by Dean Hughes
Jack didn’t argue. He set his rifle butt on the ground. “Let’s go into the jungle and have a prayer,” Warren said. Wally glanced at Jack, and then he looked down at the ground. “Right now, I need to scrounge some food for the squadron,” he said. “The navy should be willing to break loose with some supplies. I’m taking the ton-and-a-half truck down to the bay. Do you want to come with me?”
“Sure,” Jack was quick to say, and Warren didn’t press the issue about praying. He and Jack piled into the truck with Wally. When the three of them reached the navy base, the supply clerks told them to take anything they wanted, so they began looking through all the gallon cans in the storage tunnel. “Prunes,” Wally said. “That doesn’t sound so bad right now.”
Jack suddenly broke into a big laugh. “‘White navy beans’ this can says. Beans and prunes—that ought to be a fine combination. Maybe we’ll be able to defend ourselves after all.”
Wally laughed, but he felt the nervousness, not just in his friends but in the navy clerks. Still, a belly full of food would help his men, so Wally and the others started hauling cans to the truck, and when they returned to the bivouac area, they found that beans and prunes sounded just fine to the men. They ate as though it were their last meal. Wally found that his stomach filled very quickly, but he kept stuffing more beans into himself. It seemed wonderful to eat all he wanted.
He and the other men were polishing off the last of the beans when a series of pops sounded nearby. It took a moment to realize that machine gun fire was whizzing overhead and crashing through the trees. Everyone hit the dirt, and for a couple of minutes no one moved.
“It came from the road,” someone finally grunted.
Wally had no idea what to expect. Maybe the Japanese weren’t taking prisoners. But he heard Lieutenant Dark say, “Sergeant Thomas, come with me. Let’s see what’s going on.”
The other men stirred, but most stayed down. Wally and the lieutenant got up, but they crouched as they walked carefully along a path through the jungle. As they neared the road, they came to a sudden stop. A Japanese tank was parked on the road, and an officer was standing with his head and shoulders sticking out from the turret.
The officer said, “Come forward.” Wally fought back an impulse to turn and run, but the officer said, in excellent English, “You must give up your weapons.” He hesitated, and when Lieutenant Dark didn’t respond, he added, “Bring all your rifles and handguns to the road. Stack them here. Weapons in one pile, ammunition in another. You must do this by noon tomorrow. Your commanding officers have surrendered unconditionally. You have no choice but to do as I say.”
Wally and the Lieutenant stood silent, unmoving.
“We might have killed you. We have chosen kindness. But you must not try to escape. If you don’t cooperate here, we will kill everyone on Corregidor.”
The officer’s head disappeared, and then the tank rolled ahead, the sound of the tracks resounding in the trees. Wally and Lieutenant Dark said nothing to each other. It all seemed unreal. But they walked back to the troops, and Lieutenant Dark repeated the message. Wally watched the men. They could hardly believe what was happening. “What will they do to us?” Lieutenant Cluff asked.
Lieutenant Dark shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“We can’t do this,” one of the pilots said, a fellow named Carter who was one of the old-timers with the unit. “Americans don’t surrender. This many Americans have never put their arms down—not in all our history.”
“Maybe we ought to head off into the jungle,” Harvey said. “We could hold out.”
“I don’t know how we’d eat out there,” Lieutenant Dark said, and he sounded unsure of himself. Wally wished Major Teuscher were there. “Besides, we didn’t make this decision. Someone made it for us. I think we have to go along with this.”
A big sergeant spat on the ground and swore. “Where’s Uncle Sam?” he said. “This ain’t supposed to happen.”
“Uncle found a way to get MacArthur off Corregidor,” Harvey said. “Our lives must not be as important.”
And that set things off. All evening the talk continued. The men ate another meal, but not with the relish they had shown before. Wally tried to take things hour by hour. He opened up the supply truck and invited the men to take whatever they wanted. He got himself a pair of coveralls and some new shoes. He also grabbed some extra underwear, socks, soap, and a safety razor. He stuck it all in a mosquito net.
