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Chapter 10
THE DEATH MARCH
•••••

Our life was but a battle and a march

And like the wind’s blast, never-resting, homeless

We stormed across the war-convulsed heath.

– Friedrich Von Schiller

•••••

The dust that enveloped the road was being stirred up by the wheels of trucks and big guns on their way to the front. American and Filipino soldiers emerged through the pall of smoke and dust in endless lines and groups of suffering humanity.

Many suffered from dysentery, and in answering nature’s call, ran to the side of the road. Guards kicked at them and pounded them with rifle butts and ordered them back in line. Human forms writhed in the hot dust of the road, and the further we trod, hungry and disillusioned, the number of dead increased proportionally. We stumbled over bodies, the dying and the dead. They lay on both sides of the road and soon became commonplace to us.

I was in a state of shock and not able to pay much attention to what went on around me. It’s amazing how our minds are able to adjust to shock. I do, however, remember some things quite vividly, like the incident where a squat Japanese guard with a fixed bayonet saw a soldier at the side of the road with his pants down. The guard grinned and then ran his bayonet into the poor man’s behind. Maybe I remember the incident so well because I can’t ever forget the grin on the guard’s face.

The second day we marched into the night. We had no food nor water, and none was offered, but we were thankful of the chance to lie down and rest.

A few days after I joined ranks in the march, we came to a halt in a village that had been demolished by bombs. Some Filipinos were still living there, and when the guards weren’t watching they passed some food to us. Their kindness touched me. I took the chance and approached an older man and asked if he would keep my diary and return it to me after the war. It was a risk but I had little choice. I was certain sooner or later the guards would find it on me and I would be executed on the spot. The old man looked around and nodded that he would do as I asked. I hastily jotted down my name and address and handed it to him. No one saw the transaction. As we prepared to move on I saw him standing in the crowd and wanted to wave to him but dared not. He could have been shot for abetting a prisoner.

The days dragged into weeks. The air was foul with the odor of death. At night we fell asleep where we dropped, and in the mornings we were awakened by outbursts of yelling and screeching. The Japanese guards charged in among us, kicking us to our feet. They then herded us back to the road and started us marching. Walking was torture. Now and again we passed the huddled forms of men who had collapsed from fatigue or had been bayoneted.

Our thirst had become almost unbearable by now. Sometimes one of us was permitted to collect canteens from our comrades and fill them at a stagnant carabao wallows. We held our noses and we drank whatever water we could get.

Prisoners continued to drop, and guards continued their brutal display. There was little we could do for the fallen, except encourage them on. We had learned soon enough that efforts to assist them served only to hasten their deaths and perhaps our own as well. All we could do was encourage them with words. “Don’t give up; we’re almost there,” became our bywords.

The days dragged by, and many prisoners reached the end of their endurance. They went down not singly but by twos and threes. I shall never forget their groans as they tried desperately to get up again, and always with a beaming Japanese guard standing over them with a fixed bayonet. Those who lay lifeless where they had fallen were the only ones free of sinister Japanese brutality.

Bodies were left where they lay, and the stench grew worse and worse with each mile. Occasionally we heard thumping shots from the rifles of guards bringing up the rear, and each shot meant another straggler was dead.

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Chapter 9B
THE SURRENDER
•••••

The Bataan Death March was a forced march of more than 70, 000 American and Filipino prisoners of war captured by the Japanese in the Philippines in the early stages of World War II. Starting out on April 9, 194 2, from Mariveles on the southern end of the Bataan Peninsula, they were force-marched 55 miles to San Fernando, where some were taken by rail to Capas, and from here they all walked the final eight miles to Camp O’Donnell. They were starved and mistreated, often kicked or beaten on the way, and many who fell and couldn’t continue were bayonetted where they lay. Their bodies were left to rot in the sun. Only 54, 000 reached the camp; some 7,000-10,000 died on the way and the rest escaped to the jungle … HS

•••••

As we drove along, bodies of the dead littered both sides of the road. The smell of decaying flesh, swarming with flies, was nauseating. I came around one rather sharp curve and saw, to my horror, two dead American soldiers in the path of the truck. There was nothing I could do, surrounded as I was by Japanese soldiers. I had to drive over their bodies. It wasn’t long after that incident that the one thing I feared most did happen. The truck’s engine faltered and we stopped dead in our tracks.

I quickly forgot the two dead soldiers I had crushed beneath my wheels and leaped out of the cab. Before my feet touched the ground I was surrounded a group of enemy soldiers. One grinning soldier, in a display of superiority among his peers, began beating me about the head and shoulder with a large heavy flashlight. Blood ran down my forehead and neck. I was sure my end was near, but just then another soldier ran up and began jabbering in Japanese. The soldier with the flashlight stopped beating me. The second soldier was pointing to the medical corps red cross on my shirt.

“Doctor, doctor,” he said in heavily accented English, and soon several other men repeated the word. They backed away and let me get back in the truck. My life was spared again.

Meanwhile, my guard who couldn’t have cared less about my safety, continued to tinker with the truck. He opened the hood, pulled at some wires, and crawled under the truck several times. I was worried that he would do more damage than good so I got back out of the cab to check the electrical system. I found that the battery ground cable was nearly rotted out. I was relieved to find an old school bus nearby with a useable cable still in place.

I removed the cable from the bus and transferred it to the truck. I climbed into the cab, stepped on the starter and the engine started to purr. The guard flashed his gold teeth.

After travelling a few hours, we pulled off the road for some much needed sleep. I chose a spot in the back of the truck where I couldn’t easily be spotted. Lying there, I thought seriously about trying to escape to the hills and maybe meet up with the resistance force, if there were one. Soldiers in the first few days did escape but we never knew if they made it or not. I finally decided against it, as the area was teeming with Japanese soldiers, some of them leading dogs on leashes. Another deciding factor was that I lacked medicine of any kind to protect me from dysentery or malaria. I decided I would stay with the truck for the time being.

We continued with our motor trip the next morning.

We had traveled only a short distance when the guard motioned for me to stop. There was nothing in the road, and no one was around. What did he want now? He shoved me aside with the point of his rifle and then got behind the wheel. He motioned for me to be seated next to him on the front seat. The poor fellow, his legs were so short he had difficulty reaching the clutch and brake pedal. But he was determined he was going to drive the vehicle. This nearly proved fatal.

It happened when we rounded a sharp curve and he suddenly panicked and froze at the wheel. The vehicle ran off the road and came to rest at a very sharp angle, almost tipping over. He motioned for me to wait while he went to get help, and as I watched him disappear down the road I feared he might not come back. As much as I detested him, he was my security. A half hour later he did return, sitting next to the driver in an U.S. military truck, with a second truck following close behind. Both trucks had Japanese drivers.

With the help of winches, we were able to pull our truck back onto the road. I surmised that we must be near our destination, since my guard continued to drive. It was obvious he didn’t want to lose face with the other drivers. He most likely told them it was I who drove off the road.

By late afternoon we arrived at an artillery camp. When they saw us, Japanese soldiers came running to greet us and soon flooded around, cheering and throwing up their arms in jubilation. My guard was a hero. I’m sure he made them believe he had driven all the way from the main road to camp. A soldier offered me his canteen but I hesitated. He saw my reluctance and insisted I take a swallow. I did, slowly, and was surprised at the sweetness of the drink. It was sugared tea. It greatly refreshed me. I r ever knew a drink could be so enjoyable.

I was allowed to walk around the camp, but to my disgust, I found I was unable to avoid stepping on human excreta. It was obvious the Japanese were also suffering from dysentery. But there was a difference between American and Japanese soldiers. In American camps our first chore, no matter where we were, was to dig a hole for human waste. Apparently the Japanese didn’t take time or didn’t care about sanitation. It didn’t seem to matter where they relieved themselves. I didn’t do much walking about the area that day.

