Blood Brothers by Eugene C. Jacobs (i can read book club TXT) 📕

December 13, 1944: Long before dawn, we were awakened by the ringing of a large bell at the prison guardhouse. The day we had been dreading for many months, had arrived; 1619 of us would depart from our uncomfortable quarters and start a long journey to Japan. Thoughts of riding on a prison ship filled us with apprehension; several prison ships had already been sunk and many of our friends had been lost.

We lifted our emaciated bodies from the concrete floor, showered and shaved in the dark; we didn’t know when we might experience such luxury again. We put our few worldly but worthless possessions into our packs. Breakfast was the usual half-cup of lugao.

As the first light of day peeked over the high stone wall, we were lined up with our baggage; we stood for hours as Col. Beecher, USMC, our commanding officer, and a Japanese guard wandered through our ranks-trying to get a head count. The guards, a rather ignorant group, were completely puzzled by such a large number - 1619. Finally about 0800 hours, everything

seemed to be ready. Shouting and waving disabled prisoners filled the windows and doors as our long line moved slowly through the gate and dawn Rizal Avenue. When the line was about was quickly reversed and hurried back into the prison: “Kura! Hully, Hully! Speeda! Speeda!”

We couldn’t see any planes, but were kept in line far hours. Sweat rolled freely dawn our faces and backs. Guards went among us, picking up mosquito nets and tropical helmets: “Don’t need in Japan!”

At 1100 hours, the long line moved slowly out the gate. Rizal Avenue was crowded with saber, gaping Filipinas not the, happy-go-lucky ones we had known before the war. Occasionally when hidden from guards, they would give us a “V” sign. We dared not acknowledge it.

We could see “pity” on their faces as we passed dawn the streets, by the Metropolitan Theater and over the Passig Bridge. The natives’ looked haggard and ragged. Most of them were on foot rather than riding the usual caratellas or caramettas (pony carts). Many stores were closed, boarded-up. Many homes showed signs of looting. Metal had been removed from every available place-iron bars from windows, manhole covers from streets taken to Japan far making armaments.

We went the long way through Luneta Park; we saw artillery and anti-aircraft positions there and in the streets. It appeared that the Nips would put up a good fight to retain the Philippines.

There were many ships in the bay-destroyers and cruisers as well as transports. Same had been sunk; many were nearly submerged or listing badly; yet others appeared to be unharmed.

Tugs and tenders moved briskly about the bay; derricks strained aver damaged vessels. All in all, there was entirely too much activity far a supposedly blockaded port!

There were many Japanese civilians, mostly women and children, milling about Pier Seven. They were short and stocky, dark and expressionless. Most of them were carrying cloth or straw bundles-their possessions. They were being evacuated to Japan to avoid the battle far the Philippines that everyone knew was coming.

As we arrived on the pier, we were divided into groups of one hundred and ordered to “Sit dawn and stay in place!” The floor was filthy, but the rest was welcome.

Oryoko Maru: By squirming around, I could read the name of

the ship, Oryoku Maru, on the bow painted over with gray as was the whole ship. There was nothing to mark it as a ship carrying prisoners. Winches were working rapidly, raising American-made appliances and cars to the deck.

I discovered a water faucet nearby and eased over to it to fill my canteen, only to be driven away by a jabbering guard. I was not enthused about making a trip through MacArthur’s blockade with an empty canteen. However, I did get a good look at the ship. It was a large, modern passenger liner with several big anti-aircraft guns on the deck. The ship was not to be sunk without a good fight.

Pier Seven showed much evidence of heavy bombing, but was still definitely usable. Just before dark, prisoners began to climb the ladders to the deck. The aft hold was loaded first 719 prisoners. Next, the forward hold with 718 prisoners.

Just as we, the remaining 182 prisoners were ordered into the second hold (behind the forward hold), we were joined by seven additional prisoners who had come from Fort McKinley, a few miles east of Manila. Many others were on the way to join us, when their lead streetcar conveniently left the tracks.

Our group, now 189, was composed mostly of medics and civilians. The ship’s cabins, dining rooms and parlors were crowded with several thousand women, children and elderly Japanese civilians. We dropped our packs into the hold and quickly descended the long ladder into darkness hurried by the grunting guards and their “vitamin sticks.”

There was not enough room for everyone to sit down. Our group of medics crowded together in the center of the hold. The floor was filthy, covered with horse manure. The stench burned our eyes; our roof was the darkening sky. We were glad for its protection. The ship was soon under way, moving smoothly and rapidly.

We were divided into groups of twenty. A representative of each group was sent above to get small amounts of fish, rice and water. Our latrine was a five-gallon can in the center of the hold; it was soon filled.

Sleeping was difficult; we were awakened each time a neighbor would move, because of cramps, numbed extremities or the urge to urinate.

December 14, 1945: Thursday - We were awakened at the first sign of daylight. Three of us who had shared an interest in

a can of Spam saved for several weeks from a Red Cross package-debated whether or not to eat it. We decided to save it for a suitable emergency.

