Newsletter #31 April 9, 2000
©copyright 2000 RK
HERO OR FOOL? - THE DAY BATAAN FELL
As I wake up this morning, to a beautiful Southern California
spring day, I
have the strangest feeling I have been here before, in another
life.
Something about California's springtime takes me back for the
moment to
another land some 58 years ago, the Philippines. It’s always
“Springtime
there, the Filipinos wil1 tell you. For the moment, I’m back
there. I'm
22-years old. I’m a Marine on the island of Corregidor.
Today is April 9th, as it was then. Before that day ends I will
have watched
an Army die. April 9th is the day recorded in our history books
as the day
Bataan fell. I was there and watched it happen.
Normally on this day (in my life "outside") I join a few old
friends of the
past. We listen to a few speeches and drink a toast to all our
missing
comrades. The name of our group identifies us, we are “the
American Defenders
of Bataan and Corregidor".
We'll hear some ringing words, and we'll be told, "a grateful
nation will
never forget you, our heroes"
Now, back to that hillside 58 years ago. I remember that morning
as though it
were yesterday.
We had been under air raid attack every day for the last week.
As I look up
at the sky, I can see no planes in sight. Nor has there been an
air raid
warning siren for almost eight hours. Maybe we’ll get a break
today.
It's still early morning, time to crawl out of our foxholes on
this hill
site, stretch our legs a bit, and find out what we can cook for
breakfast.
I’m a rifleman. I’m a Marine. I’m a member of a 10-man squad, a
part of the
beach defense of this island.
My squad has a defense sector assigned to it. Our job is simple.
Kill any
enemy soldier that enters that sector.
Our position looks down on a curving bay and the mainland on the
other side
of the entrance to Manila Bay. Corregidor sits in the middle of
that channel.
Directly in front of our position, and a little to the left is
an old sea
plane hanger with a large concrete parking apron around it that
extends down
into the water. Sea planes land on the water of the bay, then
motor up the
inclined ramp to the hanger area.
For reasons I’m not sure of this building and its parking areas
are now
referred to as the "92nd" garage.
Our fox holes are about 40 feet apart and dug in to the hillside
about five
feet from the skirt of the hill. The fox holes are chest high
deep. This way
you can stand up to fire your rifle hut, you don't have to
expose more than
your head.
Their location, two thirds of the way up the hillside, gives us
a good view
of the beach, an exceI1ent field of fire, and in the event of an
attack a
fair amount of "killing time" before the enemy reaches us.
The ridge of the island is about 40 feet behind us. Just enough
to protect us
from being fired on from the other side, the Bataan side.
Our fox holes are remarkably well-designed to protect one as you
stand and
shoot. There is no way, however, of gracefully exiting if things
go bad. One
simply stands and shoots, and then shoots some more. A Marine's
job is to
make the enemy pay in bodies for the territory it's trying to
gain.
Corregidor has been under air attack for several months. When
the air raids
take place, we Marines will be the only ones out in the open, at
risk.
Curiously enough, these air raids are no longer looked on by us
as dangerous.
The thing is, you hear the air raid siren, you stop immediately
and scan the
skies. You’re looking for the incoming flight. Not too hard.
They all come in
out of the China Sea. You spot the incoming flight of bombers
and calculate
its line of flight. Once on a bombing run, a bomber never
deviates from his
plotted flight path.
You look up. There are 12 bombers up there, pretty high, about
25,000 feet.
Our anti-aircraft guns on Corregidor can't shoot that high. The
Japanese
pilots of course know this. That's why they are are at that
altitude.
The bombers, you now calculate, are headed for “topside”. That's
almost three
miles away from our position. Those bombs aren’t going to bother
us at all.
So we go back to the problem of the morning, like, when are we
going to eat?
Now there won't be any chow delivered by our own mess cooks. We
are still
officially in the midst of an air raid. Our mess cooks, who live
in tunnels,
wont come out till the “all clear” is sounded. That may not be
till tomorrow.
Our cooks, just a few months ago, were the pride of the Corps.
That was in
Shanghai where, with unlimited Chinese labor and unlimited
money, they served
a menu that excelled anything offered by the great hotels on the
Bund. The
Shanghai International newspapers frequently wrote up ‘rave'
reports on our
cuisine.
