Terraced Hell: A Japanese Memoir of Defeat & Death in Northern Luzon, Philippines
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About this ebook
Near the end of World War II , when the Japanese military machine was crushed but still hanging on, thousands of Japanese soldiers and civilians were caught in the backlash of the war in Northern Luzon, the Philippines, where half a million Japanese perished.
This is an honest and straightforward account of defeat and death in the Philippines, described by a Japanese teacher who survived the horrible ordeal. "Several things compelled me to write this story," says Ogawa. "Since it was my record of a dangerous and fateful year in my life, I thought I should write an exact account of it for my children, an account which could be passed on to future generations."
Ogawa questioned a system which demanded death rather than surrender where defeat was imminent and all hope gone. Constant bombing was their daily fare, along with daring guerrilla raids and incursions of headhunting tribal Igorots.
This illustrated war memoir is intensely interesting, if somewhat gruesome reading, and is a valuable and important contribution to the literature of World War II.
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Terraced Hell - Tetsuro Ogawa
- 1 -
Bauang to Baguio
THERE WERE reeds on the river bank under the railroad bridge. The stream meandered lazily here and its waters were deep blue and almost still. Beyond on the opposite bank was a thatched roof under the shade of a tall banana tree whose large leaves waved in the soft breeze. The river disappeared at a nearby bend where a huge mango tree stood, each leaf reflecting the strong tropical sun.
It was much like a country scene in the summer in Japan. The difference was that we seldom take a bath in a river like this in Japan, and here I was busily scrubbing away.
Japan was far to the north, at an unbearable distance, one so great that I could not tell my family I was safe and sound in the small town of Bauang on the Gulf of Lingayen, La Union; safe from the savage battles on Leyte and from the air raids on Manila. It was a cruel distance that a harsh defeat had hopelessly increased.
A small fish flashed past me in the water. As I watched it dart away, I thought, What price your life, little fish? What price mine?
Kenzo Oda, a colleague of mine, came down the bank singing The Song of Paratroops
in a strong baritone, and took off his clothes. The hair on his chest quivered in the breeze and beads of sweat glistened through it.
They're not likely to come, are they?
I asked.
Hardly likely,
he said, stepping into the cool water. We were referring to the machine-tools that were to be brought to this town from Manila by train. It was our mission to receive the tools and carry them in trucks to Baguio, where Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita had his headquarters for the purpose of the protracted stand which he had planned.
They say this place is the most likely spot for an enemy landing,
I said.
There's a rumor to that effect,
he said indifferently. In that case we'll have to retreat to Baguio, and even that place won't last very long.
Leaving my friend still singing Paratroops,
I went up onto the bank, dried myself and dressed. I nodded casually as I passed the garrison where sunburnt soldiers sat guarding the bridge, and entered the plaza in front of the church, an old stone one built in the Spanish era. The steeple was shining in the westering sun.
Here the highway forked to the north to San Fernando and to the east to Baguio. My billet, a house owned by a handsome Filipino couple with whom we lived, was near the corner. I went upstairs to my room and crawled into bed, pulled down the mosquito net and closed my eyes. I knew I should not be despondent about my family, my life and my fate; it was no use worrying about the future. I began reading Japanese haiku poems I had brought from Manila. Each verse was linked in meaning with the one preceding it and also with the one following. The scenes unfolded were those of the countryside of Japan in the good old days some two hundred years ago. When you are shut up in a room surrounded by the iron walls of fate, distance and military regulations, the only freedom you get is that of dreaming. This collection of short verses provided me with moments of happy reverie and repose.
* * *
I was not a soldier but a civilian teacher, attached to the Army to assist in education and information in the areas occupied by the Japanese. I had been teaching in Manila for the past two years, but now I was a transport agent with two trucks under my command.
In the earlier period of the occupation, our job went pretty smoothly; the Filipinos were cooperative. However, as the Americans took the Solomon Islands, landed on New Guinea, and occupied the small island bases in the Pacific, the people of the Philippines began to turn their backs on us and to look forward to the return of their former rulers.
Burma and Indonesia regarded the Japanese as their liberators-the natives had not liked their white rulers. The Philippines, however, had been satisfied with American democracy and the civilization which huge American capital had introduced. The Japanese invasion was a liability to the Filipinos, who soon found that the newcomer, instead of giving anything that corresponded to the Spaniards' religion or American civilization, was all for taking what little the people had or could produce. The prices of commodities soared. The issuing of more Japanese military scrip only increased inflation. Moreover, the islands in this republic were too numerous and personnel at the Japanese Army's disposal were too limited to police it properly. The forged scrip printed in the U.S., brought over in U.S. submarines, and smuggled into the country added to the difficulties.
The Japanese gospel of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere and the high spiritual culture of Asia
was only a joke to the Filipinos. The former was a-cover for Japan's despotic rule over the whole of Asia and the latter an excuse for poverty.
The Filipinos rose in revolt everywhere, and both Filipinos and Japanese were killed. Many innocent citizens were victims, just as in Vietnam today.
The teaching of Nippongo (the Japanese language) declined to such an extent that after the first American air raid on Manila on September 21, 1944, all the classes were virtually closed except the one at the University of the Philippines, where I taught a mere handful of students.
Meanwhile, the battles on Leyte ended in the most disastrous defeat in the history of Japan; with the loss of 80,000 soldiers, 1,000 planes, and more than 20 warships including the Musashi, one of the world's two biggest battleships. (The other was the Yamato, about the same size, which was also sunk six months later.)
Gen. Yamashita, commander-in-chief of the 14th Area Army, had given up all hope of staging a decisive battle and was determined to hold out in a protracted action so as to entice the enemy to the island of Luzon, thus preventing them from invading Japan proper before the Japanese at home were prepared for a showdown.