The next morning I discovered the reason why the truck I had been driving was so badly needed. A dozen or more grunting soldiers, sweating profusely, dragged a heavy Japanese artillery piece mounted on wagon wheels from under cover which they hastily attached it to the rear of the truck. It was First World War vintage. No sooner was it in place when a non-commissioned officer motioned for me to get behind the wheel. My guard once again climbed in beside me, somewhat chagrined that he wasn’t driving.

A short distance up the road two Japanese trucks were attempting to climb a small hill but were having difficulty in spite of a platoon of soldiers pushing for all their worth. This was my chance to show them American ingenuity. I put my GMC six-wheeler in low gear, and still towing the artillery piece, roared up the hill easily. Once we reached the top I feared that I might have made a grave mistake but the soldiers voiced their approval with shouts and waving arms. We made the rest of the trip to the main road without a problem.

At the intersection, my guard, who was now quite annoyed, motioned for me to get in the back. He climbed into the cab and after grinding gears and a couple rough bumps he somehow managed to get us rolling. The road was heavy with traffic. The Japanese were moving their big guns and ammunition in what seemed like a race to reach the Bataan shore to strengthen their positions opposite Corregidor. Traffic became snarled every few hundred yards. Each time we halted on an incline it would take a few seconds for my guard to apply his short legs to the brakes. During the interval, the truck would roll backwards, causing the gun we were towing to turn in the opposite direction. After several close calls, the truck finally rolled back too far, tipping the artillery piece over in the middle of the road. There was a much yelling and screaming around the accident. I ducked lower in the back of the truck. I didn’t dare watch the proceedings for fear they might decide it was my fault. After a half hour of grueling pushing and pulling, the gun was righted and we continued on toward our destination. The officer in charge gave me some rice and a small can of pineapple.

The next morning my guard got behind the wheel before anyone could say anything and then motioned for me to sit on the passenger side. Six officers climbed in back of the truck and we started southward down the main road. Along the way, slowly and painfully marching northward in columns of four, we saw groups of American soldiers being prodded by Japanese guards. They were a pitiful sight, gaunt and hollowed-eyed, hardly able to place one foot in front of the other.

We delivered the officers to a camp a few miles down the road and just as we started back, several artillery shells burst quite dose to us. Our forces on Corregidor were returning fire. During the night I had heard several shells coming in from the island. We were still holding out on Corregidor!

Another shell exploded extremely close, forcing us to come to a halt. Through our shattered windshield I saw an American soldier, still alive, lying upon the ground. He had been apparently wounded from the last shell fire. A second shell came our way, exploded a few yards away and covered us with dust and flying debris.

This was my chance to do something. I was becoming more and more disturbed about the antics of my guard and worried about what he might do given the right chance. I now saw my opportunity to escape. I pointed to the wounded soldier and jumped down from the truck. The guard screamed and gesticulated for me to get back in the truck. He apparently figured he might still need me and I’m sure for that reason he didn’t shoot me on the spot. Or maybe he was just too preoccupied with the gears to think of anything else. Whatever, I ignored him.

At that moment another shell exploded nearby, again scattering debris all around us. The guard completely forgot me. He decided to get out of the area as fast as he could. He gunned the motor and with gears grinding and wheels spinning he left me standing in the road.

I discovered another wounded soldier a short distance away. This man, as well as the one I had seen from the window of the truck, had been hit in the leg, but neither seemed to be in very bad shape. Both were officers, a lieutenant and a colonel.

Fearful of more artillery shells, I decided to get these two wounded men out of the area in any way I could. Truckloads of Japanese soldiers streamed by in both directions.

I attempted to flag them down but they would not stop. However, they kept pointing to the rear. I sat at the side of the road holding the two wounded officers, and in a few minutes an American truck with a G.I. driver came down the road. He stopped and we loaded the wounded men in the back. After driving several more miles, in a direction I hoped was away from the front, a group of Japanese halted us, and with threats of shooting us, ordered the truck off the road. They then confiscated the truck and had us remove the wounded men. We placed them in the shade. An American medical officer, hobbling slowly with the other soldiers, stopped and took over. Fortunately there were no guards about.

I was now on foot, and again part of the Death March.

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Chapter 9A
THE SURRENDER
•••••

The Bataan Death March was a forced march of more than 70, 000 American and Filipino prisoners of war captured by the Japanese in the Philippines in the early stages of World War II. Starting out on April 9, 194 2, from Mariveles on the southern end of the Bataan Peninsula, they were force-marched 55 miles to San Fernando, where some were taken by rail to Capas, and from here they all walked the final eight miles to Camp O’Donnell. They were starved and mistreated, often kicked or beaten on the way, and many who fell and couldn’t continue were bayonetted where they lay. Their bodies were left to rot in the sun. Only 54, 000 reached the camp; some 7,000-10,000 died on the way and the rest escaped to the jungle … HS

•••••

On that morning of April 9, 1942, our officers told us to stack our arms. They announced the fearful news that our American and Filipino forces on Bataan had surrendered. They further ordered us to march out to the main road that extended from Mariveles to San Fernando. As it so sadly turned out, this was the start of the infamous Bataan Death March.

At the intersection we encountered our first live Japanese soldier. He was an officer, standing alone, and he treated us courteously. He motioned for us to march farther down the main road, which we did. After about a hundred yards we stopped and lined up on both sides of the road and waited. We waited for the victorious Japanese army on its way to take up positions opposite Corregidor. Soon came tanks, artillery pieces, and finally foot soldiers by the hundreds.

A close friend, Charlie Wright, stood next to me “Don’t worry. They’re not going to hurt us,” he said. He was smiling. A Japanese solder saw him smiling, rushed up and slapped him hard across the face. He then grabbed Charlie’s arm and yanked away his ‘Wrist watch. Charlie stood there in awe, the smile gone from his face.

Word now spread through our ranks, “get rid of your Jap stuff.” I didn’t know what “Jap stuff’ they were talking about but I would find out.

Soon Japanese soldiers, noncommissioned officers and three-star privates, broke ranks, rushed up and struck our men for no reason. They hit them with open hands, fists and rifle butts. They began searching our persons, and then went through our packs, confiscating what they wanted. They took our watches, rings, fountain pens, whatever valuables they found. Some even took our shoes. Their officers did nothing to stop them, and, in fact, only seemed to encourage them on, like one does to a dog to force him to attack.

When the soldiers found anything stamped with Japanese markings they went into an uncontrollable rage. An U.S. soldier possessing a shaving mirror with “Made in Japan” markings was beaten unmercifully. Another with Japanese souvenir money was kicked until he became unconscious. The Japanese obviously thought we had taken these items from their dead. We lost no time discarding anything that was Japanese or even resembled Japanese.

After the vanguard of soldiers had passed, armed guards with fixed bayonets herded us into an open field. We had nothing to eat that day, nor any water to drink. We slept on the hard ground without blankets or nets. Mosquitos attacked us with the same determination as dive bombers had the day before.

The next morning our guards ordered us to our feet and herded us back onto the road. We were told to march up the road toward San Fernando, a railroad junction about fifty-five miles distant. We had walked only a short distance when more Japanese soldiers heading to the front came down the road. They too broke ranks, searched and beat us at will. Some became highly angered when they could find nothing of value in our possession. Thereafter we were stopped often to allow more Japanese soldiers and equipment to pass. Their ferocity grew as we marched on into the afternoon. Our stragglers, the men too weak to keep up, were the worst victims. The Japanese were no longer content to maul those who fell behind, or prick them with bayonet points; their thrusts now were meant to kill. The fate of those who fell behind we didn’t know. We-never saw them again.