The problem is, no one has explained to these guys their job is
different
now. “We’re supposed to feed men while bombs are falling? No
way!”
As it turns out this odd failure on the part of our cooks proves
to be to our
benefit. It jump-starts us into finding our own food and feeding
ourselves.
Hell! We’re Marines. We’re beholden to no one. If we’re hungry
it’s up to us
to find something to eat.
The sun is now higher in the sky. Our squad is up and active.
We’re gathered
around a piece of leveled ground under one of the still
remaining trees. In
this spot, we have a fire pit for cooking and a canvas tarpaulin
spread out
on the ground for card playing and sitting on to eat.
We decide on hot cooked oatmeal, served with sweetened condensed
milk and
Vienna sausages.
The oatmeal and sweetened condensed milk we got from a nearby
army chow dump.
We 'requisitioned; it during an air raid. (During an air raid
when all of the
Army guard were hidden in tunnels we simply walked in to their
chow dump and
picked up the crates of oatmeal and sweetened condensed milk.)
The Vienna sausage came from a barge that was strafed by a
fighter and made
it almost up to the beach before it sank. We swam out and
salvaged the Vienna
sausage and some other things from it.
Someone walking down the ridge road above us, yells down and
says “Put that
fire out. The Japs will see it.”
We all laugh. "The Japanese don't know we're here? Come on
fellow! They’ve
got good eyes. They are famous for their cameras , field glasses
and optics.
They can probably read the label off our sweetened condensed
milk. We want
our oat meal hot. They know we’re here. Forget it!"
After breakfast, we all turn to field-strip and re-clean our
weapons. No
problem for me. I can field-strip and clean my rifle with a
blindfold on, as
can any other Marine in the service.
It's now going on midday. My buddy Rocher, a navy enlisted man
assigned to
our Marine squad to beef it up to its specified 10 men, comes by
to say “Have
you noticed how heavy that smoke is that is drifting over us
from Bataan. Get
up to the ridge and take a look at Bataan. I think somebody is
in trouble."
Yes, I had noticed something different myself. There's a new
sound to the
explosions coming across the channel from Bataan. For weeks we
have listened
to distant cannon fire and the sound of heavy mortars. Today
there’s a new
set of sounds. For the first time we hear the rattle of rifle
and machine gun
fire. We also hear the ear-splitting crack of knee mortars and
grenades.
Somewhere over there the fighting has gotten down to a
man-to-man thing.
I get up and walk over the ridge line to see for myself.
I don't stand up, of course, once I get there, too much steel
flying around.
And, every Marine knows you never — ever stand up on a sky line.
I find a ditch on the far side of the road that more or less
follows the
ridge line. I jump down in the ditch, with Rocher, and we watch
the spectacle.
He’s right, something for sure is happening. To start with there
are now
three major fires burning, all within walking distance of the
beach at the
end of Bataan, about three miles across the water from us.
That’s our stuff
going up in smoke. The thing is, these fires weren’t caused by
air raids.
This is us burning to keep it from falling into enemy hands. A
scorched earth
defense it would seem. Or is this a scorched earth retreat?
We sit there and explain what we are seeing to each other. We
know you only
use the scorched earth technique when you’ve got to leave so
fast you won't
have a chance to carry out your material.
Our army in Bataan is obviously backed up against a wall. The
beaches are the
wall.
As we watch, our lieutenant comes running down the ridge road
behind us. He
jumps into our ditch for a moment. He’s a good guy. He’s showing
the colors,
so to speak.
Rocher turns to him and says, "Shouldn’t we be helping those
guys? Is there a
plan for us to go rescue them?"
"Not that I know of," says the Lieutenant. "Your station is here
as it always
has been. You still have your own front to defend. Stay with
it. If we’re
needed over there, they will tell us.’
He jumps up out of the ditch and runs on to the company command
post, another
100 yards down the road.
We keep watching. The smoke is so thick that at times it clouds
much of our
view. All one can see at times is the great leaping flames
shooting up thru
the smoke pall. Those have to be fuel dumps burning. We also
hear the erratic
explosions of munitions going off in the weapons dumps.
We’re now hearing more of the man to man battle sounds, the
crackle of rifle
fire, and the sharp detonating crack of knee mortars and
grenades.
