Professor Greg Jackson

Army's bivouac, or temporary camp, near Mari Velas, on the southern end of the Bataan Peninsula, where Tank Commander Lester Tenney of Company B of the 192nd Tank Battalion and others are still sleeping, until they're awakened by loud voices speaking Japanese.

The moment of surrender has arrived.

Barging into the camp, Japanese soldiers attempt to communicate with their soon-to-be American prisoners through sign language.

It seems they want cigarettes.

Then they get forceful.

They beat Lester with a cane and the butt of a rifle.

The bleeding tank commander probably never wished more that he had a cigarette on him, but unfortunately he can only answer, I'm sorry, but I don't smoke.

So he's beaten again until blood gushes down his nose and cheeks and there's no time to patch him up.

Only moments later, Lester and his fellow 75,000 or more American and Filipino soldiers are herded to the main road under the blazing sun, then ordered to get in line, forming columns of 100 to 150 men to march from kilometer marker 167, roughly two miles east of their camp, to an unknown destination.

As Lester remembers, we had no idea where we were going.

The way we left our bivouac area is the way we lived for the next 8, 10, or 12 days.

By that I mean, if you had a hat on, you walked with a hat.

If you had a canteen, you walked with a canteen.

If you had shoes, you walked with shoes.

If you happened to have been caught without a hat or without a canteen or without a pair of shoes and they told you to start walking, that's how you walked.

So I was lucky.

I had a canteen with me and I had a hat on my head.

Lester also has a picture of his girl, Laura, tucked into his sock right by his ankle.

Already exhausted, the prisoners slog along the 20-foot-wide sand and gravel road.

As they do, they're given no food or water.