Robinson Crusoe, USN by George R. Tweed by George R. Tweed - Read Online

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Robinson Crusoe, USN - George R. Tweed

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Text originally published in 1945 under the same title.

© Eschenburg Press 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.



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DANIEL DEFOE would have admired George Ray Tweed, the American seaman whose ingenuity and self-reliance have caught the imagination of modern America as Robinson Crusoe’s fascinated eighteenth century England. Defoe’s hero was engaged almost solely in a struggle for survival against nature. Tweed’s similar fight was complicated by the necessity of evading a band of killers relentlessly tracking him from hideout to hideout.

Crusoe and Tweed were most alike in the genius for contrivance, and Tweed doesn’t suffer from comparison with his famous prototype. To construct his shelter and furniture, Crusoe brought from his ship planks and boards and a complete carpenter’s chest of tools, in addition to two saws, an ax, an abundance of hatchets, a hammer, nails and several knives. Tweed built his equipment without benefit of nails, using only a handsaw, a machete, and a pocketknife. He went on to fashion, with crude materials, a lamp, a lantern, and an ingenious alarm system. At one time he had electric lights in a part of the country where not even the best homes enjoyed such luxury. He kept in repair an almost worn-out typewriter, on which he produced a one-page underground newspaper. He tore apart an apparently useless radio, put it together again, and brought in news from a station thousands of miles away.

Tweed was born with common sense. A roustabout life as lumberman, stevedore, and mechanic gave him self-reliance; hunting expeditions in Oregon and California taught him woodsmanship; the Navy instructed him in the techniques of communication. It was as if all his early life had been preparation for the grueling experience which he alone, of those who fled before the invading Japanese, survived.

I am glad to be the one to tell Tweed’s story. In all important respects it is related here exactly as he gave it to me.

Blake Clark

Washington, D.C.

December 21, 1944



Damn Leathernecks! I swore, as rifle and machinegun fire penetrated my sleep. You would come out here practicing and wake people up in the middle of the night! It was three in the morning. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Then I heard the field guns. First came the blast that sounded like a young cannon when the guns were fired, then the report of the exploding shell. That woke me up and snapped me out of it. We Americans had no field guns on Guam.

That’s not Marines! That’s Jap fire!

I scrambled up, knowing exactly what I wanted to do. At the Navy Communication Office where I worked as radioman we had discussed plans for action long before the first bomb fell on December 8. We knew that unfortified Guam could not hold out long. There were two choices, long argued about in bull sessions. We could take to the bush and hide out in the jungle where there was a good chance of not being discovered, or we could surrender and become prisoners of the Japs.

It was not a hard decision for me to make. I wasn’t going to be prodded in the rear with a bayonet by a Jap soldier.

As I pulled on my khaki shirt and trousers, Al Tyson rushed in with a Chamorro named Gevarra, who was in the insular service. Al was one of my best friends on Guam. He had made up his mind to go to the bush with me.

For God’s sake, hurry, Ray! Let’s get out of here, he called. The Japs are in!

We can’t go without permission from headquarters, I yelled back at him. I’m not going to be charged with running out under fire!

You can’t cross the street to get an okay now, he said. The Japs have a machine gun set up in front of the church.

I’ll have to go anyway. I’ve got to bust up those transmitters and generators before the Japs get them.

I was just over there, Al said. The men on watch smashed them. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here!

I still have to get authorization, I said stubbornly.

"I just got permission from the Governor’s palace."

"Maybe you did, but that won’t help me any."

The commander said it was all right for us to take to the bush.

Well, he didn’t tell me that. I’ll have to go over there, I said, and ducked out. Practically speaking, Al was right, but after eighteen years of Navy training my mind worked according to regulations.

My house was on the side street. It led into the main avenue, San Ramon. As I ran across, the Jap machine gunner started firing. I was about one hundred yards away from him, and he missed me. Once on the other side, I dove into a hedge, then over a fence, and made my way to the palace of the Governor, Capt. George J. McMillin. Inside I met Commander Giles, his aide. There was no excitement in his voice. He sounded as if he were discussing the attack over breakfast coffee.

We are going to offer only token resistance and surrender, he told me. We haven’t enough men to fight it out. Do you have a gun?

No, sir, I haven’t, I answered, hoping he might hand me one.

Well, you can make your own decision. You can stay with us and surrender, or fend for yourself in the bush.

Thank you, sir. That’s all I wanted to know. I’ll take the bush.

He shook hands with me and wished me luck. As I hurried out, I met Chief Yeoman Blaha, Yeoman Eads, and Chief Machinist’s Mate Smoot. It flashed into my mind that Smoot two days ago had told me that he’d had a premonition he was going to be killed. He had worried himself sick about it.

How’re you doing, Smoot? I asked.

Okay, he answered. We’re going to the bush.

See you there, I called over my shoulder and ran out the back way.

I dodged across the street again before the machine gunner could get a line on me, and found Al and Gevarra at home still waiting. The Jap field gun, which had ceased firing for a while, started up again, much closer. Poor Gevarra was frightened almost out of his senses. He picked up the cardboard back of a writing tablet lying on the table, crouched down in a corner and put the square of paper over his face for a shield. There was no use trying to buck him up. We had to work fast.

