Escape from Davao
Page 31
It did. Although Parsons was a prime mover, the escapees unknowingly had, once again when they needed it most, received some additional, providential assistance. The strange messages emanating from the Mindanao jungles regarding escaped POWs were initially viewed with some skepticism by GHQ. No one, after all, had escaped from the Japanese, much less a large group of POWs. Some in the Allied Intelligence Bureau, in fact, believed the messages a clever Japanese ruse. Gen. Courtney Whitney, the head of AIB, referred the matter to his deputy controller, Lt. Col. Allison Ind, for further investigation. Though the messages were bereft of details (only a few of the escapees were mentioned by name), Ind’s eyes widened when he saw one of the names: “Dyess.” Ind had been Gen. Hal George’s intelligence officer when Dyess was in command of the Bamboo Fleet on Bataan. It was a matter of fate, pure and simple, that Ind was the one at AIB tasked with verifying the startling, static-filled messages. “If the man claiming that name was genuine, he would know the answers to some questions I could send,” reasoned Ind. Whitney ordered Ind to proceed and Dyess, in turn, responded correctly, setting in motion a course of events that would lead to Parsons’s crucial involvement.
The long-awaited reply from Australia, however, was bittersweet: Fertig informed McCoy and Mellnik that they—and only they—had been cleared for evacuation. They had planned their breakout, escaped, survived the swamp, and journeyed throughout Mindanao as a team. Each had taken an equal share in the risk, but now the reward was to be for only two. McCoy and Mellnik were furious, but GHQ refused to budge.
GHQ, however, made an exception for Dyess, who, in a long interview before his departure, had impressed Fertig with the idea that “The Aid” could be delivered by air. In McCoy’s and Mellnik’s absence, he and Boelens had scouted sites for potential airfields that could be used by the Allies during the retaking of the Philippines. Fertig wanted Dyess to explain his theories in person at GHQ and on June 15 radioed MacArthur to recommend that he be added to the evacuation list. However transparent Fertig’s motives, Whitney agreed and Dyess was ordered to evacuate with the others in early July, according to a message received from GHQ on June 21. Dyess, already back in Medina, presumably knew nothing of these developments. If his behavior on Bataan was any indication, he probably would not react favorably to the order. But Dyess would have little choice. He had already ignored one evacuation order on Bataan; two instances of insubordination would not have been looked upon kindly by his superiors.
For McCoy, who considered himself the group’s shepherd, this was proving a difficult, unexpected quandary. He knew that someone had to get out and tell their story. He also knew that he could arrange to bring the others out only if he was successful in getting to Australia himself. Nonetheless, he found the idea of leaving the others behind morally repulsive. With little other recourse, he composed a letter to the other members of the escape party in which he explained the situation and requested their immediate input. In view of the rumors of looming Japanese attacks, he hoped that they would still be in Medina—or alive, for that matter—if and when his letter arrived.
Shofner knocked on the door of the room that Jack Hawkins shared with Mike Dobervich. A groggy Hawkins could tell by the look on his friend’s face—the tell-tale way he pursed his lips—that Shofner was angry.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hawkins.
“I’ve got a letter from McCoy. Just came in by launch … Fertig didn’t send our messages,” growled Shofner, “and wait ’til you hear the rest!”
By the time they finished McCoy’s missive, Hawkins and Dobervich shared Shofner’s indignation. The fact that Fertig could not even have forwarded their names to American authorities so that their families would know that they were alive was “downright distressing.”
“If you say so, we’ll give up our transportation, rejoin you, and we’ll carry out our original plan,” McCoy signed off his letter. “If you prefer to have us go now by submarine, we’ll do our utmost to see that all of you get back later.”
“Maybe we should go over and try to force the issue with Fertig,” suggested Shofner.
“I believe McCoy would have suggested that if he thought it would do any good,” said Dobervich.
“You’re probably right. Maybe it would be just as well to sit tight
here … and wait for McCoy to handle things. Once he gets with the Navy in Australia, I’m sure he can make arrangements for us. You know Mac. He won’t forget us, and he won’t give up.”