So he was ready. There was nothing else to do but wait, and what lay ahead was a very long night. Wally hardly slept at all. He thought of home, thought of his decision to join the air corps, thought of a thousand things. But mostly he wondered what his life would now be like. He tried to reassure himself. Prison camp couldn’t be much to look forward to, but life would be endurable; he would make it.
Next morning the men in Wally’s squadron stacked up their weapons and ammunition, as instructed, and again they waited. By now, no one had a lot to say. The time crawled by. Not long after noon the first full units of enemy soldiers began to arrive. The Japanese troops were scruffy looking, unshaven and dirty. They carried heavy field packs on their backs, and some of them were actually pulling artillery, like teams of oxen.
The G.I.s lined up, as instructed, and were expecting to be marched off. But instead a squad of Japanese soldiers grabbed the first men they approached, knocked them to the ground, and ripped away anything that seemed of value: watches, rings, pens.
Wally cringed and waited as more Japanese soldiers moved into the squadron, spreading chaos. He told himself he must not react when his own turn came. When two soldiers turned to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him to his knees, he went down without a struggle. When one of the men grabbed at his watch, Wally unbuckled the strap and handed it over. Then one pointed to his East High class ring, and Wally pulled that off too. Then the soldiers jerked him back to his feet and grabbed the mosquito net he was still carrying. They took almost everything, but they left his mess kit and a spoon.
That seemed to be the end of it. One soldier began to turn away. But without warning, the other man suddenly struck Wally in the mouth. Wally stumbled backward and caught another blow in his chest. As he dropped to the ground, the soldier’s boot caught him in the right side. Wally rolled up and hung on against the pain as he waited for the next shot. But it didn’t come, so he stayed down for the present and tried to get his breath. Lying there with his eyes closed, he could still see the rage in the soldier’s face—the one who had kicked him—and he couldn’t understand it. What he knew for sure, however, was that a nightmare had begun.
Wally took long breaths, let the pain in his side subside, and then struggled to his feet. Something told him that he couldn’t let these men believe they had subdued him. He couldn’t fight openly, but a mental battle had been engaged, and he was not going to be defeated. They could be as brutal as they wanted to be, but he wasn’t going to cower.
Another airman next to Wally was taking a beating. He was a young guy named Anderson, one of the two squadron medics. Once the Japanese soldiers left him, Wally got down on his knees next to Anderson, even though he was still in a lot of pain himself. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Anderson moaned and then rolled onto his side. “They took my glasses,” he said.
Wally knew how bad the boy’s vision was, and he couldn’t think why anyone would want his glasses. “It’s okay. Get up. I’ll help you.” Wally knew instinctively that far worse was coming. All of them would have to keep getting up, no matter what, if they were going to get through this.
Once the looting and the battering was finished, the Japanese soldiers marched the men down to Mariveles Field, which was not far away. Along the way, other American and Filipino units were herded together—maybe five hundred men in all. Wally spotted Warren, and he worked his way over to him, and then Jack joined them. But they didn’t say much; they didn’t dare. Once at the field, the guards had all the troops lie
down on the ground. For the moment, that seemed a relief. “What are they going to do?” Warren whispered.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack told him. “We’ll just take what comes.”
And, of course, that was the only answer, but the time moved slowly as everyone waited, and one thing was becoming clear: Even in the intense afternoon heat, the guards were making no attempt to get water or food to the prisoners.
The day stretched on and on, and the uncertainty was as bad as anything. Men were allowed to walk to the edge of the group and relieve themselves on the ground, but otherwise, no one did anything. When the sun finally went down, still no food or water was offered. The guards stood at a distance, encircling the men on the ground, but they said nothing, made no attempt to explain what was happening.
Wally was still feeling pain in his mouth and along his side. But hunger, and especially thirst, were pressing aside every other concern. It was hard to think beyond those needs. If he could eat a little, and get some water in him, then he could handle everything else, but how long until that happened?
