My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  About two hours later, we passed a carabao wallow about fifty feet off the road. After one look at the water, I could see it was not fit to drink; green scum floated on top and two carabao were in the water cooling themselves off. The men were dying of thirst, however, and ready to do anything for a drop of water. Not only were we thirsty, but many of us had malaria and were burning up with fever. In addition, most of the men on the march had severe dysentery and felt that water would heal all of their problems. One of the men motioned to a nearby guard and in sign language asked if he could get some of the water. The guard started to laugh and made a hand movement that indicated it was OK.

  In a matter of minutes dozens of half-crazed men ran toward the carabao-occupied water. The men pushed the green scum away and started splashing the infested water all over themselves and drinking it. Some thought that using a handkerchief to filter the filthy water was going to make it safer to drink. How foolish they were! Nothing could have filtered that dirty scum-laden, bacteria-infested water, swarming with blowflies, to make it fit for human consumption.

  Only a few minutes went by before a Japanese officer ran to the wallow and began hollering at the Americans in the water. Once again, none of us understood him, yet he continued to shout. He did not use any sign language to indicate there was trouble, but the fellows in the water ran back into line to continue the march. Then the unbelievable happened. The officer, with a big broad smile on his face, began prancing around the area where the Americans were lined up and ordered the guards to search our ranks for any men who had water-soaked clothes. The guards picked them out of our group of marching men and lined them up on the side of the road. Then the officer ordered the guards to shoot all of them. What a horrible massacre! And those of us forced to watch had to stand by helplessly. We knew if we attempted to interfere with the orders of the Japanese officer we also would be shot.

  These past few horror-filled days helped me to evaluate my chance for survival. What would my priorities be? How would I deal with these overzealous conquerors of Bataan if they came for me? How would I be able to stay alive on what seemed to be a never-ending march to nowhere?

  Hope is what kept most of us survivors alive on the death march. Hope that the starvation, the disease, and the agonizing effort to put one foot in front of the other would end when we got to wherever we were going. Some of us heard rumors that we would be exchanged for Japanese prisoners and that we would be taken care of in a U.S. hospital or other facilities. Others hoped that our capture was a brief bad dream and that we would soon be on our way home. Those were the optimists. Everyone, however, hoped at least for a destination where food and fresh water would revive us and where a shelter would protect us from the sweltering tropic sun and the stinging, slashing precipitation made up of rain and gritty sand.

  Again, the one thing that kept me going was my determination to make it to that banana grove or mango tree or whatever I could see down the road. I had to have a goal, a place to march to. Most of the time we walked without thinking of where we were going, with our heads down, dejected. We’re real failures, I thought to myself, but I must go on.

  Many of the men on the march were just too weak and had too many illnesses to continue. If they stopped on the side of the road to defecate, they would be beaten within an inch of their lives or killed. Of course, with the small amount of food we were getting, we did not worry very much about having a bowel movement. Those men who had a bad case of dysentery, however, never knew when they would have to defecate.

  On the fourth day of the march, I was lucky enough to be walking with two of my tank buddies, Walter Cigoi and Bob Bronge. Cigoi looked like a typical southern Italian. He was over six feet tall, with jet-black hair, a heavy beard that always seemed to need shaving, and a full head of wavy hair that made his strong, handsome, elongated face look sinister. His dark brown eyes were sunken a little, almost as if he had just awakened, but they seemed to dance from left to right, then back to the left again. Wally was very soft-spoken and never raised his voice, even when irritated or angry. From the day of the surrender, though, he was notably on edge about what was taking place.

  Bronge, on the other hand, looked like he was from the northern part of Italy. With blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a firm, strong body, he had a loud voice that could be heard a block away. The life of the party, Bronge always had something funny to say and was liked by everyone; he was included in all get-togethers. Bronge stood just short of six feet and was built like a bear, with strong arms and a barrel chest that portrayed power. Everyone in Company B liked both Bronge and Cigoi. They were known throughout the entire battalion as the “Meatball Twins.”

