My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  During the three months that we worked this detail, many unusual events occurred. First, most of us became experts within our own job responsibility after working every day, seven days a week, for ten hours or more. Second, one of our American sergeants, Mike Sullivan (not his real name), had become so friendly with the Japanese guards from our work detail that they allowed him to dish out our punishments. Prior to the war, Sullivan was a professional boxer from St. Louis. He was very strong and built like a young bull, with wide shoulders, a slim waist, and large biceps. When he first arrived on the work detail, he looked like most of us—thin, weak, and happy just to be alive—but that changed after the first few weeks. Sullivan started to hang around with the guards, and then he maneuvered himself as senior man on our detail, informing the Japanese officers that he would ensure our work was done right and fast. The U.S. officers and higher-ranking noncommissioned officers, not wanting to make waves, just kept quiet and let Sullivan take over. We did not know that once in authority he was going to punch us out physically for any infraction of the work rules.

  Mike Sullivan seemed to beam with delight whenever he was able to show his superiority over the rest of us. Once when I was filling in as a truck driver and had to back up to a pile of metal that was going to be loaded onto the truck, I backed up too far and hit the metal pile. Nothing was damaged or lost, and the rear bumper of the truck merely grazed the pile of metal. Within seconds, Sullivan pulled me by my shirt from the driver’s seat and threw me to the ground in one swift movement. With his left hand on the collar of my shirt, he lifted me up, made a fist with his right hand, and hit me in the face while calling me a “dumb jerk,” “careless and uncaring,” and “not sympathetic or understanding the Japanese cause.” I started to strike back but was stopped by a few of my friends who saw the laughing Japanese guards pat Sullivan on the back and say, “Yeroshi” (very good). I quickly realized that the guards would not tolerate anyone hitting “their” man.

  To set the record straight regarding Mike Sullivan, a few of the other prisoners believed that he actually saved some of our lives or, in some situations, actually saved some of us from a very severe beating. At the time, such punishment would have been very hard to take and, along with our serious health problems, could well have proved fatal. Those who take this position claim that had Sullivan not intervened and taken the initiative to punish us for our errors, the Japanese guards would have done a more thorough job of beating us. In other words, his fist to the face a few times was not as bad as a rifle butt to the face, followed by a belt buckle to the face, and then a few whacks on the back and head with sand-filled lengths of bamboo. Undoubtedly, this argument would stand up in some situations but certainly not in all of the cases.

  The third unusual event while on this detail in Bataan was our discovery among the destroyed trucks, tanks, and equipment of dozens of machine guns, hundreds of handguns, and many vehicles still in operating condition. A few of the American prisoners hid some of the weapons and carried them into our camp as a precaution against the possibility that the Japanese might decide to kill us after our job was done. So we collected a small arsenal and hid it in and around the camp.

  Word spread that some of the men wanted to use the equipment to annihilate the Japanese on our work detail and take to the hills as free men and join the guerrillas. So an escape plan was considered that included killing the Japanese and any man not willing to cooperate. We broke up into little groups and talked about the probability of success. My concern was twofold. First, where would we go? Second, what would happen to those who did not want to join in this plan? Could we justify killing our own soldiers? But if we took no action against those who chose not to participate, could we expect the Japanese not to punish them severely? The questions we raised had to be addressed before we could take any action, and as time went on and our plans became better organized, we had to face the problem of Mike Sullivan. Who would, or could, deal with him on this crucial issue? No decision on our part, however, became necessary. Mike got word we were seriously thinking about escape and tipped off the Japanese, who systematically searched the area and questioned every prisoner regarding their part in the escape.

  For the next two weeks, there was never a happy face around the work area or at our camp. Each man was suspicious of the other; no one trusted anyone. No one was sure what had happened, but we all had our ideas. Finally, a few weeks later, a Japanese guard let it be known that Mike had discussed the potential escape with the camp commander. Once again we had to ask ourselves, did Mike save us from being annihilated, or did he turn us in for his own glory? We will never know, for Mike never did make it home. At the end of the war, he boarded the ship for San Francisco but never got off. Some say he was pushed overboard, others say he fell; but either way, we will never really know the reason behind his punishment of fellow POWs. Were his actions for the good of the men, or were they caused by conceit and the desire for a better life for himself?

  With all the hours we spent working, we did not have much time for other activities. When we drove the trucks into Manila to unload the metal, we always passed little barrios housing large numbers of pro-American people. These folks would give us the V sign as we passed. The Japanese thought the people were honoring them, and so the guards were very happy and constantly smiling. The people along the truck route would throw us food of all kinds, from simple sugar cakes to the Philippine party cakes, or babinkas.

  On one of the trips, the guards wanted to stop at one of the food stands along the way, where we had another extraordinary experience. We pulled up to a small store, and as we got out of the truck, the storekeeper lined up five of the freshest-looking, largest, and reddest apples I had ever seen. The Japanese guard bought one of the apples for two pesos, but he never realized the significance of the fruit on the storekeeper’s shelf. We knew these were Washington State’s Red Delicious apples, which do not grow in the Philippines or Japan, and that they had to come from the United States via submarine. The American guerrillas arranged such displays to show the Filipinos that the Americans were still thinking of them and keeping an eye on everything. It was a great morale booster, for us as well as the Filipino people.