Rocher and I return to our squad area. We yell around and
confirm that
everyone is still there; most are in or near their fox holes,
but three are
sitting in our special rest area playing cards. (Poker, I think)
I clean my rifle. It’s really not necessary, but it makes me
feel better.
I’ve been trained that security and safety and a clean rifle all
depend on
each other. Somehow cleaning my rifle again will make me feel
safer.
The squad has opened up some cans of Campbell's pork and beans,
enough for
everyone. Our squad leader says "Better eat now while you can.
They may call
us out to go help our Bataan buddies." I take my food back to my
fox hole to
relax as I eat it.
The sound of exploding ammunition is still in the air. It erupts
like the
sound of a string of Chinese firecrackers and then dies away for
a bit.
After the pork and beans supper, I wander thru the squad area
talking with my
buddies. We're all a little edgy. It’s finally beginning to soak
into our
heads that there is real trouble in Bataan, and we aren’t going
to be able to
help them.
After a bit, I work my way back up to the ridge to see what’s
going on. I
tell my buddies where I’m going.
It's getting dark now and I’ll have to go back to my fox hole
soon. My
buddies know where I am. If I’m needed, they’ll send someone to
get me.
Actually I’m only 50 feet from them, just over the ridge. There
is way too
much noise going on to make "just yelling" possible.
It’s night time now. It should be dark. It isn't, there are four
roaring fuel
dump fires going. Their flames seem to reach hundreds of feet
into the sky. I
had no idea there was that much fuel over there.
I take a last look. This could be what Hell looks and smells
like. Well,
except for the smell, no sulphur in this. This smell has a sweet
nitro—cordite odor to it. It’s a smell all soldiers recognize,
and remember
forever. As I sit there, I notice a steady increase in small
arms fire,
rifles and machine guns.
Then rather suddenly, my heart comes up in my throat.
Tears begin to well out from the corners of my eyes. What
I’m watching finally sinks in to my slow-to-catch-on brain.
I am watching the death of an army. An American army. Those
are my buddies over there. Their army is dying.
I have a terrible feeling of helplessness. I should be out there
with them.
If we were there with them we could make a difference, I know!
That’s my
Marine training.
With that thought we come now to the end of that day in April,
the ninth.
Bataan fell that night.
As our beautiful Southern California spring day comes to an end
I bring my
thoughts back from that day so long ago, and return to my
current world.
Today, April 9th, the politicians and statesmen will tell us
once again that
we were heroes, that we fought for our country against terrible
odds, and
never gave up hope even when things were darkest; that our
nation would come
to our rescue and bring us home.
They say we are not forgotten? Then I must tell you there is a
bit of a
problem here. I am a prisoner in the California prison empire.
Would it
surprise you to know that all heroes turn in their laurels when
they walk
thru the prison gates. There are no recognized heroes in prison.
Rather funny in a way. If we risked our lives for these men,
and we’re not
heroes, what are we? Does that make us “fools”. Why did we risk
our lives to
save these guys.?
Editor's note: Richard is referring to the prison guards in
particular--with
the observation that most of them are under 40 and most have no
college
education and little knowledge of history. While most baby
boomers have a
notion about the significance of Pearl Harbor, few know that the
next
American territory attacked by Japan was the Philippines.
There, the token
divisions of the Army, Navy, and handful of Marines fought
against great odds
to slow down the Japanese invasion.
Reinforcements never arrived and the bloody defense of Bataan
and Corregidor i
n Manila Bay ended with thousands of young Americans
surrendering to the hell
of Japanese slave-labor. camps. The CO's of CMC have no idea
the suffering
Richard went through 48 years ago for their freedom.
(Editor's note 2: Richard has kept his red "privilege" card and
still can
telephone his wife. He was reclassified as "unemployable for
medical
reasons". Will save the story for another newsletter.)
Note: Copyrighted by Richard Keech and not public domain.
By permission, Joan Page Spann
Please see the Richard Keech Information Page, POW Memoirs, etc.
http://www2.jps.net/~chez/rc/
(Richard Keech returned home after WWII, went to college, married and raised a family, and became a productive citizen. Mr. Keech now resides in a California prison for life, at age 80, due to his successfully protecting his daughter against her former husband.)
http://www2.jps.net/~chez/rc/
This is an extension of Gunny G's Marines~WebSites
http://www.angelfire.com/ca/dickg/gunny.html
