By PFC Jim Buttrick 

At ten o’clock on the morning of May 1st, word was flashed to Four Corps Headquarters that an unestimated number of Allied prisoners of war had been freed at Pegu, in the front line of the British advance, just north of Rangoon. 

In a half-hour, Capt. Julius Goodman loaded his C-64 with correspondents and Signal Corps photographers, and took off for the Pegu encampment. 

The expressions of the faces that later met the planeload of Yanks made an everlasting impression. Some of the weary relaxed inside the row of four-man tents, smoking American cigarettes, and watching the others, equally tired and hungry, either stumble into the queue for fresh clothing issue (British fatigues, woolen socks, and sneakers), or wander aimlessly about, talking to former cell companions. Here, along the blacktop road, four miles north of Pegu, these four hundred and twenty Allied prisoners of war, the first to be liberated in Burma, were becoming reacclimated to a life of unrestricted freedom. Airmen clad in their battered jump suits and Chindits, wearing nothing more than Jap loincloth, still limped from their 55-mile barefoot march from Rangoon’s city prison, a veritable torture chamber. 

The rescued prisoners, headed by Lt. Col. Douglas G. Gilbert, West Point, class of ’33, from Washington, D.C., believed that when they had set out on April 26th, their captors had planned to herd them into Indo-China. But having miscalculated the rapidity of the 14th Army’s drive, the Japanese abandoned their “excess weight” two days later to make their own escape to the East that much easier. 

As our truckload of Signal Corps photographers drove into the area in search of men long given up for lost, the clothing queue disappeared. Even the B-24 pilot, who hadn’t covered his feet in a year said, “To hell with the shoes for now,” and rushed over to UP correspondent Hugh Crumpler, asking if he would send a message home to his wife. 

Everyone’s eyes strained to locate a familiar face. Suddenly Capt. Goodman called out, “There’s “Red” Gilmore – Hey “Red”, you old Santa Claus!” 

Lt. Richard Gilmore, stocky 1st Air Commander fighter pilot, of Pittsburgh, PA, had sprouted a heavy beard since he was shot down northeast of Heho, on Jan. 18th. Burmese kept him until the 20th before turning him over to the Japs. 

“Compared with the way most of the airmen were treated, I haven’t any cause to complain,” he said. “Luckily, they put me in the hands of an MP, who promised that I’d be treated as a prisoner of war, as long as I stayed with him. I was let off mildly, with only a few raps across the legs and rump with a pick handle. Look, I’ve even acquired a belly.”

But Gilmore’s story wasn’t reechoed by the other captives. Alongside Gilmore stood his squadron mate, Lt. Hilton Weesner, of South Bend, IN, chatting with Capt. Goodman and Lt. Col. Bill Taylor of Combat Cargo Task Force. Weesner’s cheeks were drawn, his one-piece flying suit that had not been washed since he crashed on Nov. 12th near Meiktila, was punched full of holes. Weesner was the first of the Group’s fighter pilots lost in this year’s operations. When he spoke, he blurted out his words excitedly: 

“Guess they gave me up for dead. The rest of the flight saw my ship burn, while they circled overhead. That night, after coming to, I was picked up by a Burman in an ox-cart and taken straight to the Japs. I wouldn’t give them my unit’s name or tell them anything about the P-47, so they beat me across the face with the flat side of a sword. 

“Later on, they transported me by truck across the Irrawaddy to Rangoon. Occasionally, we’d hear rumors of the British advance, through the Japs never mentioned it to us. They beat the airmen with clubs continually. Seems their practice was to discriminate against aircrews. They showed us into individual cells, and placed the ground troops in compounds. Had dysentery, but wasn’t allowed medication. Dropped from 172 to 145 pounds.” 

Flight Officer Robert Hall of Spokane, Washington, S/Sgt. Robert Bicknell of Friona, TX, and Cpl. Fred Pugh of Athens, TX had been forced down behind enemy lines during the first night of the Wingate-Cochran airborne invasion of northern Burma on March 5, 1944. 

