My Hitch in Hell Read online

  There has been no collaboration on this book. I take full responsibility for any errors or omissions in recounting both historic events and narrative description. Some names have been changed to protect the respective individuals’ privacy. While writing this book has been a trying experience for me, it nonetheless gave me new life to be able to contribute to the world’s knowledge of what really happened on the Bataan Death March and of conditions in a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

  MY HITCH

  IN HELL

  CHAPTER 1

  A HITCH IN COMPANY B

  At 12:25 P.M. on December 8, 1941, while bivouacked around Clark Field, the large U.S. air base in the Philippines, we heard the reassuring sound of planes overhead. We felt secure knowing that our air force was there to protect us and that we would not be the victims of a surprise attack like those bombed on Pearl Harbor only hours before (December 7, Hawaiian time). We looked up and saw fifty-four beautiful bombers in the sky—our planes coming back from a mission, we thought.

  How wrong we were. The ground beneath us shook, and I will always remember the noise of those screeching bombs falling from the sky. Then came the explosions—first one, then what seemed like a hundred more—that sounded like thousands of large firecrackers going off at the same time. Some were direct hits on our planes, which were standing idle on the tarmac of Clark Field, while others exploded all around the airfield, killing or injuring hundreds of men who only a few hours ago were laughing and talking of the fun they were going to have once they got back home.

  Craters opened up all over Clark Field from the high-altitude bombing. Then, without warning, in came the Japanese Zeros from the southeast, with the hot blazing sun as their backdrop. Just as we saw them, they began dropping their bomb loads. Then they swiftly turned and began strafing the entire airfield. Men ran for shelter from this barrage of bullets and shrapnel, but there was no place to hide. The bombing lasted for about fifteen minutes, while the strafing continued for what seemed like hours but was probably not more than thirty minutes. Despite all the available military intelligence about the Japanese plans and their preparations, plus our knowledge of the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor that very morning, here we were, victims of another surprise attack that left our aircraft in shambles and our fighting force in utter disarray.

  I was just twenty-one years old and thought I had my whole life in front of me. What a jolt this was to my dreams of a good life with a wonderful woman by my side and with a job that would pay me enough to do all those things I always wanted: to be happy, to raise a family, and to enjoy life. “Play the cards that were dealt you” was what I always said as a youngster, and it was my motto that December day.

  It was easy to tell what was happening, but I did not know what was going to happen. Little did I know then that this uncertainty about the future would stay with me for nearly four miserable years. Perhaps it was not being able to look forward that made me think back eighteen months earlier.

  I had dropped out of high school in my senior year. I thought I knew more than my teachers and continuing school was just a waste of my time. I had been attending Lane Tech, an all-boys’ high school in Chicago, studying aeronautical engineering, a most sophisticated course for a high school. At eighteen I wanted to make my way in the business world. I did not want to wait for graduation. After all, going to college was not on my agenda, and I was dating a girl whose father wanted his daughter to marry someone who was successful in business or was in a profession.

  A friend of mine was working in a factory that made various knick-knacks, mirrored wall supports, pipe stands, and hanging decorative plate holders. I got a job with the company selling these items to department stores. Luck was with me, and I made enough money in the first year to open my own little factory and make items that I created. As soon as I started to see my little business becoming successful, however, the government instituted a military draft of all young men eighteen and older. By this time I had reached the ripe old age of twenty, and I knew that I was a prime target to be one of the first persons drafted.

  My jet-black hair, brown eyes, and dark complexion made people think my family came from Italy. In fact, the families of most of my Italian friends could not understand why I did not speak to them in Italian. Actually, my family is Jewish. My mother was born in Philadelphia and her parents came from Poland, while my father, whose parents came from Germany, was born in New York. The family name was Tenenberg, and my brother Bill used the name “Tenney” during the late thirties, when he wrestled under the name of “Wild Bill Tenney.” Members of our family had been called Tenney for years, and during all my time in the service, I was known merely as Tenney. (I changed my name officially in September 1947, after finding out that many of my POW friends could not locate me in Chicago under the name of Tenney.)

  I was young, healthy, and strong. I weighed about 185 pounds, was five feet ten inches tall, and was not afraid of a thing. By mid-1940, I saw the handwriting on the wall. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be chosen in the first draft, so I made plans to enter the service my way. I wanted to pick the outfit I would serve with and not be drafted and thrown into a group of strangers.

  At about the same time, I read an article in a 1940 Reader s Digest that said “... the younger generation, that is, the war babies, now reaching maturity seem utterly incapable of taking on their responsibilities to the nation; they are aimless, soft and generally immature. ...” I could not believe what I read. It sure was not talking about me, or was it? This article helped me make up my mind. I was going to volunteer and accept my responsibility to my family and my country. I was not soft and aimless, and I did not think I was immature.

