My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  The following morning, when the early shift was ready to leave for the mine, the guards accepted only forty-five men from barracks number 4. They never mentioned the men in the hospital or on bed rest. In addition, the guards did not say one word about Doc Hewlett. We continued to go to the mine, as usual, and when needed, we would go to the medics and be treated by one of the medical corpsmen.

  We all counted the days while Doc was in the guardhouse. During roll call on the sixth day, to our surprise, out of the guardhouse strode Doc Hewlett. He marched right into line where he belonged and answered “Hai” loud and clear. If we had not been afraid of retaliation by the guards, we would have all yelled, “Welcome back!” Doc needed a shave and looked a little thinner, but his spirit was not broken. In fact, if any spirit was broken it was that of the Japanese high command. Doc Hewlett had not given in to the brutality of the Japanese guards and officers of Camp 17; he had refused to compromise his medical ethics.

  After Dr. Thomas Hewlett returned home, he received many awards and decorations for his bravery in the face of Japanese death threats and for refusing to obey their barbaric commands. Like Major Mamerow, Doc labored under the sorrow from the days he was powerless to save men’s arms, legs, or lives, and he always felt a sense of responsibility for these losses. He grieved from the time he returned home until June 1990, when he carried that burden with him to his grave.

  As the years wore on, we became more accustomed to our everyday situation and to the unyielding brutality. Our monotonous routine—get up, eat some rice, walk to and from the mine, shovel and load coal, suffer beatings by the Japanese for the slightest infractions, take a shower, go to bed—was a sorry and unpleasant one but one we had to follow. Thank God we had the occasional diversion of preparing for one of our shows. This gave me a little break from the otherwise meaningless days. We were always on the lookout for any diversion, and we even looked forward to the days the benjo (toilet) personnel came by to empty the contents of our latrines.

  Each barracks had four toilet cubicles. About once a month, these outhouse type latrines required emptying. Surprisingly, we did not have to do this dirty work. Instead, the Japanese sent into camp three benjo girls, whom we would eye with excitement. After all, we rarely saw a girl up close, and we had not even talked to one for what seemed like a lifetime. The benjo girls pushed or pulled a cart that held a very large drum-shaped receptacle that had a hinged lid at the top. The girls also carried long poles with scoops at one end to ladle out the waste. After bringing the waste up from the depths of the toilet, the girls would dump it into the receptacle. Of course, to do this work, the girls had to enter our barracks, that is, our sleeping quarters. This was all that a few of the men needed, just a chance to get “friendly” with the girls.

  During one of the benjo girls’ work details, an aggressive man in our barracks propositioned one of the girls. He offered her an apple, which he had obtained in the mine for meeting his shoveling quota, for a few minutes of pleasure. With some giggling and a shy motion with her hands, she nodded her head yes. Within a few seconds the girl was herded into one of the sleeping rooms and disrobed, and our friend had an exciting three or four minutes. Afterward, the girl quickly got dressed, bowed politely, and went outside to join her friends. As the girls pushed the cart away, we could hear them giggling and whispering to each other.

  We talked about this escapade for days. The word was out: “We screwed the Japanese!”

  CHAPTER 15

  OUR WAR IS OVER

  In late June 1945, we listened to the Japanese civilians in the mine worry about the war coming to their homeland. Then in camp early one morning, we heard the sound of aircraft, loud and clear. Within seconds, we saw streaming down at us from the west six fighter planes bearing the emblem of the United States of America.

  The planes roared in directly overhead, and the pilots dipped their wings at us as they flew low over our area of camp. Then, they made a tight turn and came back. This time they came down and across the side that housed the Japanese guards. As the planes neared the buildings, they opened fire with their machine guns. After strafing the entire Japanese side of the camp, they then turned, dipped their wings once again, and sped away. At that moment, the better part of valor caused us to control our obvious emotional rejoicing, and instead, we patted the backs of those standing closest to us, smiled, and said, “The time is getting closer.”

