It was December 8, l941. A bitter cold morning from the north wafted across our duty station in Chinwangtao, China. The North China Marines were the only U.S. servicemen left in China. The 1,000 men of the 4th Marines had already left Shanghai.
We were all that remained to “show the flag,” and we eagerly awaited the arrival of SS President Harrison, which was supposed to pick us up in two days. Our heavy weapons had already been collected and packed for transport, and we were for all practical purposes unarmed. Keeping an eye on our pitifully small band as we waited was a garrison of Japanese soldiers, whose barracks were near our own.
A little after 0400 hours that morning, I was busy getting ready for my turn as corporal of the guard when my preparations were interrupted by “Birdlegs” Brown yelling: “Listen, listen! The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor! We’re at War!”
Almost instantly I was part of a throng of men racing to the rail yard to retrieve our weapons. Upon reaching the crates, however, we discovered that the desperately needed arms had already been packed in Cosmoline and, what was worse, the thick gooey substance had frozen solid in the cold.
“Duck Butt” Wilson suggested that we should try to melt the grease off the weapons by putting them under a hot shower. It seemed like good old American ingenuity would save the day. While some of the men attended to this task, others managed to get enough machine guns working to establish a thin perimeter. Then it was just a matter of waiting for the enemy.
While we waited, our commanding officer, a Lieutenant Huizenga, fired off a message to headquarters: “We are surrounded. Issue in doubt.” He ordered me to wait by the radio and report to him on the double when orders came in.
It was not long before I could see the enemy advancing toward us across the open parade ground. Planes flew high overhead, but we knew they were not ours. As the Japanese got closer, I could see a parlay party carrying a white flag and then saw Huizenga march out to meet them.
Still waiting for a radio reply, I watched the lieutenant on the field with the enemy. There appeared to be about 2,000 troops in formation behind the party— clearly a show of force intended to impress our tiny group of 23 Marines. My gaze was interrupted by the radio clicking on and Lareau, the radioman, scribbling out the message as it came in. He handed it to me, and as I crossed the field toward my lieutenant, I could not help stealing a glimpse at the transmission: “Comply with demands. W.W. Ashurst.”
Once I reached the lieutenant, I heard a Japanese officer ask, “Lieutenant, what are your intentions?” Thinking it only proper to give the lieutenant a chance to utter his reply, I delayed handing him the message. As I expected, his answer was blunt. “Unless we receive orders to the contrary,” he said, “we will stand and fight.” I then had the unfortunate duty to hand him the message. The look on his face showed his crushing disappointment. I am sure that he was not alone in thinking, Marines never surrender. We fight and die, like Marines.
Huizenga, however, was a professional, and orders were orders. Without flinching, he handed over the order to the enemy officer. “How long will you need to prepare your camp for surrender, lieutenant?” “Twenty minutes” was the reply.
We spent our last minutes of freedom gathering up our weapons. Before we turned them over, we were sure to dump the firing pins into the cesspool. Our detail complete, Huizenga called us together and said: “Listen to me, men. Take all the warm clothing you can. I fear this will be a long war.”
At the appointed time, the Japanese troops marched into camp. Their officer announced that we would be leaving for Tientsen within the hour. After a short flag-lowering ceremony, Wilson and I struck the colors as the men stood at attention. I could not hold back my emotions as the flag came down.
Still upset at being ordered to lay down our arms without a fight, we learned when we arrived in Tientsen that Colonel Ashurst had been duped by the Japanese. They had told the colonel that all the remaining Marines in China, who were largely embassy and legation guards, would be regarded as noncombatants and be given diplomatic immunity, which would have permitted us to be repatriated. As we knew too well, it had been a lie.
My first duty station in North China had been at Tientsen, and back then I had a Chinese girlfriend named Minnie. She was a “Sing-Song” girl at the local theater. Strangely, the Japanese let our Chinese friends come into the barracks to visit, and eventually Minnie showed up. I gave all my money to her because I knew that the Japanese would have taken it away from me, and I was sure Minnie would be able to put what little I had to better use than the Japanese would.
We stayed in Tientsen until we ran out of food. By this time we had been joined by the Peking Embassy guards and there were now 203 of us. Major Brown complained that we needed to be fed, and our captors responded by giving us a 50- pound bag of potatoes and a smaller bag of onions. Needless to say, that amount of food did not last long. Although we did not know it then, the camp at Tientsen was luxury compared to what came next.
