Prisoner of War

by Michael P. Spradlin

  I wondered how he spoke such excellent English and got my answer quickly.

  “I am a graduate of Harvard University. I returned to my homeland to serve the Emperor. In America, I learned that your society is lazy, corrupt, and slovenly. Our defeat of your military will be complete. For now, you will do nothing else but follow orders. You will complete whatever task you are instructed to do without hesitation or complaint. If you do not, your punishment will be swift and severe. Prisoner quarters are now being prepared at Camp O’Donnell on the northern end of Bataan. You will march there. You will not delay. If you try to escape, you will be shot. If you attempt to delay or disrupt the march in any manner, you will be shot. That is all.”

  Major Sato returned to the car, and it pulled away. The troops that had arrived in trucks moved into position. They started yelling and giving orders that no one could understand. Finally, someone figured out we were to form a column and prepare to march.

  “Ya gonna be able to march, Tree?” Gunny asked.

  “I think so. I got a headache won’t quit and I wish someone would turn off the sun. But I’ll make it.”

  They formed us in a long column, four abreast. Gunny stood to my left on the outside of the rank. I stood next to two men I didn’t know. I heard them whispering something about Camp O’Donnell. But before I could ask them what they knew, the order came down the line, “Column! March!”

  Slowly, rank by rank, the entire group of American prisoners shuffled forward on the dusty road. I thought about what I’d just overheard. All I knew about Camp O’Donnell was that it was more than sixty miles away. I couldn’t believe the Japanese would have us march the entire distance. Many of the men were wounded. They would never make it that far.

  After a few hours of marching in the hot sun, I grew dizzy and faint. Gunny carefully parceled out the water from his canteen, but it didn’t help. Now that I was upright and moving, I realized more than just my head and jaw were hurting. My ribs ached, and my right knee was beginning to swell. I must have taken a horrible beating after jumping the guard that killed Banner.

  I glanced at Gunny. He’d removed his blouse and tied it over his head to shield him from the sun. I noticed for the first time that he looked a little roughed up, too. His right arm was hanging stiff at his side. He was also walking with a slight limp. I wondered if he’d been injured protecting me in the fight. If he got those injuries saving me, I’ll never forgive myself, I thought.

  On we marched. Hours passed. The sun and the heat were cruel masters, driving men to their knees in exhaustion. The column in front of us kicked up clouds of dust, and we in the rear coughed and choked on it. The wounded lagged behind. Whenever they did, one of the Japanese guards would punish them with a rifle butt to the small of the back or a kick to the midsection. Every time it happened, I heard Gunny quietly curse them as cowards.

  Soon the long column splintered and broke apart. Some of the men were too badly injured to keep up. Any sign of weakness was an invitation for the Japanese to abuse the sick and suffering even more. Sometimes I could scarcely believe what I witnessed. Men so badly hurt they tumbled to the ground. When they did the Japanese fell on them, kicking and screaming at them to keep moving. Some of them were able to summon the strength to climb to their feet again. But others could not. I tried to forget what happened to them. I felt like it would haunt me forever.

  A few hours later, a young Marine two rows in front of us collapsed in the dusty road. He had a serious head wound. An older Marine walking next to him stooped to lift him to his feet. The row in front of us simply moved around them, but I took the fallen man’s other arm, and between me and the older guy, we got the sick man up and walking.

  “What’s your name, Marine?” my partner asked.

  “Private Henry Forrest. But everybody calls me Tree,” I said.

  “I appreciate the help. I’m First Lieutenant Newbery. This here is Martinez. We’re from the 8th Marine Division.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said.

  “Where you from, Forrest?” Newbery asked.

  “Minnesota.”

  “Minnesota, ay? I’m from Cody, Wyoming. What about you, Gunny?” the lieutenant asked, glancing at the stripes on Gunny’s blouse hanging from his head.

  Gunny looked straight ahead and didn’t reply at first. “Denton, Texas,” he finally answered. He had an uneasy look on his face. More and more men fell out of the column. Their comrades tried to help, but many could barely march themselves. One after another we watched as men collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. We could do nothing to help them.

