Shadows In the Jungle

by Larry Alexander

  From his observations and from reports coming to him from the locals and the guerrillas, Nellist knew that the compound was eight hundred yards deep and six hundred wide. The camp was bisected by a dirt road, with the prisoners billeted on the left of the road and the guards and camp officers to the right. Additional barracks buildings to the rear of the camp behind the prisoners’ huts were used to house transient troops. The buildings were mostly constructed of bamboo with thatched roofs. The ground inside the camp sloped upward slightly as one walked from front to back. The main gate was eight feet tall and consisted of two doors constructed of lumber and barbed wire, and secured by a single padlock. When opened, the gates swung either in or out. The compound was surrounded by three rows of barbed wire ten feet high and guarded by two guard towers, one at the northeast corner and the other at the rear of the camp, and four pillboxes, although the pillboxes did not appear to be manned. Nellist saw no sign of the tanks that had rolled in the day before, but he did note a large galvanized metal building that could serve as a garage three hundred yards inside the main gate. On a grimmer note, a large makeshift cemetery was at the camp’s southeast corner.

  He estimated the camp garrison at 75 men with possibly another 150 transient troops inside, although they might be gone by dark.

  About one thirty in the afternoon—Nellist and Vaquilar had been in the hut for some two hours—Vaquilar spotted Gil Cox, Harold Hard, and Franklin Fox crawling toward them. They had taken the circuitous route back to the Pampanga River, then snaked their way across the field undetected. When they reached the bottom of the ladder leading up into the hut, Nellist glared down at them.

  “What the hell is this, a convention?” he snarled. “Where are the others?”

  “Spread out all over,” Fox said.

  “Stay there,” Nellist ordered. Then he folded up his notes and the map and dropped them down to Fox. “Get that back to Mucci before he blows his cork.”

  After the Scouts departed, Nellist and Vaquilar hung around to continue their observation. About four p.m., Nellist said it was time to go.

  As they prepared to depart, Vaquilar, alarm in his voice, said, “Bill.”

  Nellist saw Vaquilar peeking out the window and joined him.

  A young native girl had approached the main gate to the camp and began talking to the guards. She handed something to one of the Japanese soldiers, causing Nellist, as he later noted, to become “damned concerned” lest she betray them.

  “Goddamn it,” Nellist cursed. “I thought Pajota warned the civvies to keep the hell away from the camp.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t spot us,” Vaquilar said. “Do you think she saw the Rangers?”

  “I don’t know,” Nellist replied.

  After a while, the girl left and the Scouts continued watching.

  Vaquilar said, “Why don’t I go out there and walk around and see if the Nips are wise to anything?”

  “OK,” Nellist said. “Go ahead, but I can’t cover you from here.”

  “I know,” he said.

  Vaquilar slipped two pistols under his clothes and left, walking away to the right. When he reached the road, he strolled along the shoulder, passing the camp and the guards within no more than forty feet. As he walked by the guards, he respectfully tipped his straw hat. The guards nodded sullenly in reply. As he acknowledged the guards, Vaquilar used the opportunity to scan the camp with his eyes. All seemed quiet. Twenty minutes later he was back in the hut.

  “Everything seems normal,” he reported.

  “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Nellist said, and they departed, satisfied that whatever the girl had told the Japanese, it had nothing to do with the impending attack. The two men breathed easier.

  What Nellist did not know was that the girl was trying to sell the Japanese fresh fruit, and that she had been sent by Pajota to spy.

  Satisfied the Japanese were none the wiser, the two Scouts climbed down the ladder. They walked back along the road, then cut across the fields and soon rejoined Rounsaville and the rest of the men.

  * * *

  That night, in a nipa hut in Platero, Mucci, Prince, Pajota, Joson, Nellist, Rounsaville, Dove, and Prince’s platoon leaders, Lts. John Murphy, Melville H. Schmidt, and William J. O’Connell, were gathered around a small table formulating their plan of attack. By the light of an oil lantern, Mucci spread out Nellist’s sketch. Mucci immediately noted that the biggest threat to the operation were the Japanese at the Cabu bridge. Pajota said he and his men would tie the enemy down with small-arms fire to prevent them from crossing over the river, while Joson and some more guerrillas would establish a roadblock west of the camp to prevent any help coming from Cabanatuan City.

  “We will need thirty minutes to get in there and get the POWs out,” Mucci said.

  “We understand,” Pajota agreed.

  The next problem was crossing the seven hundred yards of open field undetected. Even crawling, as they would need to do, there was a high probability of being spotted by Japanese in the guard tower. A diversion was needed, and at Pajota’s suggestion a request was radioed back for a plane to fly low over the camp. Pajota had told Mucci that flyovers by U.S. planes irritated the Japanese and drew their undivided attention.

  Prince next addressed the actual attack on the compound.

  “When we get to this depression near the road,” Prince said, “Murphy, I want you to take your platoon and swing left and make your way to the rear gate. O’Connell, Schmidt, your platoons will go through the main gate once we’ve opened it. When we get inside, O’Connell, your men sweep the camp to the right of the road. That’s where the Japs are. Schmidt, your platoon will follow me to the left and free the prisoners. You Scouts can go in with me.”

