Conduct Under Fire

by John A. Glusman

  Wada Kinsuke was a medic assigned to Colonel Takechi Susumu’s 9th Infantry. He had trained for three months at the army hospital in Kyōto, where he learned anatomy and first aid. Japanese field equipment was more sophisticated than the Americans might have imagined, but actual treatments were not.

  The standard-issue leather musette bag was packed with a surgical pocket case, needle and sutures, syringe, camphor solution, alcohol, medicated soap, opium tablets, bandages and gauze, stethoscope, morphine solution, rubber catheter, mercuric chloride tablets, and tincture of iodine. There was aspirin for headaches and fever, and quinine in limited quanties for malaria, which was later replaced with atabrine. Patent medicines, as well as vitamins B and C, were used extensively. Many of the other drugs had already been discarded by American and European counterparts, and some preventives were entirely useless. Field instrument cases included a sterilizer, nickel-plated carbon steel instruments as opposed to stainless steel, and antiquated blood transfusion kits. Plasma was unavailable.

  On paper, two or three medical officers were assigned to each battalion, and each platoon in forward areas had one medic who accompanied troops into combat and doubled as a litter bearer to help carry the wounded back to dressing stations. Medics were responsible primarily for minor ailments and water purification. Medical officers administered treatment, intervened in outbreaks of infectious diseases, and cooperated closely with company COs. They carried their personal swords and were given army pistols so they could kill themselves if captured. They were also issued Red Cross brassards, which they tended not to wear.

  Japanese aid stations were primitive. Field hospitals were one and a quarter miles behind the lines, and their organization was flexible enough that they could be broken into smaller units that functioned independently. Unlike Allied patients, Japanese wounded did not receive postoperative care. Standard daily rations for Japanese troops were 62 ounces and consisted of boiled rice, pickled plums or white radishes (daikon), bean paste soup, some vegetables, and occasionally fish and meat. But by January 1942, the Japanese 14th Army was scraping the bottom of its rice bowl, and by mid-February rations dived to a mere 23 ounces, which was still slightly better than what was doled out to the Fil-American forces.

  There was little food up in the mountains, though, and hardly any meat. For water, Japanese troops sometimes slashed tree trunks to tap the moisture inside. Once Wada came across a beautiful stream in a valley. Three platoons of men made a run for it. They guzzled the cool liquid and were soon doubled over with diarrhea. Wada was sick for two weeks.

  The 14th Army began its campaign on Bataan with only a month’s supply of quinine, so malaria prophylaxis was restricted to frontline troops. By mid-March the little quinine that remained was reserved for treatment only. Initially Wada had plenty of the febrifuge. He had a mosquito net, too, but he refused to use it because of the heat. Soon he came down with malaria. Almost all of the soldiers, it seemed, suffered from dysentery. Wada believed that dysentery could be cured with “will and spirit,” but not even “will and spirit” could vanquish malaria.

  The medics had no support. Wada found it impossible to evacuate the wounded through the jungle back to a dressing station. He watched many men die, deprived of any medication whatsoever. They were starving on the frontlines, and after the first assault on Bataan, they were near exhaustion.

  The Japanese 14th Army surgeon, Lieutenant Colonel Horiguchi Shusuke, estimated that 10,000 to 12,000 Japanese were sick with malaria, dysentery, and beriberi by February 1942, leaving only 3,000 effective fighting men. The mortality rate from malaria was high; some units were reduced to 10 percent combat efficiency. Japanese hospitals on Bataan couldn’t keep pace with battle casualties, much less medical cases.

  One February night, as Colonel Takechi began withdrawing the 9th Infantry from the bamboo thicket just beyond the intersection of Trail 2 and the main line of resistance, Wada’s entire platoon was eliminated. It was hard being alone, hard knowing that you owed your life to “the spirits of the dead.”

  On March 27 MacArthur was joined in Australia by Manuel Quezon, who declared in a proclamation aired on Corregidor over the Voice of Freedom: “I call upon every Filipino to keep his courage and fortitude and to have faith in the ultimate victory of our cause.” Once Quezon reached America, where he would retire to a sanatorium in Saranac Lake, New York, he privately denounced MacArthur for his failure to defend the Philippines and reinforce Australia.

