My Hitch in Hell

by Lester I. Tenney

  During the next week, we were still fed as if food was going out of style. Our mess hall was open to us twenty-four hours a day with all we could eat of anything we wanted. A typical dinner consisted of a whole fried chicken, potatoes, bread and butter, and milk followed by a steak with french fried potatoes. Then we enjoyed maybe two or three different desserts, which always included ice cream, one of our favorite snacks any time of the day or night. We also had fun during that week, dancing at local nightclubs, eating in small local restaurants, and dating a variety of girls.

  Originally the doctors had told us that we could go home after we gained about twenty pounds. I was ready within ten days. Then the army wanted proof that my arm was better and that I did not need to be cared for on a hospital ship; otherwise, I would have to wait another two weeks. I told them I was fine, which was a little white lie but one I felt justified in telling. I wanted to go home, and I was not going to let my withered left arm deter me from my main goal. Dressed in my newly issued uniform and with my recently acquired samurai sword by my side, I was ready for the trip home. My dream was about to come true.

  We military personnel and the civilians released from the University of Santo Tomás were excited at the prospect of going home. Finally, on October 8, 1945, we boarded the USAT (US. Army Transport) Klipfontein. We were all set to head out to sea when fate slipped a small monkey wrench into our early departure. Upon backing away from the pier, the ship hit something under water. The captain took the ship out in the bay, dropped the anchor, and to everyone’s dismay, turned off the engines.

  Within minutes I could hear the shouts from the men: “I want to go home, get this thing in gear!” “Are we going to eat Thanksgiving dinner aboard this ship anchored off Manila Bay?” We all sat and waited, one hour, then two hours, without knowing what was happening. At last the public address system assured all of us aboard that the following morning the captain would send some divers down to determine the seriousness of the damage to the hull since we were going to be traveling the high seas. That evening we ate dinner in the mess hall and slept in our assigned bunks.

  At 3:05 P.M. the next day, a U.S. Navy barge drew alongside, and two frogmen, wearing air masks and fins, dived overboard to investigate the damage. Then, at exactly 3:33 P.M., they came up from their inspection and gave us a thumbs-up signal, assuring us of a safe and speedy journey. The captain decided not to waste any more time; he announced that we would get under way within minutes of the anchor being restored. At 5:25 P.M. that same day we set sail for home.

  The next day the captain announced over the public address system that he needed a volunteer to assist in the radio room. Since I had completed Radio Operators’ School at Fort Knox, Kentucky, I offered to help. When I arrived at the radio room, the captain told me that he needed someone to handle the entertainment and newspaper aboard the ship on our way to Seattle or San Francisco (the exact destination at this time was not known). Remembering the benefits I received in this same job on the way over to the Philippines, I readily agreed to do what I could. So I embarked on yet another amateur career in a long list of others: soldiering, coal mining, and producing and directing shows. I really was a “jack of all trades, but master of none.”

  The first thing I believed we passengers needed was news of the world’s current events, so I formed an editorial staff to put out a daily newspaper. I became the editor, and after a vote of the newspaper staff, we named the paper Frisco Lookout. Circulation was handled by E. C. Canfield; art by G. H. Dee and W. G. Self; and typing and mimeographing by J. W. Emanuel, L. W. Van Liere, C. S. Kellogg, and J. B. Mathony. Our reporters were J. A. Leland, C. E. Shockley, and F. R. Ivins. The staff worked hard every day of the trip, getting the paper out every morning by eight o’clock. All seventeen hundred of the passengers looked forward to the paper and the news items we were able to glean from the radio waves.

  As I had anticipated, being the editor of the paper and being in charge of the entertainment aboard ship conveyed some extra benefits. Most important, I had a stateroom all to myself that was great for entertaining some of the civilian women internees from Santo Tomás. I met some wonderful people aboard ship, many of whom were single women who enjoyed the company of a man. Of course, I was a man who wanted to enjoy the company of a woman. I no longer had a wife to be faithful to, so on this trip I did not have to go without a woman’s love and affection. After being without female companionship for four years, I was not sure that I would know how to act in front of a woman, but as nature worked its wonders, I was able to overcome the problems associated with my poor health and my weakened physical condition.

  On our twenty-first day out, the captain informed us that our final destination was going to be Seattle, for too many ships were going to the San Francisco port. Everything, we were assured, would be waiting for us in Seattle. Our overnight stay at an army base in Seattle, our trips to various hospitals, and our expedited transportation home would be handled for us.

  Steaming from Manila to Seattle took twenty-eight days, and during that time I made many friends. The trip was like a dream come true. I ate all the good and well-prepared food I wanted; I slept in a real bed, with white sheets and soft pillows; and I even played the drums in a little band we formed aboard ship. I had to pinch myself just to make sure it was all real.

