The Reckoning

by John Grisham

  In March, there was a lull in the fighting as the Japanese tightened the noose around Bataan. They regrouped and reinforced with fresh supplies. The Americans and Filipinos knew what was inevitable, and dug in even deeper.

  During the days, Pete and his comrades shoveled dirt around bunkers and breastworks, though labor was difficult. The men were sick and starving. Pete estimated he had lost at least forty pounds. Every ten days or so he punched another notch in his only belt to keep his pants up. So far he had managed to avoid malaria, though it was just a matter of time. He’d had two mild bouts of dysentery but had recovered quickly from both when a doctor found some paregoric. During the nights, he slept on a blanket beside his foxhole with his rifle by his side.

  In the foxhole to his right was Sal Moreno, a tough Italian sergeant from Long Island. Sal was a city kid from a large, colorful family that produced a lot of good stories. He had learned to ride horses on a farm where his uncle worked. After a couple of scrapes with the law, he joined the army and found his way to the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry. A severe case of malaria almost killed him, but Pete found quinine on the black market and nursed him back to decent health.

  In the foxhole to Pete’s left was Ewing Kane, a Virginia blue blood who had graduated with honors from the Virginia Military Institute, as had his father and grandfather. Ewing was riding ponies when he was three years old and was the finest horseman in the Twenty-Sixth.

  But their horses were gone now, and the men lamented the fact that they had been reduced to infantry status. They spent hours together talking and their favorite subject was food. Pete described with relish the dishes prepared by Nineva: battered pork chops, raised on his farm, and smoked ribs, and fried okra, fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, potatoes fried in bacon fat, fried squash, fried everything. Sal marveled at a style of cooking that involved so much grease. Ewing described the joys of smoked Virginia hams and bacon and all manner of pheasant, dove, quail, hens, and Brunswick stew. But they were amateurs compared with Sal, whose mother and grandmother prepared dishes the other two had never heard of. Baked lasagna, stuffed manicotti, spaghetti Bolognese, balsamic pork scaloppine, garlic tomato bruschetta, fried mozzarella cheese, and on and on. The list seemed endless, and at first they thought he was exaggerating. But the depth of his detail made their mouths water. They agreed to meet in New York after the war and do nothing but binge on Italian delicacies.

  There were moments when they managed to laugh and dream, but morale was low. The men on Bataan blamed MacArthur, Roosevelt, and everybody else in Washington for abandoning them. They were bitter and miserable and most were unable to resist complaining. Others told them to shut up and stop the bitching. Complaints did nothing to help their rotten conditions. It was not unusual to see men weeping in their foxholes, or to see a man crack up and wander away. Pete kept his sanity by thinking of Liza and the kids, and the sumptuous meals Nineva would one day cook for him, and all those vegetables in Amos’s garden. He wanted desperately to write some letters but there were no pens, no paper, no mail service. They were thoroughly blockaded with no way to correspond. He prayed for his family every day and asked God to protect them after he was gone. Death was certain, either by starvation, disease, bombs, or bullets.

  While the Japanese infantry took a break, its artillery and air force never stopped pounding away. It was a lull, but there were no quiet days. Danger was never far away. To wake things up each morning, Japanese dive-bombers strafed at will, and as soon as the planes disappeared the cannons began unloading.

  Late in March, 150 big guns were positioned near the American line and began a ferocious bombardment. The assault was continuous, around the clock, and the results were devastating. Many Americans and Filipinos were blown to bits in their foxholes. Bunkers thought to be bombproof disintegrated like straw shacks. Casualties were horrendous and the field hospitals were packed with the injured and dying. On April 3, after a week of nonstop artillery fire, Japanese infantry and tanks poured through the gaps. As the Americans and Filipinos fell back, their officers tried to rally them into defensive positions, only to be overrun within hours. Counterattacks were planned, attempted, and destroyed by the vastly superior Japanese forces.

