My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  I could not forget or understand the guards’ actions. I had observed that the Japanese soldiers were well disciplined and obeyed their officers without question. I thought the officers would have known the Japanese army regulations pertaining to the handling of prisoners of war. These regulations can be found in Japanese Army Instruction Number 22, issued in February 1904. Chapter 1, article 2 states, “Prisoners of war shall be treated with a spirit of goodwill and shall never be subjected to cruelties or humiliation.” The Japanese guards in the Philippines did not adhere in any way to these written instructions of their emperor. In fact, the Japanese interpreters told us on more than one occasion, “You are lower than dogs. You will eat only when we choose to feed you; you will rest only when we want you to rest; we will beat you any time a guard feels the need to teach you a lesson.”

  These Japanese army regulations were not followed at any time—not on the march or in any of our prison camps or on any of the work details. Obviously, these regulations were just words—not meant to be taken seriously—intended to influence world support and to show that the Japanese were “humane and caring” people. We found out the hard way that the Japanese guards were just the opposite. They seemed to revel in watching men being tortured, in the mistaken belief that they were superior and could do anything they wanted to us.

  Immediately after witnessing the execution-style burial, my mind turned to the positive side for survival. What, I wondered, can I do to overcome the total despair I felt when I was forced to witness these brutalities? Or, for that matter, forced to participate in the very march itself? What can I do to better prepare myself for survival?

  First, I had to become determined and convince myself of what I can do. Second, I had to keep a positive attitude, and I had to realize that I could do anything the Japanese wanted me to do. Then, I quickly understood the importance of having the “smarts,” or knowing when to do or not do certain things, such as when to walk faster and to become a part of another column of men. I vowed to walk with determination, my head high, shoulders back, and chest out. This posture would make me feel righteous, and the guards did not harass or belittle the men who looked healthy and in control of themselves.

  We walked for several more days and often right into the night as well. Only twice were we offered food and water, and then very little of each. The four- or five-mile march from the town of Lubao became another nightmare. We did not know why we were being hurried the way we were. The guards yelled more and louder than ever before. We prisoners were subjected to constant hitting, pushing, and prodding every few minutes by a different guard.

  At one point on this section of the march, we were ordered to double time, or run, and try to keep up with a fresh group of guards. As we passed a group of Japanese soldiers, our guards ordered us to stop. When we looked over to where the group of soldiers were, we saw an American soldier kneeling in front of a Japanese officer. The officer had his samurai sword out of the scabbard, and he was prancing around the other soldiers, showing off his skills in moving around the kneeling American while swinging his sword in every direction. Up went the blade, then with great artistry and a loud “Banzai,” the officer brought the blade down. We heard a dull thud, and the American was decapitated. The Japanese officer then kicked the body of the American soldier over into the field, and all of the Japanese soldiers laughed merrily and walked away. As I witnessed this tragedy and as the sword came down, my body twitched, and I clasped my hands in front of me, as if in prayer. I could hardly breathe. I could not believe this killing, just for pure sport, was happening again.

  I have relived this scene hundreds of times since that day; I will never be able to get that scene out of my mind. At the time, however, despite my horror, I was determined to go on. I knew I had to survive this ordeal in order to let the world know what had happened.

  It took two more days to reach the barrio of Orani, a distance of about fifteen miles. During these two days we again went without food or drinking water. Along the route, we witnessed more of the same kind of treatment we had seen the first four days. The Japanese were trying very hard to humiliate the Americans any way they could in front of the Filipinos, as if to prove Japanese superiority. Each time they killed or tortured an American, they would seek out some of the Filipinos on the sides of the road and force them to watch. Men, women, and children—there were no exceptions—all had to do whatever they were commanded by the guards. The Filipino people watched in stunned silence the many atrocities. They did what they had to do; but they watched with tears in their eyes and a prayer on their lips.

  While marching through the town of Orani, we came to a group of Japanese standing on the side of the road. They would scream at us, “Hayaku, hayaku” (faster, faster). Before long we were almost running. Then as we passed the guards, the Filipinos standing on the edge of the road threw us balls of rice. If we caught one, we ate it on the run. If it dropped on the ground, then that meal was gone forever. Luckily most of us were willing to share, so no man went without some of the tidings our Filipino friends threw to us during the days on the march. Unfortunately, once we arrived at our first camp, there was no longer an opportunity to share. We each received only a small ration of rice for our early meal and another for our evening meal, with nothing more to share, no Filipinos throwing food at us, and no food growing on the side of the road that was easy picking. Our spirit of comradeship deteriorated. While I tried on many occasions to talk some of my tank buddies into eating their rice and not trading it for a cigarette, other prisoners preyed on sickly men and tried to convince them to trade away their life for a cigarette that supposedly would make them feel well again. It became a dog-eat-dog existence.

  Finally, exhausted and barely able to stand, we were forced to continue the double-time march until we entered the city of San Fernando, about two kilometers away. What now, we wondered? Which one of us would be the next to die? How much more of this can our bodies endure?

