Courage in a White Coat

by Mary Schwaner

  But now some part of her had become resigned to the reality of their situation. MacArthur seemed no closer than when they’d celebrated his Reno victories on the lower islands. This would be their second Christmas since he’d uttered the famous words, “I shall return”. It had become the rallying cry throughout all the islands. It was scrawled in the sand, painted on the sides of buildings throughout Manila, and even written upside down and backwards in chalk on a Santo Tomás classroom blackboard. It showed up less and less these days. Erased from the board now. Faded from the sand. But the message was not forgotten.

  World War II Online Database

  C. Peter Chen, founder and editor of the database

  Though rather casually noted, “I shall return” became the powerful symbol which was the spiritual center of Filipino resistance. “It was scraped in the sands of the beaches, it was daubed on the walls of the barrios, it was stamped on the mail, it was whispered in the cloisters of the church”, recalled MacArthur. “It became the battle cry of a great underground swell that no Japanese bayonet could still.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  TOO RAW FOR WORDS

  There were two things, besides her precious family, that Dorothy always found energy for. Looking after her dear little patients, and staying ahead of the bedbugs.

  Today the smell of prune-pit vinegar was particularly strong in Dorothy’s corner of the room, giving testimony to her ongoing battle against the minute beasts.

  The last time she had treated her mattresses was early fall. It was nearly the new year, and time to do the job once again.

  December 20th 1943. A day marked in history by banishing bedbugs.

  It was a task that left her breathless and aching even though it was a simple matter of sprinkling vinegar on their mattresses and stuffing them with a certain bug-repelling weed that grew behind the hospital. Gathering weeds for personal use was forbidden and could have landed her in the women’s jail every time she did it. But she’d always begun by gathering enough for the thin mattresses on the hospital cots. Once she and Nurse Noell had moved each patient and treated each mattress there always magically seemed to be enough left over for four more mattresses—hers, Carol and Bobby’s shared bunk, Fred’s cot, and Sue Noell’s. It was something they did every few months.

  Like clockwork.

  They would sneeze for three nights, but there would be no bedbugs in the Chambers bunkbed. She would need to remind Fred that it was time to treat his cot. She’d used all the prune-pit vinegar, though. He’d have to fend for himself on that part of the venture. But she’d saved a small bundle of weeds just for him.

  She knew he’d appreciate that. Maybe she’d even get a wink out of the gloomy-gus today. He’d been blue about something for nearly a week. Or maybe agitated was a better word for it. Now that she had a bit of time she went in search of him.

  “Ah. There you are.”

  Fred hailed her from his perch in front of the hospital where he often waited if she didn’t join him in the chow shed for breakfast. He was going for something cheerful, but fell woefully short.

  “Good morning, darling. I have a present for you!” She softened her smile, conscious that she was trying a bit too hard. But the look on his face had her worried.

  Fred rose, and lifted his hand in greeting. But before dropping it to his side, he kissed his extended fingers and then waggled them at her. It had become habit once they’d discovered a public peck on the cheek was going to get them a disciplinary warning.

  His smile seemed tentative and an unmistakable air of sadness about him sent up small warning signals to Dorothy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Fred put a hand beneath her elbow and ushered her around the corner of the hospital to sit on a pile of stones.

  She waited for him to speak, and though he tried several times he couldn’t seem to dredge up words. Each time he opened his mouth and closed it without speaking, his emotions plummeted further toward desolation.

  He dropped his elbows to his knees and pressed his palms into his eyes.

  “You’re scaring me, Fred. What’s happened?” Dorothy dropped the bag of weeds and put a hand on his arm.

  He drew a breath, but no words came.

  “Someone died.” She said it softly, so softly that it barely registered in her own ears.

  He nodded.

  “Here? In camp?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then—” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. Fred didn’t react to death in this fashion. His deep faith served him well in finding the peace that follows pain and death.

  But not today.

  If it was someone outside of camp whose death had moved Fred so deeply, then it could only be one of their missionary group—someone from the group hiding out in the hills...in Hopevale.

