Some of the local citizens gave the guerrilla group I was attached to a few hundred books that were taken from the local library. They reasoned that the Japanese did not want the Filipinos reading American books. During lulls in our activities, I read whatever books were available. My favorite was the Pocket Book of Verse, which for some reason the Japanese allowed me to keep, and I still have and treasure this book that made many of my wartime days seem shorter.
A book on the power of positive thinking was another one I liked. After all, I was the living proof of the benefit of a positive attitude. Due to the nature of our missions, and the start-and-stop time requirements, I found a way to read faster than ever before. I was not skimming; I was speed-reading. During the next few days, I read a book on philosophy, one on history, another on the power of money, and last, a book dealing with different business opportunities. Reading was a great way of keeping busy when we were not getting ready for another assignment. During these inactive periods, I also ate better and more food and gained a much-needed ten pounds.
We were forbidden by the officer in charge to keep any written notes of names, places, or any other evidence that could identify us as guerrillas operating behind enemy lines. Not having records of these events proved a lifesaver for me only a few weeks later.
The psychological power of knowing one is not completely isolated from his fighting forces goes a long way in achieving the necessary support for civilian resistance to an occupying force. The Filipino people never lost faith so long as they felt that they were not forgotten. On a day-to-day basis, one or more guerrilla bands would engage the Japanese militarily in one way or another. This constant reminder that the Americans were still involved with the war effort made the Filipino civilians feel they could, and should, continue to fight for their beliefs.
Inevitably there were some men, both Filipinos and Americans, in my guerrilla band who did nothing all day long and soon found themselves in arguments with other members of our group over the smallest of details. Others played around with the local female population and drank whatever alcoholic beverages they could find. I knew these misfits were not going to be worth much if we had to go out on a surprise mission.
I was with the guerrillas for only two weeks. In that time, however, we picked up four Americans who were found wandering in the mountains, and we had five skirmishes with the Japanese, all of which we won hands-down. We did not suffer a single loss; not one of our group was even wounded. In fact, during my time in the hills, only one man was injured; but he fell and broke his leg while trying to catch a couple of wild chickens.
By my tenth day with the guerrillas, I was used to the trials and tribulations of the group. Then the following day word came from another guerrilla band that the Japanese were planning an all-out offensive against the guerrillas. Word was circulating around the various barrios that the Japanese were offering hefty rewards for information about the whereabouts of any guerrilla bands or any individual fighting with the guerrillas. One of the rewards was a sack of rice. We knew the Japanese were shipping most of the rice harvested in the Philippines to their fighting forces around the Pacific theater of operations and the rest to Japan. For the near-starving Filipinos, a sack of rice was a greatly tempting reward for turning in an American.
With the reward posted prominently in all the cities and barrios of the Philippines, we were told to be very careful in our contact with the locals. Many times before or after a raid on the Japanese, the guerrillas would have to stay in a local village overnight. Most of the villagers were seriously malnourished and only shadows of their former selves. We were constantly concerned that, in a moment of anxiety for their children, one of them might turn us in for the reward. We would not blame them. After all, they and their children were suffering severely.
On our next mission we arrived at our destination earlier than expected. As we approached the barrio, we heard women screaming and the sound of rifle fire. We took cover at the top of a ridge and looked down at the village. We were aghast at what we saw. Tied to each nipa hut leg was a Filipino woman with her clothes torn almost totally off, and we watched in horror as Japanese soldiers inserted something into each woman’s vagina. These women screamed, begging for mercy, crying for someone to stop this torture, but the Japanese merely laughed louder and harder. They were getting quite a kick out of their terrible game.
Some of the guards began fondling the women’s breasts while other guards hit the ones who were screaming with pieces of bamboo loaded with sand and gravel. This weapon, if swung with enough force, could rupture or tear apart any part of the human body, and that was exactly what the Japanese soldiers were doing. One woman looked as if she was bleeding all over; from some areas her blood was literally squirting out, sort of like a fountain.
Watching this brutal, savage treatment of innocent victims was more than I could take. Just as I was about to turn my face away, I saw a few of the soldiers light the fuses that were protruding from the women’s vaginas. Within twenty seconds, I heard the explosions.
God, what a horrible sight: the women were blown apart, and their huts were reduced to rubble. Through the smoke, children screamed and cried out for their mothers. And during all of this carnage, other Japanese soldiers, who had just come out of their hiding places, horsed around and laughed at their assault on these innocent people. Barbarians, one and all.
We counted about forty Japanese soldiers and only five of us. In addition, we saw another fifty or sixty civilians in the barrio who had been forced to watch this execution. We wanted to attack the Japanese soldiers, but with all those civilians nearby, it would have only meant more destruction and killings. The people had had enough of that for this day. We decided against any reprisal at this time, and we did say at this time. Then we heard the voice of the interpreter, loud and clear: “That was for not answering our questions about guerrilla activities in your village. Next time you fail to answer we will eliminate the whole barrio.” With that, the Japanese soldiers got in their trucks and drove off. I was still trembling with disbelief and disgust. My rage at the brutality and at being helpless to stop it is impossible to describe.