  He next assigned the unit’s bazooka team to head at the double-quick for the corrugated shed and knock out any tanks that might roll out.

  “The main thing is to get the prisoners moving,” Prince said. “Herd them, shove them, carry them, I don’t care. But we have to get them back to the Pampanga River, where the Filipinos will have caraboa carts waiting to carry the weakest.

  “Murphy, you start the show,” Prince ordered. “At nineteen thirty, you fire a single shot. That’s the signal. When we’ve cleared out all of the POWs, I will fire a red flare. That means the raid is over, and everyone should be pulling back.”

  “Remember, all of the prisoners go,” Mucci said. “No one is left behind.”

  * * *

  As the sun rose on the morning of January 30, the Rangers breakfasted on coffee, eggs, and fruit supplied by Platero villagers. Ahead of them, the Scouts downed K rations. Nellist and Rounsaville had returned from Platero and briefed their men on the plan and their role in it. Then, like the Rangers, they sat and waited.

  Throughout the day, the Scouts kept an eye on the camp, watching for any unusual activity, but all remained quiet.

  With the sinking of the sun late that afternoon, Prince and his men, less Mucci and Dove, who remained in Platero, joined the Scouts. And as the evening deepened, 121 Rangers and 13 Alamo Scouts were crawling across the field, nose to boot heel. Initially, the grass was tall, affording adequate concealment, but the closer the men drew to the road, the shorter the grass. Prince signaled a halt, and everyone stopped.

  Where the hell was the flyover?

  As if on signal, at about six thirty p.m., a Northrup P-61 Black Widow from the 547th Night Fighter Squadron came roaring out of the sky and skimmed over the camp. Out in the field, the attackers could hear the prisoners cheer as the twin-tailed night fighter, named Hard to Get and flown by twenty-six-year-old Kenneth Schreiber, buzzed overhead, its twin Wasp engines resounding across the landscape. All eyes in the camp, Allied and Japanese, were pointed skyward, some in joy, others in anger as the aircraft made several low passes overhead, often turning and twisting and climbing and diving.

  With the Japanese guards focused on the aerial acrobatics overhead, Prince signaled forward, and everyo
ne resumed crawling.

  The plane made several passes, during which Schreiber could see the Rangers crawling across the field, before flying off into the rapidly darkening sky.

  As the Rangers approached the camp, a bell began tolling from somewhere inside the wire. The attackers froze where they were and waited, expecting that at any moment the field would be swept by searchlights. But nothing happened. Prince later learned that the bell was rung by a navy POW who insisted on sounding the watch. The men crawled on.

  The last two hundred yards of field were the worst. The grass was lowest here, and though it was pitch dark now, a full moon would soon be rising from behind the Sierra Madres and would bathe the landscape in its eerie glow. Time was of the essence.

  It had taken an hour to crawl across the field, and by the time Prince’s men reached the drainage ditch, night had taken over completely and lights burned inside the camp. The attackers were just across the road from the main gate, and twenty yards ahead they could see the glow of the guards’ cigarettes. Inside, guards—some dressed only in loincloths in the evening heat—were seen lounging and chatting. Oriental music from an unseen record player or radio filtered through the night. Even the sentries in the towers seemed relaxed.

  On reaching the ditch, Murphy’s platoon split off to the left. As they made their way around the side of the camp some sound, real or imagined, spooked a guard. He shouted out a challenge, not once but several times, and took a few steps toward the crouching Americans. Cursing to himself, Murphy drew a bead on the man with his carbine, placed his finger on the trigger, and held his breath as he waited. His patience paid off, as the guard, seemingly satisfied that it was his imagination or a passing animal, withdrew.

  Murphy’s men finally reached their position, but Murphy, nervous at being the one to signal the attack, decided to wait beyond the seven thirty starting time to be sure everyone else was in position. At the front gate, the others waited, nerves as taut as cables, wondering about Murphy’s delay. Then, at about seven forty, ten minutes behind schedule, Murphy took aim at a soldier in the camp who was seated on a bench and squeezed off a round. The sound of the carbine in the still night was ear-shattering. The soldier jerked, then toppled to the ground. A sentry in the guard tower yelled something, then gunfire instantly splintered the bamboo wall. The guard spun and dropped from the tower, landing on the roof of a barracks building.

  At the sound of the first shot, the Rangers at the front gate opened fire. A sentry by the gatehouse fell dead. Kittleson and Ranger Sgt. Ted Richardson raced forward. Richardson’s job was to get the gate open. He smacked it with the butt of his Thompson, but the lock refused to yield. He slipped his .45 automatic from its holster and aimed at the lock. Inside the camp, a Japanese guard fired at Richardson. The bullet struck the pistol and sent it flying. Kittleson, with his Tommy gun, and a BAR man fired on the soldier, who was thrown backward by the impact of the slugs. They then raked the camp as Richardson retrieved his pistol and shot off the lock. As he pushed the gate inward, it snagged on the body of the dead sentry just inside the wire.

