Escape from Davao

by John D. Lukacs

  “Believe me,” promised Parsons, thinking of American authorities, “I’ll certainly do that, amigo.”

  Nor would the Americans have believed that he had managed to keep his true identity secret during voyages on neutral ships from Shanghai to Singapore to South Africa and, ultimately, to New York, where his escape had ended on August 29, 1942. After all, the FBI did not believe Parsons.

  “I’ll radio your story to Australia,” Parsons reassured McCoy and Mellnik. “MacArthur will be glad to hear someone finally broke out of a Jap PW camp.”

  Parsons’s war, in all actuality, had only just begun when he arrived in New York Harbor. Shortly after he began work on a joint Army-Navy intelligence-gathering plan, a telegram arrived at the Navy Department: “SEND PARSONS IMMEDIATELY.” It was signed, “MACARTHUR.” Freshly promoted, Parsons trekked back across the Pacific to become the one-man office of Spyron, a derivative of the words “spy squadron,” a unit that had been created under the aegis of the Philippine Regional Section of MacArthur’s Southwest Pacific Area. GHQ in Brisbane. There, Parsons convinced the Navy that using submarines to ferry supplies and agents to the Philippines would ultimately pay dividends with the establishment of coast watcher stations. He was joined by an Army officer named Charles Smith, who had effected his own astounding escape from Mindanao to Australia on a small yacht. It was Smith who suggested that Mindanao be Spyron’s initial objective and that he accompany Parsons on the first of several trips to the occupied Philippines.

  Some in GHQ thought that Spyron’s plans were a waste of time and resources, that Parsons was insane for agreeing to return. He had slipped through the grasp of the Japanese once; they would not let it happen again. But Parsons was not about to sit out his family’s personal war with Japan. His businessman brother-in-law, Thomas Jurika, had stayed behind to fight the Japanese in Cebu and Mindanao. Jurika’s older brother Steve, the former naval attaché in Tokyo, had briefed the Army B-25 pilots on

  the USS Hornet prior to the Doolittle Raid. Parsons’s mother-in-law, Blanche Jurika, had remained in Manila and was working clandestinely with the resistance. Parsons was sure of himself and his mission, which was to set up a communications net, learn the extent of the guerrilla movement, and determine the competence of its leaders.

  He had been in the midst of that mission when the escapees arrived. He had planned on leaving that morning for Malaybalay to negotiate with a renegade Moro leader, so it was sheer luck that he was still in Talakag. Parsons asked the Americans to wait. He promised that upon his return, he would take them to Misamis City and the mysterious Fertig. They agreed.

  Later that evening, as Parsons and Haggerty swam their horses across the Ipanan River, they discussed what they had heard and learned. Once he had been able to absorb the whole sordid tale of the escapees’ imprisonment, Haggerty’s sympathies were squarely on their side. He told Parsons that he hoped McCoy and Mellnik “would get south and inflame America.” Parsons was optimistic about their chances to do so, but also guarded.

  “They will do some good,” he said, knowing what—or, more precisely, who—awaited them back in the States. “If they’re ever allowed to talk…. I tell you, because I argued with some of them, as Mellnick [sic] and McCoy will do. They are an unsentimental bunch.”

  In Medina, it was hard to tell which traveled faster: the rumors of pending Japanese attacks or the crowds of panicky, evacuating civilians. Leo Boelens knew a retreat when he saw one. “Nips push a little on Tagoloan,” he wrote in his diary on May 21. “Maybe this is it all over again.”

  Not long after McCoy and Mellnik’s departure, the word from agents in the enemy stronghold of Cagayan was that the Japanese were preparing for an expedition against Medina. “We get rumors like this all the time,” said an unruffled McClish. “If the Japs actually make a move, we’ll hear about it before they get here.”

  Despite McClish’s confidence, the civilians had evacuated most of the coastal towns and barrios by late May. To American ears, the Filipino pronunciation of the word “evacuate” sounded more like “bokweet.” They soon further Americanized it to “buckwheat,” which would become guerrilla slang meaning to place as much distance between oneself and the Japanese as possible.

  One could not fault the escapees had they wanted to buckwheat, too. Paul Marshall strolled into McClish’s office one day holding a mimeographed leaflet that had been brought in by a Surigao-based spy. Printed in red ink, the flyer proffered a business proposal—of a sort:

  The commanding officer, Japanese Imperial Forces at Butuan, hereby offers a reward of 1,000 pesos to any loyal Filipino who will deliver … the severed head of the American known as Paul Marshall. All Filipinos are warned that any person who aids, comforts or harbors an American will be put to death.

