My Hitch in Hell Read online

  Back in October 1941, MacArthur had asked Gen. George C. Marshall to send an armored division to the Philippines for the islands’ defense. What MacArthur got instead was two stripped-down National Guard tank battalions—the 192d and the 194th—with only 108 light tanks and 46 half-tracks. Worse, out of the 108 tanks available that day, only five were able to be fully gassed for the assault on the Japanese. Our ammunition was so old we were lucky to have one shell out of five explode, and only 10 percent of our hand grenades were usable. As for our rifles, they were World War I Springfields.

  As our company prepared for our assault on the enemy, we found to our dismay that only enough fuel for five tanks had been delivered to our bivouac area from post ordnance. After carefully calculating the number of gallons needed for the assault and the return, or possible continued fighting or withdrawal, our commanding officer reluctantly ordered only five tanks to attack the Japanese forces at once. “Hit them at their landing site, and delay their advancement southward,” were our instructions. So on December 22, with our tanks in excellent operating condition and loaded with ammunition and fuel, we went into our first tank battle. Actually, it was the first U.S. tank battle in World War II.

  Five tanks, or one platoon, took off, and when they rounded the bend in the narrow, winding road, their occupants were amazed at what they saw—shocked would be a better description. As the tanks came down to the edge of the gulf, we ran smack into dozens of Japanese antitank guns, countless flamethrowers, about fifty tanks, and thousands of what appeared to be well-rested, well-fed, and well-equipped foot soldiers. In addition, dozens of artillery pieces were being put into place for the planned encounter with the Americans and Filipinos.

  Lt. Ben Morin, who commanded the platoon from the lead tank, quickly realized that disaster was looking him straight in the face. He tried desperately to avoid the inevitable onslaught. To his right were the steep beginnings of mountains; to his left were rice paddies, filled with muddy water. Then it happened! A Japanese tank pulled right in front of him. Obeying Lieutenant Morin’s foot commands, the driver made a hard turn, swerving to avoid a collision with the Japanese tank that was blocking the path. Morin’s tank took a direct hit from a Japanese antitank gun. Lieutenant Morin had to maneuver his damaged tank out of the way of the barrage of gunfire coming at him from all sides. He could only turn left, into the rice paddies.

  When a tank commander standing in the top of the tank wants to give commands to the driver, he does so by placing his foot on the shoulder of the tank driver. The left shoulder indicates turn left, and the right shoulder, turn right. A foot placed on the driver’s head means stop. Last, if the foot pressure is very strong, it means the driver should make a hard turn in the indicated direction. In this case, I bet Morin practically stomped his driver with his left foot.

  Morin’s tank ended up mired in the ooze of the rice paddy. Its tracks would only spin around and around, without moving the tank an inch. It was stuck.

  The other four tanks, realizing Morin’s plight, tried to make a U-turn on the small winding road in order to fall back to the bivouac area. Just as the second tank began to turn, it was hit by armor-piercing shells. A shell went straight through the bow-gunner’s turret and decapitated the gunner, Henry Deckert, who was wildly firing his machine gun toward the enemy at the time. The shell passed through the tank and out the rear, through the motor, taking with it many important parts. How that tank continued moving is beyond me, but the motor kept running, and the tank made it all the way back to our bivouac area. Only when it got there did it stop, immobilized.

  Nick Fryziuk, the lead mechanic, worked on that tank for hours, using makeshift parts, tubes, gaskets, and rods, anything to get the tank to run again. All of our mechanics worked with Nick to get us through this ordeal.

  Morin and his crew managed to escape the flamethrowers but did not return to our bivouac area that night. Their fate was unknown; they were taken prisoner, killed, or escaped into the jungle. For days all that we talked about was what happened to Morin and the crew. Then we heard the official announcement: they were declared “missing in action.”