The news was typical “stragedy,” a Bataan buzzword that combined strategy with tragedy, in the judgment of the escapees. They almost expected such developments. “Shifty,” lamented Sam Grashio upon hearing the news, “it looks like we have the enemy right where they want us.”
This “stragedy” meant that they would have to keep moving, albeit in different directions, toward decidedly separate fates. Grashio, the Marines, Marshall, and Spielman would retreat east to Daan-Lungsod and the new 110th Division headquarters. Dyess would reluctantly journey westward to Jimenez, the rallying point for the sub extraction party agreed upon by GHQ and the expedition’s leader, Parsons. On the 15th of June, Dyess, McClish, and Ensign Iliff Richardson, an emissary from Leyte guerrilla commander Col. Ruperto Kangleon, accompanied by twenty-odd troops, put out on the diesel-powered launch Rosalia. Both McClish and Kangleon, facing imminent attack, were seeking Fertig’s help.
But Fertig was in trouble, too. The recent flurry of radio traffic regarding the secret submarine rendezvous had attracted the attention of Japanese radio operators aboard naval RDFs—radio detection finders—that had formed a floating picket around Mindanao. Signals, recalled Allison Ind, beamed from ship to ship, from one vessel bobbing quietly in the Mindanao Sea, just off the island of Bohol, to another anchored near Leyte, in the Surigao Sea. Within no time, these electronic eavesdroppers would triangulate the locations of the guerrilla radio stations. “Japanese Naval Air Operations would be glad to hear of this ‘fix,’ ” Ind
wrote.
Early on the morning of June 26, Misamis City was bombed, precursory action to a multi-pronged invasion involving landings in the north along the coast of Misamis Occidental and in Pagadian Bay, fifty miles to the south in Zamboanga Province. The Japanese, once content to rule Mindanao’s coastal cities while strip-mining the island of its resources, now seemed intent on conquering Fertig’s fiefdom.
A combination of luck and foresight had kept Fertig one step ahead of the Japanese—he had escaped to Corregidor just before Bataan fell and had left for Mindanao on one of the final flights from the Rock on April 29, 1942—so where he and his mobile headquarters went, so did the others. It was a mad blur of perspiration, packing, and profanity. Documents were incinerated, aerials were taken down, wires coiled, and radio sets strapped to the backs of guerrillas for hasty flight. Leo Boelens, recovering from malaria, would slip out of Misamis City on a sloop just forty minutes before the arrival of the Japanese landing craft. Going to bed fully clothed and ready for another quick flight, Boelens would write in his diary, “Wonder about Ed.”
McCoy and Mellnik, biting their nails as exploding bombs could be heard from the direction of the nearby town of Aurora, also wondered if Dyess would arrive in time. Both Charley Smith and Chick Parsons had already reported in to Fertig’s latest headquarters approximately six miles west of Bonifacio, the latter on July 1 after narrowly escaping through the backyard of the Casa Ozamis as Japanese soldiers splintered the front door with an ax.
Dyess would follow in Parsons’s footsteps. According to Richardson, the Rosalia was making about six knots, “going along with a good, smooth gush” off Jimenez at 0400 on June 26 when a searchlight from a Japanese landing barge splashed a bright, bluish green light across the vessel. “It was an awful feeling,” Dyess would say, “like men must feel in a police show-up. There was no place on that damn boat where we could get out of the glare.” Richardson ran the Rosalia onto the beach and the passengers sloshed through the knee-deep w
ater and melted inland. They were working their way through some rice paddies at dawn when a woman, much like a Filipino Paul Revere, came running down the road to alert them. “Hapons!” she cried. “Hapons coming!” They crouched silently in the underbrush as an enemy column passed by. The soldiers were so close that you could hear the sound of their equipment clinking as they marched. “They padded past us like figures in a dream,” recalled Richardson.
It was therefore necessary to take an elongated detour around Jimenez and, after a forced march of several days through the jungle, a weary Dyess finally staggered into Fertig’s mobile command post at 1700 on Friday, July 2.