  Upon our return to camp and, I must admit, feeling better about our circumstances, knowing that we had not been forgotten by our countrymen, we were given the rest of the day off. This rest period was the first since we were put on this detail. We took the opportunity to wash clothes, to get some much needed sack time, and to just buzz around meeting with friends we had not seen in quite some time.

  By early evening I started to think about Laura again. I wondered about what she was doing and whether she was going to be there, with her love for me still blazing, when I returned to Chicago. These thoughts and many more raced through my mind. I wished I could tell her that I was all right, that at least I was still among the living. As I slowly realized that I was just dreaming and wishing wishes that could not come true, I started to cry tears of sorrow, sorrow for Laura. As the evening wore on, I felt light-headed and warm. I was tired and needed some rest, so I lay back in my bunk, closed my eyes, and slept.

  By late evening I was awakened by a horrible headache and the need to urinate. So I went upstairs to the latrine, and when I finished, I noticed my body becoming very hot. While on my way back, I fell down almost the entire flight of stairs. I picked myself up from the floor and climbed into my sack. My buddy in the bunk next to me, Woody (I never did get his full name, but no one ever cared too much for formalities of that kind), felt my head and remarked, “You re burning up, Ten-Spot. Let me put some cool water on your head.” I do not remember much after that except sometime during the night I asked Woody for a Bible. I really did not think I would make it till morning. Malaria was a killer, and I was burning up in what was by far the worst attack I ever had.

  I remembered another bad malaria attack I had had on the march, when my friends Cigoi and Bronge just would not let me stop. They had carried me
till the changing of the guards, and we had stopped on the side of the road near a fairly large, quick-flowing stream. I had talked about things that had happened years ago, and Bronge and Cigoi thought I was going out of my mind. Without a moment’s hesitation, they had picked me up and threw me into the stream. The shock of the cool water rushing over my body had brought me to my senses, and within minutes I had gotten up on my own two feet and walked back to the stream’s edge. My life has been like that of a cat: throw me down, or let me fall, and I will always end up on my feet.

  Later, in yet another remarkable experience, Woody came over to my sleeping area, pulled the mosquito net back over my head, handed me a small book, and then slowly walked away. I looked at the three-by-five-inch cover of the book and started to smile as I read the title, Prayer Book for Jews in the Armed Forces of the United States. Where in the world did Woody get it? As I held the book, it fell open to page seventy-six. I felt my energy slipping, and seeing the image of my mother and father looking down at me, I thought of Laura and what she meant to me. Then I found just enough strength to hold the little book open. I read the following passage:

  Lord what is man, that Thou regardest him, or the son of man, that Thou takest account of him? Man is like to vanity; his days are as a shadow that passes away. In the morning he flourishes, and grows up; in the evening he is cut down, and withers. So teach us to number our days, that we may get us a heart of wisdom. Mark the man of integrity, and behold the upright; for there is a future for the man of peace. . . . My flesh and my heart fails; but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. And the dust returns to the earth as it was, but the spirit returns unto God who gave it. I shall behold Thy face in righteousness; I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with Thy likeness.

  I understand that I slept for twenty-four hours, and when I woke I simply got out of bed as I had always done that past month without a fever or a flushed face. I was hungry and ready to go to work. That was the last time during the war that I had such a serious attack of malaria. (By the way, that little prayer book is still in my possession today and is one of my treasures I will not part with.)

  We worked in Bataan for another two weeks, cutting all the steel we could find, stripping away all of the electronic gear that we had torn apart only a few weeks before, and then loading everything onto trucks for the trip to Manila and eventually to Japan. We were sure that the Geneva Convention forbade such forced labor, particularly being forced to help the enemy in furthering its war efforts. It seemed that suddenly most of us prisoners became military lawyers. Every time we were forced to do some kind of work, we always talked about the rules and regulations of the Geneva Convention and found ways to illustrate that the Japanese were in violation of most of the rules of war, to say nothing of the code of common decency.

  Finally our work was finished. We had accomplished what the Japanese wanted, and then we were divided into groups, each designated for a different assignment. We had spent three months on this special work detail, all working together while making new friends. These new friends I had made had some of the same positive attitudes I had, and this shared outlook had made my job a little easier. Working with these men did more for me than working with those who always complained about something and spoke about everything in a negative way. During these three months, I had found myself staying away from those men with poor attitudes. I could not afford to spend my valuable time with men who only thought negatively.

  Once more we were separated from newfound friendships and were off someplace else to start making new friends all over again. Some of the men were sent to a work detail on the docks in Manila; this was known as the Port Detail. Some others were going south to another island to strip that area of all trucks, half-tracks, and other machinery once used in the U.S. forces’ defense of the Philippines.

