Finding Hershel
Bataan, by David Pratt T he desert moon is full, the predawn air is still, the Organ Mountain range looms black against a blue-black sky. A plain white flag, the white Bataan surrender flag, is raised. A crowd three thousand strong, in battle dress or sweats, stand still or come to the salute. An army officer reads out the names of those Bataan survivors who have died the past twelve months. After each name, a pause, then, from the shadowed night, a voice calls, "Here!" A bugle lifts the silver notes of Taps into the coolness of the desert air. Here, at the White Sands Missile Base, New Mexico is honoring its sons, who soldiered in the force that called itself the Battling Bastards of Bataan; who fought, who died, were captured; who endured, survived. A pplause spreads through the crowd; three frail old men with canes and gentle smiles, move through the throng, "Thank you, God bless, thank you, God bless you all." A field gun booms. The march begins. S...