Benicia resident Paul Ruiz took the 26-mile Bataan Memorial Death March in the New Mexico desert last month. (Courtesy photo)

(Part 1 of this article ran in the Sunday, April 23 edition)

The crowd of marchers included soldiers in uniform from other countries including Germany, Japan, and, of all places, Mongolia. Those registered in the Military Division wore full military battle fatigues, which, along with an optional 35+ pound ruck sack, greatly added to the difficulty level. Civilian participants included prior service military and many descendants of Bataan veterans. It was heartwarming to the see the “kids” of these veterans, most in their 70’s, marching through the desert trails with shirts embossed with World War Two era photos and comments like “My Dad” or “My Uncle” along with their unit next to the photo. As poignant, if not more so, were those active duty soldiers who marched with the names, and dates of death, of recently fallen comrades pinned to their rucksacks.
As the marchers moved through the relatively small military post and into the vastness of the desert, the dust from 7,200 pairs of shoes began to fill the air and nostrils. Some brought neckerchiefs to filter the dust, and “gators” to keep pebbles out of their shoes/boots. The side of the road and nearby shrubs were frequented by those removing small rocks from boots, putting on fresh sunscreen, hydrating , or relieving themselves. Stations were set up every two miles and had water, Gatorade, bananas, oranges, port-o-potties, and first aid for those suffering heat injury. I learned that over 1,000 participants would be treated for heat injury during this event. My son, tired of stopping with me as I stood in line for the port-o-potties or removed rocks from my shoes, disappeared ahead by mile five. I spent the next twenty one miles worried that he wouldn’t heed my advice to generously drink at each station regardless of whether or not he was thirsty. If there are two things ingrained from my own Army training many years ago, it is to hydrate and to take care of your feet. Despite ample hydrating, I knew by mile eighteen I was becoming a heat casualty as I had stopped perspiring and had begun to develop a splitting headache.
I passed, and was passed by others. Sometimes a friendly conversation would strike up. I saw civilians dressed in red, white and blue with American flags attached to their backpacks ; soldiers who visibly displayed their strength with 30 pound weights attached to the outside of already full rucksacks; small statured female soldiers carrying fully loaded rucksacks beyond the endurance of some of their male counterparts; and many, including myself, wearing shirts with photos of our fathers and grandfathers. For me, the march eventually became a physical and mental endeavor to make it to the next mile marker or water station. The excited banter among marchers during the first fifteen miles gave way to mostly silence as everyone trudged into a seemingly endless horizon of desert scape. While the pace was that of a brisk walk rather than a run, the long hours spent in the heat took its toll. The crowd thinned significantly. Soldiers and civilians frequently rested on their packs by the side of the road, in some cases with visible distress and in all cases with exhaustion. Medics were called to treat heat exhaustion. On more than a few occasions, I saw large bags of rice that had been removed from rucksacks and left by the side of the road.
By the time I closed in on mile 26, I was ready for it to end. I had marched for over nine hours, changed my socks twice, consumed countless cups of Gatorade and no less than ten energy bars. There were extreme cases of heat exhaustion within 500 yards of the finish line where soldiers had simply stopped, sat, buried their heads in their hands, and waited for nausea to pass or a medic to arrive. I had resisted the urge to do this myself, thinking that the sooner I finished, the sooner I could lay down somewhere. In one distressing case, I saw a young soldier, extremely pale, collapsed by the road side being treated by several who were calling for a medic, within eyesight of the finish line.
When I crossed the finish line, my first thought was of my son, whether he was in a medic tent, and if not, how I might find him in the crowd. Thankfully, he had finished well before me, eaten and waited near the finish line. As I sat, and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass, which it wouldn’t until the following morning, I looked around at my fellow marchers who seemed to have similar expressions of relief, joy, and exhaustion. Out of curiosity, I looked at my step meter and saw it was over 63,000 steps. I chuckled to myself thinking of all the days when it wasn’t even over 2,000. I knew I was not well when even the can of beer offered to me lay in the grass with no desire on my part to drink it.
As I drove through the post on our way back to our hotel in El Paso, I thought of my father driving his 1956 Chevy through these same lonely roads 58 years ago, perhaps on his way to El Paso, Las Cruces or Alamogordo. He couldn’t know it at the time, but after retirement in 1960, he would return to the Philippines to study under the GI Bill, meet my mother in college, bring us to America, and raise his new family in San Francisco. When he drove on those New Mexico highways he was in his mid-40’s – several years younger than I am today. He had seen the worst of humanity and would suffer PTSD, before the term existed. He was prone to drinking heavily and smoking. He was very affectionate and sentimental, but could also easily lose his temper. He prayed his rosary every night. He would seemingly put the past behind him, provide a home for us, put us in the best schools he could afford, help us with our homework, and teach us music. When we got older, he would encourage us to go on to college and become the best version of ourselves. For all of his hardships and sacrifices, completing a university education and striving for conventional success seemed like the least I could do.
14 hours later, as we caught an early morning flight home, I looked at my son fast asleep on the plane. He would be returning to school the following day and to the routine of a high school sophomore. He will never know my father, but through events like the Bataan Memorial Death March, it was my hope he would learn to appreciate the sacrifices of people like him.

Paul Ruiz lives in Benicia and is an insurance executive in San Francisco. He is a member of the Philippine Scouts Heritage Society and is planning its 75th reunion June 30. He may be reached at akbar8@pacbell.net. For more information on the reunion or to register, you can visit www.philippine-scouts.org.

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