Belly of the Beast

by Judith L. Pearson

  No water was issued that morning, but buckets of steamed rice and fish were lowered around 0700. The men had just about divvied it up when a commotion developed topside. The Japanese seamen started yelling and ran to their battle positions, while the men in the holds froze, knowing that either a sub or a plane had been spotted. Within seconds, the Japanese anti-aircraft guns began to chatter and the planes from Admiral Halsey’s 3rd Fleet answered.

  The prisoners in the Oryoku Maru’s holds were helpless. The American pilots performed brilliantly in the skies above the ship. This was what they had trained for; they had no possible way to know that fellow countrymen were aboard their target. Bullets ricocheted off the ship’s sides, and the concussion from bombs dropping around her in the water was deafening. On the one hand, the prisoners wanted to cheer their ace pilots on. If the Japanese were all killed, the prisoners could be freed. On the other hand, the firepower necessary to kill the Imperial forces on board would also most likely kill them. Bullets whizzed through the ship, hitting several doctors and corpsmen in Myers’ hold.

  The civilians and gunners up above the holds were hit hard. Their blood seeped through the cracks in the deck and into the hatch, spattering the POWs below. Myers thought for a minute that Tarpy had been hit and then realized he was covered in the blood raining from above.

  After twenty-five minutes, the bombing run ended. Wada screamed into the amidships hold that doctors were needed up on deck and a group, including Myers, went up the ladder. Carnage lay all around them. The only ones not writhing in pain were the dead. The wounded women and children moaned and sobbed, while those not hurt screamed in terror and confusion. One of the doctors asked Wada if he might also be given supplies to take back to the hold to treat the wounded American prisoners. Wada refused, and then in a fit of anger had the medical crew he had just hauled on deck beaten with gun butts and bamboo sticks.

  “Americans are sinking Japanese ships!” he shrieked at them.

  Myers endured several licks across the back with a bamboo stick from a nearby guard. But he snuck a look out across the water nonetheless and saw one of the transports burning. And the rest of the convoy had disappeared.

  The Oryoku Maru limped along slowly. The planes’ bombardment had badly damaged her steering gear and there was considerable damage to her superstructure. By a small miracle, she had not sustained direct hits to any of the holds. Late in the afternoon, the ship was so badly crippled that the captain dropped anchor not far from shore, where they remained until almost dark. Once the Japanese appeared satisfied that the attacks had ceased, the ship again got underway and pulled into Subic Bay on the west side of Luzon to anchor.

  Wada announced to the prisoners that all Japanese nationals who had occupied the upper decks and all Japanese wounded would disembark immediately. The prisoners were to be taken off as soon as an assemblage of guards could be arranged. Myers spent that night in tortured frustration, trying to comfort and care for the wounded in his hold. There were only filthy, ragged pieces of clothing for bandages and no medical supplies of any kind. The best he could do in most cases was call for one of the chaplains. If all of them were busy, he said a prayer over the dying men himself.

  While the civilians were being removed from the crippled ship, the POWs’ temptation to rush the hatch grew. It was there, wide open. They envisioned somehow being able to blend in with the Japanese passengers and make their escape. The commanding officers pleaded with their men to discourage them from doing so. The guards had already threatened to shoot anyone who attempted escape. The men shoved one another as they tried to get closer to the ladder leading up on deck, which generated more heat in the already sweltering holds. Finally, several men were unable to contain themselves and made a rush up the ladder. Fellow prisoners managed to pull back some of them, but others eluded the life-saving grasps and were gunned down before their feet ever reached the deck.

  Myers was shoved over toward another pharmacist’s mate he recognized from Bilibid. The man was in a very bad way, raving and completely unmanageable. The night before, he and Tex had taken turns holding him down, keeping him away from other prisoners. But by now, Myers’ strength and stamina were waning. The man got away from Myers and was also shot by the guards as he climbed the ladder.

