On the day we were to leave Cabanatush I went around to
 
say goodbye to the many officers with whom I had served in better
 
times at other stations, and also the many friends I had made in
 
the prison. Many of them, I knew, would never live to welcome their
 
freedom, unless it came in a matter of weeks, and this did not seem
 
likely. One of these was an officer whom I had known almost since
 
the day of my graduation at West Point. He was suffering from beri
 
beri, and experienced excrutiating pain in his fingers and toes.
 
Also he had recurrent attacks of malaria, and he was unable to re-
 
tain even the small amount of food which the Japanese allowed us.
 
     As I came to say goodbye, this officer stopped massaging
 
his fingers and toes and shook hands with me. Both of us knew that
 
he did not have long to live. He took my hand and pressed it as
 
firmly as his strength would allow. "Goodbye, Steve," he said
 
"Best of luck, boy." That was all.
     
     There are other pathetic memories of that parting, of my
 
friends pressing small gifts on me as they assured me they would
 
have no need for whatever the gift happened to be and I, in turn,
 
giving away some of my few precious possessions to close friends.
 
Years of military training are supposed to teach an officer to keep
 
a stiff upper lip, but there were times when I had to keep a firm
 
grip on myself to prevent myself becoming a spectacle. I had seem
 
plenty of heroism on Corregidor, but I will carry with me longest 
the memory Of the little things at Cabanatush. Perhaps those 
 
little things are remembered because they are man's unconscious
 
striving to achieve nobility.
 
 
                                          - 58 -