My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  Because of San Fernando’s important location and its large population, we noticed occasional Americans dressed as Filipinos, with all of the characteristics of true natives, among the locals. As we drove by, these “natives” not only waved and threw food to us, but also gave us the “thumbs-up” sign. This simple American custom was never copied by the Filipino people; instead, they gave us the “V for Victory” sign. We figured that these few Americans were members of a guerrilla band and were merely spending the day in this community. Oh, I thought, how lucky you are. I knew what it felt like since I had been one of them only days before.

  The ride to the work detail in Bataan took only four hours. I could not forget that, starting on April 10, my walk along this same route took twelve days. The ride brought back distressful memories. As we passed the carabao watering hole near Balanga, where the most brutal killing of marchers took place, I searched for some small visual detail to remember so that some day I would be able to lead concerned people to this infamous site.

  We arrived at an old schoolhouse in Limay, a barrio only about twenty miles from where we were captured. This site was to be our home for as long as the Japanese wanted. We planned on making the best of a bad deal. Each of us workers agreed to cause no problem that would encourage the Japanese to take drastic action against any of the rest of us. Except for a few of the men on the detail who knew each other prior to the capture, most of us were strangers.

  It became important to attach myself to a small group of men from whom I could seek help and strength. I quickly found a group of seven men that I felt comfortable with. We had no rules, no agenda, and no verbal agreement. We just enjoyed the comfort of being together for a few hours every night after work to talk about home, freedom, women, food, and the crazy things that happened during the day. The talk was slow, deliberate, and quiet. We did not want the guards to think we were having fun or that we were talking about them, so we spoke softly in a monotone and carefully chose every word.

  Whenever the talk turned to family or loved ones, I always seemed to talk about Laura. On more than one occasion, I spoke about how much fun we had together, what we liked to do, what we read, and how we felt about each other. After a few hours of reminiscing about home, we would lie down in our bunks, and each of us would dream of what the future held in store for us.

  Our job on this detail was to dismantle all the abandoned U.S. tanks, trucks, and other heavy-duty vehicles or equipment. The Japanese would then ship the steel to Japan for use in their war effort. I was chosen and trained to be a blowtorch operator to cut and dissect all the steel found on Bataan. We worked from sunup to sundown, with a five-minute break in the morning and another in the afternoon.

  The work was strenuous. Our bodies were not able to take the physical strain of the day-to-day demands. Most of us still had signs of malaria, many were suffering the aftereffects of dysentery, and all of us were underweight, weak, and malnourished. On the fifth day of this work detail, we tried to convince the guards that if we could hunt for a few carabao that roamed the fields, their meat would make us stronger and enable us to do more work. This initiative seemed to please the Japanese officer in charge of our detail, and he finally gave us permission for the hunt.

  I was one of three chosen to go on the carabao hunt. We were instructed to kill and bring back two carabao. Cooked beef was to be our reward for working hard. What a treat this was going to be! Two guards came with us on the hunt. They gave each of us a rifle, and we were told we could have the ammunition after we found some animals to shoot. We left our camp at about 2:00 P.M. We climbed into the back of a truck and set out looking for our prey.

  We had each been assigned a number when our work detail arrived at our camp area, and we were told if one man escaped, ten men would be chosen to die. As we had heard in rumors at Camp O’Donnell, the ten men would be taken from the five numbers below and above that of the man who escaped. So escaping was not on our minds as we drove through the small towns and villages of Bataan looking for “meat on the hoof.”

  About five miles from our work camp, we spotted three or four carabao. We all got out of the truck, and the guards handed us bullets to use in our rifles. The guards told us in pidgin English and sign language to bring back two carabao, but large ones, as they would feed more men. We walked about one hundred yards into the open field where we had seen the animals, and sure enough, there they were, proud as proud could be, standing still with their heads up high. I loaded the ammunition into my rifle and took careful aim at the water buffalo. I fired three times in rapid succession, and within moments, the animal fell. The other animal was dropped by the other Americans. We walked cautiously toward the animals, not knowing if they were dead. We knew the potential power of an injured animal of this size, and we were not going to take any unnecessary risks. While approaching the animals we looked around, and standing not more than fifty feet from us was a very large carabao, just looking us over. Then, without a moment’s warning, it ran toward us like an enormous charging bull, ready for the kill.

  The guards started hollering in Japanese at the same time the other two Americans started yelling, “Kill ‘im, kill ‘im, kill ‘im!” The Japanese guards picked up on the Americans’ chant and started hollering, “Kill, kill, kill!” So without waiting for another command, I put my rifle to my shoulder, took aim, and shot two, three, or four times, bringing the beast down with the last shot no more than twenty feet from our position.

  I never thought twice about killing the third carabao. After all, it was charging and threatening us, and the Japanese guards were telling us to shoot. So with this worry out of our way, we started to skin the animals and cut them up so they could be lifted onto the truck. While butchering the animals, Frank, a tall lanky guy from Kentucky, said, “Let’s get the brains out and cut out the tongue. Where I come from these are delicacies.” If Frank knew how and wanted to go about this procedure, it was OK with us. (When I saw just how the dissecting was done, I was not able to eat any of the brains or tongue then or today.) After several hours of skinning, cutting, and, in general, feeling pretty good about ourselves, we started to load the meat onto the truck. In spite of our poor physical condition, the mere thought of eating meat once again seemed to spur us on and gave us the strength to load the animals.