The prisoners sat, or they lay on the ground. Wally and Warren and Jack made occasional comments—mostly speculations about provisions—but they said little more than that. The night passed away fitfully, with little sleep, and when morning came, nothing changed. The prisoners received nothing to eat, and as the sun rose in the sky, it only seemed hotter and more sapping than the day before. But no one received water. Sometimes the Japanese guards wandered through the men, checking for valuables they might have missed, but they told the men nothing.
All day, again, the men stayed on the ground. Wally gradually felt a blessed sort of numbness. The lack of food and water was taking its toll, seeming to extract not just his strength but also his powers of concentration. He would shift his position, lie on one side for a time, then on the other, then sit up, but the deprivation was robbing some of his will. He already knew that this fight was going to be more difficult than he had imagined when the soldiers had knocked him down, and it would take place inside his own head.
The time passed slowly, but he continued to glance toward the sun. The only thing he could think to look forward to was the sunset, the reduction of that baking heat on his back and neck. He kept telling himself that the guards surely would provide food by evening and not put them through another night like the last. No one could let prisoners of war sit in a field and starve to death.
But there was no food or water again that night. And by then, the numbness and exhaustion had stolen all life from the men’s eyes. They sat, heads down, eyes shut much of the time, or they lay lifeless, sometimes curled up because of the pain in their stomachs. Wally would glance around from time to time and see his friends, already dehumanized and disheartened, and he wondered how much longer this could last. Men would start to die if water didn’t come soon. Why didn’t the guards just start shooting? Didn’t they want to waste the ammunition?
The smell of the men—hundreds of them packed so close together—and the smell of all the human waste on the ground became increasingly sickening. And all during the ordeal, artillery fire boomed from above the beaches as the Japanese hammered away at Corregidor and return fire crashed into the hillsides. The noise, in time, became a loud but dull part of the numbness that was creeping into Wally’s brain. The men were out of the line of fire for the present, but he wondered whether troops on Corregidor even knew where the prisoners were.
On the third day, guards began to ask who could drive a truck. Wally had no energy to drive, but he wondered whether he would receive food if he volunteered. “Do you think we should do it?” he whispered to Warren.
Warren didn’t answer, but Jack looked over and said, “Why help them?”
Wally didn’t know whether the trucks were to transport the men or if they were for some other purpose, but he had no desire to call attention to himself. He decided to keep his mouth shut. The guards pulled some men out anyway, but no trucks appeared. Wally had no idea what to make of that. Finally, in the afternoon, one of the guards called out, “Trucks come. You go north.”
Wally twisted around to look. He thought the man meant that the trucks were in sight. Maybe they were loaded with food, and the men would be fed before they were transported. But he saw nothing, heard nothing, and the wait continued.
As evening came on, a guard stepped in front of the group and spoke in English. “You are cowards,” he shouted. “Japanese warriors fight to death. But you do not fight. And so we take you to prison. Do not expect kindness from us. You are lower than dogs. We must treat you this way.”
He waited. Wally wanted to feel some of the anger he had felt at the first, but he had no energy to care about the insult. What he wanted was to see the trucks.
“Stand up now. Trucks will come. We march.”
And so the men got to their feet. Wally felt his head swim. Not far away, he could hear the sound of the ocean, and he wished he could dive in. But trucks were coming. Maybe food and water. Wally told himself he had to hold out a little longer, and then everything would be all right.
The men were forced together, very close, and then told to move ahead. They marched down the airstrip to Mariveles Bay. There they saw a number of trucks, but they were American trucks that had been damaged in battle. There were no drivers, no sign that the trucks were to be used. The prisoners marched on by to the shores of the bay, and there they found more Japanese soldiers, with fixed bayonets. They glared at the Americans and shouted in angry voices, “Trucks come. You go.” They forced the men onto the road that led away from the beach.
