Letter to a Friend From Bataan March Survivor.

July 27, 1999

Dear Thelma,

First of all, I want to thank you for the two letters you sent in regard to our high school anniversary. I have delayed answering your letters in the hopes I might be able to go. Unfortunately, it seems I am too ill and weak to make the event at this time.

So, I am sending this letter and with it a copy of the bio sketch I use for speeches, etc. I hope it will be of some interest to you, and could be posted for those brave enough to read such a document!

In a separate envelope, I am also sending a copy of the little history I wrote about my experiences on Bataan, the Bataan Death March, and as a prisoner of war. There may be some who would be interested in it. We have found that many younger people are largely unaware of the facts of WWII and they are eager to learn about it from those who were there. This memoir has taken on a life of its own, having been duplicated and distributed by individuals, organizations and churches on the Pacific Coast.

Please give my best wishes to everyone who is there.  I would like to receive the list of names, addresses and telephone numbers of those who do come. Gee, I would give anything to be there!

All my best to you and all who come to the reunion, and tons of love to everyone.

Burton B. Berger
2014 Browning Ave. So.
Salem, Oregon 97302-2751

(503) 585-1550 (unlisted and unpublished)

enclosure

PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY

Burton E. Berger was born on February 27, 1922, the son of Ernst Erdnian Berger and Hazel Grace Bingo Berger. He grew up in the small community of Clarks, about 15 miles southeast of Oregon City. At his graduation from Oregon City High School, in the spring of 1939, he was awarded the American Legion Award as the outstanding student in his graduating class. He spent one year at Oregon State University, majoring in electrical engineering, before joining the Signal Corps.

Burton is a veteran of World War lI, serving in the Pacific theater in the Philippines and Japan. He enlisted in the U.S. Army Signal Corps on July 27, 1940, in Portland, Oregon, and, together with his cousin, Boyd Ringo, was sent to the 10th Signal Service Company in Manila in the Philippines. The 10th Signal Service later became the 228th Signal Operations Company. During the latter part of this time, Burton served with the Signal Intercept Special Operations Division, located at Fort William McKinley, which copied everything sent out by radio from Germany, Italy, Russia and Japan; this information was sent directly to Washington, D.C.

When Japan first bombed the Philippines on December 8, 1941, operations continued as usual for several weeks. However, a good deal of the off-duty time of the 2nd Signal was spent installing a complex network of high explosives so that the station and its antenna complex could be destroyed at a moments notice—this was done on December 24, 1941. Burton was then sent to the harbor at Manila for transportation to Corregidor. After many bombing raids on the harbor that day, the ship was finally able to sail about midnight and arrived at Corregidor early Christmas morning. Burton spent one day on Corregidor, where he visited with his cousin, Boyd. His orders then were to join General Wainwright’s staff on Northern Luzon as a radio operator and code clerk.

It was his lot to help cover everyone else’s retreat back into Bataan early in January, 1942. Burton served with General Wainwright’s command staff and later with General King after Wainwright was sent to Corregidor. The strategists had planned for the troops to fight to the death, for they were expendable. With this expectation, only ammunition, not food, had been brought back into Bataan. By April, all U.S. troops were already suffering from starvation and disease. Burton was taken prisoner by the Japanese on April 12, 1942, after General King surrendered Bataan to the Japanese. The command group was ordered to go to kilometer post 210.8 on Bataan. In their weakened state, they were marched to Marveles (about 20 kilometers) in one day, then spent the next five days on the “Bataan Death March” with no food and very little water. There is no way to describe the horrible events that took place on that march. At the end of the march, Burton’s group was taken to San Fernando for seven days, then marched to Capas and placed in the infamous cattle cars to go to Camp O’Donald for about one month.

Then he and his fellow prisoners were loaded into steel box cars, two guards and 100 prisoners to each car, for the 20-hour trip to Cabanatuan.

Burton became ill in December of 1942, and was critically ill from March to September of 1943, weighing less that 100 pounds for much of this time. Gradually gaining a little strength, he was sent back to the work area in January of 1944. Because it was his belief that the Japanese would execute all prisoners still in the Philippines when the Americans returned, he arranged to get on a detail being sent to Japan. The prisoners were put in the hold of a steel freighter in June of 1944 and held in Manila Bay for over one sweltering week. The ship finally sailed, arriving more than three weeks later in Moji, Japan, on August 3, 1944.

At Moji, Burton worked as a coolie and warehouse worker, as well as coaling ships, for over a year. Coolie and warehouse work consisted of carrying 100 kilo bags of rice and sugar (220 pounds), unloading ships of all kinds of cargo, and during coaling operations, each POW often was required to shovel up to 100 tons of coal a day. Many POWs died under the strain, or as a result of the bitter cold of winter. During American fire-bombing raids on Moji, the POWs were forced to fight fire as the bombs rained down. At the end of the war, the approximately 300 American, British, and Dutch prisoners at the Moji Camp were given their freedom. As they went through documents found in the guardhouse, they found orders that all prisoners were to be killed as soon as American ships appeared on the horizon— and that the killing could take as long as the camp commander desired.

Boyd Bingo traveled around Japan after his “liberation” looking for his cousin, and found Burton at Moji. They remained there about three weeks, until learning that the Americans were in Nagasaki. The 300 prisoners chartered a train to go to Nagasaki and were rescued on September 14, 1945. They were impressed by the destruction in Nagasaki, but did not learn until later that an atomic bomb had been dropped there. It was not until they were on the hospital ship in Nagasaki Harbor that the POWs learned of the atomic bomb that had been dropped on Hiroshima. Moji, by the way, is about halfway between Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

After his return home, Burton was to learn that the bomb dropped on Nagasaki had been targeted for Kokura, an industrial center where he had been working on that day. He also learned later that Japan was within several months of developing its own atomic bomb, and that if President Truman had not dropped the bombs when he did, the west coast cities of San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle could well have been heaps of ashes. This information is in the historical archives of the Pentagon, but was obtained (with pictures of the U.S. Navy dumping the Japanese atomic arsenal at sea) and printed in a veteran’s publication. Most of the American citizens who wear sackcloth and ashes each year to commemorate the “terrible” deed of America dropping the atomic bombs do not realize they came close to being just a pile of ashes themselves.

Burton arrived back in the United States on October 20, 1945, sailing through the Golden Gate to San Francisco. He received an honorable discharge on April 5, 1946.

In the five months between his return home and his army discharge, Burton and his mother bought a small farm at Clarks Corners. The farm work allowed him to get his strength and some of his health back, and he returned to Oregon State University for the 1946 Summer School. He received his B.S. degree in education in the spring of 1949. During that summer, he attended and was a leader at an International Student Seminar sponsored by the American Friends Service Committee at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. A much greater understanding of the needs and aspirations of all countries came from this seminar.

At Oregon State, Burton had met and fallen in love with Leora Anne Kuhiman, the charming and beautiful girl who became his mate for life. They were married on May 20, 1951. A daughter, Patricia Anne, joined them on February 13, 1960, bringing joy, fulfillment, and continuing companionship for the rest of their lives.

In the years following graduation, Burton attended Garrett Biblical Institute at Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois; received a Master of Religious Education degree from the Iliff School of Theology at Denver University; specialized in audio-visual education at the University of Southern California School of Religion in Los Angeles; and then returned to Oregon State University, where he received a second B.S. degree in farm crops (agronomy) from the School of Agriculture. He was awarded a fellowship to the University of Wisconsin, from which he received an M.S. degree in journalism. I later attended the University of Oregon and the University of Nebraska, completing doctoral work in educational psychology.

Burton started his career as a relief minister for the Methodist Church in Independence, Oregon. He served as Associate Minister for Education at Echo Park Methodist Church in Los Angeles, California. He later became an agricultural journalist at the University of Wisconsin, then an agricultural information specialist and photographer for the University of Nebraska. He returned to Oregon State University in 1956 as an Extension Information Specialist. During this time, he did a great deal of training in communications, leadership, and community development. Burton was appointed a Regional Rural Civil Defense Representative for the U.S. Departments of Agriculture and Defense, in charge of coordinating educational and developmental programs in rural civil defense in the eight western states. He was subsequently asked to assist the Federal Extension Service by serving as Assistant Director of Program Development for the Rural Project of the President’s Commission on Juvenile Delinquency and Youth Crime, working directly under the U.S Department of Justice.

