Belly of the Beast Read online

  Myers was on duty up on the sick deck and as time permitted watched the wretched men stumbling below clutching their tiny allotment of rice. Their hair and beards were matted with blood and dirt, and teeming with vermin. Their legs were stained from their own waste. They ate from scraps of cloth or their hats or their grubby hands, all the while trying to keep the flies from getting mixed in to the sticky rice that was their meager meal. The men Myers had admired since he’d arrived at the Philippines, doctors and commanding officers, were now reduced to living like savages.

  “I hate the Japs,” one of the patients near Myers said weakly. “I hope we get ’em. I hope we kill ’em all, old ones, women, children, every last one of ’em.”

  “There’s some bad ones among them, that’s for sure,” Myers told him. “But killing the innocent ones makes us just as bad as they are.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Myers recalled the child’s corpse he had regarded so callously on the Oryoku Maru. The horrors of his plight kept him bouncing from one extreme to the other. He was laboring to keep his sense of morality and civility all the while he was surrounded by people and events mutating him into an inhuman degenerate.

  “Come on, corpsman,” the patient objected. “Don’t tell me you don’t hate these yellow little sons of bitches and that you wouldn’t kill one if you got the chance! After all we’ve been through?”

  “Yeah, okay, I hate ’em. But it’s not easy for me to say that,” Myers confessed.

  “How come?”

  “I dunno. My mother tried to teach my brothers and sister and me that hate was evil. Something Satan thrives on. I can quote you ten Bible verses she drummed into us about loving your enemy like yourself. In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother say she hated anybody or anything. She never even said she disliked anybody. ’Bout all she’d admit to was that some people were a little ‘different’ than the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, but look around you,” the patient persisted. “How can you believe that stuff now, here, in this stinkin’, rotten ship?”

  Myers sighed. “That’s the part that bothers me most. After hearing all my life that I should be kind to other people, it’s damn near impossible when you’re surrounded by nasty bastards who enjoy torturing you.”

  Tex had brought up a scrap of cloth with enough rice on it for himself and Myers to share. “I don’t think there’s gonna be any winners in this war,” Tex said. “We’ll beat these stinkin’ Japs, that’s for sure. But if I make it outta here, I don’t know how I’m ever gonna feel like a winner. I’ve spent three lousy years takin’ crap from ’em instead of dishin’ it out.”

  A deafening thunder shuddered through the hold, and then another. Some of the men said it sounded like torpedoes, near misses that had exploded along Luzon’s shore. The fact that they missed was gratifying, Myers thought. The threat of being attacked again by their own Navy or Air Corps shrouded the hot and heavy air of the hold. Suddenly the idea that he would remain alive and uninjured if the ship was bombed was just too fantastic to even hope for. He felt himself slipping into the kind of depression he’d seen in other men. They hadn’t survived it, he warned himself. If I’m not careful I’ll suffer the same fate. God help me survive this trial.

  All through that night, death’s finger jabbed at members of this pitiful group. Some died of dehydration; their dysentery combining with the lack of water shriveled them up like deflated balloons. Myers figured they were dying at the rate of one per hour. The Japanese allowed the chow crews back up to the ship’s galley to get rice sacks to use as shrouds. Once again the dead men’s clothing was stripped from their bodies for use among the living, and the rice sacks were hoisted up through the hold carrying the dead men’s remains.

  As the number of bodies multiplied, Wada ordered that they could no longer be removed from the hold immediately. Rather, he said, they had to be stacked on the floor in groups of eight, where he could see them. When eight had accumulated, he would give permission for them to be hoisted topside. By this time, the prisoners had run out of rice sacks, so they tied a bowline around each corpse’s feet and a half hitch around his head. A couple of prisoners stationed above would hoist the dangling body as the rest watched from below and contemplated how long it would be before it was their turn.

  “You ever think about dying, Myers?” a seaman asked, as they watched the procession of dead men swinging up through the hatch. “I mean, you ever wonder how much longer you’ve got?”

  Myers put into words the thoughts he’d been forcing himself to believe. “I’m not gonna die here.”

  “Well, I don’t want to die, either,” the seaman said. “But it looks like our days are numbered.”

  “That’s not what I said, pal,” Myers corrected. “There’s a difference between not wanting to die and making up your mind that you’re not gonna die. One’s just a wish. The other’s a choice. I made my choice; I’m not gonna die. Not here, not now.”

  “I want to die,” another voice whispered. “It’s my time.”

  “Ah buddy, you don’t mean that,” Myers said, crawling across the deck to where an emaciated, bloody figure lay. The man had a sullied bandage over one eye, and the other eye was so caked with dried gore that he couldn’t move the eyelid to open it.

  “No, I do mean it,” the man assured him. “I’ve thought about it and I think it’s really my time. But I don’t want to die alone. Will you sit with me for a little while, so I’m not alone?”

  “Sure thing,” Myers said. It seemed cruel to argue about living and dying with a man in this guy’s condition.

  “Wasn’t that you I heard talking about the Bible before?” the dying man continued. “I remember when my granddaddy died, the pastor in our church read a psalm. Do you know any psalms?”