  It was only after we arrived in Bataan in mid-January 1942 that we discovered that post ordnance had in its warehouse spare tank and half-track engines, tracks, guns, and other various useful parts. When Nick Fryziuk heard about this, he was furious. Our ordnance group had placed our tanks and the men’s lives in unnecessary danger just because it decided that we would receive the spare parts only when we arrived in Bataan and not a day sooner. Post ordnance was also responsible for the safekeeping of gasoline and ammunition, and it began rationing these vital necessities from the first day of the war. Only after our units were safely back in Bataan, did they stop rationing gas and ammunition. Ironically, it was the Japanese who finally got all our spare parts, gasoline, and ammunition.

  It turned out that first attack we made was not against “small arms and a small detachment of infantry,” as we had been told, but instead against fifty thousand infantry, one hundred tanks, forty-six 15mm guns, twenty-eight 105mm cannons, thirty-two 75mm guns, and fifty-six ships with numerous 240mm cannons in the bay. As we began our strategic withdrawal from the fighting in and around Lingayen Gulf, the 26th Cavalry joined us in a last-ditch effort to delay the Japanese advances. As the Japanese began infiltrating our lines, we could hear the shouts of the gallant Filipino men of the 26th Cavalry, as they began charging directly into the enemy stronghold. But how long can a man and horse stand up to the modern weapons of war? These courageous men were being annihilated by the Japanese, for whether a man or horse fell, either meant death to the rider. After the guns took their toll, the survivors of the 26th Cavalry retreated along with the rest of us; it was the only sane thing to do at the time.

  After the four surviving tanks made it back to our bivouac area, and the mechanics repaired the one that was so badly damaged, our tank company moved out of Agoo and began the withdrawal strategy of the War Plan Orange III. Our mission then was to control and protect the withdrawal of our troops into Bataan by providing cover for all our forces.

  First to leave was our infantry, then our artillery, and last to leave before us was the Corps of Engineers, whose job it was to blow up any bridges after we crossed them. Only after all other U.S. forces had gone in front of us was it our turn. Then after we crossed a bridge, it would be blown by the engineers, who by that time were safely on the other side. The purpose of this strategy was twofold—first, to delay the enemy’s advance as much as possible and, second, to ensure the safe withdrawal of all of our troops.

  Our tanks, M3s, weighed about thirteen tons, and the bridges in the Philippines were not built to sustain such a heavy load. During our strategic withdrawal back to Bataan, we had to cross a dozen or more very precarious bridges. Each crossing was painfully slow and cautious. The enemy aircraft following us were able to bomb and strafe our positions without any interference from us. We were too busy getting across the bridge to worry about their harassment. We knew the Japanese did not want to destroy the very bridge that tomorrow they would want to use. So once on a bridge, we felt relatively safe inside our tanks.

  Due to the poor road and bridge construction and maintenance, and the fact that our tanks could not maneuver around the countryside at will, it became embarrassingly apparent throughout the operation that our tank commander had to reevaluate certain tank missions imposed by USAFFE (United States Armed Forces in the Far East). The greater possibility that there would be certain and irreplaceable losses jeopardized the overall tank mission MacArthur established.

  Another problem still facing the U.S. forces was our lack of training on the new tanks. Although the commanding general at Fort Stotsenburg made every effort to familiarize the officers under his command with our tanks, an American officer approached a Japanese light tank, mistaking it for a U.S. vehicle, and began discussing the battle at Lingayen. A few days later, U.S. tanks were erroneously reported as enemy tanks, and heavy mor
tar and antitank shells were fired upon them. The problems relating to tank recognition and tank deployment were greatly magnified when the officers and men of the Philippine Army became involved in the decision-making process.

  After a comprehensive battalion-by-battalion, tank-with-infantry training and awareness, all troops became familiar with the looks, configuration, and the practical strategic uses of our tanks. However, our tank group received this training on tanks and their effectiveness only after we arrived on the Bataan peninsula in mid-January.