Our bellies empty, we were packed 40 men each into five narrow-gauge railway boxcars and shipped to Woosung, near Shanghai. The trip took two days and two nights. In the dead of winter, with temperatures far below zero, the close body contact helped keep us from freezing to death. On the second day, they stopped the train in a small town to parade us around in front of the locals. The townspeople, to their credit, were not impressed by this obvious effort to humiliate us, so our guards herded us back to the train. As we climbed back into the cars, we each received a little tin of vegetables packed in water. It was the only food we had for the next two days.
It was January when we arrived in Woosung, and the camp was in the middle of a swamp. Everything was frozen at the time, but when spring came, so did the rats, mosquitoes, flies, bed bugs and every other creature that lived in a swamp, all of which feasted on us. The vermin also brought with them all sorts of diseases. Nourishment was a teacup of millet three times a day and a watery soup. Everyone began losing weight. I came down with dysentery, malaria and dengue fever all at the same time. I almost died, and would have had it not been for Dr. Tyson, our chief medical officer. He went to the Japanese and managed to talk them out of a few opium capsules, which he rationed out to me. Because I could not work, I had been put on half rations, and by the time I “recovered” I had lost 70 pounds and weighed less than 100 pounds.
Shortly after my recovery, I was among the 36 POWs selected to go to Japan to work as “technicians” in our enemies’ war industries. A handful of us North China Marines, plus Wake Islanders, accounted for those who would be shipped out on Miike Maru. The ship was not marked as a POW vessel, and we all prayed that a U.S. sub would not find us before we reached our destination.
Somehow the Japanese had found my record book, which said that I was a welder, but I wasn’t actually a welder. When I got to Japan I was assigned to work at the Seitetsu Steel Mill in Yawata and a mistake had been made in my record book.
On August 15, 1943, we endured our first bombing raid. The warning siren sounded at 1900 hours, just as we got to work. Nobody paid any attention to it, then at 2200 the attack signal sounded. Even then, no one became alarmed. About 15 minutes later, our guards came running across the field from the factory yelling for us to follow them. You could tell they were excited.
We turned off our torches and followed the soldiers into the factory. As we entered the grounds, we began hearing bombs exploding to the west. When we got deep into the factory, the leading soldier ducked into a building. We all followed. Inside there was a big hole, about 15 feet deep in the middle of the floor. We piled in—waiting with mixed emotions, hoping our bombers would blow the hell out of everything in Japan except us.
A 500-pound bomb exploded very close to our position. There was a bright orange flash and the air was instantly filled with dust, pebbles and rocks. It was terrifying. Once it was over and we were taken outside, we saw that the bomb had blown most of the sheet steel from the buildings close by. The realization of how close we came to being blown to bits rattled all of us. Without much delay, we were sent back to work.
One spring day our toils were interrupted by an unexpected challenge from our overseers for a “field day.” They had publicized the event and expected a large crowd. About 10 Allied nations were represented at this camp at Yawata, so we selected four men from each to form teams to run a relay race. The Marines represented the United States, and much to our captor’s dismay, the emaciated Marines won the race by a quarter of a lap. We bubbled over with pride. It was a small victory but nonetheless sweet.
We had another interpreter in camp, a man named Hasigawa, who was definitely not well-disposed toward us. He had been assigned to accompany us on the day of the race and after our unexpected victory approached our group and said, “You are winners, and winners must have humility.” With that, we received a stinging slap to the face. This time, it didn’t seem to hurt much. The next day, they cut our rations.
We were soon back to work. The citadel in Yawata where we lived was about one mile from the mill, and straight uphill. When our rations were cut back we began to worry that some would die just climbing up the hill. We had already lost two merchant seamen. They were too old for this kind of life.
Later in the year, we were moved to Kokura to work in Fukuoko Number 3. We were still employed by Seitetsu Steel, but we did not have to climb the hill to work, instead we rode in an open gondola, rain or shine.
The food they were feeding us had very little nourishment, and I could feel myself wasting away and hatched a plan to get a little something more substantial to eat. Through a middleman, I contracted with an enemy soldier to give me 10 mess pails of rice with beef or chicken stew mixed in it. In exchange he would get my last possession, an ornate bathrobe that I had had made in China for my brother Art.