There would be little time, though, for him to rest. A date with a submarine awaited.
CHAPTER 17
A Story That
Should Be Told
Westward we came across the smiling waves,
West to the outpost of our country’s might …
Eastward we go and home, so few—so few—
Wrapped in their beds of clay our comrades sleep …
SATURDAY, JULY 3–FRIDAY, JULY 9, 1943
Zamboanga Province, Mindanao
The raindrops pattered, then ran in rivulets off the eaves of the thatch roof, much in the same way that Ed Dyess’s scattered thoughts connected and poured through his pencil. There was so much to say, so much to write on this steamy Mindanao morning, yet so little time.
Dear Sammy—
I just arrived here and “got the dope.” By the time you receive this things will be “all off” or I’ll be long gone. Sam, you know I wouldn’t go if I didn’t think it was best for us all; Leo and I have talked the situation over. With me there I am sure we can be together again soon; however, if I stay none of us will have a prayer.
It had taken Dyess time, plus the help of Boelens, to understand that he had to go. Someone had to tell the story of the escape and speak for the thousands who had perished, as well as the thousands still suffering in captivity. His was to be that voice. Dyess, though, was the last one to realize it. As those drawn into Dyess’s orbit would attest, his magnetic aura had become increasingly powerful since the escape. The proof? Even the not easily impressed Father Edward Haggerty had been captivated by Dyess. Wrote Haggerty: “And all who heard him thought as one: ‘Here is a man to put the plight of our prisoners before the public.’ ” Still, Dyess felt the need to explain his actions to those, like Grashio, who knew him best.
It is not a run out boy, because you and Leo are closer to me than brothers. It gives me a helluva empty feeling to say farewell, but believe me it won’t be for long; I wish it could have been otherwise, but mother fate stepped in. I’ll see that your wife, folks & uncle are notified, but it won’t be long before you can tell them yourself. I don’t feel right without having you along Sam, & I’ll never be satisfied until we are flying together “knocking sparks out of [the] flaming assholes.” May the “pickins” always be good.
Your Bud & Pal,
Ed
Entering Fertig’s mobile headquarters, Dyess and Boelens found the others—Fertig, Smith, McCoy, and Mellnik—sweating the details of the submarine rendezvous. An extraction from Jimenez or Misamis would have been ideal, but the Japanese presence scotched that. They had then planned to travel south by truck to Pagadian City, a distance of no more than fifteen miles, for a rendezvous near Pagadian Bay, but reports of increased Japanese activity in the south now rendered that alternative useless, too. Neither the humidity nor the stress of the situation seemed to affect Chick Parsons. Shortly after his arrival at Fertig’s temporary headquarters, a radio message was received at AIB in Brisbane. The Q-10 code, once deciphered, revealed that Parsons, as per his persona and reputation, was prepared for such eventualities.
ARRIVE HQ TODAY FROM NORTH. WARN SUB COMMANDER SITES ONE AND TWO FOR MEETING NORTH COAST IN HANDS ENEMY SITE THREE NOT FEASI BLE. RECOMMEND MEETING ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNSET NINTH VICINITY NORTHEAST COAST OLUTANGA ISLAND FROM SAME LAUNCH THAT MET SUB. IF POSSIBLE THIS MEETING SHOULD BE ARRANGED SPECIFICALLY TO AVOID ENDANGERING SECURITY. AREA SECURE AT PRESENT NO AIR OR SEA PATROLS. PORTABLE TRANSMITTER MALANGAS WILL WARN IF SUDDEN CHANGES. MORE TOMORROW.
Parsons’s plan required an intense hike to Margosatubig, a five-day trip spanning some sixty-five miles, on the Igat Bay inlet. After mapping out a route that would take advantage of his knowledge of the labyrinthine network of trails, Parsons added a cushion of an extra day since they would be traveling over some difficult terrain, much of which was mountainous and marked with the familiar “UNEXPLORED” on maps. And that looked to be the easy part.