Upon his return to the OSU Cooperative Extension Service, Burton became the program leader for statewide programs in community development and leadership development for county committees and 4-H youth groups, and worked as liaison with the Oregon and National Town and Country Church Conferences as well as with the committees on gerontology research. He was also Associate Professor of Extension Methods, teaching program planning, community development, and leadership techniques to possible future extension workers.

By 1966 Burton was feeling a need to extend his experience and education.

He accepted a position as a Program Coordinator for the Nebraska Center for Continuing Education and an instructor in the Department of Adult and Continuing Education at the University of Nebraska while completing his doctoral studies.

As a result of his work at the Nebraska Center, he was offered the position as the first Executive Director and Secretary of the Nebraska State Bar Association, a position he held for six years. While with the Nebraska State Bar, he developed a comprehensive continuing legal education program and was responsible for obtaining the permission of the Nebraska State Legislature for the construction of a new College of Law building on the University of Nebraska campus.

Burton became Executive Director of the Houston Bar Association in 1976.

In this position, he integrated the Black Bar into the Houston Bar, started a Hispanic Bar Section, built new offices for the Association as well as an Inns of Court Club that would serve over 400 persons in the restaurant and bar. He held this post for five years.

Early in 1983, he moved to the National Finance Center in New Orleans, the facility that does most of the financial work for the U.S. Government. Here he functioned as an Employee Relations Specialist and later as Labor Relations Officer for the NFC. In the labor relations position, he won 21 of his last 22 cases before Arbitrators and in State Courts, and won a major victory in Federal District Court. lie retired from this position at the close of 1988 for reasons of health.

Burton is a member of Kappa Delta Pi, education honorary; Phi Kappa Phi, national scholastic honorary; and Sigma Delta Chi, the professional honorary in journalism, he has been active in regional and national organizations in adult education and agricultural journalism, was an Associate Member of the American Bar Association and a member and officer in the National Association of Bar Executives, and was given an honorary life membership in the Nebraska State Legal Secretaries Association. He was awarded the CAE (Certified Association Executive) designation by the National Association of Association Executives, and a Certificate of Merit by the USDA for his outstanding service to the National Finance Center.

He has given hundreds of speeches and program presentations on topics related to agriculture, communications, adult education, psychology, program development, and leadership. Special presentations include the keynote address at the National 4-H Conference in Washington, D.C. in 1963, and presentations to the American Bar Association and the National Association of Bar Executives on bar association organization and administration during the 1970s.

His publications include informational and training materials, as well as arguments and briefs before Federal Mediators, and in State and Federal Courts.

For relaxation, Burton has pursued a lifelong interest in photography, reading in philosophy and psychology, collecting science fiction books, and travel. He has an extensive collection of music on records, tapes and compact discs. But the most important elements in his life have been his close, loving and creative relationship with his wife, Lee, and becoming an adult friend with his daughter, Pat.

March/April, 1997

RE: Japanese Concentration Camp Experiences of Burton E. Berger, Salem, Oregon

This is the first in a series of letters it was suggested I write, to “ventilate” my experiences in Bataan, on the Bataan Death March, and in various Japanese Concentration Camps. This exercise has been very hard for me to start to work on since I have, all my life, tended to shy away from thinking or talking about these events. It remains to be seen how well I can do.

At first, I didn’t think it even possible that I might be using these experiences, as they reoccurred to me in dreams, nightmares, and flashbacks as a way of gaining attention. My life has been full of good experiences and accomplishments and it seemed to me that my memory of those should be enough to satisfy almost anyone.

For instance, I have completed two BS degrees, two MS degrees, and finished all the work on a Ph.D. degree. While working on my first BS in education (guidance and counseling), I was a fully licensed and certified supply pastor for a local Methodist Church and conducted weddings and funerals. During work on my first MS I was an assistant pastor and minister of youth for a church in downtown Los Angeles. At this time, I also wrote a paper titled “A Psychological Interpretation of the Concept of ‘Birth From Above’ as Found in the Gospel of John 3: 1-21”; this resulted in an “A” in the course and my degree, but I was called in and told to do something else—my ideas were too radical. The paper was based on the phenomenological psychology of Snygg and Combs. I then returned to Oregon State and majored in farm crops; during which time I had to take a course in journalism and it was found I could write. I was awarded a fellowship to Wisconsin, and received my second MS in journalism; then was a photographer and assistant extension editor at the University of Nebraska. An opportunity arose to return to Oregon State, and I became an extension information specialist there, in this position, for five years, I wrote stories, took pictures, taught communication skills and leadership development to 4-H youth over Oregon. I then had an opportunity (because of my war experience) to become the Regional Rural Civil Defense Director (under the USDA and Department of Defense) for the seven western states and started and supervised innovative programs in this area.

The USDA then needed someone to represent Federal Extension in the Lane County Youth Study Project, the rural project of the President’s Commission on Juvenile Delinquency and Youth Crime, working directly under Bobby Kennedy in the Department of Justice. When they requested that we change our statistical analysis and final recommendations to fit their “current emphasis in Congress,” I resigned and returned to the Oregon Extension Service. I then became a state extension agent for community development and rural improvement projects for counties over the state. During this time I moderated many county planning council meetings where there was controversy. I was also named Professor of Extension Methods and taught the academic courses for potential extension workers. In this position, I obtained tenure. I also gave the keynote address to the National 4-H Conference at this time.

Finding I was teaching and working at the limit of my knowledge and ability, I resigned my position (unbelievable to academicians to resign when you have tenure) and took a position as a program coordinator at the Nebraska Center for Continuing Education and instructor in adult education at the University of Nebraska. While there, in addition to my teaching and studies, I ran hundreds of regional and national conferences on a wide variety of subjects, and taught human relations and leadership development at many of them.

My ability to take over the Great Plains Federal Tax Institute and make a profit of over $10,000 after it had lost money for years led to my being offered a position as the first Executive Director and Secretary Treasurer for the Nebraska State Bar Association. In this position I started an office and built a staff of 12 over a few years, as well as starting and running a regular continuing legal education program. As secretary of the NSBA, I was responsible for lawyer discipline, and for investigating judicial qualifications. I prosecuted so many lawyers and removed enough judges that Nebraska had the lowest rate of professional liability insurance in the nation when I left. In addition, I found that the Omaha lawyers had passed a resolution that there would be no legal assistants in Omaha law offices. I filed a complaint against them with the ABA and over half of the legal secretaries in Omaha were allowed to become legal assistants, nearly doubling their salaries. This became a precedent for the rest of Nebraska, and I was made an honorary member of the local, state, and national Association of Legal Secretaries.

I also discovered that the College of Law building on the University of Nebraska campus had been condemned, but was still being used. Using the techniques and procedures I had been taught and developed in extension work, I organized the lawyers of the state, put pressure on the legislature, and had a new College of Law building dedicated within three years.

The opportunity to become the Executive Director of the Houston Bar Association became available, and I moved to that position since it was a larger association with more opportunity. While there, I integrated (pardon the pun) the black bar into the larger association and greatly expanded the continuing legal education program. I also planned and built new association offices on one of the top floors of the Texas Commerce Bank building and built an Inns of Court Club which could seat about 400 lawyers and judges for lunch, as well as a lounge area that could service about 150 persons.

During this time, I became secretary of the National Association of Bar Executives, an associate member of the ABA, and served as a consultant to the American Judicature Society. I also passed the necessary tests and qualified for a CAE (certified association executive) designation from the National Association of Executive Directors. I also spent several evenings over the years hosting the Hon. Warren Burger, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.

However, I was far too much of a naive country boy for the situation I was in and was accused of taking association funds. I was later cleared by the FBI and the CIA as well as several national accounting firms and the real culprits were found.

I then moved to the National Finance Center in New Orleans (the facility that does most of the financial work for the Federal Government) and became labor relations officer. In this position, I was requested as a resource person and consultant (because of my legal experience) over much of the nation, won 21½ of my last 22 cases, including a landmark case in Federal Court, and became a computer consultant for the NEC. I left that position because of poor health at the age of 66.

