Seasons of the Heart (11 page)

When the first bomb hit, Phillip dived for the foxholes that lined the edge of the beach. It was his last conscious action for hours. He crouched in the shelter as the anti-aircraft guns pounded Japanese planes, feeling helpless and wishing he had been at the camp long enough to be assigned. The bombing and strafing seemed to last an eternity. Finally there was a lull, and the men were ordered to retreat back into the jungle.

For the next few weeks, Phillip’s days followed the same pattern. Long periods of bombing by the Japanese were followed by another hurried retreat. It was impossible to tell from which direction the enemy would attack next. He was given odd jobs to do, but there never seemed time for him to receive instruction as an infantryman. When there was a lull in the battle, the men had only one subject of conversation: food. They discussed their favorite meals endlessly. Hamburgers, ice cream, lasagne—it was as though talking about food nourished them.

For they were slowly starving. Since January, all they had gotten to eat was a daily half-ration of rice, often full of weevils. Occasionally one of the backwoods Southern boys would catch a monkey or a rat, and they all wolfed down the meager meat. Horses and mules had long since disappeared into the cooking pots. With the exception of Phillip and the stocky CO, Cox, all the men in the unit were emaciated. Their flesh seemed to have melted away, and their eyes were hollow, with a peculiar lifeless stare.

No one bragged about what would happen to the enemy when the American fleet arrived, for they were slowly realizing that the defenders of Bataan might not be rescued after all. Not even the most confident pep-talk from Cox could raise their spirits.

From time to time, Phillip wondered how Bugleman was doing, hoping he was still alive. But after the second week, Phillip was like all the other soldiers; he could think only of the twin imperatives: food and survival.

Early one morning, several weeks after Phillip had joined the unit, they ran straight into a unit of infiltrators. They had orders to descend a ridge and help shore up a flank of the Luzon line, which ran across the southern part of the peninsula. Not anticipating an immediate attack, they were marching carelessly two abreast down an overgrown path. Suddenly seven or eight Japanese clad in black emerged from a small clearing below them, crouched, and opened fire.

The soldier next to Phillip went down. Phillip instinctively dropped flat and began shooting. In front of him a Japanese was just cresting the hill, rifle raised. Phillip gritted his teeth and pointed his M-l. It was an easy shot, but the thought of actually killing made him hesitate. Then he aimed and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. The rifle was jammed. At that moment the Japanese saw Phillip.

Panic hit him like a sledgehammer. He was a sitting duck. Without a wasted motion, Phillip rolled behind the body of a dead soldier. He heard the thwack and felt the shudder as the bullet hit his shield of human flesh. He grabbed the dead man’s Springfield, aimed it as best he could, and fired.

The Japanese clapped his hands to his belly and staggered back, his face a grotesque parody of surprise. He seemed unable to believe that he had been hit. Then he dropped his rifle and crumpled slowly to the ground.

Phillip was crawling backward into a bamboo thicket when he saw Captain Cox, lying facedown, blood pouring from a ghastly wound in his arm. To his horror, he realized that Cox’s arm was hanging by a shred of muscle. Bullets whistled past them as Phillip dragged the captain back behind a low, rocky ridge.

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.

L
OOKING 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 Americans 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.