Hall and Bicknell were immediately seized and given a rough going over by a band of Japanese guerillas, while Pugh made his way to the upper regions of the Chindwin before he was captured on the 27th. 

“Yes, sir,” Pugh kept repeating, “I still can’t believe they turned us loose.” When asked by embarrassed enlisted men not to “sir” them, his only retort was, “Hell, I’m so happy I’m going to “sir” everybody.” 

And then he went on to say, “In my first 40 days as a prisoner, I dropped from 165 to 95 pounds. They put me through all sorts of torture trying to make me confess I was a P-51 pilot. Can you imagine? Me, a P-51 pilot. Now I’m back to 130 pounds.” 

A slender, middle-aged officer rose from one of the prisoner tents and asked, “Have you heard of any Second Air Commandos being found? Pryor’s my name…Major Roger Pryor, from Starkville, MS…CO of the 2nd Fighter Squadron…Will you please notify Colonel Chase that I’m all right?” 

At Major Pryor’s mention of the words, “Second Air Commandos,” Hall looked confused and said, “Second Air Commandos? My God, is there a “Second” over here now, too?” 

“Why sure,” replied Capt. Donald V. Miller, veteran 1st Air Commando P-51 pilot, shot down north of Mandalay, on Feb. 14, 1944. “We heard about them several months ago.” 

It remained for Capt. “Red” Miller, of Menonomie, WI, Capt. John Hunt, McCleansboro, IL, and Lt. John T. Whitescarver, of Pittsburgh, KS to reveal the life endured inside Rangoon’s city prison, referred to as the “lock up.” 

“For nine months, we had no medical attention,” Miller began. “Men stricken with dysentery just had to stop eating. That’s all true about airmen being discriminated against. Thirty-seven of the sixty-four interned at Rangoon passed away. 

“The guard used to run lotteries on the dates the different ones left to rot would die. As the very sick began failing away, the guards would inject needles into their arms, killing them within an hour’s time.” 

Lt. John Whitescarver, who had been a prisoner since the second of April 1944, hurriedly broke in for a moment. “When first admitted, airmen were stripped of all clothing, and forced to sit cross-legged in front of the bars all day. If we ever bent backwards, or leaned forwards, the guards would thrash us soundly. They’d beat us anyway, for no reason other than that we didn’t understand Japanese. If we failed to salute them, they’d beat us. Nights they came in drunk, they’d beat us worse than ever. For months we saw no sunshine. Mosquitoes were so thick that they obscured any ray of light.” 

“We had no place to sleep and nothing to drink except the one-half cup of warm tea at mealtime,” interrupted Hunt, a sixteen-month prisoner. “A few of the boys were beaten to death right before our eyes for trying to escape from the “lock-up”, and until this past November, they made us bury our dead naked, wrapped in gunny sacks. Not until last fall did they give us a slab-board coffin.” 

“We worked out a means of communicating with one another,” spoke up Miller. “Whenever we heard rumors of any news, we’d ell out words in the air with our fingers. Hunt lived in the cell across from mine,” Miller smiled as if to say, “You see, our spirits weren’t broken.” 

To mingle with these men was like visiting with the resurrected. A voice would cry out, “Why sure, you’re Halsted, the guy who went down back in…” and then break off, so as not to let slip the rest of the sentence, “I never thought you’d be alive.” 

Artist Jack Bridger Chalker recorded the horrific conditions, which he and fellow Prisoners of War suffered while working on The Burma Railway project.

‘Two working men, Kanyu River Camp’ depicts the environment. Chalker explains: “Unhappily, during one of my sessions in the dysentery hut I was hiding some drawings in a section of bamboo when a  sentry suddenly appeared... (he) began the expected shouting and hitting and made me tear the drawings into very small pieces. This was only a prelude to the real beating, and the next two days were a nightmare. When at last it was all over… I found that two small drawings had escaped detection under some rags”.