  We decided to take all three of the animals we shot. After all, there was no sense in leaving a dead animal out on the open field, especially with so many men going hungry. Once all the meat from the three carabao was loaded, we took off for camp. Upon arrival, we got a hero’s welcome from the rest of the prisoners. We had not eaten meat since we slaughtered one of the 26th Cavalry’s horses at least three months ago, and horse meat, we fantasized, was much tougher than carabao meat. This was going to be more like beef than anything we could think of.

  We unloaded the carcasses and handed them over to the Japanese guards for final distribution. We knew that the Japanese soldiers would take the best cuts and most of the meat, but at least we would get a share and that seemed real important at the time. The three of us “hunters” were resting inside the schoolhouse at about 5 P.M., when a runner came in and told me I was wanted at Japanese headquarters immediately.

  I entered the commander’s office and stood at attention. There were five soldiers in the room; one, of course, was the commander, the other four just looked like guards. No one was laughing or even talking as I came in. All at once the commander started to holler at me in Japanese and all I could say, or was supposed to say, was hai. I stood at attention, feet firmly planted in front of me, my back as straight as an arrow, and said in as loud a voice as I could, “Hai.”

  Within minutes, the commander made four or five more statements, and each seemed louder. At the same time, he started to swing his arms wildly from top to bottom and from side to side. I started to sweat from fear, fear of the unknown. What is he saying? Why pick on me? What did I do wrong? That was all I could think of until I was shocked by a hard blow to the ba
ck of my neck. The blow shook my teeth and caused my eyes to roll sideways. Then the commander screamed some more and continued to wave his hands while the four guards bashed my head and neck. Each time something was said, they would stop and wait, as if waiting for my answer. But I did not understand anything the Japanese were saying, so all I could do was what I was told to do—stand at attention and say, “Hai.”

  By this time I was in great pain from the beating, so I used a coping technique I had learned years before. I knew if I was in a fight and unable to defend myself, just to “roll” with the punches and to minimize the harshness of the blows. After I had said hai four or five times, I noticed one of the guards starting to take off his uniform trouser belt. The belt was about thirty-five inches long, and its large metal buckle was four inches long, two inches wide, and at least an eighth of an inch thick. Soon I started to feel this striking my face, neck, or nose each time I said hai. The pain was beyond description, and there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to be killed that day. I did everything I could to control my need to defecate. Put bluntly, I feared they would literally scare the shit out of me. My senses were still intact, and I was well enough aware that urinating on the floor of the commander’s office would not be tolerated, either, so I psyched myself to control my bladder as well.

  My mind raced trying to figure out what I had done to deserve this punishment, but I came up empty-handed. I had done nothing different than any of the other men. So why me?

  After the second blow to my face, my nose was broken, and blood flowed from my nose as well as my cheekbones. The beating continued for what seemed like an hour or more, and then it stopped. I tried to put my mind in some order, but I was bewildered and totally confused. What were they saying? What was I supposed to do? How was I expected to answer? Would someone tell me what was going on?

  Then, in a flash, it dawned on me: what if they were saying, “So you think you are better than us?” And I was answering, “Yes sir.” Maybe they were saying, “You think we are stupid people?” and I was still saying, “Yes sir.” I started to realize that if this treatment was going to continue, I would not be able to survive. When the beating started again, I had to make a decision about what I was going to do at once. I was not too sure which option to take—keep saying hai, or just stop answering altogether. Either way, I figured, I would be a dead soldier if something did not stop this beating. I decided to keep quiet, say nothing, and not even try to answer them. Maybe then the guards would stop the beatings for good. So, for the next ten or fifteen minutes, I just stood at attention the best I could under these circumstances and took the repeated blows to my back, neck, and face.

  Finally, they stopped hitting me and yelling at me. Things were quiet in the commander’s office. I started to breathe a little easier, and I was still able to stand. Falling down, I feared, could be fatal. I remembered those days on the Bataan Death March all too well. If a man stayed on his feet, he had a chance; if he fell down, he was beaten, kicked, or killed. With this on my mind, I did everything humanly possible to stay upright.

  Just when I thought the worst was over, more guards came into the office and pushed me outside. They made me kneel down on a piece of bamboo and then placed another piece of bamboo behind my kneecaps between my legs. This position, I quickly found out, cut off the circulation of blood to my legs. Then a guard put a wheel taken from a U.S. Army 6x6 truck into my hands and ordered me to hold it over my head. After a few minutes, I found myself slowly lowering the wheel as my hands and arms became very tired, but when the Japanese saw this, the beatings began anew. Finally one of the guards broke down and whispered in English, “You must keep hands up five minutes, then you will be allowed to go to your bed.”

