History That Doesn't Suck - 197: The Doolittle Raid & the Bataan Death March (Spring 1942)

Episode Date: January 19, 2026

“We had been promised relief but none was coming, and all of us in Bataan shared a sense of betrayal.” This is the story of the United State’s earliest—and most disastrous—days of war in the Pacific.  Almost immediately following Pearl Harbor, America and the Axis powers exchange rapid-fire war declarations. While embattled Britain breathes a sign of relief to have the US officially in the war, the Japanese Empire’s sun is rising on the Pacific fast—and at great cost to the Philippines. As the Commonwealth’s islands fall one by one, General Douglas MacArthur is forced to beat a hasty retreat. He evacuates to Australia and pledges to return; but what of the American and Filipino forces cornered on a small peninsula on Luzon? Well, they’re not called the “Battling Bastards of Bataan” for nothing. But there’s only so much they can do without outside support. Many thousands of POWs will be murdered or massacred in the post-surrender Bataan Death March of April 1942.  Amid these defeats and the ensuing crisis of morale, Washington concludes a successful counterattack on the Japanese home islands just might be the psychological win that America needs. Lieutenant Colonel James “Jimmy” Doolittle will lead an air attack… on Tokyo itself.  ____ Go to squarespace.com/HTDS for a free trial and use the offer code HTDS to save 10% off your first purchase of a website or domain from our advertising partner Squarespace. Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. HTDS is part of Audacy media network. Interested in advertising on the History That Doesn't Suck? Contact Audacyinc.com. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hello, my friends, it's Professor Greg Jackson. Now you can see the live tour by land and by sea, because we're planning a four-night VIP cruise aboard the beautiful celebrity reflection. From May 18th to the 22nd, we'll sail from Fort Lauderdale to Key West and the Bahamas. While on board, I'll not only give a special private performance of my live show, The Unlikely Union. We'll also have a night of fun history trivia, a poolside party, nightly group dining together, excursions and the ultimate book club meeting. Because, if you don't know, I've been working on a book for the past two years,

and I can't think of a better way to celebrate its publication this spring than with my family, friends, and the best history fans. So go to htbspodcast.com and click on live shows for more information, or click the link in the show notes. Hope to see you on the road or at sea. It's a little before 8 in the morning, April 18th. We're in the open waters of the Western Pacific, about 650 nautical miles east of Japan, where Lieutenant Colonel James Jimmy Doolittle is doing something highly unusual for a U.S. Army airman.

He's reporting to the bridge of the aircraft carrier, USS Hornet. And it doesn't take long for Jimmy to read the room. Something's wrong. Captain Mark Mitchell briefs the 45-year-old, cleft-chinned flyboy. It looks like you're going to have to be on your way soon. They know we're here. That's right. The Japanese have spotted them.

There isn't a moment to lose. Shaking the captain's hand, Jimmy rushes back to his cabin to grab his things, spreading the word as he runs, until the loudspeakers spread the word faster, that is. Surprised flight crews rushed to get ready. Det crews snap into action, spotting the B-25s into launch positions.

But wait, why are Army Air Force crews, not Navy pilots doing the flying. And what exactly is this mission? Well, it'll take a bit to warm up these medium bombers. Let me fill you in as they prepare for the mission. Here's the deal. Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle is leading an aerial strike on Tokyo. Yes, the capital of the Japanese Empire.

The plan's origins go back to last December's attack on Pearl Harbor, when President Franklin D. Roosevelt, seeing the need for a national morale boost, asked his top brass to find a way to hit Japan. That need only grew over the next few months as Japan racked up victories at Wake Island, Guam, and Bhutan in the Philippines. America badly needs a psychological win.

The plan is audacious. It calls for Jimmy's armada of 16 B-25 Mitchell Bombers to take off from the Hornets flight deck, roughly 500 miles out from Japan. Now, carrier aircraft can normally strike around 200 miles out and make it back safely, but they want to push that range today. Moreover, launching these medium twin-engine bombers off a carrier is one thing, but landing these big boys on such a ship, that would be a different story.

The answer to both of these dilemmas is simple. Don't come back. Yeah. Instead, these B-25s will fly over Japan, continue onto airfields in China, refuel, then rendezvous in Chongqing before heading home, maybe via India. Possible? Sure, but it demands skill, guts, and a dash of crazy. Little surprise then that every participant is a volunteer. And because they need all the range they can get, they're using these Army B-25s.

The Navy doesn't fly land-based medium bombers. Only Army Air Force pilots have experience with them. Hence, Army crews on a Navy carrier. But everything got thrown off this morning by Japan's Little Picket Boat, number 23, Mito Maru. Plains from the carrier USS Enterprise attacked her, and the light cruiser USS Nashville finished her off, but not before the former fishing ship radioed about the American presence. And that's why Jimmy has to launch now, still roughly 150 nautical miles before the intended point of departure.

Meanwhile, some sailors wonder, can these twin-engine bombers with five-man crews really take off from the Hornet's comparatively short flight deck? And in this foul weather? Well, a betting pool aboard the Enterprise says probably not. Let's find out. It's now 8.20 a.m. With a 30-knought wind blowing down the deck, the Hornet pushes to 20 knots, hoping to give Jimmy's B-25 all the help it can. lifting off. With a checkered flag waving and the chocks pull, Jimmy throttles up as the deck

heaves beneath him. Everyone watches with bated breath as he roars toward the end of the flight deck and yes, he's airborne, disappearing into the gray sky. Fifteen more bombers follow. Sailors who lost the bet have never been happy to be out ten bucks. It's about noon in Tokyo. civilians look up at planes overhead. In a twist from Pearl Harbor, some on the ground even wave, thinking these must be friendly aircraft, at least until the B-25 start dropping their four 500-pound bombs, some of which are incendiary.