  In September 1940,1 decided to volunteer instead of waiting to be drafted. I wanted to serve my one year and then to get on with my life. I had read that some National Guard units from the Chicago area would be mobilized that year. I realized I would have to live closely with those I served in the military; therefore, I wanted to have some choice in the fellows who would become my barracks buddies. Thus, I visited one National Guard unit after the other, but none seemed to satisfy my criteria. I did not even know what I was looking for, but I just did not feel comfortable with any of the groups I visited. Then one morning, after all my searching, I read a small article in the Chicago Tribune that contained the statement, “I am proud to serve my country in a time of need. The United States has been good to me and now I can pay back a little to America for all the good I have received.” This quote was credited to Sgt. Richard E. Danca, 192d Tank Battalion, Company B of the Illinois National Guard from Maywood, Illinois.

  This man with the positive attitude was what I had been searching for, people who felt proud to serve if called upon. My next step was to find out where and when this outfit met, and then to figure out how to get there.

  Maywood was twenty-two miles from my home, but I was committed to go and find out if all the men in Company B felt the way Sergeant Danca did. So early one Thursday evening I set out for this small bedroom community west of Chicago. The trip took two transfers on the El (train) and two transfers on the bus. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the door of the Maywood Armory, headquarters of the 192d Tank Battalion, Company B.

  The Maywood Armory was more like a country club compared to the other National Guard units I visited. First I was greeted warmly with a “Hi, buddy! What’s your name and where are you from?” Then I was invited to participate in a friendly game of pool. Aha, I thought, this is where they get me—big bets for a little unknown. But this was not the case; they were just being sociable.

  Next came an invitation to bowl a game with some of the men. Impressed, I thought, gosh, a bowling alley at a National Guard outfit? Yep, true, this was like a country club. One of the men asked me to bowl a game with him. He introduced himself as Lewis Brittan and said he was also new here. Like me, he had just come by to take a look at the men in this outfit. “Just call me Lew,” he offered.
r />   Lew was about six feet tall and well-built, with dark black hair and a small, black pencil-stripe mustache. About two or three years my senior, Lew had a rare friendliness, and when he asked me to bowl, I could sense his warmth and sincerity. His voice and his facial expression showed that he was not just trying to be hospitable; he was interested in people and wanted to make friends. I immediately accepted his offer. Lew and I hit it off from that first moment. (We stayed together throughout the war, the march, and prison camp, and we came home together. In fact, we even went into business together while both of us worked on our degrees from the University of Miami. We remained friends until he died of a massive heart attack while sitting in his chair at home on September 23, 1990.)

  While talking to many of the other men, I found out that they all shared the same philosophy as Sergeant Danca. They were willing to serve their country in a time of need. I knew right then and there that as long as I was going to enter the service, I wanted to serve with this group of men. It was a great group; the men all fought and responded as any good soldiers would. They played as if there was no tomorrow, they cared for one another, and they acted under pressure just as I had expected. (The few survivors in the early 1990s—14 out of 164—still care for each other and are concerned for each other’s welfare.)

  The word was out. All four companies of the 192d Tank Battalion were to be inducted into federal service on November 25, 1940. Company A was from Janesville, Wisconsin; Company B, our company, was from May-wood, Illinois; Company C was from Port Clinton, Ohio; and Company D was from Harrodsburg, Kentucky. (Company D was supposed to be transferred to the 194th Tank Battalion immediately after the war started and would have become that battalion’s Company C.) Our destination was Fort Knox, Kentucky.

  When the line formed for signing up, I was right up front. I wanted to be a part of this group. I was so proud that I was busting out all over. The man in front of me was asked for his date of birth, and after responding he was told, “Sorry, buddy, but you aren’t twenty-one yet so you have to get your parents’ consent before we can accept you.” This news was a surprise to me. I thought eighteen was the legal age for joining up, and I would not be twenty-one until July 1.

  When my turn came and I was asked, “In what year were you born?” I quickly said, “1919, sir.” So on October 12, 1940, I became a proud member of Company B of the 192d Tank Battalion. Yes, I was going to get my year of military service over with in a hurry.

  I was a proud American boy, and when I came home wearing my uniform, my folks were equally proud of me. I was the apple of the family’s eye. All four of my brothers gave me words of encouragement and plenty of advice on how to keep out of trouble.

  I was the baby of the family, and my brothers were older by ten to sixteen years. My mother and father had had their share of grief and had experienced and overcome heartache together years before. In 1918 my folks lived in Philadelphia, and on a cold December morning, while my dad was at work, Mom went shopping. My two sisters were home alone, and twelve-year-old Edith decided to light the gas stove for a little extra heat in the house. She lit a match and turned on the gas, but the match blew out, so she went to the cupboard for another. The gas from the stove had not been turned off and fumes filled the kitchen. When Edith struck the second match, the spark set off an explosion, and flames ignited her clothes. Ruth, the younger sister, was frightened beyond belief. Both girls ran outside. Edith rolled over in the snow to douse the flames while Ruth cried helplessly. Edith died on the way to the hospital. Ruth caught a cold on that dreadful day and died within a week.

  The deaths of two daughters in one week gave my mother and father their first lesson in survival, personal fortitude, and the need for a positive attitude for their life. Their family doctor suggested that they try to have another child as soon as possible. I was born out of that catastrophe, and although I am sure Mom and Dad really wanted a little girl, they never showed any disappointment or remorse that their last child was a boy. My folks were wonderful people who faced life with the basic philosophy of “Enjoy your todays, and you will look forward to your tomorrows.” I adopted their philosophy as my hitch in the service began.