  The notice, signed by a Japanese captain, meant that not only had the Japanese not given up on their pursuit of the escapees, but that the bamboo telegraph was a two-way communication device; informers had evidently reported the presence of the Americans in northern Mindanao.

  Unfazed, Marshall drew up a leaflet of his own, decorated with a skull and crossbones, offering 1,000 pesos for the head of the Japanese captain. Following Marshall’s instructions, the intrepid Filipino tacked the flyer to the door of the captain’s house in Butuan one dark night.

  Despite Marshall’s brazen riposte, it did not take long for additional circulars promising rewards for the heads of the other members of the escape party to start appearing. It was unsettling that the Japanese always seemed to know where they were. “Apparently, they don’t want us in one piece,” remarked Dobervich wryly.

  The Japanese were clearly closing in. The escapees hoped, for all of their sakes, that McCoy and Mellnik were also closing in on their goal. “I’m running at bowels,” bemoaned an ill Boelens, and soon, “probably at feet.”

  Dawn had just broken over a seemingly still slumbering Misamis City as McCoy, Mellnik, and Parsons made their way along weed-covered roads lined with run-down residences being reclaimed by the jungle. It was Sunday, May 30, and there was not a living soul present, much less the typical welcome party. Misamis City was more ghost town than guerrilla capital. “Why did people abandon a town?” Mellnik recalled. “Were they afraid of disease? Enemy attack? There was something scary about the ghostly structures; we trotted in silence.”

  During the sixty-mile, one-week, land-sea voyage from Talakag, they had been competently conducted from one safe area to another, “like batons in a relay race,” said Mellnik. Their experiences in the charge of Bowler’s men had been nothing short of outstanding, and consistent with the treatment they had received from the guerrillas since their first encounter with Big Boy’s men outside Dapecol. That was what made Fertig’s behavior so bizarre. While waiting for Parsons, McCoy had radioed Fertig to inquire about the messages sent from Anakan. Despite the fact that communication with Misamis City was easy, there had been no

  answer.

  As Parsons headed to Jimenez—a town fifteen miles further up the coast, halfway between Misamis City and Oroquieta—where he would be staying as the guest of the politically powerful Ozamis family, McCoy and Mellnik were led to a large house surrounded by a massive stone wall and then directed by a sentry through an iron gate into an anteroom outside Fertig’s office. The perceptible “pomp and formality,” said Mellnik, made an impression on McCoy.

  “Your Army big-shots do well by themselves,” he quipped to Mellnik.

  When they were finally ushered inside, Mellnik recognized the face of General Fertig as that of a hastily commissioned civilian whom he had seen fleetingly during the last days on Corregidor. Native soap had tinged his sandy gray hair an auburn red, but it was Wendell W. Fertig, a tall and lithe figure in his early forties with a Vandyke beard. Mellnik sensed that Fertig seemed “aloof and preoccupied.” He wore a major’s oak leaves when Mellnik had last seen him on the Rock; he now wore stars on his collar. Something seemed awry. An icy glare from Fertig’s blue eyes guided h
is guests to their seats.

  “Chick told me you were here,” said Fertig with cold formality. “What are your plans?”

  “We’re anxious to reach Australia,” answered McCoy. “We understand you have communication with GHQ. A radio message might save us a risky, two-month ocean voyage by banca. We’d like to tell General MacArthur that ten ex-PWs from Bataan and Corregidor want to rejoin U.S. forces.”

  “If you change your minds,” replied Fertig, “you’re welcome to join my command.”

  “Out of the question. We’ve had a rough time. Most of us need medication before returning to duty. Lord knows what diseases we’re carrying. When can I send a message?”

  “Since my equipment is not the best, communication with GHQ is uncertain,” said Fertig evasively. “In fact, we barely arranged the rendezvous that brought Parsons to Mindanao.”

  “Then I suppose that sub will come back for Parsons?” mused McCoy. “When will that be?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Ten of us would like to be around when it surfaces,” added Mellnik.

  “You don’t thumb a ride on a submarine just like that,” snapped Fertig. “GHQ determines who boards the sub.”

