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Post by pdh54 on Dec 21, 2012 3:24:50 GMT 8
Sorry it has been so long since the last installment. I've been subbing/teaching German 1 and German 2 at our high school since October. We are finally on Christmas break, so here we go. Then it will be on to 8th grade science at the middle school in January Miss U by Margaret Utinsky page 73 Chapter VII By the next spring I had gotten thinner, wiser, and harder. I had never been completely alone, but now there were many who worked with me. I want these people to be remembered. No formal list of citations will ever bear their names. No medals will ever reach them. Yet they are all so much worth remembering. High on the list of members of the group should come Father Lalor of the Malate Convent, who died a martyr to his creed of love. He was known I the code as Morning Glory. Without the assistance of this holy man and the priests around him the movement could not have become what it was. Ramon Amosategui, dashing and fearless, an ex-Naval officer of Spain, and then a wealthy property owner, was a dynamo of energy for the group and we named him, appropriately, Sparkplug. He was brilliant and tireless and he did not know what fear was. He reached me through his Spanish wife, who, using the beauty equipment as a cover, came to see me and gave me 200 pesos for Lieutenant Arnold W. Thompson. She waited, rather skeptically, as she confessed later, to see what would happen. Then she got a receipt from the prison. As soon as that arrived, Ramon came in. Even to meet me was a risk for Ramon and he cautiously arranged the meeting through a one-legged guerrilla, Bert Richey, whom we both knew. He said he could get money from all the Spanish group and he proceeded to do it. Then he took me to a meeting of Swiss residents of Manila and enlisted them as donors. He continued to work for us until he was captured and killed at Bilibid during the days when the Japs were murdering thirty men a day at this prison. It was Sparkplug who set up a forbidden short wave radio in the graveyard with its circular wall and took down the broadcasts in shorthand, though he risked the death penalty every time he did it. He brought his notes to the apartment and I typed them. The typed sheets were taken to Cabanatuan, where our distributors got them to the men who took them into camp so the prisoners could learn the truth about what was going on. They called it "The Cheer," and it made them feel that they were part of things again, not just forgotten men rotting in a foul pen. Possession of these news sheets would have meant torture or death, for the Japanese depended upon the propaganda they issued to break the spirits of the Americans. Known on the code books as Per was an Italian with Filipino citizenship, whose real name was Paravino. He managed to get us a great deal of assistance from other Italians, and he too, was killed at Bilibid Prison. From a hospital from which he was never able to leave during the entire period, Ernest Johnson, an officer of the Maritime Commission, rendered a unique service. We called him, and with reason, Brave Heart. Ernest Johnson, shut off from all activity as he was, seemed to be in the center of a web to which he held all the strands. He was associated with the guerrillas in the hills and his hospital room became a meeting place for them. It was through one of them that he first heard of me and he sent for me, asking me to call on him at the hospital. I did so and he offered to help. He was a man with an infinite number of friends. They came to see him, he would persuade them to donate money and I would give them a code name and see that the receipt went back to Johnson. They never knew who I was; I did not know their real identity. Only Ernest Johnson knew both ends of the puzzle and kept the funds flying. The priests from the Malate Convent would call on him and spend an afternoon talking, drinking rum exchanging rumors and information that could be passed on where it would be useful. Ernest Johnson was careful not to take risks. He never sent me a message. That was one thing we all learned. Whenever he had news or money for me, he would send a Filipino boy with a bottle of rum. That was his