Mile after mile the looting and beatings continued. They cared not whom they struck. High ranking officers were no exception. I watched one three-star private attack Major General Edward King, the U.S. commander who surrendered our troops on Bataan. Had we been sitting in movie theater, we might have thought we were watching a Charley Chaplin comedy, but in reality there was nothing funny about it. The soldier was so short that he had to jump to strike the general in the face with his fist. He did it time and time again, and the general just stood there. I was only a few yards away and I could do nothing. No one could do anything. Guards with pointed rifles waited for us to do something. Finally, the private gave up in disgust and walked away.

No food was given to us that day either. Again we camped in an open field upon hard ground. We had covered but five miles that day on our way to San Fernando. At the rate we were going, it would take us another ten days, and by then most of us would be dead.

As we were bedding down I noticed a wide shallow stream next to our camp site. Before attempting to sleep I decided to clean up. Without guards noticing I made my way to the stream, undressed and lay down in the water. I heard noises up stream. I focused my attention and discovered the sounds were coming from a group of Japanese soldiers who were spreading a fish net across the stream. I kept low and watched. A small fish, much like a perch, had been stunned by the net and it floated down stream toward me. I grabbed it, shut my eyes, and gulped it down. Another came by and then several more.

I ravenously swallowed them whole, wiggling and alive.

Early the next morning, impatient Japanese soldiers stepped among us and kicked us awake. We were just as exhausted now as we had been when we went to sleep. We were each given a small ball of rice and once again we began ambling down the road more toward San Fernando. The sun burned away the morning dew, and before long the hot surface of the road blistered our feet. The temperature rose by the minute. Noon came and went. The midday heat was scorching and unrelenting. We craved water, even the mud-filth water that lay in the sinkholes in the fields would have sufficed but we could not break ranks. If we had, even to drink the filthy water, death would have followed.

Rumors were now spreading that we were going directly to Manila instead of San Fernando. We also heard that the Japanese needed drivers for the abandoned American trucks scattered along the route. Thinking that I might drive prisoners to Manila, I volunteered. After explaining that I had been a truck driver in America, which I had been, I was selected along with several other prisoners.

A Japanese officer escorted us several miles back over the road from which we had come, and almost immediately I began to wonder if I had done the right thing. I began cursing to myself that I had volunteered, and realized that I had no idea what I was getting into. Maybe it was another of their sadistic games created for their own sordid self-amusement.

I was relieved to learn the mission was legitimate and not a prank. The officer led us to a six-wheel GMC truck with three axles; it was resting helplessly in a ditch beside the road. It appeared at a glance to be in fair condition. As I got into the cab to drive, a Japanese soldier with the rank of private superior climbed in with me, to act as my guard. He had extremely short legs and a mouth filled with gold teeth. He was as sinister looking as any enemy soldier I had so far seen. His actions and his general behavior immediately made me suspicious of his mental stability. Nevertheless, I was aware I had to humor him in any way I could.

The engine turned over, sending out puffs of smoke, and after a couple jerky starts, more for display on my part, we were on our way. The soldier sitting next to me smiled with approval.

The fury of the recent battle was in evidence everywhere one turned. Trees had been stripped from the bomb blasts; the earth marred with shell crater after shell crater and pieces of wrecked equipment were strewn over the road. Japanese infantry soldiers continued streaming south toward the beach that faced Corregidor. We were forced to pull over and stop many times due to heavy traffic snarls. The dust became choking. At all times, on both sides of the truck, I was surrounded by enemy soldiers. Some eyed me curiously, not knowing what to make of my presence; others looked as though they would have liked very much to get their hands on me. An engine failure would probably have meant my life. I prayed it didn’t happen. As long as we kept moving, or the engine was running, I felt relatively safe behind the wheel. My demented private superior guard didn’t make matters any better. He couldn’t sit there contented to let me drive. He continuously tried to impress his fellow soldiers with his knowledge of American trucks. Every time we stopped in traffic, he would get out of the cab, lift the hood, and start tinkering with the wires. Several times he crawled under the truck to pretend he was making an adjustment of some sort. I held my breath at his antics, afraid of what damage he might do.

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Chapter 8
THE FALL OF BATAAN
•••••

During the final days of the battle for Bataan, American and Filipino forces attempted to form a line of resistance across the peninsula from Orion on Manila Bay to Bagac on the South China Sea. At the mountainous center of this line was Mt. Samat, a 2, 000 foot, conical peak. On April 5, 1942, the Japanese 4th Division under General Taniguchi and the 61^st Infantry regiment under Colonel Sato moved against the mountain from the north and fought their way to the summit. The high ground secure, the Japanese moved rapidly down Samat’s southern slope, penetrating Bataan’s last line of defense… HS

•••••

My account of the fighting that lasted for four days on the slopes of Mount Samat is relived in the following entries in my diary. It appears exactly as I wrote it.

“April 6, 1942: Up at daybreak. We were greeted with rifle and machine gun fire and strafing by enemy planes. Three of us dug a foxhole immediately. While digging the hole, we had to fall flat on our faces many times because of mortar, machine gun, and rifle fire. We ate our canned rations for breakfast. They had just come from Corregidor. After we ate, dive bombers dove over us and bombed close by. Observation planes are continually flying overhead.

“At 10:00, the enemy artillery commenced to shell our positions. The fire was heavy and shells were passing overhead. Japanese opened up with machine gun and rifle fire again. One of our sergeants dashed from the command post and yelled to us that we have five minutes to load the truck and to retreat for our lives. It was reported that Philippine army units were supposed to withdraw slowly and we were to counterattack. Our patrols this morning found that the Philippine army was forced to withdrew during the night and we were now stranded.

“I drove the truck as fast as I could and we put up an aid station in the bed of a creek. Dive bombers were over us all of the time and we couldn’t move in our tracks. We were resting in the afternoon for a few moments when we received news that the enemy was again coming down the road in great numbers. We were again given orders to get out quickly. As we left we could hear rifle and machine gun fire coming toward us. I again drove the truck down the road, which was littered with all sorts of troops. We pulled up at our old camp and dive bombers commenced to strafe and bomb us. We remained in our holes for about one hour while we were being strafed by enemy planes. We received news that the First and Second Battalions were fighting for their lives in their withdrawal.

“I am exhausted. I haven’t had any sleep for twenty-four hours. This is getting rugged. We ate our canned rations and I was detailed to act as stand-by runner for the night for Captain Rader, our new commanding officer. “April 7, 1942: Up at daybreak. We were given orders to load the truck and to be ready once more. Four men, including myself, went back up to the First Battalion and I was left as a guard for one hour. While watching the truck, low-flying planes kept circling and banking over me. I had to keep retreating Filipinos away. After being relieved from duty, I had a can of rations and cold coffee. Planes were overhead all the time. Just as I lay down to rest, one of the men shouted for us to get out immediately. We all hopped on the truck, and when we pulled away snipers opened up on us. We recognized Captain Brennan, a medical officer in command of the Third Battalion medics, in a dazed condition, being helped down the road. We stopped and piled him into the truck. The dust was terrific. An old bus stalled in front of me and I had to push it out of the way. One of our men finally stopped us and I drove the truck under a bamboo thicket. Bombs were dropping around us. Enemy shells were whizzing overhead.

“I am sitting in a foxhole resting. It is 10:25 in the morning. At 10:30, we again started back in a rush. Planes over us all the time. We went over to our last camp and are now awaiting further orders. I lay in a foxhole and tried to get some rest while dive bombers and artillery fire were going full blast. An American patrol came in and told us the Japanese were right on our tail. There was a mad dash for trucks and cars. Again, I hopped into my truck and all the boys jumped in with me. We drove through a shell-torn area with trucks and cars littering the road. In many places, we had to detour around bomb craters.