  By now, their patience was all but exhausted. They had not escaped and journeyed hundreds of miles only to quarrel with someone who, it was plainly obvious to them, was playing war. Without further reservation, they frankly informed Fertig that as professional soldiers, graduates of West Point and Annapolis, they did not consider themselves outranked by seemingly self-promoted ex-civilians, nor did they plan to join any irregular forces commanded by such men. Furthermore, they pointed out his ignorance of military procedure. McCoy had never suffered fools easily, and he could no longer control his temper.

  “I’m more familiar with Navy customs than you are,” he barked. “A sub skipper will rescue any American stranded behind enemy lines. But that’s beside the point. As a commander in the U.S. Navy, I’m entitled to use U.S. facilities to communicate with my superiors.”

  Neither officer knew that on May 14 and 19, most likely after the promised prodding from Parsons, operators at Fertig’s station had tapped out two brief messages to GHQ—but not the messages McCoy had sent from Anakan. The second, though error-filled, was more detailed:

  TO GEN MACARTHUR

  FROM WYZB

  ELEVEN PRISONERS REPORTED ESCAPED ON NINE APRIL. TEN ARRIVED IN ORIENTAL MISAMIS AND TWO ENROUTE HERE NOW … RADIO STATES THAT MISTREATMENT STORIES ARE TRUE. THEY ARE FROM CORREGIDOR AND BATAAN. WILL FORWARD DETAILS.

  But Fertig, for reasons known only to him, decided against sharing that information with the two livid officers. Instead, he chose to maintain his curiously hostile stance, saying, with an air of dismissal, “I’ll notify GHQ that you are here and request instructions.”

  Back in their billet, McCoy and Mellnik shook their heads. “We critiqued Fertig’s strange behavior for hours,” said Mellnik. Perhaps Fertig was fearful that they would debunk his phony rank in Australia. Or maybe Fertig, who was in desperate need of officers, harbored hopes that he could forcibly conscript all of the escapees. They were unaware that Fertig harbored a resentment against any American that had surrendered. He had not done so himself and had contempt for anyone who had, regardless of the circumstances. Fertig also believed that anyone who had spent time in a POW camp was damaged goods. He offered a comparable diagnosis for his visitors in his diary that evening: “They are a bit stir crazy.”

  In Fertig’s defense, the burden on his shoulders was unimaginably heavy. He suffered from persistent headaches and generally poor health, largely due to the Japanese. The rumors of imminent attacks were growing more believable by the day, hence the emptiness of Misamis City. Fertig did not have the training, ability, or resources to juggle multiple crises. An accomplished mining engineer from Colorado who had been commissioned in the Army Corps of Engineers at the start of the war, he had no military or leadership experience. Fertig was used to working with machinery, not men, and that calculated detachment, an inability to relate to others, was a major detriment to his command. Nevertheless, Fertig deserved substantial credit for successfully uniting various factions under one organizational structure during a period of rampant lawlessness and upheaval.

  Fertig would argue that it had been possible for him to do so only because he had assumed the rank of general. He believed that none of the bandits, the renegade guerrilla leaders, or the rank-and-file Filipinos who made up the bulk of his forces—even civilians, for that matter—would respect a lieutenant colonel, his rank at the time of the surrender. He had to make them believe that he was “The One” who could deliver “The Aid.” The stars on his collar, fashioned by a Moro silversmith, had thus far accomplished that goal.

  But now, Fertig’s bizarre behavior was due to his own engorged ego. Clyde Childress believed that the escaped POWs clashed with Fertig because “they were not subservient enough to him.” Mired in his own megalomania and with his command crumbling around him, Fertig could not see that the escaped prisoners had not arrived to usurp his throne. They simply wanted to get to Australia. Yet as long as Fertig had a say in it, they were not going anywhere.

  The next day, McCoy and Mellnik were given a list of regulations under which they were to live as Fertig’s guests, the most notable of which stipulated that they were free to travel only “within the coastal areas, provided such travel was made by horse-drawn vehicle.” Fertig would claim that this stipulation stemmed from the shortage of gasoline, but it was most likely an attempt at keeping them under his thumb.

  It certainly seemed as though McCoy and Mellnik would have plenty of time to try to figure out Wendell W. Fertig, as well as find a way out of their current predicament. They were, in effect, captives once more.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 10–FRIDAY, JULY 2

  Misamis Occidental, Misamis Oriental, and Zamboanga Provinces

  The bolt of lightning struck perilously close to the Narra, mere seconds after the launch had docked in Jimenez. The real shock, however, awaited the two passengers who were now making their way to the Casa Ozamis.

