The band of American Prisoners of War shuffled down a faint trail cut through the forested mountain terrain, pushed along by short, swarthy men armed with rifles. Existing on rice cakes and what little food they could glean from the small villages they passed through, the shoeless and ragged Americans were about used up. But to stop was to die, so they kept moving, higher and higher into the mountains.

A scene out of the Vietnam War in 1966? Maybe Korea in 1950 or the Pacific in 1942? No, though the area is about the same, being Southeast Asia–the Philippines, to be exact. However, the year was 1899, and the Americans were prisoners in a war that just barely made the history books. Leland Smith was to be starved, shot at, set up in front of a firing squad and generally almost walked to death in his three months as a POW during the Philippine Insurrection, one of the United States’ more obscure police actions. But his ordeal was a prelude to what many GIs would suffer in the following century. A few years before Smith’s death, in 1975–fittingly enough perhaps, for an American soldier, on July 4–I had the privilege of interviewing him several times. This is the story he told me.

A native of Iowa, Smith enlisted in the 24th Michigan Infantry in May 1898, hoping to see action in Cuba. but the Spanish-American War wouldn’t wait, and by March 1899, he found himself mustered out without ever leaving the States. A picture of Smith in those days shows him to be a tough, wiry-looking man of medium height with dark brown hair and sharp features…and maybe there was a little impatience in there, too.

‘I felt cheated,’ said Smith. ‘I wanted to travel and see some action, so I enlisted again in Cleveland. I had a little photography experience and they sent me to Fort Myers, Virginia, to join up with the Signal Corps.’

By the time his 18th birthday rolled around, Smith was in Manila, assigned to cover U.S. troop action against the Philippine army. The Manila water supply was polluted at the time, and Smith remembered what a soldier told him when he arrived there: ‘Boil all Manila water for 24 hours. Then throw it away and drink beer.’

The war in the Philippines had taken a strange twist. American troops supposedly sent to help the Filipinos oust the Spanish were now busy fighting Filipino soldiers. Their leader, Emilio Aguinaldo, had earlier welcomed the arrival of the U.S. troops, but friction between the two armies had broken out. Not the least of the causes was the refusal of the American authorities to allow Filipino troops, who had helped liberate Manila, into the city after the Spanish capitulation–a grave insult.

When it began to look as if the U.S. government’s plans for the Philippines didn’t include giving them immediate independence, Aquinaldo started having second thoughts. One thing led to another, and, on February 4, 1899, hostilities between American and Filipino troops broke out, and the United States found itself with a brand-new war on its hands.

At first, Smith was assigned to tag along with the telegraph section of the Signal Corps. Later, along with a Corporal Saulsbery, he was told to take his cameras and ‘go out and make contact with the enemy.’ As it turned out, he made a lot closer contact then he wanted to.

‘We had to carry three or four large cameras in haversacks on our backs,’ Smith said. ‘One was a 5×7-inch film camera, but the others were big 8×10s. We had to lug around the glass plates they used, too.

‘We stopped to eat at any Army unit we happened to be near at the time, moving along with the combat troops, taking pictures of whatever we felt like,’ he said. ‘Then we went back to Manila every week or so to develop what we had shot.’

In October 1899, Smith and Saulsbery, who was recently out of the Army hospital in Bacoor after a bout with some illness, were near San Isidro, north of Manila. ‘We were under fire from the town,’ said Smith, ‘and the weather was lousy. It rained all the time and we were constantly dodging guerrilla sharpshooters. The corporal started getting sick again and when we moved west, over toward Arayat, he decided to go back to the hospital.’

On October 18, 1899, the two soldiers, on foot, headed down a tributary of the Papanga River. They soon met a gunboat steaming upstream. It drifted to a halt opposite the two men on the bank and out stepped Maj. Gen. Harry Ware Lawton, who asked them, ‘What are you two men about?’

‘Corporal Saulsbery and Private Smith, Sir,’ Smith replied. ‘The corporal is pretty sick, General. Maybe the fever. Anyway, we’re trying to get downstream to the railroad.’

The general looked thoughtful. ‘That’s quite a walk you still have ahead of you. Why not take the banca tied to the stern?’ The general waved toward the native dugout tied to the back of the gunboat. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble,’ Lawton went on. ‘The river’s clear downstream. No sign of the enemy.’

Lawton, a Civil War and Indian war veteran and a Medal of Honor recipient, had only a few months to live when Smith met him. In December, he was killed in action against insurgents near San Mateo.

Then two soldiers stowed their cameras and other gear in the canoe and, with Smith rowing, headed downstream. The water was low and the two men drifted along in the dugout, the gunboat now out of sight behind them. Then came an unexpected shout from the riverbank.

‘Look! Over there! Gu-gus!’ Smith said excitedly, using the name American troops had pinned on the Filipino soldiers. ‘Must be 60 of them!’

The soldiers on the bank beckoned to the Americans and Smith started to head the boat toward shore, since the .38-caliber Colt pistol he had strapped to his waist was no match for the soldiers’ rifles. Suddenly, without warning, the soldiers on shore raised their weapons.

‘They’re going to shoot! We ain’t got a chance!’ yelled Saulsbery, as geysers of water sprung up around them and wood splinters flew from the banca. Smith’s hat was shot off, along with a little hair, and both men and all the equipment went into the water as the dugout capsized.

Smith could never figure out how the Filipinos missed them. ‘I could feel the wind of the brass bullets pass my face,’ he recalled. ‘It was just our luck to run into a bunch of guerrillas out doing a little looting.’

The corporal stayed with the overturned dugout, to be fished out by the Filipinos, while Smith swam to the shore. ‘They took my Colt, two gold rings and my shoes,’ he said. The soldiers were armed primarily with Remington rolling-block rifles and some Spanish Mausers. The soldiers may have been armed with FMJ rounds, which would explain the ‘brass bullets’ Smith mentioned.

The two men were marched off to nearby La Paz, though Smith had to carry Saulsbery much of the way. There, they were put in an old stone building with 18 other American prisoners.

‘Hey, new faces!’ someone called out.

‘Welcome to the La Paz Soldier’s Club!’ said another.

And a third shouted, ‘Hey! It’s Smith and Saulsbery!’

Smith peered into the darkness of the old company. ‘Desmond,’ he said, ‘is that you?’ It turned out that Desmond and Stone, two men from Smith’s old company, had been captured outside Manila some time before.

Smith and the others were held at La Paz for about a week. At one point Saulsbery and Smith were taken to Aguinaldo’s headquarters at Tarlac and questioned.

The prisoners were allowed four-and-a-half cents a day, American, to buy their food with. If they couldn’t buy the food themselves, they had to pay some local to go to the market for them, which further cut into what little money they had to spend for food. As a result, they ate mostly sugar cane and rice cakes. Finally the prisoners were put on the road, heading toward Dagupan, except for Saulsbery, who was too sick to travel. Smith never saw him again though he later heard that he was rescued.

Pages: 1 2