I rushed into the bedroom and yanked a pillow off the bed. Into the case I shoved two suits of underwear, a Navy issue blanket, and a flashlight. I threw the gear into an apple box filled with canned goods, the last order from the Navy Commissary. Just as I hoisted the provisions to leave, Al stopped me.

It’s too late, now. We can’t go out there. We’ll be killed.

If we sit here, it’s a cinch we’ll be taken prisoner. Every second counts. If we’re going, we’ve got to leave now.

We just couldn’t waste time arguing. Gevarra was still hiding behind the piece of cardboard.

I ran into the street, flung the groceries in the back of the car, and jumped in behind the wheel. As I stepped on the starter, Al shot down the steps and climbed in beside me. Gevarra jumped into the back seat. As I raced down the street, I realized that as soon as I turned into San Ramon, where the machine gun was set up, we had to climb a very steep hill. I didn’t want to stall on the hill. I was afraid to risk shifting gears. I thought that in the excitement I might get mixed up. So before we reached San Ramón, I put her in low gear and jammed that throttle down to the floor boards. The old jalopy sounded like a heavy ten-ton truck. It was a 1926 Reo, with a big six-cylinder engine, and it really let out a bellow. We roared around the corner and shot up the hill wide open. The machine gunner concentrated on us. He sent clip after clip stuttering our way. Bullets splattered all around us, hitting the street, the gravel, and the rocks. Gevarra hugged the floor boards. It was only two hundred yards up the hill, but scuttling along in low gear, and hearing the staccato of the Jap machine-gun bullets all around us, we thought it was a heluva long way.

I wasn’t exactly scared at this point, but I was excited. Speeding on the road demanded all my attention. I shifted into high when we reached the top of the hill. I had not turned on my headlights before, but now, racing along the narrow road in the dark, I switched them on. A few days before, when I’d had orders to paint them black, with just a tiny square left in the middle, I thought they would throw no light at all, but now that I didn’t want to be seen they seemed like two army searchlights streaming down the country road.

We got out as far as Gevarra’s ranch. Between bullets I had decided it would be better for Tyson and me to go on by ourselves. I felt pretty sure that Gevarra would never be satisfied to stay hidden in the far bush as we would have to. I knew that if my family were near, as his was, I’d have to know what they were doing and how they were getting along. I stopped at the driveway. I hated to tell him we didn’t want him.

What are you going to do? I asked. Do you want to go out with us, or stay here at home?

Gevarra was subject to being taken prisoner just as we were. He hesitated.

Don’t you think it would be better if you were with your family? I asked.

Yeah, I guess you’re right, he replied slowly and climbed out. We wished him good luck and went on.

The first gray of morning was beginning to light up the little ranch houses on the small farms that we passed. We drove about ten miles, nearly to the town of Yoña. I turned off on a small dirt road, hoping to find a place to hide the car. When I had gone about one hundred feet, I found I was right in the yard of a ranch. The whole family ran out at the noise. Did I feel stupid! I didn’t want it broadcast that Americans were on their way to the bush, but how could I explain why I had driven up their private road? It would look foolish to back out without saying anything and so I pretended I was out warning the natives and shouted, The Japs have come ashore! The Japs have landed!

They screamed back, They have? I shifted into reverse. As I backed out, Al said, For cripes sake, Ray, isn’t this that Jap Sudo’s ranch? I felt sillier than ever! Here I was warning these Japs that the Japs had come!

Racing past the town of Yoña, I wheeled right on another dirt road. After going half a mile, we swerved left into an open field, grown up with tall weeds, that led to a small hill. Bouncing over boulders and skidding on loose dirt, we made the crest. There below us was nothing but tangled underbrush. A perfect hiding place for the car! I shifted to second and gunned her as hard as I could. Jerking forward, she shot into the growth and practically buried herself in the matted bushes. As the old Reo bogged down, we jumped out. I took out the ignition key and with a pair of pliers yanked out the distributor. I hid it deep in the thicket and camouflaged the top of the car with leaves and branches. I didn’t want any Jap riding around in my car!

The apple box in which we had packed our supplies was too cumbersome to drag through the brush. We emptied it and divided the canned goods, throwing half into the pillowcase for Al to carry. The rest we tossed into the blanket, tied the corners together, and I slung it over my shoulder.

Plunging into the thicket, we got our first real taste of the bush of Guam. Its foundation is a devilish shrub that goes by the disarming name of lemonchina, China lemon. China swordsman would have been more accurate. Chest high and thickly matted together, it is covered with sharp thorns half an inch long. Nothing has checked its growth for hundreds of years, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that we found openings we could get through.

We had gone only a short distance when the spiny thorns ripped open the pillowcase, and the food spilled out on the ground. In nervous haste, we loaded it all into the blanket and fought our way to a comparatively open space, planted with coconut trees.

