gone. Every last bit of it. It was as if he never existed. It was common when a pilot was killed, to gather his belongings and either send them home or split them up between the other pilots. Only thing in the room was Ting, sleeping soundly. Red pulled back the mosquito netting and instead of saying hello or it’s me, he started aggressively shaking Ting while yelling “Where’s my kit? I want all of it back, Now!” When Ting opened his eyes, he tearfully smiled. Ting was awfully glad to see Red. He thought his friend had perished. Ting actually evacuated Batavia that evening and it was the last time Red ever saw him again.
It was February 28th when Red returned back to his barracks at the hotel. That evening, the Japanese landed. The 605 Squadron had two Hurricanes left and they were used for strafing the enemy. Eventually, one was shot down and the other was too badly damaged to do any good. The remaining 605 was ordered to evacuate to the Bandung Mountains where an air transport was waiting to air life them to safety. Before Red could arrive, the Dutch confiscated the aircraft. McQuire was already there and told them if they took off without waiting for the others as well as the wounded, he would make sure the pilot was executed upon landing. The Dutch crew cowered and told McQuire to hurry up and get the rest of the wounded on board. As the last of the wounded were loaded, McQuire left the plane in search for any remaining personnel. As soon as McQuire stepped off the plane, the Dutch closed the hatch and sped off down the runway, leaving a very pissed McQuire behind. When Red arrived, McQuire told him what had happened. Red’s ride, or escape, left with the Dutch. He and McQuire were stuck.
Red had to now switch to plan B. He and a group of stranded evacuees headed back down to the coast where they were told an American Destroyer was arriving at the south coastal port of Tjilapjap. Reds group was constantly changing during their journey down the mountain. Those who disagreed with Reds game plan, simply joined another group that seemed more likely to succeed. Others joined Reds group as well, so the mix was constantly changing. The next day they reached Tjilapjap. While waiting at the port for their ride to safety, the were Japanese constantly bombing the surrounding areas. The lads spent a lot of time sitting in slit trenches, drinking Champagne they looted from a local bar, while watching the air show and fireworks. There was nothing else they could do, other than wait.
After a couple of days, it was clear that escape by ship was no longer an option. The water was too dangerous. The Japanese were everywhere. There would be no American Destroyers docking. There would be no escape from this port. It was now a switch to Plan C. There was a small airfield nearby and maybe, just maybe, there would be an aircraft they could use. Once they arrived, they found a small Dutch twin engine Boeing. Perfect! It checked out and was almost good to go. All they needed was enough fuel for the trip. The plan was to load it up with extra drums of fuel and fly her all the way to Australia. They were on a mission to find fuel, which they located a few miles away in a warehouse. Once the extra drums of fuel were loaded up on a flatbed, they returned to the airfield. They discovered, to their horror, that the Dutch had just been there. They beat them to it. Instead of having the Boeing fall into the hands of the Japanese, they took pick axes and destroyed the wings, making this means of escape, impossible. Once again the Dutch proved to be the perpetual thorn in Reds backside. Next option, Plan D, was to head back to the coast where they had noticed an old fishing trawler was moored. If it was fixed up, it just might do. So it was back to the coast for the group. By now, seventy five percent of the group was sick with malaria, dingy fever, dysentery and any other jungle illness you could think of. Red was ok, not feeling great but ok.
The first day of repairs seemed to be going well. This old scowl might just be sea worthy, and they had plenty of fuel on hand. The night was falling and so everyone agreed it was a good time to rest. We could finish up the repairs in the morning and maybe, if lady luck is with us, could be under way by noon. Everybody slept soundly that evening. They were exhausted.
Red woke up to the feeling of someone sticking or poking him in the side. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a Japanese soldier standing over him, telling him to get up. Red obeyed. As he looked around, he saw that they were completely surrounded. As the last man arose, they were all told that they were prisoners and if they do as they are told, they will not be hurt. Just then, some one had the great idea of simply turning and running. He got no further then twenty feet before being shot in the back, dead. Everyone, after seeing this, immediately understood, sat down and raised their hands over their heads. Red Campbell III was no longer that carefree kid sitting on the grassy knoll. He was now Flt Lt Campbell, RAF, POW. This was not how he wanted to start his day. The Eagle was caged.
The group was loaded onto trucks and driven up into the mountains where they joined large numbers of other POW’s. This was a temporary holding area. Sit and wait was the order and they obeyed. Some did manage to escape by simply disappearing into the surrounding jungle, only to be recaptured a couple of weeks later. The Japanese plan was to organize a march down to the various camps they had established on the island. This could have been a potential death march, but for some unknown reason, they decided to load everyone up on rail cars, and were taken by train to their final destination, for processing. Once the train reached the final stop, the prisoners were marched through town into the former prison Boi Glodok. They were herded like cattle into their cells. The men were shoved in quickly with doors slamming shut behind them.
Within these cells were bunks made of planks of wood. They were more like wooded shelves. Those who were quick took possession while the others had to settle for sleeping on the floor. Red found a spot under a bottom bunk, on the floor and immediately fell asleep. As luck would have it for those who so quickly confiscated the few beds in the cell, they spent the entire night, awake, dealing with the hoards of bed bugs that streamed out of the crevices as soon as the lights went out. Red slept soundly.
They were locked in these cells for several days before the doors were opened allowing them outside to catch a breath of fresh air. The air within the cell was getting thick and heavy with the order of human waste and disease. It was even worse then the poop deck of the Jean JaDot laden with a few weeks worth of rotting trash. It was worse then those decaying fish along the river banks being dried out in the hot tropical sun. It was the worse thing young Red had experienced, to date.
Once they were let out of their confined cells, the officers were moved to a more reasonable barracks, although they were still crude and primitive, they were a far cry better then those smelly sickening cells. Working parties were organized with one of the POW officer’s in charge of each group. There was lots of work to be done. Roads needed repairing as well as the runways at the airport. There were many jobs which kept the POW’s busy and under these circumstances, this was the best way to spend their day. Once your work was done, you received your daily ration of a cup of rice followed with a scoop of meat broth with some vegetables. It was up to each prisoner to supplement their diets with as much protein as they could catch scurrying across the floor or up a wall. This is where he would spend his twenty first birthday and many birthdays to follow. The harshness and brutality had only just begun.
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