  I was walking with Bronge and Cigoi when a Japanese officer came riding by on horseback. He was waving his samurai sword from side to side, apparently trying to cut off the head of anyone he could. I was on the outside of the column when he rode past, and although I ducked the main thrust of the sword, the end of the blade hit my left shoulder, missing my head and neck by inches. It left a large gash that had to have stitches if I were to continue on this march and continue living.

  As the Japanese officer rode off, Bronge and Cigoi called for a medic to fall back to our position. The medic sewed up the cut with thread, which was all he had with him, and for the next two miles or so, my two friends carried me so that I would not have to fall out of line. We all knew that falling out of line meant certain death.

  Cigoi and Bronge saved my life; I only wish I could have saved theirs. Military records show that Bronge died in Cabanatuan Prison Camp on July 31, 1942, of dysentery, and Cigoi died of the same disease in Formosa on November 3, 1942. Upon coming home, it was very difficult for me to see both of my friends’ families and to answer questions about how their sons acted as soldiers and how they died. The emotional meetings with their parents left an indelible mark on my mind and heart that I will never be able to erase.

  Each day on the march we trudged along like zombies. We walked from 6:30 in the morning till 8:00 or 9:00 at night. Most of the days we would get a few minutes’ rest when the Japanese changed guards; otherwise it was hit and miss regarding a rest period. The guards were always fresh, for they only walked for about three miles and were relieved for the next three or four miles. This constant changing of the guards kept us always on edge because we never knew what the new group would want us to do or not to do. Moreover, the new guards were always trying to impress their fellow soldiers and, of course, the officers. In addition, being well-rested, they were able to walk at a faster pace than we were. Thus, we were fearful and apprehensive every hour of the march. I also made sure that I never again walked on the outside of the column of marching men.

  Due to the poor road conditions, our deteriorating health, the lack of food and water, and our overall defeatist attitudes, we were able to walk only about a mile, or two at the most, for every hour on the march. With the added constant screaming and the beatings by the Japanese guards, we could merely trudge along the road at a snail’s pace. I would wonder, where were they taking us? If they were going to kill us, why not do it where we could be buried along the side of the road and no one would ever know the difference? Walking with a destination in mind would have been much easier. If the Japanese had only told us to walk for seventy miles before we could rest or that we were going to a prison camp so we could work for them, it would have been better than walking for what appeared to be eternity.

  Once again, we had not eaten in days, and we were nearly going out of our minds from thirst. We were all slowly becoming completely dehydrated, and we realized that we would die soon without water. The Japanese, we were told, planned on feeding us once we arrived in the town of Balanga, which was thirty-five miles from where we were taken prisoner. Under normal conditions, for a well-rested, properly trained, and adequately fed army, a march of this distance could be made in about nineteen hours. We prisoners were not in the condition necessary for a march of this type, or any type. We were tired,
worn out, and in need of prolonged rest and medical attention. Also, the heat of the day seemed to suck any energy we had left.

  Finally, on the fourth day, as we entered the town of Balanga, Filipino civilians stood along the sides of the road, throwing various food items to us: rice cakes, animal sugar cakes, small pieces of fried chicken, and pieces of sugar cane. At that moment, the sugar cane was more important to us than anything else. By peeling the bark off with our teeth and chewing the pulp, we were able to get enough liquid to satisfy our thirst and get the energy and nourishment found in its natural sugars. These Filipinos’ gestures lifted our sunken spirits to a new high.

  Suddenly, we heard shots ring out from somewhere in the middle of our marching group. Within seconds, the people along the side of the road scattered in all directions, for the Japanese soldiers were shooting at them for offering food to us prisoners. Two of the Filipinos started to run across the field, heading for a water hole. Three of the guards turned, aimed at the running Filipinos, and fired round after round in their general direction. The Japanese guards were not very good marksmen, so they just continued firing until the two men fell to the ground. The guards then ran over to the fallen men and began hollering at and kicking them, first in their backs, then directly in their heads. Next, the Japanese guards fired several shots at point-blank range into the men’s prostrate bodies.