  We entered Bataan as we crossed the Pilar-Bagac Road. On the west side of the peninsula was Bagac, with a well-traveled road leading to the Japanese-held town of Moron. The possibility of an enemy landing on this side was considered remote due to the region’s high cliffs and marshy terrain. On the east side was Pilar, a town situated on the main road leading into Bataan proper where the coastal cities and beaches were located. Across the bay from Pilar was the bustling capital of the Philippine Islands, the large city of Manila. There was real concern that the Japanese would try beach landings using barges loaded with troops and equipment. The fear on the east coast was that the Japanese, if they made a successful landing, could then march right down the highway leading from Pilar directly into the center of Bataan.

  On January 16, 1942, a tank company of the 194th Tank Battalion was sent to the west coast by order of General Wainwright. Wainwright requested a platoon to assist in opening, and keeping open, the Moron highway. Our infantry would then be able to deny the Japanese forces entry past the town of Moron. Once again, General Wainwright had proposed moving two or three tanks along the western beach and across a coastal creek to surprise and retake the town of Moron. Our tank group commander, prior to sending any tanks, sent out a small reconnaissance group to determine the enemy’s position and strength.

  The group returned quickly; it spotted antitank guns on the beach leading into the town of Moron. It also reported unfit terrain—terrain that was mucky, soft, and likely bad enough to bog down our tanks. The group tank commander then informed General Wainwright that to accomplish Wainwright’s proposed mission would take a full company of tanks, with the real possibility of losing at least one full platoon. With this news, the project was abandoned.

  Why, we will never know, but the following day three tanks, along with a company of infantry, were ordered to move forward and confront the enemy. When they reached the first bend in the road, they encountered fire from an antitank gun. The commander of the lead tank fired a burst from his machine gun in the turret and followed it with a high-explosive shell from the 37mm cannon, silencing the antitank gun. The Japanese and their equipment were strewn all over the road, and before the tanks could advance, the crews had to clear the road.

  The three tanks then proceeded about a quarter of a mile up the road at which point land mines imbedded in the road exploded and badly disabled two of the tanks, thus blocking the road again. The crew of the remaining intact tank, along with crew members from the disabled tanks, hooked cables from one tank to the other and then to the tank still in operating condition, and towed the two disabled tanks to safety. Luck was with the men that day, for the Japanese had decided to wait at the town of Moron for the assault to begin, thereby giving the crew of the disabled tanks time to seek cover as well as to save the tanks themselves.

  Here was another instance in which an entire tank company should have been used instead of one platoon. Unfortunately, once again men were being ordered into battle by non-tank officers, who knew nothing about the damage a land mine could do to the tracks of a tank. Once the tracks are blown off their sprockets, a tank can only go in a circle.

  On January 25, the last day of troop withdrawal, we were issued the following written instruction from USAFFE headquarters.

  Tanks will execute maximum delay, staying in position and firing at visible enemy until further delay will jeopardize withdrawal. If a tank becomes immobilized, it will fight until the close approach of the enemy, then it should be destroyed; the crew previously taking positions outside shall continue the fight with the salvaged and personal weapons. Consideration of personal safety or expediency will not interfere with accomplishing the greatest possible delay of the enemy.

  The order was very clear: protecting the complete and successful withdrawal of all U.S. and Filipino forces, as well as civilians, was our first order of business. Reading in between the lines the message said death was better than an early withdrawal on our part.

  As I mentioned earlier, given that we had arrived in the Philippines only a few weeks before hostilities began and that most of us American soldiers came from traditional midwestern Caucasian homes, we found distinguishing the Filipinos and the Chinese from the Japanese people very difficult. As a result, the constant infiltration of Japanese soldiers and civilians and the threat that Japanese sympathizers would give our position away caused us great anxiety. Our safety was in jeopardy. During our withdrawal, we found ourselves shooting indiscriminately into Filipino huts and stores if the occupants did not answer our command to come out.

  We were suspicious of every Asian we saw. When we moved into a new area and found people milling around, seemingly unafraid, we became nervous and cautious. We would demand satisfactory identification from each person. Lacking such reassurance, we would spray the buildings with gunfire from our Thompson submachine guns, thus taking what we felt were necessary precautions against potential enemy spies.