Growing tired of the arrangement, after his third payment the soldier wanted the robe, but I refused. Unhappy, he ordered me to the guard shack. There were seven of the soldier’s associates waiting for me. They proceeded to try to slam me over their shoulders and break some bones, which would have made me unfit to work and would have almost certainly ensured my demise. Fortunately, when I was stationed in Hawaii I had learned some judo at the YMCA and was able to survive their bludgeoning.
The soldier who was buying the robe was infuriated. I was forced to kneel on a wooden bench on my shins, and he went outside and brought in a 2×2 board about six feet long. He got behind me and swung the club at my back. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, and at the last instant I rose up and took the blow on my buttocks. The biggest soldier stepped up and grabbed the club and swung it at me with all his might, hitting me across the back and knocking me onto the concrete floor.
My customer was still not satisfied, so next he went to the pot-bellied stove that warmed the shack and took out a red-hot poker. He made me kneel on the board and came at me as though he was going to burn my eyes out. All I could do was close my eyelids as tight as possible. I could feel the heat and see the light from the poker. He stopped. Then he came in behind me and was about to brand my neck. Again I could feel the heat closing in and was prepared for the worst when a gruff order filled the room. He instantly dropped the hot iron, but as it fell, it burned my leg.
The voice had come from the camp sergeant major who, after I opened my eyes, I could see was standing behind my tormentor with a scowl on his face. He motioned for me to come with him. He had been outside watching through the window. When we reached the corner of the building, he stopped suddenly and I bumped into him. He turned to me and asked if I would treat Japanese soldiers as bad if our places were reversed. I pondered what I should say and told him what he wanted to hear. “Hell yes! Worse!”
He reached down and picked up a wooden bucket from under the downspout. Smashing the coating of ice on its surface and grinning, he dumped it over my head. “There,” he said, “that ought to cool you off. Now get back to the barracks!”
Each morning as we lined up to go to work, there was always the two-wheeled cart loaded with the dead. When we returned, it was loaded with little white crocks full of ashes of the boys that had been cremated the day before. There were hundreds of the little crocks.
We were beaten and starved and abused, and I was determined that somehow I would make a record of what was being done to us. After some thought, I decided to build a pinhole camera and take pictures of the starving and dying Allied POWs. I figured it was the only way that anyone would ever believe what we had endured.
As a young boy, my brother Art had shown me how to build a camera. My first step was to scrounge the camp for scraps of cardboard and tape. Finally I had enough material and I was able to put something together. It was nothing fancy, but I knew it would work. The bigger problem would be obtaining the necessary photographic plates.
For this I turned to our interpreter Nishi. He was friendlier than most of the others, perhaps because he was American by birth and had been raised in San Francisco. Just before the outbreak of the war, he had been duped into returning to Japan and once there was inducted into the army. Although he was clearly afraid to get involved with me and my camera, after weeks of arm twisting I was able to convince Nishi to get me the supplies I needed.
Obviously, I could not walk around with a camera like a tourist. I quietly conspired with Martin Gatewood, one of the Wake Island defenders, to set up a security screen so I could take my pictures undetected. We decided only Marines would be on the security detail because we knew we could depend on them. Our spotters devised a plan for whistling to keep us aware of the enemy positions. Dr. Markowitz, the camp doctor, agreed to get volunteer patients from the hospital assembled so that we could carefully document the various conditions we all suffered from. The process was slow and dangerous for us all.
Once I had taken the pictures, the next hurdle was finding a dark room to change the plates after each exposure. After some searching, I discovered the ideal spot— the Japanese soldiers’ bathtub. It had a 4×8 sheet of plywood to cover it when not in use during the day.
Satisfied with the photos of the sick prisoners I had taken, I wanted to use my last plate to take a picture of the power plant on the edge of the camp to show how we were being used as human shields. The ideal location to take the shot was a machine gun tower.
We knew exactly when the guard would come down from his perch to take his midday break, so as soon as he came down on the appointed day I scurried to the top. I was not quick enough. As I was at the top of the tower, a shrill whistle announcing the guard’s return broke my concentration. I knew there was no time to come down the ladder rung by rung, so with little other alternative I jumped. Gravity was kind. I only weighed about 85 pounds and managed to make the jump in one piece.
