Escape from Davao

by John D. Lukacs

  Warily, they shrugged their shoulders and continued onward—as well as upward and downward—through the Mindanao wilderness. They crawled up hills and slid down ravines, shimmied through rock formations, tiptoed across trickling streams, and waded rivers gorged with storm water. Clinging to thorny vines, branches, and saplings, they struggled to navigate the slippery terrain—45-degree slopes were the norm—cutting and puncturing their hands in the process.

  As the meandering column ascended to higher altitudes, the trees loomed even taller, forming a canopy several hundred feet in height. These giant natural umbrellas failed to protect them from the incessant rain, which cascaded down rocks and hillsides in miniature waterfalls, threatening to knock them off their feet. The downpours and the crossing and fording of streams and rivers left the men soaked. At night, their shelters leaked, making sleeping and drying their clothes and gear impossible. On the bright side, there was little worry of encountering any Japanese.

  The escapees had been impressed with the ability of their previous Ata porters to pole the heavily laden barotos through the strong currents of the Libuganon River, but they were absolutely amazed at the strength and agility of their replacements. Most of the new cargadores weighed no more than 110 pounds, yet, with the help of an ingenious harness of straps crossing their shoulders and forehead, each carried loads weighing between sixty and 100 pounds. And they did it barefoot, too. “How they managed to walk, climb or stumble all day long is beyond me,” said McCoy. “And I would never have believed it if I had not seen it.”

  After supper, the Americans and Filipinos gathered around the fire

  for conversation and song. One of their fondest memories was that of Dueñas’s rendition of “Home on the Range.” But they were soon mesmerized by the sound of the Atas slapping out rhythms on long, narrow drums. A slow tempo steadily increased until it reached a furious, fluctuating cadence. “At that level,” recalled Mellnik, “the wild and hypnotic rhythm touched the inner core of my being. I listened with fascination and dread as the weird messages sped into the night.” At times, it must have seemed as though they were traveling not just through a wild jungle, but through time itself.

  At Binucayan, the southernmost barrio in Agusan Province, they found a curiously empty collection of dilapidated huts. The village had been abandoned by its inhabitants for fear of the Japanese, a fact that struck McCoy as absurd. “No Jap would ever get near the place, it was so far into the hinterland.” Twenty kilometers north was the peculiarly named town of Johnson, where they were honored not only with tuba, coconut milk, and a young pig, but also a smart presentation of arms from the motley-uniformed guerrilla garrison. Stiffening their aching backs, they returned the salute wearily.

  It was the next village, Loreto, that made the most memorable impression on the weary travelers. Hanging from a pole atop the tin-roofed municipal building in the waning daylight was the first American flag they had seen on display in a year. “Seldom in my life have I been so shaken emotionally as I was at the sight,” remembered Grashio. “For the first time since April 1942, I felt like an American again, rather than a prisoner of the Japanese perpetually on the run.”

  THURSDAY, APRIL 29–SATURDAY, MAY 8, 1943

  Agusan and Misamis Oriental Provinces

  Save for a surprise appearance by the Japanese, almost nothing warranted an interruption much less an abandonment of a meal, but the escapees were so excited on this morning that they could barely touch their bountiful breakfast of rice, chicken, fish, and carabao meat. The officer in charge at Loreto, Lieutenant Antonio, had confirmed that there was a radio transmitter and receiver operated by the guerrillas. It was located, as he understood, near the town of Amparo, just south of the Japanese-held coastal city of Butuan. That was not all. “And you may be interested to know that I have heard that American submarines are landing supplies,” he added.

  With the overland segment of their expedition concluded, they excitedly discharged the Atas and most of their escorts and waited long enough for a cobbler to affix a piece of rubber tire to the heel of one of Shofner’s shoes before boarding five bancas, larger seagoing canoes, at 0930. The twenty-six-man group floated swiftly down the tributarial Umayam River for ten miles before merging at noon into the Agusan. Compared to the Libuganon, the Agusan was a broad, relatively straight and thickly populated waterway. McCoy, peering through the cogon and hyacinths fencing the riverbanks, noticed the river dwellers working near what seemed to be floating bamboo bungalows. These structures, moored on shore, were engineered to adjust to the rise and fall of the river. The men spent the night at one floating settlement called Teogum. A family had graciously vacated their home, but left behind a pet monkey, chicken, and yowling kittens, making for a restless night.