  After all of the Japanese had been removed, it was nearly 2400 hours. A doctor, who had been tending to the enemy’s wounded up on deck, came back down into the hold and told the men near him that he believed the ship was about five hundred yards offshore of Olongapo Naval Station. Myers overheard him and again thought briefly of Stover, his buddy from the Shanghai hospital, who’d been assigned there.

  Wada’s piercing shouts broke through Myers’ thoughts like a razor. The prisoners, Wada said, would swim ashore at sunrise. They were to take only the clothing they were wearing and to remove their shoes, but could carry them. This, Wada explained with a taunting voice, was so that the prisoners would not try to escape once they arrived on dry land. With sandpaper throats, the men begged him for water, but he ignored their cries and moved away from the open hatch. Some of the medical personnel still had emergency dressings and varying amounts of medicines, Myers among them. The POWs dug these out of their bundles in preparation for smuggling them on shore. All of them sifted through their meager belongings, deciding which of the precious pieces they would most need in the coming days and leaving behind the heavy Japanese clothing they’d been issued.

  When the sun peeked over the horizon on December 16, the Oryoku Maru was dead in the water. She was littered with bodies: dead Japanese up on deck and another fifty dead in the holds, American victims of their own country’s bullets.

  Chapter Eleven

  Caged Rats

  Myers had catnapped during the night, fearing he’d be killed by a bloodthirsty POW if he fell completely asleep. Once awake, he wasn’t sure whether the Oryoku Maru had been reality or nightmare. Within seconds, he realized it was both. The men around him still struggled to breathe and the mad ones were still raving. All of them suffered from what psychologists often call “crowd poisoning.” The phobia is similar to what some Christmas shoppers suffer in a crowded store: stale air, heat, and too many other bodies. Here, the affliction could be deadly.

  It was a study in human psychology to see who had lost control and who was maintaining a sense of normalcy. Men whom Myers had come to know over the past years were no longer recognizable. The calm major from a wealthy Connecticut family had slit his wrists the day before rather than wait for what new terrors the Japanese might impose. The cheerful, freckle-faced private from Kansas threatened anyone who came near him with his mess kit knife, as if he’d been a hardened killer all of his life.

  Equally peculiar was the size of the average survivor, in camp and now on the ship. The big, brawny men, like the ones Myers had admired on opposing teams in high school, didn’t seem to fare as well as those who were smaller. The men with more compact builds, like his own, seemed to have an advantage over the Charles Atlas, muscleman types.

  Myers heard the waspish whining of aircraft overhead. The planes didn’t attack, apparently on reconnaissance for the fighters. Shortly after the sounds faded, Wada screeched at the doctor who was in charge of Myers’ hold.

  “No shoes, only shirts and pants to wear. Must leave packs but can take food kit and canteen,” he said in broken English. “Japanese soldiers very good with guns. Will kill any man who tries escape. All men be very careful. You go twenty-five at one time. Must swim to land.”

  The doctor protested, saying that some of the men were wounded and wouldn’t be able to swim. Wada was visibly angered by this complication and went off to consult with Lieutenant Toshino. He came back and agreed to allow the wounded to go ashore in lifeboats. Men were chosen to act as lifeboat oarsmen, including Tex.

  Around 0830, as the first lifeboat was about to shove off, the day’s initial wave of bombers, six in all, arrived. There would be no resistance from the Japan
ese since all of the gun crews had been killed the day before. Toshino signaled frantically for the lifeboat to leave. The prisoners believed he was hoping it would draw the Americans’ fire. Toshino dove for cover along with the other POWs left on deck. The planes’ first target was, indeed, the lifeboat. They flew low, strafing the water as they screamed by, and blew the little boat apart like a toy made of balsa wood.

  More of the wounded prisoners were brought out of the holds as the next group of bombers arrived. The first bomb they dropped was a direct hit to the aft hold, crashing through the deck and killing nearly three hundred prisoners. The coal dust in the hold ignited and the floorboards gave way, dropping the survivors and dead alike into the filthy bilge water of the compartment twenty feet below.