  As soon as our planes left, the guards rushed us into the bomb shelter. They hollered, they pushed, they poked at us to hurry. We got into the shelter as quickly as we could, but not without wondering whether we would ever get out.

  About four hours later the guards told us to come out, that it was all clear and safe for us. They cut our food ration in half that day and hit more of us than ever before, and we knew why. We got the message: the Allies were winning the war, and time would soon tell the story of how the rising sun fell. When I was beaten that night for a minor infraction of the regulations, I stood tall and took it with pride. Their time was coming, I thought, maybe not today, but soon, real soon.

  On August 6, 1945, we noticed a marked difference in the attitude of the Japanese civilian workers in the mine. In fact, the guards were also obviously uneasy. We figured it was just a lull in the storm, but the guards were suddenly so docile and not their usual sadistic selves. Something was going on that we knew nothing about. We discussed how we would be able to tell that the war was over. We all finally agreed that we would know that the war was over when (1) we did not have to go to work in the mine, (2) we received a Red Cross food parcel, (3) we got all the rice we wanted to eat, and (4) we did not have to salute the Japanese guards any longer. We had this all figured out. No one would have to tell us when the war was over. With these four signs, we would know.

  That morning we marched to the mine and entered to go to work as usual. We took our assignment, picked up our tools, and started the long walk down to our working lateral. Just as we started down, a Four Striper stopped us and told us to take one of the cars down. We wondered why all of a sudden he was showing some concern for us. Down in the mine, the civilian workers were waiting for us. Sato San took me aside and said, “Many Japanese killed by big bomb.” Their tragedy meant our ordeal was almost over, but I did not dare smile or show in any way my happiness. I knew something was in the air just by the way the Japanese civilians talked among themselves. We finished work that day and rode up on one of the cars. Then we walked back to the camp, as usual; but the people on the streets did not look at us, and the guards walked in front of us without saying anything to us, which was most unusual.

  August 9, 1945, started out like any other day—up at dawn to eat a little rice, then walk to the mine to shovel some coal, and so on—but later, something very different happened. Looking toward Nagasaki, about thirty-five miles southeast of our camp, we saw what appeared to be a large floating cloud, with a large stemlike cloud at the bottom. The top of this cloud looked perfectly flat, sort of like a pancake. In fact, Doc Hewlett called it a mushroom cloud because of its stem and large upper body. Doc made a bet with me that the war would be over in ten days. I took the bet, saying that cloud we had just seen was a floating airfield and that the Japanese were going to have airplanes land on this cloud and float it over the United States. There, I continued, the Japanese planes would take off from this floating airfield and bomb their targets. We made the bet for dinner at the finest restaurant we could find whenever we met again after the war.

  We later learned that we had witnessed the rising cloud of the second atomic bomb—the one dropped on Nagasaki—that the United States used against Japan. Not in a million years could we have dreamed of a weapon like the atomic bomb and the destruction it caused. As far as Camp 17 was concerned, there is no doubt that dropping this devastating bomb saved our lives, as well as the lives of millions of our Allies and our enemy, the Japanese. Although about two hundred thousand civilians were killed in both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the benefit to
us prisoners was immediate.

  Since July, our sick bay had more cases of malnutrition, beriberi, and downright depression than it could handle. We had lost all the weight, strength, and energy we could afford. There was nothing left to lose, except our lives. As our energy level dropped, so did our ability to work efficiently and with a safety-first attitude.

  Freedom came at last on the morning of August 15, 1945. Our first shift left for the mines the same time we always did, but we never went down into the mine. When we asked what we were supposed to do, the Japanese told us, “Yasumi kondo” (rest time). While topside we saw the Japanese huddled together, talking, and no one was working. In all of our years in Japan, this was the first time we did not see some type of work being performed. Without explanation we were marched back into camp. Excitement in camp grew, for the first of our four indicators that the war was over had happened.

