My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  While I was trying to straighten up, one of the guards hit me across the back with a piece of bamboo filled with dirt or gravel, and once again I fell to my knees. I got up as fast as I was able and stood at attention in front of the guards. I was left standing there for about an hour, then three guards came in and dragged me out to the parade ground, which had been the playground of the school.

  Once outside, I saw they had another American spread-eagled on a large board. His head was about ten inches lower than his feet, and his arms and feet were outstretched and tied to the board. A Japanese soldier was holding the American’s nose closed while another soldier poured what I later found out was salt water from a tea kettle into the prisoner’s mouth. In a minute or two, the American started coughing and throwing up water. The Japanese were simulating a drowning situation while the victim was on land. Every few seconds an officer would lean over and ask the prisoner a question. If he did not receive an immediate answer he would order that more water be forced into the prisoner’s mouth.

  I could not believe my eyes. Torture of this nature was something I had read about in history books. It was used during the medieval times, certainly not in the twentieth century. My God, I wondered, what is in store for me? My entire body became clammy, and I felt a sort of internal shaking, where my insides seemed to be moving all around. My face grew hot and my eyes opened wide as I said to myself, “What now?”

  It did not take long for me to find out. The guards forced me to the ground, in a sitting position, and then began asking a series of questions, shot at me quickly from two or three soldiers all at once. The interpreter came over, knelt down next to my ear, and repeated the questions in English. “Are you the officer in charge? Where are the other Americans hiding? Who gave you the guns and ammunition? Who has been feeding you? Tell us,” he said. “Tell us, and you will live.”

  I was frightened. I did not know the answers to their questions, and I did not know the punishment that was being planned for me. After what I had seen on the march, my imagination just ran rampant. I thought of every one of the atrocities I had seen. Were they going to cut off my head? How will I act when they tell me to kneel down? Maybe they were going to shoot me; that would be easier, I thought. But what if they were going to make me a dummy for bayonet practice? Without realizing what I was doing, I replied, “The Geneva Convention said all I have to give is my name, rank, and serial number, sir.”

  The interpreter burst out laughing. Then he informed the officer in charge what I had just said. The officer also belched out a loud laugh. I was then informed that the Japanese did not sign the Geneva Convention; therefore, they did not have to abide by those rules governing prisoners of war.

  I did not realize it at the time, but my response must have saved my life. The Japanese officer had been present at Camp O’Donnell when the camp commander had hollered and raved the same thing about the Geneva Convention. As I looked back on this experience, the Japanese must have felt that I had never arrived at O’Donnell or I would have known this little fact. After a few more minutes of laughing at me and my serious statement, the officer in charge stood up and went to where they were torturing the other American prisoner. I heard the American yell out, “I’ll tell, I’ll tell! Please stop, please!” The interpreter kneeled down in front of the man and wrote down what he said. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the Japanese officer pulled out his revolver and shot the man in the head.

  Oh my God, I thought, the chances of being killed were no better if you told or not. Death was still the price you paid. What a horrible thing to have to watch—and what a way to die—torture, then death. I thought about what I had just witnessed and decided right then and there I was going to stick to my guns. “I don’t know anything about anything. I’m just a dumb American soldier taking orders, like any good soldier would do”—that was what I was going to say.

  I was questioned for about two more hours, and after each question I told them the same thing: “I don’t know anything. I am only a poor private and followed orders.” At first I thought they accepted my denial of any valuable knowledge, but then I saw a few Japanese soldiers erecting a hanging bar out on the field. I was told to stand, and before I knew what was happening, I was again hit across the face with the butt of a rifle. Then they shouted more questions, and before I could answer, the officer in charge took off his large military belt, swung it while holding onto the leather end, and hit me in the face with the buckle with the impact of what seemed like a kicking horse.

  I was so scared, I wet my pants. I did not know what to do or what to expect next. Was I going to die right then and there, or was this just some kind of game they wanted to play with me? No, my life did not pass in front of me; I had neither the time nor the energy to think about anything. I just wanted to know what I had to do to stay alive. As I had decided while on the march, my goal was to get home to my family and my wife. I had told myself that I had to make up my mind about what I wanted, and then I had to do everything necessary to accomplish that goal. My final decision was always based on what would enable me to accomplish my goal without forfeiting my honor, my integrity, or my dignity. This basic philosophy is what pulled me through that day and many more days during the next three years.

  Finally, the soldiers who were working in the field hollered something to the officer in charge, and I was dragged to the makeshift hanging bar. (I did not know what else to call it at the time.) The soldiers made me stand up and interlace the fingers of my two hands. The officer in charge then tied my thumbs together with pieces of stripped bamboo that looked like wide shoelaces. Then they ran the upper portion of the bar, the crosspiece, under my tied hands and raised the bamboo pole up to the top of the two supporting pieces. They raised the bar just high enough so that my toes would barely touch the ground. I later learned that the Japanese called this device a stretching rack.

