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Hopefully. Good Copy of RKs Corregidor
Date:
Wed, 7 Jun 2000 01:24:04 EDT
WHEN CORREGIDOR FELL ON MAY 6 I WAS THERE
A perfect Spring Day a month ago played tricks with my memory. I
found myself
for the moment once again sitting on a hillside in a land where
it is always
springtime, the Philippine Islands, and watching the death of an
army.
I was 22 again, a Marine and a part of the beach defense of the
island of
Corregidor. The day was April 9th, the day that Bataan fell 58
years ago.
In an earlier “trip report” to you, my friends, I have
described that day in
some detail. Several of you have since asked,” What did you do
next? Your
life didn’t stop that day. Tell us the rest.”
OK , that won’t take long. My life as an American and a Marine
will come to
an end before another 30 days expire.
Returning therefore to that fateful night, let me continue.
Rocher, my Navy
buddy in our squad, and I walk slowly back over the ridge to
return to our
fox hole positions.
Back with the men, nothing has changed. There’s a discussion
going on as to
why we don’t get more grits in our breakfast. Our Texas
Marines, (and
sometimes it seems like half of all Marines are from Texas)
think no
breakfast is complete without grits. Another Marine is
explaining his theory
that the US Fleet is really waiting out in the China sea to
spring a trap on
the Japanese. Another discussion is trying to remember the words
to a song
about nine bottles of beer on the wall.
Everything is back to normal. If this were ever to be made into
a movie, it
is at this point that the wise old sergeant, or the handsome
young hero makes
a brilliant prescient analysis of the whole war and just exactly
where we
stand in it. The sort that will take our best historians another
full
generation to come up with. Well! In real life it just ain’t
so. We don’t
have a clue as to what’s happening or where we’re going.
We’re good Marines,
we have our rifles. We really don’t give a damn.
Now that isn’t to say we’re not worried about tomorrow. We
just have
different priorities. We do get together on the subject most
important to us.
Where will our next meal come from?
Some one makes a good point that if we’re surrounded now by
Japanese, then
supplies may begin to run short. We may get even less food than
we’ve been
getting. The squad agrees that we’d better try to conserve our
private stash
of food and do our best to get our share of whatever is sent out
by the
cooks. Everyone says that’s smart.
We also, innocently enough, make a brilliant decision.
We decide to move all the rest of the stashed food into the fox
holes. The
wisdom of this decision will be marveled at in days to come. I
get half a
case of canned lima beans for my foxhole. Not my favorite food
perhaps, but
it does make a good seat to sit on. It works great.
The night sky is still glowing red. The fires in Bataan will
burn into the
next day. But we all are tired. Its been a long day. Except for
the men on
guard, the rest return to their foxholes to rest.
Since we are still at risk only from air raids during the day,
most of the
men will spread ponchos out on the open ground by their holes so
they can
stretch out and sleep under the stars. This is the Philippines
and the
temperature at nights will stay in the 80s.
The next day finds us all enjoying our first opportunity to
watch the enemy
at first hand. From our ridge we can see across the channel and
down on the
beaches of Bataan.
As the smoke clears later in the day, and the fuel-dump fires
die out, we
have a good 4 to 5 mile range view of the enemy activity.
What we see is lots of dust. Dust blowing up behind moving
vehicles on the
dry Bataan dirt roads. It looks like trucks, some with trailers
it seems. Its
hard to tell. We’re not sure whether they are moving stuff in
or moving it
out.
(They’re hauling in siege mortars. They’re setting up
four-gun batteries the
entire front of Bataan. Some three or four miles of batteries
are being
installed and readied for the next phase. We won’t know this
till two days
later when they start to range in their guns.)
Fortunately, to keep us from thinking and worrying, our officer
finds work to
keep us busy He sends us down to Monkey Point, an area on the
tail of the
island that faces Bataan. We are to cut brush and build an
“abatis” to
protect the field of fire of a machine gun emplacement there.
(It’s a French
word and means a barricade of tree limbs set up to delay an
enemy attack so
the machine guns can hose them down.)