  By April, MacArthur had established General Headquarters, Southwest Pacific Area Command (GHQ/SWPA) in a tall bank building in Melbourne at 121 Collins Street. He was now responsible for Australia, the Bismarck Archipelago, the Solomon Islands, New Guinea, and the Netherlands East Indies (not including Sumatra), with military authority over the U.S. Army, Navy, and elements of the Army Air Force. East of Melbourne was the vast Pacific Ocean Area (POA), which fell under the command of Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, over whom MacArthur had seniority.

  MacArthur had sworn that help was on the way to the Philippines, but none of the efforts to reinforce the islands—submarines from Hawaii, aircraft from Australia, or the plans that included planes loaded with supplies from China and a surprise attack on Japanese naval forces by American B-17s—provided the relief he had promised. The fate of the garrison seemed clear once the silver reserves of the Philippine Commonwealth were dumped into Manila Bay in March 1942. Nearly $16 million in pesos was removed from the government vault, packed in whiskey crates, taken by truck to South Dock, loaded on lighters, and sunk between Corregidor and Fort Hughes. It was great fun at first, said Lieutenant ( j.g.) Kenneth R. Wheeler, who volunteered for the job, but the task soon grew arduous. Entire barges were scuttled with boxes of silver on board. The message was obvious: money could be recovered, men were expendable.

  Back home, the U.S. government sent a different message to the families and loved ones of those in the field. Laura Reade anxiously awaited news of Murray’s whereabouts. A few days before Homma launched his final assault on Bataan, she received the following letter:March 27, 1942

  My dear Miss Reade: You are advised that the Bureau has just received a report dated March 17, 1942, in which Lieutenant (junior grade) Murry [sic] Glusman, United States Naval Reserve, was reported as being alive and well.

  You may be assured that we are very glad to furnish this good news and hope that it will be a source of joy to you.

  Sincerely yours,

  RANDALL JACOBS,

  Chief of Bureau [of Navigation]

  Alive, yes, but things were far from well. By April 1 Murray and John were seeing increasing numbers of stragglers from the front in Mariveles. They asked for food and medical care and told stories of having nothing to eat except “a little rice and a dab of salmon.” Morale was bad, they said. Artillery fire approached nearer by the day. The lines were falling back, they were being breached, and the breaches couldn’t be closed. The troops were ravaged by malaria, dysentery, and food deficiency diseases. By April 1 Luzon Force was on its last legs, reported Major General King’s surgeon, Lieutenant Colonel Harold W. Glattley.

  “Help is on the way,” John scrawled in his Bataan diary. “What crap.”

  10

  “Wherever I am . . . I still love you”

  IN THE EARLY MONTHS OF 1942, the medical officers on Corregidor were in a far more advantageous position than their buddies on Bataan. Two weeks before the implementation of War Plan Orange-3 in late December 1941, Colonel Chester H. Elmes, the post quartermaster, transferred 25,800 tons of food from the Manila Quartermaster Depot to Malinta Tunnel. The “defense reserve” was sufficient to feed 10,000 men for 180 days—there were only 9,000 men on Corregidor and the satellite islands at the time. But little of Corregidor’s surplus made it to the embattled Bataan peninsula. In fact, the reverse was true. On January 24, 1942, MacArthur ordered Major General Moore to increase subsistence reserves for the harbor forts—which meant valuable food stocks on Bataan were actually removed to
Corregidor.

  Officers and men were still on half rations, but the walls of Malinta Tunnel were piled high with crates of food, medical supplies, and ammunition. There were some who wanted to have their cake and eat it, too. On March 18 a truck on its way to antiaircraft batteries on Corregidor was stopped by military police, bulging at the seams with bacon, sausage, ham, raisins, canned peas, potatoes, corn, and peaches. Troops on Bataan could only dream about such luxuries. There were enough rations on Corregidor to last 20,000 men until July 1, 1942—if the Rock could hold out that long.

  With the Japanese blockade of Philippine waters, mail to the United States slowed to a trickle. Lucy Ferguson received only three letters in three months from George while he was stationed on Corregidor, and they left via submarine.

  It was midwinter in Evanston, Illinois, and bitterly cold. Her heart skipped a beat when she opened an envelope postmarked February 5, 1942, and stamped “Passed by Naval Censor.”