“By the grace of God, the sky seemed to be clear of planes for about one-half an hour. Troops were all over the road. We finally arrived at the main road and I really tore along. Bombers were overhead, but we did not stop for them. We drove back to one of our old bivouac areas and got out and took a bath and washed all the dust from our bodies. I found an automobile with the clutch gone and managed to get it started. We left for the Second Corps area to get information. On the way, we ran into our company and commanding officer, Captain Rader. We were certainly glad to see him. I received instructions to take the truck and men back to a service company for chow. Returning to the truck, we found one of our boys who was shell shocked and rambling aimlessly down the road. I picked him up and left him with an ambulance. We then started off and arrived at the service company at 6:00. We had our chow and then the bombers started again and kept us flat on our faces for about one hour. They were diving and bombing all around us. They finally left and we drove back to our camp. Sergeant Sayer and I spent the night in the hut I had built and I slept very well as I was exhausted.

“April 8, 1942: Up at 4:00. We moved our vehicles out, ready to evacuate. Foot troops walked past us. Our commanding officer left and we ate some canned rations. We put the vehicles back under cover and sat near our holes. We set up an aid station and worked on men all day. The men that are coming in are exhausted, blistered, shaken up, discouraged, and covered with dirt and grime. The tales they tell us are unbelievable. They have been wandering aimlessly through the jungle, searching for their companies and officers. Many of them have been bombed and are stunned, some of them in tears. They all are still hoping for help even though it looks like a suicide regiment.

“Planes have been bombing over us all day, big bombers and dive bombers. At 6:00, we were suddenly told that the enemy was just about at our road intersection.

I drove the truck out of the brush and everybody hopped on. Planes were overhead. We dashed for the intersection, which was about three kilometers ahead, and we took an alternate road and crossed a creek. Two tanks and half- tracks were covering the retreat. Troops were cluttering the road. Machine gun and rifle fire was very close. I drove the truck down the road and there were all kinds of vehicles on the edge of the road. We slowed down as it became dark and finally turned into a motor-pool area at Kilometer Post 167. We took blankets, walked to a camp, lay on the ground and went to sleep.

“April 9, 1942: During the night, we had a strong earthquake. It woke us all up. An hour later, we were all awakened again by ammunition dumps exploding. We had to move down into a gully. We arose at 6:00 and then gathered with about a hundred other soldiers. Word is going around that we have surrendered. It is now 7:00. I am looking around at these men. It is pitiful. They are stunned and disheartened. Fighting is still going on all around us. We took cover in some dugouts. Sergeant Sayer went out to try and find someone who knows something. As I lay in this foxhole I still have hope and faith in Uncle Sam. He will not desert us in this hour of need. We have been without nourishing food for two months. We have been suffering from malaria and dysentery. The men should never have been sent up to the front this last time. They were much too weak. They were being bombed, strafed and torn to shreds. I believe that the Thirty-first Infantry is no more. All that was needed was a few planes.

I have failed to write about the men’s condition, because I did not want to divulge any military information. But now I am writing this, because I know it won’t make any difference. I went to a mess kitchen and had to wait an hour for some rice. Bombers are over us continually. After eating I laid down to sleep. I was awakened by someone shouting ….”

That incomplete sentence terminates my diary.

There was no more time to write. I shoved the book into my pocket and forgot about it for the time being.

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Chapter 7
THE LAST STAND
•••••

Lt. John Bulkerley, commander of PT-41, received orders to proceed to Corregidor: The high command had to be evacuated, by orders of the President of the United States. On March 11, 1942, General Douglas MacArthur, his wife and their son were taken aboard PT-41, and they made rendezvous with three other boats from the Squadron Six at the entrance to Manila Bay and together proceeded south. It was not an easy voyage.

A strong easterly wind made the going rough, with sheets of water crashing over the bows. Before the night was over the boats became separated. Passengers and crew alike aboard PT-41 were drenched and exhausted when they reached their destination, but they had made the trip of 912 kms. through Japanese-patrolled waters and had arrived precisely on time. Later that day the other boats reached port.Lt. Bulkerley returned with PT-41 to the fighting in the north. They fought until there were no more torpedoes available. In the end, PT-41 was set afire by its own crew to keep it from falling in the hands of the Japanese… HS

•••••

News reached us that General Douglas MacArthur, our commander-in-chief, had left Corregidor. We heard through the grapevine that he had boarded a torpedo boat and was ordered to Australia. We were told we now had a new commander, General Jonathan Wainwright.

The news that MacArthur had left caused great concern among the troops. Rumors and speculation ran wild. Some believed “Dugout Doug,” as they called him, had deserted us. I didn’t feel this way at all. I reasoned he was following orders and had no other choice. The President of the United States ordered him to leave and to reorganize so that our troops could return. My concern now was not so much as how long could we hold out but how long would the war last. We were also concerned with our more immediate problems, like the coming rains.

Rumors began circulating around camp that we would probably spend the rainy season, usually a long six months, in the jungle. Having little to do other than wait for the Japanese to come, I decided to build myself a small hut and prepare for the rains. A few G.I.s thought I was crazy. Why put myself thorough all that work, they said, and I might not be around long enough to use the hut? What did it matter? I knew well it was much better to keep busy than be idle.

With my trusty machete as my only tool, I cut down large bamboo poles about six feet long and eight inches in diameter. These I notched for the foundation. I dug holes and placed the notched poles into the ground, and the~ laced crosspieces into the notches. To make a floor, I split several bamboo poles into narrow slats and strung these to the crosspieces. Next came the bamboo uprights.

These I tied up to the foundation with strips of bamboo I had soaked in water to make pliable. The roof I made from grass that I had stripped and salvaged from the roof of an abandoned shack.

My trim little hut made me very proud, and it appeared that I would be quite comfortable when the rains came. I moved in when the roof was completed.

In the evening of April 2nd, Lieutenant Brown, Sergeant Sayer and I climbed to the crest of a hill to watch the moon rise. We could see the bay and Manila in the distance. The moonlight filtering through a few scattered clouds was beautiful. As I sat and gazed out at the lovely scene, I became very homesick. I wanted to cry right there. It was sad to know how helpless we were to do anything. Why did we have to die?

I envisioned my home, my sister and brothers, and my friends. I dreamed of the day I would step into my home once more. As we sat there on the crest of the hill, thinking and dreaming about home, we had no way of knowing we would be spending our last night in the jungle camp, or that one week later we would be prisoners of the Japanese. This was our last taste of freedom for the years to come.

At dusk the next day we were called together and told to prepare ourselves to move into action. A big battle was coming. Our most senior officer addressed us in a solemn voice. He assured us we would have support in our endeavor to hold the line. Tanks would be in front of us, he said, and P-40’s overhead to protect us. At nine o’clock with moonlight streaming through the trees we broke camp and again started toward the front lines. For a brief while the truck I was in got lost from the rest of the convoy. We finally found our outfit at midnight. We pulled off the road, stretched our blankets on the ground and went to sleep.

The next morning, as we were digging in, wave after wave of Japanese bombers came in from the north and dropped their bombs all around us. There were no tanks to be seen, nor P-40s overhead as promised. After chow we were again ordered to leave our foxholes and move toward the front.

Just as we were about a hundred yards from camp, I remembered my canteen. I had forgotten it and ran back to get it. Suddenly, halfway there, I stopped dead in my tracks. The path was blocked! Standing directly in front of me, with tongue licking out and tail lashing back and forth, was what I thought at first to be a prehistoric dragon, a living dinosaur. I then realized I was face to face with a Komodo lizard. He was at least six feet long, and had he wished, he could have had me for lunch. How would my family react to this news: Son killed in battle, eaten by a dragon? I didn’t give the animal the slightest chance to act. In no time at all I was back to the truck, without my canteen. I was detailed to drive the truck. We left at dusk and I had a difficult time finding the road in the dark. A soldier named Jackson sat on the front fender and helped to guide me over the narrow, difficult dirt road. We were moving toward Mt. Samat, the scene of our final battle. As we drove, artillery shells burst around us on every flank.