They give me a brush hook; it’s an axe handle with a curved
steel blade on
the end. You swing it at a branch and it cuts right through. I
had a
wonderful day. I used up all my frustration and anger swinging
that wicked
piece of steel.
My sergeant was even surprised. He came by and said “Keech,
I’ve never seen
you work this hard”. I grinned and thanked him. I enjoyed that
day, except
for the time we cut down a tree with a Fire Ants colony on one
of its limbs.
When that colony hit the ground those ants spread out running in
every
direction, fighting mad. They attacked everything that moved.
Their bite
leaves a burning sensation that lasts for days. Hence their
name.
In two days the war takes a new turn that will change our lives
forever.
We’re still cutting Abatis brush on Monkey point. There is a
terrible
primitive thrill in swinging a sharp steel blade at something
you want to cut
down. Every limb I cut off could be the enemy. I sure get rid of
my
frustration doing this.
Suddenly we hear a sound we know so well, but, at this time and
place it
shouldn’t be. We hear the scream of a 200 pound bomb as it
comes flying in
about 100 yards away. There’s a huge explosion. We look to the
sky. There are
no planes up there. And we’ve heard no air raid sirens.
One of our old timers, a Marine who’s been in the Corps for
many years says
“That was a mortar shell guys".
"We didn’t hear any cannon fire.” we say.
“You won’t” he answers. “Mortars Just shoot straight up
and lob their
shells a short distance. They don’t make a lot of noise." He
holds up his
hand, “There did you hear that?” Then in the same breath he
roars, “Hit the
deck”!
Well, we did hear a low boom of a sound. not sharp and loud as
cannon fire.
And as we mull this over in our minds we hear the scream of
another big one
coming in. It’s actually up the road a quarter of a mile away.
We can see a
tower of dust and smoke rising from where it landed. Later we
will walk by
and measure the crater. (10 feet in diameter, 3 feet deep)
So, now we know what’s been going on over on Bataan. That’s
the reason for
all those trucks and dusty roads.
Another scream comes out of the sky. We hit the deck again. Our
old timer
says “Not to worry. Those are not being fired in anger.
They’re just ranging
in their guns.” He laughs, he thinks he’s said something
funny.
“This”, he adds, “will probably go on for the rest of the
day.”
It does. We bring our Abatis construction to an end. We are too
far from our
own position under these new conditions. We return to our squad
area.
We’re shelled that night after we return from our Abatis
detail. We’re back
at our own position now. We hear the scream of incoming hardware
and dive for
our holes. This is as safe as we’ll ever be. I think they’re
still ranging
in their guns. The shelling continues for a half and hour, but
its a bit
sporadic. The shells are hitting from the ridge road down to the
beach and
over to the next squad area beyond ours.
The thing is, you can’t tell from the scream where the shell
is heading. They
all sound like they are heading for you. This is not fun. Its
terrifying
really. It’s just not easy to accept, that from the moment the
shelling
starts, your fate is out of your hands. If one of those shells
has your name
on it, you are a dead man. You are history. The shelling stops
around dusk.
They’re still ranging in their guns and need to see the
results.
We stick our heads up from our holes and yell out our names.
It’s roll call.
We’ve all made it. We have survived our first “Shell
Fire”. We’re battle
hardened Marines now.
As things quiet down, the men get out of their holes and move
around the area
a bit to stretch their legs, share their food and eat. Rocher
brings me a
welcome cup of hot coffee. He’s walked over to the company
office position.
They have a big coffee urn they keep heated for the men on
watch. It sure
goes down good. We actually get a fair nights sleep. The
shelling has
stopped, for the night at least. But our relief is short lived.
We awaken
early in the morning to the now familiar scream. Just a few
stray shots as it
turns out, but just as deadly.
The next day, around one o’clock we’re bracketed (for the
first time) by
accurate deadly shell fire. The guns are all ranged in now. This
is for real.
The shells seem to arrive in groups of ten or more. Sometimes
that ten is
followed immediately by another equal number. Sometimes the
“bracket” moves
on for the next ten. (I cant swear to this number. I sure never
stopped
during a shelling to take a count)
What I did do one day is raise my head up, look around and watch
it. happen.
I stood there (in my hole) and just watched.