  A tear slipped from her eye. Those who went into the hills were as young and vital, full of life as Fred and Dorothy had been two-and-a-half years earlier. Even the oldest were hale and hearty. And the children—

  “Oh Fred!” she choked. “Not one of the children!”

  He nodded and tried to stifle a cry that breached his throat in a strangled moan.

  Dorothy grabbed his arm with both her hands. “Tell me who!”

  Fred sat up straight, uttered a horrid gasp, and collapsed with his head in her lap. “All of them,” he choked. “All of them.”

  . . . .

  As Fred became able to relate his news, sorrow drained all color from her world. The bamboo telegraph was rarely wrong. Rumor running rampant through camp could never be trusted. But this had come to Fred directly from a trusted source who had received the dire news from the guerillas.

  It was unspeakable. Too raw for words.

  The Japanese army had been led to Hopevale by a downed pilot the missionaries had previously harbored. The Imperial officer had promised the pilot that none of the missionaries would be harmed. He just wanted to question them. But once they reached Hopevale, everything fell apart. The pilot had twenty-four hours to grieve his failure to protect the men, women and children of Hopevale before he shared their fate.

  The knowledge of it splintered Dorothy’s conviction that her own children would be safe here in Santo Tomás. The Japanese liked the children. Most of them had children at home they were sorely missing. If they chose to show kindness, it was often toward the children.

  But the Hopevale tragedy revised Dorothy’s thinking. She would have to make a plan. A plan with a place where Bobby and Carol would be safe if things turned treacherous.

  A True Post-War Account

  as told in a military hearing

  Iloilo City 1945

  I, Paterno M. Eñano, 23, Buena Vista, Iloilo province, Panay, Philippine Islands, was employed by the Imperial Japanese army as an interpreter beginning Nov. 1, 1943 and ending April 19, 1944. I escaped from the Japanese garrison in Miagao, Iloilo province, Panay, after I had killed with a bayonet one Japanese soldier and overcome another Japanese soldier. I suffered one wound on the right arm above the elbow and one wound on the left arm near the wrist, both as a result of bayonet thrusts. I volunteered for Filipino guerrilla forces in the mountains and was accepted. I was promoted to sergeant Aug. 15, 1944, a rank which I still hold.

  Above 9 a.m. on Saturday, Dec. 18, 1943, I left the township of Libacao, Capiz province, with a Japanese force estimated at 500, including officers and enlisted men, under command of Capt. Watanabe to proceed to Iloilo city. Next morning by walking through the mountains we reached the American camp, Hopevale, three kilometers west of Katipunan.

  About 9 a.m. Capt Watanabe ordered that the American camp be searched for Americans believed to be hiding. A Filipino mountaineer whom the Japanese had captured the previous day told Capt. Watanabe that Americans were living near Katipunan. The mountaineer, a civilian, had no connection, as far as I know, with any military organization whatever. The Japanese threatened the mountaineer with his life if he
refused to talk.

  Approximately 250 Japanese soldiers surrounded the camp, while the remaining Japanese force, including Capt. Watanabe, entered the American camp proper. Japanese soldiers captured 16 Americans, most of whom they found in their homes. The Japanese collected the Americans, took them to a house one-half kilimeter southward, where the prisoners were placed under guard and kept until the next day. Japanese soldiers confiscated canned goods owned by the Americans. They gave the Americans neither food or water.

  The Japanese previously had captured three other Americans, including Lt. Robert King of Iloilo city and two others, probably engineers, who I couldn’t identify. These men also were placed under guard in the house.

  I knew most of the 16 Americans captured in their camp near Katipunan. I remembered them as being on the faculty of Central Philippine college, which I had attended before the Japanese invaded Panay.

  About 3 p.m. the Japanese escorted 12 of the Americans, one by one, from the prison house to the house in which I was staying at the time. Mrs. Covell was the first person escorted to the house. I was standing an estimated five meters from Mrs. Covell and Capt. Watanabe. I heard Mrs. Covell beg Capt. Watanabe for mercy. She said in Japanese, “Capt. Watanabe, why you kill us all. We are Christian missionaries.” Capt. Watanabe smiled, said nothing.