When we were sure the Japanese had gone, we came out of our little bunker and started to tend to those who were injured during the melee. We saw that almost half of the little homes in the barrio were totally destroyed. Helping to put people’s lives back together is one thing, but putting their bodies back together after this massacre was quite another. As we searched for the wounded, we found the most gruesome sight awaiting us on the barrio’s streets: large and small parts of arms, legs, and torsos were scattered all over.
Those people able to walk unaided did so with great difficulty. Our small guerrilla band sewed up dozens of wounds and applied emergency tourniquets wherever needed. Then we placed the most seriously injured in the bed of a truck and had one of the men from the barrio drive them to the closest town with a doctor and hospital.
By the time we finished these simple medical procedures and directed a clean-up crew to start clearing the debris and to make plans to rebuilding the destroyed huts, it was already dark. The barrio’s leaders thanked us and insisted that we stay for dinner and sleep there that night. We rarely traveled after dark, so we accepted their hospitality.
Once we decided to stay in the barrio, we could only hope that the people there would not hate us for what the Japanese did to them. Unfortunately, we were wrong. While most of the people accepted us, the ten-year-old son of one of the women killed that afternoon told us we were to blame for his mother’s death. He cried and screamed at us for what had happened to his mother. He did not hold the Japanese who did the killing responsible; he blamed us.
One of the regulations set forth by the leaders of the guerrilla band was that when we stayed in a village we were always to split up. Each member of the group was supposed to sleep at the home of a different family. That way, the odds were that only one of us would be captured or injured in a confrontation
. I was assigned to one of the huts on the outskirts of the barrio that night. None of us needed a blanket, pillow, or a change of clothes; we just slept in the clothes we were wearing.
I did not fall asleep that night as quickly as usual. Instead, I lay awake thinking of the horrible tragedy I had witnessed that day. I guess it was about one o’clock in the morning when I finally fell asleep, and at half past five I was awakened by a sharp pain in my left leg. In fact, when I touched the spot that hurt so much I felt a warm wetness flowing from it.
Then as I became fully awake I saw a Japanese soldier standing over me who had just pulled his bayonet from my leg. That was what I felt, what had caused me the initial pain. The quiet of this little village was broken as the soldier began screaming at me. At first, I thought he was hollering for me to stand at once. Then, as quickly as he started he stopped, turned to a few of his soldier friends, and showed them my blood on his bayonet. Then they all began to laugh loudly, sounding almost like a donkey braying. As I started to get up, he kicked me in the chest.
As I tried to rise again, I realized that getting up on my own would be very painful, if not impossible. A Filipino standing next to me helped me get up, and as I did, the guard kicked me again, this time in the leg he had bayoneted. The pain was horrible, but I bit my lip and refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me moan, cry, or scream. I finally got to my feet, stood as erect as I could, and saluted the entire contingent of guards standing around me.
The simple instructions my guerrilla friends had given me immediately came to mind. If captured, show military respect. Give your name, rank, and serial number. Say you are not and never were a guerrilla; that you have no idea where any other Americans are; and that you have been in the jungle for months because your outfit got split up. In other words, pretend you know nothing, and deny you were ever a guerrilla. Our guerrilla leader felt that because it was only recently that the surrender took place, maybe the Japanese would buy the excuse that we were lost from our units. All of these instructions came to my mind in a flash.
I quickly applied everything I was taught. I stood at rigid military attention, looked the Japanese officer squarely in the eye, and said, “My military number is 20-600-429.” I realized also that I should not use the word hai— the sole acceptable response to a Japanese soldier, regardless of rank—for the only way an American would know to say hai was if he had been incarcerated at Camp O’Donnell, and if he had been there, they would know he must have escaped.
Before I could do or say another thing, I was hit across my face with the scabbard of the officer’s samurai sword. The blow did its damage. It shut me up and cut a five-inch gash on my right cheek.
At just about that time, the man who helped me get up whispered in my ear, “The boy got a sack of rice for turning you in.” I knew who the boy was, and I just could not blame him. He was an emotional wreck. Seeing his mother tortured and beaten, molested, and then murdered was too much for most adults to deal with, let alone a child. I gave no further thought to what caused my capture; I focused only on how to cope with the situation as best I could.
The Japanese then grabbed me by my hair, which was yanked and pulled until I made the move they wanted, to the feet of the officer. The soldiers were yelling at me, but I was not able to understand one word. I figured out by their sign language and by knowing that they did not like any guerrilla, that obviously they were pleased at having found one. They did nothing to stop the bleeding from my leg or my face, and once I was up on my own two feet, standing next to the officer, they searched me for weapons. They removed everything from my pockets: a small Filipino knife, a few pesos, and my copy of the Pocket Book of Verse. They placed these items in a small box, placed it on the front seat of a truck, shoved me into the bed of the truck, and with four or five soldiers standing guard over me, drove off.
