CHAPTER 19

 

SURVIVAL

 

The main staple of our food was polished rice. The quantity was less now, and the watery soup was often just water, with a few bits of squash and some sparse greens floating about. But on occasion, small fish were brought in. These were rinsed off and thrown whole into the ‘soup’ kettle. It would be difficult for the average American to face a canteen cup half full of this mixture of water, fish heads, and fish cooked to a pulp, interwoven with bones! The odor was at times, overpowering!

Often, the fish laid around for two or three days in the hot, tropical sun before it was added to our ‘stores’. The first time I attempted to eat this type of ‘soup’ I failed. My friends and I discussed the probability of our surviving on rice alone, and it was decided that we must have some elements of nutrition. We were resigned to the simple fact we would be trapped in our present environment for ample time to starve to death. We were at present approaching the danger line. We were very thin, our bones protruding, and were growing weaker as the months slid by. The heavy labor without proper nutrients, and rest, had taken its toll.

Since we had experienced this slow deterioration  of our physical strength together, our general appearance did not produce the effect that it would have to normal individuals. I remember well the trek to the airfield each morning, and the foot dragging walk back each night. As we walked in a column of fours along the streets, I can remember staring at the backs of the men immediately in front of me. Many wore their mess kits on their belts, or ropes used for belts, around behind them, the handles slid under the belts. On the flat bottoms of the aluminum mess kits, many  bore elaborate designs, lettering, and some had numerous artistic carvings. I can still recall several of these carvings, an eagle with widespread wings, outlines of aircraft, ships, and even drawings of the guns and parapets where the man served during the battles.

I looked at the men’s skinny appearances as we walked, the types of hats that some wore, navy caps, campaign hats, baseball caps, every type of head wear that could be imagined! Although most wore the issued straw hats, these were becoming fewer as time passed, the straw hats slowly disintegrating from perspiration. But hiking back to Pasay School from the airfield, I was always struck by the layer of salt that had exuded from the pores from the intense sun. More noticeable of course because we were burnt a dark brown. On some of the men the salt could be scraped off with a knife!

To some, the hospital was an escape from work. To other men, it was a  hell hole. To those desperately  ill, the fear of being  selected by the Japanese Doctor to return to the  work detail was  a constant threat. One man whose name was Sanchez, was one of the latter. He had been sick for a long time. The American doctor had convinced the Japs to allow Sanchez to remain in the hospital. 

Apparently, the Jap doctor did not like the looks of this poor man, and a few days later, he turned Sanchez back out to the work detail. By this time, Sanchez was hardly able to walk. Over the protests of the American doctor, Sanchez went out on the work detail the following morning. He was barely able to manipulate his thin, boney legs, as he dragged his feet along the rough pavement.

Sanchez made it to the airfield, barely. About two hours later, he asked a guard for permission to go to the benjo, and he just crawled back into some growth to die. The Jap guard came looking for him shortly, saw him lying in the weeds, and shot him. There was a great deal of excitement over this ghastly event, and as we continued working, a Japanese Navy staff car approached the work area from the north/south runway in a cloud of dust.

Out of the car stepped the same stocky Japanese Naval Officer that had saved my feet, and probably the rest of me also. I had yet to see him display any sadistic actions toward any of the Americans. He questioned several of the guards, then conversed with the Wolf for some time. He again inspected the site where Sanchez was shot, then walked to his car and entered. The Wolf approached the car, saluted, and stood watching as the car drove away.

We surmised the officer hadn’t exactly accepted the explanation given to him by the Wolf and his murdering guards. Of course we would never know what transpired on that day, but we did know the guard had murdered poor Sanchez.

The names of most of the guards have long since passed from my memory. It is difficult to believe I could ever forget the names of these cruel, sadistic killers, and yet remember the names of guards who were not so cruel, that treated the POW’s with some measure of humanity. I certainly do recall Charlie, our “track boss”, a small, Jap with a large skull-like head, out of proportion with the rest of his small, bony frame. One of the most hilarious events to occur at Nichols Field involved Charlie and Spence Bever. In the process of loading our car, Spence inadvertently applied a bit too much thrust to a shovel full of dirt. The rather substantial collection of earth smoothly cleared the heap developing above the wooden box on our car and plastered  Charlie who was innocently gazing across the airfield. Fortunately, Charlie was facing away from us, otherwise  the little Jap would have received a face full of genuine Philippine Island soil! Charlie jumped straight upward!  He came down facing Spence, his walking stick pointing menacingly, his mouth working soundlessly.