  At noon when we went into the mess hall and gave our bento box to the cook, he filled it to the top and pushed more rice into the box until it could not hold any more. Our soup, which usually was nothing more than warm colored water, was full of vegetables. I looked at some of my friends and just grinned. The second of our four signs had taken place.

  Excitement ruled the day. Most of us could not even talk about it; we did not want to wish ourselves something before it was real. For the first time in three and a half years, I really felt that we were going to be released. Then the Japanese ordered everyone into the mess hall, where we were handed a Red Cross food box—a full Red Cross box, one box per man. The war had to be over. What were we waiting for? At that moment, we felt as if God really was on our side.

  Our excitement built up to a frenzy. Was this the end of the war? Were we going to be free men by the day’s end? The only thing left on our list was not to have to salute the guards. Because I spoke Japanese a little better than most of the other fellows, I was prodded to go out onto the parade ground area and just say hello to one of the guards, without saluting or bowing. I took the challenge. Out of the barracks I went, and I walked on the parade ground until I saw a guard. With one mighty heave of my hand, I waved at him and said, “Hello.” He smiled at me, bowed, and said in English, “Hello.”

  I knew then it was all over. The war was over! At twenty-five, I was going to live to see my family and Laura. I was going to be a free man any minute now.

  CHAPTER 16

  “AMERICA AND JAPAN NOW FRIENDS”

  Before long we were all herded out to the parade ground. We lined up, waiting for roll call or for whatever was going to happen. Nothing the Japanese could do to us would surprise us after three and a half years of putting up with their idiosyncrasies. During our incarceration in Japan, we kept asking ourselves, “What will happen to us when the Americans win? How will we be treated when the war is over? Will the Japanese try to kill us because of how badly they have treated us?” Our concerns increased as time went on, for we were at the mercy of the Japanese and did not know our fate.

  As our bodies stiffened to attention, we heard the roar of trucks coming onto the parade ground. We counted seven trucks, each with a manned machine gun mounted on the roof of the cab and dozens of soldiers standing on the running boards or in the bed of the truck. The camp commander strutted onto the field in his usual peacock fashion. He looked as if the Japanese had just won the war, and he was here to inform us of their victory. Once in position at the center of the group, he cleared his throat and said, “America and Japan now friends. War is over.” Then he jumped onto the running board of the lead truck, and with the other six trucks following, he pounded his fist on the top of the truck and hollered, “Yu/ca” (go).

  We were left standing on the parade ground. For a moment no one spoke a word. The silence was overwhelming. Then we realized we were free. We cheered. The war was over! We had won! My only thoughts at that time were, How do we get out of here? When can we leave? It’s over. ... By golly, it’s over, over at last. I will see my family again! Thank God.

  While we were still dazedly standing on the parade ground, Major Mamerow cautioned, “The war is over and we will be going home soon, but for now we have to keep our dignity and remember we are Americans.”

  His first order of business in camp was to put one of the navy officers who was in charge of the mess hall and kitchen into the guardhouse for safekeeping. Major Mamerow knew that this officer, if he was not protected, was fingered for murder by at least a dozen of the men. This lieutenant commander, who happened to be an Annapolis graduate, was directly responsible for the deaths of at least three, and possibly four, fellow Americans. He also turned over to the Japanese four Americans who were tortured unmercifully—whatever the enemy wanted to do was all right with him—because the hungry men had stolen food. Because of his inhumane treatment of fellow American POWs, we had nicknamed him “The Henchman.” Without exception, no one in Camp 17 had the slightest regard for this officer. In fact, we all wanted him court-martialed, if and when we ever returned to the United States.