When the shell hits and explodes it’s like watching a great
flower bursting
into flaming life for an instant. The flower is about 40 feet
across and is
colored a glowing yellow and orange. There is a deafening noise
of explosion
followed instantaneously by by a zinging hissing sound of flying
steel.
People joke about “Battlefield Conversions”, about men who
come to God in
times of danger. I don’t think it’s funny. The thing is when
your life if no
longer in your hands, who do you go to for help? I prayed, you
bet I did.
And, I survived eventually. If “God” saved me, he never told
he why.
They shelled the next day, the night after that, and the day
after that.
There’s a drinking song that soldiers sometimes sing that says
it all in four
lines:
“They shelled last night.
And they shelled the night before.
They’re going to shell tonight.
Like they never shelled before.”
Those words describe our life during that period all too
clearly. We used to
laugh and sing them out proudly after a particularly deadly
barrage.
How could we laugh at. such a time? Well, we’re winners, all
of us, you know!
Winners in mans greatest of all games of chance, War.
The stakes are high of course. You bet your life! But that’s
why we’re all
winners. We’re alive! Only the dead lose.
It’s early evening. The date is May 5th. The constant shelling
of the island
has ceased for the moment. But we hear new sounds, grenades,
field mortars,
fifty caliber machine guns, three inch artillery rifles. These
are the
weapons we have been holding in reserve for the landing defense.
(We didn’t
want the enemy to know we had them till we needed them to fight
off a
landing.)
This says, there’s a landing going on somewhere! Sounds like
down by Monkey
Point where we built that Abatis.
We make a point, Rocher and I, of wandering by the platoon
lieutenant’s
position. We again ask whether we might be needed where the
fighting is so
obviously going on. As before the answer is “No, stand by your
assigned
posts. We know where you are. If we need you we’ll come and
get you.”
I think we could have made a difference! If our lieutenant had
been a young
Patton or MacArthur we would probably have been in the middle of
it. But he
wasn’t, and we weren’t.
As the night progresses the noise gets ever greater. Bad news,
more noise
means more men on the island.
Rocher and I return to our area. No way we can sleep, so we find
a
comfortable road bank beside a ditch. We jump down in the ditch,
lean on the
bank and proceed to spend the night in mindless but relaxing
conversation.
That was a long night.. I am excited in a way. I’m finally
going to get a
chance to do the job I was hired to do. Shoot at an enemy.
(Let’s make that a
little stronger, after three weeks of shelling and death I am no
longer a
happy camper. I want to kill those guys that are trying so hard
to kill me).
It’s dawn now, the next morning, Rocher and I are sharing a
can of pork and
beans from our stash. The lieutenant sees us and yells over.
“1 need you guys
on a detail. Tell your corporal, bring your weapons, and come
with me”. (He
doesn’t need to tell us to bring our weapons. We never go
anywhere with out
them. We’re Marines).
Hey. that’s great. Anything is better than just sitting doing
nothing.
We jump up and join a group of some six men selected by the
lieutenant for
this detail. “Our job will be to clear the tank trap and arm
it. We have word
there are tanks on the island,” he says.
He’s talking about a trench we dug across the main road of the
island. It’s
about half way between our position and the entrance to Malinta
tunnel, about
a quarter mile down the road.
No problem except, judging from the noise level, the fighting is
getting
closer to our own positions. Well, that’s the lieutenants
problem. not ours.
Only, once again we are headed away from the fighting, not
towards it.
We run, more or less separated, from shell hole to shell hole
(for some small
protection from the flying steel and lead) We get to the ‘Tank
Trap’, the
trench across the road now bridged over with railroad rails and
wooden
planking. Our job will be to remove all of this, destroy it so
it can’t be
returned, and leave the trench as one impassable gap in the
road.
There is a bit of a problem now. The damn thing is under machine
gun fire.
There is lead flying everywhere. We stand there for a moment and
just stare
at it. The Lieutenant is on the ball now. He yells. “Come on
man. this is
war.”
He’s said the right thing. We run out onto the planking over
the trench and
proceed to tear it apart. Unbelievably the bullets keep singing
through the
air around us, but no one is hit. We work fast, get the job
done, and look up
at our lieutenant for what’s next?