But the targets aren't random. Flying over the Imperial Capitol, as well as Yokohama, Nagoya, Kobe, and Osaka. They hit factories, an oil tank farm, warehouses, steelworks, and power facilities. They never use their machine guns. Jimmy Doolittle has specifically prohibited that. Likewise, they stay clear of the Imperial Palace,

though they could easily hit it. And with their work done, the Americans dodge scrambling fighters and push on toward China. Hours pass. It's late at night. With no response from Chow Joe Airfield, Jimmy's crew fly a dead reckoning course and what they hope is the right direction,

until it's time to abandon ship. One by one, each man perishes into the darkness. Jimmy splashes down in the cold wet of a rice patty. No crew in sight. But he sees a light, a farmhouse. Yes, sloshing through the mud, he reaches the door. He knocks, nothing. Jimmy hollers,

Lushu-Hu-Begwa-Fugi. This phrase, he was told, means, I am an American. But is this the right dialect? Is he even saying it correctly? Or did Jimmy just about complete gibberish? Whatever the case, the lights go out as he hears a bolt slide shut. It's now the next morning.

After a sleepless, frigid night, Jimmy encounters a Chinese officer, a major who speaks a little English. But the major doesn't buy his story. So here's our flyboy, walking under military escort, back to the rice paddy, where he swears he can show the Major and his men his abandoned parachute. There's just one problem. When they get there, there's no parachute. The soldiers question the nearby farmhouse.

The family insists no one knocked last night. Nothing happened. The Major's men tightened their circle around Gemmy, ready to disarm and detain this supposed American. But just before things turn ugly, A few soldiers returned from the farmhouse, holding the parachute the family had tried to hide. That changes everything. With Jimmy's story confirmed, the Chinese major smiles extends a hand in friendship and officially welcomes Jimmy Doolittle to China.

Welcome to history that doesn't suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Flying in five-man crews on 16 separate B-25s, 80 daring men, including Jimmy Doolittle himself, participated in the Doolittle raid. Incredibly, only four were killed in action. Eight were taken prisoner by the Japanese. One B-25 landed in Russia, and after a year's detention, its crew makes it back to the states. The rest of these flyboys get back home relatively quickly, thanks to the assistance of Chinese civilians.

But the Chinese suffer dearly. Japanese reprisals escalate into something far more as a campaign of violence. leaves tens of thousands of Chinese dead. Meanwhile, Japan is psychologically shaken as it feels a new level of vulnerability. And as for the United States, well, Uncle Sam is feeling a massive morale boost, one that is desperately needed

after the recent surrender of more than 75,000 American and Filipino soldiers on baton only the week prior. And the tale of that surrender and its heart-wrenching aftermath. That sad tale is, hours to hear today. This is the story of the United States in the Pacific Theater from the aftermath of Pearl Harbor in December, 1941, through the Japanese conquest of the Philippines in May

1942. We'll start with the big picture. Picking up where we left off at the end of episode 194, with President Franklin Roosevelt calling on Congress to declare war, will follow the cascade of war declarations, the post-pearl Harbor shifts in U.S. military leadership. Then, after noting Japan's decisive victories in one territory after the next, join General Douglas MacArthur on the island of Luzon in the Philippines. Once we're there, we'll follow the battle, or the retreat, as the case may be. While the combined American and Filipino forces will give their all, including a cavalry charge, unlike anything in a recent memory, will find that the Japanese soon corner the defenders

of Luzon Island on a peninsula called Bataan, or as we usually call it in American English, Baton. And yet, these Americans and Filipinos will fight on tooth and nail. Almost literally, even when Doug MacArthur disappears to Australia on the White House's orders, even when no help follows, leaving them feeling completely abandoned, these boys don't stop until there's truly no other choice. It's with good reason they'll be known as the battling bastards of Baton. As we'll see, they'll display a perseverance that only makes their horrific, inhumane fate, a death march to an even deadlier prisoner of war camp, all the harder to hear. On that note, if you're listening with the kids, maybe preview this one on your own first.

The tales from this march might not be for the littlest of ears. It's a dark tale, but a necessary tale. So on that note, let's leave Jimmy and his do little raiders in China and get to it by heading back to Washington, D.C. of December 1941. You know how we do that. Rewind. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt is right. December 7th, 1941 is a date that will live in infamy, and the nation responds to that reality immediately. In fact, as FDR is delivering this instantly famous speech, calling on Congress to declare war but one day later on December 8th, Our most prominent proponent of isolationism in many a past episode, Charles Lindbergh is coming to the same position.

Speaking in Chicago at the headquarters of the America First Committee, the famous aviator concedes that what happened in Hawaii means, it's time for war. To quote Lucky Lindy, we have been stepping closer to war for many months. Now, it has come, and we must meet it as United Americans regardless of our attitude in the past. our country has been attacked by force of arms, and by force of arms we must retaliate. Congress agrees and acts swiftly. That same December 8th, to be exact. Following Franklin's speech, the Senate takes a mere 25 minutes to vote unanimously to declare war on Japan, and the House follows just 10 minutes after that. Across both chambers, the sole vote against this joint resolution comes from the same lone voice that stood against President Woodrow Wilson's call for

war two and a half decades ago in April 1917. Montana's recently returned to Congress Representative, Jeanette Rankin. The booze and hisses from her peers extend beyond the halls of Congress, and her political career will end as a result of this vote. The next day, December 9th, 1941, Franklin returns to one of his favorite methods of communication, the fireside chat. In his broadcast. FDR makes it clear that this war isn't just against Japan. Rather, it's a concerted effort against all the Axis powers. The sudden criminal attacks perpetrated by the Japanese in the Pacific provide the climax of a decade of international immorality. He then connects Japan's invasion of Manchuria to Italy's invasion of Ethiopia, to Germany's invasion of Czechoslovakia and Poland.

is all of one pattern. Germany and Italy, regardless of any formal declaration of war, consider themselves at war with the United States at this moment, just as much as they consider themselves at war with Britain or Russia. We expect to eliminate the danger from Japan, but it would serve us ill if we accomplished that and found that the rest of the world was dominated by Hitler and Mussolini.