  “I know a couple,” Myers told him, reflecting on the hours his mother had required him to memorize Bible verses. “I guess my favorite’s the twenty-third psalm, the one that starts, ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’”

  “That’s it, that’s the one they read. Do you know the rest?”

  “Sure do. In Sunday School, when I was a kid, we got a little gold star every time we could recite a Bible verse from start to finish.”

  “Will you say it for me?”

  Myers cleared his throat and began again, softly.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.’”

  The meadows around the Myers’ farm had been green, the most glorious verdant color. After every spring rainstorm, the grass smelled so sweet, the earth so rich. Myers desperately pined to recapture in his mind the smell of living things.

  “‘He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.’”

  Myers believed in God. He had been taught that possessing the strength to endure, come what may, was a divine gift. It was not for him to question life, no matter how difficult it might be. There was a plan. How it came together was for God to know and Myers to find out along the way.

  That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard to keep the faith under such oppressive conditions. That was why another Bible verse had come to mind so often during the last couple of years: Father, why hast thou forsaken me?

  The dying man reached out and touched Myers’ arm. Continuing the psalm, Myers grasped his hand.

  “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will feat no evil; for Thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.’”

  Several other patients had tilted their heads in Myers’ direction. Some were looking at him as he spoke; others bent their heads in prayer.

  “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.’”

  The man tightened his grasp on Myers’ hand. His body seemed to tense, his breaths became gulps.

  “‘Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Su
rely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.’”

  Now the man’s breathing was so shallow, Myers could no longer hear it, but he saw his hollowed-out chest barely rising and falling. The man took one last rattling breath as his grip on Myers’ hand loosened. His head lolled over to one side slightly, and Myers gently laid the hand down next to his thin body.

  “‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”

  Quietly, from the shadows, a voice said, “Amen.”

  By December 31, the two ships and their convoy had made the Formosan straits. With their northerly course, the air temperature had changed dramatically. It was the dead of winter, and frigid wind blew violently off the China Sea, through the hatch, and into the ships’ holds. The hard metal floor, already intolerable to bodies no longer cushioned with fat, became a conduit, conducting the cold to the prisoners’ very core. The men had been without food for so long their hunger pain became just one more ache in an ever-lengthening list of ailments. But the lack of water was the death knell for many. They were occasionally given a quarter canteen cupful a day. Their number was down to 1,184.

  Some time New Year’s Eve, the convoy was attacked by submarines. The POWs felt the concussion from the torpedoes, exploding so close to the ship that chunks of rust fell from the walls and into the hold like New Year’s confetti. The Brazil Maru had not been hit, but the men in the hold tensed, wondering how long it would be before she was. They wondered among themselves whether any of the other ships had been hit, most notably the one carrying the balance of their group.

  The ocean waves beat relentlessly against the ship’s hull and the cadaverous men were tossed like rag dolls. Although the pitching and rolling exacerbated their previous wounds, it seemed like a small sacrifice if it would make them a more difficult target for the Allied subs prowling below.

  Myers awoke on New Year’s Day to silence; the engines were no longer churning and the ship was no longer moving. Word spread through the hold that they had arrived at Takao, Formosa. Rumor also had it that the only other ship in the convoy to survive the repeated submarine attacks was the one carrying the balance of the prisoners. The chaplains in the hold, still clear-headed enough, offered a prayer of thanks for the obvious miracle.

  And it appeared as though that wasn’t the only miracle to occur on the first day of 1945. The Japanese deemed a celebration for their safe arrival was in order, and five pieces of terro-pan, finger-sized Japanese hardtack, were issued to each prisoner. It was stale and moldy and full of weevils, but Myers didn’t care. It was a small nourishment for his languishing body, and he figured the weevils provided an element of protein just as the cockroaches had back in Bilibid. For washing down the hardtack, the Japanese charitably issued half a canteen cupful of water to each man.

  The sanitary conditions in the hold were beyond salvaging, but it still seemed to some that an effort should be made. The commanding officer asked for benjo buckets and the Formosan guards told him that the men could use a hole in the aft, which dropped to another hold below. The prisoners used it for their latrine for two days until a Japanese maintenance crew discovered the mess while inspecting the ship for leaks. Wada and Toshino were informed and enraged at the situation. Wada told the American commanding officer that it made no difference that the Formosans had told them to use it, and the POWs were ordered to clean up the muck. Ten men were selected for the odious job and the Japanese agreed to provide five buckets to the more than one thousand men for benjo use. But the captors permitted those buckets to be emptied only once a day.

  The two freighters with their load of POWs sat in the Takao harbor. Once more the prisoners’ water rations were inexplicably cut off. The tiny hoard of medicine the doctors and corpsmen had brought on board with them was gone. The pile of bodies in the center of the hold grew steadily. They were down to 1,150 men from their original 1,619.

