Seasons of the Heart Page 9

  Forgetting that he couldn’t stand the sight of blood, Phillip pulled out his knife and with one swift, vicious stroke, severed the limb. Then he ripped his handkerchief into strips and fashioned a tourniquet around the man’s upper arm, above the stump. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but when he gently turned Cox over, he realized the CO was dead. He had taken a bullet between the eyes.

  When Phillip turned back to the shooting, he saw that for once the Japanese were fleeing. One lone soldier was still firing from a prone position, but bullets from several American rifles silenced him.

  Cautiously, Phillip walked back to the other survivors. They had lost six out of twenty, including Cox, and six more were severely enough injured that they would have to be evacuated to the field hospital.

  Phillip suddenly realized that with Cox dead, he was the ranking officer. But nothing had prepared him to lead this ragtag band. Looking at the hopeless, starving faces around him, he realized that the only chance any of them had of surviving was to attempt to maintain military discipline.

  He straightened his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and said, “Men. Captain Cox is dead. We’ll have to bury him and the rest of the men. Four of you will help the wounded back to the field hospital. We’ll wait here for your return.” None of the soldiers questioned his command: they were too confused and exhausted to care who led them.

  When the four returned from the hospital, Phillip learned that Bugleman was hanging on, even though he had a high fever and a badly infected wound.

  As the days wore on—hot, terrifying, and violent—he adjusted to his new role of responsibility, but forced himself not to speculate on how long his tiny detachment could survive.

  Late one night he was dozing, shivering from a low fever, when a Filipino courier handed him a sealed, tattered envelope. He opened it and read: On April 9, at 0600 hours, General Edward P. King surrendered the Luzon force to the Imperial Army of Japan.

  They had lost the Philippines, and all American troops and their allies were now prisoners of war. Only Corregidor was left now.

  Phillip wakened his men and told them the news. Then he ordered the cook to inform the two men on sentry duty that they might as well get some rest.

  The next morning they awoke to silence. No Zeroes flew overhead, searching the jungle for targets. There was no roar of artillery from either attackers or defenders, no crackle of small-arms fire.

  Phillip walked over to the nearby road and squinted toward the mountains. Their sides were covered with the white flags of surrender.

  Chapter Fifteen

  LOOKING AT THE EIGHT men in his charge, Phillip knew he did not want them to meet their captors looking so ragged and beaten. He had to infuse them with a renewed sense of dignity. Quietly, he called them to attention. “Men, I want to talk frankly. This surrender is not what any of us would choose. But we have no choice. It is our duty to follow orders. But just remember—you fought hard and you fought well. And don’t you let anyone tell you differently.”

  He cleared his throat. “Now shave and clean up as best you can, and when the Japs arrive, keep your heads high.”

  A short time later, they were ready for inspection. Their uniforms were hopelessly dirty, and they had no helmets, but they were clean-shaven, and they carried themselves with a hint of pride. Their weapons were emptied and stacked carefully at the edge of the clearing. Maps and code books were burned. The radio transmitter was smashed.

  With nothing left to do, the forlorn little group sat silently until the sun was high. The men were almost convinced that the whole thing was a mistake when, in a sudden rush from the jungle, they were surrounded by a chattering, gesticulating rabble of Japanese soldiers.

  Phillip ordered his men to their feet. No one protested.

  He forced himself to remain motionless while a grinning, bespectacled corporal ransacked his pockets, taking a pocket knife, a sugar ball, and a few battered cigarettes. He missed the iodine tablets used to purify water that Phillip had concealed in his boot.

  Another Japanese was searching a sandy-haired American private. After he had finished, apparently enraged at having found nothing of value or interest, the Japanese picked up his rifle and hit his captive hard across the face with the butt.

  Phillip’s first impulse was to attack the man, but instead he stepped forward and pointed to the insignia on his shoulders, then to the private, who was kneeling, holding his broken and bleeding nose.

  “I demand to see a senior officer,” Phillip said calmly.