‘Punishment’ shows the brutality the prisoners endured. “The tin container was filled with stones or water, when the neck was straightened the jagged edge of the tin lacerated the chest… he was in great distress and clearly the Japanese intended to torture him further,” reflects Chalker.

 
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The Surrender of Corregidor

6 May 1942

by Michael J. Campbell
1515 Coolidge St.
San Diego, CA  92111
(858) 292-7951
POW1940@Earthlink.net

 A full moon shone brightly and the Southern Cross was visible in the deep purple canopy overhead on that fateful night of 5 May 1942. I gazed at the spectacle in awe as I drank in the beauty of the night. It was a picture postcard setting with the tall palm trees gently swaying in the balmy breeze and the moonlight shining the silver sands. I soon was lost in reverie as I stood at my post on guard duty. 

Suddenly, I was jarred back to reality, the Japanese commenced shelling the beach area away down in front of me. They launched a full-scale attack with wave after wave of assault troops mounted in assault boats. 

The Marines opened fire at them as they tried to land. The enemy fought their way on land towards Monkey Point about three miles east of my Guard Post on Top Side. I could see them as they worked their way up the beach. The suddenly both sides opened fire with a barrage of small arms, our Marines fired almost at point blank range and laid down a withering fire, forcing the Japs to retreat back into the water. 

A deadly silence fell until a few hours later the Japs launched attack again, this time with a far greater force and strength. Once again our Marines laid down a withering fire. Soon the water was filled with twisting bodies. This time many Japs landed on the beach but again they withdrew. Jap General Yamashita contacted US General Wainwright, telling him that the US position was untenable because they were outnumbered by men, artillery, ships and planes. Furthermore, they had over 200,000 men poised on Bataan and were ready to unleash them if US forces did not surrender. He set a deadline of noon 6 May 1942 for US troops to give up or be annihilated. 

Firing ceased; General Wainwright contacted the US War Department, explaining the military situation. US troops were weary, short of rations, ammo, supplies and lacked equipment. Corregidor was reduced to ground level; there were no facilities or utilities functioning. Worse case scenario: no troop or supply reinforcements were imminently available. 

President Roosevelt reluctantly gave the order to surrender the garrison in compliance with the Japanese demands. It was 3:00 AM, 6 May 1942. An uncertain fate awaited us. An Army Sergeant from a gun site nearby came over to my machine gun nest and ordered the crew to destroy our weapons. I dropped a hand grenade down the open breach; a deafening roar blew the gun apart. We were then ordered to go down to Malinta tunnel. It turned out to be in shambles; men were running about wildly, shouting and looting. It was a nightmare. I looked about the devastation and felt utterly hopeless. 

I sat down to collect my thoughts as I regained my composure. I decided to look for a clean uniform (the one I wore was filthy and in rags.) As I searched about in one of the lateral tunnels, I spied a huge steel door slightly ajar. I curiously pried it open. The sight was startling; I will never forget boxes of US and Filipino currency stacked high. There were also millions of dollars strewn on the floor much like leaves scattered on the ground in the fall. On impulse, I sat down in a middle of $100 bills and scooped up a hand full. I even took off my shoes and stomped around, kicking the paper money like it was confetti. I gathered bundles of currency in my arms like loaves of bread. I was amazed to see $100,000 bills lying about (I did not know that bills were issued in that large denomination). It was a supreme thrill and I was ecstatic. Here I was a low-ranking Private that was fighting a war risking my life for only $30 per month and had not received any pay for six months, and I was wallowing in money! 

The irony of it all was overpowering. Here I was all alone with millions of dollars laying around for the picking, but completely baffled as just what I should do about it. The temptation was great to grab as much money as possible and run away – but where could I go to escape? The Japs were coming in fast; what would they do to a Private who had a fortune in US money? There was no way that I could hide it or even stash it away some place. Fate had played a cruel trick on me. I suddenly realized that I could not possibly keep any of the money. I was facing immediate imprisonment and in the long run, I would be confronted by US Military authorities to account for the loot. 