So we are going to win the war, and we are going to win the peace that follows. Yes, this means war with all the Axis powers. And two days later, on December 11th, Adolf Hitler makes the first move. Nazi Germany declares war on the United States. Congress returns the favor that same day, declaring war on the third Reich. This time, Jeanette abstains, thereby making the vote unanimous, and does the same as Congress immediately proceeds to declare war on the third and final of the Axis powers, Italy. Franklin signs the declarations in a solemn ceremony, glumly noting, I've always heard things came and threes. Here they are. As we detailed in episode 195, the holiday special.

Franklin's British BFF, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, soon arrives in Washington. The two spend Christmas together, and amid meetings codenamed the Arcadia Conference, they make some key war planning decisions. These include landing on a Germany-first approach that will prioritize defeating the Nazi threat and the establishment of the Anglo-American combined chiefs of staff, which will become the Supreme Allied Command early next year. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Much more is still happening. in December 1941. For one thing, Admiral Husband Kimmel is taking the brunt of the blame for Pearl Harbor.

Hardly surprising. The national wound remains very much an open wound. More than a week after the attack, military families are still freshly processing their grief and loss, like Army Air Serviceman Dave King, who writes to his mother and Hunter, Kansas, about his brother. I will tell you that Elmer is dead. He was about the first to go.

Now, it might not be fair or right. Historians will eternally debate that. But as commander-in-chief of both the Pacific Fleet and the entire U.S. fleet, husband Kimmel's taking the fall and losing both commands. Amid other shifts and consolidations, command of the U.S. fleet will pass to Admiral Ernest J. King early next year. No relation to the young soldier just mentioned, by the way. Command of the Pacific Fleet stationed at Pearl Harbor goes to Admiral Chester Nimitz

that same December. Meanwhile, the Japanese offensive in the Pacific is hardly finished. As we learned in episode 194, the Empire of the Rising Sun launches several concurrent attacks. These include British Malaya, Hong Kong, and Singapore, as well as several American territories. By 545 in the morning on December 10, the Japanese force U.S. troops on Guam to surrender. On Wake Island, 422 Marines and 58 enlisted men initially hold off. continual air raids, but they too surrendered to Japan later that month. The Japanese have also launched air raids on Midway, and as all of this goes on, General Douglas MacArthur is doing all

he can in the ongoing fight for the Philippines. Ah, the Philippines. It's been a while since we first acquainted ourselves with this group of almost 7,100 islands and islets that extends 1,150 miles from north to south back in episode 1007's coverage, of the Philippine-American War. Let's get you up to speed before we get too deep. First, I trust to recall that the Philippine-American War ended in 1902 with an American victory. Well, mostly ended. Some fought on, but 1902 is our official end date. Yes, that was a brutal war. Nonetheless, relations between the Philippines and the United States have strengthened significantly since then. In fact, independence is now in sight, particularly,

ever since 1934, when Filipino representative and advocate Manuel Kayson succeeded in convincing Congress to pass the Tidines McDuffie Act. This made his country an all-but-autonomous Commonwealth under congressional oversight on a 10-year path to full independence as a sovereign nation and republic. One year later, in 1935, General Douglas MacArthur became the Commonwealth Government's military advisor. In brief, this seasoned World War I vet whose own father once fought on these islands in the Philippine-American War, was to help modernize the Philippine military and get it into shape before the nation went fully independent.

Doug continued to serve in this advisory role even after his retirement from the U.S. Army in 1997. A retirement that ended as the looming threat of war with Japan brought him back to the U.S. Army in July 1941 as commander in the Far East. And I'd say that gets us up to speed on the Commonwealth of the Philippines, its relationship to the United States and Douglas MacArthur's past and current role on the archipelago when the Japanese landed that devastating blow against Doug's still on the ground plains on December 8th, 1941. I'm sure you recall that initial attack from episode 194,

and with this background, we're now ready to continue the tale of the fight for the Philippines. That same December day, the Japanese spread throughout the archipelago. They hit the island of Luzon and the Davao region of the island of Mindanao. But Doug insists that, despite the destruction, his combined American and Filipino forces will face any Japanese invasion. On December 10th, Japanese General Homa Masaharu's troops land on the island of Luzon, just north of the Philippines capital city of Manila. General Jonathan Skinny Wainwright and his American North Luzon Force,

or First Philippine Corps, fall back. Meanwhile, General George Parker's second Philippine Corps is also pressed to withdraw. Both forces are moving southward as air power is virtually destroyed. In fact, by December 19th, remaining B-17s flee across the skies to Australia. Meanwhile, more Japanese troops arrive north of Manila on December 22nd. General Douglas MacArthur, Philippine President Manuel Kaysan, and all of their families and staff, headquartered in the capital, recognize that it's time to fall back.

They do so on December 24th, Christmas Eve, and on December 26th, Doug declares Manila an open city, meaning that the Japanese will encounter no resistance. Under international law, that means the Japanese should occupy the city peacefully, and they do. Walking under banners raised over the streets that declare no shooting, the Japanese freely take Manila.