  I saw Capt. Watanabe draw his sumarai sword, and Japanese guards stand by with bayonets fixed. Then, I turned my head. I couldn’t bear to watch it. Mrs. Covell screamed. I walked from the house until I could hear no more. The remaining 11 Americans were brought into the house - one by one.

  Although I didn’t see the execution with my own eyes, I am positive beyond a doubt that Capt. Watanabe beheaded with his sword 10 of the 19 Americans. Capt. Watanabe was the only Japanese in our party who possessed a sword. Japanese soldiers bayoneted the two Clardy sons rather than cut off their heads. The other seven Americans were killed elsewhere in the vicinity.

  I returned to the house - scene of the execution - an hour later, about 5 p.m. The house already was in flames. Bodies of the Americans burning inside could not be seen through the smoke and flames. After the roof had fallen in and the house reduced to ashes, I looked carefully amid the ruins. The odor of burning flesh was strong. I noticed particularly that none of the heads of the American men and women, 10 of them, were attached to the bodies. But heads of the two children were still on the bodies.

  It is my belief that Capt. Watanabe is solely responsible for the death of these 19 Americans. I believe he killed 10 of them with his own hands. Japanese soldiers, perhaps, bayoneted the two boys. I do not know who killed the other seven, but I know they were killed.

  It was the policy of the Japanese army at that time here that Americans found hiding in the mountains would be captured only. None were to be killed without orders from officers.

  Paterno H. Eñano

  Signed before me the 4th day of June, 1945

  R. Fred Chambers

  President, Central Philippine College

  Sgt. John Garland Smith

  Press Relations Office

  49th Infantry Division

  APO 46 c/o Postmaster San Francisco, California

  Missionaries Lost in Hopevale

  Miss Jennie Clare Adams, nurse, Nebraska

  Professor James Howard Covell and Mrs. Charma Moore Covell

  Miss Dorothy Antoinette Dowell

  Miss Signe Amelia Erickson

  Rev. Erle Frederich Rounds, Mrs. Louise Cummings Rounds and son Erle Douglas Rounds

  Dr. Francis Howard Rose and Mrs. Gertrude Coombs Rose

  Dr. Frederick Willer-Meyer and Mrs. Ruth Schacht Meyer

  Other Americans killed at Hopevale:

  Mr. Mark Walsh Clardy, Mrs. Fern Clardy and sons Johnny and Terry

  Lt. Robert King

  Dorothy stumbled from behind the hospital, then slipped across to a little-used path. She couldn’t go into the hospital. Not now. Not yet. They would see her distress. They would ask questions.

  They would know.

  And if the Japanese suspected Fred had been in contact with guerillas—

  She prayed he’d be careful. He could tell no one. Not the other missionaries in the group. Not anybody. One careless word and he—and the person he spoke to—could be singled out for retribution by the Japanese.

  It was all too much to carry. Her heart couldn’t bear it.

  Dorothy knelt in what they’d come to know as the Fathers’ Garden. This part of the Dominican seminary—though part of the campus—was technically out-of-bounds. But she needed a moment. A moment to grieve for those dear people.

  Their names scrolled through her prayer as she sought to memorialize her lost companions. She lingered in sorrow over Howard and Charma Covell, friends who had shared their home, eaten at their table, supported Fred in his work at the college. Their own children were grown and scattered at boarding school and university. Safe, she hoped, perhaps not yet knowing of their terrible loss.

  Images of their smiling faces fused with the faces of the others lost in the Hopevale massacre. Jennie Adams—a young nurse from Nebraska—Dorothy Dowell, Signe Erickson, Francis and Gertrude Rose, Ruth and Fred Meyer.

  She prayed harder. The faces that tore wrenching sobs from her were the families. Fred and Louise Rounds and young Erle. Mark and Fern Clardy and little Johnny and Terry. Such wonderful little boys.

