The break from tedious prison routine was a true pleasure, and it felt good to be on the water again. The river breeze offered reprieve from DAPECOL’s mosquito swarms, and the guards had brought along more and better food than they’d received inside the camp. There was also unexpected entertainment along the way: the jungle-lined shores were a National Geographic–worthy movie reel of iguanas, frolicking monkeys, and baboons by the hundreds. A veritable orchestra of animal and bird sounds filled the air—as surely a salve for the prisoner soul as the water itself.
When Bo Beep approached the mouth of the river and egress to open sea, the guards became especially attentive to their charges. There were ample disincentives for escape: heavily armed guards, a vessel that was hardly seaworthy, and head-hunting aboriginal tribes in the jungle. But if Bo Peep’s crew had known what lay ahead for them, might they have attempted escape anyway?
IN DECEMBER 1942, DAPECOL was full of anticipation. To the prisoners’ universal surprise and pleasure, they were notified that they would be allowed to hold a Christmas service. Every man who was able took part. The preparation was earnest and intense, and the result was a rare and emotional evening that brought together the prisoners, local Filipinos, and even the camp’s Japanese overseers.
The service was scheduled for seven o’clock on Christmas Eve and was held in the camp mess hall-turned-chapel. A light rain fell that afternoon, but it did little to dampen local spirits. The room filled to capacity quickly—and while the prisoners were carefully sequestered from the local Filipinos, smiles and eye contact between them reflected a tacit solidarity.
Lieutenant Yuki, a Christian camp official, served as interpreter and master of ceremonies. Barton’s a cappella group was the first to perform, and the crowd hushed as the forty-strong choir assembled. Barton stood proudly in the front row, not only because of his size but also because of his role as lead tenor. It was a fleeting moment of pure joy, doing what he loved and did well before a very special group of friends.
He and the two other ensemble leaders then issued a synchronized hum in middle C. The chorus followed in unison, during which the hall went completely silent. Only the evening sounds of the rain forest could be heard in that brief lull before the group burst into “O Holy Night.”
By the last stanza, Barton and the rest of the singers had tears in their eyes, and most in the audience were openly weeping. But then the pace picked up, and laughter replaced tears as the chorus broke into Hoagy Carmichael’s popular tune “Stardust.” The crowd chimed right in, alternately clapping and humming along. The refrain was bittersweet:
Sometimes I wonder why I spend
The lonely nights
Dreaming of a song
The melody haunts my reverie
And I am once again with you.
When our love was new and each kiss an inspiration
But that was long ago, and now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song.
On cue several members of the chorus then paired off and gave brief but hilarious demonstrations of the jitterbug, rumba, and tap dance as the singing continued. The crowd clapped with delight. The hours of rehearsal were evident as bass, tenor, and alto sections harmonized perfectly. At the closing note, the crowd jumped to its feet, wild with whistles and applause.
The choristers joined hands and took a deep bow. This wasn’t the Radio City Christmas Spectacular in which Barton had once fantasized taking part. But if one measure of success in life is a moment of contentment derived from deep fellowship and hard work, the evening’s performance easily surpassed that dream.
A group of local Filipinos took the stage next. They performed a series of traditional island dances and sang native folk songs. The prisoners whooped and hollered in approval. Then, to the surprise of all present, an ensemble of Japanese soldiers rose and crooned a series of classic Oriental tunes followed by an elaborate sword dance demonstration. Next up was another group of Americans who performed Indian sun dances of the Iroquois, Sioux, Navajo, and Pueblo Indians—thanks to generous prisoner representation from Texas and Oklahoma.
Cigarettes and small gifts were passed around at the end of the revue, and the hall was alive with conversation, laughter, and general goodwill. While the stage was converted to an altar for the service that would follow, the Americans and Filipinos mingled, speaking in English, an unusual opportunity that was not interrupted by Major Maeda. For the duration of the evening, in fact, the differences between foe and friend were put aside.
