The Rocking Horse

On northern Luzon, where remnants of the defeated enemy now fought without hope, LIFE Photographer Carl Mydans came upon this unusual episode in the war against Japan:

The rest of the prisoners were already seated or spread out exhausted on the grass as he staggered into the assembly point. Each arm was over another prisoner's shoulder, his head wobbled loosely and his dragging feet made erratic lines in the yellow dust. When they let him down at the edge of the circle of prisoners, he breathed in gasps and his glassy eyes in his sunken face looked nowhere.

An American medical officer was making a quick survey of the sick and wounded, poking under filthy bandages with a bright pair of scissors; an enlisted man followed him with a medical kit, redressing wounds that needed immediate attention. Behind him walked a lean young captain, Austin Bach.

The exhausted Japanese was sleeping when the medic reached him at the fringe of the prisoners, and he woke him by tapping the little man on the head with his scissors. The prisoner sat up quickly, bowing and forcing little smiles. The doctor took one look, turned to Bach and said: "Let's get him out of here tonight. He looks like he's in an advanced stage of tuberculosis."

The Japanese looked uncomprehending, bowed again and tried to arrange his torn, filthy shirt and pull his trouser legs down to his bare, scaly feet.

Bach called for a sergeant: "Tag this fellow. Doc wants to get him out of here at once." The sergeant knelt before the wasted prisoner, who now sat at attention. Captain Bach spelled out his own name to the prisoner and then asked: "Where do you come from?"

"Kumamoto," whispered the prisoner.

"Kumamoto," said Captain Bach to the sergeant. Then he turned to the prisoner and asked in a more personal tone: "Kumamoto? Where about in Kumamoto?"

"Kumamoto City," answered the Japanese.

"What street did you live on?"

"Hoita Street."

Bach was now kneeling before him: "Hoita Street! That is a very short street. Do you remember the primary school there? The primary school on Hoita Street?"

The prisoner, sitting uncomfortably, kept smoothing the front of his foul shirt with his hands. Some of the glassiness in his eyes had gone.

Yes, he remembered well the primary school there: he had gone there as a boy.

The Captain persisted: "Do you remember the big foreign house at the end of the street?"

At first the prisoner did not answer. He was bewildered. Then he said, "Yes, I remember. I used to play there."

"Do you remember the name of the people who used to live in the big foreign house?"

The Japanese thought for moments, shook his head and then said slowly: "Yes, I remember now. It was a long time ago. It was 'Bakku.' "

The Captain sat down beside him. His hand shook a little as he handed the prisoner a cigaret and lighted it. "Do you remember the kids?"

The prisoner's mind was years back now: "Yes. And the big rocking horse!"

"That rocking horse was ours, and one of those kids you played with was me," the Captain said.

The prisoner lay back slowly and breathed hard. Then he sat up again: "You, yes. Many years ago in Japan. And the rocking horse."

He looked down at himself, at his patched and torn pants, at his feet, at the back of his hands. Slowly he turned to the Captain and whispered: "This is certainly sad. And I am so dirty." Then he lay back and put his arm over his face and wept.

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