Prisoner of War

by Michael P. Spradlin

  I was tired and felt like sleeping. But I had questions about what had happened while I was in the hut. Gunny and Jams filled me in.

  Turns out the Japanese were finally getting organized.

  “Each mornin’ every able-bodied man has to turn out for what they call Tenko,” said Jams. “Basically they count each barracks to make sure nobody escaped or died during the night. Dysentery, malaria, and beriberi are startin’ to spread, so be careful what you drink and who you talk to.”

  “We get assigned to a work detail. It might be cuttin’ wood, drivin’ a truck to pick up somethin’ they need—turns out your average Japanese soldier can’t figure out how to drive an American truck—or workin’ in the fields or rice paddies,” Gunny said. “Trouble is the guards ain’t good at countin’, so Tenko takes nearly half the mornin’.”

  “Also, and this is real important, Tree, they got themselves a rule,” Jams added. “A week ago, a group a sailors had a woodcuttin’ detail out in the jungle. One of ’em got it in his head to escape. Rumor is there’s guerillas fightin’ up in the hills. Anyway, this sailor slips away, and when the guards count, they find they’re one short. They look all over, can’t find him, and realize he escaped. So to discourage that kind of thinkin’ they executed the entire detail. All nine men beheaded in front of the whole camp. A couple a days later, they tracked down the poor sailor and shot him.”

  Jams was quiet a moment. Unfortunately I had no trouble believing it was true. Not from what I’d seen and experienced.

  “Food ain’t much,” Gunny said. “We get maybe an ounce of rice in the morning and one at the end of the day. It’s usually wormy, and the flies’ll be on it faster than a hound on a bone if ya ain’t careful and quick. Some of the prisoners working the fields manage to sneak in some vegetables, and the Filipino scouts will bring plants ya can eat. Jams is collectin’ cigarettes, which are worth more than money now. We can trade ’em for canned goods and such. They got prisoners workin’ in the kitchen who’ll sometimes swipe food that’s meant for the guards.”

  I winced when a jolt of pain from my ribs shot through me.

  “What are we going to do now?” I asked.

  “What do ya mean?” Gunny said. “We’re gonna do what I told ya, Tree. Whatever we gotta do to survive. But the main thing has gotta be food. Keep yer eyes out all the time for anythin’ edible.”

  “Is anybody working on a way to get out of here?” I asked.

  Gunny snorted. “Ain’t gonna be no big escape. That’s a sure way to get yerself killed.”

  “But in basic training—”

  “Stop right there,” Gunny interrupted me. “Basic training means nothin’ in this camp. Yeah, we’re Marines. We’re supposed to not help our enemies and make every attempt that can be made to escape. But I’m tellin’ both of ya right now, whoever wrote that manual ain’t ever been in a prison camp like this. Escapin’ is a one-way ticket to a pine box. Except here ya don’t even get no box. They just dump yer body in a muddy hole. Even if ya got outta camp, where ya gonna go? It ain’t like we can hike to China.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d hoped, somehow, when I got out of that hut that things would be different. But they weren’t. In fact, they sounded worse.

  “Buck up, kid. Your Aussie friends somehow got their hands on a radio and smuggled it into camp in pieces. They got some electronics whiz to put it all back together. And the news is that the US Navy kicked the ever lovin’ starch out of the Japanese at Midway. Sunk a bunch of their ships and blew a whole passel of their planes right outta the sky. There’s word they’s headin’ in our direction, one island at a time. Don’t mention it to nobody. If they figure out we got us a radio, they’ll tear the place apart looking for it, savvy?”

  “I savvy, Gunny,” I said.

  “And another thing. Be careful who ya trust. Times like this a man gets desperate. Ain’t no guarantee if ya go runnin’ yer mouth off another prisoner won’t sell ya out for an extra ounce of rice. Loose lips sink ships. Any news ya hear, keep it to yourself. Don’t share with nobody ya don’t trust to the bone.”

