The Jersey Brothers

by Sally Mott Freeman

  24

  HERO OF BATAAN VERSUS THE WAR DEPARTMENT

  IN THE FALL AND winter of 1943, the Davao escapees, especially Major William Dyess, continued to chafe under the government’s gag order forbidding them from divulging any details of their imprisonment and escape. Dyess had become so outraged that he requested a meeting with General “Hap” Arnold, chief of the army air forces, to appeal for his help. While sympathetic, Arnold told Major Dyess there was nothing he could do. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had not changed their official position: the matter remained classified at the highest level of national security. Arnold could arrange a flight command in Europe for Dyess, but he was powerless to help the hero of Bataan get his story aired.

  But the war censors were worried about Dyess, and for good reason. Possessed of the Silver Star, Legion of Merit, and Distinguished Service Cross with an Oak Leaf Cluster, Major William Edwin Dyess was already well known to the American public. The tough Texan’s daring exploits against the Japanese had been splashed across every newspaper’s front page throughout the slow, agonizing fall of the Philippines.

  Stories abounded about his daring seaborne raid against Japanese amphibious landings. He had personally led twenty of his men and wiped out an entire enemy battalion. Then, with one of the few remaining airplanes on the Bataan Peninsula, Dyess took to the skies, alone and incredibly outnumbered. Yet he succeeded in destroying an enemy supply dump and sinking a twelve-ton Japanese transport, a pair of hundred-ton motor launches, and several loaded barges in Subic Bay. In the same daring run, he also seriously damaged another six-thousand-ton Japanese vessel. One article dubbed him the “Red Baron of the Philippines.”

  Pressure to grant his story’s release swelled like an untapped fire hose, due largely to Dyess’s own efforts. Ever since his escape, he had used his name recognition for one high purpose: to reveal what was really happening to the tens of thousands of prisoners left behind in the Philippines. He was certain that the resulting outcry would become a force in itself—one powerful enough to elevate, once and for all, the subordinate status of the war with Japan.

  Dyess was just as sure that the resulting publicity would shame the Japanese into improving treatment of their prisoners. He was astounded that official Washington was preventing him from going public—and even more astounded by the given reasons. The War Department was holding firm that publicizing the story would further endanger those still in captivity, as well as jeopardize the mission of the Gripsholm, the neutral Swedish merchant ship delivering the desperately needed Red Cross boxes to POWs throughout the enemy-controlled Pacific. Again, Dyess disagreed vehemently. The prisoners would fare better, he countered, because the Japanese hate nothing more than being shamed publicly.

  While the War Department may have named these concerns, its true motive for muzzling the escapees was common knowledge in closed military circles: that releasing the story now would derail the Allied grand strategy of prioritizing the European war—just as plans for the seminal cross-Channel invasion were entering their final, climactic stages. The policy of defeating Germany first, and then Japan, had been born out of a consensus that the former was the more powerful and destabilizing opponent; final implementation of that strategy could not be jeopardized. General Marshall had cautioned repeatedly since Quebec that when the Japanese atrocities did come to light, the home front would be as outraged as it had been following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Their eyes would turn toward avenging the enemy in the Pacific, and the hand of war strategy would be forced to follow.

  From the start, however, the War Department’s attempts to silence the escapees—especially Dyess—had been flustered and ineffectual. First, it sent the feisty pilot to “recuperate” at the Greenbrier resort in West Virginia, which had been converted temporarily to an army hospital (named Ashford General) for recuperating soldiers returned from the front. Dyess was placed in the hospital’s top-security wing. But the news media knew how to get to the Greenbrier, and whisking away the freshly escaped war hero only intensified their interest in breaking what was surely a headline-grabbing tale. Newspapermen from all over the country swarmed the coffee shops in nearby White Sulphur Springs, waiting for their chance.

