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SAVANNAH, Ga., Nov. i.^VP) Turpentine 80% cents a gallon; of ferings six (50-gal. bblls.); sales 30 gallons; receipts six barrels; shipments five barrels; stocks 5,514 barrels. Rosin (100-lb. drums), offerings 100; sales 100; receipts 253; ship ments none; stocks 7,951. Quote: price unchanged. Gen. Wainwright Tells Of Last Tarlac Day, I — THIS IS MY STORY s CHAPTER 28 By GENERAL JONATHAN M. WAINWRIGHT (Copyright, 1945, by King Feature: Syndicate, Inc. Reproduction it whole or in part strictly pro hlbited.) Our days at Tarlac Prison Cami wandered abysmally into August, 1942. On the 7th of that month we received one of our rare visits from the Jap lieutenant in nominal charge of our camp. He con fronted us during our evening roll call, accepted our salutes or bows, and, using Col. Robert Hoffman as an interpreter, told us that we would leave Tarlac and be sent either to Formosa or Japan proper within the next few days. I walked alone through the little prison yard that night, feeling bluer than I had felt throughout my captivity. I was positive that Gen. MacArthur would lead men back to the Philippines as soon as he humanly could, and liberate us. I had even put down a date of liberation in my diary: "... by December 31, 1943.” That was 15 months away, at this time, but at least it was a date and I made myself believe in it, though I had no word from the outside world as to the progress of the war either in Europe or the Pacific. But, as I say, it was a date . . . flimsy, but something to hold to, something to pin my faith to. One grasps at such straws. But now we had been told that we were being sent to Formosa or Japan. We were being moved away from the direction in which our troops must one day come. Our sentences were being lengthened indefinitely. I talked this over with Brig. Gen. Lewis Beebe that night, and he felt the same wave of frus tration which had settled over me. In our last days at Tarlac we bought everything we could find to buy, not knowing what kind of condition we would face at our new prison camp. Our haul consisted mainly of Filipino cigarets and carabao soap. Two days before we left Tarlac we were warned that we could take only such baggage as we could carry. We packed as many of our needed effects as we could in our bags, or wrapped them in bundles, and put the meager ex cess in Col. Johnny Pugh’s foot locker, a community carry-all. But the Japs have a characteris tic which prompts them to make you prepare yourself for one thing and then instruct you differently. After we had carefully sorted and packed our belongings, and were certain from lifting them many times that we would be able to carry them( we were prepared, if necessary, to abandon Pugh’s trunk) we were told that we could take as much as we wanted' to take, for trucks would be provided. We were fed a very early break fast on the morning of August 11, 1942, after which we were made to clean and polish the barracks, latrine and yard. At about 7 a. m., when this task was completed, we were formed in a column of fours, burdened down with more than we had planned to carry on our backs, and' marched to the Tarlac railroad station. We were probably a pathetic looking lot; hardly a Bataan Death March but certainly a Pa rade of the Vanquished. Because of the weights on our backs it was impossible to present any military bearing, any vestige of our re maining dignity as officers and men. So we just slumped along thg road toward the station. And then a remarkable thing happened to us. Hauntingly, unbelievably, we became aware that someone was whistling . . . whistling the "Stai Spangled Banner.” I looed at the faces of the men around me in the line of march. They too had heard, and were find ing it a stirring incongruity in this setting. But none was whist ling. And then we discovered the whistler. It was a ragged little Filipino boy, 10 or 12 years oh standing at the side of the roac The Jap guard walked menacing ly close to the kid, but he nevej missed a note, never faltered, unti, the whole line had passed'. I think we must have walked a little straighter, a little brisket the rest of the way to the railroao station. We were aboard the train and en route to Manila before 8 a.m., chunging through land so familiar that we expected momentarily to recognize friends, And, indeed, we did. The train paused at a little st tion named Dao, which is just five miles east of my old Fort Stotsenburg. And there on the platform Maj. Gen. Edward P. King and I saw a Filipino lad who had worked for us. He was the son of a cook. Both father and son were working for me the day the Jap bombers came over Stotsen burg and bombed nearby Clark -held. Both, incidentally, fled out the back door of my house tha, day, leaving only good old Fele ur i San Pedro to bring me the beer I ordered during the raid. They did not return for two days after the raid. But I was glad to see the lad and so was Gen. King. King generous ly took all the Philippine money he had in his pockets and pressed it in the boy’s hand, telling him to share it with his father. The train moved on and we ar rived in Manila at 1 p.m. We were piled into trucks and, to my aston ishment, 1 saw that the driver oi my truck was an American sol dier. We were heavily guarded, but he had some whispered news th . sent a great thrill through my body. He leaned over to me and said: “General, this is the straight Our Marines have landed in the Solomons. Place named Guadal canal, and they’re doing great.” Thank God, I said to myself. Thank God. The Solomons were an eternity of miles below us, and wr were now being moved in the opposite direction, but at last we were fighting back, fighting back fighting back with what must be the tools we need in the first place. The truck carried us straight to 1 ier 7, the largest in Manila. Sight of the pier, whose end had been chewed off by a Jap bomb, filled me with mixed emotions. It was on this same pier that I had last seeni my wife, the day she sailed for' home and blessed safety, 15 months before. I had, of course, heard nothing from her since my sur render, and despite many appeals had not been able to communicate with her to tell her I was still alive. T-.at is intense torture. I peeked over my shoulder and saw the reason. A long line of Jap sailors reached from the pier, up the gangplank and into the ship. They began passing little square cardboard boxes, in fire-bucket brigade style, into the ship. Each box was labeled with Jap language characters. The boxes, I knew, contained the ashes of Jap soldiers being sent to home shrines, and the Japs wanted us to know nothing about their casualties. One was Lieut. Kusomoto, the Olympic discus thrower who had been decent to us in our early days of captivity in Manila. He was carrying a carton of Lucky Strikes. He nodded to me and then found Sgt. Hubert Carroll, looked at me again, and handed the cigarets to Carroll. Courtesy, you see, forbade his handing the package to me, for the Japs believe it is bad form for a general officer to carry any kind of burden, even one as precious as those American cigarets. The fact that at the moment I had a heavy pack on my back made no difference to Kusomoto. “I was at Karenko recently,” the Jap general beamed. ‘‘You will find it a very beautiful place. Lots of food: fish, fruit, meat and sugar; a very fertile country. There’s a fine bathing beach near by and I’m sure you’ll be permit ted to swim. Yes, you’ll like Karen ko.” With those words of his in mind (and I was to think of them many times later) I boarded the Stinko Maru. (TOMORROW: The trip to "beau tiful” Karenko.) St. John’s Tavern 114 Orange St. Dial 2-8*85 DELICIOUS FOOD Chicken In The Bough — Friday xviuaie “BEYON] Show “A l ioa.m. |plus S LATE SHOW TONITE 1ST TIMES TODAY! 2 Hits You’ll Enjoy! 5Y BURNETTE IN ) LAST FRONTIER” 5ong For Miss Julie” Serial & Cartoon “I LOVE A MYSTERY” The Spot To DANCE CAPE FEAR ARMORY 814 MARKET STREET _ Saturday, November 3rd — 9 P. M. 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