But make no mistake, Our American General and Philippine President haven't given up. Lacking a better or more updated path, they're abiding by a plan that predates Pearl Harbor, war plan orange, which means using delay and defense tactics while awaiting the Pacific Fleet. The combined American and Filipino force

prepares to hold a mountainous and heavily forested peninsula on the western side of Luzon, just across the bay from Manila. That peninsula is called Bataan, or again, as we often pronounce it in the States, Baton. With the dawn of 1942, the defense of the Baton Peninsula begins. General Skinny Wainwright's roughly 22,500 strong First Philippine Corps, and General George Parker's 25,000 strong Second Philippine Corps

take up defensive positions along the Abu Qai Mauban line, usually shortened to just Abu Qai line. This 20-mile front stretches across the northern, neck of the Baton Peninsula, where it opens to the rest of Luzon. Meanwhile, Japanese General Holma assigns General Nada Akira's 65th brigade to clear out what he believes to be the demoralized and defeated remnant of the Allied Army. Well, that might not be quite as easy as it seems. It's early in the morning, January 16, 1942. We're near the coastal town of Boron, where Lieutenant Edwin Ramsey is leading an

small mixed force of American and Filipino men, E-Truth of the 26th Cavalry, as they ride through the dense jungle vegetation. They're here as advanced scouts. Word came in at about 0300 that Japanese soldiers are nearing this town toward the top of the Baton Peninsula. And given its position next to the Batalan River, General Skinny Wainwright wants to make sure they don't lose control of Mawang, or this precious waterway that serves as a natural defense barrier. That's why Ed is here, on this trail, so well known both to him and his trusty chestnut-brown steed, called Bryn Arwen. Approaching the town, Ed's men ride in columns of eight, their pistols, cocked and ready. Point riders silently moved toward this settlement of vatched huts.

It's completely deserted. No people, no livestock. Just huts perched on bamboo stilts, surrounded by coconut palms, gently whispering in the wind. With no visible enemy forces, the cavalrymen push forward into Moran. With their horses' heads in line with the roofs of the huts, Ed and his troops maneuver through eerily empty dirt paths. Pedro Uperio, the 19-year-old Filipino cavalryman, riding point on today's mission, looks behind the only stone building in town, the Catholic Church.

Then suddenly, the monotonous sound of horses' hooves is interrupted by an explosion. Amid a flurry of rifle and machine gun fire. Pedro gallops back, his horse covered in blood. It's the Japanese army, all right, entering the town from the opposite side. Startle, Ed looks up to see their far more numerous enemy. Hundreds of Japanese soldiers dressed in drab-cats cacted uniforms, waiting their way through the river. Ed knows he has exactly one chance to stop this.

It's by no means a guarantee, but they have to act now and fast. Raising his pistol in the air, Ed shouts to his 26 cavalry men to make a line. The men snapped, too, and with every man and horse formed up, he brings down his arm while shouting the command. Charge! Bent down over their horses' necks, each man pushes his steed to a hard gallop, as they fire pistols at nearly point-blank into their foe. It's a truly terrifying sight and utterly unexpected, a cavalry charge,

An actual, old-fashioned yesteryear, or rather yester war, cavalry charge. A few Japanese soldiers attempt to fire back, but most are so cut off guard, they flee in confusion, running into the river or swamps. As Ed will later recall, to them, we must have seemed a vision from another century. Wild-eyed horses, pounding headlong, cheering, whooping men, firing from the saddles. What we just witnessed was the last American. American cavalry charge. Or at least the last of the century. Yeah, century. In 2001, U.S. Army Special Forces will ride with Afghan cavalry against the Taliban. And does that classify as a charge? Well, let's not worry about that. We're getting way ahead of ourselves. Sticking with our

present of January, 1942, Lieutenant Edwin Ramsey's charge is instantly seen as the stuff of legend. Between his bravery and shot up knee, he's awarded the silver star and the Purple Heart. But alas, it only buys the American and Filipino forces at Morang 24 hours. The 26th cavalry suffers heavy losses and ultimately must abandon the town to the advancing Japanese. Taken to medical on account of his knee, Ed learns of the loss of Morong when he wakes the following morning. The news is crushing. As he explains, we had been prepared. promised relief, but none was coming, and all of us in Baton shared a sense of betrayal.

We were fighting as hard as we could just to stay alive, and with each of us who died, that fight became more desperate. January 1942 continues like this, with heroic moments, like Ed's charge, followed by yet another retreat deeper into the peninsula, all while American and Filipino forces wait and pray for deliverance. Aircraft, battleships, any help. at all from Uncle Sam. General Skinny Wainwright even leads a counterattack of his own, but every attempt to advance only ends with more lost men, vehicles, and artillery.

Seeing success in his Philippine campaign, Japanese general Holma takes a calculated risk. He attempts to land troops on the Baton Peninsula's west coast and flank the Americans and Filipinos by coming in south of their line. But choppy sees the rugged shoreline and a mix of fierce marines, sailors, and aviation personnel repulsed this Japanese offensive. Yes, Douglas MacArthur's boys, as he affectionately calls his American and Filipino troops, are holding on. But they're paying dearly for these small victories in lives and blood. And yet, things are even worse up north at the Abu Kai line.