  Red-eyed and in a foul mood, they returned to the river just before 0800. The sluggish current made progress difficult—at least for their bancas. It was early afternoon when a Filipino in one of the lead bancas began to gesticulate wildly. It was a giant snake, “as long as a telephone pole,” recalled Shofner, knifing through the water perpendicular to their course at a rapid rate of speed. The oarsmen paddled frantically in reverse to slow their progress. Visibly concerned, Jumarong leaned over to Shofner and whispered “python,” as if the oversize creature could hear him. “The big snake moved on relentlessly, unheeding—as if we weren’t even there,” said Shofner. “We watched it slither ashore on the far side and disappear into the underbrush.”

  Several hours of exhausting though otherwise uneventful paddling deposited them at the town of Talacogon, thirty miles south of Amparo. The icy reception they received from the town authorities worsened their mood. “They’re probably afraid to befriend us,” speculated Boelens. “The Japs are mighty close. These boys have to play both sides of the street if they want to keep their heads.” This experience was taken as a portent, an indication of what kind of treatment they could expect given their proximity to Japanese-controlled areas. But subsequent stops at the towns of Guadalupe, Esperanza, and Las Nieves suggested that Talacogon was an aberration. At Amparo, their fears were allayed.

  It was one thing to be greeted by sympathetic civilians or an American flag, quite another to be welcomed by a genuine American. He was Lt. Walter Mester and he was the first Yank they had seen since leaving Dapecol. After filling him in on the story of their flight, they presented the letter from Lieutenant Colonel McClish and inquired about the guerrilla radio.

  “It isn’t here,” said Mester. “Division HQ is at Medina … west of Butuan. That’s where you’ll find McClish, and the transmitter is supposed to be located not far from there.”

  “Can we arrange to get there?” asked McCoy.

  “The Japs are real close. You’ll have to go around them, then take a boat across the bay to Medina. You might want to send a couple of men ahead, and bring the others on later.”

  The decision to split up was a difficult one, much more so than choosing their representatives. There were eight sets of toes wriggling in the dirt. The only men with footwear durable enough to continue the journey were McCoy and Shofner.

  Barrio Buenavista, bounded by palm trees, sugar-white sands, and the bright blue waters of Butuan Bay, was postcard-picturesque. In continuous motion since shoving off from Amparo at 0930, the men arrived at Buenavista at 1700. Here they found another guerrilla officer waiting for them—another American, no less. Capt. Tom Baxter told them that they had little time to rest.

  “You will leave at high tide, around ten o’clock tonight,” he announced. “I’ve arranged a banca for you.”

  “How long is the trip?” asked Shofner.

  “Twelve to fifteen hours. It depends on how much Jap-dodging you have to do. They patrol the coast in a motor launch, and rumor has it they’ve got a two-masted banca with machine guns. You’ll lay close to shore.”

  When it was time to board, Big Boy sidled up to Shofner and slid the strap of his treasured BAR off his shoulder. “Here,” he told Shofner, “
you might need this.” Shofner was both humbly grateful and newly confident. “I felt armed,” he would write. Joining McCoy and Shofner were Tuvilla, Baguilod, and a diminutive Dutchman named Kreickenbeek who before the war had sold dry goods along the rivers of Mindanao; his business in Medina was unknown.

  McCoy’s last pre-launch task was to send a runner with a message to the others to set out for Buenavista at once. Once settled, he pulled Shofner aside. “Whoever built her,” he whispered, “must have been in a helluva hurry.” Shofner was in agreement. “The banka [sic] was nobody’s luxury liner. Sixteen feet long and built of rough planks caulked with shredded coconut husks, it was flimsy-looking transport at best.”

  There was little wind, so the oars rhythmically slapped the ink-black waters, gliding the banca along the coastline. Back in his element, lounging on the deck, McCoy sighed.

  “It beats the bugs, old boy. Here we are, a tropic night, sky full of stars, no leeches, no snakes, no crocodiles.”