  Over the next few weeks, I slowly healed. My ribs ached less, and I could walk longer distances. Before long I got sent out on details with Gunny and Jams. The two of them covered for me wherever we were assigned. They had to, because whether it was cutting firewood or weeding fields, the Japanese had a quota for each man. If you didn’t make your quota every day, you didn’t get fed that night. If you made your quota, then they just raised it the next day. There was no way to win.

  And the food. All we got was a little ounce of rice. Once in a while there would be a small crust of hard bread, too. The Japanese lived off rice, but what they fed us was awful. Most of the time it was worm-infested and undercooked, and as soon as they plopped it on your plate, the flies came out. You had to shoo them away and pick the worms out as quickly as you could so you could gulp it down. It drove Jams crazy.

  Going through the chow line was when Jams was at his absolute best. When the cook would serve his rice he would go off on a long, creative, and expletive-filled rant. Only he never raised his voice or acted like he was upset. But oh how he could talk. Sometimes the Japanese cooks, even though they couldn’t understand a word he said, would bow at him, and Jams would bow right back. They thought he was actually complimenting them on the food.

  “Well, what do you know? Rice,” he’d say. “Haven’t had it in ages. Had myself quite a hankerin’ for it. Course usually I don’t eat it with worms, but what’s a little extra protein? I’d like to thank you stupendous piles of horse dung for the luscious repast you’ve prepared for us this evenin’. It’s truly going to help my back, which is nearly broken from workin’ on your super important yet menial labor all day. Would you mind sharin’ the wine list? I figure a joint like this has got quite a selection. What does His Holiness the Emperor drink? Red or white? You’re just practically the most gracious hosts I could ever hope to meet. I can’t wait to come back tomorrow for the pot roast and potatoes, you miserable sons of donkeys.”

  Jams was creative and never gave the same rant twice. And because he was such a talker by nature, the guards never caught on. I figured he better watch it in case one of them happened to know English. Then he’d get a beating. But it turned out to be good for morale. It got to be we could at least have a laugh, wondering what he’d come up with next.

  As the weeks passed, life didn’t get any easier. You worked every day from sunup to sundown. If you were sick, your barracks commander had to vouch for you, and the others on your detail had to cover your quota. Gunny was the ranking noncom in our little hatch. He worked hard to keep everyone’s spirits up and us as healthy as possible. Jams was always there, working like a dog. His sense of humor kept everyone laughing a little bit. Even Worthy, who was always quiet, would crack a smile. Sully thought Jams was hilarious.

  “I swear, Jams,” he said one day. “You’ve gotta be the funniest guy I ever met. Here I am, starving and bone tired, not to mention thirsty. And you can still crack me up. When we get back to the States, we gotta get you to Hollywood. You’ll put Laurel and Hardy outta business. How do you do it?”

  “It’s a gift,” Jams said. “Besides, we’re gonna be the ones havin’ the last laugh. The Japanese Empire don’t get away with no sneak attack on Uncle Sam. So if agitatin’ them entertains my brothers-in-arms, more’s the better.”

  Something had changed in him. He was less nervous and twitchy. More focused. And Gunny was right, he was an operator. He traded for whatever he could and snuck in vegetables after a work detail, which he shared with everybody. And with malaria, beriberi, dysentery, and a host of other diseases running rampant through the camp, Jams became a master of the black market.

  When Gunny came down with a case of malaria, Jams really shined. He took over the barracks and made sure Gunny was taken care of. We all took shifts staying awake while Gunny was delirious with fever. Jams worked his magic. He’d wander the camp, tr
ading for food, aspirin, anything he could that might help.

  The only treatment for malaria was quinine. There was none to be found. Gunny got sicker and sicker, burning up with fever and delirium. Then one day Jams came rushing into the barracks looking worried and proud at the same time.

  “I talked my way into a poker game and won enough cash to trade for two doses of quinine. I hope it’s enough.” Jams was getting worried. Gunny had always seemed invincible. Seeing him weak and sick hit us all hard.

  Soon his fever broke. Jams had managed to get just enough medicine to pull him through. Although there was a part of me that believed Gunny was just too strong-willed to die.

  “I done told ya, Tree,” Gunny said when he could finally talk again. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna meet the Reaper on this miserable hunk a rock.”