  At his words, the NCO screamed an order and several Japanese cocked and raised their rifles. Phillip expected to be shot, or perhaps to get a bayonet in the gut, but he managed to conceal his terror. There was a tense pause, then the NCO, a heavily bearded man who walked with a pronounced limp, snarled a command and the muzzles were lowered. Phillip was perspiring heavily. He now realized that the conquerors of Bataan would observe no rules of war. He and his men were in the hands of barbarians.

  Suddenly the soldiers fell silent and snapped to attention as a dusty, open staff car pulled up. Five officers climbed out, all wiry, athletic-looking men. One of them seemed to be their superior officer—probably a major, Phillip thought.

  He strode up to the prisoners and said in heavily accented English, “Who is ranking officer here?”

  No one spoke. Phillip looked up and down the line. None of the Americans moved. Lifting his chin, he stepped forward and saluted. “Lieutenant Phillip Coulter, U.S. Army.”

  The major did not return his salute. Instead, he pointed at Phillip’s holster, from which they had taken the pistol. “Your holster, please.”

  Phillip unbuckled it and handed it over silently.

  “It is empty, yes?” the Japanese asked loudly.

  “Yes, it is empty,” Phillip said coolly. “Your men have already collected our guns.”

  The major looked Phillip over, then shrugged. “That is all!” As Phillip stepped back in line, the officer placed his hands on his hips and announced: “You men are now the prisoners of the Japanese Imperial Army. I am Major Ito. I will be in charge until you are delivered to your commandant.”

  He gave a brief, contemptuous laugh, then continued harshly, “Any attempt to escape will result in instant death!”

  With that, he barked a series of orders in Japanese, then strutted back to his car as the other officers positioned themselves along the line of prisoners.

  The soldiers resumed their search. When one GI refused to take off his wedding ring, an enraged Japanese slashed the man’s wrist with his bayonet. Phillip stepped forward to protest, but was pushed back. Gesturing to the bleeding man, he said, “Just let me see how badly he’s hurt.”

  In response the Japanese cursed and shoved Phillip to the ground. Before he could scramble to his feet, another soldier pulled off the ring, nearly taking the finger with it. He then held it up, smiling, for the admiration of his comrades.

  Nauseated, dizzy, and now suffering from thirst as well, Phillip stumbled back to his place in line, where he stood, swaying in the sun.

  Late that night, a group of about fifty prisoners was marched past them. Some had crude bandages around their heads; others had arms in slings or legs bound in bamboo splints. All were wounded, and all were in what appeared to be the last stages of exhaustion. Among them, limping along on makeshift crutches, was Captain Jerrold Bugleman.

  Phillip’s initial joy in seeing his friend disappeared in the realization that the Japanese apparently intended to march this wretched band of walking wounded to central Luzon. This was clearly contrary to the Geneva Convention, and Phillip wanted to protest. Then he remembered the robbing of the prisoners and decided he had better say nothing.

  He tried to smile encouragingly at Bugleman, who grinned back from a face that was almost yellow. The group proceeded about a half mile and then was ordered to halt for the day.

  The next morning, Phillip’s worst fears were confirmed. They were indeed going to move the Amer
icans and their Filipino allies on foot out of the peninsula to prison camps in central Luzon. Phillip figured that the Japanese High Command wanted them out of Bataan as quickly as possible so that they could concentrate every last soldier on blasting the last remnants of resistance from Corregidor. And guards were wasted soldiers.

  The enemy set a grueling pace the first day. Phillip worked his way toward the back of the long column, where Bugleman struggled with his crutches. Phillip choked back a sob when he saw how his friend was a mere shadow of the vigorous, good-natured man who had stood and joked with him on the deck of the General Pershing.

  Phillip tried to look straight ahead and speak without moving his lips, as he had seen it done in prison movies. “How are you doing?”

  “Been worse,” Bugleman said. The sense of humor was still there, anyway. “You know they bombed the field hospital?” he asked quietly.

  “My God,” Phillip moaned. “But you survived. Can you keep walking? Must be forty miles to the next railroad.”