After the break, the audience returned to their seats for the Christmas service. A manger and crude but recognizable nativity scene—created by children in Davao City—now adorned the brightly lit stage. A small group of Catholic and Protestant chaplains officiated together. They opened the service by thanking Major Maeda for allowing the important Christmas observation, and also Lieutenant Yuki for serving as translator and master of ceremonies.
A simple but deeply moving homily followed readings from the New Testament and a few liturgical prayers.
“Tonight we celebrate the birth of Jesus in a place far from home, far from your loved ones, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, wives, and children. We celebrate tonight in an entirely different way from your various traditions. Whether you are from the North, South, East, or West, you miss such familiar scenes—for me it is snow and the sound of bells . . . But let me lead you for a moment away from those cares and toward a place called Bethlehem. There a child was born this very night that we may forget our earthly sufferings.”
Communion, the last rite of the service, was taken simply and silently by nearly all attendees, no matter their denomination. The majority of prisoners had experienced some form of spiritual awakening during their incarceration, and the Christmas service carried unusual significance as a result. Many tried unsuccessfully not to cry. Barton surely understood this—his own unbidden religious renewal had sustained him, from Christ School on, in ways he could not have imagined at the time.
As the prisoners filed out of the building and moved toward their barracks, guards were already posted with fixed bayonets; camp life had quickly returned to normal. Barton and a gaggle of choristers sang rounds of “Oh Christmas Tree” while they walked, as if in mock challenge to the alien surrounds of mahogany and palm trees.
Their upbeat chorus likely drowned out a quiet exchange between two marine lieutenants, also heading toward the barracks. Trailing the others, they talked intently and in low voices all the way. The gist from one of them, a Texan, was that this was going to be the last damn Christmas he planned to spend as a prisoner of war—a resolution that would have a far-reaching impact on his fellow residents at Davao Penal Colony.
PART
TWO
17
WINTER’S GRIEF
CHRISTMAS OF 1942 AT Lilac Hedges came and went, slowly and painfully. Helen confided to her diary: “A different Christmas this year. A tiny tree, subdued decorations, no Barton. We all tried to be cheery as he’d like to think us.”
Even Bill’s letter confirming that Barton’s name remained absent from the most recent casualty lists was only enough, she wrote, “to keep dinner from sticking in our throats on Christmas Day.”
The dining room at Lilac Hedges had long since become its own well-appointed Map Room. The mahogany table was covered with Pacific maps, maps of the world, and maps of the Philippines, all variously marked up. International Red Cross reports and Bataan Relief Organization newsletters littered the floor, and several colored pencils, a ruler, and a magnifying glass could reliably be found on one or another of the dining chairs. Locations in the South Pacific were circled or had notations or question marks beside them, and pads of paper with daily notes were permanent fixtures alongside the sterling tea service, long in disuse.
After Christmas dinner, Helen wasted no time reverting the dining table—which had been cleared for the first time in a year—to Map Room status. It had become all important for her to walk into the roo
m at any hour, pore over her maps, or look down at the red circle around the Philippines and “visit.”
On the day after Christmas, she was off to participate in another such ritual, this one at the local chapter of the American Red Cross. Here mothers, wives, daughters, and sisters donned aprons and gloves and lined up at a conveyer belt to pack boxes for prisoners of war in the Pacific. Before turning off her bedside lamp that night, long after Arthur had nodded off, Helen picked up her diary and pen.
Packed boxes for prisoners all afternoon at the Red Cross. Seven thousand of them rolled by me on the conveyor belt and who knows? One may be going to Barton! I found myself caressing the contents before packing them in, as though sending my love and prayers along with the food stuffs. God be with him!
IN WASHINGTON, TOO, CHRISTMAS of 1942 was barely a footnote as war operations ground on. The new year, 1943, dawned icy, cold, and gray, but the frigid weather didn’t delay the January opening of the massive new War Department headquarters in Arlington, Virginia. Dubbed “the Pentagon” for its five-sided shape, the building was ready for occupation after only sixteen months of construction—right on schedule. In addition to their other duties, Bill Mott and his Map Room staff now had to retool a number of procedures to adapt to the daunting relocation of the army and the navy, soon to be across the river instead of a short walk down Constitution Avenue.