Spence let out an uncontrolled giggle. I did likewise. Charlie released a strange, gurgling sound and advanced around the end of the car, waving his stick! Spence Bever reacted swiftly. He darted around the other end of our car. Charlie attacked wildly, leaving Spencer Bever no other avenue of escape! Spence jumped to the bumper of the car, then quickly he climbed to the top of the car and scrambled atop the heap of dirt. Although his options to escape were quite limited, I thought at the time Spence’s choice was rather poor! He was now trapped atop the pile of dirt with nowhere to go!

Charlie’s height was his greatest enemy. Swinging wildly like a miniature Babe Ruth, Charlie was not connecting! As each two-handed swing approached, Spence deftly leaped into the air! Charlie was missing big. More swings, more misses! Spence Bever giggled insanely, and Charlie had now lost his cool. He began beating the pile of dirt in the car causing a cloud of dust to rise. Charlie began to run out of gas! He was huffing and puffing, and Spence was beginning to turn blue from holding his breath. I had tears running down my cheeks from laughing! Charlie stopped striking the dirt heap and leaned against the car exhausted. Spence fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

Charlie motioned for Spence to come down. My friend nodded, restraining any sign of mirth. After all, there was a possibility he might get out of this in one piece,  providing the wolf missed this unbelievable episode! I found it necessary to turn away, knowing that if I just snickered, it would all blow up in my face...I mean it would blow up in Spence’s face.

Since I heard nothing, I sneaked a peak. Charlie was staring at Spence, and Spence was looking at Charlie. The men working the cars nearby were unmoving, frozen in place! My first thought was, “please, don’t nobody laugh!” Charlie moved his head toward the cars, and everyone began moving as though nothing had happened. It was an incredible incident, and it was over!

And of course, I could hardly forget E. K. Gami, a nasty, runty, swaggering little wretch, always on the alert for a reason to crack some unlucky prisoner with his cane-like walking stick. But, many of the guards at Nichols, have faces that are now blank to me. The scowling face of the Wolf will remain with me forever, and I can visualize the visage of Ned, the White Angel, and Cherry Blossom as if it were only yesterday I shrank from any possible contact with them.

At this time some of us received parcels from home. I cannot recall whether all of the men were as fortunate as I was. What a fantastic suprise!. When my name was called by the American Officer, I was so exited I almost dropped the package. It was wrapped in heavy brown paper and was circled by many feet of coarse string. I beat a path to my room, hurried up on the bamboo mat that served for a bed and leaned back against the wall with the marvelous package in my lap. My hands shook as I read my name on the brown wrapper. It hardly seemed possible my parents had actually shaped those letters and words, written them with their own hands in far away Columbus Ohio.

I fumbled with the heavy twine, finally managing to fracture the strands. The paper fell away and the box was revealed. I quickly opened it and there before me was a collection of cans of various sizes. I picked one up and on the label was written in heavy pencil, `peanut butter’. I couldn’t believe it!  I pried the lid from the can......it was real peanut butter! I stuck my finger into the contents, tasted it. The taste was incredible, it was beyond belief! Throughout the camp, other scenes similar to my own were being repeated. Men frantically opening parcels, clawing at the contents, tasting food, munching cookies and lighting American cigarettes. It was truly a sight to behold. Looking back, I think the excitement was more intense even than a later time when the arrival of Red Cross boxes generated a tremendous rise in our morale. Unfortunately, some of the men found that no food was to be found in their parcels, their families had instead sent them clothes! Some found sweaters, socks and even slacks! These items were of little use to any of us here, but food was a dire need for all of us! The huge boost in moral was sufficient to fuel the men, at least psychologically, for the future developments yet to materialize.

We stretched the contents of the boxes as far as possible, but in too short of a time the food was gone and we quickly returned to the depths from which we  briefly had escaped.

Frequently our morale received a boost skyward with a special tidbit of war news, or a real tangible event such as a Jap plane crashing at the airfield. One such crack‑up remains vivid since it occurred at a time when morale was decidedly sagging. One of the men had received a brutal beating administered with our guards favorite weapon, a pick handle.

The man was suffering from diarrhea, and he apparently made a run to separate himself from the work area. In his desperation, he failed to ask permission to go to the “benjo” (the word we used for toilet). This slight indiscretion was rewarded with one of the guards patented beatings. Since it was time for the noon chow break, we were permitted to carry the man back to the assembly shed.