  Except for the normal everyday activities associated with producing a daily newspaper and making sure that the ship’s passengers had some type of entertainment four days a week, the trip was relaxing, not too exciting. I most enjoyed being able to talk to so many of the other released prisoners of war and the civilian internees, and finding out what went on in their camps. I would ask them how they were treated, what they did for entertainment and to eliminate their boredom, and how good the medical facilities were at their camp. I naturally evaluated everyone else’s camp situation as compared to mine. I did not get all the answers I wanted because some of the people just wanted to forget the whole affair, to wipe it out of their minds as if it never happened. I could not do that. The war had been too much a part of my life, and I realized it would continue to have an important impact on my future. In fact, I know without a doubt that my experiences during those trying four years shaped my thinking, my philosophies, and attitudes about life for the next fifty years.

  Sometime in the afternoon on November 7, 1945, we spotted land—Seattle. We all ran to the railing of the ship and watched as the ship approached the port. Within hours we got close enough to see the tall modern buildings that defined the downtown area. By dusk we had pulled into the dock, and in our excitement at being home at last, most of us jammed the passageways, just itching to get off the ship. We all wanted to call home, and some of us just wanted to kiss the ground as we got off the ship. Others had tears in their eyes; their happiness was more than they could stand. As for me, I wanted to make that phone call I had been dreaming about for years: “Hi, Mom and Dad. It’s me, Les. I’m home.” I had my speech all ready. All I needed was a phone, and I knew there was one down on the docks. As the ship tied up to its berth and the horn sounded its final blast, I cried—not tears of sorrow but tears of joy and hope. For an excited kid, this homecoming was an emotional experience.

  We got the bad news over the loudspeaker: no one was allowed to go ashore that evening. Apparently, the officer of the day and the ship’s captain were afraid some of the men and women who were too weak to make it on their own but too proud to seek help would get injured. When I heard this, I became quite upset. I was not going to let them keep me on board. I had to make my phone call. I walked down to the deck closest to the water, looked in both directions to make sure that no one would be able to stop me, and then jumped into the water. In just a few strokes, I reached the pier. An MP helped me out of the water. Without saying more than thank you to him, I then asked him if I could borrow a nickel, just for a few minutes. The MP looked at me in total astonishment, and as he reached in his pocket for the coin, he asked, “Who the hell are you?�
�

  “God sent me,” I replied. “Thanks.” Then away I ran for the phone. I reached the telephone in my new GI-issue clothes, wet from head to toe and laughing. I was so happy I had tears in my eyes as I dialed the phone number I had remembered all these years. After a few rings I heard the operator ask whether my folks would accept a collect call from Seattle. Before my dad was able to answer, I hollered into the phone, “It’s me, Dad—Les! Fm home, here in Seattle.” The operator, sensitive to the moment, just put my call through. Then there was no sound, nothing. I heard nothing. A few seconds later, I heard a loud sob. The crying lasted for about a minute or two, until my dad finally said, “Let me put Mom on.” My mom got on the phone and said, as calmly as possible, “Well, it’s about time.” Mom always had a great positive attitude; Dad could not deal with adversity as well as she could. When I got home, I found out that my mother refused to display the gold-star flag she had received after they thought I was killed in prison camp. She told everyone, “I don’t know when he’s coming home, but he will come home.” My mother was right as usual.

  We talked for a few minutes. Then, Mom told me that Bunny was home, having been discharged from the navy, and that he and my brothers Joe and Lou were visiting my brother Bill. She asked if I would call them, too. Mom gave me the phone number, and after we said good-bye, I called Bill’s home. Once again I heard the operator ask if the party would accept a collect call from Seattle. My brother Bill knew at once who was calling and agreed. Then my brother said to me, “Hello, punk, we’ve been expecting you.” After a few minutes of conversation, he let me speak to each one of my brothers. What a joy, catching all my brothers in one place at the same time, and I was able to say hello to all of them.

  My day was complete. I could not want anything more out of life this day. I admit it would have been nice to be able to say hello to Laura, too, but under the circumstances that was not advisable.

  CHAPTER 20

  HOME AT LAST

  When I finished my phone calls to my family, I walked up to the MR who was still standing near the gangplank, gave him his nickel back, and turned and walked aboard the ship as if I was expected. That night we all stayed aboard the ship and had one hell of a good time. After all, we were back in the United States, and all those days in prison camps were behind us. We did not even think about the war that evening. We just enjoyed talking, drinking a few beers, and dancing and singing with the few women on board. We partied almost till dawn, went to our bunks, and fell sound asleep. We were awakened by a loud blast of the ship’s horn and a message over the loudspeaker: “We will be leaving the ship from the lower deck. Take all your possessions; you will not be coming back.”

  Within the hour, we began leaving the ship. We had expected some people on the dock, happy people waving at us, but no one was there. We only saw longshoremen, who were working to get the cargo off the ship, and these workers did not care who we were or why we were there. We were immediately loaded onto trucks and taken to a U.S. Army base in Seattle, where we ended up staying for the night.

