THIS remarkable story comes to you from an island in the South Pacific. To protect the reputations of the pilot, the taxi driver and the boat skipper, its name is withheld, but you may recognize it through your own powers of deduction. I beg you not to rush to judgment but let the finer spices of it simmer in the pot, then you may decide what to do with it.
As we approached the island in a small airplane, so small that I made conversation with the pilot from my seat, he told me a most incredible story.
“You’re new here,” he began, “so be careful when you leave the airport and head into town. There is a giant pothole on the road, so big that it has a name: The Devil’s Pothole. Let me tell you, that hole is the biggest one you ever saw, and has been there forever. Why, once General MacArthur himself was on the island, riding in the back of a jeep. When they hit that hole, the jeep bucked so wildly that the general popped up out of his seat, tore through the canvas top, and landed on the side of the road, covered in mud. He jumped to his feet and cursed that hole right then and there, called it the Devil’s Pothole, and the name has stuck. I swear on every word.”
I could not believe my ears. I imagined a hold big enough to swallow a train, a steamship even. My mind drew a picture of MacArthur standing there, all red-faced and yelling. Wait. I was not aware that MacArthur had ever been to this island. I am a diligent student of history and have a fair tally of the general’s comings and goings. This island fell under Admiral Halsey’s jurisdiction during the war, not MacArthur’s. Why was he here? Could it be true? I did not want to offend the pilot, so I nodded my head in bewildered amazement and carried on with my day.
Exiting the terminal, I hailed a taxi. As I got in, the driver said to me, “Better buckle up.”
“Oh, yes?” I answered.
“You’re new here, so I’ll tell you,” he began. “There is a giant pothole on the road, so big that it has a name: The Devil’s Pothole. Let me tell you, that hole is the biggest one you ever saw, and has been there forever. Why, once General MacArthur himself was on the island, riding in the back of a jeep. When they hit that hole, the jeep bucked so wildly that the general popped up out of his seat, tore through the canvas top, and landed on the side of the road, covered in mud. He jumped to his feet and cursed that hole right then and there, called it the Devil’s Pothole, and the name has stuck. I swear on every word.”
It was the same story, word for word. What were the chances? Were they putting me on? Some trick they play on tourists? Surely, the pilot and taxi driver knew each other and were enjoying a laugh at my expense. Yet, what the man said was true. We came upon a hole in the road so big that we had to drive a block out of the way to avoid it. A massive void, it could have swallowed an aircraft carrier. Why hadn’t anyone fixed it? Still, it did not prove the story was true. Nothing told me to abandon my historical training and believe MacArthur had once gone into the hole and been bucked out of a jeep for it.
Vowing to research the career of MacArthur more thoroughly when I got home, searching for an anecdote of the Devil’s Pothole, I focused on my work at hand. I traveled by boat to a nearby island. As we approached the shore, the boat skipper said to me, “Be very careful when you jump out.”
“I will,” I said over my shoulder as I perched on the bow.
“You’re new here,” he began, “so I want you to be careful as you hit the beach and head into town. There is a giant pothole on the road, so big that it has a name: The Devil’s Pothole. Let me tell you, that hole is the biggest one you ever saw, and has been there forever. Why, once General MacArthur himself was on the island, riding in the back of a jeep. When they hit that hole, the jeep bucked so wildly that the general popped up out of his seat, tore through the canvas top, and landed on the side of the road, covered in mud. He jumped to his feet and cursed that hole right then and there, called it the Devil’s Pothole, and the name has stuck. I swear on every word.”
All right, enough was enough. Three separate incidents, all of them telling the same story, word for word, except this was a different island. They had all heard the same lie from the same person.
When I went into the village, an ancient man approached. If wrinkles are any judge of age, he was at least a hundred and forty years old. He shook and coughed violently and his lower jaw was nearly rotted away from a lifetime of betelnut chewing. Clearly, he was not long for this world.
He said, “I see you made it past the hole. Let me tell you about that hole.”
Having grown tired of the game, I lost my temper and fired back, “I know! MacArthur ran into it! I know the entire, bloody, awful mess! The mud, the nickname, all of it! Keep it to yourself, sir, I have had enough of your tall tales!”
At that, the old man twitched, grabbed his chest, let out a whoop, and fell to the ground dead. Apparently, re-telling that worn-out story is what kept him going all these years. I swear on every word.
BC Cook, PhD lived on Saipan and has taught history for over 30 years. He is a director and historian at Sealark Exploration.
BC Cook