  There were many times when we in fact did locate and eliminate some of these enemy sympathizers. On one such occasion, as our tank entered a town we saw three men running away from a large area that had been cleared of foliage and undergrowth. As we approached, we found a twenty-foot arrow made out of white sheeting material on the ground and pointing in the direction from which we had just come. On our march into this village, we had been bombed by enemy aircraft and precision shelling by Japanese artillery. Now we knew why they had their guns aimed so perfectly and how their aircraft was able to locate us in the middle of the jungle so easily. We were set up by spies or Japanese infiltrators. Some of the villagers were our enemies, and we wanted to know who they were.

  Our tank crew decided that with only four of us, we could not safely enter and search each of the four homes. Instead, when no one would admit who the guilty people were or where the three men were hiding, we proceeded to spray round after round of bullets into each of the homes in this small community. We knew we had to find these enemy spies, or we would face the same bulldog attack each day of our withdrawal into Bataan. When we finished shooting, we felt emotionally drained and guilty. We sat down and almost cried. Did we kill anyone in these buildings? Was anyone wounded by our gunfire? We never knew the results of our attack. We felt that had there been people inside they would have answered our previous commands to come out. Did we act without concern for the people inside, if any? I do not think so. Our fear of being killed made necessary what might seem a brutal act.

  Maybe we realized how close we came to being killed, or maybe we realized we had to take the good with the bad, and this was bad. During the next few weeks, we stayed alert, always watching, questioning when necessary, and never letting our guard down. After all, our lives were at stake. We went in and out of a dozen or more villages while on our withdrawal into Bataan, and each time we became more cautious. Never willing to take a chance, we always wanted the comfort of knowing who our allies were and wanted to eliminate our enemies.

  By the end of January, our tank unit was assigned to patrol and keep the enemy at bay on the East Coast Road and to protect the coastline facing the fallen city of Manila from enemy infiltration. Knowing that our tanks could play havoc with any landing force caused the Japanese to reconsider potential infiltration through our well-protected lines. A Japanese field officer admitted this fact to the tank group commander in a conference the day after the surrender of Bataan, April 9, 1942. The Japanese field officer left no doubt that if the tanks had not been covering the
coastline Bataan would have succumbed much earlier.

  Before long, the food supply for U.S. troops on Bataan was not only getting low, but it was beginning to be tasteless as well. About that time, I learned about the food being served aboard the USS Canopus. From the first day of fighting to the last, the men aboard the Canopus, anchored off the tip of Mariveles, ate well. A submarine tender, the Canopus supplied the submarines in the Philippines with such necessities as food, ammunition, and gasoline. If a GI was lucky, he could wrangle an invitation aboard the Canopus for an evening meal. And what a meal it was rumored to be. While the men fighting on Bataan ate their measly ration of under-cooked rice, a small piece of meat, and maybe a spoonful of sugar, a meal on the Canopus could very well be fried chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots and peas, hot strong coffee, and for dessert a piece of freshly baked chocolate cake à la mode.

  During a brief rest stop near Mariveles, I came into contact with a Canopus crew member. I inquired what I would have to do to get an invitation for dinner some evening. He asked me, in so many words, “What do you have to trade for a good meal?” It seemed that the men serving aboard the Canopus were interested in Japanese souvenirs: rifles, sidearms, flags, or just about anything that would be a memento to take home when the war ended. Once I found out what they wanted, the rest was easy.

  I went back to my tank and informed the rest of my crew of my discovery. With just a little extra work and for a few Japanese trinkets, we could be eating a meal fit for a king. Our goal then was to volunteer for an assignment that would take us close to the front line. Another thought crossed my mind: how about going back to the Pilar-Bagac Road where we had just finished winning a very important skirmish with the Japanese? No doubt the area had many of the souvenirs the men on the Canopus wanted.