Escape from Davao

by John D. Lukacs

  “You will now hear your punishment,” announced the interpreter.

  To Bank, it seemed as though Wada was unfolding the paper in slow motion; the ordeal truly was never-ending. “Between the time he said this to the time he read the punishment, I think twenty years elapsed.”

  Twenty paces behind them, feet—some shod, most bare—kicked and shuffled nervously in the dirt. Otherwise, not a sound was heard. Every eye was focused on Wada’s lips, every head turned, every ear strained to hear the verdict. Finally, Wada began to read.

  “Men called here,” he droned, “due to insufficient control and supervision of their men, neglecting their duties, causing the escape of war prisoners, which is the major crime, have been given the following punishments …”

  Eyelids shuttered. Throats instinctively swallowed.

  “… And are directed to reflect their faults. They shall thereby spend the number of days indicated in meditation of the past incident and observing modest and model conduct at all times.”

  Individual sentences were read, but few heard them. All that those twenty men could hear were the words reverberating in their minds: Directed to reflect their faults … Meditation.

  Rendered immobile, trembling and trying to corral their disjointed emotions, Bank and the others opened their eyes to an unexpected, inexplicable reprieve and, for the time being, a new life.

  SATURDAY, APRIL 17, 1943

  Kapungagan, Davao Province

  Despite their improved circumstances, the escapees were not totally free men. “We had escaped from Dapecol,” admitted McCoy, “but never from the memory that [our friends] were still there.” “All ten of us would have been consoled immensely had it been possible for us to know,” Grashio would write, “that [Maeda] would not slaughter others for what we had done.” They could not have known what had just taken place at Dapecol, nor could they refuse their hosts’ hospitality. Feelings of guilt would hang over them like storm clouds, despite the fiestas and feasts.

  The effects of the fiesta on the evening of April 12 had just about faded when two aides to the mysterious Captain Laureta, Lts. Jose Tuvilla and Teofilo Rivera, arrived to examine the escapees’ credentials. “In cold, formal terms, they demanded to know who we were, where we came from and where we were going,” said Mellnik. Both officers were spit-and-polish and menacingly serious—Tuvilla angular, Rivera muscular and bearded—as they went about their task with official efficiency.

  “Which of you are Grashio and Shofner?” asked Rivera.

  Evidently, Laureta had not discarded the notion that the Japanese were employing their Axis allies to dupe the guerrillas. That anyone could successfully traverse the swamp was apparently still too baffling to believe. “Grashio and Shofner were understandably indignant as they presented their papers showing they were officers in the United States Army and Marine Corps, despite their names,” recalled McCoy. To suggest that they were anything but Americans, that their sores and cuts were not real, that their bodies did not ache and shake with pain and malaria, was an insult to the two men.

  The escapees had little choice but to comply. Once satisfied that the escapees were who they represented themselves to be, Tuvilla and Rivera notified Laureta that it was safe to return to Kapungagan. Trailed by heavily armed bodyguards, Laureta finally emerged from the jungle at noon, as contrite as he was cautious, on April 17.

  “My apologies, gentlemen, for being so suspicious,” he said as they retired to his office. “But there is a price on my head and the Japanese have employed tricks before to get me.”

  Claro G. Laureta, compact with tightly shorn black hair, was in his mid-thirties. Barely five feet tall, he wore a Japanese uniform shirt, carried a .45 automatic pistol and a sheathed bolo, and had the feverish look of a man who was weighed down by malaria attacks and the responsibilities of a sprawling command. As Laureta and the escapees shared their stories, mutual respect and admiration replaced the awkward hostility. Shofner described Laureta best: “A strange, paradoxical personalty, he had a sentimentality which could set his eyes brimming with tears over a patriotic song, and a streak of granite toughness which could bring summary beheading for a guerrilla who transgressed his iron-clad

  rules.”