  The guards watching over our marching group made us stop and watch the proceedings. Watching this made me feel woozy. I almost started to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach to come up, so I just stood there with my eyes fixed in the direction of the slaughter. Then I tried to wipe away the scene from my mind as fast as I could. I knew what was happening; I did not have to watch it any longer to have another indelible memory of Japanese barbarism. Once again, in the blink of an eye, more innocent people were slain by the conquering Japanese.

  During the shooting and hollering, the Filipino civilians were running to get as far away as possible. Many of the Filipino prisoners on the march with us broke away and ran with their countrymen. Their goal was to enter the barrio, change clothes, and become just another civilian. Because it was starting to get dark, the escapees had a good chance of succeeding.

  We continued marching into the center of town, and when nighttime finally came we were herded into a large warehouse. About 75 feet wide by 160 feet long, the building was used for storing grain, rice, sugar, and other agricultural products. Those men who could not find room inside the building were herded back outside into a large open area. I ended up inside the building. When the warehouse was filled to capacity, the guards pushed and shoved another couple hundred men inside. We were so tightly packed together that we sprawled on each other. When one of us had to urinate, he just did it in his pants, knowing that the following day the heat from the sun would dry them out. Those who had to defecate found their way back to one of the corners of the building and did it there. That night, the human waste covering the floor from those who had dysentery caused many others to contract this killing disease.

  The stench, the sounds of dying men, and the whines and groans of those too sick to move to the back of the building became so unbearable that I put small pieces of cloth into my ears in a feeble attempt to drown out some of the noise. Nothing could be done about the smell. The air inside became putrid from the odors that accompanied the abnormal body functions associated with dysentery and the urine-soaked clothes the dirty men were wearing. The Japanese guards, also unable to bear the horrible smell, closed the doors to the warehouse, put a padlock on them, and kept watch from outside.

  Getting accustomed after a few hours to both the noise and the smell, I allowed my mind to drift away from this nightmare and back home to Laura. Was she aware of what was happening? How was she standing up to the news of our capture? Or did she think I was killed? Did she think I was a coward? Did she still love me and want me as much as I wanted her? After I pondered all these questions, I began daydreaming about our life together. Oh, I thought, when would this nightmare come to an end? Then sometime in the middle of the night, I shook my head, got rid of the cobwebs, and began facing reality.

  The following morning when the guards unlocked the doors, we staggered to the door of the warehouse totally dazed. We exited the dark and dreary warehouse with the quickness of scared animals. We lunged to get away from the smell of death that permeated the air around us. That morning, at least twenty-five men were carried out and thrown in the field behind the building. I was mesmerized by what I had seen. All I could do was cry and say to myself, “Oh God, please have mercy on their poor souls.” I felt they deserved more than being left to the elements. Would it have been so hard to have allowed some of us to bury those poor men who died so miserably during the night?

  In the courtyard of the warehouse, we saw a group of Japanese guards milling around. Within minutes, we were herded in their direction. There, to our surprise, in the center of all this activity we found three large kitchen pots, each containing rice. Those men without a mess kit received one ball of rice about three inches in diameter. Those with a mess kit were given one large scoop of rice equivalent to the rice balls. At the far end of the field, another group of guards was rationing out hot tea. A man who had no container would borrow a friend’s canteen or cup just long enough to obtain his ration of this most welcome liquid.

  After the hunger of these last four days, we relished the food, however sparse. The Japanese reminded us how lucky we were that they had provided so much food and tea for us. As soon as we received our rations, they ordered us back on the road leading out of Balanga. The Japanese guards began laughing at us, and their grins and acknowledging nods showed that they were having fun taking advantage of us. We were pushed back into a marching column heading north. The march, obviously, was going to continue. But where were we going and when would it end?