  “Tree,” Gunny whispered. “I don’t got a good feelin’ about this. Heads up. Keep yer eyes forward and don’t start no trouble.”

  “What is it, Gunny?” Lieutenant Newbery asked.

  “I ain’t sure. Them Japanese keep clusterin’ up and talkin’ to each other like they got somethin’ on their mind. I don’t care for the look of it,” Gunny said.

  “Surely they’re only—”

  Before I could finish, a group of Japanese soldiers approached the wounded Americans who lay wearily on the ground. I watched, horrified, as one of the guards raised his rifle and pulled the trigger, shooting one of the injured men. Another calmly stabbed a downed man in the chest with his bayonet. The other prisoners raised their hands and pleaded for their lives, but the guards moved from man to man shooting or stabbing each one.

  “My God!” the lieutenant muttered.

  “Sir,” Gunny said, “I don’t reckon God’s around right now.”

  Onward we marched. After a time, I was convinced the brutality I’d witnessed was all a dream. Instinct had taken over, and my body simply put one foot in front of the other. Two other Marines took turns helping Martinez along. Sullivan was a tall, big guy with blond hair and ruddy cheeks. “Everybody calls me Sully. How original,” he laughed. He was from Los Angeles. Worthy was a smaller guy, black hair and dark eyes that never stopped moving. He said he was from Kentucky, and he spoke with a thick southern drawl. But actually, he didn’t say much else. His eyes darted everywhere. It was hard to blame him, given the situation we were in. All of us, including the lieutenant, took turns carrying Martinez along.

  We had finished the last of Gunny’s water miles back. The sun was sinking low in the sky, but the heat and humidity remained. Thirst became the enemy, and it overwhelmed all of us quickly. I lost track of how many men dropped out of the column. Of the number slain by the Japanese when they collapsed in the dirt or were unable to keep marching. Some made the mistake of begging for water and received horrible beatings for their trouble.

  As darkness descended, the column arrived at a deserted fuel dump along the road. A chain-link fence enclosed it, but it was too small to hold all of the remaining prisoners. That made no difference to the Japanese, who pushed and shoved us into the enclosure. Some of the prisoners pushed back, which only made the Japanese beat them with their rifles and clubs. Finally our captors jammed everyone inside. There was no room to lie down or sit. Dirty, thirsty, dying men leaned against each other whether they wanted to or not.

  Gunny stuck next to me. “How ya hangin’, kid?” he asked.

  “I’m okay, Gunny.”

  “Liar.”

  My left eye had swollen shut, and my teeth were loosened where the rifle had connected with my jaw. I still felt woozy, with no idea how I managed to make it this far. All I wanted was a place to lie down.

  Finally, some of the officers got organized and rearranged the prisoners until there was enough room for some of the most seriously wounded to rest on the ground. There were no doctors in our group, but there were a few medical corpsmen. They didn’t have any supplies, but they treated the injured the best they could. Sweat-soaked shirts were torn into bandages. Any water that was left among us cleaned wounds and was given to the weakest and most injured to drink.

  All during the night, the Japanese patrolled the fence. When the morning sun rose, fourteen more men had
died in the night. It made no difference to the Japanese. They opened up our cage and ordered us to march. The dead were left behind.

  After hours of walking, we arrived at the San Fernando rail station. A train waited with perhaps a dozen boxcars. Prisoners were loaded on and jammed inside. Just when I thought there was no room on a car, the Japanese would force another ten or twelve men inside. I counted more than a hundred crammed into a single boxcar, packed so tight the doors would barely shut. Finally it was me and Gunny’s turn. A couple of surly guards with bayonets on their rifles stood by the door, yelling at us to climb aboard.

  “Gunny,” I said, my voice all nervous and crackly. “I can’t do this. I can’t take it.”