The above are just some of the things I accomplished during my career but they do, I believe, illustrate that my life has been meaningful, productive, and satisfying, and that I did accomplish worthwhile things that helped a number of people. I apologize for the space this listing took and realize that it may have wasted the reader’s time, but it did allow me to see that I have always been busy and accomplishing until now—and that it is possible that I could be using my war experiences as a way of providing value to my life at this time. On that basis I will move ahead to my war experiences.

At the age of eighteen, with one year of college in electrical engineering, I could see that my folks could not support my brother, my sister, and myself. So, I joined the army to gain experience and to save money so I could later support myself in college. I wanted to go to Alaska, but ended up in the 10th Signal Service in the Philippines. After training I worked at the Signal Intercept Group at Fort McKinley, where we had a massive antenna complex over natural salt water deposits and provided tuning and reception service for the 10th Signal as well as copying all coded radio transmissions out of Japan, Germany, Italy, and the Soviet Union.

The first bombs were dropped on the Philippines, including Ft. McKinley, on December 8, 1941. None hit our receiving station or antenna complex, but we immediately started to wire in explosives among our 40-some receivers and around the poles supporting our antenna complex. We blew up the station and antennas on December 24, and I was sent to the Port of Manila to catch a boat to Corregidor. The port was bombed hour after hour that day, and we scurried from shelter to shelter to stay alive. At last, about midnight, we were able to get on the boat and sail.

The ship arrived on Corregidor while it was still dark, and I got a can of tomato juice for my Christmas dinner. Then I went up on top of Corregidor to the transmitter station where my cousin was stationed and visited with him for a while. Soon I was called and put on a small speedboat to go to the mainland with a full colonel named Col. Scheer. Since I had worked with him at Signal for several years, we visited. He told me that all of us on Bataan and Corregidor were to be ordered to fight to the last man and would die there—however he was too important and was to be flown out after he had met with Gen. Wainwright (life is funny, Col. Scheer was shot down around Borneo, and I’m still alive). We rode in a jeep to northern Luzon where the General was camped at that time. I was added to the General’s communication staff (coding and decoding as well as writing and delivering messages) and found that we moved at least once a day to stay ahead of the advancing Japanese. We were supposed to be the first to get back into Bataan, but the others outran us and we covered their retreat into the peninsula. We finally ended up in a camp behind a mountain where we spent the time until captured. When MacArthur left Corregidor, Gen. Wainwright went to replace him and Gen. King became our commanding officer.

On the night of April 11, I was in a tent with Gen. King and his staff as they agonized over whether to surrender us or not. Gen. King was sure he would be court-martialed and that this would end his career. But he knew that we had been on one meal a day for months, had already eaten anything that moved or could be chewed, were all weak from hunger and loss of weight, and could fight no more. We were surrendered on April 12, 1942.

Several Japanese soldiers came to our camp the next morning and told us to go down the trail to kilometer post 210.8 where we would be met. We started marching down the trail, and met truckloads of Japanese soldiers at the road. They immediately stripped us of watches, rings, and anything else valuable. One American captain said he couldn’t get his West Point ring off because it was too tight. Three Japanese grabbed him, held his hand on a stump, and used a bayonet to cut all his fingers, and the ring, off. I knew then that we were in for a hard time.

We were then ordered to march south, toward Mariveles which was about 20 kilometers away. We had had no food except for a small bit of rice with a little horse meat for breakfast—it was the last food we were to have for about 6 more days. As we marched, every column or truckload of Japanese we met would stop to search us for anything of value. If they found nothing, we were beaten, usually with a gun butt. If they did find something that someone had hid, that person was badly beaten and often bayoneted through a leg so he couldn’t walk or through the stomach. In either case the person was as good as dead.

When we arrived at Mariveles at dusk, we were lined up and allowed to fill our canteens and then assembled in groups of about 100. We were ordered to sit down with our chins on our knees and not to move; anyone who did move was beaten or bayoneted. All of this time, Corregidor had been shelling the area with blank 12” shells which thundered through the camp. Anyone who ducked or moved was punished as above.

The next morning we were started out, this time in formation of four across, although we didn’t have to keep in step. But no wavering in lines was allowed. When we came to a bend in the road that was closest to Corregidor, we were lined up in front of batteries of large Japanese guns where we would be in full view of Corregidor. The Japanese batteries then opened up, shooting just over our heads; Corregidor answered back, with live 12 and 14 inch shells coming in just over our heads to hit the Japanese. Any POW who flinched or dropped to the ground was bayoneted. I saw about 20 men bayoneted that day. When we were finally allowed to move on (over half the Japanese guns had been destroyed) my nose and ears were bleeding profusely. A medic in the line behind me slipped me some cotton to put in my ears to keep insects and infection out and told me that I must keep my ears stoppered with cotton, cloth, or paper, or anything, for several months. I still keep cotton in my ears and am the only Ex-POW I know who doesn’t wear a hearing aid.

We were marched along the road. The road was shell pocked and corpses were lying everywhere—mostly Filipino, but many American, some still living. Anyone who stopped to try to help someone still alive was immediately bayoneted, although a few were shot. It was at this point that a basic philosophy for the death march was established—one did not try to help anyone else, it was dog eat dog, every man for himself. This was discussed very quietly as we walked and this way of trying to stay alive was accepted by everyone. There were only a few exceptions, one of which will come up shortly.

I must admit I do not remember much about the death march. It was just a case of enduring, refusing to admit the presence of pain, acceptance of whatever came, a realization that one was no longer in control of his own fate, a willingness to do anything that might contribute to your own survival, and a complete and absolute lack of trust in anyone. The rest of this recital must be read with that philosophy in mind.

I do not remember the first night we stopped except that it was about midnight and we were placed in a fenced in field and told to sit with our chins on our knees. We were seldom allowed to lie down the entire death march. The next morning, at first light, we were again ordered on our way until about noon, at which time we were placed in a harvested and dry rice paddy, ordered to take off our hats, and sit with our chins on our knees. Anyone who moved or tried to get out of the field was bayoneted or shot and left to die. Many could not take the heat and seemed to try to escape just to “get it over with.” It took a lot of self discipline to stay and hold still. About 4:00 p.m. we were ordered to assemble and took off again.

We marched until about 10:00 p.m., then were put into a lighted open building with a tin roof. I had gone to sleep when I was awakened by running footsteps (this was one of my flashbacks, I did not remember this incident until I relived it) and a Japanese soldier hit a Filipino soldier on the back of the head and then ran his bayonet through his back two times. The Filipino had almost fallen on me and his blood ran over me. The Japanese soldier grabbed my canteen, went to the edge of the building, and washed off his bayonet. He then threw my canteen as far as he could out in the jungle. He then came back, apparently looking for me; I had meanwhile, every time he wasn’t watching, rolled quite a distance away and he couldn’t find me. He bayoneted another American, said a few swear words, and walked off. Had my escape caused the death of another American? I will never know—but now I was without a canteen and that was almost a death sentence in itself. There was no way I could survive without water in the blistering heat on that dusty road.

As we lined up (fate has so many surprises) I found myself next to Harvey Goff. Harvey was from Tacoma and was also in the Signal Corps. He agreed we would share his canteen and I would try to keep my canteen cup full of water as much as possible. I also had iodine and had been adding about 5 drops to a canteen of water and waiting about an hour to purify the water. Harvey had not had the iodine and was glad to get that protection. We marched together that day and survived by sharing what water we had.

That night, the Japanese separated us, sending every other man to a different field. I wondered what was going to happen to me now. The next morning I started off with my canteen cup full of water, put in some iodine, and hoped for the best. About 10:30 am. the Japanese once again put us in a field with our hats on chins on our knees, and told us not to move. Suddenly the man next to me had apparently had all he could take: He jumped to his feet and charged the nearest guard. A glance showed me that three other guards were bayoneting him and he was gone—but he had left his canteen and other supplies behind. I immediately grabbed the canteen and looked at his supplies. He apparently had been a medic, for I found more iodine, cotton, bandages, etc. I took the iodine and the cotton but left the rest since I was afraid the Japanese might think I knew how to bandage or medically assist one of their own. I didn’t, and would be immediately killed if found out. Again, it is amazing how fate (?) works.