  Those still lucid and aware of their surroundings couldn’t guess what was taking place topside. The days crawled by. January 2 became January 3, although in the ship’s hold, activities never varied from day to night. Myers halfheartedly acknowledged that it was his twenty-fifth birthday. January 4 dawned and some of the more stalwart men talked feebly about escape. They should try, while they still had any strength left, some said. Where would they go, others asked. A Caucasian would be easily picked out in Formosa. And the water was too cold to chance swimming. The suggestions swelled and faded like the tide around them.

  Several times a day a noisy duel occurred between the Allied planes overhead and the anti-aircraft batteries. Some of the prisoners callously regarded the fighting as of little consequence to them. Myers heard one of them say, “What’s the use? If we don’t get bombed, we’ll starve to death anyway.” He went on to say that a quick death was preferential anyway.

  Between air raids, the Japanese on deck amused themselves by dropping cigarettes into the hold and watching the prisoners drag themselves to retrieve them. The soldiers above mocked the American chaplains, too, as they led the prisoners in daily devotions. Several times a day, when one of them would rise to lead the men in the Lord’s Prayer, nearby Japanese guards would taunt, “Your God isn’t here to save you. You believe in the wrong God. Buddha is powerful. He has taken care of the Japanese.”

  The fifth day, the prisoners were fed a half canteen cupful of rice and a quarter cupful of water. Then another day crawled by as the pitiful coterie in the hold crowded closely together for warmth, contemplating the filth on them and around them. They were at the most sordid depths of human existence. It couldn’t get worse.

  On January 8, all of the men on the Brazil Maru were hauled up on the deck after their morning ration of rice. They were searched by the guards before being allowed to make the climb, and any possession they had with them, such as rice sacks or straw mats, were confiscated. Tex was still in possession of his mother’s wedding ring, although he had moved it from just above his rear to beneath his armpit. He was spending so much time at latrines and benjo buckets, he was afraid he’d lose it. They were made to sit shivering in the cold on deck while a considerable amount of conferring went on between Wada and Toshino.

  Wada then announced that since some of the prisoners had died aboard the other ship, there was now room for them all to be on one ship. While the POWs waited, a larger ship pulled alongside and began unloading cargo onto the Brazil Maru, including two-hundred-pound bags of coarse brown sugar. When the ship couldn’t take on any more of the sugar bags, the rest was unloaded onto the Enoura Maru. Wada made sure every prisoner understood that if any of the sugar was touched, the perpetrator would be beheaded with haste.

  The order came to move to the new ship and they were loaded onto a barge for the transfer. When they arrived at the Enoura Maru, five hundred of the men, including Tex and others of the medical crew, were ordered into the Enoura Maru’s forward hold. That hold had previously carried horses like the hold on the Brazil Maru. The men were already crowded and covered with their own filth, oblivious to the flies crawling all over them. Myers and Tarpy were ordered to descend into the middle hold, which was less crowded but no less repulsive.

  After the POWs were situated on the Enoura Maru, a new rumor circulated. Some among them had been unable to resist the temptation of the sugar. They had found a way to get to it and had gorged themselves on it all day long. Eating it after having been without food for so long made all of them sick, yet they continued their looting. The Japanese knew about the thefts, but by this time none of the guards was willing to spend any length of time in the putrid holds with the prisoners to catch the thieves.

  Finally, in frustration, Wada announced that the thieves had to be sufficiently punished. “Men who steal sugar must come forward. Until then, no more rice or water for the prisoners. If all die, so be it.”

  This new turn of events was the most grave the prisoners had faced. Those who hadn’t yet expired were barely existing on the meager rations they w
ere getting. To go without meant certain death. The commanding officer asked for two volunteers. He told the prisoners that these volunteers would most probably be tortured and then executed. If by some miracle they survived, he personally would see to it that they would never be without food or water for the rest of the voyage to Japan, even if it meant giving up his own share.

  Myers’ arm went up. “I’ll go, sir,” he announced firmly.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Tarpy demanded. “Have you got a screw loose?”

  “Nope,” Myers told him. “Most of these men’ll die for sure without food and water. I think I got a chance of making it through a beating. Unless those Japs haul out their swords.”

  By this time several others had volunteered, too.

  The commander turned to Myers. “Son, that’s very brave of you, but we can’t risk losing any more medical people. Your knowledge and skills aren’t replaceable.” He selected two of the other volunteers, an American and a Brit, the hardiest appearing of the group. The men shook hands with the commander and a chaplain prayed with them. Then the commander led them up the ladder to the deck and delivered them to Wada.

  The commander returned and they all waited for the sounds of brutality and screams of pain. But they heard nothing. Shortly, one of the prisoners was sent up on deck to empty a benjo bucket. He returned with the news that he had seen both men, and that they were still alive. They had been forced to kneel between a couple of guards and were being subjected to kicks and blows. Each time a man slid down, he was hauled back up to his knees and hit again. Eventually the guards got bored with their game and tossed the two back into the hold, beaten but alive.

  That afternoon the Japanese made good on their promise of continuing to feed the prisoners if they produced the sugar thieves. Slimy, water-thin rice soup was distributed. For most, the soup acted like a laxative. As they ate, the prisoners heard a hubbub in the distance—the American Air Corps had returned and their strafing was being met with return fire from the Japanese.