A Japanese POW is interrogated by U.S. Marine intelligence personnel on Guadalcanal. by Sergeant H. N. Oliphant, Yank Staff Correspondent Somewhere in the Philippines—The stockade was set in a large rectangular clearing near the edge of a grove of coconut palms and guava trees. Off to the right of the outer barbed wire barrier was a mangrove swamp and beyond that a swollen, clay-colored river that wound like a dirty, twisted ribbon through tangles of tropical fronds and water weeds. A fat, red-faced MP, a carbine slung barrel-down from his shoulder, stopped us about ten yards from the gate and, recognizing the staff sergeant interpreter with me, called, "Hi, ya, Jitter." Sizing me up briefly with bored mistrust, he added, "That fellow got permission to be here?" The staff pulled a paper out of his poncho and handed it to the MP. He glanced at it a moment, said "Okay," and motioned us on. At the barbed wire gate another MP with fixed bayonet halted...