About the Book

Author's Note

Father did not return home from the Philippines. He said only a few words before death came a few days after the second prison ship bombing. He smiled in responding to the last person who spoke with him before he slipped into a coma and died. Death had been his companion in the prisoner of war camps for over two and a half years and certainly within the holds on the two ships final journey. Numbers of his close friends had already died, but he held on and was not taken until that cold day in the upper hold of the Enoura Maru in the port of Takao, Formosa.

These writings tell of Father's journey from California in the spring of 1941 to Manila and the changes the war brought to him and to his family. His thoughts, desires and hopes and those of the men around him are shared. I hoped somehow to discover and understand more about my father by following his journey within those war years. I learned much, but there are still past areas which remain a mystery to me for everything could not be unraveled within my desire to learn more.

I tell the story as I know it and as I understand it. Perhaps my most compelling purpose in writing is my desire to tell the story which my father could not tell. In that way I can provide understanding to my family and to those who follow.

My own memory reaches back over sixty years. I was ten years old when I last saw my father. Those memories are reinforced by comments and stories from family and friends over the years. I emphasized the period from just before World War II when Father left Fresno, California through his seven months before the war commenced and on to the surrender on Corregidor and life as a prisoner of war. His story ends near war's end.

This writing can be no more than an attempt to place some references around events within my father's last years. Much first hand information is available. Some men who returned experienced the same or similar conditions, were in the same camps, endured the same crowded ship conditions and observed friends dying in a similar manner.

I have reconstructed his story primarily from first hand reports, diaries, journals, scraps of paper, often buried and later uncovered or carefully, and dangerously carried to the end of the war. This information from others' writing bears directly upon the same events my father saw and experienced. There are other survivors who have written accounts, a few published, others not. Some men left writings now found in various archives or are still personally held within their families. I communicated or interviewed twenty or so survivors of those days. I found several who were close to my father during camp times. Their comments are a special part of this story. There were also letters written to our family after the war ended. These letters give glimpses of Father's life, friendships made, stories shared.

Father was comforted during the war by friends and memories of home and family. I tried to identify these comrades and friends. It was important that these men have friends nearby, but I found understanding this was also important to me. When one was depressed, a nearby friend could be an encourager. When one was ill, another could see that even the minimum food be made available. When one needed assistance, a buddy or comrade was important to survival.

So I focused upon friends. Did Father have friends or buddies nearby? He did. Those he roomed with in military housing before the war in Manila and others he worked with in the JAG office at Fort Santiago, also in Manila, were there. He met others in the camps and on the prison ships. Some made it back; others did not. I know some of the conversations these men had, though little of their hopes or dreams or fears. But there are some clear looks as thoughts were shared, echoing forward even after all these years, in that I have received both understanding and some comfort.

Much time has now passed. It is well over 57 years since death came in that filthy upper hold of the Japanese freighter. I have tried to fill in the past. This writing is an effort of a son who from his early years wanted to know more. I wanted to know my father more.

Journey of Memories

How many days must pass before memories fade?

I tried to walk steps on journey way; climb some hills,
seek some echoes of the past, never fully known to me.
From this I hoped to edge away from dreams,
and gain some truths from years ago.

It was my father I sought whose life's journey I followed
for the memories were not all my own, but seeking still,
I walked as best I could that journey of years ago.
A kind of pain, a kind of joy I felt on journey way
as recognition of pictures put away, letters read and
filed for later recollection.

But years change memories brought forward.
Should time alone heal, or is purpose well met by journey taken?
We both know, for come with me on journey shared so therein
all might make, for some, new memories,
for some reawakening of those fading,
and for all, a look at past and perhaps by that look,
a look at memories a-making.

DLH (Manila, The Philippines, 1996)

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