 posted Mar-28-2007 10:27 AM
  
Bataan Memorial Death March, 2007It began while I was wandering aimlessly around the hotel room. It seemed as though every time I turned around, something was reflecting my image at me. I have very few mirrors in my own home and no full length ones. I was troubled by my full size self looking back at who I thought I was. How did I get so old-looking? Where did these wrinkles come from? Have my legs always been so dimply? My weight is about the same, why do I look so different? Why do I look so “worn”? When did this happen? Our trip to New Mexico began on Thursday, 22 March. We packed our bags the night before so that when the alarm sounded at 0330, we were ready to get into the car, travel to ORF and catch our 0600 flight with time to spare. The weather and air traffic controllers and the rest of the folks responsible for safe air travel got us to El Paso early. Hertz gave us a car and we were in Las Cruces before the scheduled check-in time. This proved to be no concern at all, as the hotel had our room ready and gave us the key early. I was apprehensive as we traveled to White Sands to the “in-processing” station the next afternoon. I had read up on the Bataan Death March… the real one… the one that happened 65 years ago in the Philippines. Mom had talked to Uncle Howard, Aunt Jane, and Uncle Bud. They told her we had a cousin, a Marine named Eugene Richards, who survived the Death March, made it home to Pennsylvania, only to die a short time later of a lung disorder, no doubt induced by the brutal conditions he endured as a prisoner of war. I was anxious to learn more from actual survivors and from a movie to be shown at 1900 that evening. But I was mostly apprehensive. I abhor violence. I cannot stand violent movies or literature. I can be debilitated for hours after reading about cruelty or watching such a news item on television. So we collected our timing chips, tee shirts, commemorative certificates, and pamphlets, skipped the movie and went back to the hotel. There, I forced myself to read the story of Bataan. It was far worse than I had imagined. I don’t understand how men can be so cruel. I tried to make excuses for the captors. I thought, “They must have been brain-washed.” Or, “They must have been given drugs to allow their hands to commit such heinous crimes.” I could not allow myself to think otherwise. I wandered around the rooms with the mirrored wall in the living area and the full length mirror on the bathroom door and the mirror over the sink and vanity. Vanity. My wrinkles, my dimpled legs, my 43 year old gut, my posterior, my thinning, would-be gray hair if not for the miracle of chemistry… My imperfections. Reflection. Thank God for my wrinkles, etc. Thank God for the privilege of growing old. Many thousands of human beings, POW’s, at Bataan were denied the privilege of seeing their faces wrinkle, their hair turn gray, their trousers fit a little differently. Their hopes and dreams extinguished while their skin was still smooth and their hair full and their muscles young and strong. What an honor and a privilege to stand among ~ 4000 other humans who chose to endure the 18th Bataan Memorial Death March! 65 years earlier, the real heroes were forced to march or be tortured and killed on an island in the Philippines. We were there so that these people would be remembered. We can never forget Bataan. We must never forget Bataan. As we waited in the chilly and dark morning, we reflected on the events that took place 65 years ago. Military colors were presented. Taps was played. And the morning song, I can’t remember how to spell it, “revelry”(?) was played. There were three survivors able to respond to the roll call. The names of the ones who died in the past year were read with no response. Other attendees were honored. There was a group of veterans from Viet Nam, Desert Storm, Afghanistan, and the current war. Many of these planned to march with their prostheses strapped on to what was left above or below the knee… When the start was announced we slowly proceeded. The three survivors of the original Bataan Death March that took place in April of 1942 were seated in lawn chairs by the side of the road, before we crossed the timing mats. We were allowed to shake their hands and say a few words of thanks. I will never forget the feeling of the tough, old hands held in mine and the smiles returned to me as I studied the faces. http://www.bataanmarch.com/ So, this was supposed to be a race report. Not once did I hear this event referred to as a “race”. It is called a “march”. And that is because the majority of the participants walked or marched the course. 26.2 miles in the desert and along up and around a mountain. Fortunately for me, there was a “modified march” offered. They euphemistically called it “The Honorary March”. It was supposed to be ~ 15 miles and I believe it was ~ 14.3 miles. There were no awards given for this distance and I was pleased with this. I was in no shape to run 26.2 miles on a brutal marathon course but, still, the marathoner in me felt a sense of shame as I steered left, cutting 12 miles off the full route, while the real marchers turned right and continued up a mountain. The day was beautiful. I watched the sun rise to my right, pale purple and pink skies giving way to an azure one. Slowly, the sun rose, its rays shining through the thin puffs of cloud on the horizon. I passed many troops in their military work-clothes, including less than optimal footwear. Some carried backpacks weighing 35 pounds! Some were young and unaware how unprepared they were for their journey. Some were older and wiser. Some of us were civilians wanting to get a good long distance run. The volunteers at the water stops were enthusiastic and always a welcome site. They stood in the sun with trays of cups filled with water or Gatorade to help those of us running or marching that day. Always included with the cup were a smile and a word of encouragement. I have never run a more beautiful course. The desert and the mountains and the blue sky were the perfect backdrop for this extraordinary event. The surface of the road was graded packed sand (?). I am unsure of the technical term for it, but my legs felt great the whole way…well… except for the mile or two in the “sand pit”… this was a difficult portion to run. It was like running on the “dry sand” at the beach. We were often ankle deep in sand. It was a challenge trying to stay in the tire tracks of the vehicle that had passed through before us. I grew weary in the sand pit. And it took just a very brief moment to adjust that feeling. I thought, “Gee. I chose to do this. The POW’s had no choices and much worse conditions.” I felt my legs and lungs were a gift and if I did not do my best, I was dishonoring the ones who did not survive. I finished the 14.3 miles with a renewed sense of hope for myself. What a privilege it is to grow old! What a glorious feeling! (edited to fix the link) [This message has been edited by rosecoloredglasses (edited Mar-30-2007).]
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