  Throughout the final months of 1943, conservative maverick Colonel McCormick—owner of the Chicago Tribune and long a thorn in Roosevelt’s side—was adding First Amendment muscle to his quest for government clearance to publish Dyess’s account. The War Department finally allowed veteran Tribune reporter Charles Leavelle to take down Dyess’s story at the Greenbrier, but Leavelle was not given permission to publish it. Now his fourteen-part series was ready to go, but the War Department still declined to permit its release, repeating its national security concerns.

  When the Gripsholm returned unmolested from the Pacific after completing its dispatch of Red Cross packages to Allied prisoners of war, the newspaper renewed its petition for release of the Dyess story. With the ship’s humanitarian mission no longer at risk, the Tribune argued, it was the paper’s constitutional right to report this important story.

  Leaks were springing too, despite the blanket gag order, worrying the censors all the more. Horror stories from others repatriated from the Philippines had reached the Bataan Relief Organization chapters that had been created by POW families across the country and were hinted at in their newsletters. Now these groups were joining ranks with the Tribune’s growing band of advocates to ratchet up pressure on the government to allow release of the story.

  Even Great Britain, which had plenty to lose by a radical change in American sentiment, now favored the story’s publication. Why? The British had several times more prisoners in Japanese hands than the Americans did—caught when the former colonies Java, Singapore, and Malaya fell early in the war.

  In a December 1943 memorandum to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, President Roosevelt himself revealed an increasing inclination to release the story. He requested a recommendation from the JCS as to when, not whether, the White House should permit its release. Then a tragic but galvanizing event occurred just before Christmas.

  By this time, a fully recovered William Dyess—promoted again, to lieutenant colonel—was in California flying practice drills in preparation for his return to combat. On December 22 his P-38 Lightning caught fire while on a training mission over the heavily populated city of Burbank. In heroic Dyess fashion, he remained aloft in his burning aircraft—despite ample opportunities to bail out safely—in order to guide the crippled aircraft to a vacant lot on Myers Street. His action saved the lives of countless civilians on the ground.

  His plane crashed, however, killing William Dyess on impact. The tragic event was the fatal blow to Washington’s resolve to contain the POW story. Dyess’s grieving—and media savvy—father, Judge Richard T. Dyess, as well as Colonel McCormick, was now threatening to have a member of Congress read the entire story into the Congressional Record.

  After a final flurry of tense meetings and consultations in Washington, a compromise was reached: an official joint army-navy statement would first be made public regarding the sworn statements of the escapees. Following its release at midnight, January 28, 1944, Charles Leavelle’s fourteen-part series would be published.

  25

  BAD TIDINGS

  ON JANUARY 16, 1944, in New York City, Helen Cross made the following diary entry:

  Rosemary came to see us tonight, a respite from her work for the Commandant at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Her news was so disquieting that Arthur and I lay awake all night practically. The navy has struck us foul blows—I wish none of mine had put on their uniform.

  Helen was tense for the rest of Rosemary’s visit, barely able to contain her anxiety. She and Arthur had hoped to distract themselves from their ceaseless worries by spending January in New York City—to escape the isolating snows at Lilac Hedges, visit friends, attend the theater. But with Benny back in the Pacific and Bill soon to be, and with no word from Barton since September—and little, at that—the unc
onfirmed rumors had Helen on edge.

  The next few days passed slowly, cruelly. Her diary entries from January 17 to 21 recorded forced distractions, including her attendance at the Broadway performance of The Duke in Darkness, and Olympic gold medalist Sonja Henie’s figure skating show at Madison Square Garden. She also went to Red Cross headquarters to again partake in packing boxes destined for Allied prisoners of the Japanese, hoping that she might overhear something there to refute for a day, an hour, Rosemary’s troubling report.

  ON JANUARY 25, 1944, Bill’s train rolled into Grand Central’s bustling track yard. Still recovering from his bout of pneumonia at the War College, he buttoned his long overcoat before shouldering into New York’s damp, snowy streets. Bill was thinner from his hospitalization, and he still had a deep, raspy cough, but he wanted to say good-bye to Helen and Arthur before leaving for the war zone. He had another mission in coming to see them, too, and not a happy one.

