For September’s book club session we read Ghost Soldiers by Hampton Sides. This book is both an epic of endurance and a quiet indictment of war itself. In recounting the January 1945 raid on the Cabanatuan prison camp in the Philippines, Sides tells a story that feels almost mythic in its bravery while remaining grounded in the brutal physical and psychological realities faced by those who lived it. This tale is not clean in the recounting of heroism or triumphant in its declaration of victory. It is a story of bodies pushed beyond reason, of men surviving on will alone, and of courage that emerges not in spite of horror, but directly because of it.
At the heart of the book are the prisoners of war held at Cabanatuan—American and Allied soldiers who had already survived the Bataan Death March, an ordeal so punishing it stripped thousands of their lives and nearly all of their dignity. By the time the narrative reaches the camp, these men are no longer soldiers in any conventional sense. They are emaciated, diseased, and traumatized, surviving on starvation rations and living with the daily expectation of death. What Sides captures with devastating clarity is not only their physical decline, but the fragile psychological scaffolding that keeps them alive: routines, friendships, shared memories, and the stubborn refusal to surrender hope, even when hope feels irrational.
Interwoven with this narrative of slow annihilation is the story of the rescuers—U.S. Army Rangers, Alamo Scouts, and Filipino guerrillas—moving through enemy-held territory with the knowledge that time is running out. As General MacArthur’s forces advance across the Philippines, intelligence suggests that the Japanese may execute their remaining prisoners before retreating. The rescue mission is conceived not as a strategic necessity, but as a moral one: a declaration that these men, long written off as lost, still matter.
The planning and execution of the raid reads like a war thriller, but one weighted with consequence. The Rangers crawl for hours through open grasslands, exposed and silent, knowing that a single mistake could doom not only themselves but the prisoners they are trying to save. Filipino resistance fighters—too often sidelined in World War II narratives—play a critical role, guiding the Americans, securing escape routes, and risking reprisals against their own communities. The raid itself is swift, violent, and terrifying. It succeeds not because of overwhelming force, but because of discipline, coordination, and an almost unbearable willingness to accept personal risk.
The most haunting moments come after the gunfire fades. The prisoners are too weak to flee. Many must be carried on improvised stretchers or supported as they stagger through the darkness. The rescuers, already exhausted, refuse to leave anyone behind. In these scenes, Sides reveals the profound moral weight that underpins the entire mission: the belief that abandonment is a greater failure than death itself.
Ghost Soldiers ultimately becomes a meditation on endurance—on how much suffering the human body and spirit can absorb, and on the bonds that form under extreme pressure. Yet it never romanticizes war. The bravery on display exists alongside unspeakable cruelty; the rescue shines all the brighter because it emerges from such darkness. What makes the book linger is this tension: awe at human resilience, paired with horror at the systems and decisions that made such suffering inevitable.
Like Unbroken and other narratives of survival under unimaginable strain, Ghost Soldiers is a tribute—to those who endured captivity, to those who risked everything to bring them home, and to the power of remembrance itself. As the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, books like this and Man’s Search for Meaning remind me of how small any trial I endure is by comparison. We can be stronger than we know—ultimately how you endure is your choice. I highly recommend this book—it rescues not only men from a prison camp, but a chapter of history that deserves to be held, examined, and never forgotten.