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About forty five minutes later…
Smoldering remains of P-40s, B-26 medium bombers, and smashed hulks of the once mighty B-17 Flying Fortresses of MacArthur’s Far East Air Force lay broken in the aftermath. Heavy black smoke rolled in thick clouds from the burning fuel depot on Clark Field. Flames crackled everywhere from the bonfires of burning barracks, storage hangars and overturned vehicles. Gaping concrete craters perforated the once smooth runway and aircraft staging areas.
December 21, 1941
Frank's camouflaged battery of four half-tracks (anti-tank vehicles) wait anxiously for the anticipated Japanese invasion forces to arrive by sea in ships and land their troops in smaller boats…
The red morning sun rose at our backs as we stood in silence, engines idling, overlooking an undisturbed beach in Lingayen Gulf north of the town of Agoo. The long curved expanse of smooth beach, lined with palm trees and thick tropical foliage looked like a crescent moon set in the jade green water. The seawater turned from pea green to deep cobalt blue at the horizon where tall storm clouds towered in the hazy blue sky. A calm, warm breeze blew gently in from the South China Sea, stirring the palm fronds like little green flags.
The next morning….
With the first light of day, answers to our questions revealed themselves ominously on the horizon. I squinted through the early morning haze and spotted several angular objects in the water. From our perspective, the horizon was filled with anchored warships, each a dark shadow floating in the mist.
The invasion begins…
White bubbles burst from the prows of the landing craft and signaled that the invasion had begun. The sun had finally crested the small mountains to the east, and we could see boats with Japanese red and white flags headed straight toward our beach. Through binoculars I could see each of the helmeted Japanese invaders was holding a rifle pointed upward. Each advancing boat was loaded with forty or more soldiers. The wooden boats were so low in the water that the waves were splashing the soldiers. A close hit would sink them. When the boats were 400 yards away I thought, Oh, my God, this is for real! It’s them or us. The radio crackled “Get Ready! Set distance for three hundred yards. Fire!”
Withdraw…
“We’re going to pull out before we get surrounded,” Captain Perrenot called out over the constant gunfire. The big half-track engines fired up with a roar. We charged out of our partially buried positions, and the bamboo and palm tree fronds flew off our machines. Sand and debris flew everywhere as the rubber cleat treads dug into the loose beach sand. Bullets continued to hit the half-tracks as we pulled out into the open.
One night, while alone on a reconnaissance patrol, Frank bumps into an enemy soldier…
We both stumbled to recover our balance, like two Keystone Cops bouncing off each other we reached for our respective rifles. I was startled and shaking. My heart pounded and my senses were so acute that I could smell his body odor and the oil on his rifle. I recovered my footing, lifted my rifle, and pointed it at his chest. He did the same. God is this really happening? We stood less than six feet apart and stared at each other down our rifle barrels. Up until to this point the Japanese were a faceless enemy. Now I saw the face of my enemy. We were mirror images although one of us was Japanese and the other American. Time stood still, frozen in the brilliant moonlight. There was no feeling of fear in the silence. A voice inside me told me not to pull the trigger. I listened and watched the bizarre scene unfold before me as if in slow motion.
New Years Eve, 1941 Japanese tank ambush…
The rumble of a Japanese tank, barely discernible at first, broke the eerie silence of the night. My heart began to pound so loud I thought the guys around me could hear it. We stared into the trees where our unsuspecting enemy would emerge into the clearing by the bridge. None of us had ever been this close to an enemy tank before. We first saw Japanese infantry soldiers using flashlights to scan the bumpy road and guide the tank to the bridge. Like hungry cats we waited silently, eyes frozen, every muscle poised and ready to pounce. Not yet, hold on, Oh God, this one feels different.
Retreat to Bataan… “Why are we withdrawing, Captain?” I asked. “We’re kicking their butts! Why can’t we stay and keep givin’ them the business?” Captain Perrenot nudged his helmet forward almost covering his piercing blue eyes and replied prophetically, “Lovato, you’re going to have your fill of Japanese infantry, tanks, artillery, and airplanes soon enough. I pray we get more ammo, more food and more supplies soon. We’re lucky the Filipino’s are such good scroungers. We can’t keep running on close to empty indefinitely.”