  All of us got sick at one time or another. Dysentery was the worst. It gave you stomach cramps, fever, and diarrhea so bad you had to rush to the head at the drop of a hat. And as soon as you returned to the barracks you had to run right back. Doc did what he could. Jams worked his sources, but there was never enough medication to go around.

  A couple of months later we lost Sully to malaria. Doc tried everything, and so did Jams. But he couldn’t get his hand on any quinine this time. Sully had been a big man, but like all of us, he’d lost so much weight that Doc said he just couldn’t fight it off. We were slowly being starved and had no strength to stop the diseases that stampeded through the camp. Gunny took Sully’s death hard. He’d adopted everyone in the barracks as “his unit,” and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing a man. Worthy and Sully had been close, and with Sully gone, Worthy withdrew. Most of the time he sat huddled on his mat, staring off into space.

  The rainy season started in April. The storms were relentless. But it did mean we could collect fresh water in our tin cups and fill our canteens. It helped some with keeping the sickness away, but the truth of it was it was still hot and miserable when it was raining. The air was so thick with humidity it felt like you were walking through gauze. When it stopped, steam rolled off the puddles of water. It was more a nuisance than a relief.

  And the critters. Rats, mice, spiders, lice, snakes, and flies the Aussies called “bities” and “blowies” were everywhere. Out in the fields we’d cover ourselves with mud to keep them away, but somehow they still found their way through. And Doc said they helped spread the sickness, too. Jams had a particular rat that vexed him when it got into the stash of contraband he hid in the barracks. He immediately declared war.

  “I swear by all that’s holy, your little rat behind belongs to me,” he said. It was early one morning when he woke up and found the rat had carried off some of his cigarettes and a pack of chewing gum he’d acquired. He set elaborate traps that never worked.

  “Keep it up, rodent boy. I catch you, I’m gonna eat you and enjoy every bite.”

  Jams even tried moving his stash, but the rat always found it. One night we were playing cards, and it scurried across the barracks floor. Jams went berserk. He chased it back and forth trying his level best to stomp it to death, but it kept eluding him and finally disappeared under the floorboards.

  “You’re mine, varmint,” he said, breathing hard from the exertion. “I’m gonna kill ya. So get your affairs in order and say goodbye to your little rat buddies. Because you are goin’ down.” Jams was a good Marine and a great friend. But he sure was a different sort of guy. He never did catch that rat.

  The only thing that kept us going was the Aussie radio. We heard the Navy and Marines were coming. They were taking island after island from the Japanese. After a while you could tell the news was making its way to the guards and they were getting antsy about it. Every time we’d listen to a newscast and find out about another island taken, we’d silently applaud and gain a measure of hope. And the guards would get meaner.

  That was how the days, the weeks, and the months passed. Sickness, rain, or burning heat, nothing to eat, and unbearable boredom. Until late 1944, when the Allied forces were getting too close and our Japanese friends made ready to move us off the Philippines. They had a particular destination in mind.

  Japan.

  “They’re movin’ us because MacArthur finally got off his hind end and started cleanin’ up this mess,” Gunny said. “And it’s about time. I sure ain’t gonna miss this place, but my instincts tell me our next post ain’t gonna be no improvement.”

  We were standing on a dock in Manila Bay. A few days before, the Japanese had moved us here from Camp O’Donnell. Now they were loading prisoners into freighters and shipping them off to who knows where.

  “Well, personally, I’m hopin’ this next place at least has room service and a sauna. I didn’t get near enough sweatin’ done at Camp O and the steam’ll do me good,” Jams said. “I hear it opens the pores and helps clear up your complexion.”

  Gunny and I chuckled. “Jams, I swear yer one of the strangest fellas it’s ever been my honor to know,” Gunny said.

  The sun was hot on our backs. If anyone looked at the hundreds of us standing there, they would assume someone was about to load a ship full of cadavers. Over two and a half years getting less than five hundred calories a day will do that to a man. It was nothing short of a miracle we had lived this long.