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Chapter 6b
Japanese Propaganda
•••••

A man I knew found a radio which we hooked up to a truck battery. In the evening, with the sounds of insects buzzing all around us and unknown animals calling out in the jungle, we would listen to a news program from home called “The Voice of Freedom.” As news spread about that we had a radio, the crowd at evening news time grew larger and larger and often included high ranking officers. After the news the station played American music, mostly big band music that was so popular at that time. Like the hymns the nurses had sung before Christmas, the music brought with it powerful images of home. I literally felt like crying when I listened to it every night, as probably did every other soldier gathered around that truck. Still, there was something soothing and fine about the music, and when conditions permitted I enjoyed going to sleep listening to it. Sometimes during the day we tuned in to Tokyo and could listen to the Japanese propaganda broadcasts. According to the Japanese, we had been completely wiped out, totally eliminated.

Our company’s move into this new area did not solve the malaria problem as we had thought it might. The anopheles mosquitoes simply followed us to our new site, and now they struck with savage vengeance. More and more men became stricken with the fever and had to be sent back to the base hospital. We felt there would soon be no one left to defend our lines.

For about two months now we had now been under constant Japanese air attacks and unrelenting shelling. Food had become scarce. We had nearly exhausted our rations, and we were not being resupplied. We turned to eating dead horses and mules that had been killed from the blasts of bombs and shells. We were given something to eat in the morning, and then something in the evening.

If we wanted something to eat during the day, we had to do our own improvising. One day the mess sergeant came up with canned abalone. Lord knows where he found it but he did. I remembered the abalone sandwiches my friends and I had enjoyed just before we left San Francisco and I was excited at the prospect of having some now. Our excitement soon turned to bitter disappointment. The abalone was tougher than shoe leather. Hides from the dead horses and mules would have served better.

Our search for food took us into the jungle. We had heard that Filipinos ate monkeys, and, in fact, considered them a delicacy. A friend and I decided to hunt for monkeys. After hiking through the dense forest for a few hours, we suddenly heard a loud squawking noise. We found a wild chicken hopping up and down in the bushes. We moved in only to find it was tied to a string. I was just about to grab it when a Filipino appeared from nowhere and claimed it.

The Filipino demonstrated his trap for us. It was ingenious to say the least. Bamboo slats about two feet long were placed in the ground a couple of inches apart to form a fence about fifty feet long. An opening was left in the middle for the chicken to squeeze through. At the opening, a string was attached to a small tree with a trigger made from twigs. The tree was bent over to form a spring and the string made into a loop with a slip knot. The whole concept of this trap depended on the chicken’s low I.Q. A hen or rooster would never jump or fly over the fence. It always preferred to follow the fence until it came to an opening, so the Filipino explained.

The next day my friend and I hiked backed into the hills and set a trap as the Filipino had taught us. The following morning we rushed to the snare to see if we had caught anything. Much to our dismay we found nothing, but we did see feathers scattered around the area. We had caught a chicken, that was certain, but someone had gotten to it before we did.

These experiences made me feel more confident in the jungle and some nights when I wanted to be alone.

I left my foxhole and slept by myself in the brush. I did this a number of times, until one night I heard rustling in the bush all around me. I thought I might be surrounded by Japanese soldiers. I crawled on hands and knees back to my foxhole and never again slept alone in the jungle.

During this period we moved around periodically, always setting up a new aid station wherever we settled. Many men, myself included, suffered from diarrhea and fever. Our travels generally took us deeper into the Mariveles Mountains. Japanese planes continued to circle over us and frequently bombed facilities close at hand. On February 7th I reported in my diary: “This spot is the most beautiful we have been to. We are in the primeval jungle. We have a mountain stream and the thick foliage makes it quite cool all day long. We are located behind our artillery and all we have to worry about is anti-aircraft shrapnel.”

At each stop we had to make new sleeping arrangements. On the 10th of February I made the following entry: “At 3:00 in the morning Marchesi’s bed broke and he fell to the ground. I thought it was funny. An hour later my bed broke and I fell five feet. I slept on the ground for the rest of the night.”

On the 16th, Hendrickson and I hitched a ride to Hospital No. 2 to visit old friends and see if I could find out what had happened to my accordion. Someone must have seen it. We ran into quite a lot of guys from Letterman. One of them told me he had found the accordion and left it with a woman in Manila.

I visited the hospital cemetery and saw rows of graves marked with little bamboo crosses. Our friends at the hospital treated us to special dish-caramel pudding, made from canned sweetened condensed milk that had been boiled for an hour, and then allowed to cool. This they mixed with canned fruit. No dish has ever tasted better. On _a couple of occasions I traveled as far as Hospital No. 1, a distance of more the 20 kilometers. Several of my Letterman friends were there, and they had a much better supply of food. While I was touring the hospital I met Miss Kuethahl, the nurse who had been my instructor at Sternberg. She asked mi if I would like to transfer to the hospital saying she needed me. I told her I would think about it. After giving a serious thought, a few days later I went to see her and said I would like to transfer. It was too late. Before the paperwork could be accomplished, things changed suddenly.

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Chapter 6a
AT HOME IN THE JUNGLE
•••••

Every soldier trapped in a foxhole during an artillery barrage faces a stiff test of self-control. Many times I struggled through this ordeal and forced myself to relax when I felt like screaming, jumping out of my foxhole, and dashing madly through the jungle. There were occasions while the shells were bursting around me, when my thoughts wandered back to some incident during my boyhood days. It was these thoughts that kept me from going mad.

On this morning I remembered my first experience with death. I was three years old. It is early morning and I am standing in the kitchen clutching my mama’s hand, certain that the trap door of my underwear is open m back. A burly policeman stands in the room. He holds a pad and a pencil in his hands and he is trying to get information from my mother but there is a problem: His questions are coming out in a heavy Irish brogue and my mama is responding in wild and gesticulating Italian. Tony, my older brother-he is six-is trying unsuccessfully to translate.

A band of thieves had raided our block that night during a rainstorm. Several basements were rifled. At approximately the same time that the hoodlums were engaged in the looting, a patrolman had come around the corner, innocently walking his beat. As he started up the street, a volley of loud shots shattered the stillness of the night and running footsteps echoed through the deep cellars. A light suddenly went on in an upper flat next door, and in quick succession three shots rang out and bullets pierced the illuminated windows. Broken glass shattered to the pavement below and immediately the light was extinguished. A deep ominous silence settled over the neighborhood.

Papa showed more intelligence. He jumped out of bed, drew the curtain slowly aside, and peeked through the window. Directly below him, two men were sneaking through the fence. Papa promptly pulled the curtain tight and hopped back in bed.

The following morning, after many futile attempts to obtain some sort of intelligible statement from Mama, the policeman slowly climbed the stairs to the next floor, muttering and shaking his head. We tried to tell him that Aunt Mary lived upstairs and that she couldn’t speak English either, but he didn’t understand.

My brother Tony went down to the corner and saw the dead patrolman. He was lying on the wet pavement and his feet were pointed toward the door of the saloon.

I remembered Tony’s description of the dead man as I lay in the foxhole.

The Thirty-first Infantry repulsed the Japanese and held its position, at least for the present. We were replaced by Philippine army units and we moved to a bivouac area behind the lines. Instead of a welcoming respite from battle, it proved to be unpleasant, hiding from the enemy and waiting for something to happen.

The bivouac area was located in a heavily wooded area well screened from enemy planes. A beautiful mountain stream flowed through mango and bamboo groves. It was beautiful but deadly! The water was cool and crystal clear, and it looked much like the mountain streams back home in northern California. But it was not like the streams at home. In the mountain streams of Bataan dwelled those tiny microbes that bring on dysentery. And dysentery in the tropics, more often than not, can be fatal.