We started out again on the march sometime that afternoon, and I must admit I have neither memories, nightmares, nor flashbacks of the rest of the march. We were now on our fourth day with no food and very little water. I do remember that POWs would often make a break for it to go fill their canteens in a stream along the road; we would go up the road a kilometer or less and find it full of rotting bodies. The men who had gotten their precious water soon died, or fell and were shot or bayoneted. It took tremendous self discipline to stay in line and not get tainted water. We usually were allowed to fill our canteens once a day, but not always. I kept mine half full until I saw a water supply coming up, then would drink it, refill, add iodine and move on, usually without stopping, just slowing down a little. The stench of dead, decomposing bodies was almost unbearable at times.

The last two days of the march were the worst. The Japanese wanted us out of the way so they could mount their offensive against Corregidor. We had to march in step and the pace was quite quick for men who hadn’t eaten for over a week. On the last day, it became particularly vicious. Anyone who didn’t keep in step, keep the pace, or wavered, caused the entire line of four men to be taken out and they had to run up and down the road. If any one fell, all four were killed. The march became a deadly game—you would watch the other three in your line all of the time; if any one person started to weaken or stumble, you immediately looked around for another line that was having a problem. Quick eye contact, then you would drop back or up to their line, push their problem person in line with your problem person, and march on. In a sense, you were condemning the person you moved and the men with him to death, but it was your only chance to stay alive. If I remember correctly, I made about four changes that day. Tunnel vision took over and all you saw were the feet of the other three men. And so, we marched on.

After six days of marching, one day down to Mariveles and five days on the death march, we finally arrived at San Fernando and were put into a barbed wire enclosure. We were each given a rice ball, and I remember sitting there and crying because I had forgotten how to eat and swallow. At last, mixing bites of rice and sips of water, I was able to get a little of the rice down, and finally was able to finish the rest. I studied later in psychology classes that a person can forget (or lose the ability) to eat. After sleeping almost 24 hours, I felt better and was assigned a spot in the camp.

We stayed at San Fernando for 7 days. During that time, we were called into a big assembly twice. The message was the same each time. A high-ranking Japanese officer who could speak English told us how unfortunate we were! While Japan, of course, was a civilized nation, any guarantees of humane treatment were reserved for prisoners taken in battle. Since we had been surrendered, we had no rights and would be treated as the draft animals we were. In essence, he said we were unlucky to still be alive, and soon would wish we were not.

The nights at San Fernando reminded one of Hades. Vast pyres were built every day, dead and dying men were stacked on the pyres, and the cremations were a vast red glow that made sleeping at night almost impossible. The screams of the near dead as the flames approached them added a nightmare quality to the hellish scene.

On the eighth day, we were assembled, marched to steel boxcars, and with 100 men and two guards to each car, taken by train to Capas. The doors were closed but left open enough for the guards to sit on the floor of the car and get air. I saw what was happening and immediately sat on the floor as close to a guard as I could get. I don’t know how many died from heat and lack of oxygen, but there were many such in each car. At Capas, those of us still able to walk were marched to Camp O’Donnell, an old Filipino training camp and were packed into bamboo huts, 100 men per hut.

I don’t remember much of Camp O’Donnell and have had no nightmares or flashbacks about it. This may be because there was so much yet to come. I do remember that we were fed lugau twice a day—once in the morning and once after dark at night. This was to be our main source of sustenance for the next few years. It was a thin kind of gruel cooked out of rice-mill leavings or floor sweepings together with anything else nobody else would eat. But we were not forced to work, had a fair supply of potable water, and were left pretty much alone. Then, about one month later, we were assembled and marched to Capas and back into the steel railroad cars. Again, it was 100 men and two guards to each car. We could tell from the excrement on the floor that the cars had been used for POWs before. I again managed to maneuver a spot for myself fairly near a door. The trip took 20 hours, with sick men who had both types of dysentery and no place to go but on the floor. The same was true for urine. How anyone lived through it I will never know, but at last we pulled in to Tartac where we unloaded. This time, those who were more well were allowed to help those who were desperately sick. We had about a 15 kilometer hike to Camp Cabanatuan which was to be our permanent concentration camp. Quite a few died along the way and were just kicked into the nearest ditch.

We arrived at Cabanatuan and were ushered in through a barbed wire gate. Other Americans were there but no one helped anyone else. We were allowed to fill our canteens with water from a standpipe for a short time, and then were sent to bamboo barracks. We had nothing but our canteens and a mess kit of some kind or other; but we were “home” for an indefinite period.

NOTE: This ends the first installment. It really gets bad from here, and I need a rest before I start the next segment.

INSTALLMENT NO. 2:

Cabanatuan was something else. When we arrived, those of us at the first part of the line were allowed to fill our canteens. Then, people started to fight over who was next in line and the Japanese shut the water off until the next day. Self control and moderation were obviously the only way to go—few learned that!

As we marched in, the sky was blue. Once inside the compound, one could not see the sky for the enormous cover of flies; big, black, buzzing blowflies. I grew up on a farm and we were acquainted with flies, but nothing like this. They were all over you, continuously, and no way to get rid of them. They were on your food, on your spoon, and often in your mouth. I hated flies before, but never like I do now. The flies, of course, came from the open latrine pits, and with several thousand POWs there, the concentration was bad. It also, of course, meant that I could no longer protect myself from exposure to dysentery and soon had that problem.

I don’t remember much of the early days of my stay in Cabanatuan. We were some of the last in and had bamboo and thatched houses at one of the lower levels; that meant drainage came our way. We had no beds, but slept on bamboo slats. I slept on nothing but bamboo slats or wood floors until finally repatriated. And, our food had changed—we had the same lugau except that they added to it small reeds from the swamps nearby. I suppose that was to add bulk and perhaps a few vitamins to our diet, but the combination was disgusting. We called them “blow tubes” and hated the mixture. We did get fed three times a day—in the morning before light, at noon, and at night after dark. The flies were less in the dark times, but still swarmed around. And, eating in the dark, you could not see what was in your food. I broke one tooth that had to be pulled when I got back to the U.S.

I remember that I was put on a detail with an old white-haired Russian and two other guys to cut up old shoes and wire the flaps of leather to sticks for fly swatters. Useless of course, since the flies had already laid their eggs and a lot of leather was wasted that would have been extremely valuable to us later. And, as I anticipated, I became ill along with everyone else.

Cabanatuan at first was one large area of chaos. No one seemed to be in charge except the persons, whoever they were, who procured our food. There were trails through the camp, but they were ankle deep in mud and debris. I remember thinking one day that if a giant could reach in to Seattle or San Francisco and pick up a man and set him in the middle of the camp, he would take one look around and go crazy on the spot.

A lot of people did go crazy and would rush the gate where they would be stopped, beaten, and often killed. You’ll remember Harvey Goff from my earlier episode—he and I had shared a canteen for one day. I met Harvey in the camp and found him very ill from dysentery; he had given up. He asked me to help him over to a part of the fence that was quite isolated, and there said it was such a comfort to not try to hold back the dysentery but “just let it flow.” He died with me holding his hand.

Gradually the Japanese let American officers and non-coms set up work details and we started to build paths with drainage ditches at the side. Then, the Japanese started to set up farm areas where we could grow some food. At first, it was merely leveling, diking, filling with water, and planting rice (we never got any of the rice, it went to the Japanese). One of the more “fun” details was catching cobras. We had one guard who used them in his religious worship and then ate them. I forgot to mention that when working on the farm we were allowed to wear only a G-string and had to go barefoot. Hunting cobras under those conditions was no fun. One person would have a forked stick, but the rest of us would have straight sticks (there were usually four of us on such a detail) and we had a gunny sack to put the cobras in The cobras were not hard to find, but the catching process still gives me nightmares.

As an aside, since I probably won’t remember it later, I am fair skinned and sunburned very badly. One doctor estimates he has taken over 200 skin cancers off of me.

Now comes what must be an unusual event. A typhoon came through (we call them hurricanes) and the wind and rain were unbelievable. Several of the bamboo barracks simply went tumbling along the ground with the POWs inside. Our barracks merely collapsed—but while doing so I saw a (great, large, bright) light, obviously just in my mind since no one else saw such a thing (I asked) and a voice said to me (again in my head), ‘Do not worry, you will live through this.” I don’t expect anyone to believe this, no one does, but it gave me hope and courage through the years to come.

After the typhoon, it took several days to get the barracks back in place and righted, and it was a major task to rebuild the paths we had so laboriously made. The rice paddies had been particularly hard hit and several weeks were spent rebuilding and replanting them. And all during the construction and reconstruction projects, the Japanese who were supervising carried clubs and used them freely at the slightest evidence of slowing down or other provocation.