After finishing our rice, Spence and I walked out of the shelter for a drink. Just as we emerged into the sunlight, a plane lumbered overhead. It was a twin-engined, twin tailed bomber. Since most of the men were already outside, all eyes followed the plane as it circled toward the west end of the east-west runway. The bomber’s wheels settled to the runway. It would have been a textbook landing ....except....the landing gear collapsed. First, the right one gave way allowing the right wing to drop to the concrete. As the bomber began to skid, the tortured metal emitted a ghastly screeching sound. At this time, the left landing gear assembly also collapsed causing the entire fuselage to gain contact with the concrete runway. The plane continued to skid crazily along the landing surface, kicking up huge clouds of dust. The bomber finally came to a rest, sitting askew, and still on the runway.

“Blow up you son of a bitch!” a man next to me muttered. It didn’t, it just sat there in a cloud of settling dust. No smoke, no fire, no explosion, it just sat there. Suddenly the front canopy was flung open, then the rear. The Jap crew began scurrying from every opening in the airplane, running as they hit the ground. This seemed to be the catalyst that triggered the prisoners. At first, a few voices could be heard, then it became an uproar. Laughter, cheers, shouts of glee rang through the compound.

At this time the Jap guards collectively took offense at our rather noisy jubilation over the demise of one of their honorable bombers. After many threatening shouts and some miscellaneous jabs, the Americans quieted down, but they had made their point!

Less than a week later, our sagging morale received another shot in the arm! This incident also occurred during our lunch break, allowing the lot of us to witness a flight of Zero’s approaching the field from the southwest. These aircraft were not in any recognizable formation. Several were quite near, and very low, but many stragglers could be seen in the distance, three or four flying very close to the ground. The planes in the first group passed by just to the south of our position, landing gear down and turning to land from west to east on the runway.

One of the men shouted, “Hey! That one’s shot up, and that one too!”

The planes were so close, every detail was visible. It was quite apparent these fellows had been through a meat grinder! The left horizontal stabilizer on one Zero bore a large hole and had a large piece of fabric streaming behind! Another passed directly overhead, and the right wing-tip was shot away and only the left landing gear was down. If he tried to land, he was in for trouble! Practically all the planes were damaged in some way.

“These guys must have been in a helluva fight somewhere!” Spence Bever muttered gleefully. We watched as all of the planes landed safely with the exception of two. The one with only one gear down slid off the runway and skidded into a pile of dirt part way down the runway. The second unfortunate touched down short of the runway, struck a pile of broken concrete and flipped over on its back.

  This marvelous event gave us much to describe and rehash for many days. Now we knew the Yanks were down there somewhere, giving the Japs hell! It appeared  the famous Zero fighters were hardly the invincible terrors they were at the start of the war!

A Jap guard awoke us from our reveries and returned us to reality by banging on the rail. Back to work, back to the picks and shovels. I must say this afternoon would slide by much easier after the Zero episode!

The march to the airfield, and the march back to the school will always bring  special memories to me. Perhaps it was the absence of prison camp atmosphere, a totally different environment, just forgetting the guards and walking down a street amid people, looking in the stores, watching the old charcoal driven buses and trucks lumbering by.

How we watched for that pretty girl one of the fellows had aptly named `Miss Luscious’. She was there several days each week, always in the same place, usually dressed in a white dress. We saw her only during the morning jaunt to the airfield, never on our return trek to Pasay School. Sex was not one of the uppermost things in our minds, but a pretty face was still a pretty face.

The Filipino people often placed their lives in jeopardy, tossing small bundles of brown cigarettes, with wooden matches pressed between them, into the ranks of POW’s. At other times, it might be dried fish, or brown sugar candy. I shall not forget the kindness bestowed upon us by the Filipino people.

Our tired legs had lost their spring after a long day on the airfield, and often we struggled along, eyes downcast, just wanting to reach the schoolhouse and stand under a stream of cool water. But each day, shortly after the column turned off the main avenue onto Park Avenue, I watched for a little stand on the right. It was constructed of a few boards, and something resembling oilcloth that formed a sagging roof. On the little counter, a tray, stacked with rice cakes was always visible. Seemingly, just to tempt me, the rice cakes stared back. I could hardly resist the temptation to dart from the column, grab some of the cakes, and rush into the trees, gobbling them down as I ran. At times, it seemed almost worth getting shot, providing I could eat a few of the cakes before the bullet struck me.