  On many nights the Japanese guards would just stop the marchers and yell for them to sleep right on the rocky, dirty, dusty road, strewn with items discarded by the marchers and of course reeking with human waste. However, after the ordeal in the warehouse the previous night, my first choice would be to sleep outside even though the guards would roam around at all hours, prodding and kicking us and generally not allowing us more than a few minutes’ uninterrupted rest.

  During the first four days of the march, not only did we have to contend with the guards’ physical abuse but we had to endure constant psychological torture that sapped our strength. Of course, the lack of food and water did not make things any better. There were also times during this ordeal that we suffered the pangs of loneliness. I thought back to when I was ten years old and I went to camp. That first night I had cried myself to sleep because I was so lonely and had lost the sense of security I had while at home. Now, many years later and ten thousand miles from home, I had the same feelings of alienation that I had had as a child. During the grueling, lonely hours of marching down that long road, my thoughts often turned to my past happy home life and to Laura. For what seemed like an eternity, but was actually only four days, I kept saying, “This is a bad dream; it can’t be for real.” When my spirits were low, I would think of Laura being there to comfort me and to tell me everything would be all right. In my thoughts, my family gave me hope, my friends showed me compassion, and my loved ones gave me the warmth and understanding I needed.

  On the march we were always ready for a good rumor. We told each other, “When we reach Balanga, we will be taken by ship to Manila and then traded for Japanese prisoners. We’ll be home soon,” or “We’ll be fed as soon as we get to the next barrio.” In spite of persistent contradictory evidence, we lived on these rumors for the entire twelve days of the march.

  On that fifth day of the march, I witnessed one of the most sadistic and inhumane incidents on the entire march, and I did see some of the worst. We had just stopped for a brief rest while waiting for another group to catch up with us. When the other group finally arrived, the guard ordered us to sta
nd up and start walking. One of the men had a very bad case of malaria and had barely made it to the rest area. He was burning up with fever and severely disoriented. When ordered to stand up, he could not do it. Without a minute’s hesitation, the guard hit him over the head with the butt of his gun, knocked him down to the ground, and then called for two nearby prisoners to start digging a hole to bury the fallen prisoner. The two men started digging, and when the hole was about a foot deep, the guard ordered the two men to place the sick man in the hole and bury him alive. The two men shook their heads; they could not do that.

  Once again without warning, and without any effort to settle the problem any other way, the guard shot the bigger of the two prisoners. He then pulled two more men from the line and ordered them to dig another hole to bury the murdered man. The Japanese guard got his point across. They dug the second hole, placed the two bodies in the holes, and threw dirt over them. The first man, still alive, started screaming as the dirt was thrown on him.

  A group of about five or six of us witnessed this slaughter of innocent, unarmed men. As for me, I turned away and hid my face in my hands so that the Japanese could not see me throw up. It was one of many experiences I will never forget, one that made me sick for days. I asked myself over and over again, “Is this what I’m staying alive for? To be executed tomorrow or the next day, or the next? How will I be able to continue to endure these cruelties?” The strength of my resolve was once again challenged. After wiping away the tears and the vomit, with my eyes focused along the winding road in front of us, I sought another landmark to use as my objective. I had to have a goal; I had to go on.

  Under normal conditions, in the real world, only two possible courses of action are open to us: either we can try to make our lives conform to our beliefs, or we can modify our beliefs to conform to our lives. Although true contentment may depend a great deal on which path we choose, under the conditions I faced on the march, I quickly found that in order to survive emotionally and physically I had to choose a little of each. Therefore, to survive I had to modify my beliefs to conform to what the Japanese wanted and at the same time try to make my life conform to my beliefs. For example, if the Japanese guards forced me to assist in burying a man who might still be alive, I quickly realized that although obeying the guards’ commands did not conform to my beliefs, I still had to make my life conform to their demands in order to continue living. Had I insisted on conforming to my beliefs and on not burying a man who may still be breathing, then I too would have been killed, as were so many other prisoners, for disobeying a Japanese order. By altering my beliefs, I rationalized, I could increase my chances of being around later to help others. When a man is able to be successful without compromising his morals, it is a blessing, a blessing I had to forgo in order to survive.