  What the Japanese did not realize was that I was so totally out of it by then that I could not have told them any secrets even if I wanted to. In fact, I was unable to hear, see, or talk to them, or even know what was going on around me. Their unrelenting torture was so severe that the victim was incapable of comprehending anything after the first ten minutes of any of their favorite torture schemes. The man I had heard say “I’ll tell” most probably had been in the spread-eagle position for only a short time, and his level of pain tolerance must have been very low.

  I hung on the stretching rack for a day and a half, and when they let me down, it was only to start another inhumane act. They tore my clothes off and tied a piece of wet bamboo splice, like a string, around my testicles. Then they hanged me again for the balance of the day. As the sun became stronger the drying bamboo contracted, becoming tighter around my testicles, until they were squeezed up into my abdomen. At the time I felt as if I was being castrated without the use of any anesthetic.

  Next, in frustration and anger, they shoved small pieces of dried bamboo up into my fingernails and then set fire to them. The pain was excruciating, and my blood flowed from my fingers as if they had been cut off. When the fire reached my fingers and I smelled my flesh burning, the soldiers, with one quick movement, forced my hands into a bucket of cold water. My pain was relieved instantly, but within minutes, the pain returned to my fingers to join the nauseating pain in my testicles and my abdomen. During this torture, they sometimes bombarded me with questions, but I always answered, “I don’t know anything. If I did I would tell you.”

  As this treatment continued, I felt that I was slowly going out of my mind. I really did not know yes from no, left from right, or up from down. I cannot even say I was expecting to die. Dying or living was not on my mind. Getting away from all the pain was all I thought about.

  After what seemed like an eternity but was only a few days, the guards finally took me down from the poles and dumped me on the ground, where I was allowed to stay until I was able to move under my own power. The guards gave me a small bowl of rice and a cup of hot tea. Wh
ile I was squatting and eating my meager ration of rice, the interpreter came over and informed me that I was going to be taken away.

  I was placed in the back of a truck, and my few possessions were thrown in beside me. At last the motor started, and relief surged over me. I do not know why; after all, they could have been taking me out to kill me. Even so, I was leaving the source of my pain, and at that time, that was all that counted. It was during this “questioning” session that I became aware that my threshold for pain was greater than that of many others.

  As the truck rumbled along the highway, it seemed to go out of its way to hit every hole in the road. Three Japanese soldiers guarded me during the entire trip. I never was able to figure out just what they thought I could do on my own. My hands were still numb, my fingers were swollen to twice their normal size, the pain in my stomach felt like a cat was tearing my insides out, and my back and face had deep gashes from the beatings I took from the Japanese soldiers. My arms still ached from having been hanged by my thumbs with my toes just barely touching the ground. My legs were like a bowl of Jell-O, with little or no feeling in them. And the ride continued, with me bumping up and down with every rotation of the wheels.

  I started to wonder why they did not just kill me. After all, I was a U.S. soldier captured in a Filipino barrio, befriended by natives. The only thing I could think of was that they bought my story of being in a tank battle and of escaping into the jungle after the tank was damaged. In addition, maybe they were accustomed to prisoners, after being tortured, being willing to confess to just about anything the guards wanted them to. But I was so knocked out by the torture that I could not say or do anything besides forcing myself to mumble, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  It was just starting to get dark when I saw the faint outline of barbed wire around a large open field. Then I noticed nipa huts scattered around the compound, and suddenly I realized I was back at O’Donnell. I made the full circle, in, out, around, and in again. At least I was alive—not alive and well, but alive.

  It was dusk when the truck rumbled through the gate into the com-pound of Camp O’Donnell. The driver spoke to the guard at the gate and continued into the compound for about another fifty feet. Then I was dumped, literally, on the ground inside the camp on the area normally used for roll call. I just lay there, not moving a muscle, hoping that no one else saw my being thrown out of the truck. After a few seconds, the truck took off in a cloud of dust, and I began the painful process of trying to get up on my feet. My legs were still numb; my back and neck felt like someone was hitting me with a two-by-four. My arms felt like a ton of lead, and my fingers and thumbs remained grotesquely swollen.

  I stood up and slowly stumbled toward one of the barracks, passing hundreds of men laying on the ground in front of slit trenches. The stench just added to my total misery. As I passed one of the men, he called out, “Hey, Ten-Spot, haven’t seen you around for a while. Thought you went to Boot Hill. How ya been?” As I looked down, I saw my platoon sergeant and friend, Bob Peterson. We had fought many a battle together. For one confrontation with the enemy while on Bataan, Bob later won the Silver Star for bravery. We had shared many experiences on the withdrawal back into Bataan.

  It was good hearing Bob’s voice, and when he said “Ten-Spot,” it brought back happy memories of how I got that nickname. I was one of a dozen men who got together to play poker at least once a week in our barracks at Fort Knox. Out of the twelve of us, there would always be six or seven who were able to play when needed. One night as the evening wore on and the betting got hot and heavy, I pulled the fourth ten to beat Bob’s full house. As I was taking in the pot, Bob said, “You did it to me, Ten-Spot.” And that nickname stuck ever since.

  I looked at him and said, “I only visit Boot Hill on limited occasions, and I don’t intend to make that my permanent residence any more than you do. Come on, Bob. Let’s take a walk and I’ll tell you a story.” With that, Bob got up, pulled up his trousers, and started to walk next to me. I knew then that Bob was going to make it, and he did.