Upon reaching Margosatubig, they would sail to the rendezvous point, approximately five miles into the heart of Dumanquilas Bay, a small body of water more than forty miles east of Pagadian City and just northeast of Oluntanga island. When Fertig’s finger indicated the point about where the pickup would occur, Mellnik was stunned.
“Out there?”
“That’s how it is,” said Fertig. “But you’ll have the advantage of knowing when and where the sub is coming, which the Japs won’t. To reduce the time you’ll be on the water, I’m sending you out in the General Fertig.” That ship was a fast, sixty-foot, steam-powered launch that had formerly been the property of a lumber company.
Although Fertig got in the last word in his rivalry with McCoy and Mellnik, Parsons had the final say in regards to the expedition. Because he preferred to travel light—he favored a uniform of shorts, tennis shoes, and a Navy officer’s cap and rarely, if ever, carried a weapon—the others would, too. The group—five Americans, an armed escort composed of Lt. Roberto de Jesus and five soldiers from F Company, 2nd Battalion, 115th Regiment, a unit based in southern Zamboanga, plus guides and porters furnished by Fertig—would carry no food, little baggage, and only a Thompson submachine gun and some pistols. Parsons knew he could count on Filipino generosity to feed them and that it would be wise to avoid entanglements with the Japanese. It would be his knowledge of the land and its people, as well as his ingenuity, that would give the group a fighting chance.
The expedition commenced at 1000; they would not have to wait long to see Parsons in action. They had hiked for only a few hours when they happened upon a river with a burned-out bridge. An excellent swimmer, Parsons disrobed and plunged into the water to begin assembling the remnants of the smoldering timbers into a pontoon bridge. As the others followed Parsons into the water, the Filipinos were both impressed and frightened by their leader’s bravado. One approached McCoy. “Sir,” he cautioned, “there are many crocodiles in this river.” McCoy immediately ordered the guerrilla carrying the tommy gun to stand guard over the operation. Only when the group had successfully crossed did McCoy decide to tell Parsons about the crocodiles. “His skin is naturally dark,” wrote McCoy, “but he turned pale.”
Spurred by thoughts of a good meal and solid sleep, they reached a barrio at sunset only to discover a squad of Japanese troops bathing in the schoolyard. Dyess yelled an alarm and they immediately buckwheated as the startled Japanese fumbled for their clothes and weapons.
The Americans and Filipinos clambered up a muddy trail leading to the mountains and, flush with adrenaline, did not stop for a moment’s rest. Unable to shine a flashlight or torch, they groped along in the darkness, miserably hungry, for four or five hours until the terrain leveled off. Out of breath, they filtered into a clearing where they found a small cornfield, “always an indication that a house was near,” Parsons would say. Wandering along the rows, they snapped ears from the stalks and gnawed the raw corn from the cobs.
They spotted a bamboo structure at the edge of the clearing. Inside, in a space no more than fifteen feet square, were crammed some thirty men, women, and children, plus an assortment of dogs, cats, and other animals—the entire population of the town from which they had just fled. As they learned from the friendly Filipinos who shared some cooked chicken, a patrol of fifty Japanese soldiers had entered the town and the townspeople also had just barely escap
ed.
While the others shoehorned into the hut for the evening, Parsons and Smith attempted to sleep in the chicken coop after first shooing out the occupants. Evidently, the evicted fowl resented the foul treatment and returned during the night to take their revenge; when Parsons and Smith awoke at 0400, they found several chickens and roosters perched on top of them, as well as an entire night’s worth of droppings. It was a harbinger of events to come.
One of the residents of the town, claiming to know a shortcut to the next barrio, offered his services as a guide. True to form, the group promptly got lost. It would take several hours of stumbling around and down the mountain before Charley Smith, holding the group’s compass, assumed control of navigation and returned them to the trail. The column proceeded along the path, whistling cheerfully, until Parsons and Smith called an abrupt halt. The others caught up and congregated over a parcel of soft mud freshly dotted with footprints, shallow imprints made by split-toed shoes—those kind of footprints.