  By then, an American general estimated that only one soldier in ten could walk a hundred yards, raise his rifle, and shoot at the enemy. What had once been a fighting army of eighty thousand had been reduced to an effective fighting force of twenty-five hundred. Low on food, morale, ammo, and with no support from the skies or seas, the Americans and Filipinos battled on, throwing everything they had at the Japanese and inflicting horrendous casualties. But they were outnumbered and outgunned, and the inevitable soon became the reality.

  As the enemy continued its relentless push, the American commander, General Ned King, huddled with his generals and colonels and discussed the unthinkable—surrender. Orders from Washington were clear: The American and Filipino forces were to fight to the last man. That might sound heroic when decided in a comfortable office in Washington, but General King now faced the awful reality. It was his decision to either surrender or have his men slaughtered. Those who were still able to fight were putting up a resistance that grew weaker each day. The Japanese were within a few miles of a large field hospital that held six thousand wounded and dying men.

  At midnight on April 8, General King assembled his commanders and said, “I am sending forward a flag of truce at daybreak to ask for terms of surrender. I feel that further resistance would only uselessly waste human life. Already one of our hospitals, which is filled to capacity and directly in the line of hostile approach, is within range of enemy light artillery. We have no further means of organized resistance.”

  Though the decision was inevitable, it was still difficult to accept. Many of those present wept as they left to resume their duties. General King ordered the immediate destruction of anything of military value, but he spared buses, cars, and trucks to carry the sick and wounded to the prison camps.

  With approximately seventy thousand soldiers under his command, General King’s surrender was the largest in American history.

  * * *

  —

  Pete heard the news at noon on April 9 and could not believe it. He, Sal, Ewing, and others from the Twenty-Sixth at first planned to disappear into the bush and keep fighting, but that strategy seemed almost suicidal. They hardly had the energy to mount an escape. They were ordered to destroy their weapons and ammunition, find and eat whatever they could, fill their canteens with water, and begin walking north in search of the Japanese. The men were stunned, defeated, even emotional at the reality that a once proud American army had surrendered. Their sense of shame was profound.

  As they walked slowly and with a sense of fear and dread, they were joined by other dazed and emaciated Americans and Filipinos. Dozens, then hundreds of soldiers filled the road, all walking to a future that was uncertain but would certainly be unpleasant. They cleared the way for a transport truck packed with wounded Americans. On its hood sat a solitary private, holding a stick with a white flag on it. Surrender. It did not seem real.

  The men were frightened. Japan’s reputation as a brutal occupier was well-known. They had read stories of its war crimes in China—the rape of countless women, the execution of prisoners, the looting of entire cities. At the same time, though, they were somewhat comforted by the fact that they were American prisoners and thus protected by international law, which forbade their mistreatment. Wasn’t Japan bound by the agreements of the Geneva Convention?

  Pete, Sal, and Ewing stuck together as they trudged north to meet their captors. As they topped a hill, they saw a sickening sight. A row of Japanese tanks was assembled in a clearing, waiting. Behind it was a column of Japanese soldiers. In the distance, airplanes were still dropping bombs; cannons were still firing.

  “Get rid of all your Jap stuff and quick,” someone yelled back. The warning was repea
ted again and again down the line, and most of the men heard it and complied quickly. Japanese coins and souvenirs were dropped in the dirt and tossed in ditches. Pete had only three small tins of canned sardines in his pockets, along with his wristwatch, wedding band, blanket, mess kit, and a pair of sunglasses. He had twenty-one American dollars sewn inside the canvas cover of his canteen.

  They were approached by Japanese soldiers waving rifles and barking in their language. Every rifle was equipped with a long bayonet. The prisoners were directed to a field, lined up in rows, and told to remain silent. One of the Japanese spoke enough English to bark commands. One by one, the prisoners were told to step forward and empty their pockets. They were frisked, though it was obvious the guards wanted little contact. Punching and slapping were okay, but nothing that required finesse around the pockets. Almost everything was stolen, or “confiscated,” by the Japanese. Fountain pens, pencils, sunglasses, flashlights, cameras, mess kits, blankets, coins, razors, and blades.