I made my way to the “darkroom” to change the last plate and was nearly caught. Just as I was raising the plywood to leave, I saw one of the guards standing in the doorway. I ducked back down. My heart was beating so hard, I was afraid they could hear it. I rested my head against the cool concrete and tried to compose myself. By the time I had the courage to lift the board enough to steal a glance at the doorway, the guard had moved away.
Later, I smuggled the plates to Nishi. True to his word, he had them processed, made five copies of each exposure and then had them smuggled back to me. He was too nervous to hide them for me. We both knew that being caught with the camera or the pictures would have meant death for both of us.
My images safely hidden, I continued with my work and hoped to survive until the end of the war. On August 8, 1945, the factory was the target of a huge air raid. Everything that could burn was on fire, and the air was filled with thick black smoke and ash. It was like being in hell.
As terrible as it was, the inferno may have saved my life. As the smoke billowed skyward, the wind blew it out to sea for a while, but by the next day the wind changed direction and soon the camp was smothered in a thick blanket of smoke. Under usual circumstances this would not have mattered much, but August 9 was not a normal day. Although I could not possibly know it at the time, flying overhead was the B-29 Bockscar, which carried a single bomb in its bomb bay: the “Fat Man” atomic weapon bound for Kokura.
Fortunately for all of us in the camp, as Captain Kermin K. Beahan, the bombardier, approached the city, he was unable to see the target. With strict orders to not bomb by radar, and with fuel running out, the pilot, Major Charles Sweeney, decided to fly to his secondary target and drop the bomb there. A change in the direction of the wind meant that Nagasaki was incinerated and I was spared.
Soon after that second atomic bomb attack, our tormentors scampered away like rats in the night and left us to our own devices. Not long afterward, B-29s again appeared in the skies overhead. This time there were no bombs, but canisters loaded with supplies. It was “manna from heaven.” In those canisters were things we had only dreamt of for years. There was food, candy, cigarettes, uniforms, shoes, socks, underwear, soap and razors.
As odd as it may seem, my Marine Corps training took over almost immediately, and I again became the guard I had been some four years earlier. To prevent complete chaos, I directed the Marine Guards to go out and collect everything the planes dropped and put it in one of the unused barracks buildings, to be distributed to the section leaders and the galley. Medical supplies were directed to the hospital. It was time to get to work and back to business.
About two weeks later, after I had the commissary up and running smoothly, I went to a man named Kirkpatrick, who was in charge of the galley. I told him I was leaving camp. After all, there was a train that ran right in front of the steel mill. Waiting around to be liberated was not for me. Two submarine sailors, Courtney and Roberts, found out I was going to leave and let me know they wanted to come along. I told Kirkpatrick that he needed to assign replacements for us. Kirkpartick with his Irish humor said, “Don’t go Terence, you’ll start World War III!” No use, my mind was made up.
A Major Dorris had come to camp after the bombing, and before leaving I went to him to show him my pictures. Gatewood, the security man, came along to back me up. Amazed but convinced, Dorris typed up a statement on camp stationery releasing the plates and pictures to me. I wanted to make sure they made it into the hands of the proper authorities. We left the camp on the train and made our way to Yokohama. Our first friendly encounter was with two MPs who were a sight for sore eyes.
We were then taken to a building where we could be debriefed. I gave the Army, Navy and the FBI each a copy of the pictures I had taken in the camp and trusted that they would do something with the proof I had given them.
Shortly after my interrogation, I was sent on my way. Things were going along smoothly for me up till then, but during a stopover in Guam I was debriefed again. This time I was given a gag order to sign. It said that I was not to discuss what I knew about our treatment in the camp. I could do nothing with the pictures I had risked my life to take, and it was not only me; everyone in the pictures, and all the Marines who kept watch while I took them, had to sign gag orders as well, and now our efforts were for naught. I was angry and upset, but I was also a Marine, and Marines follow orders. I signed the order.
I resumed my life, as did others who had suffered, and decades slipped by, our story as Japanese slave laborers remaining untold. We had all signed the order and many kept the secret, our wives and children never knowing of our suffering and the secrets taken to the grave.
I never forgot, however, and kept with me my own copies of the pictures to remind myself of what we had endured. Now, after more than 60 years, I think the secret has been kept long enough. It is time to share the story of my pinhole camera and the pictures it took, so that the American people will know something of what their husbands, sons, fathers and friends endured. Their sacrifice can never be measured. It is too great.
Originally published in the September 2006 issue of World War II. To subscribe, click here.