Also along this narrow street, were many walls, surrounding large, colorful mansions. Huge, ornamental iron gates guarded each driveway into the mansions. It seemed strange to see these large, expensive homes intermixed with small, one roomed shacks, hardly fit to live in.

We now approached the Pasay School, located on this same narrow street. Our column turned in, and marched in toward the front porch, up the steps and to the right along the porch, then a left, down the railed veranda to the steps, and down into the courtyard for the head count.

A typical evening at the school house, after the evening rice, was usually spent with close friends, sitting around on the veranda. We generally talked of food, what else? When one is always hungry, food will usually occupy the mind. Strangely, the names I recall are limited. My close friends, of course, and a few other men that certainly deserved my respect. Obviously I can remember the names of White, and Bill Norman, one of his henchmen, and I can remember every detail of their features. These men had arms as large as my waist! I can see them swaggering around the Pasay School, and around the work site, seemingly happy with their lot!

My recollections of my friends are vivid, and I can see them as they were then, hair shorn, ragged clothes, and I often allow my mind to drift back to that time and I sit once again among them, sharing their warmth and also their despair.

My good friend, Bill McCann, had enlisted with Spence Bever and myself at Fort Hayes, Columbus Ohio. He had served in Battery Geary, on Corregidor.

John Sirota, a 4th Marine from St. Louis. John played a trumpet or a trombone in the Marine Band. He was truly a good friend, and I will always remember how easy John laughed.

Steve Bell, also a Marine. He was from southern Ohio. We spent many long hours, talking and dreaming of home. Tattoo’s covered Steve’s chest and arms, and I used to chide him about all of his identifying features.

Guy Wardlaw was one of a kind. He was room leader of Room No. Five. I am positive those men Guy aided would surely form a long list. Guy was from Mississippi.

Lindsay was also a tenant of Room Five. He was a perfect fit for the often used description, Good Ole Country Boy’. He hailed from Alabama or Louisiana. 

Awalt was room leader of Room No.1 and the number on his straw hat was No.1. He was a Chief in the Navy, always ready to lend a hand to anyone in need. I shall always remember his smile.

Rudy Soichtag, another member of our little circle was in Room Six. Spence like to sit and talk to Rudy. He always reminded me of the typical Germans found in most war movies. He spoke fluent German, and at times, attempted to teach Spence and I a bit of this very difficult language. I was more interested in learning Japanese than German, and I tried to learn Jap from the little shoemaker across the courtyard.

Capt. Schmidt, a civilian in the Ordinance Group, had been awarded a Commission before the surrender. He was one of the few officers at Nichols Field with whom we could communicate with. He had witnessed  Spence Bever in the process of drawing one of his favorite subjects, American Indians. Spence was sitting on the railing outside of our room, leaning against one of the square posts and putting the finishing touches to a drawing of an Indian chief astride his horse. Captain Schmidt instantly recognized talent when he saw it and he asked if Spence would make some drawings for him. He informed Spence he would pay for the drawings with peanuts, or other food he could obtain from the Filipino farmer who periodically visited the school house with produce, most of which found its way to the officer’s room across the aisle from the hospital.

In addition to the farmer, whenever the Japs would permit her, a Filipino girl would arrive at the front of the school with supplies. She would bring bananas, mongo beans, peanuts and vegetables in a colorful, horse drawn calesa. We were also informed Belle Norton occasionally visited the school with a calesa full of fruit and vegetables, although I was never a witness to this. Also mentioned, were visits to Pasay School by Miss “U”, Margaret Utinsky, with supplies. In recent years I purchased her book, Miss “U”, but found no mention of the school within the book. Mrs. Utinsky performed many ‘miracles’ for POW’s during those long years of darkness, and she will never be forgotten by the men for whom she risked her life!

Spence agreed to make the drawings for Capt. Schmidt, and promised to start as soon as the Capt. could furnish some paper. Apparently this did not pose much of a problem for the Captain, because the very next day, Spence had several sheets of rather heavy paper in his possession. Capt. Schmidt gave Spence his fountain pen, blue ink, and some general information on subject material for the content of the pictures. The Captain was interested in drawings of the Pasay School, and views of the work detail with as much detail as possible. It would take some time for Spence to complete the drawings. The first one was a view of the galley, looking toward the rear of the courtyard. The second drawing, when completed, was a view from the left-rear corner of the courtyard, with the showers, and the rear steps visible.