  “Stow that talk, Private,” Gunny said, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

  “No, Gunny … I mean it—”

  “Private Forrest, I just ordered ya to shut yer trap. I don’t care if they put two hundred of us in that boxcar, yer gonna take it. Dig down deep, Private. Down inside to the absolute bottom of yer soul. I don’t want to hear nothin’ ’bout can’t. Am I clear?”

  “Yeah, Gunny … I … guess … ”

  “I don’t deal in guesses, Tree. Do whatever it is ya need to get through this. Count to two thousand. Then count to three thousand. Go minute by minute until it adds up to an hour. Find something to take yer mind off of where ya are. Clear?”

  “Yeah, Gunny, loud and clear.” My mouth was so dry I could barely get the words out. The sun had risen over the horizon and beat down on us. But it was going to be a lot hotter inside. Finally the Japanese soldiers herded us into the boxcar. I thought the fenced-in fuel depot from the previous night was crowded, but it was nothing compared to the boxcar.

  Men jostled and yelled at each other, driven mad by thirst and exhaustion. After the cars were loaded the train rolled down the track. As it picked up speed the jerking motion caused more and more men to bump into each other. The ride was anything but smooth, but it was better than marching. I hoped when the ride ended we’d be taken to a barracks or someplace where we could rest and get food and water.

  But that was not to be.

  The railway ended at Capas in the province of Tarlac. We were herded off the train, and it departed the way we had come. There was still no food or water provided. Then came the order to march again. After a short time we arrived at the gates of Camp O’Donnell. The former military base had been turned into a prisoner of war camp. Outside the gate a ditch was filled with brackish, muddy water. The sight of the water drove many of the men wild. They couldn’t resist and stampeded forward, sliding down the embankment, where they gulped down mouthfuls of the dirty liquid. I moved to follow them, but Gunny clamped a hand over my arm.

  “No, Tree,” he said.

  “Let me go, Gunny. Please. I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Drink that water and ya will die. It ain’t safe. Besides … ”

  His words trailed off as we watched the guards pulling the men out of the ditch and back into the column. Some of them were so mad with thirst they fought the Japanese and were either beaten or bayoneted for their troubles. Soon the ditch filled with dead bodies. The prisoners who were still breathing were forced back into the column.

  The guards marched hundreds upon hundreds of captives inside the gates. The Japanese had enclosed the camp with fences topped with coils of barbed wire. Other prisoners were already there, including hundreds of Filipino civilians and Philippine scouts. In no short time, the camp grew impossibly crowded. The Japanese had vastly underestimated the number of survivors.

  But at long last, there was drinkable water. Or rather, a chance at water. In the center of the camp was a well. Several hoses with water trickling out of them drew the prisoners like a wolf to a pork chop. The hoses became another battleground, as men shoved and pushed and fought each other. Finally exhaustion seemed to grasp hold of the entire group, and a ragged set of lines formed at each hose.

  Gunny stood in front of me, and when he reached the front of the line, he filled his canteen and handed it back to me. Gunny drank directly from the hose while I guzzled the water from the canteen. It was warm and dirty, but I never tasted something so good in my life. I was still focused on the water rushing into my mouth when Gunny crashed into me. Another soldier had shoved him out of the way, yanking the hose out of his hand.

  “Gimme that! No hoggin’ the water!” the man yelled at him.

  Gunny straightened and sized up the man, who was filthy, dressed in a tattered army blouse, with corporal’s stripes on his sleeve. His lips were cracked and bleeding. With dark eyes he glared at Gunny while he drank deeply from the trickling water.

  Gunny’s hand shot out and grabbed the man around the neck. With one hand he lifted him off the ground. The man yelped and dropped the hose. His eyes bugged out of his head. His dirty fingers clawed at Gunny’s iron grip, but it was useless. Gunny was not letting go.

  “What’s yer name, Corporal?” Gunny demanded.

  “Grimes. Corporal Grimes. 7th Artillery Battalion. Lemme go,” the man gasped, his face turning blue.

  Gunny released his grip, and Grimes inhaled, sucking in a great, ragged breath. Gunny stepped up to the man, his face inches away from Corporal Grimes’s nose.

