Naomi and I had the honor of celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Bataan Death March with many of the survivors who had served in the 31st Infantry Regiment. The event was referred to as the “Silver Bowl Ceremony” because the officers and soldiers of the 31st had hidden the silver reserves of the Philippines before the Japanese could take them.
Once the Japanese were removed from the island, the silver was returned. In honor of the actions of the 31st, the Philippine government took a small portion of the silver and made a silver bowl with a set of cups each having the rank and name of an officer of the Regiment who had lost his life in the defense of the island nation.
I sat next to one survivor who was probably a couple of years older than I am now. He talked about losing his friends along the Death March as the Japanese bayoneted them, leaving them to die for the crime of needing to rest for a few moments. He told us about how he had developed a case of gangrene having been wounded while sequestered on Corregidor at the mouth of Manila Bay. The defense forces ran out of medicines, ammunition and food before the force was surrendered.
The aging soldier told us about the pain his leg was in; but, he could not risk stopping to rest. His tone was normal as though he was talking about stopping to get gasoline on his way to the dinner.
Once in Japan at a POW camp, one of the US physicians sawed his leg off below the knee. He knew he had to do something so he could remain mobile or the Japanese would have found no use for him and would take his life.
As he’s telling us this, I was having difficulty imagining it. It was a story. A story I could not relate to at all.
It was about then that he rolled his right pant leg up and flung his foot around and up onto the exquisitely decorated dinner table, replete with the officer’s silver cups all ready for a toast having been fully charged with wine.
There on the table was his shoe connected to his knee by a whittled 2x4” piece of wood, attached to his knee with aged leather straps.
The old soldier had taken the piece from under his bunk and whittled it down to fit the nub of his knee. The leather also came from under the bunk. He removed straps far enough apart so that the mattress would not fall through.
He was beaming with pride.
He said boldly, “Here’s my leg. I made it myself. I only wear it on special occasions.”
It’s hard to remember much more of that dinner at Fort Ord in 1982.
All I knew was that as a Second Lieutenant, I was having the honor of dining with some of America’s finest.
Happy 75th anniversary. Hooah!
http://www.history.com/topics/world-war-ii/bataan-death-march
Once the Japanese were removed from the island, the silver was returned. In honor of the actions of the 31st, the Philippine government took a small portion of the silver and made a silver bowl with a set of cups each having the rank and name of an officer of the Regiment who had lost his life in the defense of the island nation.
I sat next to one survivor who was probably a couple of years older than I am now. He talked about losing his friends along the Death March as the Japanese bayoneted them, leaving them to die for the crime of needing to rest for a few moments. He told us about how he had developed a case of gangrene having been wounded while sequestered on Corregidor at the mouth of Manila Bay. The defense forces ran out of medicines, ammunition and food before the force was surrendered.
The aging soldier told us about the pain his leg was in; but, he could not risk stopping to rest. His tone was normal as though he was talking about stopping to get gasoline on his way to the dinner.
Once in Japan at a POW camp, one of the US physicians sawed his leg off below the knee. He knew he had to do something so he could remain mobile or the Japanese would have found no use for him and would take his life.
As he’s telling us this, I was having difficulty imagining it. It was a story. A story I could not relate to at all.
It was about then that he rolled his right pant leg up and flung his foot around and up onto the exquisitely decorated dinner table, replete with the officer’s silver cups all ready for a toast having been fully charged with wine.
There on the table was his shoe connected to his knee by a whittled 2x4” piece of wood, attached to his knee with aged leather straps.
The old soldier had taken the piece from under his bunk and whittled it down to fit the nub of his knee. The leather also came from under the bunk. He removed straps far enough apart so that the mattress would not fall through.
He was beaming with pride.
He said boldly, “Here’s my leg. I made it myself. I only wear it on special occasions.”
It’s hard to remember much more of that dinner at Fort Ord in 1982.
All I knew was that as a Second Lieutenant, I was having the honor of dining with some of America’s finest.
Happy 75th anniversary. Hooah!
http://www.history.com/topics/world-war-ii/bataan-death-march
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