  McCoy’s nostalgia, however, belied a palpable apprehension. “Both of us were edgy. We didn’t know these people,” recalled Shofner. “For a few pesos they might hand us over to the first Jap launch that came sputtering by.” Shofner saw McCoy give his .45 a furtive check; he hugged his BAR.

  The passengers dozed uneasily for most of the night, putting in to

  Cayugan at 0730. For twenty-five quinine tablets, they received camotes, bananas, eggs, two chickens, and a kid goat. It would be a slow, hot day of sculling. For Tuvilla, who became seasick, the voyage could not end soon enough. They had already exceeded Baxter’s time frame, but Shofner, did not hold it against him. The limits of Shofner’s patience, however, would be tested when they landed at Linugos at sundown for more provisions. Clouds rolled in and a strong wind began to whip the sea. Their timid captain saw a fine opportunity to hole up in port and wait out what appeared to be an approaching storm.

  “Very dangerous,” he told Shofner. “Weather bad. Very dangerous in banca.”

  “We go anyway.”

  The captain was adamant, but could not match Shofner’s trademark obstinance.

  “Let’s shove off, now.”

  “At last Medina is in sight,” scribbled McCoy the next morning, May 5. “I was beginning to think it did not exist.” The men were escorted by locals, children, and dogs in what became a procession down the palm-fringed, packed-coral streets of Medina, a prosperous coastal settlement of nipa and wood cottages located in the heart of a rich coconut-producing area in Misamis Oriental. They soon realized that their inquiries as to the location of the headquarters of McClish were unnecessary as the glare from the new corrugated tin roof atop a large building in the plaza was like a guiding star.

  They soon caught a glimpse of the colonel striding toward them with a purposeful vigor, his pistol holster swinging from his belt. In his early thirties, he was sturdily built, with dark hair and olive skin. Two stolid Filipino riflemen followed closely behind.

  “Welcome, welcome,” said a smiling McClish while pumping their hands. “You must have had a difficult trip. Welcome … come in out of the sun.”

  “It all ran together in a rush of good-feeling; the firm handclasps, the ebullient nature, the smile,” Shofner remembered.

  “Pedro,” said McClish, motioning the visitors inside and one of his bodyguards away, “something cool to drink for our friends.”

  Shofner’s keen eyes noticed that McClish’s holster flap was open. Sure enough, once they were out of the view of the onlookers, the curtain came down on his courteous act. He took a seat behind a table and narrowed his eyes into a steely, investigative glare.

  “Who are you?” he snapped.

  “I’m Shofner, Marines. This is Commander McCoy, Navy. We escaped from Davao Penal Colony. There are ten of us and guides, but the others are waiting in Buenav—”

  McClish, unimpressed, interrupted and issued a stern challenge: “Prove it.”

  The routine—from a fellow American, to boot—was growing tiresome.

  “Sir?”

  “How do I know who you are?” asked McClish.

  McCoy and Shofner launched into a recap of their story, which they concluded by introducing McClish to Tuvilla and Baguilod.

  “Yes,” conceded McClish. “I sent a letter to Captain Laureta.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” continued Shofner. “We understand you have a radio, and contact with submarines. We want to get to Australia, so we can report about the conditions in the camps. A lot of men are dying in there.”

  McClish’s attitude softened when Shofner produced his collection of dog-eared photographs. Ultimately, the guerrilla officer rose to extend his hand. The missing bodyguard, Pedro, then emerged from behind a partition; the Americans heard the safety on his rifle click. This time, on the orders of McClish, Pedro went off to procure some tuba. McClish then turned to his stunned guests and smiled.

  “Welcome to the 110th Division, gentlemen.”

  With refreshments in hand, the visitors hovered over several maps spread upon a table. McClish’s dark eyes sparkled when Tuvilla detailed the size and disposition of Laureta’s forces, for the forces at his command had, now doubled.

  “Captain Laureta instructs me to tell you, sir,” said Tuvilla, “that he is anxious to cooperate in our common cause, to drive the enemy from our land and restore freedom to our people. God bless America.”