way of telling me that he wanted to see me. Through Kurt Gantner, a jolly Swiss, known as Curly Top, I got an even stronger hold on the Swiss colony, which had advantages because it was a neutral group. His wife was called Screwball Number Two; her sister, Marceline Short, wife of a major in Cabanatuan, was Screwball Number One, and Mrs. Amosategui was Screwball Number Three. Each one had a job and did it to the very end, when the Yanks came back. Their code names were silly ones but when you are spending your time in a pretty grim way, it helps to have something to laugh about. Another family, every member of which worked for us, was the Mencarinis. The husband, Joaquin D., was known as Rocky, his wife, Augustina, as Boots and later as Sunflower, the daughter Elvira as Little Boots, the oldest son, Manuel as Hotshot,and the youngest one Ralph as Skeezicks. There were two Russians who did a good job for us. The woman, whom we called Bakala, was married to Walter Jastin, an American civilian in Cabanatuan, whose anxiety had drawn her into the group. The man, Herman Roles, was cashier in a Russian cafe, where he received and sent messages and money. He possessed a remarkable memory and checked nightly on the funds he handled, balancing them to a cent. His code name was Fancypants. Brother Xavier of the De La Salle College worked under the name of Mr. X. An excellent helper was Scatterbrain, whose husband, an American sailor, died in Cabanatuan. Her real name was Madeline Cripe. One of Dr. Moreta's daughters was known as Cleopatra; a Spanish girl named Solita Cerco, signed her notes as Sally Brown. Bill Orland was known as Speedy, and Dorothy Claire Fuentes, mother of little Dian - of whom a great deal more later - was called High Pockets. One steady contributor to the community fund and to a Major Howard Cavender during his imprisonment was Don Vincente Madrigal, a man of great wealth and owner of the Madrigal Steamship line. Early in the work at Cabanatuan I met Nati, a lovely Spanish girl who had married an American officer a year before the outbreak of the war. Her husband, Lieutenant Walter Ashborn, had been sent to Bataan and he had managed to get a note to her by a Filipino boy. Nati decided that she would go to him. It took two days, by foot and by banca, but she got to Bataan and met her husband. A kindly C.O., Major A. E. McConell, discovering that she had been doing secretarial work, gave her a job and let her stay. Then word came to surrender. The group to which Lt. Ashborn belonged thought they would try to get into Manila by truck. But they met the Japanese instead. They were forced out of the truck, carrying their equipment, beaten, and kicked into line and ordered to march. They were struck if they looked back. Nati watched her husband through her tears as long as she could see the line. She never saw him again so she came to me, knowing I had the most complete lists of the prisoners, and hoping I might have some word of him. I had. Lieutenant Ashborn had died in prison of dysentery and starvation. So Nati rolled up her sleeves and went to work for us. Our contact men inside the fence had code names too so if any notes were found, and soon enough they were, the identity of the men would not be known to the Japanese. Lt. Col. Edward Mack was called Liver and Chaplain Tifffany was known as Everlasting. Through these two men, by the way, we smuggled out a practically complete roster of the camp, which was later turned over to the War Department to check on the last-know whereabouts of missing soldiers. And all the time, of course, Elizabeth Kummer helped us in essential ways, which made the functioning of the organization possible, and her husband gave and gave. There were not, as you can see, very many of them. They represented men, women and children; people of different nationalities, people of different races. They all risked their lives, not once but over and over again, and always deliberately , of their own free choice. They were, I think, pretty swell people.
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Post by JohnEakin on Dec 21, 2012 5:52:09 GMT 8
Thanks Patti - great reading.
FWIW, here a bit more information on two of the POWs mentioned. Both are buried as unknowns.