  I found my place to sleep that night in the same hut I had used when I first arrived at Camp O’Donnell. It was funny; no one even realized I had been gone. In fact, I found myself a little hurt that no one even missed me. I guess every man was too concerned with himself and his own survival to miss someone who could have been taken to Boot Hill, to Z ward, or out on a work detail. We were all so sick that just trying to stay alive was consuming all of our energy.

  Nothing different was happening at Camp O’Donnell, just the same old stuff: men waiting for hours to fill a canteen of water, 150 Americans being buried each day, the stench of dysentery filling the air, and not a smile or happy man among us. We were still living like zombies; our body movements were made by instinct, not by choice. So here I was once again at least alive, but unsure of what was going to happen or when it would happen. It made me sad to think that only a few short weeks ago we were calling ourselves the “Battling Bastards of Bataan” and now here we were, no more than beggars, asking for permission to get some drinking water or pleading for a small portion of rice.

  Our high-ranking officers tried to establish some kind of organization and discipline in the camp, but some of them believed they were entitled to special treatment and larger rations than the enlisted men. Considering the conditions we were living under, we enlisted men laughed at these self-righteous, better-than-thou attitudes. At the beginning of the march, the officers had suggested that all the men throw away their dog tags to prevent undue torture or mistreatment of the officers by the Japanese, who would try to obtain military information. Most of the men complied with the request. But once we got to the camp, the officers wanted to be identified again so they would not have to go out on work details. They wanted all of the benefits of their position without being willing to pay the price. This was not true of all of the officers, but it did apply to many in camps in both the Philippines and Japan. This self-centered attitude caused many arguments and disagreements.

  By my third day back at O’Donnell I began to feel better, but I knew I had to leave again if I was going to survive. I could smell the death in the camp. There still was not enough food and water. Only the drip, drip, drip of the spigot at the corner of the camp gave water, a little at a time. The lines for water were still long and tedious. Death sometimes came faster than the water out of the pipe.

  By this time, what little medicine our medics had when they arrived at Camp O’Donnell was gone. The myriad illnesses and necessary surgical procedures for the captives went unattended. Our doctors lacked both the medical supplies and the surgical tools necessary to keep the men alive and healthy. In addition, the guards were becoming more aggressive as the prisoners grew weaker. It appeared that the guards were “coming in for the kill” as their prey lost the ability to defend themselves.

  When I went to the camp medics seeking medical attention for the damage done to my thumbs during the hanging torture and some relief or medication for my injured testicles, the doctors told me they could provide absolutely no help. They did not have any medication not only for my wounds, but for any problem. Dr. Thomas Hewlett said, “If something doesn’t happen real soon, and medicine is not made available to ease the dysentery, malaria, and pneumonia cases, we will all be dead by Easter.”

  Doctor Hewlett weighed about 135 pounds and stood only five feet seven inches, but he was more of a man than most of us put together. Doc Hewlett’s hair was cut crew-style, and he had a Kentucky drawl that complemented the well-educated and refined southern gentleman that he was. Thom was raised and lived on the Kentucky-Illinois border, but he had spent most of his time on the Kentucky side. I was very lucky to have had Doc Hewlett on the ship to Japan with me and then for the next three years in our prison camp in Japan. He came home and was honored by the U.S. government for his role in saving lives while a POW in Japan. A wonderful man, he died in 1991 and was honored at the annual reunion of the survivors of Camp 17. No
man from our camp could ever forget Thorn’s sincere concern for us prisoners. Hundreds of us owed our lives to Doc’s medical and mental genius. His negotiating powers with the guards of our camp, as well as the commander, were pure magic.

  CHAPTER 7

  BACK TO BATAAN—TO WORK

  I left sick call more convinced than ever that I had to find a way out of this hellhole if I was going to survive. In spite of the pain in both my legs and my fingers, I made up my mind that I was going to do anything and go anyplace to get out of the camp again. As luck would have it, two days later a rumor circulated that the Japanese were looking for volunteers to go on a work detail and look for abandoned or destroyed equipment. Apparently, the Japanese were looking for truck drivers, welders, and loaders. I made myself available for all three of the positions. In fact, I was available for any job they had to offer; I just wanted to get out of O’Donnell. I decided that if I did not know how to do a certain task, I would learn.

  About ninety men volunteered or were drafted for the work detail. We were herded into three trucks without any food or water or any idea of where we were going or what we were expected to do. In addition, we had no personal gear, such as blankets, shoes, socks, shirts or pants, canteens, or rain gear, of any kind. In spite of all these problems, I still welcomed the opportunity to leave the filth, stink, and depression of Camp O’Donnell.

  We traveled on the same road we had marched just weeks before. It appeared to us that we were going back to Bataan; we would be working for the Japanese where just weeks ago we were fighting them. As we passed through San Fernando, dozens of Filipinos stood along the road, waving and throwing food to us in the back of the trucks. San Fernando was a pivot city among Manila, Bataan, and Clark Field-Fort Stotsenburg and was on the main route to the country’s most prestigious and lovely resort, Baguio.