  “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Jack McAdams, 15th Infantry, United States Marine Corps. Don’t ever lay a hand on me again. Ya understand me? Not a finger. Or I’ll bite it off. We clear?”

  Corporal Grimes was coughing and gagging, but he nodded.

  “C’mon, Tree,” Gunny said after he refilled the canteen. I followed him, but not before noticing the hard, evil look Grimes was giving him.

  “You might have just made an enemy, Gunny,” I said.

  “Well, he’ll need to get himself in line behind the Japanese. I suspect we’re gonna have a lotta enemies before this is over, Tree.”

  We found a spot outside of a barracks wall that was now in the shade and sat down in the dirt leaning against it. Both of us groaned as we sat. Gunny took another sip from the canteen.

  “Ya see them Japanese out there with the guns, Tree,” he said, pointing to the guards patrolling the fence.

  “Yeah, I see ’em.”

  Gunny leaned back against the barracks wall and closed his eyes. “Them’s our enemy. We gonna have a lot more to worry about’n some thirsty artillery corporal,” he said. “Trust me on that.”

  The camp was a chaotic mess. After a time, prisoners were roughly assigned to barracks by unit and nationality. But there were too many of us and not enough English-speaking guards to organize everything efficiently. We ended up in a three-sided open barracks with Sully, Worthy, Martinez, and a few other men. We all shuffled into the building, picked a spot by the wall, and slid down to the floor, too exhausted to talk.

  I could tell Gunny was sticking close, watching out for me. But the fact we had yet to find Jamison worried me. I had a feeling something bad had happened to him. Jamison had a temper. Usually Gunny was good at keeping him under control. But there were times, before the invasion, when Jams and I would be out on our own, that he would get into fights and end up in the brig. Gunny could usually do a favor for one of the MPs or smooth things over so Jamison didn’t get in too much trouble. But those days were long gone now. Jams had saved my life on the beach. He watched out for me, just like Gunny did. I needed to know what had happened to him. But right now, I was too tired, hungry, and weak to search the compound. I huddled next to Gunny, my back against the barracks and every part of me aching. For the next few hours, I scanned the face of every man that passed by, but I did not see Jamison.

  An area just inside the gate had been taken over by those too injured or sick to assign to a barracks. Dozens of bodies littered the ground. There were too many for me to count. I wondered if Jamison might be among them. I nudged Gunny with my elbow. He came awake with a start.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing. I’m going to take a walk over by the wounded and see if I can find Jami
son. I’m worried about him. You stay here and rest until I get back,” I said.

  “Kid, I told ya. No need to worry about Jamison … ”

  “I know, Gunny. I can’t help it. I’ll be careful.”

  I was so weak I needed to use the wall to raise myself up to a standing position. My head ached, and I groaned as I shuffled toward the large group of injured men. I counted at least two hundred men lying in the dirt. Some of them might already be dead. Their bodies were still and lifeless. At least this time there were a couple of doctors around, along with medical corpsmen. They were doing the best they could with what they had. But the Japanese had given them no medicine, no supplies. Major Sato hadn’t been kidding. Japan definitely didn’t follow the Geneva Convention. It appeared they didn’t care if their prisoners died or not.

  I walked slowly among the rows of dead and wounded, studying the face of each man.

  “Jamison? Jams? You here?” I called out.

  No one paid attention to me. After a while I stopped. Some of the men had been beaten so severely I thought I wouldn’t have recognized Jamison even if I’d found him. The variety of wounds was sickening. Men had been stabbed, shot, and clubbed, and in some cases it looked as if a few of them had been burned. Some had no visible wounds, but merely looked broken from exhaustion.

  I still hadn’t found Jamison, and dark thoughts crept into my mind. I pictured him on the dusty road, standing up to some Japanese soldier and being shot or stabbed. My mind wouldn’t let go of the awful images.

  Lost in thought, I wasn’t paying attention when I bumped into a medical corpsman.