  The evening of November 25 came quickly. We all lined up in our sparkling clean uniforms, and with full packs on our backs, we stood at attention for roll call. Down the line came Capt. Theodore F. Wickord, looking every bit the part of a commanding officer. He was dressed in a spotless and well-pressed uniform. His five-foot ten-inch frame was nearly overshadowed by his proud, puffed-out chest, which seemed to shout, “I’m proud of my country and the service I am about to give.” The captain was about thirty-two years old, and his hair was already starting to recede. Because of that mature touch, he had the appearance of an old hand at leading a bunch of soldiers. Actually, Captain Wickord was a supervisor with the local power company and only played soldier once a week with this National Guard unit.

  The captain started asking each man in turn, “What do you want to be in this man’s army?” Finally he came to me. I was one of the last men in the formation because my last name started with a “t.” Little did I realize that Wickord was a man with great determination. He wanted to find a man for every job description in the outfit, and when he asked me about my job, I replied, “Tank driver, sir.” The captain then said, “What’s your second choice?” My response was a resounding, “Radio operator, sir.” Then the captain said, “What’s your third choice?” This question caught me off guard. At one time I had served an apprenticeship as a short order cook at a leading hotel in Chicago, so I joked, “Cook, sir.” This answer was what he had been waiting for; 164 men were leaving that evening for Fort Knox, Kentucky, without one cook among us.

  I was made the cook for our company until a few chosen men completed Cooks’ and Bakers’ School, a three-month course. Without an assistant except for fifteen KPs (kitchen police, or those assigned kitchen duty) for each meal, cooking was hard work and involved long hours. I cooked over coal-fired stoves that had to be started by 3:00 in the morning in order to be ready for breakfast at 6:00. As the only cook, I had to prepare three meals a day plus midnight guard meals every fourth day.

  After we arrived at Fort Knox, our company was about ten men short of full strength, so ten new inductees from the Chicago area were assigned to our unit. These men were given kitchen duty during their first week. Their constant attendance in the kitchen and their willingness to do anything asked of them made my job as cook a little easier.

  When the men who went to Cooks’ and Bakers’ School had graduated and returned to our company, I was relieved of my duty as cook and was given a ten-day leave to rest up and to choose whatever school I wanted to attend. With great anticipation and excitement, I went home—home not only to my mother and father but to Laura, the girl I loved and someday would call my wife. On the train going home, I thought of how I met Laura.

  It was at the Trianon Ballroom located in the south side of Chicago, when I was seventeen years old. During the late thirties, I loved dancing to the music of Kay Kyser, Tommy Dorsey, Paul Whiteman, and Benny Goodman, whose bands played the ballrooms in and around Chicago. On a particular Saturday night in June, four other fellows and I traveled the twenty-five miles to the Trianon to hear the music of Guy Lombardo. Luck was with me that night, for I met Laura, who had come to the Trianon Ballroom with three of her girlfriends to dance.

  She was standing near the doorway as I entered. Laura was unusually beautiful. She was about five feet four inches tall, weighed about 115 pounds, and had a magnificent figure. Her slender waist, which I could span with my two hands, emphasized her ample breasts. Her clear blue eyes sparkled and lit up the entire room. Looking into Laura’s eyes, fringed with long black lashes, made me wonder if she was an angel. Her light brown hair fell softly against her cheeks in the sleek, loose pageboy style of the day, and her smile was so friendly. She spoke with the gentleness of a true lady. I had never met a girl with so much charm and personality.
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br />   It was love at first sight for me; Laura told me afterward that it was love at second sight for her. I danced every dance with her that night. She was so beautiful, such a perfect lady, and so prim and proper in everything she did or said. I could not take my eyes off of her. The electrical charge from this meeting went through me at full throttle. When I left the ballroom with my friends, I told them, “I want nothing to do with any other girl from tonight on. I’ve found the girl I want to become my wife.” After I got home I pinched myself to see if I was I dreaming. How lucky could one person be to find someone so enchantingly beautiful and to be so much in love? Laura was my first love, and in my excitement, I felt that I would never meet anyone who could compare with her.

  During my leave, I saw Laura every glorious day. We talked about our future together, our plans and aspirations, our goals and dreams. We realized how much we meant to each other. When I had returned to Fort Knox, I had to clear Laura from my mind before I could decide which military school I wanted to attend. I opted for Radio Operators’ School, a six-week course, and after graduation I was assigned as radio operator in the lead tank—the captain’s tank, no less.

  While attending Radio Operator’s School, I did not have to pull any other duty, and because of Laura, I did not want to have any dates or fool around at dance halls or bars. Therefore, having a lot of free time I went to Louisville, Kentucky, which is about eighteen miles from Fort Knox, and got a part-time job at a Walgreen Drugstore as a soda jerk. I earned twenty-five cents an hour while keeping busy and tried to save a little extra cash for my future. At this time I was a private, making thirty dollars a month. So the extra cash came in mighty handy when I went on a leave.