  Inside the spacious, adobe-walled residence, McCoy and Mellnik, on a rare furlough from Misamis City, were discussing strategy. Ten days had passed and they still had not received any word from GHQ or Fertig. And a courier would soon be leaving for Medina.

  “I’d like to tell our people about a possible change in plan,” McCoy told Mellnik, “but until GHQ answers, I can tell them nothing.”

  They had no idea whether Fertig had sent their message. His promise to do so during their first, inauspicious meeting sounded less than convincing and their most recent conference, a few days ago, had not gone well, either. McCoy had recently begun to reconsider their original plan, a trip to Australia via sailboat. Though recent news of fierce fighting in the Port Moresby area of New Guinea meant that a voyage south would be considerably difficult, the odds of boarding a submarine hardly seemed better given their relationship with Fertig. One final visit with Fertig, they decided, was in order.

  “I hope we don’t have to use this persuader,” said McCoy, patting the .45 caliber revolver in his pocket, “but we must get word to GHQ.”

  At that moment, the door swung open, revealing Ed Dyess and Leo Boelens, just arrived from Medina. The escapees had been waiting for weeks for word from McCoy and Mellnik, so when Dyess had learned that Childress would be sailing to Misamis City to procure ammunition, he volunteered for the journey to see for himself what was causing the delay.

  “So this is how you two look after our interests,” said Dyess as he gazed around the palatial Ozamis residence, with its electric lights, running water, and rotating fans.

  When he learned the reason for the protracted wait, he was outraged.

  “Hells bells! Let’s light a fire under this guy. We’ve been through too goddamned much to be stymied now by jealousy or protocol.”

  Returning to Misamis City, all four ex-prisoners strode into Fe
rtig’s office the next day. As Dyess “stared belligerently,” recalled Mellnik, McCoy took his .45 out of his pocket and placed it on his lap.

  “GHQ seems slow about answering your message,” opened McCoy. “Maybe you should remind them. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” said Fertig, who could not help but notice the pistol, as well as the message it conveyed. “But don’t place all the blame on GHQ—our transmitter has been out of order.”

  While maintenance records from the Tenth Military District remain lost to history, surviving communication records serve as evidence that Fertig’s reply was a lie. Fertig’s headquarters had been in contact with GHQ regarding the evacuation matter in messages dated June 9–10, and just one day earlier, Fertig noted in his diary that “MacArthur advises that [the POWs] will be taken out on first opportunity.” In view of his desire to rid himself of them, his decision to not share this information is telling about Fertig’s emotional and mental state. Of course, Fertig did have a lot on his mind.

  On June 7, Camiguin Island, ten miles from the northern coast of Misamis Oriental, was reported secured by the Japanese. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Lieutenant Colonel Bowler had radioed that a detachment of 200 enemy troops had taken Talakag. It seemed only a matter of time before the Japanese advanced on Medina, and ultimately, Misamis City. Although the empty streets of Misamis City should have been an early clue regarding the serious of the situation, Fertig did a masterful job keeping this news from the escapees. According to Fertig’s radio operator, Lt. Robert Ball, McCoy and Mellnik had been blissfully unaware of the danger until Ball warned them that a massive enemy invasion was afoot. All the same, McCoy was confident that he and the escapees would be out of harm’s way when the Japanese showed up.

  “I think we’ll get an answer this time,” he told the others as they departed Fertig’s office, “and in less than ten days.”

  The shrewd cardsharp’s confidence stemmed, in all likelihood, from the ace tucked up his sleeve: Chick Parsons. Though Parsons apparently enjoyed a genial relationship with Fertig, his sympathies lay squarely on the side of the escaped POWs. In all probability, an agreement in which Parsons would intercede on their behalf with MacArthur had been worked out. Parsons did, after all, possess a special cipher—called “Q-10”—which enabled him to communicate privately with GHQ in coded messages that could not be read by Fertig. And Parsons did promise McCoy and Mellnik that he would send a message regarding the prisoners’ escape and plight to Australia during their first meeting in Talakag nearly a month earlier. The officers shared a hint of these continued, covert maneuverings during a visit with Boelens, who remained in Misamis City to recuperate from malaria attacks after Dyess returned to Medina on June 12. “Commd’r McCoy and Mellnick [sic] over,” wrote Boelens on June 15. “Thinks [Parsons] double-cross, has worked.”