  Jack Wilson from Iowa was standing directly in front of Pete when a Japanese soldier began yelling at him. Jack had in his pocket a small shaving mirror, and unfortunately it had been made in Japan.

  “Nippon!” the guard screamed.

  Jack didn’t answer in time, and the soldier rammed the butt of his rifle into his face. He fell to the ground as the soldier pounded him with the rifle butt until he was unconscious. Other guards began punching and slapping the prisoners while their officers laughed and egged them on. Pete was stunned by the sudden violence.

  They would soon learn that the Japanese believed that any of the money, coins, or trinkets held by the prisoners must have been taken from their dead comrades. Thus, retaliation was called for. Several prisoners were beaten until they could not move, but the retaliation reached an unimaginable apex when a captain, not from the Twenty-Sixth, emptied his pockets. An angry little private began screaming at the captain and ordered him to step forward. The private had found some yen on the captain and was out of his mind. An officer stepped forward, a tall lanky sergeant with skin much darker than the others, and began screaming at the captain. He punched him in the gut, kicked him in the groin, and when the captain was down on all fours the “Black Jap,” as he would become known, yanked out his sword, raised it above his head with both hands, and struck the captain at the back of his neck. His head sprang off his shoulders and rolled a few feet away. Blood gushed in buckets as the captain’s body twitched for a few seconds, then became still.

  The Black Jap smiled and admired his handiwork. He stuck his sword back in his sheath and snarled at the other prisoners. The private kept the yen and went through the captain’s pockets, taking his time. The other guards lost all restraint and began beating other prisoners.

  Pete gawked at the head lying in the dust and almost went berserk. He wanted to attack the nearest soldier, but to do so would be suicidal. He breathed deeply while waiting to get punched. He was lucky, at least for that moment, and was not kicked around. Down the line, another private got excited and slapped a prisoner. The Black Jap strode over, saw more yen, and pummeled the American. When he yanked out his sword, Pete looked the other way.

  Two quick beheadings. The Americans had never imagined anything like it. Pete was sickened and shocked and could not believe what was happening. His shock would wear off, though, as the murders became routine.

  The prisoners stood in formation for over an hour as the tropical sun beat down on their bare heads. Pete had always hated his helmet and had left it behind. Now he wished he’d kept it. A few of the prisoners had caps, but most had nothing to shield the sun. They were soaked with sweat and many began to blister. Almost all had canteens but drinking water was forbidden. When the guards grew weary of abusing their prisoners, they retreated to the shade and took a break. The tanks eventually left. The prisoners were led back to the road and headed north.

  The Bataan Death March had begun.

  * * *

  —

  They walked three abreast through the heat and dust. Sal was to Pete’s left, Ewing to his right. When the trail ended, they turned east on the national highway that runs across the southern tip of Bataan. Coming toward them were endless columns of Japanese infantry, trucks, tanks, and horse-drawn artillery, all preparing for the assault on Corregidor.

  When the guards could not hear them, the men talked incessantly. There were about twenty from the Twenty-Sixth Cavalry. The rest had been scattered in the chaos of the surrender. Pete ordered them to organize into groups of three, to keep up with one another and help if possible. If they were caught talking, they were beaten. For sport, the guards randomly grabbed the prisoners for quick searches and more beatings. After three miles or so the men had been stripped of everything valuable. Pete received his first slap in the face by a guard who took his sardines.

  The ditches beside the road were littered with fire-gutted trucks and tanks, all rendered useless by the Americans and Filipinos the day before. At one point they passed a large pile of captured rations, just waiting to be eaten. But there was no mention of food, and the men, most already suffering from malnutrition, were starving. The heat was scalding and men began to collapse. As they quickly learned, it was unwise to render assistance. The guards kept their bayonets ready and were eager to gore any prisoner who stopped to help another one. Those who fell and could not get up were kicked to the side and into the ditches and left to be dealt with later.

