Official figures of the death marchers – Filipino and American soldiers – who arrived in Camp O’Donnel in Capas after the Death March ranged from 40,000 to 50,000. Thousands more were unaccounted for and thousands more would die in the camp from atrocities of the Japanese and disease.
On April 9, the top American commander surrendered the Fil-American forces to the Japanese. Our officers told us the bad news and ordered us to lay down our arms. We were instructed to remove the firing pins of our artillery pieces to make them unserviceable and we threw the pins to the sea.
We were then gathered in a wooded area not far from the main road. The Japanese soldiers were to come and take us prisoners. We did not know exactly what this meant. We were conversing in low voices and I heard a few of the men quietly crying. Suddenly bursts of machine gun fire was directed at us. Instinctively the men ran to different directions to seek cover. I saw two trucks on the road starting to move. I caught the tail gate of the last one and got on it. Shortly after, we were captured by armed Japanese motor patrol. Were ordered to proceed to Mariveles where we joined hundreds of prisoners who were getting orders from a triumphant Japanese officer who spoke little English, but was assisted by a Filipino-Japanese who spoke good Tagalog.
We were ordered to walk down the main road towards Balanga, the provincial capital. There would be no guards, but were given very stern warning that if we escaped the Japanese would go after our families. There were accordingly warning posters along the road to Balanga in English and Tagalog. We were not marching in any formation. Each soldier or groups of soldiers were walking by themselves and kept their own pace. On the way I met a soldier who was from our town. I knew his family well. His name was Francisco Reyes, he was not well and I shared with him the little food I had in my bag. Everytime we stopped walking he immediately fell asleep. I had difficulty waking him up and making him walk again. I sort of took him as my ward during the entire march.
We finally got to Balanga. The Japanese soldiers organized us into working groups. I was assigned to a group doing construction work. We were not given any food, but we were allowed to join the long water line. An American group was with us in Balanga. The Japanese had little compassion in dealing with the Americans.
You saw it in their eyes: pride at defeating them and loathing.
One time I was standing in the water line when a small Japanese soldier grabbed a tall American with a judo hold and threw him over his shoulder down to the mud around the water hole. A burly Filipino stepped forward to help him, but another American stopped him to avoid further trouble. The injured American slowly lifted himself and limped to his place in the water line with his bruised pride. The prisoners kept quiet but you could feel their controlled rage. Suddenly, I felt the bitter impact of the meaning of defeat and helplessness.
To our marching group the real starting point of the Death March was Balanga. The prisoners were organized into formations of more or less 20 with six or eight armed Japanese guards. The Americans marched separately from the Filipinos. After much pushing and shouting by the Japanese, the third group, which had Francisco and me, started to move. I figured it was April 13 or 14.
It was the height of the summer heat. It felt like our very own hell marching toward death.
Since we were not given any food, we grabbed and ate anything edible along the way like guava leaves and fruits. Occasionally there were sugar cane fields beside or not far from the road. Many of the prisoners would run to the cane field even as riffle shots were fired by the guards. I do not know how many were killed or wounded in trying to get food – or how many escaped – but most of us came back to the lines.
The Japanese dictated how fast we walked. Some prisoners had difficulty keeping up with the march, collapsing because of the heat, hunger and exhaustion. In the beginning, they would simply be kicked to the side ditch. Later, the Japanese guards would shoot or bayonet any prisoner who fell especially when they learned that some soldiers pretended to fall to get a chance at escape. No wonder some civilians on the way warned us not to pretend to collapse.
When we passed populated areas, some civilians would hand us rice cakes and other food wrapped in banana leaves or water in empty soft drink bottles. There were a few who threw to the marchers women’s clothes and bandannas to facilitate escape. This was highly risky. I heard of a few successful escapes, but if the Japanese caught any civilian or prisoner attempting this, they would not spare a bullet.
One night we were told to rest in the compound of a warehouse in Lubao, Pampanga. There was a group that had come ahead of us and they were already resting when we arrived. After we were assigned to a area small area, balls of cooked rice were distributed. However, there was not enough to go around. I was able to grab one, but not one for Francisco. He looked very weak and we shared the rice I got.
Morale was down, many prisoners looked like living skeletons. There was the smell of disease, of death; the soldiers’ spirit was weakening, their resolve gone.
At dawn the next day, we were woken up by the guards. They were swinging meter-long rattan poles to make sure we understood and obeyed their commands. I lifted the canvas on which we slept the previous night to find out what was the bulge that bothered me. To my horror, there was a dead body underneath.
We resumed the march as the sun appeared on the clear eastern horizon, an indication of another hot day. The guards were more strict with the civilians on the roadsides, making sure they stayed a good distance from the prisoners.
The march ended at the Philippine railway station in San Fernando, Pampanga. It was only about 65 miles or so, but it seemed longer, like it would never end. It often felt like nobody would survive this – the heat, the starvation, the bayonets of the Japanese, their whims on who would live and who would die.
In Pampanga, we were forced into a railroad cargo car, maybe 200 of us. It was so tight there was no space to sit down. The stench in the closed car was awful, and some guys just relieved themselves where they stood.
We moved as one piece of humanity in the packed boxcar. Half a world away in Europe, in this same war, prisoners were also being transported in trains that would lead them to concentration camps and eventually to their death.
The ride was long and rough and finally we reached Capas, Tarlac where we were unloaded. It’s said that Camp O’Donnel was one of history’s biggest death factories where "more than 1,600 Americans and 10,000 Filipinos died in the space of six weeks."
But many would also survive.