Ashborn, Walter L. 1st Lt 10/11/1942 Mrs Natividao C. Ashborn; 92 Gastambide, Sampaloc, Manila, PI GRAVE 665 Cripe, donald J. CRMM USN 09/29/1942 (NO NOK OR GRAVE LISTED)
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Post by pdh54 on Dec 21, 2012 10:47:37 GMT 8
I think this is the Church affiliated with the Convent. Those familiar with Manila please let me know if this is wrong. The pictures don't seem like they are of a church that is only 60 years old. NUESTRA SENORA DE LOS REMEDIOS (IGLESIA DE MALATE) Only a few people know or care about the history of that quaint little church by Manila Bay. The Parish of Our Lady of Remedies, popularly known as Malate Church, was built by the Augustinian Order during the late 16th century, making it one of the oldest churches in Manila outside of Intramuros. In 1591, Malate had only one church and one convent, both of which were severely damaged during the 1645 earthquake. In 1667, it again suffered destruction on orders of the 24th Governor-General of the Philippines, Sabiniano Manrique de Lara. It was done under duress due to the threat of Chinese pirate attacks led by the dreaded Koxinga. A decade later, Fr. Dionisio Suarez began reconstructing a new church and convent made of bricks and stone. Fr. Pedro de Mesa completed the construction in 1680. The church was occupied and vandalized by the British when they invaded Manila in 1762. Further destruction happened in 1868 during an immense typhoon. Fr. Francisco Cuadrado reconstructed the church in 1864. This third church is the Malate Church that we know. Fr. Nicolas Dulanto made some restoration work on the church, including the completion of the facade's upper part. Trefoil blind arches are at the church's facade, indicating Moorish art influence. The attached belltowers give an impression of solidity and strength by its massiveness (emphasized by very few openings), as if to "squeeze" the middle part of the facade. Solomonic columns superpositioned over the Romanesque columns give Malate Church its baroque feel. During World War II, both Japanese and (especially) Americans wreaked havoc all over Manila, making the city the most devastated city next to Warsaw, Poland. Malate Church wasn't spared; only its walls remained after the hostilities. But the Columban priests - the current residents and caretakers of the church- restored it to its original beauty and splendor during the 1950s. The PriestsPETER FALLONKilled 10 February 1945 during the fierce U.S.-Japanese battle for Manila. Japanese Navy personnel surrounded Malate church and convento and took every male they found on the premises (20 in all), along with four priests of Malate parish - Johnny Heneghan, Pat Kelly, Joe Monaghan and Peter Fallon. The four were never seen alive again. Nor were their bodies ever recovered. Peter Fallon was 50 years old. Peter was born in Ballinlass, Dunmore, Co. Galway (Tuam diocese), 22 February 1895. Educated Ballinlass N.S. 1901-1906; N.S. Dunmore 1906-1909; St. Jarlath's College, Tuam, 1910-1915; All Hallows College, Dublin 1915-1918. Joined Columbans and was in Dalgan 19 18-1922. Ordained 1922 and went to Hanyang, China; was there 1922-1930. Went to Philippines 1931. JOHN HENEGHAN Killed 10 February 1945 in Manila. He was 62 years old. (See Peter Fallon above). Born Louisburgh, Co. Mayo (Tuam diocese), 19 December 1882. Educated St. Jarlath's College, Tuam, 1894-1900. Ordained Maynooth 1909 for Tuam diocese. Curate in Annaghdown, near Tuam, 1909-19 10. Curate Tuam town 1910-1916. In Easter Week 1916 he heard the confessions of Tuam Volunteers on their way to Athenry to joining the Rising. He said to a fellow priest the following morning with tears in his eyes: "if those brave lads are ready to die for Ireland, I, a priest, ought to be ready to die for Christ". He joined to Columbans in 1916 and was the first editor of the FAR EAST. He went to the Philippines in 1931 when he was 49 years of age. PATRICK KELLYKilled in Manila 10 February 1945. He was 46 years old. [see Peter Fallon above] Born Tullamore, Co. Offaly (Meath diocese), 10 January 1899. Educated St. Finian's College, Navan and Mullingar, 1904-1909. Maynooth 1909-1915. Ordained for Meath diocese 1915. Curate Dunboyne, Co. Meath, 1915-1921. Joined Columbans 1921. He helped establish Columbans in Australia and was Spiritual Director to the Brothers in Dalgan before going to the Philippines in 1929. Was first Superior of Columbans in Philippines. Among with Johnny Heneghan. Peter Fallon, Joe Monaghan and John Lalor were attached to Malate parish the convento of which was the 