Once in the truck and lying down, I tore my shirt in strips and used these strips of cloth to bandage my leg. This stopped the flow of blood, which made me feel a little stronger. Then I applied pressure to the cut on my cheek, trying to stop the bleeding. I had no idea where the guards were taking me or what they were going to do to me once we arrived. But as we drove, I thought, Fm still alive; stay that way. What they don’t know won’t hurt.
Now I had to plan my response to the interrogation that I knew would take place. I realized that time was at a premium. My mind started to think back to some of the experiences I had had during these past four months. Then remembering what I had been told at the guerrilla camp in the mountains, an idea came to me. I remembered that fateful day in December when we lost Lieutenant Morin’s tank in the rice paddies. Four men got out of the tank and made it on foot to the hills. Two of the men were captured a few days later. I felt that I could make the Japanese believe, first, that I was one of the four in that tank and, second, that I was one of the two who had not been captured. Then I had to convince them that I had been hiding all this time in various barrios. If I could make them believe this, then maybe my punishment would not be too severe. I began putting together as many of the facts of that day as possible. I also had to remember not to respond to any question with “hai”; that would have been a giveaway.
We traveled for what seemed like two hours over roads that were severely damaged by heavy rains. The roads were filled with potholes and rocks. At one point we even had to stop while the driver removed a large tree branch that had no doubt fallen during a recent downpour. The truck traveled at about fifteen miles per hour during most of the trip. Then at about ten in the morning, we stopped at a large rural schoolhouse. I realized this building was the headquarters for the detachment that had captured me. I had finally arrived at my interrogation station.
And what an interrogation I got. When the truck stopped, I was herded into the main building and down a long hall to what was obviously the unit commander’s office. Once inside, I was made to stand at attention while an officer gave me a chewing out and a lecture on being a “good boy.” I did not really understand him; I just figured out what I would say under like circumstances.
Then in walked a young Japanese officer. His uniform was sparkling clean; his shoes, polished. His ornate samurai sword was not of the “issue” brand. Obviously, the officer was very proud of it. I could tell just by the way he held the handle while strutting over to where I was standing. He stood directly in front of me and then said, in as perfect English as any well-educated American, “I am here to interpret what the commander has to say to you. I caution you to be honest and to tell the commander everything he wants to know, for if not, you will be severely punished.” After what I had seen of the Japanese treatment of prisoners, I had no doubt that he meant what he said.
At last in walked the commanding officer. He was as pompous as I expected, all five feet ten inches of him. He weighed at least 250 pounds and had a black, well-trimmed pencil mustache. He looked at me, smiled, and in almost a whisper spoke to the interpreter. The English-speaking officer then told me that the commander had said, “Tell me where the rest of the poor unfortunate soldiers you have been working with are hiding.” The question was asked in a matter-of-fact way, without screaming or hands waving through the air. “Why didn’t you use the surrender ticket we dropped from airplanes for your freedom?” I was asked by the interpreter. I rested a few seconds before I said anything. I thought to myself, You mean the one I chewed and swallowed when we arrived at Camp O’Donnell. Then I said that I had never seen one and that if I had, surely I would have given the option a lot of consideration.
Actually, five or six different freedom tickets were dropped from low-flying Japanese airplanes. The first one said, “MacArthur has left you . . . he will not return. Surrender now and we will treat you kindly.” Another said, “Don’t wait to die. Come forward now and you will live to see tomorrow.” An illustration of the difference in our cultures and our approach to sexual expression was found in the surrender ticket that said, “Before the bombs fall, let me take your hand an
d kiss your gentle cheeks and murmur . . . before the terror comes, let me walk beside you in garden deep in a petaled sleep ... let me, while there is still a time and place, feel soft against me and rest. . . rest your warm hand on my breast. . . come home to me, and dream with me.” This flier, not using very good English, had a picture of a sexy Japanese lady surrounding the written message. And then I remembered one that was intended for the Filipino troops. It just said, “You are our Pals... Our Enemy is the Americans. This is your ticket to freedom.”
The questioning continued, and the Japanese concern for the damage guerrillas were doing to them became evident. They demanded to know where the guerrillas were hiding. In the first place, I really did not know where the rest of the guerrillas were, because they moved to different locations quite often. Second, I was new to this and therefore did not know the exact locations where the guerrillas had taken me. Third, even if I did know, I was not planning on telling the enemy or even letting on that I knew. I had to answer, so I said, “If I knew, I would tell you, but I really don’t know. You see, I was just passing through, trying to find a place to sleep and a little food.” Obviously, they did not believe me. I could tell from their reaction that they had made up their minds that I was not going to tell them a thing.
For what seemed like an eternity, I just stood and waited for them to say something. At last the commander gave the interpreter instructions. A few minutes later, a guard came into the room, raised his rifle, flipped it around so that the stock of the gun was facing me, and with one swift movement hit me with the butt squarely in the face. With one fell swoop, I started to bleed from each and every part of my face. I knew that my nose was broken, that a few teeth were missing, and that it hurt like hell. Blood was gushing down my shirt to my pants. Everything was getting wet from the flowing blood. All the while the Japanese were having themselves a good laugh. I guess I was truly the butt of the joke.
My Hitch in Hell Page 13