  Upon our arrival in San Fernando, the largest town on the march, we found a bustling little city scarcely touched by the soldiers and equipment associated with war. We Americans, on our withdrawal to Bataan, had not stopped in San Fernando long and neither had the Japanese in their hurry to locate and annihilate us. Some fairly large factories were located in this capital city of the Pampanga province. We noticed many Japanese soldiers milling around town in groups of four or five, all of them armed and all having a good time at the expense of the Filipinos.

  We marched to the local railroad station, where we were told to rest. In the distance we could just see a group of boxcars being pulled by an old engine. We sat for about an hour along the railroad tracks before the train finally chugged its way into the little station. We were going to Manila, we heard, to be traded for Japanese prisoners. We would be home soon, we reasoned. We found out soon enough that these were all rumors, just rumors.

  We were herded onto small railway boxcars. Cars that would normally hold ten animals, or perhaps twenty-five or thirty people, were jammed with eighty to one hundred men. We had to take turns just to sit down because there was not enough room for all of us to sit at the same time. Even sticking our feet out of the car did not leave enough room for the rest of the men. Some of the men were unable to breathe and were so tightly packed in the middle of the car that they suffocated while trying to get a breath of fresh air. The lucky ones were those who were able to get to the outside door and breathe some of the air that seeped in. We all stood shoulder to shoulder for most of the five-hour ride to Capas, the town near our final destination, a POW camp.

  I was one of the lucky ones. I got a place at the door, and I was able to sit down with my legs dangling out. Enjoying fresh air with a little breeze and resting without a bayonet at my back provided such a relief. But then along came one of the guards, swinging a large canelike piece of bamboo. He swung the bamboo toward my feet and hit me just above the kneecap. I was taken by surprise, and I yelled out in pain—exactly what I do not re
member, but it was not complimentary toward the Japanese guard who hit me. Then, without warning, he grabbed the handle of the sliding boxcar door and slammed it shut, once again striking my legs. My pain proved not in vain, however; my legs stopped the door from closing all the way. Because of this small opening, we were able to get a little fresh air, and while the train was moving, a significant breeze flowed into our boxcar.

  As the train slowly rolled along with its cargo of thousands of diseased and dying soldiers, Filipinos stood along the track and threw rice balls wrapped in banana leaves, rice cakes made with sugar and spices, and pieces of cooked chicken to us in the boxcars. When I saw the Filipinos throwing food toward us, I shoved the door open another couple of feet, allowing us to retrieve much of the food. Little did they know at the time that their actions and generosity saved many of us from starvation. Their show of concern helped us get through another stage of this living hell.

  Finally, the train stopped, and for the next ten minutes we stayed where we were. No one said a word; the quiet of the day was broken only by the moans of dying men. At this point, we still did not know what was going to happen to us. Were we going to be executed and placed in a mass grave out here in the country where no one would witness this? We were all afraid of the quiet. Even the Japanese guards said nothing. I barely heard a whispered prayer from within the boxcar. Oh God, I thought, please give us a chance. Do not let us die like animals in this remote section of the Philippines where we would never be found.

  Only the living finally got off this train; the dead, we were instructed, were to remain inside the boxcars. Those men who could jumped out of the cars while the others slowly sat down at the edge of the door and slid off. I slowly jumped out of the boxcar, and as I tried to start walking, I fell on the side of the tracks. I realized that my cramped legs would not cooperate with my brain. I did not get up as fast as one of the guards thought I should, so he started beating me with the butt of his rifle on my back, legs, and neck. At one point, he made a thrusting movement toward me with his bayonet, a threat meaning death if I did not move. I got the message, and I got going.

  We started to march again, not knowing where or for how long. All we knew was that we were being herded like cattle into a slaughtering bin. I felt like my body was burning up when I got out of the boxcar. After walking about two miles, I started to feel faint. I began wobbling back and forth across the column of marching men, and before long I dropped to my knees from sheer exhaustion and fever. Luck was with me once again, however, and I found myself being carried by my two friends, Cigoi and Bronge. They carried me for about a mile before I got my strength back and was able to make it on my own. How often in one person’s lifetime will he be saved by the same people twice and within only a few days?

  The columns of haggard, half-dead men—our dirty bodies drained of almost all fluids, our clothes tattered and torn, our faces unshaven—continued down the road. Along this narrow, unfinished road we admired the beautiful and tall, full mango trees and other rich green foliage. Then, every so often, we would see the body of a fellow American sprawled near the side of the road, the rich green foliage near his body splattered with dark brown blood.

  Mobuhiko Jimbo, author of Dawn of the Philippines, was a Japanese soldier who served in the Philippines during the Philippine campaign. In his book, he states that on the day Bataan surrendered all of the Japanese troops were told that at least seventy thousand prisoners were in the hands of the Japanese Imperial Army.

