We received news of the dropping of the A- bomb on Hiroshima via a Division weekly newsletter which was mimeographed and distributed to the troops a day after the event. The A- bomb was a surprise to all of us, and, I confess, a pleasant one. It was only in later years that I realized the full horror of atomic weapons. The dropping of the second bomb on Nagasaki was an equally happy read although we didn’t quite understand the implications. We figured if two were needed, then perhaps more would be dropped every week. We still expected the Japanese to continue the war until we had invaded and captured their islands.
At the time of the atomic bombings, our regiment was fighting in the Cagayan Valley, driving the Japanese from the main roads and pursuing them in reinforced patrols as they retreated into the higher, more jungle- like areas. They did not have much fight left; their food and ammunition depleted, they only reacted to our patrols- in- force, rarely attempting counterattacks.
On the morning of the day the Japanese surrendered, but before our regiment heard the news, I accompanied a reinforced patrol, commanded by Captain Herman Lutz. We were motorized, with weapons, carriers and jeeps. About 100 men in the patrol were sweeping through the sideroads from the main artery. As we sped by a small clearing, we noticed a Japanese tank which was battle- scarred and apparently abandoned. Lutz jumped out of the lead jeep, got on top of the tank, opened up the tank turret and yelled: ‘‘ There are Japanese in here. ’’ At that moment, the Japanese inside the tanks opened up with rifles and killed him. Within a minute, our troops had surrounded the tank, pulled back Lutz’ body lying next to it, and one of our men had dropped a grenade down the open turret. End of story, but it was obviously a tragic one with Lutz having been killed, we learned later, a few hours after the Japanese surrender was broadcast.
We finished the patrol, encountering no more stragglers, and I went directly to Division Headquarters to make my report to our Regimental Commander Colonel Schultz, who was temporarily camping near those headquarters. Schultz wasn’t around when I went into his tent to report, so I walked to the latrine, about 200 yards from his quarters, and in the dark, dropped my pants and sat on one of the two- seaters. The other was occupied by what I thought was another American officer. I began small talk and his response in the dark sounded strange, sort of ‘‘ Japanese- y. ’’ And it was! As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I made out a Japanese officer sitting quietly next to me. He was weaving his head up and down, actually respectfully bowing. I got the hell out of the latrine, ran into Colonel Schultz and screamed: ‘‘ There’s a Japanese in there. ’’ ‘‘ I know, ’’ replied Schultz, ‘‘ The Japanese surrendered this morning, and several top Japanese officers came into Division Headquarters to make the surrender formal. You have just met their Colonel. ’’
Soon, I also met two other Japanese officers, one the General, who commanded the Japanese troops in the Valley. They were docile, smiling, subservient. They said their men had been ordered to stack arms, and were waiting for orders to move to whatever prisoner- of- war camp we would provide. They also stated phlegmatically that hundreds of their soldiers were starving and sick and that many of these could not walk. We offered to provide trucks for the sick and wounded and starving, and I won’t ever forget their cool response: ‘‘ Don’t provide trucks. Those who can’t walk will be left there to die. Not to worry! ’’
At this cold- blooded offer, our own General blew his top and ordered that every last Japanese soldier would be brought out, the weakest first. The Japanese officers quickly agreed, helped organize the truck convoys, and a ferrying of prisoners began, with the sick, wounded, and starving being loaded first.
I wrote an account of one of these truckloads being brought to our camp, and present it here, as written, in the heat of the surrender with memories of Japanese atrocities to our sick, wounded, and starving still fresh, and festering. I entitled this story, ‘‘ The Bloody Remnants. ’’
Two six- by- six army trucks, crowded with 78 Japanese prisoners, bumped along Highway 5, headed for Cabagan, Cagayan Valley, Luzon, where the 148th Infantry Regiment was maintaining its prisoner of war stockade. Several kilometers from the town the Filipinos spied the trucks and started screaming with glee. The screaming followed the trucks along the highway into the city. Slowing down to five miles per hour, the vehicles were tailed by hundreds of men, women, and children insulting the Nip prisoners in Tagalog, Ilocan dialect, and pidgeon Japanese. Someone started throwing rocks at the Nipponese and soon the trucks were running a gauntlet of flying stones. Unfortunately the two guards and the drivers of the six- by- sixes as well as the Nips were struck by the rocks. Captain Griffiths in the front seat cab of the lead truck ordered the drivers to speed through the town. When the trucks arrived at the prison camp which he commanded, he reported the incident to the Regimental Commander. In strict accordance with the Geneva Convention as set down in the Rules for Land Warfare, the Regimental Commander directed that in the future, the army guards would take any and all steps necessary to insure the safety of themselves and their prisoners. Under this directive, rampaging civilians might get something more lethal than stones thrown back at them.