  While the Americans had been struggling to survive in prison camp, Laureta and his men had been struggling to survive in the jungle. The constabulary officer had arrived from western Mindanao in the midst of the panic that ensued after the civilian evacuation. Shortages of food, medicine, and clothing led to massive civil unrest, enabling bandits to seize power and Japanese spies and informants to proliferate. The erstwhile policeman labored instinctively and intensively to restore order. Once the intimidating, iron-willed dynamo had effectively turned the Davao area into his own district, he focused on the invader. His motivation was simple: to avenge the likely deaths of his wife and children.

  “I do not know if they are dead or alive,” he said tearfully, his black eyes flashing. “For months I have searched for them but I can find no trace. You can see why I hate these Japs and why I have devoted myself to killing as many of them as I can.”

  Though their presence was another burden on his shoulders, Laureta was sympathetic to the Americans’ mission. He agreed with their stated desire to reach friendly forces and tell America the truth about what was happening to its men in the Philippines. Professing his loyalty to the United States, he readily volunteered whatever assistance he could provide. But first, he needed their advice.

  Laureta unfolded a letter that had arrived by courier from Medina, a town on the coast of northeast Mindanao, several days earlier. Dated the 31st of March, it had been written by an American Army officer named Lt. Col. Ernest McClish, who claimed to command a sizable guerrilla operation in Agusan Province, north of Davao. McClish possessed 500 rifles, plenty of uniforms and supplies, and three diesel-powered boats. Most important, at least to the escapees, was McClish’s brief mention that he was in radio contact with Allied forces in Australia. The letter was an invitation for Laureta to link up with McClish’s outfit.

  “I’d like to team up with a man like that,” said Laureta, “but the Japs have hit me from so many directions that I’m afraid this letter is another trick.”

  Mellnik examined the letter. It was no trick, he told Laureta—he knew of McClish.

  “In fact, I helped brief him on PA [Philippine Army] matters prior to his departure for Mindanao in November 1941. You can take that letter at face value.”

  “Well,” added McCoy, “the letter seems genuine … Why don’t you try contacting him?”

  “Yes, that’s what I had in mind,” said Laureta thoughtfully. “Perhaps you gentlemen would be interested in this mission.”

  Laureta suggested that the Americans, traveling under an armed, fully provisioned escort, journey to Medina. There now were two options on the table in Laureta’s office. The escapees could continue on to Cateel, a seven-day hike, and attempt to procure a vessel for a sea voyage to New Guinea and Australia. Or they could try to meet McClish in Medina, a challenging jungle journey of nearly 100 miles, with tough mountain trails and river navigation.

  As McCoy saw it, despite the difference in distances and inherent risks, Laureta’s plan was the better for two reasons: “our eagerness to repay Laureta for his kindness and the reference in McClish’s letter about radio contact he had with Australia.” McCoy was confident that if there was a radio, he could contact the Navy and arrange for a submarine to rescue them. Laureta concluded his pitch by promising that if they failed to reach Medina, or if McClish could do nothing for them, he would help them execute their original plan. It was put to a vote.

  “What do you think, Shof?” asked Dobervich.

  “Sounds like a natural.”

  Shofner turned to Dyess: “Ed?”

  “Okay with me.”

  Around the room, heads nodded in the affirmative. Laureta cracked a rare smile—these were his kind of men. He made sure they understood that the trek wou
ld require them to travel through virgin jungle and over mountainous terrain. The fact that large sections of territory on the maps spread out before them—territory through which they would have to pass—had been ominously stamped “UNEXPLORED” was hardly comforting.

  “You will be going where few white men have ventured before,” said Laureta before clicking off the names of various native tribes rumored to inhabit the areas. “These people are headhunters. They kill for the sake of killing.”

  “Captain Laureta,” piped up Grashio, “so do the Japs.”

  It was nearly impossible to fathom such an adventure, one perhaps more challenging than their last, and especially one in which the Japanese were an afterthought, but they were by now accustomed to long odds. A series of gambles, taken individually and collectively, had gotten them this far. Perhaps one more great gamble could get them home.

  CHAPTER 15

  Unexplored

  There was no trail and I am wandering still

  In search of something lost upon a hill …

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21–WEDNESDAY, APRIL 28, 1943

  Davao and Agusan Provinces

  The flotilla glided through the morning mists hanging over the

  Libuganon River, the escapees watching wistfully as the Eligio David family, waving from the riverbank, receded into the distance.