We were ordered not to touch a drop of water unless it was treated. I was put in charge of chlorinating the drinking water that we kept in a large canvas bag hanging from a tree. Every day we changed the water and added chlorine to make it safe to drink, but unfortunately the chlorine wasn’t always effective.

Enemy planes constantly flew above our jungle hideout but the foliage was so dense we were able to move around without danger of being sighted from the air.

When we first arrived, I had looked around for a safe place to sleep. I chose an irrigation ditch nearby that was about six feet wide. With a machete a Filipino had given me I cut down a couple dozen bamboo poles and placed them across the ditch. I then laid layers of grass over the poles and thus made myself a comfortable accommodation. I slept well the first two nights but on the third morning my bones were aching. I blamed the discomfort on my bed and did some rearranging. On the fourth morning I awoke so stiff I found it difficult to walk. Every bone in my body ached horribly and I had a high temperature. I knew the symptoms. I feared I might have a case of dysentery coming on. I reported to the camp doctor and was informed that I had contacted dengue fever, a disease found in the tropics commonly known as “breakbone fever.” Much like malaria, it’s carried by mosquitos, but it’s not always fatal. Fortunately, the doctor still had medicine which he gave me and in a few days I felt much better.

More than the Japanese, our worst enemy during this period was the anopheles mosquito. Our scenic bivouac area was infested by this mosquito. Though this malaria-carrying insect generally conducts his deadly air raids at night, they may choose to attack during the day as well as night. Without nets we were helpless. We were constantly bitten, from head to toe, and the effects of their bites soon began to take its toll. At first, only a few men were sent back to the hospital area located about twenty kilometers behind the lines. Before long the numbers increased until they reached alarming proportions. Something had to be done and quickly.

Our commanding officer sent a detail to search for another area. I was ordered to go with this group and, after hiking through the jungle, we found a spot similar to the one we were leaving. It too had a mountain stream but seemingly with less mosquitos. I chose my own bedding down area and we then returned and made our report to the C.O. He agreed fully to the change of scene.

To my delight, I found several banana groves in the new area. I devised a method to get the bananas down without chopping down the trees, trees which helped serve as cover. I tied my machete to a long bamboo pole and cut down the bunches of bananas by hacking through the stems, leaving the groves still standing. The bananas were still green so I dug a couple of holes and carefully buried them. I had learned from the Filipinos that this method speeded up their ripening. I felt proud of myself that I was learning a few things about life in the jungle.

Over next few days we moved our outfit and settled into the new area. Then I surprised my friends by digging up the bananas. They had fully ripened. We quickly and ravenously feasted on them with little ceremony. After that I kept a stash of bananas buried in the ground and used them to trade for other items of food. Everyone called me the “King of the Bananas,” and over the next few weeks l ate so many bananas that I became tired of them in spite of still being hungry. I ate banana sandwiches, bananas with rice, bananas with condensed milk. I ate bananas with whatever I could find.

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Chapter 5
THE BASTARDS OF BATAAN
•••••

Bataan province is in central Luzon of the Philippines, and occupies a 530-square miles (1,370 sq. km) peninsula extending southward and sheltering Manila Bay (east)from the South China Sea. Corregidor Island lies just off its southern tip at the entrance of the bay. About 30 miles (48 km) long and averaging 15 miles in width, Bataan is largely covered by jungle and is traversed north to south by steep mountains culminating in Mt. Natib (4,224 ft.) [1,287 m]) in the north and Mt. Bataan (4, 701 ft.) in the south ... Harold Stephens

•••••

The most effective weapon the Japanese had was their air force. With our fighter planes knocked out and with the little ground fire we had their bombers and fighter planes were over us from morning until dark. The fighters usually flew in flights of three planes. Observation planes working in conjunction with big ‘guns directed artillery lire into our area. We had to keep out of sight at all times.

One morning when we were camped in a gulch, we started to fire our rifles, mostly in frustration, at the planes as they flew over at a low altitude. That afternoon, six planes dove and dropped their bombs on top our line. Casualties were light, but our commanding officer ordered us to stop firing at enemy planes since our fire exposed our position. Blackouts were taken seriously. A man lighting a cigarette after dark, we were told, would be shot.

The little air support we did have included three or four P-40 Warhawks which occasionally flew over our lines. They came from a dirt airstrip at Cabcaban. The strip was maintained for operations and was protected by anti- aircraft guns. There was no doubt, however, that Japanese planes had full control of the entire area.

At the end of each day I looked for a quiet place to write in my diary. Some days there was no such place. Often I wrote when we were under fire. At times like this I felt that if l didn’t survive perhaps my diary would, and then the world would know the hell we were going through. But, I had to be careful that I didn’t record information that might be harmful to us if the Japanese ever got hold of it. I also knew, military information or not, if I were caught and found with a diary it would mean my instant death.

The following is my account of some of the action that took place during the battle of Abucay. Manila had fallen a few days before on January 2^nd, and all the defending American and Filipino forces had withdrawn to Bataan.

This was the Thirty-first Infantry Regiment’s first and most important battle. The name Abucay comes from a barrio, or village, located along the eastern coastal plain of the Bataan peninsula. A defensive line was drawn across the peninsula that became known as the Abucay line. American and Filipino troops held this line from January to April of 1942. I like to think it helped to slow down the overall invasion of the South Pacific.

‘January 6, 1942: There was much artillery activity during the night. At about 1:00, our 155s were firing very close to us … without any return fire from the Japanese until 10:45. I recognized the first enemy shell whistling towards us and after yelling a warning, we dove into our foxholes. We are directly in the middle of an artillery duel. Our shells as well as enemy shells are whizzing over our heads. Two shells fell closer.

“My foxhole was not deep enough for me so I dashed to another hole and piled in with Sergeant Sayer from my company. Dive-bombers have appeared and we are now getting it from the artillery and the bombs. It is a great relief to talk to someone while the shells are exploding. Sergeant Sayer remembered that he had some canned foods in a truck parked nearby. With shells popping around me, I reached the truck and dashed back with the food.

“It is now 7:00 and we haven’t had a rest from shell fire all day. We received a call from Major White, our commanding officer, asking for seven men to go to the Third Battalion to aid them with casualties.

‘We set off in the dark and, while crossing through our lines, our own men turned a machine gun on us. After much yelling they recognized us and let us pass. We hiked through mud flats and waded across a stream. We weren’t sure where the battalion was and also had news that the Japanese had broken through. They were in the vicinity somewhere. We finally found the battalion and discovered that they had not needed us. I was assigned guard duty for two hours and then we received orders to evacuate. We piled in a truck and headed for the mountains, arriving at our destination at 3:00 in the morning, and tried to sleep.”

Most of my time from January 7 to January 14 was spent on routine duty. Japanese planes were bombing around our area, but no close hits were registered. They kept us under cover and between bombings and artillery barrages, we kept busy digging first-aid dugouts and foxholes. It was during this time that the phrase “The Bastards of Bataan” originated as we joked about our predicament. No air support, no tanks, very little food, ammunition running low, no Uncle Sam; all this tended to fit the expression, “Bastards of Bataan.” The real question that haunted us was were we really bastards of Bataan? Had we been forsaken? The one thing we couldn’t give up was hope.

On the 16th, we broke camp and started back toward the front. We hiked about ten miles that night in the dark. All during the march artillery guns were firing around us and we could see a red glow as we approached the front lines. Finally about midnight we left the road and lay down in the brush to sleep. A battery of 155’s was nearby and every time the guns fired we were lifted off the ground. We had also been warned to watch for snipers in the area. I did not sleep much that night.