These malarial, lice- ridden, underfed soldiers were the stinking remnants of the Imperial Japanese Army in Luzon, commanded by infamous General Yamashita. They were now limping into our outposts from the jungles and mountains, then trucked to our prisoner of war stockades. Among the mounting hundreds of these bowlegged, scrawny sons of heaven were a few who had participated in the Death March some years back. There were many others positively identified as having committed brutalities not sanctioned by the Rules of Land Warfare. These yellow people were the same breed of Japanese warriors who had bayoneted fifteen wounded men of this Regiment in an ambush on Zanana Trail, New Georgia, in July, 1943; who had castrated two of our non- coms on an outpost at Hill 700, Bougainville, Solomon Islands in March 1944, before our costly counterattack restored our lines; who had lined up 136 Filipino men, women, and children at Tondo District, Paco Lumber Yard, Manila, in February 1945, tied their hands behind their backs and then successively raped, machine gunned, bayoneted and burned them exactly eight hours before our regiment liberated that district.
There weren’t many combat infantrymen remaining in our Regiment who had begun the bloody trek to Manila two years back on New Georgia, but both old timers and the newer replacements nursed grudges of long and short standing. By and large, the men were not entirely in accord with the policy of humane treatment, but realized in their disagreement that the Rules of Land Warfare would be rigidly followed regardless of their personal feelings.
One staff sergeant squad leader, whose entire twelve- man squad was wiped out in hand- to- hand, room- to- room fighting in the Legislative Building in Manila, in February favored turning the stockade over to the Filipinos. ‘‘ Maybe we’re too kindhearted to give these bastards what they deserve but the Flips won’t screw around with them very long. ’’
A replacement corporal who had joined us for the mountain fighting at Baguio and Balete Pass, April of this year, first wanted to kick a few hundred of them in what we shall euphemistically call the lower groin. His lieutenant who won the Silver Star for blowing four Nip machine gunners to Shinto Heaven with a well placed grenade a few months back, wasn’t quite so hard boiled: ‘‘ You can’t kick a guy when he’s down. What they should do is put about two squads of veteran infantrymen along with a few hundred Nips and let them go to it with bare fists. That’s one detail I’d volunteer for. ’’
One grizzled battalion commander, a follower of the Halsey school of philosophy, kept the discussion on a higher plane. His thesis: ‘‘ Kill the bastards, anyway you want, but kill them. ’’ His battalion had stormed the Japanese mountain positions around the Irisan Bridge at Baguio, 17 April, and he had won that high ground making Baguio’s fall inevitable, all at heavy cost to his Battalion.
A Major, the regimental S- 2, had a more cynical attitude which began to prevail over crass emotionalism: ‘‘ The Japanese enlisted man is a dirty little animal, naive, uneducated, highly disciplined. He will do exactly as his officers wish, without exception, or Buddha help him. When he rapes and plunders and tortures it is because those actions are condoned and encouraged by his officers. The Japanese officers, from Yamashita on down, are entirely responsible for the brutalities their men have committed. Those officers should be tried and hanged. The men should be sent back to their rice fields. ’’
There were a few apologists for the Japanese, mainly among new officers who had never heard a shot fired in anger; still, their impersonal reasoning couldn’t be laughed off. They imagined that some of our own soldiers were no angels, and that under the pressure of smoke and bullets and fatigue they too had committed atrocities. True, out of vindictiveness or bloodlust, some of our soldiers had cut loose. Wounded Japanese were given the coup de grace by litter bearers who got tired of lugging them to battalion aid stations under sniper fire. Dead Japanese, still warm, had lost their gold teeth to GI’s with a good dropkick technique. Looting by our soldiers and by the Filipino civilians in Manila often made Japanese plunder tactics seem small potatoes. Nowhere did the enemy ever acquire the trucks or the finesse to empty private homes down to the last electric light fixture.
