Chapter 5
By the end of May we knew that our status as prisoners would not soon end. Three events forced this realization on even the most optimistic, dwarfing my eighth birthday, even in my mind.
On March 20th the Manila Tribune electrified us with the news that MacArthur had fled Corregidor. Many rejected this out of hand, saying that Mac would never abandon his troops. However, rumors, known to originate from the secret short wave radio, which daily monitored the news on KGEI in San Francisco, soon convinced us that MacArthur had indeed landed at Bachelor Field outside Darwin, Australia on St. Patrick’s Day, proclaiming, “I shall return.”
Some felt abandoned, but most rejoiced that MacArthur was now in a position to lead the American Army back to rescue us. It remained for the pessimists to remind us that the fleet necessary to escort the troops across the Pacific had been sunk.
In spite of the loss of MacArthur’s presence, there was still the reassuring noise of battle from Corregidor and the knowledge that Bataan still held.
On April 10 the Tribune headlines read: “TROOPS ON EASTERN FRONT OF BATAAN OFFER SURRENDER.” “Propaganda!” responded most internees. But succeeding days brought more Tribune stories and, finally, pictures of General King surrendering and of captured Americans. We tried every possible interpretation to avoid the truth, until the secret radio reported President Roosevelt’s words, “Bataan has served it’s purpose.”
In Room 46 I watched in awe as Eleanor and Connie Farnes wept in agony over the fate of Eleanor’s fiancé. The ladies would come to the pair, and wrap an arm about them. But no one could console them, for there was nothing consoling to say. “Maybe he escaped,” was the best anyone could do, but that was cold comfort to anyone who knew the jungles and mountains of Bataan.
Daddy went for long walks to work off the stree of not knowing Jack Littig’s fate. Everywhere worried faces streaked with tears spoke wordlessly of anxiety for husbands, brother, fathers.
A week after the fall of Bataan, eight civilians who had been captured there were interned in Santo Tomas. They were able to tell us that the army nurses and other key personnel had been evacuated to Corregidor, but few of the STIC people got news of loved ones from the newcomers, for there were 78,000 troops defending Bataan. We did learn “...the battling bastards of Bataan; no mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam;...no pills, no planes, no artillery pieces. ...and nobody gives a damn.”
The STIC People began to wonder....
Late one afternoon just as I was setting out for the supper line, an old friend we hadn’t seen for months came slowly up Duck Egg Drive where my father had constructed a shack for us to spend the day in the northwest quadrant of the Santo Tomas campus, now called Shanty Town. Alice Morton was a striking woman. Slim, of medium height, she was impeccably groomed, even in captivity. Her progress was slowed by her two-year-old son, who had to be carried. Ricky always looked badly, but his appearance now was alarming. His arms and legs were more spindly than ever, making his oversized head seem enormous. And he was absolutely white–white haired, white skinned. His blue sun suit hung on him, and his blue eyes were black rimmed. Alice’s eyes were dark-circled, too. Her husband, Harry had been on Bataan. She greeted Daddy and sat Ricky on our floor, looking beseechingly at me. I abandoned my supper plans and sat beside Ricky, putting my arm around him to support his head. Alice and Daddy spoke quietly, but I had no difficulty hearing as I rocked Ricky and hummed a nursery tune.
“How can I find out if Harry made it?” asked Alice.
“I’ll put out some feelers,” Daddy replied.
They spoke for some time, Alice dabbing her eyes, Daddy sounding calm and reassuring.
When the Loudspeaker announced that supper was being served, Alice rose, shook Daddy’s hand and carried Ricky back to the Annex where mothers with young children were now quartered.
“Where did your Mother put that laundry bag?” asked Daddy.
I dragged it over and Daddy up-ended it on the floor, shaking out a pile of soiled clothing. He fished in the pocket of a pair of tan trousers and retrieved a crumpled slip of paper. He could not send notes inquiring about friends through the normal censored channels and resorted to the list method of communicating with our former cook, Braulio, who had tracked us down and came to the gate twice a week to get our laundry and to bring us food and other necessities, which Dad was already systematically stockpiling. A crumpled list in a pocket could be disclaimed as communication. Dad added “Harry Morton” under “Jack Litting”, recrumpled the dirty slip of paper and replaced it in the pocket of the shorts.
The fall of Bataan freed Japanese men and material to concentrate exclusively on Corregidor. We could hear the new artillery bombardment mounted against the Rock from Bataan. Day and night Japanese planes buzzed over Manila on their way to bomb and strafe the tiny island. Each day that U.S. forces held out heartened us. “Mac still has his foothold in the Islands,” the adults told each other with forced cheerfulness.
On May 6 at noon the crescendo of explosions from the Bay area began to diminish. An hour later silence descended on the city. Gloom settled over the STIC people. The next day, our fears were confirmed: Corregidor had fallen.
On may 9th General Homma formally entered Manila, signaling his conquest of the Philippines.
Ear Carroll and the Central Committee sighed and prepared for a long siege.
Stanley was seen conversing with the Japanese in their own language.
Grinnell began setting up a conduit to the guerrillas.
One enterprising STIC lady went out to her garden plot and planted some pineapple tops she had been saving. “I’ll have pineapples in two years,” she told her friends grimly.
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