by Hugh Ambrose
As Mike made it down toward the end of the table, a man asked, "Where do you want to go next?"
"What's your options?"
"Well, you can go to the same squadron or you can go to another squadron; you can be a Landing Signal Officer; or you can do something else." Mike could feel the men behind him crowd him--everyone was anxious to get out of here and get home. He said, "I'll just go with the same group." His preference was duly recorded and he was informed his next assignment would be mailed to his home. As he was walking away, it irritated him that he had had no time to consider his options, much less learn anything about the other choices.
He took a train back to Davenport, Iowa, wearing his dress navy uniform. Along with the welcome from his parents and family and all the uncles and aunts came interviews with the local newspaper and an invitation to speak at the Rotary Club. It surprised and pleased him to find out he "was a big hero when I got home then because I'd been in the Battle of Midway." He accepted several invitations to speak at local clubs and answer questions about what was going on out there. His audiences would have soon understood that they were not going to get much about his role. Mike had a way of turning aside such topics. He told them the marines would win the battle for Guadalcanal if they got the support they needed. When asked if he had gotten a hit on a carrier, he'd say he didn't know, he never had turned around to look.
One afternoon he went to visit the parents of his friend John Lough. They lived across the river from his house. He had met them briefly when he and John had shared rides home during their flight training. It must have been very difficult for Mike to walk up the path to the front door, and even more difficult for John's parents to receive him. The Loughs had known of their son's disappearance for six months. They had received the telegram informing them that he went missing in action on June 4, 1942. The telegram said they would be informed as soon as more information became available.
Mike told them some of the things they needed to hear. During the launch on June 4 a malfunction in the plane ahead of John's had forced it to be struck, so by happenstance, John had flown in Mike's section that day.188 Three planes made up a section: Lieutenant ( Junion Grade) Norman West led the section. Mike flew the number-two wingman spot, and then John was the number three. They and their gunners had launched off the flight deck of USS Enterprise to stop a gigantic Japanese fleet from invading the island of Midway. Mike would have told them of the long flight out to maximum range, of a chance flash of white wake that had led them to the enemy. None of the enemy's carriers had been damaged when Scouting Six arrived overhead. Using his hands to illustrate how a Dauntless dove, he said, " The section leader went first, I went second; John came over here and went third." The last step Mike had made before pushing over had been to salute his friend John. " That was the last I ever saw of him."
Mike explained that the Zeros had not been a problem for him as they had for others. The big problem had been getting back to the ship. He had landed with enough gas "for one more trip around the carrier." A lot of the planes behind his had failed to return. His friend Bill Pitman had been back there and had had a large hole taken out of his wing by a Zero. "So they may have all gone down someplace. I don't really know." He assured them the navy had searched the ocean for days and days with their big PBY flying boats. And then the story came to an end. He had told them the truth. Never much of a talker anyway, Mike struggled to find the words. "John . . . had . . . the same training I had, had the same ability I did, and it just was bad luck." For their part, the Loughs refused to accept the loss. The navy had listed Ensign Lough as MIA, missing in action. They maintained their hope that their son had gone down "on one of those islands out there . . ." in the Pacific. John would make it back to them.
ONE LAST GREAT RAIN POURED DOWN UPON THEM, FLOODING THEIR BUNKERS. Water rose over their beds in their shacks, sweeping mud into their weapons and equipment. The #4 gun squad spent the morning of December 3 shoveling it all out. When the Eighth Marines arrived, though, they turned it over, grabbed their gear, and departed for Kukum. Hoping for an immediate departure, they waited a day before setting up their tents. Of course, such things rarely happened in the United States Marine Corps. For days on end, they loafed, read mail, and played cards. The news about the battle continued to reach them, and they could certainly hear the artillery and the airplanes, but they paid more attention to who had left and who was on deck to leave. Units from the Fifth Marines boarded ship and departed for Espiritu Santos and then on to Brisbane, Australia.