  The POWs in the hold with Myers screamed in terror and agony, and men began to rush up the ladder. The guards standing duty over the hatch fired down into it. The man closest to the top on the ladder was hit in the face and died instantly. Then obeying their captain’s orders, the Japanese guards abandoned ship. The prisoners remained below for another ten minutes before they realized they were no longer being guarded. When they timidly poked their heads through the hatches and saw other Americans wandering around freely, they dashed up the ladder, pouring out of the holds. The stronger helped the weak, and every living prisoner was removed from the holds.

  Myers and the other men who had just climbed on deck faltered, dazed by their circumstances. A piece of luggage had broken open and brown sugar poured out of it. The men crammed what they could of the sugar into anything available: pockets, mess kits, canteens, and their mouths. Some dove over the side of the ship. Others began scavenging throughout the ship.

  The POWs were not alone, however. Both Toshino and Wada were still on board, as were several other Japanese officers. They, too, were collecting final items to take with them and were shooting on sight any Americans caught scavenging. Myers was able to avoid any run-ins with the Japs, and shoved edibles into his mouth as he pawed through boxes looking for medical supplies. Everywhere were caches of American cigarettes and candy, remnants of the Red Cross packages that had never made it to the prisoners.

  Scattered around, too, were the mutilated bodies of dead Imperial soldiers and civilians. Myers stumbled across the corpse of a Japanese child, maybe seven or eight years old, lying facedown in a pool of blood. The only emotions that stirred within him were satisfaction and relief. This small victim of the madness of war, helpless as he was, meant there was one less Japanese to worry about. These feelings were foreign to Myers; they surprised and frightened him. Estel Myers had sworn to God that he would hold the care of the sick and injured as a privileged and sacred trust. He had sworn that he would not knowingly let harm come to any patient. Where had his strong commitment to this covenant gone? What kind of man was he becoming?

  Myers struggled to rationalize his feelings. Perhaps if that child had grown to adulthood, he might have been forced into another emperor’s mandatory military service. He might have become a hate-crazed enemy, just like those who had made the American POWs’ lives pure purgatory for the last three years. This satisfied his conscience. Myers turned his back on the little corpse and ran for the main deck.

  Prisoners were still roaming about in a state of confusion. Japanese officers screamed orders at them, but the POWs didn’t comprehend. In frustration the officers shot them where they stood. The American planes made another few strafing runs and then regrouped for another pass. This time they came in low with the Oryoku Maru dead in their sights.

  Calls of “She’s on fire!” began to ring out through the smoky haze. The ship was burning furiously at the stern, and ammunition was exploding everywhere. Myers found Tarpy through pockets of flames and told him they’d better get going. By this time, the non-swimmers who hadn’t found life belts had thrown in anything that would float and jumped in after the debris. Myers remembered a man who had once claimed that he’d flunked his swimming test in basic. He saw this man in the water now, desperately churning his arms as he kicked toward a floating plank, a living example of how fear can overcome inability.

  The first group of POWs to leave the ship was now reaching water shallow enough to stand in. They looked up and saw the bombers returning for a third raid. One man began to shout and wave, frantically screaming for everyone who had his feet on the sand to do the same thing. The pilots were flying low enough to realize that the bodies floundering in the water beneath them were not Japanese but Americans, many wearing nothing but their dog tags. One of the planes tipped its wings as a signal that they’d been seen and flew off. That pilot was the first free American with whom any of these prisoners had been in communication for nearly three years.

  Looking over the burning deck, Myers could see the sheer cliffs of Bataan several hundred yards to the southeast. To the northwest, at a greater distance, was the old U.S. Navy Yard and the little town of Olongapo. Because of the way the Oryoku Maru was listing away from the Bataan side, Olongapo was farther but easier to reach. Myers checked to be certain that the emergency can of meat he’d been saving for months was buttoned safely in the remaining pocket of his tattered shirt and plunged into the water. He fell for what seemed like a very long time before he abruptly met the water and sank down in the dark, cool sea, surrendering himself to it.

