The Bataan Memorial Death March takes hikers 26.2 miles through the New Mexico desert.

By Ralph Wetterhahn

On April 9, 1942, in the town of Lamao on the Bataan Peninsula, Army Maj. Gen. Edward King surrendered his Filipino and American forces during a meeting with Imperial Japanese Army Col. Motoo Nakayama. When King asked if his troops would be well-treated, Nakayama replied, “We are not barbarians.” But that was not the case during a month of forced marches by 76,000 prisoners toward Camp O’Donnell, some 55 miles north. Among the prisoners were 1,800 members of the 200th Coast Artillery, New Mexico National Guard. Their commander was a journalist, their supply officer a postman, and their medical officer an obstetrician. A mixed bag of teenaged cowboys, miners, American Indians, Mexican Americans, and Anglos combined into what historian Dorothy Cave describes as the “most narrowly provincial and most widely American unit in the United States Army.” They became part of the legendary “Battling Bastards of Bataan — no mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam.” Fewer than 900 New Mexicans survived the infamous Bataan Death March, during which, under a scorching sun and with little food or water, thousands of troops succumbed to heat prostration or were murdered by the Japanese when they fell out of ranks.

A living memorial to these men was begun in 1987 by Ray Pickering, then a New Mexico State University ROTC student who, along with 134 participants, hiked 22 miles east from the campus in Las Cruces to Baylor Canyon in the Organ Mountains of southern New Mexico. In 1992, the event was moved inside the nearby White Sands Missile Range, and the mileage increased to marathon length. Participation grew to 4,202 during the 60th anniversary memorial march in 2002. Entry categories expanded to include team and individual events, including the ultimate peacetime challenge: hefting a 35-pound pack the entire distance.

Seventeen veterans of the Philippine campaign convened as honored guests to oversee this year’s event, which MOAA helped sponsor. Also being recognized were five veterans of ongoing operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. The younger men — all amputees — were Purple Heart recipients. And what did these new casualties of war think of the Bataan survivors? “They are awesome,” said Army Staff Sgt. Brian Neuman, who lost his left arm when a rocket-propelled grenade penetrated his Bradley fighting vehicle in Afghanistan. Neuman still is on active duty, and though his career options may be limited now, he ignored his physical limits as he shouldered a 35-pound pack in preparation for the 26.2-mile trek. Another Operation Enduring Freedom servicemember who came to participate in the march was Army Sgt. 1st Class Michael McNaughton, who lost his right leg above the knee while deployed in Afghanistan.

Because of traffic and logistics considerations, a 3 a.m. wake-up is required for most participants, though some camp out inside the missile range facility. After parking, marchers must proceed to the starting lanes, which are divided by category: male and female individual and team, military and civilian, light- and heavy-weight carrying divisions. The scene was packed with “mamas and papas” and thousands of Uncle Sam’s finest.

Team MOAA included my wife, Carol Wetterhahn; our friend and experienced marathoner Lisa Lunde; our niece, college junior Kristin Forttrell; and me. All but Kristin had completed the training regimen recommended on the Bataan March Web site, www .bataanmarch.com. Carrying 6-pound backpacks, our goal was to finish in under 10 hours, the official end of the timed competition. As dawn broke, our hopes were in jeopardy. Carol had endured a sleepless night and was suffering from a case of intestinal distress.

After a moving opening ceremony at sunrise highlighted by the presence of Bataan veterans and their Operation Enduring Freedom brethren, a cannon boomed the start of the march. Team MOAA headed out, with Carol setting the pace.

At the beginning of the Bataan Death March from Mariveles on the tip of the Bataan peninsula, the prisoners started off in groups of about 300. The men had been on half-rations or less since January. They were exhausted from the fighting and had gotten little sleep in days. Many of the men also suffered from dysentery.

To avoid disqualification, all team members must cross the finish line within 20 seconds of each other, but I placed no restrictions on our group. How would we deal with pace, pain, and support? Carol still was under the weather. Would any of us choose to push ahead alone, or would we moderate our pace to accommodate our slower companion? How had the veterans made their choices during those grim days in 1942?

When a comrade seemed ready to fall, buddies on each side supported him as long as their own strength allowed. John West and his New Mexico friends “carried one of our boys from Carlsbad the last few miles, taking turns. You’d get so hot and tired you just had to quit, only you couldn’t.”

It could have been because of the ROTC students and their marching songs or the elementary school groups and their spirited cheers, but in short order, Carol was looking, and according to her, feeling much better. She picked up a more determined pace. We now had to hustle to keep up.

Japanese military training was brutal. Recruits were beaten by superiors for the most minor of infractions, conditioning each soldier to display little pity toward underlings. New Mexico Guardsman Pfc. Winston Shillito was quick to learn about abuse. “When I saw a Jap corporal stand a Jap private at attention and start slapping him brutally, I knew we were in trouble.” Angelo Sakalares later watched a Japanese sergeant calmly shoot one of his own men.

At White Sands, the base security force and the New Mexico Highway Patrol officers could not have been nicer. Directing vehicles, providing safe passage for marchers through traffic areas, and radioing for assistance when anyone encountered difficulties were done routinely with professional courtesy.

Pvt. John L. Mims observed a Japanese sergeant accidently drop a bottle of Coca Cola. “I picked it up and handed it back.” The NCO then smashed the bottle into Mims’s lower jaw, shattering his bottom row of teeth. Mims’s infraction: “I didn’t bow.”