He points back to our position and says. “We can’t go back
there. That area
is under fire now. We will join the Tunnel defense unit.
— Thanks Lieutenant! You see fighting and we go the other way?
Right?-
Anyway the decision is his, not ours. We follow him. We soon
find ourselves
in front of the Malinta tunnel entrance. There is a long
defensive trench dug
in at an angle around the entrance. There are some dozen or
soldiers there in
the trench now. Our lieutenant says, “you are here to stop all
enemy entry
into the tunnel.”
In everyday English he’s saying, “Stop the bastards. Make
them pay. If they
get by you the island is lost”
Well, we wanted to see some action. He finally found it for us!
We nod at the soldiers stationed around us; we apparently are
the first
Marines to join the group.
We do have a problem here. The entrance to the tunnel is cut
into vertical
rock face some 50 feet high. This face is being shelled
constantly. Shrapnel
is flying everywhere. Standing in this trench takes some
planning to make
sure you are not exposed unnecessarily to the singing steel.
I’m reminded again of my old sergeants advice. “Don’t get
killed unless
necessary. You are out there to kill, not get killed.” Always
good to have a
wise saying to justify an act of caution.
We crouch down in the trench, away from the strafing, and make
ourselves
comfortable. This is a suicide assignment. We might as well be
comfortable
till it is over~ We can now see movement off in the distance,
back where our
fox holes still are. Hope our buddies are OK.
We lean against the back of the trench wall and wait. It’s
getting into early
afternoon now. Suddenly, in spite of the constant shelling, the
main door to
the tunnel cracks open. A clean, neatly-uniformed medic sticks
his head out
and asks if we are thirsty.
Hell yes, fellow. This is the Philippines. (We are not
sympathetic with these
tunnel denizens). Unbelievably he brings out a cooler and some
paper cups.
Paper cups? We haven’t seen any of these since the States.
These guys in the
tunnels must come from another world.
We do enjoy the cool drinks. We thank our brave friend. He
risked his life to
do that!
We lean back and go on with our waiting. We don’t know it but
the war will be
over for us in another two hours.
As we stand there, still against the back wall of the trench, we
notice the
tunnel entrance doors are being opened again. We watch with
interest.
Two neatly uniformed soldiers come out. One of them is carrying
a pole. like
a flag pole. The other has something folded up under his arm.
The two stop
for a moment in the open. One of the men unfolds a white sheet
and ties it on
to the pole the other is carrying. They then set off down the
road towards
the enemy. Neither is carrying a weapon.
We wonder idly, what’s going on. Some sort of negotiations we
guess.
After a bit we see our two men off in the distance talking to
two Japanese
officers. At least we assume they are officers. They are dressed
in field
uniforms, a light tan cotton material. They have field caps on
with Kepis
hanging down from the back of the cap. They are both wearing the
classic
Japanese samurai swords. They are armed. Both have neat Luger
leather
holsters on their belts.
The meeting breaks up, we see. Our men walk back to the tunnel,
still
carrying the white flag. They won’t stop to talk as they
return. So we have
to guess at what’s going on. As we wait and discuss it the
shelling
continues. We are still ready to stop any enemy attack on the
tunnel. Nothing
has changed, yet.
However, the tunnel doors open up again. Now we see some 6 Army
officers step
out into the open. They’re in full uniform. This has to be
important. They
walk off down the same road. We see them meet a group of a dozen
or so
Japanese officers at the same halfway point on that road.
More Field uniforms and all carrying those long Samurai swords
and wearing
hats with Kepis.
We can see some sort of a meeting taking place. Then it breaks
off and our
men return. Strafing and the shelling of the tunnel entrance has
finally
stopped.
We jump out and ask what’s going on. This group can’t get by
without
somebody saying something. Yet they do.
One of the officers breaks off from the group and comes over to
talk to our
officer, an army lieutenant, and says “It’s over guys. Your
orders are to
destroy your weapons and stand down. Your next orders will come
from the
Japanese.
Yes, I do remember May 6th. That was the day I cried.
Richard Keech
semper fi
©2000 Richard Keech
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