We set up an aid station and from that time until we withdrew on the 24th, we were in the midst of a continuous battle. We received little food and almost no sleep. What follows are my diary entries for the 23rd and 24th.

‘January 23, 1942: Our artillery opened up before daylight on an advance. Noise was terrific. Guns are within a few hundred yards of us. I was awakened and put on guard duty until breakfast time. After breakfast I went back to bed. At daybreak Jap bombers dropped bombs at our artillery. They were quite close. A battery of long distance Jap guns started to shell our area at 8:00 in the morning. Shells are whizzing overhead.

“At 11:30, our guns started firing back at them. The noise is deafening. Planes are bombing around our artillery positions. It is getting hotter every minute! Japanese artillery has scored a direct hit on something. We can hear flames crackling.

“12:55: we are lucky to be alive. Three Jap bombers have just dropped a load of bombs on us. The concussion shook us up and we were covered with dirt and branches from the trees that were over us. It felt like somebody slapped me in the mouth. We administered first-aid to several men and had to treat severely shell-shocked soldiers. The trees we were under were torn to shreds.

“Shells are still exploding around us and planes are overhead. We were called to help an artillery unit and found two men dead and several wounded. After taking care of casualties, we walked back to camp with planes overhead. We were under shell fire continuously. We had to hit the dirt many times.

‘January 24, 1942: 11:30:Japanese are opening up with artillery fire this morning. Shells are exploding right in the camp. They are bursting within ten to three hundred yards. Four of us are piled in a large foxhole. We were covered with dirt and shrapnel was buzzing all around us. Only three casualties.

“5:00: Sent out detail to recover two wounded men. As soon as we started up the road, shells commenced to drop around us. We found out that the wounded men had already been carried out. After coming back to camp, I decided to take a bath. I stripped and started to wash in in an irrigation ditch. No sooner was the soap applied than when the shells started to come over. I was trapped in the nude and had to drop into the shallow ditch until the shelling ceased.

‘We received word that Goukus, a medical man and a good friend, had been picked off by a sniper.

“At 8 o’clock the whole 31st started to withdraw. We fell into single file formation without anything to eat and marched towards the Mariveles Mountains. We marched until 1:30 am and then had our chow and laid on the ground to sleep. We were dog tired. One man passed out on the road.”

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LAST BOAT TO BATAAN
•••••

Stacked on the pier in front of the cargo ship were about forty heavy packing crates which we were instructed to load aboard before we left. We were about to begin when an air raid alarm sounded and within minutes enemy planes appeared from across the harbor. Everyone on deck and on the dock dropped whatever he was doing and made a mad dash for a trap door that led to a makeshift shelter below the pier. The entrance to the shelter became so plugged with soldiers shoving and pushing that not a single person could get through. The Japanese dive bombers dumped their first load of bombs alongside Carmen. Most bombs landed in the water, but a few did start fires abroad the ship.

The Manila Fire Department arrived after the planes left. I helped firefighters carry a hose aboard the ship, and when they were set I held firmly to the nozzle and waited. When water finally came it did so with such force it was all I could do to hang on to the hose. I looked around for help but everyone had disappeared. They were fleeing the hose that was now out of control. I shouted for assistance and little by little men scrambled one by one out of their hiding places.

The fires out, we were put to work again loading the packing crates aboard Carmen.

But no sooner were the crates aboard than the order came to put them back on the dock. Fires below deck had flared up. It took another half hour to unload the ship while we continued to fight the flames on board. Finally with the fires out, we received further orders to reload the crates. We couldn’t believe it. Whatever the crates , contained, it had to be valuable to risk the lives of the men and the ship. We cursed as we struggled up the narrow gangplank to get the crates back aboard.

We had just sat down on the deck for a well-deserved rest when the air raid siren sounded for the second time. Immediately bombs were falling and men were scrambling for cover. A few men leaped overboard. The Japanese had a clear shot at Carmen yet she took no direct hits. Apparently they did not want to sink her. They were only trying to disable her. Fires broke out again on deck. As soon as the raid was over, we were again ordered to take the crates off the ship. ”What? Aren’t things bad enough?” I heard someone shout, but the order stood firm. By now our cursing extended not only to the Japanese but to the officers in charge, the army, the packing crates and even the narrow gangplank.

After the fires had been put out, the captain determined that Carmen was capable of making the trip. For the last time we reloaded the crates. The men filed aboard and soon every bit of space above and below deck was occupied. Soldiers sat everywhere, atop the piles of cargo, along the rails with their feet hanging over the sides, even on the bridge. Hawsers were cast off and Carmen slowly moved away from the dock. Every last man was dead tired from the endless air raids and from loading and unloading the packing crates.

Japanese planes had been flying sorties over the bay all the morning, dropping bombs on installations and strafing the area, and here we were on the upper deck, wide open to aerial attack, without protection. We were apprehensive, watching for the slightest glare of an approaching enemy plane, but none appeared. The sky remained clear, but our ordeal was far from over. We were faced with another threat which could be even more foreboding than bombs and machine-gun fire. We might all drown in shark-infested water. Carmen’s starboard hull at the waterline had been punctured during the air raids. She had gaping holes in her side and was taking on more water than her pumps could handle. We not only looked for planes now but for sharks as well. Then suddenly, as we were approaching the rocky Bataan shoreline, the vessel made a lung to the starboard, nearly knocking half of us overboard. At full steam the captain now headed Carmen straight for the beach. Before we knew what was happening she struck a sand bar and ran high aground. The captain had saved the day. The ship was safe, for the time being.

Before long a launch appeared, and for last time we unloaded the packing crates from Carmen to the launch. The launch then took us and our precious cargo ashore.

Once ashore we discovered we would have to remain overnight on the beach, but we had no food. The captain remembered that Carmen still had a hefty supply of canned goods aboard. He asked for volunteers and a half dozen of us returned to the ship to get whatever supplies we could find. We climbed aboard and as the captain held a flashlight I descended the ladder into the hold. The captain was right; there were cases of canned food everywhere. I picked out about twenty cases of assorted canned goods, from hams to peaches, which we hauled on deck and then loaded on to the launch. We returned to the beach where a jubilant but hungry bunch of soldiers awaited us. The way we ate and clowned around one would not have thought the Japanese were just across the way. I wished I had my accordion.

We slept on the beach that night and early the next morning a convoy of trucks arrived to take us and our cargo to a command post in the jungle. One driver, obviously with little experience in driving trucks, was having a difficult time with his vehicle. I offered to take over, which he gladly agreed to. The truck was not much different from one I had driven one summer when I hauled frozen fish from Eureka in northern California down to San Francisco. What a contrast this was, from the Redwoods of California to the jungle of Bataan. From frozen fish to god knows what.

The jungle post turned out to be Camp Lamaz, the medical headquarters for the Thirty-first Infantry regiment. Doctors and nurses jumped with excitement when they saw us arrive with the packing crates. We didn’t feel so bad now knowing all our efforts to save the crates were well deserved. The crates, no doubt, contained much needed medical supplies. Two enlisted men hastily broke open several boxes and before they could step back doctors and nurses rushed to the fore to take over. Our happiness turned to anger. The officers searched not for medical supplies but instead for their own personal belongings. We were shocked to see them pull from the crates tennis rackets and golf clubs, tuxedos and evening gowns. The memory of having moved these heavy boxes on and off Carmen, the sweat and labor involved, and the risk of both lives and ship, was fresh in our minds. The feelings we had at that time are unprintable. Later that clay, when we were together and away from the officers, we mused at the thought of the Japanese pilots not wanting to sink Carmen thinking that her cargo was undoubtedly of great valuable to the war effort, and by merely disabling the ship the cargo would eventually be theirs. We imagined their fury had they tore open the crates hoping to find prized booty and found instead tennis rackets and tuxedos.