I have an 85-year old cousin who lives in Seattle (actually, on one of the islands there) and he has asked that I send him copies of this document as I get portions done. After all, he says, he may not be here tomorrow and “always wanted to know what went on over there.” In my cover letter to him, I told him that I am always surprised as I read what I’ve written so far to see how little of the horror, terror, and despair actually comes through to the reader. I guess this is something I’m not a good enough writer to portray in a manuscript. Needless to say, this whole exercise is very hard on me and has taken extra valium for me to get through the night after I’ve spent time writing.

For instance, during the typhoon the usual 50 to 100 POWs per day had died. But we had not been able to dig mass graves or bury them, so they were sort of “stacked up.” After the mass graves were dug, they filled with water, but we still had to get the corpses into the graves. We had litters, with two men to a liner for each corpse. By this time, the corpses had swollen and the skin was slipping. The best we could do was remove one of the dog tags and give to the man keeping records, then grab the corpse by the hands and feet, hoping the skin didn’t slip too much, get within about 5 to 7 feet of the grave, and give a 1-2-3 and throw swing. I have had this flashback several times. The corpse I was helping with had a button on his sleeve and it caught in my clothes and I was on my way to the grave. Most of the corpses “popped” when they hit the grave, and it was a real mess. I managed to break loose, and someone extended a shovel to me and I was able to get back—but going into that grave with those corpses remains a nightmare!

All of this time I had been becoming sicker and sicker, and finally developed wet beriberi to the point I could hardly walk. On that basis I was sent to the hospital area. I need to make it clear that Cabanatuan was divided into two sections. One was the main camp. A road ran up the center and on it were the Japanese barracks and headquarters units. The hospital section, which was identical to the main camp, was beyond the road, and when you got to the hospital section you were merely put into another bamboo barracks complete with bamboo slats, etc.

Treatment at the “hospital” was minimum. They had no medications, but did have bandages, so in the morning after I had lain down all night and my legs were as small as they would get, they bandaged my lower legs as tightly as possible. I don’t know what theory they had in mind, but it didn’t work. And their latrines had a board to sit on with your rear end hanging over. It appeared that not everyone made it in time, and it was quite a mess. In addition, to my utter horror, I got crabs (I assume you know what they are, reside in the pubic area). Here, I was, a person who had never even kissed a girl yet, and I get this kind of infection. Those who knew me and my reputation thought it was very funny. They did have a mercury salve which took care of the crabs, and the latrine seats were cleaned.

Several POWs had escaped from both sides of the camp, although most were caught or turned in by the Filipinos. But, to slow down this kind of activity, the Japanese put all POWs in groups of ten. If any of the ten escaped, those remaining were put in front of a firing squad and shot. The guards were such poor shots, it often took quite a while to get the group completely dead. And, yes, after about four such incidents, two fellows from the group I was in escaped. It is a hopeless feeling to know you are going to be killed when several of your group didn’t care enough about the rest of the group. We were called up, and were lined up with the firing squad in front of us. Then, for some reason I will never know, the camp commandant decided this just wasn’t going to work and we were sent back to our barracks. But it was quite a few days before I felt any sense of security about this whole affair—the Japanese changed their minds with amazing regularity.

I kept getting more ill, with both types of dysentery as well as malaria, and finally the doctors decided I wouldn’t make it and sent me down to the “zero ward.” This was the ward where you were carried out, you didn’t walk out. Since they had diphtheria there as well, I got that too. I was in the zero ward for the better part of a year. The latrine was up the hill a little, and we had to walk to it. There was a path, but since most of the men dribbled as they walked, it was worse than a barnyard at home. Again, all we were allowed was a G-string and we had to go barefoot.

Zero ward was beyond description. Most were extremely ill and/or dying, and the moaning and crying went on 24 hours a day. I dropped down below 100 pounds and lost most of my vision. But I had noticed that most people died at night or in their sleep. So I forced myself to stay awake all night, and have someone wake me during the day if my breathing changed. Despite all of the dire predictions of the doctors, I managed to stay alive. The Japanese started to give us a bit more meat and I gained a little weight. The whole area remained a nightmare.

At this time, we were forced to take part in our first Japanese medical experiment. A Japanese officer, who I assume was a doctor, came to the ward with two guards with fixed bayonets. They gave everyone in zero ward a shot of something in the buttocks. This shot was repeated twice more at one week intervals. No one died and no one saw any difference. The Japanese officer looked disappointed and we never saw him again.

Then, after about a year had passed, the Japanese had sent enough POWs to Japan for slave labor that there was room in the main camp and all of us in the hospital area were transferred across the road. Since I was now in better shape, they put me in with men who were not too ill and my morale as well as my health started to improve considerably.

After a while, I ran into a guy named Rosenweig, who we called Rosie. I had known him when we were at Ft. McKinley, and he had always liked me for some reason. He had gotten “in” with some people, I know not who, and got me on the “unloaders.” Our job was to unload the pallets of vegetables that came in from the gardens and distribute the food to the various kitchens around the camp. It was considered a plush job, although one had to work hard and lift heavy loads. The muscles from my farm background had apparently not been lost, and I did fine.

With more food available, theft became an increasing problem. The Americans tried to keep the Japanese from finding out about it, since their penalties were quite drastic. The first case the Japanese became aware of, they broke the man’s arm and would not let it be set for two days. For the second case, they decided they needed to put an end to this type of activity. The thief was hung by his thumbs over his grave. When his thumbs came off (it took a couple of days), he fell into the grave, they shot him and filled in the grave— even though he was still alive. Theft did decrease dramatically.

Several of us got to talking, and we agreed that we would never be freed by the Americans when they fought their way to the Philippines. Instead, at the last minute, the Japanese would put everybody they could on boats and try to take them to Japan for slave labor. We decided to go early. Rosie knew someone (?) who worked on the lists of persons to be taken to Japan, and I got on one such list. I traded everything I could for condensed food and a few clothes (we were told it was colder in Japan) and then waited. During June of 1944 we were put on trucks (guards with bayonets on each truck and taken to Bilibid concentration camp in Manila and held there about 4 days. We were then taken out and marched to the docks where an old steel freighter was tied up. At bayonet point, everything we had was taken from us, we were given a G-string, and told to climb down into the hold. Everything I had saved for and traded for was gone, undoubtedly to the Japanese crew. Chaos broke forth as we were crowded into the hold where there was only room if everyone got on one of the tiers of boards there. The Japanese turned the fire hoses on us, and gradually everyone quieted down. By the time it got dark, several men has been trampled to death and there were many broken bones. I had headed for one of the lower tiers as soon as I saw them, since it would be hotter up high.

We remained in that steel freighter’s hold for over a week, with temperatures in the 100’s every day. Finally, we sailed one night. During this time, I had developed water/fever (?) blisters all over my body, hundreds of them except on the bottoms of my feet. We had a couple of doctors with us and I asked them what I should do. They suggested I break every blister and wash in salt water from the bay. I may not know much medicine, but I did know that to open all those raw places on me and then wash them in polluted water from the harbor was not the answer. I stayed away from the doctors, and the blisters went away in about two weeks. Again, patience and common (good) sense appeared to be the best answer.

We had one wooden half barrel in the center of the hold that was used for a latrine. When it was full, which seemed to be most of the time, it was hauled up and emptied. It often didn’t get up and back down fast enough for those who needed it, and the stench became almost impossible.

The trip to Japan took a little over three weeks. At night, the ships turbines would go on high and we would start to zigzag. Then there would be several explosions and the night sky would turn red. It was obvious what was happening. American submarines who had no idea American POWs were on the boats were having a turkey shoot. It was awfully hard to lie there and wonder when a torpedo would come through the ships hull and that would be the end of us. But, it never happened. (remember, I was told I would live through this; they were lucky to have me aboard).

We finally arrived in Moji harbor and the ship docked. We waited about half a day, and then were called up on deck. There, lined up on chairs, were about 30 Japanese nurses. The procedure was that you would back up to one and spread your buttocks—she would then stick a glass rod about one inch wide up your anus and then rub it on a petri dish, A complete waste of time, we all had diarrhea so why bother to test us? One hundred of us were then counted off and told to follow several guards we had never seen. We were marched through the downtown streets of Moji, barefoot and wearing only G-strings, with the people throwing rocks and other nice (?) things at us. At last we came to a big building on top of a hill, which we learned was to be our concentration camp/home for the indefinite future.