  Despite the icy wind tunneling up the avenues, he walked the several blocks to the Henry Hudson Hotel on West Fifty-Seventh Street. It would give him a little more time to decide exactly what he wanted to say, and how. Feeling compelled to prepare them, Bill had decided to come tell them in person about the coming publication of Dyess’s account before the story broke in the newspapers. He wished he could share the counterbalancing good news, but of course that was out of the question. The risk of Helen Cross not keeping that secret was greater than the risks inherent in the rescue operation itself.

  It was just past five o’clock in the evening, but blacked-out New York was winter-dark, chill, and comfortless. Still, the hotel was not difficult to spot: the boxy high-rise loomed over the aging brownstones on West Fifty-Seventh like a Nebraska grain elevator. Entering through its revolving door, Bill made for the lift. The lobby’s music and conversation faded as the car creaked up the shaft, stopping several times before finally reaching the fifteenth floor, giving Bill a few more minutes to rehearse.

  When the elevator operator called out “Fifteen!” and cranked open the lift’s brass accordion door, Bill headed toward room 1547 in a state of half anticipation, half dread. When he reached their room, he put an end to his internal deliberations, took a deep breath, and gave three quick raps on the door.

  His heart jumped when his mother answered, smiling up at him. She was quickly joined by Arthur, who took Bill’s damp woolen coat from him but kept the other hand, for an overlong moment, on his stepson’s shoulder. “Bourbon?” he offered, gesturing proudly to the makeshift bar he had set up in their small accomodation. Bill gladly accepted the drink offer.

  As Arthur prepared the beverages, Bill couldn’t help but notice how tired and careworn both he and his mother looked. What else did he sense? Something told him that their seeing him uniformed and ready to depart—even his new commander’s bars—triggered more anxiety than pride.

  They sat with their cocktails, uncomfortably close in the tiny quarters. Bill showed them recent photographs of Adam and baby Janie (“almost eight months old!”) and exhausted every other possible family topic until Bill knew the time had come. He took two long draughts of his bourbon and water, more than half the glass, in preparation for the conversation’s next phase.

  “There are some other things I thought you should know,” he started. At this, they sat still, listening expectantly.

  “The Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “met earlier this week and decided to recommend the release of a story about the Japanese and their”—he paused, thinking—“treatment of the prisoners of war in the Philippines.” Helen leaned forward and clasped her hands, appearing to believe something good was coming. Here was Rosemary’s rumor, debunked! Arthur sat back and crossed his legs, reserving judgment. They seemed to barely breathe.

  “You remember,” Bill resumed, “there was an escape from a prison camp on Mindanao in the Philippines last spring? Barton’s camp?” They nodded silently, but their expressions registered That had been good news, hadn’t it?

  “Well, when those men got out, they gave sworn statements on every aspect of their . . .”—he paused again—“experiences. But the War Department would not allow them to divulge any of the details—not even to their own families—for fear the Japanese might retaliate against the prisoners still being held. Among other reasons, they did not want the revelations to get leaked and possibly interrupt delivery of those Red Cross boxes.” On this last point, he gestured to his mother, knowing how much effort she had devoted to the packing project.

  Helen and Arthur nodded again, but with visibly waning enthusiasm at the word “retaliate.” Still, this was perfectly acceptable so far; they knew Barton was among the hopeful recipients of the boxes. Packing them had brought Helen almost as much satisfaction, she’d mused, as they likely would bring the prisoners themselves. Here had been something she could do to manage her pain.

  “But now,” Bill continued, “the Joint Chiefs think—and the president thinks—that it’s time for the American people to know about these atrocities.”

  “Atrocities?” Arthur repeated in his proper British accent. He shifted in his chair. “What do you mean, atrocities?”