'Centre House' for Columbans in Philippines. Malate parish was also the parish for English speaking Catholics (m mostly American) in Manila. During the Japanese Occupation American civilians were interned in Santo Tomas University campus in Manila. American POWs were in prison-of-war camps. Paddy used to visit the civilian internees in Santo Tomas - he insisted to the Japanese that he was their parish priest and chaplain. After his death an American wrote to the Columbans saying "Fathers Lalor and Kelly did heroic work for U.S. prisoners of war in Bilibid and Cabanatuan". (I remember reading a book around 1950. It was written by a woman-Journalist, whose name I forgot. In it she referred to the Malate priest and their work for Interned civilians and U.S. POWs. She wrote that the convento in Malate parish was a centre for storing medicines and food, which the Filipino underground movement used to smuggle into the internment and POW camps. In the latter stages of the Japanese occupation conditions were very bad in the camps, and food was scarce and medicine even more so. The Japanese may have found out about this. That the priests were engaged in this humanitarian work would seem to be confirmed by the award (posthumous) of the Medal of Freedom by the U.S. Government to Fathers Lalor, Kelly and Heneghan some years after the war. The Medal of Freedom is the highest civilian decoration, which the U.S can give to non-U.S. nationals. JOSEPH MONAGHAN Killed In Manila 10 February 1945. He was 37 years old. See Peter Fallon and Patrick Kelly above. Born Banbridge, Co. Down, 17 November 1907. Educated St. Patrick's N.S., Banbridge, 1912-1920; St. Colman's College, Newry, 1920-1925. Went to Dalgan 1925 and ordained there 1931. Went to the Philippines in 1932. JOHN LALORKilled in Manila on 13 February 1945, during the battle between Americans and Japanese for the city during Second World War. John was attached to Malate parish, the only Manila parish at that time of which Columbans had charge. [see Patrick Kelly above] While the battle raged, John was working under an assumed name dressed in the white suit of a doctor in the Malate school, which had been converted into a hospital. He helped in the hospital, cared for the sick and the dying. He celebrated Mass in the darkness of the night. A shell explosion killed him. He was 47 years old. Two hundred died in the hospital compound and are buried there. Born in Cork City, parish of St Mary and St Anne, on 9th August 1897. educated in Mungret College. Came to Dalgan in 1921. ordained 1924. went to Hanyang, china 1926. went to the Philippines 1934.
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Post by pdh54 on Feb 25, 2013 6:29:12 GMT 8
In chapter 8 Margaret tells of how she meets with guerrillas, and subsequently helps two of them when they are ill and hurt.
Chapter 9 describes how on September 28 Margaret is picked up while working at the hospital by the Japanese for questioning. They took her to Fort Santiago. Hours of interrogation ensued. Margaret had to be very careful in her answers. When repeatedly asked the same questions she had to remember to give EXACTLY the same answer as before or risk a beating.
Inadvertently one of her answers triggered the first of the beatings.
“They switched back to my visit to the States. “Then where you go?” “To San Antonio” “When you get there?” “The Fourth of July” (To the Japanese using the term 4th of July meant she was American)
That did it! The officer jumped from his chair, purple with rage, the veins in his forehead distended, and struck me full in the face with his fist. The blow knocked me out if the chair. I think it must have been then, that very first day, that they broke my jaw.
I fell sideways, a bit behind the chair, and lay there in abject terror, seeing the officer's hand close on the hilt of the saber. I had seen enough beheadings to know what these men were capable of doing. I didn't dare move.
The interpreter stood waiting. Finally the officer said, “Kura! Kura!” an almost untranslatable word that means everything from 'all right' to 'let's get going' Painfully I pulled myself up and for good measure the officer kicked me as I rose. My mouth was full of blood and broken teeth. I spat them out on the floor.
I hope I never hear anything again about the stoical Oriental. At the slightest excitement, the Japanese begin to scream. Already the room that had been so quiet was a seething commotion. The officer was screaming at me. The spectators in the hallway were jabbering. Only the Filipino lay on the cot, unmoving........