But the fate of Carmen was sealed. All that day the ship lay helpless on the beach. From deep in the jungle we could hear explosions as Japanese planes pounded her again and again.

On the 27th of December we were quartered beneath some banana trees in front of a little hut in the jungle. “An odd thing is happening here,” I wrote in my diary. “The natives in a barrio have a piano and a little Filipino girl is taking lessons. What a contrast. All the soldiers are ‘standing around watching the lesson. They have a monkey here. The piano teacher is now playing and she is good. Sgt. Sayer played a few songs. We had quite a few air raid alarms but no bombs were dropped here.”

I also reported in my diary that my unit had been broken up. Some of the friends I had been with since Letterman were assigned to the 2nd Battalion, others to the 3rd. “I am sitting under a tree with the monkey sleeping in my lap. I have just set up my bed. It is nice and quiet now.”

I was assigned as a field medic to Headquarters Company, Thirty-first Infantry, the only American infantry regiment in the islands. We took up positions along the front that faced north where the Japanese were certain to come. We knew they were coming.

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THE ENEMY OVERHEAD
•••••

Early on the morning of December 8^th, only a few short hours after they began dropping bombs on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese struck the Philippines. By the end of the first day, the U.S. Army Air Forces had lost more than half its bombers and a third of its fighter planes based there. The major Japanese assault was at Clark Air Base. Then two days later, during the early morning of December 10^th, practically the entire Navy yard at Cavite was destroyed by enemy bombers. The first Japanese landings took place that same day on Luzon north of Manila, and so began the invasion of the Philippine islands … HS

•••••

Soldiers in the field, the fighting men, know little about what is going on beyond their own line of defense. All they can see, and know, is what is happening directly in front of them. This was the case with us. We drove into the night through a blackout and were often delayed by stalled trucks that had been pushed aside into the ditches. We reached our destination but found the hospital in chaos. Doctors and nurses had been up all night tending the causalities. Sixty soldiers lay dead and another hundred were injured from the bombings. I was sent to work in the dressing room, and found myself giving blood when a doctor called for a transfusion and there was no one around to help. When I did get to bed, it was after midnight, and shortly after, at 2:15 am, I experienced my first air raid. Fortunately no bombs hit the hospital.

In the morning I volunteered to help pull bodies, and parts of bodies, out of the wreckage and lay the remains in the open in hope they could be recognized. It was a pitiful sight. Tearful Filipinos moved among the remains attempting to identify members of their families. Most of the dead could not be identified. Some bodies had been burned to a crisp. One man in tattered clothing, himself suffering from shock, searched for two brothers, a sister and his mother and father. When I left the site a few hours later, he was still searching. This was the morning that I was introduced to the horrors of war. I made the following entry in my diary:

“I always wanted action and new experiences. I think I have had enough now. This is horrible. I am gazing out across the athletic field. The scenery is peaceful and beautiful. What a shame that the poor soldiers I moved this morning cannot be alive and happy and at peace with the world.”

I was assigned to Ward 5 at the air base hospital located next to the airfield. I was no sooner posted to my ward when the bombing began again. We hurriedly put the patients on stretchers and carried them out of the ward and placed them beneath the building.

It was around noon of the 10th that we received word that Japanese paratroopers had landed and were advancing toward the air field. Tanks were immediately deployed around the area and we were led to believe the attack could come at any minute. The order came for us to evacuate all patients to Manila by rail. It seemed like an impossible task but we grabbed every available vehicle and somehow managed to transport most of the patients to the railhead. We then returned to the wards to care for the remaining patients who were too weak to move and awaited an uncertain fate. But the Japanese ground troops did not arrive as expected.

On December 12th I wrote in my diary: “No air raid last night. Had a good sleep. Went to work in Ward 5. At 11:15 am I was working under the ward preparing beds for air raids. The day was cloudy and it was raining. Suddenly without warning the Japs hit us with bombs. Three flights of bombers swooped over at 500 feet and dropped bombs all around us. I shoved my face in the dirt, said my prayers, and just waited. I saw one bomb go off about 100 yards from where I lay. The ground was shaking. Boy, ole boy, ole boy, what a feeling! Causalities are now coming into the hospital. I can see them from the window of the ward. They are coming from all directions.”

On the 13th we were bombed at 7:30, 8:15 and 10:30, all in the morning. Before noon we received another air raid warning and I wrote: “I wish to say that it has been a miracle that this hospital hasn’t been hit as yet. God help us if it is.”

During most of these raids there was little opportunity to move the patients below. I couldn’t leave them. Instead I sat between two patients and held their hands while the bombs dropped around us. We talked about our planes coming to our rescue, but deep down none of us really believed they would. We had seen the destroyed planes at the base.

Soon the bombing became so heavy, so intense, that we felt we might fall apart. Our nerves were about to break. Any unusual noise would send us scurrying for cover under the mess hall tables. At one meal the mess sergeant had an announcement he intended to read for the company, but it was impossible for him to get their attention. I suggested he blow the whistle he had hanging on a cord around his neck. I was standing next to him when he gave a shrill blast on the whistle, which, unfortunately, sounded somewhat like a bomb on its way down. Pandemonium suddenly broke out as everyone in the hall dashed for an exit. Men jumped over tables, falling and stumbling over one another as they searched for cover. Dishes flew in all directions. A cook dropped a large pot, spilling the boiling contents across the floor. Another man threw his crutches aside and dove through an open window. In much less than one minute, the mess hall was empty except for me and the mess sergeant. He still held the paper that he had intended to read. He stood looking at the empty hall with an expression of disbelief on his face. I slipped away from him as quietly as I could.

Over the next few days we evacuated the remaining patients to Manila. When the last of them were placed aboard the flatcars, we returned to the wards and straightened up the area. We had a post telephone set up under the steps of the ward, and that evening I was detailed to man the phone. Sitting there surrounded by sandbags and waiting for the phone to ring that would announce another air raid, I suddenly heard the sound of women singing. It seemed incomprehensible. Then I realized what it was. I was hearing the voices of nurses who were quartered underneath the ward farther down the line. They were singing “Oh Holy Night,” and I remembered now that it was close to Christmas, and we were far, far from home.

The next few days were more quiet. We spent the time digging bomb shelters outside the hospital. All the work was done by hand, with pick axes and shovels. Laboring in the hot sun was exhausting. We were also detailed to cover the windows of the buildings with tar paper. A rumor spread during the lull that our planes had bombed the Japanese air base and their planes were silenced. On Sunday the 21st we even played a game of baseball. Then on the 24th of December, the day before Christmas, we received sudden orders to evacuate the hospital and Clark Field. We heard the sad news that our defending  troops in the north were steadily retreating. We had little time left. We were told the Japanese were two days from Clark Field.

We loaded all the hospital supplies we could aboard railroad flatcars and returned to Manila. As we approached the city we realized that the rumor that our planes had bombed the Japanese base was false. We could see thick black smoke pouring from the center of city. An air raid was in progress as we arrived. We witnessed a mass exodus of Manila; people carried what they could on their backs, while others pulled wagons and carts loaded down with their belongings. Ponies lay dead in their harnesses, and vehicles were abandoned in the streets where they had been strafed. Rubble of burned out buildings smoldered and sent out choking clouds of smoke. Japanese  bombers flew freely over the city and bombed any target they wished. Manila was in complete chaos. The city was doomed.

On Christmas  Day, we boarded  trucks  that transported us to Port Area for further evacuation. But to where? When we arrived at the port we looked for ships in the harbor, but there were none, except a single battered cargo ship tied to the dock. The name across her bow read Carmen. To our dismay we learned she was the one that was scheduled to take us to Bataan where Filipino and American troops were amassing for their final defense before help from America arrived. Carmen was our last hope.

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