  Shofner cringed at the mawkish speech, but McClish’s response moved him: “We who are privileged to stand beside our Filipino brothers are filled with admiration for their sacrifice and determination in the face of a vicious enemy.”

  The reply provided the escapees some insight into the personality of Edward Ernest McClish, a Native American of Choctaw heritage from Oklahoma who had come to his current assignment via official orders and his own initiative. McClish, formerly of the 57th Philippine Scouts, was sent from Manila in late 1941 to help mobilize the Philippine Army on Panay. After his unit was routed in a surprise attack near Malabang in Mindanao’s southern Lanao Province in late April 1942, he escaped from a field hospital to Bukidnon, where he began to organize resistance forces. McCoy and Shofner listened attentively as he explained the magic behind the guerrilla army—one that seemed to have no central leader, no ascertainable organization, no supply chain, just individual, autonomous commands.

  According to McClish, the island of Mindanao, with its 36,537 square miles of rugged terrain and thousands upon thousands of acres of virgin jungle, had been designated the Tenth Military District by General MacArthur’s Southwest Pacific Area GHQ in Australia. With machine gun rapidity, McClish jabbed at the map and rattled off the names of enemy-held towns, as well as the size and strength of their garrisons. The largest concentration of Japanese forces, including a whole division of infantry and several air units, he told them, was in the Davao City area. That revelation got McCoy’s and Shofner’s attention; they had escaped right out from under the noses of the largest Imperial Army presence between Luzon and New Guinea.

  “How many men do you have?” inquired Shofner.

  “Difficult question. The morning report is never quite the same two days running.”

  The muster rolls of the 110th Division fluctuated because the army was largely composed of local militias much like the outfit that had saved the escapees at Kinamayan. Personnel issues were only part of McClish’s problems.

  “We’re short of everything,” he added. “Organization and communications are difficult. Supply is critical. What we don’t have we make, what we can’t make we steal, and what we can’t steal we do without.”

  Resourcefulness would be a guerrilla trademark. Bullets were made from brass curtain rods, highly volatile concoctions of ammonium nitrate and TNT, and gunpowder painstakingly extracted from firecrackers and Japanese naval mines. Foliage-concealed trenches dug in roads caused enemy trucks to careen and crash. The jungle was so littered with pits, sharpened bamboo spikes, trip wires, and other booby traps that Japanese troop
s refused to stray from the main roads, complaining that “even the grass bites.” Foot pedals charged radio batteries, water power turned rice mills, and messages were delivered by horsemen and relays of fleet-footed couriers. Engines ran on fuel scavenged from shipwrecks and the tanks of mining operations. Tuba, too, was useful for more than just getting drunk; some vehicles had been ingeniously converted to run on alcohol distilled from the high-octane coconut booze. A former Manila millionaire and U.S. Navy Reserve officer supervised the printing of millions of “emergency” pesos on meatpacking paper. There was even a guerrilla newspaper, The Freeman, published by a Filipino who had majored in journalism at the University of Oregon.

  The woeful shortage of trained officers and leaders was a bigger problem. The nascent movement, barely a half-year old in May 1943, was run by a handful of Americans, about forty officers and men like McClish who had refused to surrender, as well as others lucky enough to slip away from the POW enclosures at Dansalan and Malaybalay before being shipped to Dapecol. But there were other, unlikely leaders who stepped forward.

  The guerrilla army was an outfit of irregulars, in terms of composition, background, and individual personalities. The dramatis personae of the guerrilla epic would eventually include representatives from every branch of the U.S. armed forces, the Signal Corps, quartermaster units, and the remnants of long surrendered, dissolved outfits such as the 19th Bombardment Group and the 440th Ordnance. Some were Lt. Cmdr. John D. Bulkeley’s PT-boaters left behind after MacArthur’s flight. Others had previous service in the Philippine Constabulary. There were mestizos whose fathers, some of whom were African-American, had served during the Spanish-American War or the Philippine Insurrection. There were British, Swedish, Syrian, and Indian citizens, too. There was even a German who had been working as a mechanical engineer at the Mindanao Motherlode gold mine when war broke out. He had fought for his fatherland in World War I, but despised Hitler and threw in his lot with the guerrillas.