  The following Japanese order, issued in Manila, explains in detail the reasons for many of the atrocities suffered by the prisoners who were forced to march out of Bataan.

  Every troop which fought against our Army on Bataan should be wiped out thoroughly, whether he surrendered or not, and any American captive who is unable to continue marching all the way to the concentration camp should be put to death in the area 200 meters off the highway.

  This order may be the justification the guards used during the march to kill any American who dropped out of the marching line for any reason. Once General Yamashita accepted the surrender of Bataan, his only interest was not in our welfare but in the final capitulation of all fighting forces in the Philippines. Then he could direct all energy and supplies toward Corregidor. Without a shadow of doubt, I am convinced that the slaughter of our surrendering troops was premeditated and authorized by someone with considerable authority, someone in the Japanese military high command in the Philippines.

  Meanwhile, what ended up as the last day on the march nearly ended my life as well. My feet had swollen to about twice their normal size, and I had trouble keeping up with my column. I found out later that this problem plagued many of the men.

  We had just been turned over to a group of well-rested Japanese guards, who got a kick out of yelling, pushing, and clubbing those of us who could hardly continue walking. The weak were their chosen prey. One of my walking buddies, seeing my swollen feet, suggested that I cut the sides of my boots. This seemed like a good idea, so not only did I cut the sides of my boots, but I also removed the shoestrings to allow for continued swelling. By this time I was so weak, hot, and tired that I seriously doubted whether my fever would permit me to continue any farther. As my health problems threatened to overwhelm me, I quickly realized that I had to continue and that I had to make it to wherever they were taking me. Then, like a miracle, my fever seemed to disappear. After what seemed a lifetime, but was in reality an excruciating eight miles, we finally saw the faint outline of barbed wire and typical Philippine huts in the distance. I felt as if the end of this forced march might at last be in sight.

  CHAPTER 5

  OUR FIRST CAMP

  Half-starved, barely able to walk, and sick with malaria and dysentery, we entered an old, abandoned Philippine Army camp. Known as Camp O’Donnell, it was named in honor of the original landowner, a Spaniard. Unfortunately for us, the camp was never completed and it looked as bad as we felt. It had several nipa-thatched that built on stilts, the custom in the Philippines, except these huts were on rickety stilts and looked like they were ready to collapse at any moment. Many of the buildings did not have roofs, and although it was in the middle of a lush jungle, this camp was treeless. It looked as if no one would be able to live there for long.

  From what we could see there were weeds growing everywhere, even in the huts. Like most of the huts in this part of the world, windows were nothing more than openings, and the rat- and insect-infested dwellings reeked of decay. Forty men were to be crowded into each one, which was only intended to house sixteen. The one thing that seemed to have survived the years was the rusty barbed wire that encircled the camp.

  The soldiers pushed and beat us unmercifully and indiscriminately. There was no reason for this action. All they wanted us to do was get in a line, march into the compound, and stand at attention. We could have accomplished this simple order without the physical abuse that was doled out to most of the men, me included. Because I was limping as I entered the camp, the guards began hitting me with their rifle butts. One of the guards who was stationed in the camp had taken his military belt off and was swinging it wildly toward me. The belt ripped into my back and across my buttocks, and I felt blood gushing down my back and legs. Then, with a mighty snap, his belt caught me squarely in the face. The shock of the blow and the stinging pain so clouded my mind that I almost tore after the guard in retaliation. Luckily, I caught myself before I did anything foolish. I wiped away the blood on my face and pressed the tail of my shirt to my cheek, hoping to stop the bleeding before I got hit again. This proved a point to me: the Japanese did not bother beating the healthy men, only those they viewed as weak or sick.

  We were then pushed into an open marching field and told to place all of our possessions—everything we had in our pockets, on our body, or in a pack if we were carrying one—on the ground in front of us. The officers and their soldiers began walking up and down the rows of men, looking for that telltale item that only the Japs
knew would mean death for its possessor. All of a sudden we heard the crack sound of a rifle being fired. Quickly the word passed around the POWs that if anyone had anything Japanese, or any Japanese propaganda material, “to get rid of it fast.” The guards reasoned that the only way any of us would have anything Japanese would be that we took it off a dead Japanese soldier. However, when the Japanese arrived at our bivouac area on Bataan and asked for cigarettes, occasionally one would give a prisoner some money and sort of pay for what he took. Unfortunately, such Japanese generosity got one of our buddies killed, because he had a Japanese coin on the ground in front of him. When the camp guards found it, no questions were asked, and the prisoner was taken around the side of the camp and shot.

  If a prisoner had one of the “surrender certificates” that had been dropped from Japanese planes flying over Filipino territory, he was also pulled from the group and shot. The Japanese reasoned that he had had an opportunity to surrender and receive good treatment but he chose not to take advantage of the offer. Any of us who had anything like this chewed and swallowed it or pushed it up his anus as far as it would go. It was one more strain on our physically destroyed bodies.