I reluctantly put on my shoes, got up and did a crazy thing; I picked up one of the $100,000 bills, folded it up into a paper airplane, pitched it into the air and then slammed the vault door behind me! I had seen untold wealth and walked away from it without even taking a dollar bill. 

I stepped back into the real world and was jarred by a wild scene of utter confusion. I remembered why I ventured forth in the first place, to get some clean clothing and found the clothing supply lateral. There were all kinds of Navy and Marine uniforms, but no Army ones. I quickly stripped off my dirty and tattered uniform and selected a new Marine uniform, shoes and pith helmet. The change of clothes listed my spirit and I felt much better. But I must have looked strange because I had grown a full red beard and long hair down to my shoulders. If the Marine Captain Shofner could only see me now. I surely would have set the Marine tradition back a long way! 

General Wainwright Addresses the Troops 

The sun was shining brightly as I stepped out of the tunnel. I glanced down toward the Flag pole in front of Malinta tunnel where a group of troops had gathered. I hurried on down and moved in slowly; a sad sight greeted me. General Wainwright, a tall, gaunt figure with tears in his eyes was bidding his troops farewell. He spoke haltingly with great emotion.  

“My brave men, you have fought a very courageous fight against an enemy numerically superior, overwhelming odds and with no relief. I wish that I could tell you that victory which you so richly deserve was within our grasp, but alas, fate has not decreed it so.

“Today is the most wretched day in my long Army career; we must lower our beloved flag that all present have fought so hard to defend. It pains me deeply to tell you that we must swallow the bitter pill of defeat; further humiliate ourselves to yield to the Japanese Army. I ask you to conduct yourselves with dignity and respect becoming of the American Soldier. LOWER THE FLAG, SERGEANT!” 

As the honor guard lowered the Colors, we all wept unashamedly; the end was near; it was high noon, the 6th day of May, 1942. 

Down on “Bottom Side” at the boat landing dock, a Japanese Assault Boat pulled along side and General Yamashita with his staff jumped out. The General led the group up the ramp. Meanwhile US General Wainwright went down to meet the Jap General. He saluted and General Yamashita returned the salute with a deep bow. General Wainwright handed his Army pistol to General Yamashita in a token of surrender. 

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My Short Story

Betsy Herold Heimke, Life-Member Heart-of-America Chapter, Kansas City, MO 

I was an eye-witness to History. I was a 15/year old teenager looking out of our 2-story window from Bilibid Prison onto Quezon Blvd. at dusk the evening of 3 February 1945. A loud racket from the north was heard. A grinding, crunching rhythmic sound. So loud we had to scream to be heard. Suddenly there appeared one tank, a second tank and a third tank. The tanks stopped. Our hearts stopped. We wondered ARE THOSE AMERICAN TANKS!!!!!

Suddenly the Japs from the Far Eastern University, across the street, (where their Kempu Tai headquarters in Manila was) opened fire on the tanks. Bright red-orange-yellow streaks fired at the tanks. The tanks immediately retorted, more red-orange-yellow streaks. We then realized those tanks were AMERICAN!!!

The tanks proceeded south , behind buildings and out of view. They then turned left or easterly onto Espana enroute to Santa Tomas University where they broke down the gates, thus liberating those civilians.

Those tanks “passed us by” apparently not knowing we POWs were in Bilibid Prison. The gallant 37th Infantry Division literally stumbled onto Bilibid Prison the next night setting us FREE. We were 456 civilians (incarcerated previously at Camp John Hay and Camp Holmes in Baguio) and 811 military POWs.

God Bless the 37th Division and every other GI who answered the call to DUTY, HONOR and COUNTRY! 

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Heroic “Piggyback Flight”

By Daniel Reynolds Tribune-Review

Retired Air Force Capt. Glenn Rojohn may have pulled off one of the most remarkable feats in WWII, but he is too humble to give himself any credit. 