The third and fourth drawings were pictorials of the work detail itself at Nichols Field. One of the drawings was a close up view of work cars and their crews, loading, getting a derailed car back on the track, and a dynamite crew in the background with one member pouring a can of water in the hole, and his partner holding the boring bar.

The fourth, and last of the drawings, was a view from above the entire cut, showing the incredible volume of material removed from the rough terrain. The magnitude of work, accomplished with pick and shovel by these skinny Americans is almost beyond comprehension. The immense width, and depth of the cut can be realized by matching the scale of the men to the height of the cliff. In the upper left of the drawing, a group of stone buildings with corrugated roofs can be seen. In the upper right, a revetment can be seen, left there by the American Air Force.

As time rolled on, more men arrived at the Nichols Field Prison Camp. As the number of men increased, the output of the prisoners continued to grow. The pressure exerted by the Wolf and his pack of jackals became nearly unbearable. The completion of the runway was either an obsession of the Wolf’s, or possibly he was being subjected to considerable pressure from above. The Nichols Field work detail had grown to more than five hundred men! Each day that we arrived at the work area, I could hardly believe this group of gaunt beings, could have possibly created the massive chasm that opened before me! The deepest section of the cut was easily thirty five to forty feet deep! 

Now, more than fifty years later, I sit and stare at my friend’s drawings, and I sometimes permit my mind to drift back to that time, when we marched tiredly along Park Avenue to work on that wide, would-be runway, a small sense of triumph seeps forth, the knowledge the Nips would never take a plane off, or land one on that product of blood and death that young American service men had hewn from the hilly landscape at the points of Jap bayonets!

I, at times giggle, almost insanely, at this supreme joke! The Japs did not get to use it! And during those times, when I, aboard a shiny Boeing 747, slide into  Manila International, or am pressed tight against the back of my seat during takeoff, leaving this place of profound memories, I never fail to crane my neck to catch a glimpse of those four old light green hangers sitting side by side, at right angles to the runway, incredible reminders of those days so long ago.  Now in possession of the Philippine Air Force, these are the very same hangers that squatted there when I labored on this airfield from July 1942 until July 1944!

During my 1981 visit to the Philippines, I rented a car and driver and with my wife Marjean, and we drove to this place. I identified myself to an officer in charge, and he welcomed us and kindly furnished a Philippine Air Force noncom to guide us. We were permitted to enter through the gates and drive directly to the hangers.

I was obsessed to photograph those hangers, and to proceed to the end of the taxiway and shoot some photos directly across the runway toward the area of our work detail forty years before. This experience proved very gratifying and somehow awarded me a warm feeling as I pointed out the landmarks, and described the scene to my wife as it was during those dark times so long ago.

We had slaved on this work detail for two years, and the hard labor, and lack of sufficient food, the beatings and the constantly interrupted rest from bed bugs, mosquitoes, aching legs and backs, and yelling Japs had taken it’s toll. As we dragged along the street to the airfield, struggling to load the cars, and laboriously pushing the cars down the long stretch to the fill area, many of the men sensed we could not go on like this forever. We now repeated this difficult cycle twenty two times each day! Our strength was gone, our will had sagged to a low that I wouldn’t have believed a year before.

The one bright spot on the airfield each day was the lunch break! All morning I looked forward to the lunch break. As we trudged from the track to the lunch shed, I looked forward to the mess kit of rice as though it were meat-balls!

On this occasion, before we could get our ration of rice the Wolf ordered everyone to line up and stand at attention. The Wolf stood glaring at us, Ned at his side. The Wolf began to shout and gesture, and he stomped his feet and kicked the ground like a mad bull! Finally he turned to Ned.

Ned looked at the Wolf, and Dakota san looked at Ned. Ned cleared his throat.....and said:

“Uh-Mr. Dakota say! When shits, must dig hole and cover up! He say, when shits must cover up! Mr. Dakota steps in shits and he is very angry!”

To emphasize, Dakota san stomped his right foot, then he stomped his left! It seems that the honorable Field Superintendent had drifted out of the work area to relieve himself and unfortunately had happened into a liberal portion of human excrement that was in plentiful abundance throughout the area. Since the Wolf wore, as usual, a pair of the black canvas Japanese “shoes” with the split big toe, the manure had squirted, as it was wont to do, up between the toe of the shoe and onto the upper surface of the canvas. I can only imagine the look that crossed the Wolf’s face!

The Wolf stared at Ned and the interpreter resumed!