  Myers’ thoughts turned to swimming on hot summer days, in creeks and ponds and rivers back on the farm. He and his brothers, along with other guys from school, held a competition to be the first one in the water every year. Sometimes they even had to break the ice on the surface in order to be the all-important “king of the hill.” The best times, though, were when girls would come down and watch them swim. The fellows did their best to look strong and powerful. They dove with grace and swung out over the water on vines like miniature Tarzans. Once in the water, they’d hold their breath and see who could stay under the longest. These antics were performed for one purpose: to garner the attentions of the young lady spectators.

  Suddenly Myers realized where he was and that he was on the verge of passing out under the water. He fought to gain control, but his malnourished extremities refused to perform as they had in better times. Struggling through the green ocean, Myers finally surfaced and gasped for breath. He looked around to get his bearings and recognized a man from Bilibid off to his right. The man was out of his mind with pain from burns on his face and shoulders and probably from other injuries not visible. Myers tried to help him, but the man fought him off. Finally Myers gave up and began the swim toward shore.

  In reality there was no shore at all, just ankle-deep water that lapped against a four-foot seawall. The men who had reached the shallow water first were wading toward the seawall, laughing and yelling, ecstatic just to be alive, feeling the cool sea water on their dehydrated bodies.

  Myers had gone about half of the five hundred yards when the shouts were broken with the staccato sound of bullets hitting the water. He flipped to his back to see if the planes had returned, but the sky was empty. Returning to his fatiguing breaststroke, he figured out where the gunfire was coming from. Machine guns were set up a short distance from the water on top of the seawall. They were manned by Japanese marines who were spattering bullets at the prisoners. The marines’ intent seemed to be to keep the POWs in the water, and thirty were immediately gunned down while laboring to get to shore.

  When he finally reached the shallow water, Myers took deep breaths and crawled on his hands and knees to the seawall, waiting for Tarpy to catch up to him. Suddenly, he heard more blasts of machine-gun fire, and two men who had been trying to climb onto the seawall threw themselves down onto the POWs who were scrambling below.

  “Stupid SOBs up there are shooting at us!” one guy who fell near Myers sputtered. “Don’t they remember we’re already prisoners?”

  Myers looked out toward the bay. A lot of men were having a tough time making it, either because they were hit or were in such a feeble state they
were exhausted. On top of that, the pounding machine-gun fire forced them to frequently dive deep under the water for cover, with some not making it back to the surface. Myers followed a small group of men who swam back out across the water and helped drag in those who were struggling. One of them was Tex, who despite his fear and fatigue, had been shocked into a state of surliness.

  “Sit still!” Myers ordered him after they had hauled themselves up to the base of the seawall.

  “Screw you! I’m climbing up there,” Tex said, pointing to the top of the wall.

  “Look, you stupid son of a bitch,” Myers told him, “you already had one close call today. You’re no cat and you don’t get nine lives. Climb up there and you’ll be dead.”

  “The hell you say,” Tex retorted and stood to begin his climb. Tarpy dragged another man in just then, inadvertently knocking Tex off his feet. The corpsman was so spent he didn’t even try to stand up again, let alone give the wall another try.

  “Here, thought we could use these.” Tarpy swung a couple of pairs of boots off his shoulders and tossed them to Myers. He’d tied the laces together and swum with them all the way from the sinking ship. “The Japs I took ’em from aren’t gonna miss ’em a bit.”

  The survivors from the doomed Japanese ship were forced to remain in the water until 1300 hours. While the sea had at first been a godsend on their parched skin, it now chilled their scrawny bodies. A rumor circulated among the men that the shooters on top of the seawall were the JNLP, Japanese Naval Landing Party, Imperial marines well known for their ruthlessness during the war with China.

  Although the prisoners had been under the control of the Japanese navy while on board the Oryoku Maru, on land they fell under the Japanese army’s jurisdiction. The bulk of the army from Olongapo had been sent to Leyte to fend off the Allied advances there, so in their absence the JNLP were on watch at the Old Navy Yard. Toshino was only too happy to turn over the stinking rabble of POWs to the JNLP for a time. Only a handful of his guards had survived the American attacks and he needed to find additional men in Manila.