MH: What was it like being marched back by the Japanese?

Gordon: Walking down that mountain, we passed American and Filipino corpses along the roadside. The stench was almost unbearable. Finally, as it was growing dark, we came to where the mountain road leveled off into the West Road of Bataan. Our captors turned us over to another group of soldiers. Unable to see us well in the dark, they felt our shoulders and pushed us through an opening in the bush lining the road. We later found out that the shoulder and collar inspection was to determine if the prisoner was an officer. If he was, he was kicked through the same opening instead of being pushed. That night was so dark and confused that I immediately lost contact with Elmer. I assumed he had died. I never saw him again until a reunion 47 years later at Fort Sill, Okla.

MH: What happened during your first night in captivity?

Gordon: That night in the encampment we were searched and beaten about the head several times. There were so many men crowded into that field that finding a place to lie down was almost impossible. I eventually found a spot near a 'field latrine'–in reality, just an open ditch. All night long a stream of sick, diseased soldiers beat a path to that trench over and over again.

MH: Can you describe the march out of Bataan?

Gordon: The very next day, probably the 11th or 12th of April, I began marching out of Bataan. Not one of my fellow soldiers was known to me, American or Filipino. Our first day's march took us up the infamous Zig Zag Trail, which seemed to last for miles and miles until it leveled off in flat country. Yet it was the first leg of the march, and we were in much better shape than we would be in four or five days. Anyone captured north of Mariveles was fortunate to miss this tortuous leg of the march. Hundreds of bodies were strewn along the side of the trail, men who could not make the steep climb. During that climb, I saw an old friend of mine, Sergeant Florence Hardesty. He had taught me to ride a motorcycle just before the war. Hardesty reminded me of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., sitting, in death, against some sort of wall. He was entirely covered in the white dust that blanketed the trees, the road and the marchers. I almost broke down and cried. Hardesty was an old soldier, and I thought of him as a father figure. I have carried his image with me ever since I first saw him.

MH: What happened once you got to the end of the Zig Zag Trail?

Gordon: We were momentarily elated when we reached the top of that climb–we actually felt we had the worst behind us. Walking became much easier. But depression soon set in when we discovered there was no food or water to be had. Some attempted escape on that second day; others continued to fall, unable to keep up. These soldiers were shot, beheaded or bayoneted and left to die on the side of the road. Each night we were placed in a field and allowed to fend for ourselves. We expected water, if not food, but received neither. When dawn broke and we were put back on the road, a number of bodies were always left behind littering our sleeping field. In some ways, they were the lucky ones. Their miseries were over. For the rest of us our agonies had just begun.

MH: Is that the way the rest of the march went?

Gordon: Days went by with no change in the routine established by the Japanese. We would stop in an open field and be forced to take off our hats during the hottest part of the day while the Japanese had their lunch–ostensibly to assure that we did not hide contraband under them, but also a deliberate act to cause us more hardship. We were required to sit there for an hour or more. Those caught with Japanese money, diaries, photos or anything taken from dead Japanese soldiers–despite the warning to dispose of such items–were usually executed on the spot. Fortunately, I had absolutely nothing of value left, although those with nothing were often cuffed about the ears as punishment. On the third day we were marched backward and stopped alongside the road in daylight, in plain sight of Corregidor and the American guns. The guns of Corregidor opened up on the Japanese artillery positions alongside the road. We were being used as human shields. I saw a direct hit on a Japanese 105mm gun–it went up in the air like a toy. Score one for Corregidor! A number of prisoners were hit by the American gunfire, including me. I received a gash across my left leg, which surprisingly did not bleed that much. I covered it with my handkerchief, my last personal object.

MH: Where did you go from there?

Gordon: Days seemed to run together, and I lost track of time. Looking around during those first few days, I saw officers carrying duffel bags to hold their personal possessions. One lieutenant, named Olsen, walked by in his most prized possession, his riding boots. A day or so later, I passed Olsen's duffel bag, with his name stenciled on it, on the side of road. The next day I passed his boots, which nobody seemed to want. Finally, on the third day I passed Olsen, dead on the side of the road. I was amazed that some officers tried to take things with them, adding to their burden of walking in the extreme heat and humidity. These items invariably led to their deaths.

MH: When did you reach a town or village?

Gordon: I don't remember what day I arrived in Lubao. In that small town there was a sheet-metal warehouse about the size of a football field. Many prisoners were pushed inside the warehouse to sleep that night until there was room for no more. Unfortunately, I was among that group. There were so many men inside that place that sitting down, let alone lying down, was impossible. The heat beating down on that tin had sent the temperature soaring to 120 degrees and then some. Men stood all night, shoulder to shoulder, among the groans of the sick and dying. The next day dozens of men were carried out dead and left along the road as we began another day of the march. Everyone was dehydrated, with no chance to replenish the lost water.

MH: Where did you stop next?

Gordon: Within a day or two, I found myself in the town of San Fernando, a railroad junction in Pampanga province. Here again I had to sleep in the schoolhouse, with conditions almost equaling those in Lubao, but we were promised food the following morning. When morning came we were moved out, again without food or water, and put aboard the boxcars that would take us to Capas and Camp O'Donnell, our next destination.

Pages: 1 2 3