Bernard

The Old Man thought about Bernard today. Bernard was a little, sort of "dried up" and somewhat sickly looking man who was a part of my early years in our town. Uptown city folks might pronounce his name with an emphasis on the "nard" part.....we didn't. He was just a much loved fellow named BERnard. While Bernard mostly looked happy, with an outgoing personality, he just never looked well; never "hale and hardy" as my mom liked to say. I now understand why.
Sixty-eight years ago this month, April 9th to be exact, Bernard took a hike. It wasn't his idea....no sir, not at all.

The day before, on April 8th, the remainder of the troops stationed on the Bataan peninsula in the Philippine Islands, had surrendered to the Japanese. For several months the brave Americans had held out against insurmountable odds. With food supplies depleted, they subsisted on whatever they could trap or kill. Monkeys and even rats became game. Little did they expect that in a few weeks, monkeys and rats would be considered gourmet delicacies.

The Japanese soldiers, trained and indoctrinated in the ancient code of Bushido, believed that any surrendered prisoner was duty bound to commit suicide. Those that didn't were considered cowardly animals, not worthy of any of even the most basic of human needs or kindnesses. As well, the sheer number of American and Filipino prisoners overwhelmed the Japanese. All of these factors conspired to create what has become known as The Bataan Death March.

Bernard got to walking.

Before the march ended, they had covered 95 miles, 65 of them on foot, and 30 of them crammed into railroad boxcars so tightly that they could not sit down. Men, wracked with dysentery, had their bowels let go where they stood, bathing themselves and those around them in their own filth.

While not reported to me by Bernard, the horror story is well documented. During the march, the prisoners were given no water. Walking in 95 degree heat and jungle humidity became a torture all its own. At one point, the procession passed a little artesian well. Several of the prisoners broke away to attempt to drink. A Japanese guard allowed 5 to drink their fill. When the 6th man bent down to drink, the guard stabbed his bayonet into the man's neck and passed it down into his chest, killing him almost instantly. Prisoners who the Japanese thought too slow were either gunned down or bayoneted. One told of how the bodies were left where they fell and Japanese trucks passed over them until they were unrecognizable puddles. This went on for 4 days. Stumbling along, starving after being fed a ball of moldy rice once per day and forced to subsist on what water they could scrounge....mostly from muddy puddles on the side of the gravel road, many fell out of ranks simply hoping to be mercifully shot. For the next 3-4 years, things got even worse for the prisoners. Many were put on "Hell Ships" and sent to slave labor camps in Japan, toiling in coal mines. Their stories fill volumes.

Bernard along with his business partner ran a successful agricultural business in Bedford. Well liked and sprightly, he never gave any outward indication of what he had endured. In typical fashion of that generation, he made it back and got down to the business of life. I never had the opportunity to talk about this to him, and most people would rather have swallowed broken glass than to have awakened long buried memories. I do remember, however, seeing Bernard's eyes go vacant and watch as I now imagine he was quite possibly being transported in his mind to that particular branch office of Hell.

Thank you, Bernard.