Others, though, acknowledged Rojohn’s incredible feat of courage and flying skill over the North Sea by inducting him into the Hall of Valor of the Soldiers and Sailors Hall in Oakland, PA. 

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, 1944, Rojohn, then a lieutenant, was flying a B-17 bomber in a formation with other members of the 8th AF, 100 BG, returning from a mission over Hamburg, Germany, when his group of Flying Fortresses was attacked and devastated by a squadron of German fighters.  

Rojohn and another pilot, Bill McNabb, maneuvered their planes to fill a gap in the formation left by one of the downed B-17s, but something went wrong, and perhaps nobody will ever know why. 

For some reason, Rojohn’s plane and McNabb’s collided and stuck together in a piggyback arrangement, with Rojohn’s plane on top. 

One of the propellers of Rojohn’s plane had become lodged in one of McNabb’s engines, causing a fire, and McNabb’s turret guns pierced the belly of Rojohn’s plane, locking them together. 

Some theorize that McNabb and his copilot were fatally wounded by the German attack, which is why the planes collided in the first place. 

With the other pilots in the formation watching in horror, Rojohn cut his engines, and with the engines on McNabb’s plane still running, Rojohn and his copilot Lt. Bill Leek wrestled the combined B-17s with all of their strength in an attempt to save the two crews. 

If either man had let go of the controls, the combined planes would have fallen into the ocean. 

To make matters worse, the fire in McNabb’s plane randomly was igniting round after round of 50 caliber machine gun bullets, which were firing into Rojohn’s plane, somehow missing Rojohn and his copilot. 

Rojohn and Leek were eventually able to return the plane over land, which is where Rojohn ordered his men to abandon the plane before he successfully landed it. 

Today, of the 10 men who survived what has become known as “The Piggyback Flight”, only Rojohn and his navigator, Bob Washington, remain.

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Veterans Memorial Plaza

Nearly three years ago, the following appeared in the

Baytown Sun.

No tribute adequate enough can be offered to some of Baytown’s finest citizens, but there’s at least one man who’s determined to try.

Luther Victory, a local WWII veteran, and POW held in 17B, began to spearhead an effort to raise money to build a Veterans Memorial Plaza in honor of US veterans of all wars.

At the dedication, appropriately held on Veterans Day, 2001, Mr. Victory’s dedication speech stated in part: This monument dedicates the Veterans Memorial Plaza to the veterans of all wars, past, present and future. Their bravery and courage comprise the shield that protects America in times of war and peace. Without the Armed Forces, America would cease to exist as we know it. For those of us who have fought for it, Freedom has a taste that the protected will never know. 

The statement attached to the entrance sign states:

In 1999, Dr. Luther Victory dreamed of a plaza surrounding the monument and began to raise the funds. He shared his dream with individuals and groups and obtained a promise of matching funds from the City of Bayview and Harris County. After months of hard work and perseverance, he saw his dream become a reality. 

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Low Flight

Paul E. (Pablo) Galanti
pgalanti@i2020.net

During a joint exercise in the Nevada desert circa Fall ’65, an Air Force project was trying to determine JUST HOW LOW TACTICAL AIRPLANES COULD SAFELY FLY TO AVOID RADAR! Was supposed to show a representation of different aircraft / experience, etc., so each participating squadron (Our squadron got picked for A-4s) got to enter: 1) An experienced aviator (funny how it always ended up being the C.O.); 2) middle experience—generally a senior LT/Young LCDR; 3) Nugget (me!). They had a zillion instrumented 55-gallon drums scattered on the “course”— about 15 miles in length — over hill and dale and ridgelines. Marching orders: “fly as low as you feel comfortable right over the barrels.” Man Oh Man! License to kill! Lemme at ‘em.

You flew over the barrels that had sensors to tell how close you came to each. Then a bunch of weenies would take the numbers, do statistical stuff on ‘em with slide rules, and PRESTO! No bar story B.S. — each type of aircraft got accurately rated as to how low it could fly “safely.” As Tex Birdwell, our Skipper, crossed the first ridgeline, he knocked the barrel over on the top of the hill. (He got the award for flying the lowest.) After rejoin, I checked his bird and, other that a flat nose on a drop tank, it looked fine so we came back to NAS Fallon. We’d shot some 20 mm before running through the course so we went into the de-arming area to safe the guns and taxied in.