  In a procession reminiscent of a traveling circus, the expedition had commenced at 0800 after an emotional farewell during which the Davids were presented a curious assortment of parting gifts: a pearl stud from Shanghai; quinine pills; some soap; a check for $40 drawn from a Quantico, Virginia, bank—all Mike Dobervich recalled having in the account. The Americans regretted that they could not give more, but there was no way they could ever repay the Filipinos.

  They had left with warm memories—and supplies. In three days Laureta’s men had assembled 300 pounds of rice and corn; six dozen eggs; nine blocks of sugar; twenty pounds of coffee; a bamboo tube of salt; pecks of tomatoes, beans, and dried peas. There was also 110 pounds of salted carabao jerky, plus twenty squawking chickens, housed in a portable coop.

  McCoy had acquired a .45 caliber Colt revolver. Boelens left with a swollen jaw, thanks to the painful extraction of a wisdom tooth. And Dobervich was just plain lucky to leave. Racked with a fever and vomiting, he was quarantined in his own craft while the rest of the thirty-six-man detachment occupied the other five barotos, the twenty-foot dugout canoes that would be pulled, paddled, or poled up the shallow river on the first leg of their journey.

  While roughly ten of Laureta’s men accompanied the expedition as soldiers, the work of propelling the barotos was the responsibility of the Ata tribesmen who served as cargadores. Laureta, the escapees learned, had taken the Atas’ elders hostage in order to pacify their territory. And though the Atas feared Laureta, the Americans stared uneasily at the pygmies’ primitive yet deadly arsenal of spears and poison-tipped arrows.

  Also along for at least part of the journey were Laureta, Lieutenants Tuvilla and Rivera, Sergeant Baguilod, and, much to the delight of the escapees, Big Boy. The sight of Big Boy cradling his BAR as they snaked along the shimmering river was reassuring. Another welcome addition was Sgt. Magdaleno Dueñas. Nearly thirty years old, yet barely five feet tall with a whistling, high-pitched voice, the hardworking Dueñas was responsible for their baggage. He wanted nothing more than to be an American soldier and citizen, so the next best thing for him was to serve alongside Americans.

  At 1730, the party stopped for the night at a small outpost called Florida. “Here we were given an example of how Filipinos can throw things together. In no time at all they had built a serviceable table, served coffee, and then rice and meat,” McCoy wrote in his log. The laborious process of setting up—erecting shelters, starting a fire, and preparing meals—then striking camp would be repeated daily and the Americans would never stop being amazed at the skill and efficiency of the Filipinos.

  The serpentine river’s strong current, 3 to 4 knots, made for slow progress. The barotos often ran aground in the rapids and all hands would have to splash out to push the canoes into deeper water. The first two days would prove such a struggle that they covered only about twenty kilometers. It was not surprising then that Shofner, Grashio, Hawkins, and Marshall decided to stretch their legs on shore late in the morning of the second day. In more ways than they imagined, the jungle was calling them. “Soon we rounded a bend and were out of sight of the barotos, savouring the feeling of being jungle explorers, treading the wild, uncharted heartland of Mindanao,” recalled Shofner. Suddenly, a strange male voice beckoned to them from the brush: “I’m Mae West. Come up and see me sometime.”

  Startled, they stopped in their tracks. For several seconds, no one uttered a word.

  “Hey, Shifty,” said Grashio, breaking the silence, “am I going nuts?”

  “I’m Mae West,” repeated the voice, now sounding more like a command than an invitation. “Come up and see me sometime!”

  At that moment, said Shofner, “a human apparition” appeared. It was a rail of an old man, toothless and bowlegged, wearing a shawl-like robe. Though fair-skinned, his appearance bore an uncanny resemblance to the Indian leader Mahatma Gandhi.

  “Hot dog!” he exclaimed. “Americans! I’m glad to see you!”

  He led the bewildered Americans to the bamboo hut that was his home. After somewhat translating the man’s language—a bizarre smattering of Spanish, local dialects, and American slang, mostly movie

  dialogue—they deduced that he had once lived in the United States and was, in all likelihood, a fugitive from the law. Lonely and half-mad, he now lived with three old, raggedly clothed women whom Grashio referred to as his “antiquated harem.”