  Dearest Lucy: Here I am again with apologies (as usual) for not being able to write sooner.Also for breaking up our plans for a X-mas celebration but it seems that there is a little job that must be performed before returning. . . .

  At one time I thought I was on my way back, in fact I even had passage on a President Ship with orders to report to Pensacola for training in aviation medicine. How does this latter strike you? Don’t say it, I think I know and was going to make arrangements to have it remedied.All of the rest of the gang got away, at least on the way and out of the area, with the exception of yours truly, and the two other gunboat medicos.

  I certainly hope that I can allay your fears for my safety because we all feel safe and confident of returning.There were only two occasions when I had any doubts about the above and that was when we were still uninitiated in the art of avoiding little Japanese messages of death from the sky.After a short apprenticeship in this sort of thing one gets to know the best methods for self preservation and believe me we all have it down pat. . . .

  Here is some news for you. I made Lieut. about a month ago and am wearing the two stripes around but this doesn’t mean much except for the additional salary that it conveys. Practically everyone around here has been given a promotion of some sort and an ensign or jg is a curiosity.

  Hope that you haven’t disposed of the car and that you will keep it in good running order as it will soon become very valuable to us on our trip “around” the USA.You know I hate to have to buy a pursuit plane or a tank to make that trip although some day they will be cheaper than automobiles and thicker than flies.

  By the way will you keep tab [sic] on the latest in men’s clothing because that will be the second item on my list when I return (you will be the first).At present I have two snappy khaki outfits and usual accessories such as tin hat, gas mask, canteen, rain coat etc.Am afraid that all the little trinkets and presents and film that I wanted to bring you have been lost although there is a slight chance that they can be recovered.

  Will you please get in touch with Mother and Dad in Chicago? I believe that Dad is still working for Marshall-Jackson Co. on Clark Street. Give them my love and say that everything is fine and I am getting fat on this war.Tell Jane that I expect her to be famous for something or other by the time I return.

  Well Darling I guess You [sic] made a mistake marrying a Navy MD but I want you to know that wherever I am sent and however long I am kept out here I still love you with all my heart. Some day we will get a chance to use that furniture purchased in Shanghai and our lives will start over. Just another honeymoon. Remember!

  All my love,

  George T. Ferguson

  George had arrived on Corregidor on January 2, 1942, and painted the rosiest picture for Lucy. He had slept in fourteen different places since December 8, was irritable from numerous bombings, and soon found the 1st Battalion aid station surrounded by bomb craters “all within fifty yards” of one another. Some mornings he spent most of his time ducking for cover into Malinta Tunnel, where the echo of bombs reverberated against its cavernous walls. But what good would it do to let Lucy know? She’d get the point through his humor. Tell her any more, and she’d only worry. Besides, if you could imagine the future being a whole lot worse, the present didn’t look half bad. He shared his darker thoughts with his diary.

  Fred had also been promoted to full lieutenant, but his letter to his parents was far less sanguine.

  Feb. 5, 1942

  Dear Mom & Pop,

  I hope that things are going along well at home and I would sure like to hear from you all—a letter might possibly reach me if you address me in care of the Commandant 16th Naval District via Post Master San Francisco, Calif.

  There is nothing that I can tell you except that I am well, safe & sound.

  I miss you all as much as you undoubtedly miss me, but at the same time I am glad that I am able to do my bit for the thing we are fighting for.Words cannot describe the inhuman, barbaric, hateful menace we are fighting—nor should the world ever forget their treacherous & malicious type of cunningness [sic]—nor shall it rest until we drive them so deep that they may never rise again. Sorry to sound so bitter but I am sure that I am far from alone in my sentiments.

  My love to you all,

  Your son

  Fred

  The December 29 bombing was the worst. By early January 1942, 4,000 to 5,000 people had crowded into Malinta Tunnel, where an early warning system announced the approach of enemy planes with flashing red lights as sirens wailed outside.