The prisoners marched as best they could in their weakened state. But as the sun disappeared, the darkness made the hike up the steep hill more difficult. The road was ankle deep in dust, and the men were so close together that they stumbled over each other. They sucked for breath, but they kept pushing ahead because they were being driven by the guards from behind.
Wally didn’t know how long he could do this—how long any of them could—but the soldiers kept yelling about the trucks that were coming, and he told himself they surely must be telling the truth. Even these men must know that no one could walk very long after having nothing to eat or drink for three days.
Eventually, the Japanese directed the men off to the side of the road. In the darkness the prisoners stumbled to spots where they could sit down. Everyone was breathing hard, struggling against the exhaustion. Somewhere in the darkness Wally had lost contact with Warren and Jack. He had no idea where they were, and the loss was devastating. He had nothing to say to them; he merely wanted them there, near him. He had told himself all evening that the trucks were coming, but he was sure now that there were no trucks. There weren’t going to be any trucks. That was just a lie to keep them going. Sooner or later, the Japanese had to feed them—just had to—but if they would make the prisoners go this long without anything, how much longer might they continue the punishment?
Wally felt something giving way inside himself. He was too tired already. How much more did these guards expect from him? He lay on his side and tried not to cry, to moan, not to let the ache, the numbness break him. He heard no whimpers around him, no cursing, rarely so much as a word. He knew that all these men were trying to decide the same thing: Could they do this? How long? Why not just quit—and die sooner rather than later?
But Wally couldn’t quit—not this time. He needed to find some way to survive, needed strength. The decision to call on God was hardly a decision at all. The words were suddenly there in his head. “Oh, Lord,” he found himself saying, “give me strength. Please. I know you don’t owe me a thing, but I need help.”
He lay there for a minute or so, and then he added, “Let me see my family before I die. Let me see my home again.” He hesitated, and then he remembered to close his prayer in the name of Jesus Christ.
He hoped for some change, but he wasn’t sure that he felt any. What he did know was that he had only just begun to pray. He started a
gain, “Oh, Father in Heaven.” And he continued all night. Sometimes he was fully awake, and sometimes he was somewhere close to sleep, but even then, he kept pleading.
Chapter 37
Alex had gone to work very early on April 10, long before sunup. He had a million things to do. He was working on a new bid when one of his foremen, Max Sheldon, came in. “Mr. Thomas,” he said, even though he was twenty years older than Alex, “I thought you’d want to see this.” He handed Alex a copy of that morning’s Tribune. Alex looked at the headline: “BATAAN ARMY OF 36,853 FACES DEATH OR CAPTURE.”
Alex’s breath caught. He scanned through the article and saw that the American and Filipino troops had been “enveloped.” “The heroic epic of Bataan Peninsula ended Thursday,” the article said. Most of the American soldiers were “slain or facing captivity.” Alex dropped the paper on his desk and looked up at Max, but his mind was running in all directions.
“At least they seem to be taking some prisoners,” Max said.
That was true, and for the past two weeks Alex had been fearing a complete massacre. This could mean that Wally had survived.
“I never thought America would have to surrender to anyone,” Max said.
“We got caught off guard,” Alex said. “We weren’t ready.”
“Well, we’d better get ready—fast. Or this is only the beginning. We’ve got a long ol’ road ahead of us.”
Alex was looking at the newspaper, hardly listening, but he said, as much to himself as to Max, “I hate to think how many men are going to die.”
“A lot of young men.”
Alex looked up, and he watched Max’s eyes. He was a wiry little man, already quite gray, with shaggy eyebrows. Alex tried to see under those eyebrows, to interpret what the man might be implying. Was he accusing Alex?
“Well, anyway, I thought you’d want that. Just keep it.”
Alex thanked him, and then he read the rest of the article. The account, however, was incomplete. The Japanese had broken the lines and pushed the Filipinos and Americans back into full retreat, and General King had agreed to a surrender. But there was no word about how that was happening.