As the region for this prolonged resistance he chose the mountainous areas of Northern Luzon and established his headquarters in Baguio, the famous mountain resort. The food for his Army was to be obtained from the Cagayan Valley where there was an abundant rice crop.
There was much to be done in a hurry. The defenses had to be set up before the enemy landed. A great number of soldiers and civilians began to move north, and finally, on December 17, I was ordered to proceed north to this town on the mission already referred to.
One evening I called at a Filipino house, the master of which had recently been assassinated by guerrillas for cooperating with the Japanese Military Police. The widow in mourning was alone except for a ten-year-old daughter.
What shall we do from now on?
said the widow, weeping. We're already Japanese, and the whole town's against us.
I was trying to console her when two Japanese M.P.'s came in. They looked as if they wanted to be entertained by her, but she would not look at them. I left the house in a dark mood, fearing that similar tragedies would take place if Japan was occupied.
On December 29, a strong reinforcement landed on San Fernando, the 19th Infantry Division from North Korea. Although they lacked one-third of their original force due to the difficulty of transportation, the soldiers were all regular army and looked as if they were of a different race from the exhausted soldiers rescued from torpedoed ships in the Basi Strait while on their way to this country. Robust and lively, the new arrivals marched off toward Baguio.
On New Year's Eve we cooked pork and chicken, and invited Mr. and Mrs. Floirendo, who owned our billet, their brother-in-law, and his servant, an ex-boxer. The brother-in-law was a handsome man with piercing eyes. Judging by his sure manner of speaking and his strong physique, I thought he had been in the army. He told me that he had once been in the Philippine Constabulary. I suspected that he was an important leader of the guerrillas, but guerrilla or not, we had a right to celebrate the New Year. We talked and discovered that we were born on the same day, September 14, 1912. Delighted with this coincidence, we shook hands and drank far into the night. I did not see him the next morning, but I was sure he would become a man of importance if he survived the war.¹
We celebrated New Year's Day, 1945, Japanese style. Lining up in our uniforms, we bowed to the north (in the direction of the Emperor) and prayed for the prosperity of our country.
The New Year made me think of my family. About this time my children, who were now used to their hard life in wartime, would be sitting before the feast
which their mother and grandmother had prepared from the meager rations.
* * *
Although I often grew despondent, I gradually acquired a facility for overcoming this mood. Perhaps the long struggle had developed in me a kind of resignation, or perhaps time and distance had, in a sense, actually alienated me from my loved ones. A will to live through all the trouble and hardships of war was being born in place of the despair that had long tormented me.
Shortly afterwards, however, an incident occurred which showed my fine bit of reasoning to be mostly self-delusion. A truck with officials from my section arrived on the afternoon of January 3.
Seeing Iwao Suzuki, a clerk, I called to him. Hey, went broke in Manila, did you?
No, sir,
he said. We've been ordered to return to Japan.
To hell with that solemn sense of distance or the will to live,
I thought joyfully. I asked him when we were to get aboard, but he did not smile. After hesitating a moment, he said:
I'm sorry, but you're not included in the repatriation group.
My disappointment left me almost speechless. I blurted:
So the other high officials are to be left?
No, they're all ordered back. You're the only one, sir.
But why was I excluded?
I demanded.
I don't know, sir, but perhaps it's because you are so useful.
Useful be damned!
I shouted. But it was silly to vent my anger on the clerk. Suzuki handed me two airmail letters from my wife, and I retreated to my room in a state of great agitation. My blood boiled when I thought of my seniors leaving me here to die while they escaped to safety.
Cheer up, Ogawa,
a voice said. It was Masao Hori, another colleague. I heard you were excluded, but isn't that a good thing? Do you think they can get across the Basi Strait safe from enemy subs? Why, if you use your wits, man, and have the guts to live, it is much safer to stay here in the Philippines.
Why didn't I think of that? He was perfectly right; being so incensed at the orders, I hadn't thought of the danger of returning. The chances of reaching Taiwan across the submarine-infested strait were now almost as slight as those of flying across it through the swarming enemy fighters.
I read the letters from my wife, written in her usual sincere style, and in which she refrained from being overemotional. She also encouraged me to use my wits and have the courage to live.
The next day two senior officials arrived from Manila, exultant and full of joy. One of them, eating the lunch I had cooked for them, said consolingly:
I'll call on your family and give them the latest news about you.
Would he have the nerve to tell my family that they had left me here to die, provided, of course, that he arrived safely? I wanted to point out the impossibility of a safe return to Japan, but I remained silent.
The officials started that afternoon for San Fernando Port, but our ships anchored there were bombed in the night. Our antiaircraft guns fired into the night air, but no enemy planes were shot down and all our ships were either sunk or damaged. The possibility of the two officials returning was reduced to naught.
On the 5th, news came that a tremendous enemy convoy was headed for Lingayen Gulf and that our air force was attacking them with all the planes they had.
The next morning I went to the depot to see if the tools had arrived, but the lieutenant in charge told me the railroad had already been cut at several places by the guerrillas. We were now out of a job.
Returning to my room, I played chess with Oda, my friend. We heard a sudden explosion somewhere to the north, then two more explosions. We kept on playing, thinking that the fires from the air raid of the night before were causing our ammunition to explode. But soon there was a terrific explosion near us. The house shook and the widowpanes were shattered. Just then, another colleague rushed in to tell us that we were being bombarded by the enemy fleet, and to remark ironically that only Japanese would be so brave as to be playing chess in their yukata (Japanese dressing gowns) when everyone else was running for his life. The owner of the house hurried in and told me he