Our group representative went above to the kitchen for a bucket of rice; he brought back bad news from the other holds which were more crowded: “Some thirty prisoners had died from suffocation during the night. Several, suffering from extreme thirst, had become crazed, slashing and biting throats, arms and legs to ‘suck’ the blood. Some men actually had to fight off their neighbors with a shoe or a club to keep from getting murdered. Several frenzied prisoners tried to climb the ladders and were immediately shot by the guards. Perhaps this was a blessed relief from their tormentors.”

Our representative also told us, “We are in a convoy of some seven ships, a cruiser, destroyers and transports, loaded with troops (probably sick and wounded). We were moving north along the Zambales coast at about twenty knots.”

About 0900 hours I heard planes; many of them; soon there were loud blasts from the anti-aircraft guns on the deck above. The planes began to dive. Faster and faster they whined. Then tremendous explosions! They were attacking the other ships; they could knock us off at their leisure.

Then bullets and shrapnel slashed and rattled through our hold-as several food carriers were coming down the ladder with buckets of rice.

One of these was my good friend, Chaplain Ed Nagel, a former missionary in Baguio, shot through the thigh. With blood streaming down his leg, he continued down the ladder carrying a bucket of rice.

“U.S. Navy planes!” he shouted.

There was no doubt now; our ship was the target, and we were sitting on the bull’s eye.

Motors continued to accelerate-then terrific concussions; the ship quivered and was actually bouncing in the water. The air was full of bomb dust and chips of rust; it was becoming difficult to breathe. We tried to move toward the side of the hold and huddled close together. My heart was pounding like a trip hammer in my parched throat; my ears were ringing and my eyes were popping. I completely forgot how hungry I was. Each prisoner was conversing with his God. I had quick visions of my family they’ll never know what happened to me. There’ll be

no survivors to tell them. Will it ever stop?”

Many men were bleeding badly! There was much confusion, much moving around. Everyone was trying to get in a safer place, to get bandages, to apply pressure to wounds it was hopeless; everything was covered with dirt and dust.

The planes were diving again, spraying their deadly missiles. (I have neither the will nor the talent to describe the gory details.) “Would this be the explosion that would blot out our existence?” Then it was over! Complete silence!

Stunned, we moved into the center of the hold to get better air to breathe and to thank God for surviving. We bandaged the wounded and moved them into positions of relative safety.

But our quiet didn’t last long! More planes! More anti-aircraft blasts! More explosions! More concussions! More dust and dirt!

As a doctor, I had seen many people die during the previous sixteen years. I knew that nature was usually kind to dying persons, supplying stupor and coma to ease any pain. But I wasn’t ready to die-I wasn’t even forty, when life is supposed to begin. We had buckets of rice, covered with dirt and rust chips, but no one could eat.

Fifteen more times that day planes returned to attack our ship. Five times the gun crews on the deck were annihilated and replaced with fresh crews. There had been no lack of bravery on the deck. Officers continued to wave their sabers at the pilots. During the last bombing, fragments of rock flew into the hold; our ship had been beached on the Zambales coast to prevent its sinking.

As the sun went down, we could feel the ship backing off the shore. By watching the shadows rotate around the mast, we could tell that we were headed to the west, out to sea. We wondered if the ship was fit for further voyage.

Our food carriers, returning from the kitchen above, reported,

“All the other ships in the convoy are gone-probably sunk.”

As we moved out to sea, we heard muffled explosions - depth charges to keep submarines away.

After several hours the engines stopped and we drifted gently for some time, and then the anchors were dropped. We could hear small boats coming alongside. Wounded passengers were being taken off in the darkness. A Japanese officer took several American doctors up on deck to help the wounded. On returning, they reported, “The decks, cabins and dining rooms are littered with

dead and dying. We had only candle light no medicines, no bandages. Actually there was nothing we could do.”

That night held all of the horrors of the previous night: groaning, cursing, praying, screaming, and shouting of the wounded and crazed: “Don’t touch me! Oh! God, NO! Keep away from me! Don’t kill me! Give us air! Let us out! We need water!” and on through the night. The unloading continued through the night. No one slept.

Dec. 15, 1944: The bright sunrise rekindled our apprehensions-” Are we being left on board the ship to be bombed out of our miseries?”

We didn’t have to wait long planes again closer and closer.

They were diving! This time there were no gun crews on deck!

“Now they can come in close for the kill!”

Deadly showers of bullets ricocheted through the hold. Tremendous explosions shook the ship. Planked flooring off the hold fell into the bilge, dropping many prisoners into the bottom of the ship; some were hopelessly pinned down.

I prayed to God and asked for mercy, but felt that I had a poor connection! Maybe He wasn’t listening! He probably .had more important things to do! My feelings were of complete submission-“What will be, will be!”

Our doctors were frustrated! Wounds were covered with dirt blood bubbling through the filth.