By the end of January, the Japanese managed to punch through the line and form two. pockets, the so-called little pocket and big pocket. Knowing that these pockets must be closed, General Skinny Wainwright sends everything he can, including one brave Minnesotan. It's the morning of February 3rd, 1942. Sergeant Leroy Anderson's Tank Company is pushing along the densely forested Trail 7, located between the American and Filipino held Abu Kai Lai Line and the Japanese Big Pocket. reconnaissance from Leroy last night

says that this forest is filled with Japanese soldiers and snipers that is to say Leroy was shot at a lot trying to cross this trail last night now his tanks are advancing with rifle platoons and one extra man a dark-haired Minnesota named

Willibald Bill Bianchi See Bill isn't assigned to these units he simply asked him to come along to quote be in on the action close quote. The mix of Filipino and American troops creeps forward, scanning the trees and brush, distrustful of every glint of morning light that might actually be a Japanese gun. On the left plank of the tank lines, Lieutenant John McGrew, a communications officer,

feel safe enough to relay info with his telephone in hand. But there's no such thing as safe in the jungle. Just then, a bullet rips through John's hand, taken off a finger. firing erupts in every direction as the men try to locate and kill the Japanese snipers. Leroy's tanks attempt to continue advancing, but an enormous banyan tree with huge jutting roots and draping flanged branches blocks the way. Next to this halted tank, Bill Bianchi fires his rifle, but soon suffers the same fate as the communications officer. Two bullets rip his left hand apart.

Still standing, he drops the rifle and switches to his pistol. It's in this moment. As bolts fly and blood pours from his mangled hand, the bill notices a machine gun nest on the far side of this enormous twisted tree. So, the one-handed soldier throws two grenades out. His excellent aim silences this nest. But still more guns farther back are firing from the jungle trees cover. Bill climbs on top of the tank as it attempts to maneuver. He reaches toward the anti-aircraft machine gun, and suddenly two more bolts come to turn.

Two more bolts come his way, tearing into his chest, somehow still conscious and not incapacitated. The bullet riddle, one-handed Minnesotan, steadies himself, grabs the machine gun and fires into the bronze. And that's when an explosion throws him from the top. Miraculously alive, Bill is dragged to safety as the singed tank crew crawls from their burning vehicle under rifle cover. when another tank arrives to do other grenade lobbying infantry and finally clear the last of the Japanese troops from behind the bandion troop that started it all. Later in the night, the wounded American

and Filipino soldiers are loaded into a truck bound for evacuation to a hospital. Among them is Bill Bianchi. He not only survives. He's back fighting a month or so later. Bill receives the Medal of Honor for his one-handed shot through the chest courage under fire. That's the third. Medal of Honor awarded amid the action here on baton so far. Meanwhile, the Battle of the Pockets drags on for days. Sometimes there are direct attacks. Other times, the Allies sit in foxholes waiting for Japanese soldiers to pass in the darkness. Medical doctor, Captain Paul Ashton describes one night,

very slowly and quietly, I brought my arm out into the complete darkness and touched the end of a rifle, then brought my hand along it, and felt a nose and face. I managed to grasp the rifle and hold it long enough to plunge the bayonet again and again deep into his neck. I cringed as deeply into my foxhole as I could and listened as the gurgling and choking gradually slowed. After 19 straight days of fighting, with almost no artillery and barely any rations, the Americans and Filipinos stopped the Japanese from linking the pockets and managed to reform the Abu Qai line on February 17, 1942. Baton is still theirs, and for the first time since the first torpedo struck in Pearl Harbor's shallow waters, the Japanese have not only been stopped, but pushed back.

But the good news doesn't last. General Homa responds with a blockade around the peninsula. By February 26th, American and Filipino forces on Baton are completely cut off from the outside world, including American units on other Philippine islands. Food is so scarce that soon, Ed and the 26th cavalry will resort to slaughtering their horses for meat. As the news tightens, General Douglas MacArthur, now headquartered on the island of Corrador, just south of Luzon Islands-Baton Peninsula, gets an order from Washington, in order to leave.

See, President Franklin D. Roosevelt doesn't want the Japanese winning a propaganda victory by capturing Doug. So, the Far East commander and Philippine president Manuel Kaysan, are ordered to evacuate to Australia. Previously, Doug had refused such suggestions, insisting he'll stay with his troops, his boys. But this is a direct order from the president. He feels that he has no choice.

That said, one sailor will later remark, this is the only time Doug ever does as he's told. But even then, doing as he's told isn't easy. The journey to Australia begins at 7.30 p.m., March 11, 1940. on Corridor's bomb-damaged South Dock. Doug is joined by several generals, his staff, including chief aide and friend, Sid Huff, and his family, his wife Jean, his four-year-old, Arthur, and the boy's nanny, a Cantonese woman named Lau Gao, called Achu, who Doug insists has been part of the family

since Arthur's birth. This whole group is traveling to Australia, though no one knows if they'll make it even the first 10 miles. The first leg is by sea. Four PT boats move in a diamond formation from Corridor to Mindanao. Well, boat is a generous term. Doug calls them, and I quote, 77 feet of light plywood. They pass Japanese minefields and traverse the rainy, rough, Sulu Sea.

At one point, strong winds pushed them within two miles of Japanese-held Cabra Island, where bonfires glow on shore. Somehow, they go unnoticed. Doug describes the more than 500-mile boat ride as, quote, what it must be like to take a trip in a concrete mixer, close quote, and adds,

it was a bad night for everybody. Doug, Jean, Little Arthur, and, well, everyone takes turns tossing cookies into the sea. But finally, on the morning of March 13th, the weary group arrives at Kagayan on the Philippine island of Mindanao. 4B17 flying fortresses are supposed to pick them up, but only one has arrived, and it's in bad shape.