NOTE: This ends the second installment. I now turn into a coolie in a Japanese harbor...

INSTALLMENT NO. 3:

I did not mention that, on the boat, I had met and made friends with a fellow named Frank Beaver. Everyone said that Frank and I could be twins: we were the same size, wore glasses, same build, and even looked alike. We marched together to the concentration camp in Moji, which 1 have described as a “big building on top of a hill.” We later found that the two-story building had been the local YMCA and had been confiscated when the war started. Its two floors were used for POW barracks, where we slept on a hard, wood floor, and the basement had sinks for washing (cold water only), latrines, and an area for cooking meals for the group. The guards did not stay in the building but in one next door, although there were always several guards walking through and checking on things.

We marched in the front door and were lined up in two long lines. Ten at a time were sent downstairs to wash and clean up, and as our turn came, we were given worn-out Japanese uniforms, hats, and tennis-type shoes with the separate big toe. After all were clean, we were assigned spaces where we would sleep, and given a number that would be, for all practical purposes, our names for the rest of the time we were there. My number was “san beyaku yonju kyu,” which means 349. We were then fed, and it was the best food we had had in years, part rice, part soybean flake, and with a small fish in each. The people who had been there indicated this was not a regular meal. There were 300 POWs in the building, 100 English who had been captured in Singapore and had been there a long time, 100 Javanese Dutch, and now 100 of us Americans. As the latecomers, we were looked down on by everyone else; the English never did become friendly.

After the meal, we were lined up for inspection. Every one of us was slapped until bloody at the mouth or nose for some kind of infraction—we did not know what. But it did put us on guard that anything could, and probably would, happen. Then we were given a speech as to what would be expected of us. We were to work in the port area of Moji, a major port of entry from the south, in warehouses and on ships, and would do exactly as we were told or there would be severe consequences. We were then each given two blankets and ordered to bed.

Early the next morning, a large buzzer sounded, and we were given about 10 minutes to dress, wash up, including brushing our teeth, then were handed a rice ball (no rice, was made out of hog millet and soybean flake) and told to line up. Since we didn’t know where to line up, we were beaten into position. Then, having eaten our rice ball by that time (3 good bites), we were counted off by various guards and marched about a mile down to the docks where we would work.

Our first and only job that day was carrying 40-kilo bags of rice from a warehouse into boxcars. When a boxcar was full, we would put our shoulders to the car and act as a switch engine, moving the car to where it could be collected into a train. I did not know if I would make it through that first day. I had been ill for so long, and the continued heavy labor of carrying 40-kilo (x 2.2 pounds = 88 pound) sacks of rice all day was really more than I could handle. But continued blows from the sword scabbard of any of the guards gave one additional adrenaline to keep moving. With a half-hour break for lunch with one of our rice balls (I’ll call them that, even though they were not made of rice), I managed to survive.

This type of work went on day after day. Ordinarily, we worked a 12-hour day; but if the work required it, it was not unusual to work 24 to 36 hours at a stretch. Then came the time when they felt we had gained enough strength and ability to handle 100-kilo (220 - pound) sacks of rice, sugar, and other commodities. Three men would lift the sack and give it a swing in the direction you were to go. Your job was to bend under the sack, catch it across your shoulders. Then, at a coolie trot, the only way you could handle such a load, you would travel up the ramp into a box car, or on a continuous circular ramp in a warehouse and drop your load in the proper place on a stack. If you missed, you were beaten.

There was no way we could do this kind of work on just three rice balls a day; the amount of food they gave us just didn’t give us enough energy (please remember that I weighed 110 to 115 pounds at this time). The guards told us they knew we would have to steal in order to get enough energy to do the work. “But,” they said, “don’t let us catch you!” Then they put a bayonet edge across their wrist to make sure we understood that we would lose a hand, and probably our life, if we got caught. Our usual procedure when we were working sugar was to break into a couple of sacks of sugar on the way up the ramp—we would grab a handful of sugar on the way up and swallow it. At the bottom, on the way back, was a bucket of water with a dipper. We would get a drink so our stomach had some liquid to handle the sugar, catch our next 100-kilo bag, and be on our way again. Reminded me of the old steam engine we used for threshing when I was a boy—you put in fuel and water and the thing kept running.

Carrying 100-kilo bags of rice was a lot harder, but they didn’t work us quite as hard, since they knew we wouldn’t have the energy source. But I have eaten so much raw rice you would hardly believe it, and you have to drink a lot of water to handle the raw rice.

There is an interesting sidelight to the carrying of all these 100-kilo bags, which I did for almost 1½ years. A year or two ago, when a chest X ray was ordered for me, the technician told me my exposures were OK, but he didn’t understand why my frame appeared to be warped. He had taken side views as well as frontal views. I told him about my carrying these heavy loads when a prisoner of war, and he said that was probably what had caused it. I had always known I could not stand as straight as I would like—like a soldier. Now I knew why.

Another job we did quite a bit was to handle 100-gallon steel drums. If they were empty, two of us could handle one. If full, we rolled them into position, and then four of us lifted the drum onto the stack. There was nothing to eat here, and we were given more rest periods. Again, when a box car was full, we would act as a switch engine and 6 or 8 of us would push it to where it could be picked up. Did I mention that we also often had to push the switch engine (steam engine) to where it was needed? Saved coal, that way.

And speaking of coal, one of our major jobs was the coaling of the ships that came into the harbor. Coal would be brought by tugs to the side of the ship in big barges that held about 80 to 100 tons of ground coal. The ships winches would drop down 3 woven bamboo and wire baskets that would hold about ¾ of a ton each. Three men were assigned to each basket, and given what we would call a scoop shovel. The three men would shovel the basket full, then each basket would be lifted to the ship’s deck, one at a time, and dumped, or dumped directly into the coal storage hold. It was a demanding job and we learned 6 ways to shovel, three on each side of our body—this gave different muscles a chance to rest. We were usually made to go barefoot while shoveling and had to be careful not to cut our own or someone else’s toes off. This job was often done in the snow, and only hard work could keep us from getting frostbite. The normal day’s work was about six of the barges, but larger ships took 10 to 12 barge loads. We would work all day and through the night with the use of the ship’s searchlights. I know it’s hard to believe, but if you do the arithmetic, you will find that each man shoveled up to 100 tons of coal or more per day. 

Several things resulted from this coaling work. We got very thick calluses on our feet, and we wore the fingerprints off our hands. Yes, that’s right, I have no fingerprints, ideal for someone who wanted an “inside job” on safes, etc. Never went that route, myself

We would often work with Japanese coolies on the coal-shoveling operation. They taught us many labor-saving techniques or we wouldn’t have been able to survive, particularly in the cold weather and snow. I should give credit here to one of our guards who saw that we were unable to stand the cold weather and risked his life to get us cast-off Japanese overcoats. And, I was interested to listen to a program the other day that said the Japanese did not have a word for prisoner. They do. It is “holio” and the Japanese coolies called us “holio-san,” the “san” being a title of respect. They also would, when no guards were present, cross their wrists and tell us “Anatawa Watashiwa Anagi,” which meant, you and I are the same, we are both prisoners of the Japanese military.

We also spent some time working sheet metal. It was an almost archaic method—a man with a horse and a low wagon would bring sheets of steel or other metal sheets or bars into a warehouse, and four of us would unload the wagon, stacking the metal sheets as high as we could lift them. The metal sheets were often up to ½ inch thick, and 4 x 4 feet in size, so were quite heavy. We always had two or three women checkers who would count the sheets as we stacked them and keep track of us. But that wasn’t always so easy. One time I remember, we were in a warehouse separated by a big canvas; we cut through the canvas, found bars of soap, and though we were searched twice, four of us brought over 20 bars of soap home that night. (We knew our guards quite well by that time and knew where they would and wouldn’t search us.) We would then smuggle the soap out to the coal barges where we could trade the soap for food. We would not have dared to use the soap on ourselves; to be clean would have damned us immediately.