Deacon made sergeant and moved out of Sid's tent and in with other NCOs. Sid got put on another working party. On December 11, he and W.O. were out on a barge, unloading supplies to bring into shore, when an enemy air strike came in. The supply ship cast off the barge "and left them to their mercy." So he watched the air raid as a sitting duck in a channel of water so loaded with sunken ships it had become known as Iron Bottom Sound. After the all clear, they got a tow back to the dock and learned how funny the rest of the mortar platoon thought they were.
After two weeks, on December 17 they learned their departure was another nine days away, so they set up their tents. Two days later, the officers read off the embarkation orders. The assembled marines of the 2/1, like all the units of the 1st Marine Division, were told that no member of the First Marine Regiment, upon departure, "will have or keep in his possession any article of Army clothing or any item of Army equipment that has not been properly issued him by an authorized Marine Corps Quartermaster representative, or for which he does not hold a proper receipt of purchase."189 Read to the men at three separate assemblies, the order made clear that all of the M1 Garand rifles marines were carrying around were not getting on the ship with them.
Sid and his friends paid a visit to the division cemetery the next day. They walked back to Hell's Point, along the banks of the Tenaru River. According to their count, in five months they had endured 257 air raids, 163 shellings, and nine banzai attacks. They watched a movie that night and boarded ship the next day, December 21.q
DEPENDING UPON THE TYPE OF WORK DETAIL, THE WORKDAY BEGAN AT EITHER six a.m. or eight a.m. at the Davao Penal Colony. Lunch break lasted for two hours. The workday ended about five p.m. Shifty's first job had been moving rock for a railroad bed. He found it curious that the Japanese not only had so little in the way of machinery that they expected to handle this problem with teams of men, but also that they were so obviously unfamiliar with machinery. When the engine of the train broke down, the guards forced the men to move it back to the station. Pushing, pulling, heaving, Shifty thought this was a stupid waste of energy.
At least he received more fuel for the hard work than the handfuls of rice at Cabanatuan. Along with pieces of a varied selection of fruit, including exotic ones like jackfruit, the POWs also enjoyed a meat stew once or twice a week. Beyond the meals served in the mess hall, many men working in the fields supplemented their diet with whatever came to hand. The prisoners still ate a lot of rice, though. A few weeks after their arrival from Cabanatuan, another group arrived. These men, both American and Filipino, had been captured on Mindanao and surrounding islands. The new guys arrived in fine condition and it made Shofner's group feel like "scare-crows." 190 As the weeks passed, though, some of the men--particularly the younger men--began to feel their strength return.
Work ceased on December 24, when the POWs received two days off. In the mess hall, a group of Americans and Filipinos provided some entertainment. The Filipinos gave all Americans a small casaba cake. The Japanese officers gave each POW a package of Southern Cross cigarettes. Not to be outdone, the U.S. officers--army, navy, and marine--pooled some of the money they had to give each man a Christmas present of one peso, enough money to buy tobacco through the black market.
During the party, Jack Hawkins told Mike Dobervich that he did not intend to spend another Christmas in prison. The subject had been discussed on and off since their first meeting with Austin Shofner in Cabanatuan, but when they
told Shifty of their decision, they delivered it with a new seriousness. Escape meant survival. It meant freedom and the pride of being one's own man. After all they had been through, though, another reason was just as important. "Our mission," as Shifty stated it, "was to reach Allied territory and report the treatment of Japanese prisoners of war so that something could be done to save the lives of many American prisoners."
While the mission's objectives could be clearly stated, the method of reaching Allied territory, which meant Australia, fifteen hundred miles away, seemed irrational. They would have to steal a plane or a ship. A plane seemed preferable, since the Imperial Japanese Navy might catch up to a wayward ship. The one thing they had in their favor: they had heard from the other Americans that the Empire of Japan controlled mostly port cities. Great swaths of the wild backcountry of Mindanao remained unoccupied.
