The Long March of Time

It was on that trip that a point of view began to take shape, a way of thinking that would finally bring Tenney a measure of enduring peace. He decided that even though many of his captors "were barbaric," others were unsophisticated young men from the Japanese countryside who misinterpreted their orders and committed atrocities because they feared retribution from higher-ups.

"A lot of killing was done by people who didn't want to kill," Tenney decided. "That became my new story. This is what I did to make me feel better. I don't know if it's true or not."

The new story also became the centerpiece of talks he has delivered countless times over the years in Japan and the United States -- at POW reunions, at senior citizen centers, in politicians' offices and, last weekend, at the synagogue in Washington.

"I don't have hatred in my heart; the more I associated with the Japanese, the less hatred I had," Tenney said in an interview.

Even though he didn't hate the Japanese, he adamantly wanted a formal apology from the Japanese government, and wanted Japanese companies and the U.S. government to compensate POWs for the years they lost to slave labor. Over the years, Tenney and his group have filed lawsuits, gotten bills introduced in Congress for the U.S. government to pay POWs $20,000 each as a gesture in recognition of their service, and buttonholed lawmakers from Tokyo to Tucson.

Taking one last shot, Tenney renewed his lobbying efforts this week, holding a round of meetings on Capitol Hill to seek help in pressuring Japan for a formal apology, and accepting an invitation to meet with the Japanese ambassador on Veterans Day.

Over the years, fleeting brushes with power got Tenney's hopes up. Years ago, Tenney talked for an hour with Sen. Joseph R. Biden (D-Del.), now vice president-elect, he said. Then-President Bill Clinton sent Tenney a handwritten congratulatory note after the 1995 publication of his memoir, "My Hitch in Hell: The Bataan Death March," which has been translated into Japanese. Sen. Hillary Clinton (D-N.Y.) once kissed him on the cheek, Tenney said. He calls Rep. Mike Honda (D-Calif.) -- whom he's gotten to know well while lobbying for the survivors' group -- his "bear brother" because they give each other bearhugs, he said.

But attention, alas, is just attention.

The lawsuits keep failing. The bills keep getting killed. The apology has never come.

And Tenney -- who says he's been "shrinking" and is down to 5 feet 7 inches or so -- has fewer and fewer friends from that awful island road and the slave camps to lean on. One pal just had a stroke. "The Mouse" -- his war buddy John Massimino -- died several years back.

He rattled off names.

Sgt. Martin. Sgt. Feiner. His old Navy buddy, Frank Bigelow.

All of them are gone.