The skipper called me on tactical and asked, “What the hell, Pablo. Why are all those people on the flight line looking at my airplane?”

”Dunno, Skipper.”

As he was shutting down, the crowd — including a bunch of photographers — crawled under his airplane. Birdwell jumped over the side to see what the hell was going on and was astonished to see one each Mark I Mod 0 jackrabbit speared on his pitot tube. He hit the bar big time bragging about killing the rabbit.

The ordnance guys never had the heart to tell him that they’d shot the rabbit while waiting for us to come back and get dearmed and stuck it on the Birdwell’s A-4 as a joke. As the cruise started, Birdwell’s bar story had already evolved to “the damn jackrabbit was sitting right on top of the barrel when I speared it - just flew a little low and knocked the barrel over....”

Today, the ordnance guys (and probably Moi) would get at least a Captain’s Mast (Article 15 / NJP / Office Hours depending on service) Or maybe even sexual hare - assment. 

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Ode to a Friend

John W. Morse
4240 George Lane
West Palm Beach, FL  33406
(561) 684-1226

When I first met her, I admired her firm, graceful curves. When we first went out together, I noticed that she was a bit too heavy. Actually, that she could be a pain in the neck! Man! After carrying her around all day, a guy was darn glad to be rid of her for a good rest. Of course, we didn’t take her to town with us (except for that parade where everybody had to). 

Then, after we got into combat, we were inseparable. She was one good sport! She helped us wash and cook…and even was good-natured when we sat on her. 

Actually, she saved my life on that hill in the cold and snow of the Battle of the Bulge. She took a wicked blast that was meant for me. A fellow can’t ask for more than that!

Then, at the Stalag in Germany, when we were provided no bowls, cups or anything else to eat our slime with…my buddy and I ate out of her generous pot. She was a lifesaver in every which way! 

When we were liberated, they took her away from me. I loved that beat up, dented old thing! They said I wouldn’t need her anymore at the hospital. I sort of thought she might show up next to my stretcher, but no. She was gone forever from my life. You can bet I’ll never forget her and I’ll always be grateful we got together like we did! 

Now, in my old age, I wish I could give her an honored place in my home. They tell me at the VA, that she may still be helping out, somehow, even now, somewhere in Germany. I sure hope so! SHE WAS THE BEST STEEL HELMET A GUY EVER HAD! 

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The Worth of A POW

George Webb
PO Box 495
Irvington, IL  62848
618-249-8498

 I am not an economist, but we have taught Engineering Economics – my night job. 

Some ex-POWs will not file a claim for their earned entitlements. They must think it’s a handout or welfare. This is a distressing situation that needs addressing, using a rational analysis of the available facts. 

This analysis is based on a most likely or most typical ex-POW, although they all seem unique to me, being anything but average. 

A very reliable source within the Dept. of Veterans Affairs tells us that the POW experience shortens our life by seven years. With a gross domestic product around 10 trillion dollars and a population of about 280 million (not counting the incarcerated), the individual income is $37,700 per year. Or $250,000 in seven years. 

If our typical POW went into service in 1945, at age 18, he would now be 75 with a life expectancy of 5.5 years (12.5-7.0). $250,000 at 4.5 percent will yield $4,392 per month for the remaining 5.5 years. 

Folks, my numbers may be off a little but the facts tell us that our government can afford to give our POWs the best of care. 

Some may ignore the facts but it is a historical fact that today’s actions will impact on future generations. With two-thirds of our post-WWII POWs dead and with new needs emerging, it is the duty of the living to prepare a legacy for future generations. 

We must continue to support fair and equitable treatment of veterans by our government. Yes, lawmakers do read your mail and they do grease squeaky wheels. 

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