“You go to New York to see Fair? You are American” (World's Fair)
There were a lot of Japanese looking at the Fair, I told them and they certainly weren't Americans. This was the first flash of spirit I had shown and every second I expected that fist to crunch into my face again, or the officer's fingers to tighten over his saber. I was almost dead from the strain of holding out my arms, from my sore mouth and jaw. At least that is what I thought then. Later on I learned what real pain is like.'........
“Get up! We go now.” They beckoned to a guard. I got up stiffly. My arms tingled as I let them drop to my sides. My jaw throbbed. There was dried blood on my mouth. my gums, where the teeth had been broken, were sore and swollen. My bare feet made almost no sound as I went through the doorway with the guard. The Filipino still lay motionless on his cot.
We went along a hall, down the stairs, across the patio, through the arches, and down a narrow corridor. They pushed me into a cell and the door clanged shut.”
Chapter 10 is about her torture and imprisonment.
“As soon as I heard the guard go away, I jerked off my dark glasses and looked around. I was in a cell about eight feet long and five feet wide. The only light came from an aperture above the door. At one end of the cell, there was a bucket of drinking water, but no water in which to wash. At the other end there was a hole in which a covered bucket was lowered, the only sanitary facility provided. Every morning the bucket was taken from behind the wall, emptied and returned to the hole.
The cells were built between two walls. In the inside wall were the doors leading out into the corridor. Beyond the outer wall was the outside wall of the prison. Between the two, there was a narrow passageway for the prisoners who performed the menial tasks of the cell block. These were priests who, because the people seemed to hold them in veneration, had the greatest humiliations heaped upon them by the Japanese. They were forced to strip down to a G-string and empty the slops of the other prisoners.
That night there were seven women in the cell. Only two of them could speak English but they all crowded around me, whispering, avid for news. It was like a thirst upon them. None of them had had any word of what was happening in the world outside in over three months.
“When will the Americans come?” they asked, “When will the Americans come?”
I told them all I could of what was going on, sketched the news that had come by shortwave radio. And those who could speak English retailed the news to the others and told me about my cell mates. I was the only one, it turned out, who had not been committed to prison by the Japanese courts for one offense or another.
One of the women who could speak English was the wife of Dr. Vincente Domingo. On August 26, 1943, the doctor had been taken from his home to his office by a detachment of Japanese. There he had been commanded to open his safe in which he kept thousands of peso. He gave his captors the combination, but they could not manage it and they forced him to open the safe. Then, in their greed to snatch the contents as fast as they could, they allowed him to sit at his desk while they looted.
That was a mistake, for Dr. Domingo kept a revolver in his desk drawer. He whipped it out and shot all four men. Three of them died, but the fourth was only wounded. The doctor grabbed his valuables and fled. The Japanese whom he had failed to kill notified the police and soldiers went to his home. Mrs. Domingo was pregnant but that did not prevent them from beating her unmercifully, as well as the doctor's younger brother. Then the two of them were dragged off to Fort Santiago to be held as hostages. The three small Domingo children were left with servants. Mrs. Domingo was not questioned, but she lay in the cell week after week, her one hope being that her baby need not be born in that terrible place.......................
And over and over, while we exchanged those hurried furtive confidences, the women repeated, “When will the Americans come?” That they would come, they never doubted. But when? How long would they be called upon to endure this horror? I could not give them a satisfactory answer.
Suddenly the slot beside the door opened and a face peered through. “Kneel!” the guard said sharply. “Why you talk?” Without warning his fist shot through the slot and struck me. That was the way I learned the 'no talking' rule.
For supper they gave us lugao, foul-smelling rice boiled in water until it looked and tasted like clothes starch. We had that for breakfast too. That was the only thing I had to eat for the thirty-two days I spent at Fort Santiago.
I crumpled down on the floor with weariness. There was no place to sit. We slept at night on the stone floor without even a newspaper to cover us. My jaw ached like mad, I was thirsty and my body was clammy.