16 in the group hop aboard, but Doug refuses to risk his family. Instead, he sends a strongly worded message back to D.C. to chief of staff George Marshall and waits at the dirt air base. This does the trick. The U.S. Navy's top brass in Australia are voluntled to do better, and three days later, on the evening of March 16th, two brand-new flying fortresses arrive. Still one plane short from what was planned, the MacArthur's only take their clothes and a mattress for Little Arthur,

who's feeling seasick. This mattress generates rumors later that the general has stuffed it with gold coins that he's smuggling into Australia. In reality, he's importing straw. Flown by a pilot operating on eight cups of coffee and nerves, the B-17 is no better for motion sickness than the P-G-Tor. T-boats. The battered metal behemoth backfires and stutters through the skies, but survives enemy fire over the Dutch East Indies. Nor is that the end of their troubles. As the 10-hour, over 1,000-mile

flight, nears Darwin, Australia, word arrives that the Japanese are attacking the city. As a result, they're rerouted to nearby Bachelor Airfield. Finally on Australian soil, Gene MacArthur shouts, Never, never again will anybody get me into an airplane, not for any reason. Oh, the irony. Moments later, they learned that the Japanese are moving in on Bachelor Airfield. With no other choice, the MacArthur's are once again back in the air for another 1,000-mile flight to the safety of Australia's outback. Landing yet again, a train awaits them in the small town of Alice Springs. On March 18th, seven days since their initial departure, Doug rests his head on Jean's shoulder

as the train carries them over a thousand miles south. She tells his aide, Sid Huff, that's the first time he's really slept since Pearl Harbor. But his rest is brief, as this journey of just under 5,000 miles nears its end, Doug encounters a cheering crowd at one of his last stops in South Australia. It's about two in the morning, March 20th, 19th. The train carrying Douglas MacArthur, his wife, his son, and his entourage is coming to a stop in the small town of Teraoui in South Australia. They're here to change rail cars. The 62-year-old general in a laurel-w-wreathed cap, a loose hanging tan jacket slacks, rises from his wooden train seat, ready to stretch his legs.

And then, he hears something. Is that? Chearing? stepping onto the platform, Doug is stunned to see his supposedly secret car surrounded by a crowd. An excited one at that, shouting, welcome to Australia. As Doug looks on in surprise at his kind Aussie hosts, someone seizes his hand. It's his deputy chief of staff, Dick Marshall. Dick has arranged for a new, more comfortable private car to carry Doug the last 600 miles to Melbourne.

but he couldn't do it without attracting some attention. No matter. Doug immediately asks if it's true what he's heard about American troop numbers in Australia. Dick confirms it. Barely over 25,000. Doug feels gutted. He left his boys back on baton, believing help was coming. But with so few troops, what can he possibly do?

Still, the crowd can't know any of that. And the mission hasn't changed. It will take time, become hell or high water. Doug intends to restore the Commonwealth of the Philippines. Stepping toward the crowd, he flashes a million-dollar smile, and they roar. Reporters ask for a statement. Doug hadn't planned on speaking until Melbourne. But when the reporters say his words will reach the United States,

well, he can't miss the chance to influence Uncle Santa. Doug decides to speak off the cuff. He looks at the crowd and at these reporters, as he firmly declares, the President of the United States ordered me to break through the Japanese lines and proceed from Coriador to Australia for the purpose, as I understand it, of organizing an American offensive against Japan, the primary purpose of which is the relief of the Philippines. I came through and I shall return. General Douglas MacArthur's I shall return declaration of March 20th, 1942, becomes an anthem and a mission state.

for the Allied forces in the Pacific. When the General Reach is Melbourne, FDR's representative, Patrick Hurley, tells him he's now a hero to America, on par with aviator Charles Lindbergh and Great War Commander General Blackjack Pershing. Doug is also promoted to Supreme Commander of the Southwest Pacific Area. In other words, all U.S. military branches and even some Allied forces in the region, now answer to him. But Doug's popularity isn't soaring back in Baton. Feeling abandoned, his soldiers mock their distant and safe commander, calling him Dougout Doug.

With rations running low and any sign of relief still wanting, the men on Baton are losing steam and hope. United Press correspondent, Frank Hewlett, pens a poem that becomes an instant hit with many an American on the peninsula. To quote it in part, were the battling bastards of Baton. No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces.

No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces. And nobody gives a dam. An understandable sentiment. But more people give a dam than Baton's defenders, or the battling bastards, as the poem calls them, might feel. With Doug MacArthur running the bigger picture from Australia, General Skinny Wainwright is giving all the dams he can,

as he steps up as commander of all American and Filipino forces in the Philippines, leaving General Edward King as the field commander over baton. As Skinny tells one of his aides, Lee marched on Gettysburg with less men than I have. We're not licked yet. Nice thought, Skinny, but Robert Lee lost that one. And right now, the Japanese are determined to ensure that aspect of the comparison holds true as well.

Frustrated that baton hasn't fallen as crue. as Burma, Singapore, the East Indies, and Java. The Empire of the Rising Sun withdraws thousands of troops from other areas to flood the peninsula within additional 50,000 men. This renewed attack begins at the end of March and continues into April. General Skinny Wainwright mournfully notes later that the Japanese attack the Second Corps, quote, with bared bayonets, and were met by the bayonets of malarial men, with not enough food in their bellies to sustain a dog.

close quote. The American and Filipino soldiers do their best to muster a counterattack, but many are so weak, they can barely carry a weapon 100 yards. General Edward King refuses to watch these starved boys get mowed down. He feels compelled to make a hard choice. Disobeying orders, he surrenders baton on April 9, 1942. Meeting with General Holmas' representative, Colonel Nakayama Motto, Edward does so unconditionally.

but with assurances that his men will be treated properly. After all, when he asks if Japan will abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention, a fair question since the Land of the Rising Sun signed but didn't ratify the 1929 conventions on the treatment of prisoners of war, the colonel's translator answers, of course, we are not barbarians. Let us be clear, this is a commitment. Article 2 of the 1929 Geneva Convention states, quote, prisoners of war must at all times be humanely treated and protected, close quote.