It was interesting to us that the Japanese no longer seemed to be bothered by our presence. We concluded that we were so covered with dirt and coal dust we were not white in color, and we did wear Japanese uniforms. This didn’t mean we could have escaped; our guards knew us all well and we would have been missed and hunted down in minutes. Besides, where would we go? You had to have coupons and passes to get food or go anywhere. And everyone, including all Japanese, were checked all the time.

We also did road building. Using small rakes and shovels, dirt would be put into little bamboo baskets and then tossed from person to person (sometimes a line of 50 or more) and dumped where it was needed. We also used the “bow” that you put around your neck. It had two ropes with hooks that could be used for buckets, etc. This was much harder to lift, but you did get to walk, didn’t have to stand in one place for hours at a time. Our camp commandant would often come to watch this kind of work and throw clods and rocks at us just for fun and the exercise. If you ducked or moved, you were beaten. The camp commandant was later shot as a war criminal.

When the weather was not too wet, one of our other major tasks was building tunnels, We normally used shoulder bows with two buckets to carry out dirt and rock, although we did have one wheelbarrow. Digging, of course, was with pick and shovel, with hammer and chisel when there was rock. If we ran into a wall of rock, we would drill holes with the hammer and chisel, and use dynamite. When the dynamite was brought to be tamped into the holes, there were always 5 or 10 guards with bayonets on their rifles. They really didn’t trust us. I never told them that my brother and I used to use dynamite all the time to clear land on the farm where we grew up. I figured the less they knew about me, the better.

We dug a number of types of tunnels (or caves, if you wish) for what I suppose would be a wide variety of purposes. Many were to be storage caves, we knew, since we built shelving in them. I should mention that several of the English had apparently been miners in England, since they knew all the correct techniques, including how to use logs and timbers to support the roof and walls. To make this possible, we often took a whole day to march into the hills surrounding Moji, cut down trees of the right size, trim and make logs of the correct length. Then two or three of us, depending on the size of the log, would carry it down to the tunnel or cave we were working on.

It was during one of these trips that it rained the whole day, and our guards had not let us bring our overcoats since they wanted us to work hard “to stay warm.” A few days later several of us, including Frank Beaver and myself, came down with pneumonia and I was very ill with a high temperature for almost a month. Toward the end of that time, I was told that Frank had died. I was given some of his clothes and his spoon, which was engraved (we all engraved our initials on our things for identification) with “FLB.” I was able to get that spoon home and it is part of our “spoon” collection my wife has on our wall.

An aside on this. About 5 or 6 years ago, my cousin told me that Lloyd DuBois, an American in the Moji camp who made it back, told my cousin that he had visited my grave on a recent trip to Japan. Since I had seen my cousin about a week before, he was dumbfounded. Lloyd had to have breakfast with me before he would believe I was alive. What had happened was that Lloyd had been told by the Japanese to identify the body and he had mistaken Frank for me. As a result, my name is on a cross in Japan. It is, of course, Frank’s ashes that are buried there. But it does give one a funny feeling to realize you have a tombstone halfway around the world.

I gradually became better, hit never fully gained my strength back. I was given a marked piece of wood on a leather thong to wear around my neck. I was told it said “biyoki,” which means ill, and I was given lighter duties to do. I got stronger and stronger and before too long was back on full duty.

I was sent on details up in the woods to do limbing and trimming on the trees that others cut down. I would then be the third man on a larger log, or be put helping carry a smaller log. On the way down the mountain one day, the Japanese people lined the road and shouted at us, “Roosevelto Sundo, Roosevelto Sundo,” which meant that Roosevelt was dead. They all appeared very happy, since I believe they thought this would mean the end of the war. They sure didn’t know Americans.

It was about this time, on May 1, 1945, that the “gray ghost” made it’s first appearance. We were marching up into the woods to cut timber when the Japanese people started murmuring to themselves as they looked way up in the sky. There, so high you could barely see it but followed by contrails, was a silver plane going from south to north. Our guards took one look, and then started beating anyone who looked up. WE knew what it was-—an American spy plane taking pictures. The plane came about the same time every day. The Japanese would shoot at it and send their planes up, but it was too high for them to reach. They were obviously disturbed, but could do nothing about it.

Then one morning, one of our more vicious guards took two other Americans and myself up to the top of nearby hill, and started beating us. First he beat us with his scabbard, then with a board he found, then he grabbed a shovel and started on us with the flat of the blade. Since we were valuable property, as well trained as we were, he didn’t dare kill us. But he then grabbed an iron bar; we had to hold our hands and arms out to our sides so our arms wouldn’t be broken, and he beat away.

Now comes another one of those unconventional items that I don’t expect anyone to believe. I can only report what happened. I was familiar with sensory withdrawal and wasn’t surprised when I started to draw back into myself. It got so I could hear the blows hit me, but could not feel them. I drew back so far that I appeared to be looking down a long black tunnel to where my eyes were. Then, to my utter astonishment and to the amazement of the entity I encountered, I found a consciousness way inside of me. This entity appeared to be aware of me, if not actually me, and seemed to be an objective observer and recorder of what was taking place. I was so far inside myself I apparently did not hear the guard talking to me and he apparently hit me over the head with the bar and I was knocked unconscious. At least that’s what the other guys told me later. The guard then made us strip down to our shoes, got a piece of old dried bamboo, and started beating us with that. The bamboo, of course, shattered and we were sliced in dozens of places. We were then told to pick up our clothes and we headed back to camp. There, the English doctor washed us off with carbolic acid solution and told us to get dressed because we were going out to work. He also told us that the guard had been told that morning that his family on Formosa had been crucified—which let us know the Americans must be that close. We later found that his family was fine.

We were put to work building a tunnel/cave not too far from our building. The English told us that it was to be used as an air raid shelter for us, since we were too well trained and experienced, and too valuable, to lose. More on this tunnel later.

We continued with our regular duties, although I was becoming weaker and weaker. And the “gray ghost” continued its daily flights far overhead. Then, one night in late June, the gray ghost came back with his friends, and a part of Moji was firebombed. We didn’t mind the American bombing, but the Japanese became almost hysterical to get us all into the cave they had designated as a shelter. By this time, we each had 3 blankets and were not allowed to sleep in our clothes. The last 10 POWs out in formation were beaten, so there was a terrible rush to get dressed and out. I had all my clothes laid out so it was as easy as possible to get into them, and would tie one shoe while hopping along on the other foot. The air raids were announced by a loud siren that went on and on and never seemed to stop. It was good to get into the shelter where the sound was not so loud.

Needless to say, the Japanese population was not too happy with us and we were stoned on the way to work. But the guards were stoned, too, because the military had promised that the homeland would never be attacked. The average Japanese we encountered in our work actually was in shock, and simply didn’t know how to plan for the times ahead. There were more and more “militia”-type exercises, in which both men and women were trained in how to take cover, move, thrust with a bayonet, and all that kind of thing. We thought it was rather silly, but worried they might decide to use us as living targets to practice on. Again, I guess, we were too highly trained and experienced as coolies to be used for such a purpose.

One of the scariest experiences I had was on a boat full of dried shelled corn. It was one of the biggest freighters I had been on and was full of shelled corn from Mindanao. We worked it just like we would coal, except that we were unloading rather then loading a ship. We used the same woven bamboo and wire baskets and the same scoop shovels we used with coal. The corn was fairly heavy, we got tired pretty fast, and you can’t eat dried corn—we tried. It took a little over 40 hours to unload the corn and it was about 2:00 in the morning when we finished. I had found some smaller, very good corn and had filled my musette bag with it. When we had finished sweeping out the hold, it was time to leave. The ladder to the deck was about 2 stories tall, so I put my bag on my back and started up the ladder. When I got to the top, I found the hatchway was too small to get through with the bag on my back, so I went down a couple of rungs, slipped off the bag and set it up on deck. Then I crawled through the hatchway and on my hands and knees looked straight in to a pair of polished black boots. It could only be a Japanese officer, and I knew I was in real trouble. I stayed real still for a while, then slowly looked up. The officer was standing there with his sword out and looking at me. He had every right to cut off my head, and I knew it, but nothing happened. I watched, and he looked at me, then at my bag, and then at me again. I figured it out. It was late in the war, food was scarce, and it was 2:00 in the morning. If he cut my head off he had to turn in the bag as evidence for his action—but, he could take the corn and leave and have it for his family. I very slowly and carefully pushed the bag forward until it almost touched his boots, then used my thumb and forefinger to close my lips tight, indicating I would never talk. He smiled at me, and pointed to where my group was gathering. I left fast. When I got to my group he was gone and so was the corn. In talks to groups, I have called this the time I traded my head for a bag of corn.