  After politely taking leave of their host, they pressed on, joined by Boelens, who had come ashore when the barotos were beached for lunch. They walked leisurely along the riverbank with their pant legs rolled up, crossing small streams and marveling at the pristine beauty of the jungle as birds and monkeys perched on hanging branches noisily heralded their passing. “We were about two bends ahead of the main party when we saw him,” wrote Shofner.

  Shofner was referring to an indigenous tribesman, not an Ata, but perhaps related, short in stature, bushy-haired, and with skin “as dark as mahogany.” He wore only a loincloth and carried a ten-foot spear twice as tall as himself, as well as a bow and satchel of arrows. Ten others, similarly dressed and equipped, followed in single file. It looked to be a hunting party, but what these men were hunting became an immediate matter of speculation. “I thought of my bolo, but knew it would be useless if they attacked us with their long spears and bows and arrows,” recalled Hawkins. “We did the only thing we could think of—just stood there trying to appear nonchalant until the party advanced and halted about 15 feet away from us.”

  The two sides stood face-to-face, motionless, each silently sizing up the other. Though the feral glint in the eyes of the hunters was unmistakable, “they seemed to be as spellbound as we were,” said Hawkins, “for during those few moments they said nothing, but merely stared at us with a look of wonder. No doubt we were the first white men they had ever seen.” Then, just as suddenly as the tribesmen had appeared, they melted back into the jungle.

  Their lesson learned, the Americans would not stray from the barotos until disembarking at the home of Lieutenant Rivera, near the outpost of Gupitan, at dusk. There, light from an oil lantern revealed more of the incomparable hospitality of the Philippines, as well as the incredible speed by which the bamboo telegraph operated: their names had been carved onto the bamboo cups from which they drank. As they retired, massive thunderheads unleashed a fierce downpour.

  The following morning, they learned that the heavy rains had raised the water level of the river, creating churning rapids. Not even the choppy waters nor the sporadic showers could dampen their enthusiasm. Not only were they leaving Dapecol behind, they were embarking on once-in-a-lifetime journey. They paddled along, p
ointing in wonderment at the sight of Ata treehouses lodged high above them. Stopping near one such residence for lunch, the Marines found a bow and some arrows and, with childlike glee, took turns firing the arrows into the

  brush.

  Encounters with natives were few but noteworthy. McCoy did his best to limn the incredible journey in his log: “0730—met about 3 families of Atas floating downstream on bamboo rafts … the women’s breasts are no larger than the men’s. (P.S. Just passed another raft. I was wrong about the breasts.)”

  Spellbound, they floated along, dazzled by the foliage lining the palm-fringed riverbank. The chatter and songs of parrots, kingfishers, and red-beaked toucans known as kalaw birds provided a fitting soundtrack. “I sure would like to take a movie of this trip,” lamented McCoy.

  Upon their arrival at Kapalong, an old constabulary camp fifty miles from Dapecol, the Atas were released from their indentured servitude and Laureta contacted the local chieftain to requisition more porters.

  It was the end of the line for Laureta, too. The next morning—Easter Sunday—after Grashio led a prayer service and before the group, which now numbered forty-six men, set out on foot for Agusan, Laureta placed Lieutenant Tuvilla in charge of the expedition. The Americans, effusive in their thanks, were sad to see Laureta return to his command.

  “We’ll be seeing you later,” yelled Dyess, “when we come back with the Yanks in the tanks!”

  “Bring the Marines, too,” said Laureta. “And some Flying Fortresses!”

  Regardless of the fact that the territory was marked “UNEXPLORED” on their maps, they had, metaphorically speaking, been here before. Less than a mile into their overland trek, their well-defined mountain path turned into a faint trail. And then it inexplicably vanished. The swamp fiasco was still fresh in Mellnik’s mind, so he pulled Tuvilla aside to ask if the guide knew where he was going. “Yes,” replied Tuvilla, reassuringly, “this is Main Street to him.”