  Bill fingered the rim of his glass before responding. He hadn’t intended to put himself in this corner. “Well, actually, before I get into all that, I have some good news. Some very good news. Just this week past, I spoke with one of those escaped prisoners, the navy man. He knew Barton, and saw him in April, just before they got out.”

  “Was it as far back as April?” Arthur asked. “You do mean April of 1943, I assume?”

  “Well, yes, but it took some time to get them back to the States,” Bill said, trying not to sound defensive. “This fellow said that when they left, Bart was alive and in pretty good shape, considering. In fact, he said that Barton had done real credit to himself under difficult circumstances. Other prisoners look up to him, he told me—the ensigns especially. I thought you would like to know that.” Bill remembered his own flush of pride when he’d heard this about his brother.

  Helen leaned back in her chair and let a moan escape her lips. Arthur, in an effort to check another of his wife’s teary descents, jumped in. “Well, that is good news, Bill; let us pray it is still the case now.” Bill nodded. That round had ended in a draw.

  Helen and Arthur could tell by Bill’s demeanor that something hard was coming. They had grown accustomed, over time, to Bill’s method of breaking the sparing news he had gathered about Barton. First came the good news and reasons why they should be encouraged, updates from well-placed sources—after which came the less good news, often couched in maddeningly optimistic language.

  Tonight was different, they detected; they were about to hear something from which even Bill couldn’t protect them. Helen braced for affirmation of Rosemary’s rumor (of tortured prisoners), which had plagued her since hearing it. Bill took another long draught of his drink, nearly empty now. He then started talking again, a little faster.

  “So, anyway, back to the other. I thought you ought to know ahead of time that the story these prisoners had to tell about their experience in the Philippines is going to be published—in all the papers—sometime in the next week, I expect. And it’s, well, I wanted you to be prepared that some of it is quite graphic.”

  He paused again and then said, “Frankly, you might be better off not even reading it.” For several seconds—the seeming length of an eternity—the three of them said nothing. Bill broke the silence.

  “Remember, the best information so far is that Barton has come through. And the thinking now is that when this story is made public, the Japanese will be shamed into treating the remaining prisoners . . . better. They know they are losing right now. General MacArthur himself is preparing a stern warning to the Japanese that’s going to be released with the government’s statement.

  “I just thought you should be prepared—for the media sensation around it all, too,” he finished, wishing he had not used the w
ord “sensation.”

  What registered on their faces when Bill stopped talking was that if Bill was willing to say to them words and phrases such as “atrocities” and “really bad,” given his propensity to soft-pedal the negative to them, this must be really bad.

  “Billy, dear, you must tell us, what exactly is this story going to say?” Helen entreated, almost in a whisper.

  Worn down by the conflicting desire to both shield and inform them, Bill proceeded with mixed emotions to reveal the nature and content of the escapees’ sworn statements, all of which he’d read several times. While omitting the most chilling details, he went as far as he did because he knew they would read the story—and would have lost their trust in him had he kept it from them.

  What Bill did keep hidden was that he too was angry—very angry. He was in a pent-up, self-blaming, roiling rage for being the very person who had unwittingly put Barton, despite his best intentions, in harm’s way. It had eaten at him day and night for weeks, months, and now years. Only getting on a ship and getting to the front—and eventually to the Philippines itself—would relieve the building pressure in his chest.

  When he finished talking, Bill looked down at his hands and rubbed his Academy ring, a habit when he was nervous. “They will pay with their lives, Mother,” he blurted out, feeling the color in his cheeks rise. “Their army hasn’t just been lying to the International Red Cross; they’ve been lying to their own people. This story will—”

  He stopped abruptly. His mother had buried her face in her hands and begun to sob. Arthur, who had sat pale and stoic throughout Bill’s difficult revelations, moved only when Helen broke down—raising his right hand, trembling, as a signal to Bill to pause.