I heard this story from my brother many years ago. He had heard
it from another paratrooper on their long voyage from the Pacific
Theater after World War II. Since then I have heard or read other
accounts of it, differing in details but substantially the same
story. It concerns death, a devoted man and a tattered flag.
I heard this story from my brother many years ago. He had heard it from another paratrooper on their long voyage from the Pacific Theater after World War II. Since then I have heard or read other accounts of it, differing in details but substantially the same story. It concerns death, a devoted man and a tattered flag.
By mid-April of 1942, the Japanese had crushed American resistance in the Philippines. Despite valiant fighting at Corregidor, Bataan and other places, most American and Filipino forces had been killed or captured. A few isolated pockets of resistance remained, men who were desperately trying to stay alive. In one was a career Army captain whose name is unknown; call him Robinson.
In the chaos following the Japanese onslaught on Manila, he led a group of soldiers into the jungle where they managed to live off the land for several months. They were captured after a fierce fight with a Japanese patrol in June and were taken to one of the many prisons that had been established. Robinson discarded his insignia before capture so that he could remain with the men.
After a few days he sought out the ranking prisoner, a major named McCoy. “You did right, Captain,” McCoy told him. “Look after your men as best as you can because not many are going to survive this.”
His words were prophetic. Nearly every day saw death by malnutrition, by mistreatment, by brutal work, by hot days and cold nights, by torrential rain, by malaria, dysentery and other diseases. On the daily scant diet of rice and an occasional vegetable, all prisoners lost weight and the ability to resist disease.
McCoy sent for Robinson on a scorching August day. When he entered the tent, Robinson saw that the major was dying. He tried to offer a word of cheer but McCoy shook his head. “No time for that. You’re going to be the ranking soldier from now on and I’m putting this in your trust.”
He withdrew a miniature American flag from his shirt. “Take care of it and take care of the men.” When Robinson left a few minutes later, McCoy was dead.
The deaths continued. Sometimes a prisoner was too weak to rise and was carried to a tin hut just outside the barbed wire. None ever returned, and the stone markers in the cemetery beyond it increased.
Robinson tended those who seemed weakest and offered encouragement. Sometimes he even gave them part of his ration. The men grew to love him for his devotion. But more often, the despair and the illogical but powerful sense of being abandoned by their country overwhelmed them.
Robinson tried to bolster their morale from time to time by showing them the flag. A few responded but others continued to deteriorate until death. He was aware that if the flag was discovered in his possession that he would be beaten or even executed.
The deaths continued. Then one March morning in 1945, the Japanese garrison inexplicably fled in trucks. The prisoners sensed a trick and some stayed in their tents while others milled aimlessly in the compound.
That afternoon three Jeeps bearing American flags pulled up and a colonel stepped out. “Men, you are free again and you will be taken to hospitals as soon as the trucks arrive.”
He ordered a corporal to raise the flag. At that moment, an 85-pound scarecrow in filthy rags tottered up to him and saluted. “Captain Robinson requests that this flag be raised instead, sir” and handed him a tattered cloth. The colonel stared at him then scanned the faces of the other prisoners. He nodded. “Run it up, corporal.”
Robinson and the other liberated soldiers held their shaky salutes long after their flag reached the top of the pole.