One of the saddest experiences of the war for me was when we were marched to the port to unload one of the “hell ships” the Japanese had pulled out of Manila at the last minute when the Americans arrived there. With tears running down my face, I cannot tell you how bad it was on that ship, or what we went through as we unloaded her. The ship was full of Americans, almost all of them dead. We estimated there were at least several thousand on the ship and we finally brought out about 50 who were still alive. The smell, the sights, the finding of bodies of old friends—it is too much to remember. The living were brought to our camp and added to the number of American there, bringing the total to about 150 Americans.

It was toward the middle of July that the big air raid came. It seemed the sky was full of bombers and the fire bombs rained down on poor little defenseless Moji in wave after wave. We were, of course, sent to our air raid shelter. As usual, I went to the back of the cave where it was quieter; then we got an almost direct hit and the middle of the tunnel/cave caved in and we were isolated in the back in a small pocket. There were about 5 of us and we knew we would need to breathe slow in order to conserve what little oxygen there was. Moving slowly, we started to remove the larger rocks from the pile in the middle of the tunnel in the hope of digging our way out. Then we heard digging from the other side and knew we had a chance. The other POWs broke through with a small hole at the top of the pile and we enlarged it enough so we could slip through. Yes, I have claustrophobia and don’t know any way to get rid of it. Our guards told us the tunnel was no longer safe, and ordered us to go out and fight fire with the populace. At least we were out in the air, and we joined some of the bucket brigades that had been organized. No one questioned us, just put us into the line and we passed buckets of water from person to person to where it could be thrown on the fire, a rather useless procedure but what else do you do when your town is burning up? As we worked, we all chanted “yasi, yasi, yasi, etc.” to keep the line moving as rapidly as possible.

At last the fire started to burn itself out and it seemed to be time to return to our concentration camp. We were all separated at this time, so I headed back to our big building, which was still standing. Suddenly, a big bomb whistled down and landed within 5 or 10 feet of me—I was thrown about 15 feet through the air by the force of the landing concussion, but the bomb, at least for the time being, was a dud. I was only partially conscious, but I did have enough sense to start crawling and get as far away from that thing as possible just it case it should have a delayed fuse. I finally got to my feet and ran as fast as I could—I felt I had used up at least 2 of my “9 cat lives” that night.

The next day we were sent to our usual work at the port, but most of it was cleaning up debris, relaying railroad track, and getting the warehouses and harbor back into operation. We were then sent to other locations across the bay, which had also been hit hard, and took part in clean-up details there. One of the locations was Kokura, and the dust and smoke were so thick that we had to tie cloths over our faces to breathe. We heard planes flying overhead but the dust and smoke were so thick we didn’t know if they were Japanese or American. We hadn’t been trained in sound recognition. It was not until months later that I found out that was the day the plane that bombed Nagasaki flew over Kokura first.

On August 14, 1945, we were sent out on a detail to march up into the hills to cut and bring back timbers for the tunnels. Part way up, one of the guards who had not started out with us came running and we were told to sit down in place. After a conference, we were turned around, marched back to our big building, and the door slammed shut. We were given one rice ball that evening, but it was so quiet (no planes overhead) that we couldn’t sleep. The next morning nothing happened until about noon, when we were given another rice ball. The guards did not come into our building. We waited the rest of that day. When we received no food the next morning, we broke down the door to the big building and rushed the guardhouse.

We learned the WAR WAS OVER!!

The approximately 150 Americans in camp met and decided we would take no more orders from the English officers or the Dutch non-coms. We elected an old American First Sergeant by acclamation to be our commander. Since I was the sickest one, I was given no duty but made company clerk. I still have the little notebook I made with all the duty rosters in it.

In the guardhouse, we took the guns away from the Japanese, mounted our own guard to protect us from the population, and found some very interesting documents. First of all, we found we were supposed to paint a big yellow POW on our building and we would get an airdrop. Second, was an order from the Japanese commanding general that, at the first sight of the American fleet on the horizon, all of the POWs were to be killed, and the kind of killing and the speed of the killing were at the option of the commander of the POW camp. Can you even imagine how that made us feel? And last, but from the fun standpoint not least, was a citation from the Emperor to the commander of our camp for the excellence of the training, experience, and accomplishments of us as coolies working for the Japanese government.

It has always been a source of great comfort to me to know that I was not just an ordinary coolie, but a decorated coolie.

We received an air drop of 50-gallon steel drums on parachutes on September 3, 1945. Our fellows went out to gather them in, and had to fight the Japanese civilians for them. I was told we got a little over half of what was dropped. It was the only drop we received. But in them we found food—chocolate, coffee, various mixes, and some medicines. These were evenly divided among us all: American, English, and Javanese Dutch. The coffee was too much for all of us, there was no sleep that night.

(Which reminds me, did I ever tell you that soon after we arrived at Moji, the Japanese condemned their own water supply and we were only allowed to drink tea, since they would then know that the water was boiled. Drinking anything else resulted in a severe beating. I still don’t like tea.)

During the next week or two, we didn’t know what was going on; but one day my cousin, Boyd Ringo, appeared at the top of the stairs. It was a most joyful reunion, beyond what anyone can imagine. The American Sergeant said that since Boyd and I had joined the army together, there was no reason we shouldn’t be allowed to go home together, so we were together once more.

On September 12, we found a communication that the Americans were in Nagasaki, so we voted to send our Sergeant with a couple of armed men and two former guards as interpreters to go to the train station and charter a train to take us to Nagasaki to get rescued. We boarded the train on September 13, and arrived in Nagasaki on September 14.

Boyd and I were sitting together. The train was dirty, and fill of coal dust and coal smoke from the steam engine, but we didn’t care. One slept while the other kept watch; we had been at this too long to take chances now. In the morning we started to steam into a metropolitan area, but everyone was impressed with the devastation. The bamboo and thatched houses were leaning at an angle and were propped up by bamboo poles. Then we came into the city itself and saw nothing but ashes and steel skeletons of buildings. But we didn’t have time for that. We were on a new track, and drew up to a large, freshly planked platform.

There were American soldiers in full battle gear on the platform. They looked 7 feet tall and unbelievably wide—remember I weighed between 100 and 105 and Boyd little more. We were dirty, small, weak, dressed in Japanese uniforms. We got off the train yelling, “We’re Americans, we’re Americans.” One of the Americans grinned and said, “Yeah, we heard you were coming, but my God.” Then he pointed up the platform. As we walked up we came to a Red Cross (?) coffee and donut stand. When I tell about this, I make a big thing about how this was the first white woman we had seen for 5 years—but I really don’t remember if there was a woman there or not, if so what she was wearing, etc. We took a donut and went on our way.

We were directed to a series of tables where American nurses in uniform were seated. It was their job to check if we were who we said, and the shape we were in. The one I went to took my vital signs and said, “Well, at least you're alive but you don’t much look like it.” She then filled out a bunch of forms, checked my name off a list, and, since Boyd finished about the same time, we were sent to the decontamination center.

We were told to strip, and put a few things we might want to save in a little cotton sack. I put in my New Testament, my glasses, the duty roster I had brought, and Frank Beaver’s spoon. Then they shoved us in a small, tight room and two men dressed in gas protection gear with goggles and all came at us. They dusted us, blew air on us, sprayed us with soap and water again and again. At last they waved to us and opened a door to a shower room and told us to take as long as we wanted. We showered and showered and showered, to get rid of years of real and psychological dirt and grime. At last, dried, we were handed our little sacks, which had also been disinfected, and were given a pair of pajamas and slippers.

Clean at last! We were given a ham sandwich and a can of ice cold chocolate milk and I have never tasted anything so good. Then we were led on board the hospital ship and stood and stared—a bed, with a mattress, white sheets, a pillow with a pillow case. We had slept on bamboo slats, hard boards, the ground, anywhere, for nearly 4 years; the whole thing was completely overwhelming.

Lying down, we heard one ex-POW call over an orderly and we all listened. He was reading a Newsweek magazine, and he looked up at the orderly and asked, “What’s an atomic bomb?”