  It was too much. Too much. She couldn’t bear it. Each time she looked at Bobby and Carol she would see those sweet children playing together, their carefree laughter lost forever to the horror of this wretched time.

  The loss. The loss. It weighed so heavily, dragged her spirit to a depth she’d never experienced, and threatened to hold her there. For the sake of her sanity she had to shrug off the brutal malaise that sought to destroy her will. She had to press on.

  Press on. Those were the words that at last nudged Dorothy to her feet. She would carry the names in her heart today and every day.

  But for now she would merely press on. And pray no one found out Fred had brought her this devastating news.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

  Christmas 1943

  In Dorothy’s experience, deep within the human spirit that has been bruised and bent in the most cruel ways is the capacity to love. So it was no surprise that for many of the souls chasing survival in Santo Tomás, the Christmas Season offered an opportunity to fan that tenuous flicker of love.

  December of 1943 found much of the camp involved in some sort of Christmas preparation. Wives knitted string socks for their husbands. Women made rag dolls and men fashioned small trucks and cars—all to be distributed to the camp’s four hundred children.

  Each toy was made by way of sacrifice. The legs of one internee’s favorite chair were cut short and the pieces yielded wheels for twelve small cars and trucks and planes. Women sacrificed blouses that were being saved for liberation day, each providing enough fabric for about four small dolls. Partially-used cosmetics were packaged for the teen-aged girls, tied prettily with hair ribbons tenderly washed and pressed between the sheet and mattress of an internee’s bed.

  Carol was thrilled to be on the Children’s Inter-Camp Mail Service for Christmas Day. For weeks she’d been counting down the days until she could go about the camp—accompanied by an adult—and distribute greeting cards. The adults on the committee would have completed nearly four thousand Christmas cards to be distributed personally to each internee by smiling children. Just like her.

  For most internees, days were essentially repeats of the day before. Work assignments were carefully scheduled so that for the most part they shared the burden equally. One might be scraping camotes in the kitchen, another might be scrubbing up a toilet or handing out toilet paper, while yet another burned trash. These jobs might rotate week to week.

  Memory from child internee

  Sascha Jean Weinzheimer Jansen

&nbs
p; 100 Miles to Freedom by Robert B. Holland pg 145

  One of the men we called “the exterminator” because his job was to keep track of rats. He was diligent in his duties until the prisoners ate the rats. Earlier, we had garbage, but later on there was no garbage because we were eating the garbage!

  Consequently, those who were inclined to help with the Christmas preparations had energy and time left to do so after completing their assigned tasks about the camp.

  Dorothy had no such definition to her daily work. The special card she carried in her pocket allowed her to be on the grounds after curfew, if she was answering a medical emergency or taking night duty in the children’s ward.

  She would slip through the blackness, savoring the small breezes that would never quite reach the sleeping quarters. The rest of the world rested behind blackout shades, so with conscious effort she would lift her shoulders and lighten her step so as not to waken anyone.

  Everything about Santo Tomás was different at night. Nobody stopped her in the middle of the path to press a medical complaint. The clattering sounds of the camp were replaced by the soft call of night birds and the whisper of the large banana leaves as she passed by.

  These silent passages in the dead of night offered the only time that Dorothy could draw within herself, to meditate. To ponder. To breathe. Still, some small part of her would always remain on guard against shots that might ring out in the night. And they did. The next morning she’d hear all about it. She wore her white coat like a shield against some weary Japanese guard who might suspect she was violating curfew or undertaking some nefarious errand.

  It was fruitless to keep track of her hours spent in the pursuit of healing. Whether it came to a forbidding number or not, she would endure them.

  But it was more than enduring the work. For Dorothy it was embracing the work. She had asked God to make her an instrument of His peace, and He had given her healing hands.

  Nobody had to tally her hours. Nobody had to watch to make certain she contributed her full four hours to the camp’s welfare. There would have been no need for such monitoring.