My first ghostwriting project wasn’t a business book or a celebrity autobiography. It was about my grandfather, a World War II veteran and a man the family described as gruff and standoffish. I was seventeen years old.
The family had always said to steer clear of him. He was the curmudgeonly old man who seemed perpetually dissatisfied with the world around him. Yet at every family gathering, he was the one entrusted with cooking. With a paradoxical tenderness, he’d prepare meals that had us all licking our plates clean. The twinkle in his eyes as he served his dishes was a stark contrast to his otherwise surly demeanor.
Something about his silent strength, his distant gaze, made me believe there was more to him than anyone saw. Despite the warnings, I approached him for an interview. To my surprise, he agreed. He handed me his journals.
What I found inside took me back to the Pacific in 1941.
An Unforeseen Voyage
Yet sitting down to write his story changed everything I understood about people and writing.Share on X
Before the war, my grandfather was a ships’ cook in the U.S. Navy, stationed on the Yangtze River Patrol based in Shanghai, China. In November 1941, a surprise order came commanding all U.S. Navy ships and personnel to evacuate Shanghai. The destination was kept secret from everyone except the captain, sparking speculation among the crew. They guessed Australia. Destiny had a different plan. They ended up in Manila, Philippine Islands. For more, see how a ghostwriting project works from start to finish and lessons from the critical drinker’s reviews.
Leaving China
After quarters were dismissed, the crew jumped to their tasks. Fires were started in all the boilers. Messengers were dispatched to the American Consul for mail and other matters. As steam rose, a unique sight caught their attention: a beautiful white horse approaching the gunboat U.S.S. Oahu. The head of the American Consul wished to transport his horse. The captain denied the request. Only naval personnel, American families, mail, and personal baggage were permitted on board.
With all stores and personnel aboard, including two Italian radio operators carried as a courtesy, the ship was ready. Sea Detail was piped by the ship’s boatswain and all men not required for getting underway went to their quarters. Amidst whistles and farewells shouted from the docks, the trim white gunboat steamed into the middle of the stream. The anchor was dropped, preparing to turn the ship around for its first port of call.
The Yangtze River
The ship’s mission was to pick up American nationals, Naval personnel, mail, and baggage along the muddy Yangtze River. At Wuhu, China, they dropped off food and medical supplies to American missionaries who had decided to stay despite the looming threat of war. This would be the last time anyone saw them. The next stop was Nanking, held by the Japanese under a harsh commander, where they evacuated any remaining American nationals, mail, and baggage.
Arriving in Shanghai around November 25, 1941, they reported to the Commander of the Yangtze River Patrol. Half of the crew, some with families in port, was allowed liberty. British workmen and Chinese shipyard employees came aboard to prepare the ship for its next journey to a neutral port, believed to be Manila.
The magnitude of the danger they faced hadn’t dawned on them yet.
Corregidor
From December 8, 1941, to May 6, 1942, the Imperial Japanese Army found themselves held back in the Philippines by the defenders of Bataan and Corregidor. For 187 days and nights, the Japanese Army and Air Force relentlessly bombed and shelled both positions. The forces, plagued with starvation, malaria, and dysentery, with scarce medical supplies, resisted. They stood against the superior numbers of battle-hardened Japanese soldiers. The Bataan forces eventually surrendered, leaving Corregidor to hold out for another month.
The anticipated invasion of Corregidor arrived under cover of darkness on May 5, 1942. Despite fierce initial resistance, the Japanese managed to land, losing all but 18 of approximately 2,000 soldiers in the first wave. With each successful landing, green rocket lights pierced the night, signaling for reinforcements. Tanks scaled the steep slopes and captured the main road, pressing toward the American-held tunnels. A final surrender order was reluctantly obeyed at noon on May 6, 1942.
A sobering 15,800 people surrendered: roughly 12,000 military personnel, the remainder civilians. The prisoners were marched to the 92nd garage, known as the “Flats,” where conditions were grim. Water and food were scarce, leading to a desperation-fueled barter system. Japanese propaganda circulated, alleging American officers were living comfortably, stirring resentment among the rank and file. On the evening of May 6, the Japanese arrived at Fort Hughes, took control, and left the defenders huddled on the ground overnight, awaiting their fate.
A Prisoner of War
After Corregidor surrendered, the POWs were loaded onto ships and landed in Manila. My grandfather referred to what followed as the Manila Death March: the forced march through the city to Old Bilibid Prison, then onward to the Cabanatuan prison camp. His ordeal didn’t end with the march. He was detained for 42 months in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, where incessant hunger, rampant disease, and the constant menace of violence from his captors defined daily existence.
One of the most chilling chapters was the “Tatori Maru,” a Hell Ship. The Japanese used these vessels to transport Allied POWs in conditions designed to kill. Crammed into the ship’s hold, prisoners endured weeks of suffering while disease swept through the confined population. He survived.
Then there were the boxcars. In sweltering heat that frequently rose above 100 degrees, around a hundred men were crammed into each car, crushed together like cargo. No ventilation. No water. He survived that too.
What Does a First Ghostwriting Project Teach?
There was a moment during our interviews when my grandfather realized that someone finally understood what he’d been through and respected his sacrifice. His face changed. That moment is the reason I became a ghostwriter.
Transcribing his journals, interpreting the sentiments behind his words, turning them into a narrative that honored what he endured, that was my education in the craft. Ghostwriting is being the vessel for another person’s voice, especially when that voice has endured something the world needs to hear. My grandfather’s story taught me that before I ever read a book about writing technique.
When the project was finished, I no longer saw a gruff old man. I saw a war hero who had stared down death across four years of captivity and come home to cook Sunday dinners for a family that had no idea what he’d survived. The distance everyone mistook for coldness was the silence of a man carrying experiences he couldn’t put into words on his own.
Being the person who helped him put those words on paper remains the most important work I’ve ever done.
