You Can't Stop Me Now

I'm trying, lord I'm trying . . . but Chicago's winter has wreaked havoc HAVOC I tell you, on my training schedule for this year's Bataan Memorial Death March at White Sands Missile Range in March.

This weekend was supposed to be an 18-mile training walk - hah! I'm so far behind that all I could manage was a somewhat sprightly (and it got less sprightly) 14-miler. Thankfully, there was mud, snow, and yuk to tramp through giving me the feeling that I was sort of training for the desert sand. Also thankfully, the Lakefront was clear of ice - that does not help in training at all.

I am grateful that this year, I'm not quite as fearful as I was last year when I had absolutely no experience with either the marathon-distance march or the desert. I feel like I may be on a roll and the days inch towards warmer weather, so hopefully all is not lost.

It's a Small World, After All

Oh man, I knew it had been awhile since I posted . . . but snow? Sheesh; here it is October, and that scene is not too far off. It's also annoying as hell when people state the obvious, "It's been a long time since I blogged," so I won't.

Suffice to say, it's been a crazy busy wonderful adventure-filled year - and it's not over yet!

I did that walk mentioned in the prior post. My snow/sand training proved invaluable in the desert of White Sands, NM. I'm not going to say it was easy; it's never easy walking 26.2 miles, but I did it with a smile on my face (mostly because of the iced coffee I carried along with my water). How can anyone be outside (or inside for that matter) for 8 hours without coffee?

I started the march with a survivor, Ben Skardon, and Ben's Brigade, a group that walks with Ben as far as he can go. At 95, he made 8 miles. He remembers my grandfather and his shows in Cabanatuan. Every bit of new information I get brings Zero more alive for me. And, makes his story more amazing.

As I walked, mostly in solitude, I thought about the soldiers who were forced to do the Death March. I listened to feet shuffling over gravel and sand and the murmur of other marchers. I don't know if my grandfather and Ben were allowed to talk . . . I should ask.

A number of the soldiers making the trek were packing 40+ pound rucks, some were running the entire marathon, others walking. Still others, very young, and clearly unaware of the "wear your shoes at least 100 miles before attempting a marathon," had fallen by the wayside, leaving bloody socks and band-aids. It occurred to me, that had this been the "real" march, they would have been bayoneted or beheaded.

At one point, deep into the march and the desert - maybe mile 18 - I saw the huge bent plants; they looked like women reaching out to help the soldiers. And that's when I felt it. I felt the men, ghosts all of them, walking next to me, in front of me, and beside me.

Walking the Walk

So what got me to a 20-mile walk through snow and sand on the Chicago lakefront? Clearly it wasn't the weather (see "snow" above). It wasn't the company; I was walking alone. Not too many folks were duplicating my 17 degree journey.

Just why the hell was I freezing my ass off and rubbing blisters?

This is where the phrase, "It's a long story" always comes up. And in my case it's true. This story started 71 years ago on the Bataan Peninsula in the Philippines. Thousands of prisoners, many of the U.S. soldiers, of the Japanese were about to embark on one of the most heinous events in WWII - The Bataan Death March. And this has to do with me in 2013 on a frigid Chicago day?

My grandfather was one of the U.S. soldiers; he had no idea he was about to be forced to walk almost 80 miles.

The War Goes On

The title of this post is more metaphorical than real to my life. Although there do seem to be conflicts on a daily basis that permeate our country. Most don't involve guns or drones, but words, which unfortunately can be more harmful.

I've recently engaged in an activity that indirectly parallels my project with my grandfather's tenure in the Philippines. During my research I stumbled on a site where the editor asked for volunteers to transcribe affidavits presented against Japanese war crimes. I contacted the editor, not even knowing if it was still an active site; it is. He has sent me three different sets of legal proceedings to transcribe from aging copies to computer.

What I am finding are missing pieces to my grandfather's war experience. I have an affidavit from him describing went happened during his internment; however, this new information is specific to incidents and therefore some how more immediate.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

"I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari"

Lowell George

I didn't actually go from Tucson to Tucumcari; however, I did go from Borger, Texas THRU Tucumcari, New Mexico on my way to Albuquerque along portions of old Route 66.

My trip was for the purpose of sharing the middle-school primer I had written about my Grandfather, Zero Wilson, and the Mighty Cabanatuan Orchestra and Art Players. I had received a grant from the Descendants of the American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor and part of the requirement was to present what had been funded with former POWs from the Bataan Death March and their assorted relatives and friends.

 

I'm not sure what I expected, but not on my list was to find another family be a part of. And find a family I did. There truly are only seven people in the world; not only did I meet other military kids (although, we can no longer officially be called "kids"), but I met people I had read about and people who knew about Zero. We spoke a common language and had a common background. Difficult to find I think, even with one's own family. It was emotional and exciting.

 

My presentation was well-received. My workbook required some edits based on audience feedback. My primer found a couple of new homes by way of educators I met.

No one found the typo on the title of the workbook until two weeks later when a 6th grader busted me. But that's a story for another day.

On the Road Again

My trip from Chicago to Albuquerque via Borger can hardly be used in the same sentence as The Bataan Death March. Nevertheless, the journey that got me where I am today has included the heroes of the march; their words, their photos, their drawings, their memories.

My writing and research have been done. My middle-school workbook proof has been printed. And, my PowerPoint presentation for the Descendants of the American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor is ready to present to the grant committee.

I thought I knew a lot of my grandfather's story. What I didn't know where the stories written about him and the prisoners who participated in The Mighty Cabanatuan Orchestra and Art Players - true artists all.

Who could know the indomitable spirit and survival instincts that allowed these men to share with each other their talents.

The conference in Albuquerque begins tomorrow; I have no idea what to expect, but I'm sure I'll meet survivors and other descendants like myself. I'll hear stories, see images, and be touched in ways I cannot imagine. I only hope my small contribution does the same.

Wounded Warrior

Those of you who have been following my Facebook posts over the last several weeks know that I was wounded in the battle called Chicago Winter - I slipped on ice, fell, and broke my right wrist. My write/right wrist and lower arm are currently ensconced in their fourth cast/splint. But things are improving - this particular cast is plastic, removable, and allows for occupational therapy to start immediately. All this means I should be as good as new . . . sometime.

Since I'm also working on a middle school project about the Bataan Death March and Cabanatuan prisoner of war camp, I cannot help but compare my medical incident and accompanying care with what must have been 100s of like and worse wounds and breaks than I suffered. These men would not have had the advantages of a taxi to the ER, or in many cases, even a doctor. They were forced to march 80 miles and were executed if they faltered.

Photo Credit: National Museum of the Air Force

I know the disfigurement of my wrist post-break; I had 7 hours in the ER to stare at it before it was set and splinted. I also know that while I had pain (I'd say 500 out of 10), I was given pain medication to ease my torment. I would venture to say that any wounded soldier on Bataan fortunate to only have an arm fracture kept his mouth shut and his feet moving lest he be deemed too damaged to continue and summarily killed. I suspect that men with broken legs or backs kept themselves as upright as possible in order to take even one more step.

I write this entry to put my wrist into perspective, to put a lot of my life into perspective. I often fear that I take for granted the simple and expedient ways to "fix" my life, to make myself more comfortable. Perhaps I can recall this post the next time I complain about being out of Motrin, or having to walk to the bus in the rain, or yes, even the battle I call winter.