  “I’ll have to try, won’t I, then? They sure ain’t going to carry me there.”

  The attempt to be lighthearted saddened Phillip. He pushed as close to Bugleman as he could without attracting attention. “Lean on me as much as you can.”

  Later that day, a guard standing by the side of the road angrily stamped his foot in the dust and pointed at Bugleman. Then he stood directly in front of the two men, indicated Bugleman’s shattered leg, and said, “No good!”

  Phillip didn’t understand at first. But when the guard snatched the crutches away and tossed them into a ditch, it became very clear. The man wanted an excuse to kill Bugleman.

  “Lean on me,” Phillip whispered.

  “If I can’t make it, you go ahead,” Bugleman said. “That’s an order!”

  Phillip said nothing. They both knew that Bugleman, now without his crutches, would never make it. He hopped along on his good leg, his arm around Phillip’s shoulder, gritting his teeth and trying not to cry out when his broken leg touched the ground.

  With the added burden, Phillip himself wasn’t sure he would survive another day.

  It was nearly midnight before the miserable column, which had been swollen by the addition of more and more prisoners, was allowed to rest. There was no water available, and most of Phillip’s men had already emptied their canteens. Phillip had been careful to conserve some water in spite of his thirst.

  The next morning they were wakened with shouts and curses and were under way when the sun came up. At first the coolness made them forget their thirst, but as the heat increased, men began to faint. Their buddies tried to carry them along, but they too were often at the breaking point. Phillip watched, horrified, as the guards first kicked the stragglers, then shot or bayoneted them, according to whim, by the side of the road.

  They passed a well, but only the guards were allowed near it. The captives were permitted to watch as the guards slaked their thirst. Phillip refused to drink the last cup of water in his canteen, wanting to save it for Bugleman. It occurred to him that the Japanese wanted to be rid of their prisoners in order to save the bother of maintaining them in a camp: perhaps the brutality was calculated, not spontaneous. In any case, the column seemed to grow larger, not smaller.

  Late that afternoon there was a change of guard, and the new soldiers allowed their charges to rush to a small, slow-moving stream, drink, and fill their canteens. The dehydrated men drank until they were bloated, paying no attention to the green scum on the surface. The next day almost half of them were struck with dysentery. Since stopping in the road was punished by blows or even death, they fouled themselves and kept going.

  Phillip thought that the limits of hell had been reached until the third morning, when for some reason the guards ordered the column to do double time. He looked at Bugleman: the leg was worse. He and Phillip had begun the march at the head of the column, but they had gradually dropped back and were now bringing up the rear.

  Phillip’s heart sank as he recognized the guard for their section—it was the same one that had thrown Bugleman’s crutches into the ditch. The Japanese saw them hesitating at the edge of the column and shouted something. Phillip knew that if they fell back another step, the man would kill Bugleman.

  “This is it,” Bugleman said. “I can’t make it.”

  Phillip unscrewed the nozzle of his canteen and shoved it under Bugleman’s nose. “Drink it,” he ordered.

  “No!” Bugleman protested. “It’s all we’ve got.”

  Phillip tilted the canteen. “Drink it.”

  Bugleman drank.

  The guard was watching them closely, waiting.

  “Now move it!” Phillip shouted at his friend as he propelled them both into the safety of the center of the column.

  An hour later, the double-timing ceased, since even the guards couldn’t stand the pace. But it was past sunset when the prisoners were finally allowed to stop.

  Some days there had been no food at all, but tonight the rice pots were going. The soldiers shuffled past the giant vats, and a cup of hot rice was slapped into their cupped hands. They crammed it into their mouths on the spot, then washed it down with weak tea.

  Bugleman was so ill that he had lost interest in food, and Phillip couldn’t force him to join the rice line. Phillip checked the captain’s leg. As he opened the bandages there was a terrible stench. The flesh was an angry red and oozing with pus.

  “Gangrene,” Bugleman murmured.

  “No—there’s a bad infection, but it will heal.”

  “I’m going to die, Phil,” Bugleman said quietly. “I’m never going to see Alicia again, or the baby.”