The three marines shelved the plan and focused on the team. The team would be comprised of men with requisite skills: a navigator, a mechanic, a pilot, a medic if not a doctor, and someone who knew Mindanao to serve as their guide. The three marines would be responsible for any combat. Every member needed to be in top physical condition. Supplies and equipment also had to be gathered and safely stored. The details of the actual day of escape had to be worked through with great care.
Shifty knew an army pilot who had fought with great bravery in the air war over Bataan, Captain William "Ed" Dyess, and approached him. He suggested another pilot as well as an aviation mechanic. Dyess and his two army air corps men had been in the Philippines for a month before the war began; the three marines, a week. None of them knew anything about the island of Mindanao or how to get from it to Australia. They knew they were ready to think through all of the problems, prepare themselves to the extent possible, and go.
ACT III
"THE PAUSE THAT REFRESHES"
Christmas 1942-Christmas 1943
AMERICA'S VICTORY IN THE BATTLE OF GUADALCANAL TAUGHT HER LEADERS that the war would be both long and costly. While Washington did not discern how devastating the campaign had been to the enemy's army and navy, it knew the crisis had passed. The end of the first year of conflict found the United States assured of its connection to Australia and comfortable that the Battle of Midway had blunted the offensive capability of Japan's carrier fleet.
ABOARD USS JOHNSON IN THE HARBOR OF ESPIRITU SANTOS, SID'S SQUAD HAD A meal of the standard shipboard fare. Each man received a box from the Red Cross. Sid opened his to find the "contents completely molded and useless except for a sewing box." The ship's PX served Coca-Cola if one could get to the store in time. All in all, it was the "driest and poorest Christmas" anyone could remember. The officers, of course, were served a turkey for their Christmas dinners. When the 2/1 disembarked, they moved into a tent camp under coconut trees with lots of flies. Deacon found a PX, one run by black U.S. Army troops, which sold candy and cigarettes. Sid took some of his "jap souvenirs" and went out to some of the ships looking for trades. He also went aboard USS Enterprise, swinging at anchor in Segond Channel, but found it less generous than USS Honolulu, where he was given lots of free ice cream.
On New Year's Eve, a double ration of beer was doled out, a double feature was shown at the base theater, and the colonel announced they were departing soon for Australia. The small-arms fire that took place at midnight marked the beginning of 1943 and the fact that the veterans of Guadalcanal never went anywhere without their rifles, clean and loaded, and their helmets. After a few days, they boarded another transport and shipped out for Australia. They arrived off the coast of Brisbane and, as usual, waited a few days. The Fifth Marines had already gone ashore to a rest camp. Word came that the Fifth Marines hated the camp and had complained. General MacArthur, who commanded all U.S. forces in Australia, had replied that there was no shipping available to take them anywhere else. It took some time, but Admiral Halsey made the ships available. Sid's ship hoisted anchor and got under way; the 1st Marine Division sailed south, to Melbourne. Along the way, the heat of the tropics subsided.
Through a narrow pass, the ship steamed into a large bay and at last came to the dock on a clear summer day in mid-January 1943. Sid's squad knew something had changed when they were told to leave the heavy mortars behind; someone else would unload them. The embarkation ramps dumped them off at electric trams. The trams took them through the downtown to a station, where trucks took them on a short ride to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, a stadium. "Women and girls lined the way, waving and blowing kisses." Sid and his squad "knew immediately we were in heaven."
A great repast awaited them inside the stadium. In the covered sections of the bleachers, the seats had been replaced by steel bunks. The PX sold milk, Coca-Cola, cigarettes, and other treats, but as soon as it got dark, marines in stained and ragged uniforms started slipping out. Thin and weak but determined to take liberty, the veterans had to walk about a mile to reach the center of the city. Although streetlights and neon signs had been dimmed, the marines saw people wearing clean clothes and living aboveground. They saw order, peace, civilization. For their part, the Australians welcomed them like old acquaintances, usually with a cheery "Good on you, Yank." Sid felt "absolute joy and ecstasy."