  The group to which I was assigned was going to a new prison camp called Cabanatuan. All of us had come from the original camp, Camp O’Donnell. As soon as we heard about our destination, we remembered vividly that stinking, rat-infested hellhole, where Americans died at the rate of 150 or more each day. We had been away from O’Donnell for about three months, and when we heard about Cabanatuan, we expected a military camp in which all of the problems of the past would be straightened out. Food and water, we thought, would surely be more accessible as well as adequate medical supplies and treatment for the sick. We started to look forward to a clean and orderly camp environment. What we found when we entered Cabanatuan, however, was just what we had left at O’Donnell, only bigger.

  CHAPTER 8

  CABANATUAN

  Before World War II, Camp Cabanatuan was a Philippine Army training facility located about four miles east of the city of Cabanatuan and about sixty miles north of Manila. This newer and larger camp was roughly fifty marching miles east of Camp O’Donnell, the first camp we entered after the Bataan Death March.

  Around June 1, 1942, the prisoners from O’Donnell were sent to Cabanatuan. This transfer was completed within four days, with the men who could walk marching the distance. Those too sick to walk were sent by truck.

  The few books written about prison camps in the Philippines all discuss Cabanatuan. After all, it was the biggest and by far the most important POW camp the Japanese had. Its size was hard to judge, but it was estimated at one hundred acres, with the prison farm adding another three hundred acres. The Japanese quarters were in the center of the camp, on the southerly edge; the hospital area was on the west side; and the barracks for the POWs covered the entire east side of the camp. Guard towers were everywhere, and the camp was laced with old and rusty barbed wire. In fact, when I first entered the camp I thought the barbed wire was in the process of being taken down. On the southeast side of the camp was the infamous farm.

  The medics, knowing the potential health problems caused by those with dysentery, set up an isolated ward for the infected on the northwest side of the camp. Close to the dysentery ward, the medics also set up a Zero ward for those considered unable to survive.

  When our truck stopped at the gate to this new camp, we were turned over to a group of Japanese guards who laughed and joked about our arrival. They looked like a welcoming party, they were so glad to see us. Within minutes we were forced to stand at attention as one of the guards began his tirade about what was expected of us. As he did not speak English and we had no interpreter, we merely assumed what was meant.

  We were then pushed and shoved out onto the parade ground, where we underwent first a search of our belongings and then a hand search of the clothes we had on and our bodies’ orifices. Some of us were forced to strip and then were fully examined. Those who did not have to undergo the body search had to drop everything from their pockets onto the ground in front of them. Then the guards put their hands into every pocket to make sure we followed orders and were not concealing anything. By this time, we knew the consequences of not following orders, so none of our group was punished for disobeying.

  Each of us was assigned to a barracks, and as we walked to our new homes, we were shocked to see the same conditions as had existed at O’Donnell. The men we saw walking around camp were living zombies, with their eyes sunken, heads bowed down, and their backs curved in defeat. Most were skin and bones, after losing between fifty and sixty pounds from their normal weight. Those men not able to get up on their feet were obviously dying of malaria and dysentery. Men were also lying next to a slit trench, ready to defecate at a moment’s notice.

  Once inside the barracks, we each were assigned a number and told the rule regarding escape. Five men bearing the numbers on each side of the man who escaped would be taken out and shot, bayoneted, or beheaded, depending on the whim of the officer in charge.

  When I saw the conditions in this camp, I realized that I was one of the lucky ones. The Bataan work detail had afforded me the opportunity to get out for a brief time and a chance to breathe fresh air, to see and hear people laugh, to take a walk without seeing a burial det
ail carrying those poor souls to their shallow, unmarked graves. Already my thoughts were once again centered on how to get out of this living cemetery.

  When we arrived at our new barracks, we found much the same living accommodations as in O’Donnell, except these buildings were bigger and held more men. The camp was much larger than the old one, and more men seemed to mill around. After the first shock of seeing so many sick men wore off, I realized that the healthy-looking men walking around were captives from Corregidor. These men had not made a forced march; they had come by rail in the same small, cramped cars that carried thousands of men on the death march from San Fernando to Capas. The men from Corregidor were not malnourished prior to their surrender, for they had had adequate supplies until the end of their war on May 6, 1942.

  So this new camp had two distinct types of prisoners. The first were the tired, starved, and beaten transferees from O’Donnell who had malaria, dysentery, beriberi, scurvy, pellagra, and pneumonia. The death that hovered over O’Donnell seemed to follow us to Cabanatuan. The second group, mostly all taken prisoner at the fall of Corregidor, was different. Relatively healthy, these men had come into camp as a group with little or no malaria, and only a handful of the men had dysentery when they arrived. In addition, except for those who were wounded during the last few days of battle, the men were mostly able-bodied and capable of caring for themselves. The men from Corregidor had fought just as fearlessly as the men on Bataan, but they did not make the death march, undernourished and diseased, and they did not have to bury their buddies alive or take the consequence of being killed.

  The author in front of his barracks at Fort Knox, Kentucky, in September 1941. Author’s collection