That night I lay down on the damp cold floor of the cell and tried to sleep. I would need all the strength I had and it was important to keep a clear head. But I kept going over and over my story, testing it, trying to find any loopholes. I could not plan ahead. There was no use guessing what they would ask next. One thing sure – I had beaten them for one day at least. I had made my story stick that far. I went to sleep at last.
The next morning I learned the prison routine which never varied. It was as rigid as that of a military barracks. At seven there was roll call, which we must answer. A woman who knew Japanese taught us to answer roll call in Japanese, which was required of us. How many prisoners there were in Fort Santiago I never learned, but there were more than three hundred at that one end of the cell block. I would keep count as the roll call started every morning, so I knew that there were that many within earshot of my cell....................
It was the fifth day I remember best because that was the day the torture started. As soon as I got inside the room that morning, I knew I was in for it. The interpreter was looking too happy to suit me. I had learned a long time before that when the Japanese looked happy it was a bad sign for the rest of us. And there, right on top of the pile of papers I saw my Red Cross application for volunteer work, the application I had signed, in October, 1941, as an American! (remember she had been posing as a Lithuanian citizen since the Japs arrived). There was only one way they could have gotten it – through the Red Cross itself. And that, I knew in a flash, meant the Filipino doctor who had turned me in to the officials during that second trip to Bataan.
The officer motioned for me to sit down. I was so scared I could hardly move but I sat down, thinking frantically, making up and discarding one story after another. This would have to be good. I had to come through this or I would never leave Fort Santiago.
The interpreter wasted no time. He tossed the paper in front of me. “You write that?” I still had no story. I leaned over peering at it, playing for time.
“I can't see very well. Let me take it close to the window.”
I held it gripped tightly as I walked slowly to the window, hoping my hands would not shake and rattle the paper. I held it up to the light and read it, word by word. Then I nodded my head. I could see both of them expand with satisfaction.
“Yes, I wrote it,” I said, “but it wasn't true. I'm not an American. I told you the truth about where I was born but I lied to the Red Cross. I was afraid they wouldn't let me work for them if they knew I was a foreigner.”
The officer made a gesture and the interpreter got up and pushed a bench near the table. He pointed to it.
My heart turned over as I looked at it. But there were no wires attached. That was something. I had heard about the electric machines the Japanese used for torture here, unspeakable torture. There was an electrode shaped like a curling iron which was applied to women. (Margaret describes what happened to two women at this point. It was very vile). One of these women was taken out of Fort Santiago in a strait jacket and sent to Santo Tomas. She was in the psychopathic ward there and finally taken to an asylum for the hopelessly insane. Another victim, who had been raped before the torture, was insane for awhile and later seemed to be nearly normal. But during the shelling of Manila, she lapsed back into a raving delirium from which she never recovered.
But this was just a bench. Its only feature was that it had thin split bamboo across it for a seat – and split bamboo is as sharp as knives. I pulled down my skirt and sat down easily, carefully.
'No, no,” the interpreter said, “Kneel on it.”
My skirt didn't help much, though it did protect my knees a little. I let myself down gingerly on my bare shins and leaned forward to rest my weight on my arms on the table.
The interpreter pushed them off. “Sit back,” he ordered, “Sit back.”
So I sat back on my heels, the bamboo cutting into my legs. That day they really went to work on me. The Red Cross application was the first concrete proof they had found that I was an American. They screamed at me. They tried to tangle me up in questions. They went back to my frequent trips to Camp O'Donnell and Cabanatuan. They said over and over that I was an American. And the officer kept slapping me.
It went on for hours, the sharp edges of the bamboo cutting deeper into my legs. The bone is close to the surface of the shins. The muscles in my hips and thighs cramped and ached. The questions drilled on and on. And the officer walked around and around the bench, looking to see whether I had found a position that would keep my legs from hurting. Because I hadn't, that made him mad too, and he slapped me over and over. But I was in so much pain every other way, with my legs bleeding, my muscles cramped, that a slap more or less hardly counted.