In early January, they were also busy coordinating the president’s imminent and very secret meeting with Prime Minister Churchill in Casablanca, Morocco. Preparations included the assembly of dozens of briefing binders as well as the execution of an elaborate series of ruses to preserve the secrecy of the meeting location. They also needed to fabricate a foolproof story on FDR’s whereabouts during his White House absence.
At midnight on January 9, Bill allowed a sigh of relief as President Roosevelt, Harry Hopkins, Captain McCrea, Admiral McIntyre (as FDR’s physician), and the rest of the covert entourage finally departed the Executive Mansion for the first leg of the seventeen-thousand-mile journey to Morocco. Bill was exhausted, and looked forward to a respite from the frantic activity of the past several days.
But on the evening of January 12, the Map Room telephone shattered the relative calm of the previous seventy-two hours. Bill answered it on the first ring, his custom, and stiffened when he heard the voice on the other end of the line. The caller was Lieutenant Commander Randall Jacobs, head of the Navy Casualty Section. Bill braced for what surely was news of one of his brothers. Why else the unusual late-night call?
He was uncharacteristically quiet for nearly the entire call. “Good God,” he said finally. Then, “Yes, I see, yes, all right . . . Of course . . . Right away,” and replaced the heavy black receiver.
A flurry of press calls followed on the same subject; they were on deadline and pushing for details. The horrific story took Bill some minutes to absorb, and his own anxieties on behalf of his family suddenly paled in comparison. He simply couldn’t imagine his own mother absorbing such news.
Bill handled each media inquiry deftly, with promise after promise of a return call. But first things first. He sat down at the typewriter to compose a memorandum for Captain McCrea and the president for immediate dispatch to Casablanca:
The White House
Washington
January 12, 1943
Memorandum for: the President and Captain McCrea
Lieutenant Commander Jacobs from the Casualty Section of the Bureau of Naval Personnel has just called to say he is preparing a letter for the President’s signature regarding the death of five brothers, the Sullivan boys, in the sinking of the light cruiser Juneau off Guadalcanal.
These boys were the sons of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas F. Sullivan, 98 Adams Street, Waterloo, Iowa. They enlisted in January 1942 contingent on the Navy’s promise that they could serve together. Every effort was made to dissuade them from this course both at the time of their enlistment and after they joined the Fleet. However these efforts were of no avail and they all went down with their ship. Only one of these boys was married. His wife is Mrs. Albert Leo Sullivan, 2228 Hawthorn Street, Waterloo, Iowa.
The parents were notified today by the Lieutenant Commander [Truman Jones] in charge of the Navy Recruiting Station at Des Moines, Iowa. The press is anxious for a story on this, but the Department is reluctant to give any details, such as the name of the ship, because of the significant publicity on these five brothers when they first enlisted together. The thinking is that a letter from the President would make good copy and they are anxious to get one signed as soon as possible.
I have told them nothing, of course, about the President’s whereabouts, but will forward their proposed letter to you by the next pouch.
You may recall that President Lincoln once had to write the same kind of letter and did such a good job of it that all students of composition have been using the same as a model ever since.
Very Respectfully,
W. C. Mott
The Sullivan brothers’ ship, USS Juneau, had been one of Enterprise’s protective screening vessels in the deadly seas around Guadalcanal. Bill couldn’t help but feel this one a little deeper in the gut. He sat back to review the memorandum, but his mind was still on the conversation with Commander Jacobs.
Jacobs told Bill that when Lieutenant Commander Jones and two other officers approached the Sullivans’ front door in Waterloo, Iowa, the boys’ father, Thomas Sullivan, greeted them.
“I have some news for you about your boys, sir,” Jones had said.