  After another lengthy wait, they ordered us aboard a freighter. It wasn’t a cruise ship, and they weren’t about to let us lay out on the deck. They herded us belowdecks into the hold. We had to climb down on a ladder. Some of the men were so weak they couldn’t make it. If a guard could reach them, they’d get a rifle butt to the face. Once Gunny, Jams, and I made it down, we tried helping or catching those who fell or were pushed. But we didn’t have the strength to do much other than soften their fall.

  One guy came tumbling down and crashed into the three of us. It was Worthy, and he was in bad shape. “Grab hold of him,” Gunny said. The three of us could barely lift him, but we managed to stagger through the crowded cargo bay, Gunny barking at people to make way. We finally found a spot near the outer hull and set Worthy against it.

  “Worthy! Worthy! Answer me, Marine,” Gunny shouted.

  Worthy didn’t respond. Jams felt for a pulse. “He’s barely alive.”

  Gunny took Worthy’s face in his hands. “Come on, son. Ya gotta wake up now.”

  Worthy just sat there, his eyes closed, his breath ragged. We tried to get him to drink some water, but it just dribbled down his chin. Jams slammed his fist against the hull in frustration.

  The hold had filled up. So many men were packed in you couldn’t stand without touching the guy next to you, let alone think about sitting or lying down. And when you thought there was no possible way for another man to fit in the space, the Japanese pushed in another hundred or so. The stink was revolting. Men vomited from the stench.

  Soon the engines groaned and we were underway. The freighter was old and slow, and the noise in the hold was unbearably loud. Men were alternately screaming, crying, moaning, and wailing. Fights broke out over the tiniest offenses.

  When the Japanese lowered a water bucket, people went berserk. The water was gone in a heartbeat. Men fought over it, stealing it from each other. They screamed and clawed at each other’s eyes. Punches were thrown. The entire hold descended into chaos.

  Several of the officers hollered at the Japanese to lower down a barrel for us to relieve ourselves. The guards would just yell back in Japanese. Finally they figured out what we were asking for and complied, but that only created more chaos as men fought for the right to use it. And the stench grew worse.

  The first night out we hit running seas, and the waves slammed us around. Sixteen men died that night. In the morning the Japanese pulled the bodies up by rope. The guards probably threw them overboard. At least the seas calmed in the daytime.

  Later that afternoon, we lost Worthy. He just slipped away like a puff of smoke drifting off into the sky. One minute Gunny was sitting next to him, talking to him, imploring hi
m to stay with us.

  “Come on now,” Gunny said. “Ya can do this, son. I know ya can do it.” But Worthy just never woke up. Jams felt his pulse.

  “He’s gone, Gunny.” Jams shook his head. “Ya did what ya could, Sarge. He just was too sick to—”

  “Stow it, Jamison!” Gunny snapped at him. “For just once in yer life, stop talkin’.” Gunny pulled Worthy’s body to him, embracing him, and bowed his head. He took it hard when he lost a man. Tears leaked from his eyes. I’d never seen him act like this before. Gunny sat there a long time, with Worthy clutched in his arms.

  “We gotta let him go,” Jams finally said. Gunny glared at Jams, but his eyes finally softened and he nodded. We carried Worthy to the hatch. When the rope came down, we tied him off and the guards raised his body out of the hold. None of us talked for the rest of the day.

  We had no idea how far we’d traveled or where we were going. There were POW camps all over—Korea, China, and lots of other territories the Japanese had conquered. The ship could be headed anywhere. Gunny, Jams, and I finally made it back to the outer wall of the hold and squeezed into a space where we could at least lean against something for support.

  The second day, another eight men died. That night the boat rose and fell with the swells once again. Men grew seasick, but most of them had nothing to vomit up, myself included. Thirst became a worse enemy than hunger. The heat in the hold caused condensation to form on the inside of the hull. Men became so mad with thirst they started licking the walls, including Jams.

  “Don’t do that. It’ll make ya sick,” Gunny said.

  “Can’t help it, Gunny. Gotta have somethin’ to drink,” Jams replied. He was licking the wall like a dog licks a bug bite.

  “I’m orderin’ you to stop,” Gunny said. “I don’t want neither of ya gettin’ sick.”