April 3, 1942 - Good Friday Japanese begin major offensive to conquer American/Filipino forces defending Bataan…
Heavy artillery blasts rocked the earth like a continuous earthquake. Japanese bombers roared overhead and dropped bombs, adding to the fiery spectacle. Our men crouched in their foxholes. Rocks, shrapnel, and clods of dirt rained down from the bursting heavy ordinance. There was nowhere to go to escape the unceasing devastation. A deafening blast of fire blew me off my feet and through the air. I crumpled to the damp earth. “I’ve been hit! Oh, please God, not my legs,” I prayed.
April 9, 1942 Surrendered…
“We’re ordered to surrender! Open your breech and tie a rag to the end of your muzzle,” yelled one of the men who might have been an officer. We were a sad and pathetic sight to see: warriors worn out and hungry, ready to collapse from exhaustion, malnutrition, and dysentery. General MacArthur had said, “I shall return!” Well, he didn’t return in time, and we fought with what we had, but it wasn’t enough.
April 10, 1942 The Death March
With each painful mile of nonstop marching, the blazing sun’s heat, former battle injuries, malaria, dysentery, and constant whippings began to take their toll on the weakest marchers. Slowing down or stopping brought on savage beatings and worse -- a bayonet. Into the night we staggered like winos, heads drooped, arms hanging limply, exhausted into semi-consciousness. “When are we going to stop?” mumbled a marcher. “I can’t go on much more,” said another voice from the humid darkness. “I’m going to drop.” We had been marching continuously for almost fifteen hours with only one short ten-minute break.
Three days later at San Fernando Railroad station…
Herded again, we lined up in front of the row of closed boxcars. As the guards swung open the wooden doors of the stinking cattle cars, they commanded us to crawl into the dark, hot benchless, dungeons on wheels. With bayonets pointed at our backs they crammed us into the cars. The guards forced us in, stuffing us like sardines into a can. The doors slammed shut, squeezing us so tightly we could hardly breathe the hot stifling air. Agonizing moans and cries called out for more air in the hot metal boxcars.
Later that day, upon arrival at Camp O'Donnell Prisoner of War camp…
I thought if I passed out in front of the camp commander I surely would be shot like a sick dog. I kept repeating Dad’s advice: Hold on, keep standing, hold on. I felt death’s wet and clammy hands clutching me, like a cold, stinking sweat, trying to penetrate into my heart and brain, and steal that faint breath of life to which I was clinging on to.
July 1942 Burying the dead…
I had experienced three months of indescribable horrors watching helplessly as more of my fellow prisoners died from malnutrition, beatings, poorly treated injuries, malaria, and despair. All day long, I dug more trenches and buried poor souls. I never imagined how horrible death could be. Firing squad.
Nine men die because one man escaped…
“Why in the hell is he (Japanese Captain) punishing innocent men?” I asked under my breath. I closed my eyes and prayed for my brother soldiers and their families. Knowing they were facing their death, the condemned men shouted passionately, “God Bless America!” and “Tell the President about this!” Hoping for a miracle, I opened my eyes in time to see them bravely face their executioners. I heard, “God Bless America!” as the shots rang out in unison. I began shaking when I saw that the first volley of shots only wounded or completely missed some of the condemned. It seemed like an eternity of screams and agonizing moans while the firing squad reloaded and took aim again at the poor Bastards of Bataan. One of the brothers who was not hit shrieked, “Oh God, please!” as he witnessed his brother dying from a stomach wound.
Prison camp food…
After all our work in the camp farm, we were never given any of the vegetables. Instead, we were fed dirty rice, every day, every week, and every month, but never enough to fill us. Once in a blue moon we would get a slice of pickle or some other weed thrown in. The closest thing to meat protein were the bugs that were tossed in the pot along with anything else that was on the floor at the time the rice was bagged.