Just as we reached the middle of this grove, we were alarmed to see a native woman coming toward us. It was too late for us to change our course—she had already seen us. What if she should report us and put a search party on our trail? Better to act as if there was nothing unusual in two American sailors stumbling through a coconut grove somewhere on Guam at daybreak. The woman’s black hair shone in the sun, and she wore no stockings on her brown legs. As we passed, I cleared my throat, put on as natural a smile as I could, and said, Good morning! She nodded in a cheerful way and answered, How d’ye do? just as if it were ten o’clock on the main street in town. She seemed to think no more of seeing us than, How nice to exchange a friendly greeting so early in the morning!

We looked across the clearing and saw a solid wall of lemonchina lining the edge of a deep canyon.

We ought to find a swell place to hide in there, I told Al. But once we were in the thicket, a hideout was harder to locate than we had bargained for. There were plenty of places deep enough in the bush for safety, but none were on level ground. We knew we couldn’t lie down on the steep side of a hill and expect to get a good night’s sleep. By the time we found a well-secluded flat site, it was early evening. We felt as if we had dragged that loaded blanket over half of Guam.

As we sank down on the ground in relief, I suddenly realized that we had forgotten the most important thing—water.

Just a couple tenderfeet! I said bitterly.

We passed a gasoline drum on the way up; maybe there’s some rain water in that, Al suggested.

We were suddenly suffering from thirst now that we knew we had no way to quench it. Forgetting our aching muscles, we headed back down the hillside. In the drum was a foot of water—red with rust. Now the craving was worse than ever. We slowly climbed the path again.

I hate to go into our food supplies, I said to Al, but some of the soup would do the trick.

I took a knife and opened a can, being careful not to spill any of the contents, Al was at my elbow, eagerly looking on. I pushed up the top—it was concentrated soup, requiring a can of water to make it fit to eat! We dove in with our fingers, anyway, but the stock was heavily salted, in readiness for the water mixture. We were worse off than before.

Then, further up the side of the canyon I saw a lone coconut tree that immediately cheered us up. We made a beeline for it. If we could just get one of the coconuts, it would be filled with juice. With difficulty I climbed the slanting trunk and twisted off a heavy nut. I opened it with my pocketknife, one of our very few tools. The blade broke off in the tough shell. We divided the thin milk that trickled out. It was only a teaser. I climbed after another nut, I opened it, and snapped off the other knife blade! The coconut water tasted good—very good—but the sweet liquid failed to satisfy our thirst. It was a poor exchange for two valuable knife blades.

Suddenly we heard a noise and anxiously peered through the bush.

Look, Ray, Al whispered excitedly. There’s someone coming this way!

I parted the lemonchinas and saw an old man approaching. He had on a khaki shirt and shorts and was tall for a native. His hair was gray, and he had a wrinkled Spanish-looking face. We didn’t want anyone to know where we were, but our thirst was growing each minute and would get serious pretty soon. We hastily decided to stop him and ask for water. The first day in the bush we were not so cautious.

Hello, friend!

Confronted by two sailors unexpectedly coming out of the middle of the bush, the old man was startled at first. He was such an old-timer that he spoke no English, and our Chamorro was pretty elementary, but I could say "janom"—water.

Instantly he was all sympathy. He grinned and nodded at us and climbed right up the coconut tree. With his machete he sliced the noses of two green coconuts and presented them to us! We felt very grateful, but we let him know that we still wanted janom, and he motioned us to come with him.

We followed a dim trail to his house, two rooms made of rough boards, covered with a tin roof. An old lady sat in the shade of a breadfruit tree, weaving thatch. Women and children of all ages poured out of the house. A pretty pug nosed girl who said her name was Isabel spoke up and told us that this was the Ogo family. She introduced Francisco, the old gentleman; his wife, the old lady; then his daughter and his granddaughter. Francisco waved vaguely at several smaller children, one of whom he sent off to the concrete cistern for rainwater. Another disappeared into the house and brought us two large dishes of boiled gado, a root which tastes like a white sweet potato. Perhaps it’s not the most tasty food in the world, but we were ravenous, and it hit the spot.

With Isabel acting as interpreter, we explained that the Japs had taken Guam and our lives were in real danger. Francisco, who was a patriotic native, offered us shelter in his home even though it made him our accomplice. He took us into the house, and his wife spread two clean mats on the floor and put spotless cases on the pillows.

We had hardly stretched out before we heard a deafening roar of motors on the highway. With the speed of lightning we reached the window and warily peered out. Not fifty feet away, Jap army trucks loaded with armed soldiers were passing by! At any minute one might turn into the yard. We were off to the jungle again! Francisco grabbed up mats and pillows and led us to the edge of the bush near his house. We crawled through a narrow opening and working as quickly and quietly as we could, cleaned off a space inside. Francisco brought cool, green coconut fronds and spread them on the ground. He put the woven mats on them and left, wishing us Buenas noches for our first night in the bush.


I couldn’t sleep. I lay on the mat in the dark and thought of a thousand different things. I remembered the first day I saw the island of Guam from the deck of a Navy transport back in August, 1939. The island had looked green and fertile, as a South Sea island should. A steady trade wind bent the line of palm trees on the beach and whipped my