THE SEVENTH MARINES, THE LAST REGIMENT OF THE 1ST MARINE DIVISION TO land on Guadalcanal, was the last to leave. After spending Christmas at Lunga Point, Puller's 1/7 embarked on January 5 and sailed directly to Melbourne. It disembarked on January 13. The marines in Basilone's machine- gun platoon carried their adopted dog, Jockstrap, in a seabag. As they came down the ramp, the Australian immigration officer noticed Jockstrap's head poking out. " That dog can't come in here." The gunners stopped, angry and armed. " The hell he can't," one replied. The official decided to look away and the unloading continued.
The city of Melbourne slid past their windows as their train took them along the edge of it and then south around the bay to the village of Mornington. Waiting trucks carried them the short distance to their camp at Mount Martha. Rows of green eight-man tents surrounded a few semipermanent buildings sheathed in tin. The remoteness of the camp made it more difficult to skip out that evening. The trouble started the next morning. John's buddy J. P. Morgan went AWOL from nine thirty a.m. on the fourteenth "until apprehended by U.S. Army military police" at four thirty p.m.1 Manila John, however, did not get caught.
LIEUTENANT MICHEEL MET UP AGAIN WITH RAY DAVIS AND A FEW OTHERS FROM Bombing Six at North Island in San Diego when their leaves expired in early January. Bill Pittman had recovered and showed up as well. Settling into the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, the pilots would have learned that not much had happened in the Pacific since their return. Mike heard about the medals being awarded for Midway. Pilots from other squadrons had already been awarded Navy Crosses and Distinguished Flying Crosses for their participation. Unlike Bombing Six, those pilots had not been on Guadalcanal and had therefore been available to accept them. Ray and Bill had received theirs upon their return to San Diego.
They assured him that, based on what had been awarded them and others, Mike would soon get a Navy Cross. The navy's rationale had been divined. "Everybody that flew four flights" got a Navy Cross. Although "some of the guys that didn't fly four flights got them too," depending on whether they had flown the first two missions on June 4 or the second two. "Anybody that just flew the last two, they didn't get it. They might have got a DFC but they didn't get a Navy Cross." After a few days, Bombing Six received their new planes, the Dauntless's newest version (-4) and fourteen new ensigns. Mike's first flight in more than two months came in mid-January, when his squadron flew to their new naval air station at El Centro, California. Just inland from San Diego and a hop from the Mexican border, Bombing Six's new home was in the desert.
The pace of in-flight training began slowly in late January. The training began by making sure the new pilots could fly a decent formation. As flight officer, Mike made sure the veterans showed the new guys a thing or two about gunnery, dive-bombing, and the like. H
e also had to spend some time in the backseat of an SNJ, as his proteges practiced "flying on instruments," or performing maneuvers without being able to see outside. "Outside of making sure that they didn't fly into us," and other aerial instruction, "I really don't remember that we made any effort to bring them into the squadron." Just as he had had to find his own way when he first went aboard the Big E, Micheel and his friends expected the new men to find theirs. The friendship and trust that existed between Mike, Ray, Bill, and the others could not be extended easily. The new pilots were expected to measure up.
The beginning of February meant that Ray Davis would begin holding a monthly inspection. The squadron assembled on the flight line, outside their hangar. Ray stepped up to his friend Lieutenant Junior Grade Vernon Micheel and presented him with a Navy Cross, the highest decoration for valor the Navy can bestow and second only to the Congressional Medal of Honor. A golden cross hung from a ribbon whose thin white stripe separated two broad stripes of navy blue. Like those awarded to others who had flown at Midway, Mike's citation concluded: "His gallant perseverance and utter disregard for his own personal safety were important contributing factors to the success achieved by our forces and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."2 Ray pinned on the medal, stepped back, and saluted him.