  I lasted the five minutes by counting them off in a simple jingle that went something like this: “One, two, three, four, who are you for; five, six, seven, eight, don’t you think I appreciate; nine, ten, eleven, twelve, you can find it on a shelf; ...” I counted the full three hundred seconds, and in doing so, I was able to block out the pain. I was looking forward to lying down and resting. My thoughts then focused on living, not on dying. I was ready for anything the Japanese wanted to dish out, because I knew I was going to get home someday. While keeping that wheel over my head, my mind raced a mile a minute about what I would do when I arrived back in the United States, back in Chicago.

  When the three hundred seconds were over, or thereabouts, a guard kicked me over on my side, and I let the wheel drop from my grasp. At the same time, I pushed the two pieces of bamboo away from my legs, and I just lay there on the ground, waiting for the next surprise. None came. I was left alone in the darkness of the jungle.

  Within minutes, three of my friends came over and carried me to my bunk in the schoolhouse. One of them moved my legs back and forth, trying to restore the circulation to my limbs. Another friend started wiping the blood from my face and cleaning my nose, mouth, and eyes with cool water. A third later washed my back and neck and put bandages on the cuts made by the rifle butts and belt buckle. My friends, not the Japanese, took good care of me.

  I fell fast asleep almost as soon as my head hit the bunk. I awoke early the following morning and made a vow that the Japanese would never beat me again just because I did not understand their language. I gingerly got up for roll call and answered, “Hai,” when my number was called, then I crawled back into my bunk for a few minutes of rest and prayer.

  When I started to feel better, my friends told me what had caused the beatings. It seems the commander had only wanted two carabao killed. When he asked who killed the third animal, he was told number 64. That was my number and I did shoot the third animal, but I felt betrayed by the Japanese guards who failed to tell their commander the whole story. As my knowledge of Japanese tradition grew, however, I realized that the Japanese soldier never, ever added anything to a conversation. They were expected only to answer the question put to them. The commander did not ask “Why were three animals killed?” He merely asked, “Who killed the third animal?” No further comment was elicited, so none was given.

  A few days later, I saw the guard who had whispered in my ear, “Only five minutes.” I bowed to him and said in English, “Thank you for making those last five minutes easy.” When he did not answer me, I asked, “Please, will you help me learn Japanese? I want to understand and speak your language.” To my surprise, he was delighted; he smiled and said, “I will help.” This was the beginning of a new learning experience for me.

  I took a pick from the tool shed, held it up to the guard, and said, “English for this is ‘pick.’ What is the name for this in Japanese?” He slowly pronounced the word truabosh. I knew then that I could count on this guard for help in order to learn his language. Within a few days, I had learned the names of ten pieces of equipment that we were using. When I was told to get a common tool, such as a shovel, pick, or hammer, I could respond without the guards’ hollering and hand waving that usually accompanied a simple request for a piece of equipment.

  When I was able to respond to a Japanese request, my friends would ask, “How did you learn the language so quickly?” “Very easy,” I would reply. “Anyone can learn Japanese in ten easy beatings.” The beating I took in the commander’s office for not understanding Japanese resulted in my learning the language. Knowing the language helped me, and many other prisoners who worked with me, avoid some of the serious beatings that other men incurred for not responding immediately to the guards’ commands. Although I was still physically abused many times during the next three years, never again was it because I did not understand what the guards were saying.

  Thus, I made the decision that I was going to learn Japanese, and I did. I made the decision I was going to survive this experience, and I did. I believed (and still do believe) that I could accomplish almost anything I really wanted if I would only give it everything I had. My positive attitude got me this far, and I was going to depend on it for the rest of my journey.

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nbsp; The work on our detail was simple, yet demanding. Most of us knew how to drive a truck, but few knew anything about welding or cutting. Those few Americans on the detail who knew how to use a blowtorch and could weld and cut metal trained those who wanted to learn; those who did not want to become cutters became truck drivers or loaders. We were lucky because none of the Japanese guards knew anything about blowtorches and could not tell that we were working slowly and less accurately than they would otherwise have wanted.

  When we first saw some of the trucks and tanks that we had disabled before our capture, it made our hearts heavy. “Just think,” I said, “they never intended to use the equipment as vehicles. We did all that damage for nothing.” All they wanted was the scrap metal to use in manufacturing their bombs.

  Except for working slower, we could not do much for the U.S. war effort, although on a few occasions, when loading the scrap metal from the trucks to the docks via wheelbarrows, a wheelbarrow would tip and fall into the bay. Of course, the guards would holler and maybe slap or punch us, but every so often one of the Americans would just “let go.” We always knew when a load was going to be dropped, because the man pushing the wheelbarrow would start to whistle the “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Of course, only we Americans knew that tune, and whenever we heard it we would all join in. This whistling was sort of our way of paying the Japanese back, for everything we salvaged was not going to the enemy; some of it was destined for the sea.

  The guards on this work detail had been fighting men just a few months ago, but now they were sick or injured. The Japanese had never planned on the malaria bug devastating their fighting force. In addition, many of our guards had been wounded during various battles on Bataan and held deep grudges against the Americans. Their actions toward us prisoners made this resentment quite evident. A few of the guards, however, respected us because we were frontline soldiers and they knew what it was like at the front. They admired our fighting spirit.