Only now and then, when they would abruptly stop questioning me and lean back for a leisurely smoke, did I try to shift my weight from one leg to the other to ease the pain a little.
At length they said, “Get up.” I tried but could not move my legs. They started to shout and scream again, “Get up!”
This time I managed to move but I could not get up. I tumbled over on the floor. Pressure on the blood vessels from holding that one position so long had cut off the circulation to my legs and feet. The officer stood yelling. I struggled for awhile before I could straighten out. At last I could get up, then I could stand, then I could walk.
My lacerated legs hurt worse now that circulation was restored. The thought of the lugao made me sick. I stumbled back to my cell. Sometime, I thought, I would have to eat more to keep up my strength – but not tonight. All I could do was lie on the floor and try to protect my cut legs from the dirt. That night I was in so much pain I almost forgot that I had beaten them again. They had not found a loophole in my story yet or they would never have let me go.
They next day we didn't go to the sunny room overlooking the patio. Instead, they took me upstairs to a long room with a piano. …....They had decided to try something else. They tied my hands behind my back, attached a rope to the tied wrists and jerked me up several feet above the floor. While I hung there, they screamed questions at me again and again and beat me with their fists.
That was the beginning of day of alternate tortures. One day would be the bamboo bench, the next day a beating. My legs never healed. And my back was a mess. They got tired of using their fists and began to beat me with the flat side of a bayonet, then with a leather belt that cut across my back.
The legs got worse. It wasn't just the bamboo. When they let me down from the beatings, they would lower me to about two feet from the floor and then drop me. Instinctively my knees would draw up and I would fall on the torn flesh. The first few times I thought the fall would kill me, but I lived through thirty-two days. And sometimes, just for variety, when his cigarette was burning brightly, the officer ground the burning coal into my arm.
All that time, all those days and days, I never screamed. I let them go ahead and do what they liked to me and didn't make a sound. But toward the end, when my shins were a mass of running sores, they took a stick and scraped the sores. I yelled at them.......................
All the time I was in prison I noticed that our treatment changed with the news. If the Japanese military suffered defeats or setbacks, we paid for it. If President Roosevelt talked to the people, describing what had been accomplished, things went badly for us. Our slim rations of lugao were cut. When HongKong was bombed, we really felt it................
I had reached the point where all I could think of at night was, “One more day and I've stuck to my story. If only I can do it again tomorrow.” I couldn't think ahead more than one day.
The days are blurred – the bamboo bench, the beatings – but some things stand out. There was the day when I was being led to torture and I heard a Filipino boy whistling 'The Stars and Stripes Forever'. It sounded like angels singing. The Japanese guard asked what it was.
“A Filipino love song.” the boy replied, and he chuckled.
There was the day when the Japanese officer shouted at me that he knew I was a liar. He had found my name as a passenger on a boat and I was listed as an American! I had never been on the boat in my life, and all I thought at the time was that the Japanese were almost as good liars as I was. If was not until I was on my way back to the cell that evening that the full importance of the accusation soaked into my tired brain. They were bluffing. They had no evidence. They could not prove anything. They believed my – they believed that I was Rosena Utinsky.
When that idea finally dawned on me, tears ran down my dirty face. A little light was breaking.”
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Post by Bob Hudson on Feb 25, 2013 18:48:38 GMT 8
Makes me wonder why Edna Binkowski makes a concerted effort not only in her book "Code Name Highpockets", to make Margaret Utinski somewhat of a traitor. Edna states that after Margaret was released from Ft. Santiago, the Japs started rounding up Guerrilla and underground members, but the round up began some 7-8 months after her release. Makes no sense that the Japs would wait that long to put any information procured from Utinsky to use. Utinsky did have some kind of mental breakdown and began drinking heavily after her release and some underground members began to avoid her for fear that she would blurt out something but no one has ever proven that she gave the Japs any information and it is all conjecture with Binkowski. In Binkowski's book Claire Phillips claimed to have married a POW named John Phillips, but John swore up and down that he had never married anyone. Edna says in her book that Claire and John were married in a Church, whose name escapes me, in Manila but records of marriages in that church, which has accurate marriage records for that time period, show no such marriage took place there.