  Once again, we had a few beers together and talked a little. Then, we all grew quiet. What more could we say to each other? What other stories could we tell? By the end of the day we were depressed, and the only thing left for us was to go into town and have some fun. Lew Brittan and I went together, had a few drinks, enjoyed the company of a few women, and laughed all the way back to our barracks late that night. All we were able to think about the whole night long was, we were free. Freedom felt so wonderful.

  The following morning a truck took us to the railroad station, where a train was waiting for us. We were told to board the train and sit anyplace we wanted. We would get instructions and find out where we were going once we got under way. Again, there was no one around to wave to, no one waiting for us. We started to realize we were not popular.

  The train left the station, and about two hours out of Seattle, we were told our destinations. I was scheduled, along with two hundred other men, to go to Schick General Hospital in Clinton, Iowa. The army would have transportation waiting for us at the railroad station. Once at the hospital we would be examined, receive treatment if necessary, and then be discharged from the service. I could not wait. The word discharge sounded real good.

  During our trip, everyone became quiet. It was hard to believe, especially with so many men on the train, but at one point, I could have heard a pin drop. Obviously, I was witnessing a mass depression; it seemed the reality of what was happening was sinking in. No doubt all of the men on that train were thinking about what they would find when they arrived home, what surprises were in store for them, what they were going to do with their lives, and how they would survive in this society that they had been away from for so long. We were all downcast. I sat in my seat, not saying a word, just staring out the window, and wondering, What’s in store for me? What will I become?

  We were also sad because after four years away from our country we had expected some type of welcome when we returned to the United States. We had thought maybe someone would give a speech saying how happy the people of the United States were for our safe return. Besides being ignored, we were also dejected because we had left so many of our friends behind.

  The count was in. Of the seventy-two thousand Filipinos and Americans on the Bataan Death March only about seventy-five hundred survived—one in ten. Of the twelve thousand Americans, only about fifteen hundred came home. I viewed my survival as being given a little extra time to see if I could make the most of it. I learned that life has great value. No single day can be wasted or thrown away.

  A traumatic demonstration of our sinking self-esteem occurred when our train pulled into the St. Louis, Missouri, train station. It was a large and noisy place, with thousands of people roaming around on the platform. Because of our feelings of inferiority, most of us quickly pulled down the shades on the windows of our Pullman car. Sadly, we were embarrassed, and we did not want anyone to see us, the losers who had surrendered.

  As we found out later, the American people did not find out about the horrors of the Bataan Death March for more than a year after the fall of Bataan. A few of the servicemen on the march had escaped and eventually found their way back via submarine to the United States. When they arrived, the escapees told our government leaders what had happened and about the atrocities, the starvation, the murders of our fighting men. Our leaders in Washington decided not to make this tragic news public, because the Japanese might take reprisals on those men still prisoners. An interview in a Chicago newspaper, a year after the event itself, brought the horrors of the death march to light. Still much of the whole truth was held back from the public, because, as was said, “the American people can’t deal with such disturbing facts at this time.”

  When we survivors returned, therefore, the impact on the public of what had happened had long been lost. It seemed that the war in Europe was more important, and when it came to an end on V-E Day, the Americans at home felt the war was over. At that point they wanted to get on with their lives while we were held captive for three more months.

  Maybe, if we had fought to the last man, like at the Alamo, then we would have commanded a little respect. The respect we sought was not for us; after all, we returned. Respect was reserved for those who gave their lives in the defense of their country. That same country, however, did not, or could not, send us more food, more ammunition, more equipment, more men, or respond more quickly to our prime military questions. Any one of these requests, if fulfilled then, would have saved Americans lives.

  None of us wanted to be seen in uniform now. It was a very humiliating situation. We did not know what to do or how to handle it. If we could have crawled into a hole and pulled it in after us, I think we would have. Instead, we pulled down the shades of our train windows.

  Many hours later we arrived at the Clinton railroad station. Without any fanfare, we got off the train, said our good-byes to friends we did not expect to see ever again, and climb
ed aboard the waiting trucks. An hour later we arrived at Schick General Hospital. We did not see any banners or any acknowledgment that we had returned after being gone for four years. We figured the people wanted to welcome winners, not losers.

  When I checked into the hospital, I was given a room on the third floor and told to go upstairs, where I would be taken care of. So, I took the elevator up to the third floor, and as I got off the elevator, I turned. Then I saw them. First, my brother Bill, all six feet of him, beaming at me. After he was sure I had seen him, he bent down, put his cane on the slick marble floor, and with one mighty shove, pushed it toward me. I guessed Bunny had told him about my poor physical condition and my sorrow over what had happened with Laura. By turning the cane over to me even though he was disabled and needed the cane for himself, Bill showed me he was willing to help me overcome my problems.

  Standing to Bill’s left was my brother Lou. Lou stood about two inches taller than Bill and as straight as an arrow. He was crying, not little tears, but big sobs. Just as in my dreams, my family was not embarrassed or bitter about my surrendering to the Japanese. They were here to comfort me and to show me they cared.