  After attending to the protection of our mess officer, next we established a prophylactic station in our camp for those POWs who wanted to go into town and have some fun with the geisha girls or whatever other girls were willing and available. Some of us also went into town to look for a few of the civilians or the guards who had been beating us unmercifully these past three years. We certainly were not hoping to have a drink with them or to chat. What we wanted was to give them the same treatment they had given us, except we wanted it to end in a lynching or something close to it. Apparently, however, word got out to the civilian miners that we were looking for those who had punished or tortured us prisoners. Most of them seemed to have just melted away. We did manage to find a few of the workers, and we accomplished our goal: we got even. We beat the few guards we found with our fists—not with sticks or stones—until there was no life left in them. Maybe we went a little berserk, but we did what we had to do. Although we also sought out the guards from Camp 17, most of them were long gone by the time we went looking for them.

  In the early afternoon of August 18, we heard the loud roar of aircraft approaching from the south. As I looked up, I was flooded with emotion, for flying low in the sky was the largest and the most tremendous airplane I had ever seen. As it came over our camp, its bomb bay doors opened and we saw a hole so large that we bet our tanks could have entered it, side by side, with plenty of room left over. The aircraft made a large loop around our area and then made a pass, coming in low over our parade ground. At just the right moment, as we were looking skyward, dozens of parachutes floated out of the bomb bay with precious cargo attached. As the packages left the airplane, their chutes opened, filling the sky with unbelievable color. Slowly the parachutes drifted to earth with their cargo of much-needed food, medical supplies, and clothing.

  When the first parachute hit the ground, three cases of canned fruit salad broke open, and the fruit salad was strewn all over the ground. We ran to the spot and started to eat the food with our bare hands. We laughed, we cried, and we could not believe our eyes. Our air force had found us; we were not as isolated as we had thought.

  When the second aircraft came over our camp, someone in the airplane threw out a black leather cylinder. Inside we found a map of Nagasaki, Kumamoto, and Omuta, where our camp was located. The note attached to this canister explained that an atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima. The second fell on Nagasaki, but if it had been closed-in due to bad weather, our area was the alternative. Omuta, with all its mines and shipping capacity, would have been the target area. The note went on to explain the damage the bombs did to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It was then we realized just how lucky we were.

  The next couple of days were stored in my memory bank as filled with total carefree happiness. All I knew was that I was going to see my family and, of course, Laura. During these moments of pure joy and happiness, I let myself think about Laura. I thought, She was so beautiful, any man would want her. She was the loveliest pe
rson I had ever known. What if she didn’t know that I was alive and well? What if she thought I had died years ago—on the march, on the ship, or maybe during the last days of fighting on Bataan? Then she might not have waited for me. I shook myself out of this train of thought. Then I talked myself into believing that whatever was to be, was to be and there was nothing I could do about it. In fact, that philosophy of not worrying about things I have no control over is still with me today. So, with that thought in mind, I concentrated on planning to get home as soon as possible.

  The following day an American newspaperman by the name of George Weller, from the Chicago Tribune, entered our camp. We wondered how in the hell he got to our prison camp. We all started to ask him questions, but he beat us to the punch. He started telling us about everything involving the Japanese and our war with them. He explained the atomic bomb, how it was dropped, why it was dropped, and its devastating effects. Next, he wanted to interview a few men from Chicago, and I volunteered. Afterward I introduced him to Bob Martin and Jim Bashleban. During our conversation, he said U.S. airplanes had landed in Kanoya, but that it would be about a week or two before we would be released and put aboard a ship headed for home.

  A few days later another B-29, the largest airplane in the world, flew over and dropped supplies. First out of the plane were clothes, then medical supplies, and last, more food. As one of the parachutes began its descent, the cases of food it was carrying broke loose and started to tumble to earth. One of my good friends who was on the field, waving to the pilots and yelling good tidings, thought they were coming down right on him, so he ran away. We watched as the cases that broke away from the parachute seemed to follow his every step. Then he screamed as a breakaway case hit him on the back of his leg, right below the knee. We rushed him to the hospital barracks, where Doc Hewlett began attending to his injuries.