I, myself have a great deal of respect for Margaret Utinski with what I know or her.
Thanks for the continuing dialog.
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Post by Registrar on Feb 26, 2013 15:39:56 GMT 8
Here is a precis of evidence that Margaret Utinski gave at the War Crimes trials. I am inclined to agree with you on the conflicts between Phillips and Utinski, and feel that there were some unsatisfactory issues which were not adequately explained in Phillips' story.
This extract is from: battleofmanila.org/IG_Report/htm/IG_333_5_04.htm
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Post by pdh54 on Feb 26, 2013 23:37:58 GMT 8
Bob thanks for the comments.
I have a feeling that Margaret and Claire were thrown together by place and time not because they were best friends. I think it was a matter of expediency on Claire's part that she left her daughter, Dyan, in Margaret's care while she was incarcerated. I wonder if animosity arose, post war, when Dyan was returned to her mother and maybe Dyan didn't want to go with her. She was very little during the war and had been with Margaret for quite awhile and would normally look to Margaret as her mom. Claire probably didn't look much like her old self when she was released and Dyan may not have fully recognized her as her Mom. Claire would have naturally been upset by this and may have held some animus against Margaret, valid or not. It would be human nature. Then when Mrs. Binkowski researched for her book, she probably felt a closeness, and liking for Claire and may have slightly resented Margaret for Claire's sake. Who knows.......I realize that authors try to be impartial, but with these stories you just can't.
I wonder about the part of the last entry---
All that time, all those days and days, I never screamed. I let them go ahead and do what they liked to me and didn't make a sound. But toward the end, when my shins were a mass of running sores, they took a stick and scraped the sores. I yelled at them.......................
and why Margaret felt she needed to add this to her book. Maybe it was in response to rumors at that time of her giving info while being tortured. I'm sure people assumed she talked. But she seems to have been a VERY stubborn woman, so maybe she didn't. She also turned over lists to the Americans of people she observed during the war of collaborating and helped pursue the charging of at least one newspaper woman after the war.
All I know is that I have a profound admiration for this woman, what she was able to accomplish and what she endured in this time of war.
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Post by pdh54 on Feb 26, 2013 23:49:08 GMT 8
Thank you Registrar for posting this. It is excruciating to read, but very informative.
Here is another reference to Margaret from that document:
65. The facts shown above are based upon the sworn testimony or sworn statements of witnesses considered to be reliable because they were eye witnesses or victims of the type of atrocities testified to by each. Many witnesses included in their testimony material which had been told them by another person. Many of these statements are considered to be true, but have nevertheless not been included under the statements of facts shown above because of the possibility of exaggeration or inaccuracy. For example, much contained in the statement of Mrs. Margaret M. Utinsky, a civilian internee in Santo Tomas Internment Camp and formerly a first lieutenant in the U. S. Army Nurse Corps, refers to atrocities cited to her through letters from her officer friends in the service. Only that part of her statement of her own personal experiences and observations is included in facts above. Mrs. Utinsky has been repatriated to the United States.
Patty
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Post by Registrar on Aug 4, 2013 9:26:20 GMT 8
Claire in front of a mock up of her Tsubaki Club in Manila. Probably for a filming of a movie about her experiences. In correspondence that I recently received from Fred Hill, he made the point that the photograph showing Claire Phillips in front of the Tsubaki Club was not genuine. A photograph of Phillips, taken by Dale Risdon was used when the book "Manila Espionage" was in preparation. the head and face from the Risdon photograph was transferred to a photograph of another lady standing outside the Tsubaki Club, but they "flopped" the face of Claire so that the lighted side of her face would be on the left, to match the light in the Tsubaki Club photograph. The lady whose photo was taken in front of the club was aware that Claire was planning to write a book and needed a picture, so gave Dale Risdon Phillips' contact address.
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