  Malinta was safe from bombing and artillery fire, but its operations were still vulnerable. Power and cold-storage plants were exposed, as were electrical, water, and sewage lines, which were knocked out in the air raids on Corregidor between December 29 and January 6. The tunnel was ventilated with electric blowers, but you couldn’t help feeling oppressed by its cave-like atmosphere. The air smelled of sweat, stale food, the blood of the wounded, and the sharp scent of eye-watering disinfectant the sanitary squad used to mop the cement floors twice a day. Respiratory ailments flourished. Dampness caused skin to break out in boils known as Guam blisters. Lack of privacy and minimal contact with the outside world strained even the most seasoned relationships. The absence of daylight, the strange “bluish glow” of fluorescent bulbs, and the sense of confinement made some feel as if they were living in a prison.

  As one wag described tunnel life in the Navy Evening Gopher, a news sheet produced by Lieutenant Warwick Scott of Rockwell’s staff:Tunnels, dust, heat, and flies

  Everyone telling little white lies

  Bombs, and craters, rotten roads

  Army trucks shrapneled carrying loads. . . .

  Bottomside, sandbags, cold stores, gas

  Gopher, coding room, Sunday mass

  And now that we’ve learned to love this Rock

  Let’s return to Manila, from old North Dock

  The sooner the better is what I say

  Let’s pack our grips and—ANCHORS AWEIGH!!!

  The 4th Marines were the only infantry unit on Corregidor. Colonel Beecher’s 1st Battalion occupied the East Sector, which extended one and a half to two miles from Malinta Hill all the way to Hooker Point—the tail of the tadpole. The terrain was rugged at the center, exposed, and a mere 800 to 1,000 yards at its widest. John Nardini was Battalion Surgeon until he was called for emergency medical assistance at Hospital No. 2 on Bataan and replaced by the Assistant Battalion Surgeon, George Ferguson. The aid station was at the highest point on Malinta Trail, about 200 yards east of the lateral entrance to the army hospital in Malinta Tunnel.

  Lieutenant Herman R. Anderson’s 2nd Battalion was tasked with the West Sector and tended by Battalion Surgeon Marion Wade and Assistant Battalion Surgeon Fred Berley. And Lieutenant Colonel John P. Adams’s 3rd Battalion was responsible for the Middle Sector, cared for by Battalion Surgeon Lieutenant George R. Hogshire and Assistant Battalion Surgeon Lieutenant ( j.g.) Edward F. Ritter, Jr.

  The Office of the Regimental Surgeon, oc
cupied by Thomas Hirst Hayes in Malinta Tunnel, had lines of communication radiating out to the battalion aid stations, each of which was manned by a Battalion Surgeon, a dental officer, and five corpsmen. Beyond the battalion aid stations were sub-aid stations, each staffed with an Assistant Battalion Surgeon and two corpsmen. And beyond the sub-aid stations were the company aid men who were closest to the defense line. If evacuation were necessary, corpsmen would tag patients and notify the battalion aid station by telephone or runner. The wounded would then be carried by stretcher to designated points along Corregidor’s roads, where they would be retrieved by ambulance—in the case of the 1st Battalion, a one-and-a-half-ton Chevrolet truck. That was the organization of the medical department of the 4th Marines on Corregidor, which operated as a unit of the army hospital in Malinta Tunnel.

  Few preparations had been made for a beach defense before the 4th Marines arrived on Corregidor in December 1941. They quickly began clearing underbrush, digging trenches, installing machine gun and mortar emplacements, filling sandbags, setting tank traps, land mines, sea mines, placing cable barriers in the North and South Dock inlets, and stringing barbed wire entanglements across ravines and the nearly 4,000 yards of beaches where a possible landing could take place.

  More than twenty miles of barbed wire was spooled out in the East Sector alone. An estimated two miles of tunnels had been constructed since hostilities began. In the first series of air raids on Corregidor, shallow tunnels collapsed and bombproof shelters became death traps instead. Colonel Lloyd E. Mielenz, the engineer in charge of fortification of harbor defenses, reconfigured bomb shelter design and directed that no new tunnels were to be built unless they were buttressed overhead by fifty feet of rock. The antiaircraft batteries had their own tunnels for protection of crews and ammunition, as did many other units, which used them for headquarters and aid stations like termites on a log about to be tossed to the flames. Concrete splinter-proof roofs helped protect coast artillery men, but the batteries were constant targets of enemy fire and provided a steady stream of casualties to the navy doctors in the field.