“I told you before! God damn! I told you three times! Maybe two times! Like cats, must dig hole, in the field, and cover up!”

I could hardly restrain myself from busting out laughing, and I’m sure the other men were affected as well as Ned attempted to assuage Dakota san, convince him  that the translation was satisfactory and complete!

We were forced to stand at attention for another twenty minutes before the Wolf would permit the rice to be rationed. We were allowed only five minutes to gulp down our rice, then were hustled back to the tracks to work.

A major altercation had occurred the previous day, and this incident had struck me as just how far many of the men had descended. The continual issue of men trading their rice for cigarettes had finally came to a head! One of the officers had preached for some time that this practice must cease or we would have to take the matter into our own hands! Yesterday, the same officer announced that anyone caught trading cigarettes for another man’s rice would face a kangaroo court! He mentioned something  we all knew, that several of the weaker members of this prison camp actually owed as much as seven days evening meals to other individuals who were taking advantage of the smoker’s weaknesses! He said as of today, all such debts were paid in full! A few cries of anger could be heard, and the officer reiterated his statement. He was very angry, and said harshly, “There will be no retribution against these men who need their food to remain alive!”

Needless to say, one poor man was slapped and kicked by a man who accused him of welshing on his agreement. Within an hour, four men, delegated by the officers, arrived at the room next to my mine and took the man who struck the victim, and bodily forced him back to the room adjacent to the officer’s room, where a kangaroo court ensued. The man was punished with leather belts and warned that any more violations of the no-trade rule, or any retribution against these helpless men, and he would not only be punished severely, but charges would be brought against him when we were released.

Shortly after our arrival at the Pasay School one evening, and before the rice was served, we were told to line up in the courtyard. Since this was very unusual, the men were quite concerned. What had we done now? This thought was running through everyone’s mind. We were informed that a list of numbers would be called, and those on the list must be ready to leave Pasay School  early the following morning.

An American Officer was given the task of calling out what proved to be two-hundred numbers. My number was called early in the list. Now I could only wait, and hope to hear my friend Spence’s number called.

As the total grew, my heart began to sink. Surely, they would call eighty-eight. They couldn’t possibly split us up now. After all of the numbers were called, I stood stunned! I would be leaving, and Spence would remain. It did not seem possible!

Many old friends were being separated, and small groups throughout the school house talked until late that night. Spence and I made our arrangements solemnly. If I made it back, I would carry the proper messages, if Spence made it, he would do the same. The next morning we ate together. Shortly, we shook hands, said goodbye, and we who were leaving marched out with the few belongings we possessed. I was very depressed, and the fear persisted I would not see Spence again. We were loaded into covered trucks and soon were rolling through Manila streets. Once again, the trucks pulled to a stop at Bilibid Prison.

We were marched inside, counted off, then told to stay in an area between two of the “cell blocks”. Men already in Bilibid stopped by to see if any of their friends were in the group. I saw no one I knew, but listened as they described the living  conditions, food and treatment we could expect in Bilibid.

I still couldn’t believe Spence and I were split up after all we had been through! Fortunately, a few of the original one hundred-fifty men were present among the two hundred selected to depart from Nichols. I was shocked that none of my closest friends were called to leave Pasay School with me. Most of us were close, and had shared experiences that formed a rapport others would not understand. Those of us from Nichols stayed together in the compound and tried to adjust to this new environment. It seemed most of the ‘200’ were from groups that were later arrivals at Pasay School and I hardly knew many of them.

I never saw Spencer Bever again.

 

CHAPTER 20

Preface | Frontispiece | The Road to Adventure | Angel Island | Across the Pacific | Corregidor April 22, 1941 | Duty Assignment | Battery Hartford | To The Field | War | Surrendered!| 92nd Garage | The Spoils | Goodbye Corregidor | Bilibid | Cabanatuan Camp III | Pasay School | Nichols Field | Feet on Fire | Survival | Goodbye Pasay | Noto Maru | Moji Japan to Omori | Kawasaki, Nishin Flour Mill | Air Raid | Fire Bombs! | Out of Kawasaki | Suwa in the Mountains | The War is Over | The Yanks and Tanks | In The Air To Where? | Luzon? Again! 29th Replacement | Gray Cruise Ship to Home | Madigan General Hospital, Seattle | Last Leg to Home | Fletcher General Hospital, Cambridge Ohio |

 

Photo Gallery  |  59th CA Personnel Roster  | 60th CA Personnel Roster  |  Return to The Website

© 2002 Al McGrew