A Chaplain’s Valor at Bataan

Based on the experiences of Chaplain (Captain) Robert P. Taylor during and after the Bataan Death March.

“Ask me about my condition. I’m dirty, nasty, and all I have on is my underwear. Can you smell the stench of my rotting teeth? Listen to me, listen without pity, I’m not going to die. I’m going to live and you are too, because God is going to give us strength.” — Chaplain (Captain) Robert P. Taylor

Robert Taylor limped along the narrow macadam-surfaced road. In front of him he watched as an enemy soldier berated an American serviceman in Japanese, shoving him forward with his rifle butt. It was mid-April in the Philippines and it was brutally hot. The intense sun beat down on him, burning his forehead and neck. He wasn’t as lucky as some of his cohorts who still had their helmets on. Even the small strip of exposed scalp where his hair parted was sunburnt. The stench of sweaty and dirty men, most suffering from dysentery, filled the fetid, humid air. Adding to the horrible smell was the odor of rotting human flesh. As they staggered forward, a seemingly increasing number of bodies of soldiers and Filipino civilians lay in the ditches along the side of the road, black, bloating, and maggot-covered in the heat. Many were headless, the others shot or bayoneted — American and Filipino soldiers died if they stopped on the side of the road to try and relieve themselves. Filipino civilians were killed for trying to hand water or food to the increasingly fragile soldiers.

Robert watched through his dry, dust-encrusted eyelashes as the man who was being shoved along stumbled and fell to his knees. The enemy guard wasn’t having any of it. He kicked him in the stomach and the American went prone on to the road surface. As he slowly got back to his knees an enemy officer rushed over with his sword drawn, shouting in Japanese. He shoved his soldier out of the way and quickly hacked off the head of the injured American with his blade. The lifeless, bleeding body went limp as its head rolled amongst the feet of other marching US troops. Killed instantly, Robert’s comrade-in-arms probably felt little, but in his final seconds of life, he had to know something horrible was coming. Marching US and Filipino soldiers were murdered if they fell behind or became too weak to walk, and beheadings were common.

Robert was taking it minutes, even seconds at a time. The Army Air Forces chaplain, who had recently been promoted to captain, said a small prayer for strength. He and some of his fellow soldiers had learned not to speak, not to take anything from civilians, and if the dysentery drove an urge to defecate, to do it where they stood.

One foot in front of the other, he continued to tell himself. God would get him through and he’d live another day.

Nighttime would sometimes bring mild relief, as the marchers were brought into fields along the side of the road, surrounded with barbed wire, and allowed to rest for short periods. But there was little food or water. Nobody had eaten for days and even though artesian wells were everywhere, the men were dry as a bone. Robert knew there was no guarantee he’d survive this ordeal. It seemed the Japanese soldiers had absolutely zero regard for life or basic human rights. Killings were usually random and you could never tell what would set off an enemy guard.

Before the Bataan Peninsula fell on April 9th of 1942, Robert had helped evacuate wounded Americans from the front lines while under heavy fire, actions for which he would later receive a silver star for gallantry — not something many chaplains got awarded. He saved a lot of men, but witnessed more blood and violence than he ever thought he’d see. At the time, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever have the stomach to run his trap lines again when he got home to Texas. But nothing compared to the death march he was on. Two evenings before, three trucks of enemy soldiers slowly drove by the marchers. As they did, one young Japanese man put his bayonet thorough the slats in the truck bed, just high enough to slit the throats of three men as they walked. If Robert had had anything in his stomach he might have vomited at the sight, but he just kept pushing himself forward. Gazing at his fallen fellow countrymen as he shuffled slowly by, he watched their horrified faces as they gurgled silently, trying to breathe. Blood pulsated out of their freshly sliced necks, darkening the dust and gravel beneath them.

The one thing that would stay with him for the rest of his life though was an event that happened the day before. Ahead of him, a horribly weakened soldier was pushed to the ground by two Japanese soldiers. An approaching column of tanks proceeded to run over the man, steering out of their way just to roll over him. His body was crushed, to the delight of many of the enemy, and Robert was close enough to hear the bones crunch. By the time the line of vehicles had passed, the only thing remaining of what was once a son or brother were fragments of haggard and bloody clothing peppered with bits of bone and flesh, pounded into the cobblestones. It was one of the most horrific things he had ever seen.

The Bataan Death March was one of the most brutal war crimes perpetrated by the Japanese during World War II. Chaplain Robert Taylor saw the worst of it, but survived and ultimately made it to the Cabanatuan prison camp, a site more than sixty miles north of their starting point on the Bataan Peninsula. The same couldn’t be said for over 21,000 dead Americans and Filipinos.

As a clergy, his charge was to provide spiritual guidance and hope for his fellow soldiers — morale in their situation could mean the difference between life and death. With this in mind, Robert soon became the best known officer in the camp by prisoners and Japanese alike. He ministered to his increasingly emaciated and horribly abused flock, providing encouragement in the face of extreme adversity. Soldiers were routinely denied food and water, sick, suffered severe cruelty, and not knowing when they’d make it home or if their families even knew they were alive, despair consumed people. Robert was their beacon of hope.

In addition to spiritual leadership he provided daily in the form of religious services and praying with the sick and wounded, Robert was soon able to find a way to smuggle food and medicine into Cabanatuan through an underground American spy in Manila. He knew the risk could be his life but did it anyway, saving an untold number of Americans in the process. His contact was soon discovered though, and Robert faced torture and debilitating punishment from the Japanese as a result. Apart from severe beatings, he was placed inside a 4-foot by 4-foot “hot box” made of tin and bamboo shafts where he was unable to lay down or stand. Incredibly, he endured this for fourteen weeks straight in the extreme heat of the south Pacific summer with only his bible as a comfort (which he read through twice). He suffered severe muscle atrophy and sores from sitting on the bamboo, and at the end of the last week, he slipped into a coma. Convinced he was dead, other soldiers pleaded with their Japanese tormentors to let them take Robert’s body out of the hot box to ensure he had a proper burial. They found him faintly breathing and he eventually recovered enough to be able to stand again.

In October of 1944, the Japanese ordered all American officers to be moved out of the Philippines, and Robert and about 1,600 others were placed aboard “hell ships” and sent to the Japanese mainland. While in transit, they were bombed by American planes whose pilots didn’t know the ships contained American prisoners of war. Robert received non-life threatening wounds and was transferred to two other ships, ending up in Formosa (Taiwan) and soon Japan itself. By the war’s end, Robert was in a Japanese prison camp in Manchuria and was liberated in August 1945.

Chaplain Robert Taylor was a true American hero — both under fire and in an impossible situation as a prisoner of war. While suffering himself he remained steadfast, supporting and providing to his fellow men — an inconceivable feat of true humanity that few of us can even imagine today. After the war, Robert Taylor remained in the Air Corps (re-designated the US Air Force in 1947) and climbed the ranks, ultimately reaching the rank of major general. Before he retired in the sixties, the Air Force appointed him Air Force Chief of Chaplains, but it was his incredible service in the Philippines during World War II that left an indelible impression upon those he served.