Article 3 guarantees the respect of their person and honor, and Article 4 requires the capturing power to provide for their maintenance. The convention goes on, specifying proper evacuation procedures, how POW camps should work, and more. It is with this understanding that General Edward King feels confident that surrender is the ethical decision. that it is the best way to save the lives of the over 75,000 men under his command. But this is not the reality these men soon experience. Many of these starving, exhausted, and malaria-infected soldiers will never reach their soon-to-be POW camp, Camp O'Donnell. In fact, their march to this camp will come to be known as the baton death march.

It's early morning, April 10, 1942. We're in the U.S. Army's Bivouac, or temporary camp near Mari-Vellis on the southern end of the Baton Peninsula, where tank commander Lester Tenney of Company B of the 192nd Tank Battalion, and others are still sleeping, until they're awakened by loud voices speaking Japanese. The moment of surrender has arrived. Barging into the camp, Japanese soldiers attempt to communicate

with their soon-to-be American prisoners through sign language. It seems they want cigarettes. Then they get forceful. They beat Lester with a cane and the butt of a rifle. The bleeding tank commander probably never wished more that he had a cigarette on him. But unfortunately, he can only answer, I'm sorry, but I don't smoke. So he's beaten again until blood gushes down his nose and cheats.

And there's no time to catch him up. Only moments later, Lester and his fellow 75,000 or more American and Filipino soldiers are herded to the main road under the blazing sun, then ordered to get in line, forming columns of 100 to 150 men to march from kilometer marker 167, roughly two miles east of their camp, to an unknown destination. As Lester remembers, we had no idea where we were going. The way we left our Bivouac area is the way we lived for the next eight, ten, or twelve days. By that, I mean, if you had a hat on, you walk with a hat.

If you had a canteen, you walk with a canteen. If you had shoes, you walked with shoes. If you happened to have been caught without a hat, or without a canteen, or without a pair of shoes, and they told you to start walking, that's how you walked. So I was lucky. I had a canteen with me, and I had a hat on my head. Buster also has a picture of his girl, Laura, tucked into his sock right by his ankle. Already exhausted.

The prisoners slog along the 20-foot walk. sand and gravel road. As they do, they're given no food or water. On day two or three, a 28-year-old, clean-shaven, blonde-haired, six-foot-tall lieutenant, struggles to move forward, staggering, barely managing to get one foot in front of the other. As the handsome lieutenant falls, Lester is passing and asks if he needs any help. There's no response. The tank commander later recalls feeling, quote, awful, not being able to help someone. who obviously needed help and was going to die, close quote. As the men continue on, the lieutenant trumples completely on the ground.

The Japanese guard then yells something the Americans can't understand. After this, Lester tells us that the guard, without a moment's hesitation, shoved his bayonet into the young officer's chest. Then, with a mighty scream, the guard yelled what we interpreted to mean, get up. Of course, it was too late. The bayonet had finished the job the march started. I could not help but think. There but for the grace of God go I.

While walking forward, we looked back at the sickening scene. There the lieutenant lay in the middle of the road. Within minutes, we heard the rumbling of trucks coming down the road. The Japanese were moving some of their fighting men in position, against Corrithor, making no attempt to avoid the fallen body, they ran over the dead man, leaving only the mangled remains of what once was a human being. No sympathy, no concern for us as humans, no burials. The Japanese were treating us like animals. We had no doubt as to how we would be. It's now day four, April 14th. Lester wavers on the outside of the column of men, slowly trudging forward and a Japanese officer on horseback rides by.

The tank commander later recalls the officer, swinging his samurai sword, trying to cut heads off, I assume. Stucking away at just the right minute, Lester avoids decapitation by mere inches. He struck in the back with a huge gash by his left shoulder blank. The tank commander continues on, leaning mightily on two friends. The black-haired, bearded, and soft-spoken, Walter, Wally Seagoy, and the blonde-haired blue-eyed loud enough, Bob Range. A duo known to everyone as the Meatball Twins on account of their Italian heritage. And they've got to hold Lester up. Everyone knows that falling means certain death.

The Meatball Twins managed to maneuver their tank commander to a medic who uses a needle and thread to sew him up and try to stop bleeding. They carry him for the next two miles. And so, the overheated, underfed, dehydrated, makeshifted, makeshifted, makeshift stitched and dried blood-covered Lester, continues on for the total 90-mile march. I wish I could tell you that Lester, Wally, and Bob, make it home safely. Well, Lester will survive. He will go on to become a university professor and advocate for POWs, desperately pushing for the Japanese government to acknowledge and apologize officially

for what he and his fellow soldiers endured. As for the Meatball Twins, to quote Lester once more, Seagoy and Brange saved my life. I only wish I could save theirs. Both men will die of dysentery before the end of the war. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's still summer, 1942, and this death march isn't over. In fact, its brutality can be even worse than what Lester described.

It's around 12 noon, April 12, 1942. 28-year-old captain Pedro L. Felix, and some 1,500 Filipino officers and soldiers from the 91st Division, are at a junction of jungle roads in the foothills of Mount Samak, just past the bridge that the Japanese forced them to build this very morning at gunpoint. Suddenly, a car drives up the road.

It's marked with the star used on Japanese military vehicles. Top brass, perhaps? Yes, the Japanese officer tells Pedro, it's General Nada Akira, commander of the 65th Japanese brigade. On the general's instructions, Japanese officers ordered the prisoners

to separate between officers, non-commissioned officers, and privates. About 400 officers and NCOs, including Pedro, remain behind while the privates are marched farther up the trail, toward the prison camp at Belonga. Meanwhile, the officers are sorted into three lines. Their hands are bound with telephone wire, creating chains of men. At the head of his line, Pedro watches as each column is pushed along, disappearing into the vegetation of the jungle. It's now about three in the afternoon.

