Copyright © 2020 John F. Oyler
May 14, 2020
May Day, 1955
“On the first of May, it is moving day” is the beginning of the verse for Rodgers and Hart’s wonderful standard, “Mountain Greenery”. It typifies our general perception of May Day as a happy time, an opportunity to proceed to positive things. In the song a young couple is leaving the city for the joys of rural life, anticipating Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor in “Green Acres”.
This all changed with the onset of the Cold War with the worldwide Communist expansion following World War II. By 1955 the Iron Curtain had split Europe down the middle, and Communist sympathy was growing in France and Italy. The People’s Republic of China was firmly in control in Beijing and flexing its muscles in French Indo-China and threatening Taiwan. Fidel Castro was in exile in Mexico, anticipating his future takeover of Cuba.
May Day, 1955, found me in the 29th Engineer Battalion, Base Topographic, in Oji, a neighborhood in northern Tokyo. I had just celebrated the first anniversary of my arrival in Japan; my countdown to freedom, on September 10, was 131 days.
Our battalion was responsible for providing mapping support for all of our military units in the Far East as well as for our allies. A major program supporting the French in their effort to quell the rebellion in French Indo-China had come to an abrupt halt the previous year when it failed.
In addition to this “day” job we also had to spend time on our primary reason for being there, defending democracy against its enemies. This included getting up at 5:30 each morning for roll call, calisthenics, and military drill; spending one weekend a month on maneuvers; and miscellaneous soldierly duties like guard duty.
When I reported for guard duty that particular morning, the fact that it was May Day didn’t register on me at all. Guard duty consisted of two hours on, followed by four off, manning a guard shack at one of the gates. I was assigned “second trick”, beginning at 10:00 am.
This put me on duty during a very slow time, with very few persons passing through the gate. I shared the shack with a Japanese national security guard whose primary function was to communicate to non-English speaking visitors. After my two-hour shift was over, I ate lunch, then stretched out on a bunk in the Guard House. A few minutes before 4:00 I got up and prepared to go on duty.
Changing the guard required the Officer of the Day to march us to our respective gates and pick up the guards going off-duty. When I reached the guard shack I noticed a small group of people milling around outside the gate. When I looked puzzled, my Japanese compatriot suddenly broke into English, “May Day”. Sure enough, some of them were waving red handkerchiefs.
For the next few minutes the mob grew slowly, but not enough to really worry me. At 5:00, when our Japanese workers left to come home, things began to get a little dicey. The crowd began to become much more active, shouting, stamping their feet, and waving their red flags.
I began to worry about the safety of our employees. Eventually I spotted Mr. Kono, whom i later noted we had categorized as “mild-mannered”. I was quite concerned about his ability to navigate his way through the mob.
Mild, courteous Mr. Kono was always immaculately dressed. I was surprised to see him pull off his necktie and jam it into his jacket pocket. By the time he had passed through the gate he had pulled out a red handkerchief and was waving it. His mien had changed from polite obedience to aggressive antagonism. Suddenly he looked exactly like the caricature of the evil enemy we faced in the Pacific ten years earlier.
I watched him merge into the mob and become indistinguishable from the rest of them. At this point I realized that my Japanese security guard had somehow disappeared. I was all alone, defending democracy against the Red Horde. I had my rifle but, like Barney Fife, I had no bullets. I did have a bayonet, but had been brainwashed to do nothing rash without being commanded. If only some sergeant had been there to shout, “Fix Bayonets”.
Panicked, I telephoned the Guard House and notified the Officer of the Day that I needed reinforcement. “Not to worry”, he replied. “I have called out the First Provisional Infantry Platoon”. In addition to being organized by our day job assignments, we also were organized into military fighting units.
Soon I saw the impressive sight of the platoon, led by Second Lieutenant Reynolds and Sergeant McCartney marching toward me. Thank Heavens there were some real soldiers in our battalion! Suddenly the Lieutenant stopped and gave the command, “Deploy as Skirmishers”. Soon there were three eight-man squads spread out across the parade ground. Especially impressive were the three Browning Automatic Rifles with their distinctive inverted-vee supports, aimed right at the mob.
Unimpressive, to me, was the fact that they were deployed about fifty yards behind me. I was, indeed, in “no-man’s-land”, poised to be the first American casualty in World War III. I felt like the hero in a Jerry Lewis movie. What would Jerry do? Probably scream and run for safety. I was too disciplined for that. Eventually things began to die down; nonetheless, I was quite happy to see Darrell Renzelman show up at 6:00 and relieve me.
In retrospect I remember this as a humorous incident; I didn’t think it was funny at the time. Farris Farha thought I should be considered for at least a Bronze Star in recognition of my bravery. I suspect my friends and neighbors back home who were responsible for my being there would have been a little uneasy had they known I was the Dutch Boy with his finger in the dike holding back the spread of international Communism.
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