  The Japanese bayonet was thirty inches long overall with a fifteen-inch blade. Affixed to a fifty-inch Arisaka rifle, it gave a soldier a five-and-a-half-foot spear. The privates were proud of their bayonets and eager to use them. When a prisoner stumbled and fell, or simply collapsed, he got a quick jab in the butt as encouragement. If that didn’t work, he got the full blade and was left to bleed out.

  Pete marched with his head down and his eyes squinted in an effort to avoid the dust and heat. He was also watching the guards, who seemed to fade away and then materialize out of nowhere. A few seemed sympathetic and unwilling to kick and slap, but most were enjoying the cruelty. Anything could set them off. They could be quiet and stern-faced one moment, then crazy with rage the next. They beat their prisoners with their fists, kicked them with their boots, pummeled them with rifle butts, and stabbed them with bayonets. They beat them for looking this way or that, for talking, for moving too slow, for not answering a question barked in Japanese, and for trying to help a comrade.

  Everyone was brutalized, but the Japanese were especially cruel to the Filipinos, whom they considered an inferior race. Within the first few hours of the march, Pete witnessed the murder of ten Filipino Scouts, with all bodies kicked to the ditches and left to rot. During a break, he watched in disbelief as a column of Scouts came by. All had their hands tied behind their backs and were struggling to keep pace. The guards delighted in knocking them down and watching them roll and flounder in the dust as they tried to scramble to their feet.

  Handcuffing the prisoners served no purpose. As awful as things were, Pete was thankful he wasn’t a Filipino.

  As they plodded along under the unrelenting sun, the men began to dehydrate. In spite of the many obvious problems, water was their principal thought. Thirst was the primary demon. Their bodies reacted by trying to conserve fluids. They stopped sweating and urinating. Their saliva turned sticky and their tongues stuck to their teeth and the roofs of their mouths. The dust and heat caused severe headaches that blurred their vision. And there was water everywhere, in fresh artesian wells along the roads, in wells near the roads and highways, in spigots on farmhouses and barns, in bubbling creeks they crossed over. Their guards saw the misery and enjoyed long drinks from their canteens and refreshing splashes on their faces. They wet bandannas and tucked them around their collars.

  As the prisoners approached the charred remains of Hospital Number One, they saw many of the patients in soiled gowns and green pajamas wanderin
g around with no idea what to do or where to go. Some were missing limbs and on crutches. Others had bloody wounds in need of care. The hospital had been bombed days before and the patients were in shock. When the Japanese commander saw them, he ordered them rounded up and added to the march. Again, assistance was forbidden, and many of the patients managed to walk only a short distance before collapsing. They were kicked aside and left to die.

  When they encountered a massive traffic jam of Japanese trucks and tanks, they were led to an open field and ordered to sit in the blazing sun. This would become known as the “sun treatment,” and it drove some of them to the point of breaking. As they baked, a prisoner attempted to sneak a drink of tepid water from his canteen, and this upset the guards. They yelled and punched and went from prisoner to prisoner, grabbing canteens and spilling the water on the parched soil. The guard who emptied Pete’s canteen threw it back with such force it opened a small cut above his right eye.

  After an hour, they resumed the march. They passed men who had been bayoneted and were begging for help as they bled to death. They passed the bodies of dead Americans. They watched in horror as two wounded Filipino soldiers were dragged from a ditch and situated in the middle of the road for tanks to run over them. The longer they marched, the more dead and dying they passed in the ditches. Pete marveled at his brain’s ability to adjust to the carnage and cruelty, and he soon reached the point where he wasn’t shocked anymore. The heat, hunger, and deprivation deadened his senses. But the anger boiled, and he vowed revenge. He prayed that one day soon he would find a way to kill as many Japanese soldiers as humanly possible.