We returned much of the loot when the bullets stopped zinging. Higher headquarters inspectors decided it was now safe enough to check combat infantrymen with silk underwear dangling from combat packs and bakolite ash trays rattling around in mess gears. However, the thousands of bottles of Canadian Club and scotch were beyond extraction, and the typewriters, refrigerators, radios, and golf clubs had mysteriously ended up in sacrosanct headquarters sections or officers’ clubs. Several of us picked up a 1941 Buick Super Deluxe in the garage of Puppet President Jose P. Laurel’s home, to save it from the looters. Realizing that such pretentiousness was not consistent with our lowly ranks, we presented it to our regimental commander with appropriate ceremony. We assumed that his West Point background and eagle insignia would afford it ample protection. After the fighting had subsided, our gift was rudely jerked away by holier- than- thou Corps MP’s who stated that civilian cars could be retained for military use only. Two weeks after that, we noted the Buick with official sticker being driven by a WAC sergeant for an Engineer General. We were all a bit puzzled about the military use to which a Base Engineer General could put the car to which a combat regimental commander couldn’t.
Getting away from looting, let’s return to the treatment of the Japanese POW’s.
GI visitors to the stockade invariable soften. At first they glare at the sickly internees who grin happily and bow unctuously at their captors in appreciation for the vegetable hash, the rusty stove, the moldy squad tents, and the nearby creek where they are permitted– nay– ordered– to clean up. These Japanese GI is a model of docility and gentleness, and he takes his anti- dysentery bismuth and his anti- skin ulcer iodine with gratitude and humility. One who speaks good English told us that all of them would have surrendered long ago if they had known of this kind treatment. They claim their officers kept them fighting with tales of American brutality, and many of them had reserved one hand grenade at all times for honorable suicide in fear of the aftermath of capture. One endearing charm is the way these yellow fellows take their atabrine tablets, pills which are so vile tasting that our men even wash them down with GI lemonade. These Japanese put the three tablets on the tip of their tongue, suck the yellow things with apparent relish, and let the pills dissolve in their mouths. Then they bow their thanks.
Most of our soldiers go away shaking their heads in the firm conviction that these puny individuals are children who have been badgered and browbeaten by fanatical officers. A short looksee at the officers section reinforces this belief. The officers, in accordance with the Rules of Land Warfare, have additional privileges: special quarters, Japanese orderlies, cots, and better prepared food. They still retain some of their arrogance, and they surrendered with the understanding that they are officers and expected to be treated like officers. The liaison captain from their Brigade Headquarters explained this carefully to our Regimental S- 2 prior to surrender. Upon entering the stockade, one lieutenant wanted to know where the hot showers were. Another lieutenant, the only one that was ever solicitous as to the welfare of his men, requested that Filipino native labor be recruited to dig their latrines and garbage pits and to put up their tents. He claimed his men were too weak, which they might have been. However, they did their own internal construction, in accordance with those Rules.
The enlisted men are completely cowed by their officers who completely ignore them except to turn half- heartedly the snappy, stiff salute which is always tendered by the soldiers, regardless of their physical condition. When one Japanese captain entered our hospital ward, the eleven sad sackomotos in various stages of decomposition jumped or tried to jump to attention. Our own aid man ordered them to lie down when it appeared that the Japanese officer would just as leave have them stand that way while he had his arm bandaged.
In addition to the notes about the Japanese prisoners, we ran into other unrelated incidents which to a limited extent, tied us into the other war which had ended in Europe some months back. These notes were written outside the largest city in the Cagayan Valley where we had mopped up at war’s end:
‘‘ A batch of German refugees passed by yesterday . . . had been bombed out . . . the second time they have lost their homes in ten years. In 1935, most of them fled here from Germany . . . most of them are Jewish . . . and I was able to give them food and transportation back to the rear where they can get additional food and shelter.
‘‘ Also had another experience with another German group who arrived several hours after the German Jews. Thinking them also German Jewish refugees I began to chat with them . . . and then discovered they were actually Nazis . . . who had been in the German Diplomatic service, assigned to the Japanese in the Philippines and living the life of guests under Japanese rule. Of course, we were required to treat them like decent people . . . even tho they all maintained that Germany was not whipped yet. I still haven’t in me the bitterness to kick a person when he is down . . . as these Germans now were. But I did lead them out of sight before some of the more excitable Jewish soldiers could get at them. When their leaders thanked me profusely for all I had done for them, I felt guilty . . . as if I had betrayed my coreligionists.