Voyage of the “Hell Ship” July, 1943 The last time I had seen the deep blue ocean was on April 9, 1942, when we had our backs to the water and faced the Japanese for the final battle. If we had had an inkling of the horrors that would ensue during the death march and death camps, we probably would have disobeyed our orders to surrender and fought the enemy to the last standing man. Step by step, we climbed down a vertical, sixty-foot steel ladder, down through the level below the top deck that was filled with sugar cane to the lowest storage hold that was littered with straw. I realized why the deck hands were alarmed. The space in the hold could not accommodate eight hundred men, no matter how thin we had become. As we maneuvered for standing space in the rusty foul-smelling hold, men began to shout in the darkness, “We need more room! No more men! There’s not enough room!” Everyone stared upward toward the tiny hole of daylight and watched in horror as the steady stream of prisoners continued to pour down the steel ladder. Frustration and panic spread through the sardine-can accommodations. September, 1943 - Arrival At Moji, Japan
Nearly three weeks after being herded into the dark, filthy innards of the hell ship the rumor circulated that we were going to arrive in Japan by day’s end. I ignored the mumbled speculations of what might happen next. I knew that whatever it was, I needed to keep my head together if I was going to survive. POW Camp No.17- Mitsui coal mine, Omuta, Japan
After about an hour the slow moving train’s iron wheels screeched to a halt at the front gate of Mitsui Coal Mine Camp 17. Smokestacks towered over multiple rows of barrack-style buildings that measured over 150 feet long. With the addition of our group, there were over fifteen hundred American, English, Dutch, Australian, and New Zealander prisoners. Day after day, we blasted farther under the bay in search of coal that Mitsui Corporation supplied to the Japanese government. After meager portion of watered-down lugao (rice gruel), we marched down the long, treacherous shafts to our assigned locations to work twelve to fourteen hour shifts.
After almost three years, Frank receives his first and only package from home…
“My God,” I gasped. I was shocked to hear my name. I never imagined I would be receiving anything more, especially a package. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the brown paper package that was loosely re-tied with coarse dark string. Mother had said in one of her letters that she had sent several packages and asked if I had received any of them. I figured the Japanese kept the food and clothing she sent because I had not received anything. I removed the outer wrapping of the brown cardboard box and discovered that someone had carelessly rummaged through. When I lifted the cardboard flaps I saw the treasures mixed in cookie crumbs and bars of soap. I was overwhelmed by the sweet smell of anise seeds in homemade biscochito cookies and the fresh-scented soap. The smells took me seven thousand miles home to my family. My hands trembled as I pulled out a pair of soft flannel pajama bottoms and held them up to my waist. Next I saw the pajama top with pearly buttons and cookie crumbs in the pockets. After three years of Mitsui-issued clothing I had forgotten what new clothes felt like. I caressed the soft flannel with my chapped hands and pressed the bundle of sweet aromas from home to my face and cried my first tears since singing “God Bless America” so long ago at Camp O'Donnell. I knew my dear mother had held these pajamas close to her heart before packing them and that made me indescribably happy.
August 10, 1945 About thirty five miles south of Nagasaki…
Suddenly, an intense flash of light lit the hazy day as though a giant flash bulb had exploded from the heavens. “What the hell was that?” asked a prisoner. We looked into the high gray clouds and searched for the source of the lightening flash that had startled us. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to work. I figured it was probably lightening, what else could it have been? A minute or so later a thunderous blast almost knocked us off our feet.
August 16, 1945 Tears rolled down gaunt faces. There were tears for the physical pain we endured when they beat us unmercifully. There were tears for the nightmarish horrors levied on our brothers who were killed without mercy. There were tears of relief for the freedom from the cruel hands of the war machine that had made us slaves. There were tears of joy that the war was finally over. There were tears because we now could let down and cry.
September 17, 1945 Liberated at Nagasaki Bay…
My heart felt like it would pound out of my chest when I saw Old Glory flying proudly from the white hospital ship docked in Nagasaki Bay. I couldn’t take my tear-filled eyes off the Stars and Stripes flapping in the ocean breeze. My body shook like a leaf. Three and a half long, painful years had passed since the Imperial Japanese Army tore down our proud Stars and Stripes in Bataan, and stripped us of everything that identified us as Americans. They took our weapons, our food, our wedding rings, and so many lives. But they never took my pride in being an American.
Francisco L. Lovato 530-615-9202 530-477-1519 15836 Annie Drive Grass Valley, California 95949
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