“Which one?” asked Thomas.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jones replied. “All five.”
18
ESCAPE: CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
BY PRISON CAMP STANDARDS, the Christmas festivities had been a high-water mark, but the best day at DAPECOL came a few weeks later, in January 1943. The men were already buoyed by news relayed by a friendly Filipino working near the camp: the American Navy had held in the long struggle for Guadalcanal, meaning Australia was safe and that the sea-lanes between it and the United States were protected. The good news was confirmed by broadcasts over a contraband shortwave radio occasionally tinkered to life by one fearless inmate.
Moods swung higher still when word circulated that the International Red Cross had shipped gift boxes to the DAPECOL prisoners via the Gripsholm, a Swedish goodwill vessel. The boxes had arrived at Davao City! It was their first official acknowledgment that the Allied world knew where they were, knew they were in need, and that they cared. The effect on prisoner morale was profound.
On January 12, 1943, Barton, Ken Wheeler, and Bo Peep commander Alan McCracken made their way to Anebogan with two Filipinos and three Japanese guards. Full of anticipation, they boarded Bo Peep and set a downriver course to Gripsholm’s anchorage.
Bo Peep’s ad hoc crew were the first Americans to see the huge stacks of lovingly packed boxes, each stamped with the reassuring and familiar Red Cross insignia. It took hours to transfer the precious cargo from Gripsholm to the waiting barge, but it was more thrill than labor.
The smiling Bo Peep crew navigated the tug upriver, blowing smoke rings from the Lucky Strikes their guards had filched out of a box and magnanimously shared. They were in a fine mood that afternoon, and not only because of the Red Cross boxes; Gripsholm had also off-loaded several sackfuls of mail—the first word from home since their capture.
Assembly of the Red Cross boxes had been a true Allied effort. They were filled by volunteers in Canada, South Africa, Britain, and the United States. Inside each box was a variety of precious goods: evaporated milk, hardtack and cheese, vitamin pills, soap, shoe polish, a container of cocoa, cans of corned beef and pilchards, chocolate bars, sugar, orange concentrate, instant coffee, dried soups, pudding and tea (British), and Roy and Lucky Strike cigarettes (American). The boxes were uniform in size, and each weighed eleven pounds. The prisoners all got a good laugh out of the shoe polish; few of them still had shoes. Their primary foot protection at this point consisted
of crude wooden slats called “go-aheads,” which they strapped to their feet. But the very sight and smell of familiar American goods made their eyes well up.
Agony replaced delicious anticipation as neither the boxes nor the mail was distributed on arrival at DAPECOL. A Japanese Special Service Unit intercepted the treasure-laden trucks as they rumbled through the camp gates. The unit’s purpose was to “inspect” the shipment and “censor” the mail. The men on the truck detail, including Charles Armour, were ordered back to the barracks empty-handed. Charles quickly reverted to his grumpy self, theorizing that “the goddamn Nips” were sore about the war news and jealous over the contents of the boxes.
Several anxious days later, two boxes were finally distributed to each prisoner. Though they had been rifled through and some original contents were missing, the men were thrilled nonetheless. Impromptu trading posts popped up in every barrack as the men swapped for favorite items. Medicines, sugar, and many of the coveted cigarettes had been lifted by the Japanese, but the remaining Red Cross box contents nourished body and soul and undoubtedly saved lives.
It took days longer for the Japanese to “sort” the equally priceless mail. The men knew it had arrived, and the wait seemed interminable. Finally, one by one, names on the envelopes were read aloud and the mail distributed. Several of Barton’s barrack mates received two and three pieces of mail in that shipment; they wept as they read and reread the reassuring missives from mothers, fathers, wives, and girlfriends. Barton agonized over who his mail might be from. Had the lovely Eve—that distant erotic memory from his visit to Pearl Harbor—cared enough to inquire how to write him? He hoped they wouldn’t all be from his family, though he could hardly wait for word from them. Rosemary? Bill? Benny?
The Jersey Brothers Page 20