A Weekend to Remember

 

This past weekend five friends and I participated in the Bataan Memorial Death March, which has taken place every March for the past 36 years. This was my tenth time to participate. I've completed both the full course, which is a 26.2 mile marathon, and I've participated in what they call the honorary course, which at 14.2 miles is a little longer than a standard half marathon. I've run the course and walked it, and I expect this time will be my last.

The march commemorates the forcible transfer of somewhere around 75,000  American and Filipino troops the Bataan Peninsula to prisoner of war camps following their surrender after the three-month Battle of Bataan during WWII. The transfer began on April 9, 1942. Depending on where they surrendered, the men marched up to 65 miles, many without any food or water. Those who broke out of formation to drink from pools of rainwater were shot, and those who could not keep up were bayoneted. Although different sources report widely differing numbers, casualty estimates for the mare range from 5,000 to 18,000 deaths for Filipino troops and 500 to 650 deaths for Americans.

We'd trained for months to be ready for this event, walking in flat, sandy soils along the Rio Grande, on
the rolling trails of the Sandia foothills, on city streets, and in forests. We'd gone to museums and parks that had memorials that were related to WWII and New Mexico's experience in it. I think we were ready, both mentally and physically. At the last memorial we visited, the Veteran's Park in Las Cruces, we viewed this sculpture, which shows three men, one looking back at what they have been through, one looking down at where they are, and one looking forward, into the future. Last year, we meet the son and nephew of two of the men whose faces were models for this art. They were participants in the march. His father survived. His uncle didn't. In years past, former POWs were there to tell their story and cheer us on as we marched in their honor. The last participant died recently. He was 105. Even though none of the survivors were there, the march was meaningful. Many of the marchers were related to men who had been in the march.

We began well before the sun was up, standing in line with the other marchers through a moving
opening ceremony. Then, just as dawn began lightening the eastern sky, the cannon boomed and the march began. Many of the marchers were in uniform, and some were carrying heavy packs. Others, honoring the men who carried their sick and wounded comrades during the original march, carried 8X8 posts, sawed off to weigh what a man would weigh. Many had pictures of their relatives pinned to their backs and were happy to talk about their relatives if asked. All of this made for a veery different experience than your regular marathon. This event is less a race than a walking memorial, a commemoration of the bravery of our WWII troops. 

Much of the march was on dirt roads, and with 6,000 people and drought conditions, the trail was often dusty. But we had medics driving ATVs along the side of the course, checking for people who were struggling, and frequent aide stations where we received water, sports drinks, oranges and bananas. One station even offered pickles and cups of pickle juice!

Five and a half hours and fourteen miles later, we crossed the finish line. We were tired, but elated to be a part of something so big and so meaningful. Our participation was a mere whisper of what the original marchers went through, and for that we were both humbled and grateful. It was a weekend to remember, and a weekend where remembering those who came before us and risked their all that we could live free was far more important than winning a race.