  “Don’t say that!” Phillip cried. Abruptly he got up, fetched some water from a nearby pond, and carefully purified it with the last of his iodine tablets.

  By the time he got back, Bugleman was unconscious.

  Phillip knew that his friend needed fluids badly, so he dipped a corner of his shirt into the canteen and began to drip water onto Bugleman’s lips. Finally Bugleman came to and drank a little more from the canteen. Then he slept.

  The next day they came to a railroad junction and were told to halt. Phillip’s heart leaped. If only Bugleman could make it to the camp, he might get some decent care, though a skeptical voice warned him not to get his hopes up.

  The captain seemed a little more optimistic. “If I can just rest for a few days, I just might have a chance….”

  But as they were shoved into the boxcars along with hundreds of other soldiers, Bugleman’s face took on a ghastly hue. The sun beat down remorselessly, sending the temperature well above one hundred. Those with dysentery had no control over their bowels, and the soldiers soon found themselves locked in a stinking hell.

  One man, driven beyond his endurance, began to scream at the top of his lungs. Then he changed to an eerie howl, which finally subsided into inhuman gibbering. A man next to Phillip, already far gone with fever, died standing up, trying to look out between the slats of the closed car.

  Several hours later the train stopped at a siding and they were allowed to pass the dead bodies out. Phillip seized the canteen of the dead man next to him and gave it to Bugleman. Not one of the prisoners could have said how much time passed before the train stopped again and the guards opened the doors and ordered the remaining prisoners to emerge.

  They literally fell from the car, stiff, cramped, trembling, and filthy, and were confronted with a bare dirt compound surrounded with corrugated iron huts and an old hangar with a sign reading MORTON AIR FIELD, which had been daubed over with black Japanese characters.

  Phillip surveyed their new home. A rough wooden platform had been erected at the head of the compound. Apparently they were to hear an address from the camp commander.

  After they had waited in the sun for some forty-five minutes, a diminutive figure in black, shiny riding boots strode into view. Swaggering to the exact center of the platform, he stared down at the prisoners with distaste.
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br />   “I am Captain Nakanishi, your commandant. You, the defeated, are here to await the ultimate world victory of the Japanese Imperial Armed Forces. The Japanese Empire does not recognize the so-called Geneva Convention.” His voice was filled with contempt. “You are not prisoners of war—you are guests of the Emperor!”

  Captain Hideo Nakanishi had hated Westerners long before the war. In the early thirties he had won a scholarship to Oxford, where the upper-class English had laughed openly at his poverty, his race, his accent, and above all at his short stature. He was a Jap, a “wog,” an outcast. He had neither forgotten nor forgiven.

  When he learned of Pearl Harbor he wept with joy. But now, months after that brilliant victory, he was assigned to this miserable POW camp in an outpost where the enemy had already been crushed. But at least he could vent his hatred on the vanquished.

  After his speech, the prisoners who could walk were herded into their assigned huts, while the severely wounded and desperately ill were consigned to a primitive sick bay.

  When Phillip went to visit Bugleman, an Australian doctor pulled him over to a corner of the hut and shook his head. Phillip refused to meet his eyes.

  Phillip bent over the mat on which Bugleman was lying. “I’ll visit you when I can. Chin up—you’ll make it.”

  But Bugleman grew worse. He shook violently with chills and was conscious for only a few hours a day. Phillip watched in despair, which was deepened by his observation that men in even worse shape than Jerry seemed to be pulling through.

  He asked a medic to confirm this: “Am I just imagining it?”

  “You’re right,” the medic told him. “The ones that get real mad seem to make it mote often. The gentle ones usually give up and die.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid your friend is one of the gentle ones.”

  As Bugleman’s condition deteriorated, Phillip became increasingly angry about the almost total absence of medical supplies. There weren’t even any clean bandages, not to mention anesthetics, sulfa, or quinine. The doctors had considered amputating Bugleman’s leg, but without sulfa it wouldn’t do much good. And they wanted to spare him the pain.