There were, however, isolated acts of kindness by the Japanese troops toward the prisoners. One helped support a staggering American soldier. Another aided New Mexican Winfred Stroope after he collapsed. “He [dragged] me under some trees, brought me water, and that night put me back in the ranks.”

As the battered and exhausted men trod north, the Filipino villagers tried to help. A little girl tossed a green tomato and a bit of sugarcane to one of the prisoners. A plate of fish and rice was given to another by a couple with children. If they were caught, these locals faced summary execution.

Among the marchers at White Sands were numerous family groups. Army Lt. Col. James Skidmore takes a cadre of ROTC cadets to the memorial annually. Unable to participate this year because of a knee operation, he encouraged his wife, Rebecca, and two of his children to enter, thinking the experience would be meaningful. “The chance to meet the survivors and learn more about their experiences” was the reason she decided to go, said Rebecca, “and the kids initially thought it would be fun, [but] after attending the history seminar and hearing the stories of Bataan survivors, we all understood why we had [come] to White Sands and what the march meant.”

Another participant, former Air Force Staff Sgt. William Hawley, marched to honor his father, Army Pvt. William L. Hawley, who took part in the Death March and died from his wounds at Camp O’Donnell May 23, 1942. He also marched to salute his son, Pfc. William Hawley, who serves with the 82nd Airborne Division in Iraq.

A marker was positioned at each mile point, so it was easy to check our pace. Every two miles there were volunteers handing out water, Gatorade, bananas, and oranges. At the 5-mile point, the sides of the road were littered with marchers whose feet needed attention. Blisters, turned ankles, and “hot spots” were the norm, but these marchers had aid stations available along the route and no one to harass them to keep moving or die.

Following a steep climb that extended some 5 miles into the San Andres Mountains, the memorial marchers reached the halfway point where a concession stand, water, and medical assistance were available. Volunteers driving all-terrain vehicles offered rides to the finish line for those unable to continue.

How was team MOAA doing? After ministering to sore feet and aching thighs and backs, we were delighted to discover juicy hot dogs for sale off a grill. Suitably refreshed, team MOAA still was together and confident about pressing on.

Japanese soldiers searched every prisoner, removing watches, wedding rings, anything of value. Cpl. Jack Aldridge recalled, “We were denied food and water and made to march at a gait that kept the Japs with us at a dogtrot. When they were replaced by guards on bicycles, we were pushed faster. And that was when the hot sun and the lack of water and food began to take its toll, and guys, already weakened by disease and hunger, began to fall by the side of the road.”

The second half of the memorial trek began downhill, and the walking was relatively easy until the 20-mile point, where we encountered deep sand and strong headwinds. Kristin had not trained, and she slowed as her legs and back protested. Carol dug a package of ibuprofen from her pack and offered some. Partly revived, Kristin resumed a moderate pace. Soon we hit “the wall” — literally, in the form of a 6-foot-high barrier that surrounded the base housing area. It extended about an eighth of a mile, then angled off about 10 degrees for another eighth, and another, and another. It seemed never ending. By now, I felt like I was going through the motions, shoving one foot in front of the other. A subtle physical and mental numbness had set in, but team MOAA plodded onward together, our goal close at hand.

On the road leading into San Fernando, Pvt. Cone Munsey recalled, “Men were covered in their own filth, eyes were blank, and we were walking zombies. We had seen men drown in human excrement, bodies laid open by bayonets, heads cracked by blows from gun butts. ... Our brains, bodies, and souls were numb, and we were no longer human.”

At the rail center in San Fernando, groups were corralled together in the boiling sun to await transportation for the final leg to Camp O’Donnell. Eventually, they were loaded into boxcars, each crammed with 100 or more men. Guardsman Lorenzo Benegas from New Mexico was among them. “Fellows started suffocating, passing out, dying. Finally, they opened the doors a little. We’d go through a station, and the Filipinos tried to give us food. Once I grabbed a little basket of eggs, and we ate them raw. But I hadn’t eaten in so long I almost died that night.”

Finally the barrier wall ended, and as we entered the base, the finish line came into view. Team MOAA surged ahead, and with arms coupled, we ran past the electronic timer, displaying our finish time: nine hours, 54 minutes, and 22 seconds. Our travail was over, our goal achieved.

For those who made it to the transit points, then survived train or truck rides to Camp O’Donnell, their miseries were just beginning. Ben Steele, a veteran from the 19th Bomb Group stationed at Clark Air Base, remembered, “The mental trauma was as bad as the physical. Here we are POWs; the war has just started, and we’re losing.” While confined, the prisoners contracted malaria, dysentery, beri-beri, and pellagra and suffered constantly from malnutrition and mistreatment by the Japanese. It is a tribute to their stamina and courage that any survived at all.

For Bill Hawley, “That march was pretty rough, much harder than I expected. It was a very emotional time for me. I got to talk to one of the survivors for awhile and started to cry when he told me he was on the burial party at Camp O’Donnell. I plan on going back next year, have already started to prepare for it. I made it 18 miles when my legs just gave out on me.” Operation Enduring Freedom veterans Neuman (10:06:28) and McNaughton (9:33:03) both finished in the heavy-weight-carrying division. When I commented on the sacrifices these two men made, Neuman summed up the feelings of all the veterans who suffered and survived: “I’m alive.” He then glanced at his empty left sleeve and added, “For one thing to be sad about, I have a thousand things to be happy about.”

—Many of the historical accounts courtesy Dorothy Cave, author of Beyond Courage, One Regiment Against Japan, 1941-1945 (Yucca Tree Press, 1996).