Pedro and the mainly Filipino officers have arrived at a ravine in these thick jungle woods. Hands still tied with wire, the men are roughly plotted by bayonets and swords to a place alongside the ravine. Then a civilian steps forward and shouts into Gallup to the nearly 400 men. Translated into English, he says, Dear friends, pardon us. If you had surrendered early, we would not be killing you. But we suffered heavy casualties, so pardon us. If you have any last wish before we kill you, just tell us.

Knowing that death is now imminent. Some men ask for cigarettes or water. Others plead for their lives. Pedro asks to be executed by gunfire, or at least to face his executioners. All requests are denied. It seems the offer of a last wish was only for show. Then the order is given. At the last of his line, the unmistakable sound of swords slicing through flesh causes Pedro to look to his right.

He watches as three of his comrades' heads tumble into the ravine. Knowing what's coming, Pedro takes a deep breath. A bay net thrusts into his right shoulder. Then another plunge goes through the front of his chest. He crumbles to the ground. Another thrust goes all the way to his backbone, and then one more straight through the chest. He falls. into the ravine alongside the others, all still bound to him.

A close friend, Lieutenant Luciano Hasinto, lands nearby, riding, kicking. And incredibly, his dear friend's thrashing body, landing on top of him, is just what saves Pedro from the Japanese soldiers as they look for survivors. Hours later, after darkness falls, the bayoneted captain is able to chew through the wire and free himself. He and four other survivors will eventually make it to safety. as the last voices of those slaughtered at the Baton Death March's Pantan River Massacre. We don't know how many American and Filipino men die in the Paton Death March.

Numbers range from 5,000 to well over 12,000. Even when the journey comes to a close at Camp O'Donnell, things don't get much better. We'll come back to this and other such prisoner of war camps in future episodes, but suffice it to say that nearly 30,000 of these POWs, mostly Filipinos, along with with some 1,500 Americans will die at Camp O'Donnell before the end of 1942. By early summer, the Philippines are conquered by the Japanese in all but name. The Japanese hit the last holdout, the U.S. Army headquarters on the island of Coriador, with intense sustained barrages from April 17th right into the next month.

Eventually, General Skinny Wainwright is forced to fly the white flag, literally, initially refusing to surrender the entirety of the Philippines, Skinny complies as the Japanese threatened to take his lack of compliance out on his captured men. That gets him. The vanquished American General signs the paper surrendering the whole of the Philippines on May 6, 1942. With President Manuel Kaysan safe in Australia, the Japanese further confirmed their power over the Philippines that same week by executing his current substitute, acting President Jose Abad Santos. Regularly serving as the Commonwealth's chief justice, the dark-haired, handsome 56-year-old meets this end with dignity near the city of Malabang on the island of Mindanao.

He only asks for 10 minutes with his 22-year-old son, Jose Jr., or Pepito, as everyone knows him. And this request, at least, is granted. When Jose breaks the news to Pepito, the young man naturally bursts into tears. Calmly, Jose responds, telling him, Do not cry, Pepito. Show these people that you are brave. It is a rare opportunity for me to die for our country. Not everybody is given that chance.

From there, the father and son are given the time to enter a nearby shack to pray the Catholic act of contrition together. But soon the soldiers come. The acting president offers his son his last words, take good care of your mother, your brother, and sisters. Tell them to live up to our name. God bless you, my son. Looking out from the shack, Pepito watches as his father is led to the base of a tall coconut tree

near the riverbank. Still wearing his tattered and crumpled white suit, Jose is offered both a cigarette and a blindfold. He declines. Pepito takes out his prayer book and with trembling hands turns the yellowed pages to the prayer for the dead. As he reads, he hears it. The now fatherless son continues to pray. until his eyes are dry. As the land of the Rising Sun's leaders look out on the setting sun of May 6th,

1942, they're delighted by their empire's reach. Their domain now stretches over multiple time zones. It contains some 500 million people in captured territory, not to mention there are over 300,000 allied prisoners of war. And they've achieved this while suffering remarkably light naval losses, only a handful of relatively smaller ships and aircraft. Thinking broadly over this episode's tale of loss in the Philippines, I'm reminded of the opening lines of the American War correspondent William White's book, They Were Expendable, which is published in 1942 and soon turned into a movie. A young naval officer explains, quote,

In war, anything can be expendable. Money or gasoline or equipment, or most usually men. They're expending you and that machine gun to get time. They don't expect to see either one again, close quote. I'd imagine that many of the soldiers involved in the baton campaign, the battling bastards, if you will, would agree with this unnamed naval officer. With the Philippines' ultimate surrender, their four-month hold on the peninsula might feel pointless.

But that struggle, that holdout, it wasn't in vain. As we'll soon hear, U.S. naval intelligence has been working tirelessly to break the Japanese codes. And it seems that, with all the messages flying around and about the Philippines, they're getting quite close. And Jimmy Doolittle's raid, that brazen attack, not just on Japan, but on the capital city itself just over a week after General Edward King's surrender on baton. Oh, that left a mark.

It may have punctured Japan's sense of invulnerability just as much as it proved a boon to the American psyche. In fact, Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku, is now intent on drying out Uncle Sam's aircraft carriers before they can strike again. Hmm. Might American Code cracking and Japanese haste mean a shift in the Pacific theater's tides of war? Might this empire of the rising sun be on the cusp of becoming an empire of a setting sun? We'll find out next time in a vicious fight out of a small atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. An atoll no has midway.

History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Jackson and Will King. Production by Ayrshire. Audio editing by Muhammad Chazade. Sound designed by Molly Bot. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsay Graham of Ayrshire.