  “Pull it toward us,” Kittleson yelled.

  They did and Rangers were soon streaming into the compound.

  Bullets buzzed through the air. Rangers and Japanese alike were yelling and some screamed in pain as lead found flesh. Rangers kicked open the doors of the buildings identified as Japanese-occupied, sprayed the inside with their weapons, then tossed in grenades. Flames began to lick the walls of the bamboo structures.

  * * *

  By now the fight had also gotten under way at the Cabu bridge. The rattle of gunfire erupted, followed by a dull boom that rumbled across the landscape as Pajota’s guerrillas exploded TNT under the bridge that separated the Japanese from the prison camp.

  The bridge remained standing, but was badly holed, preventing tanks from crossing over. However, Japanese troops formed up on the far side and, with a shout of “Banzai,” stormed across the damaged span.

  Pajota’s men were ready for them.

  Formed into an inverted V, they poured rifle and machine-gun fire into the screaming mass, driving them back. Outraged, the Japanese charged into the murderous fire again and again, with devastating results, their dead stacking up on the bridge three and four bodies deep.

  A Japanese attempt to flank the guerrillas by wading across the river upstream from the bridge was also turned back.

  * * *

  The Rangers raced through the camp, blasting huts and spraying lead at enemy defenders. The Japanese, caught unaware by the sudden attack, had no plan of defense, and their bodies littered the ground.

  Through this maelstrom, the Ranger bazooka team ran to their assigned position near the corrugated iron shed. As a loader slid a rocket into the tube, two trucks carrying infantrymen burst out of the garage door on the building and raced for the front gate. The bazooka man, Sergeant Stewart, lined up on the first truck and let fly. The rocket tore into the truck, which erupted in flame. The loader quickly fed in a new round and tapped Stewart on the shoulder to indicate “ready.” Stewart, aiming at the second truck, squeezed the trigger. The rocket closed the distance in a heartbeat. It hit the truck, which blew up. The force of the explosion drove it into the first truck, creating a massive pyre of burning junk. Stewart reloaded, turned, and sent a third rocket into the shed itself, which was torn apart with a roar of smoke and fire. The two bazooka men then took up their carbines and began shooting the Japanese, some with flaming clothes, who were jumping from the burning trucks.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Schmidt and his men had by now made it into the prisoner quarters and began herding POWs toward the gate. Frightened and thinking the Japanese were killing them, many refused to go and some even tried to hide or resist.

  “Get to the front gate,” a Ranger yelled. “You’re being rescued.”

  Off to the side, the Rangers heard a man yell “Banzai” and turned to see a lone guard charging them. A few rounds from a carbine cut him down.

  All of the prisoners were emaciated and weak, and a number had to be helped out of the camp. Some were carried on the backs of Rangers. Cpl. Jim Herrick, a Ranger, carried one man who died one hundred feet short of the gate, his frail health giving out even as liberation loomed.

  “I’m not putting him down,” Kittleson heard him say. “No one gets left behind.”

  A Japanese mortar began to fire, dropping rounds among the raiders and prisoners alike. The detonation of the first round sent metal shards flying, one of which caught Rounsaville in the buttocks. He grunted with pain and fell.

  “I got him,” Nellist shouted, and ran to his friend.

  Rolling Rounsaville over, he cut away the bloody trousers with his knife and saw a jagged piece of steel protruding from the flesh.

  “The medic isn’t here,” he said. “I’ll operate on you.”

  “Oh, great,” Rounsaville moaned, then winced as Nellist dug out the offending metal with a pliers.

  “Goddamn it, Bill,” Rounsaville said through waves of pain. “You’re all thumbs.”

  “Hey,” Nellist said and grinned. “Just think how proud you’ll be when they pin that Purple Heart on your ass.”

  He patched the wound with a bandage and said, “Now get to the river.”

  Shrapnel from another mortar round hit Alamo Scout Alfred Alfonso in the gut. He rolled in pain, his hands clutching his bloody midsection. A Ranger was hit by the same round and a medic raced over and began treating both men. He stabilized them and had them sent to the rear, Alfonso carried on a stretcher.

  As it launched a third round, Nellist and others spotted the mortar and opened fire, silencing the gun. However, the last round seriously wounded the Rangers’ only physician, Capt. James Fisher. Grievously injured, he was carried to the rear.

  To Kittleson, it looked as if “the gates of hell had been thrown open” as these human skeletons, backlit by burning buildings, shuffled toward him, trancelike.

  Not far fr
om Kittleson, Ranger corporal Roy Sweezy, one of Murphy’s squad leaders, was shot down. He was dead by the time his buddy, Cpl. Francis Schilli, got to his side. Schilli administered last rites with his canteen, then hoisted the body up onto his back and carried him out.

  No one is left behind.

  By the front gate, Scout Sgt. Harold Hard saw one prisoner, literally skin and bones, who seemed about to collapse. He reached out and took the man by the arm, horrified that his fingers and thumb reached the entire way around the skinny limb. He gently led the man rearward.

  Kittleson helped another man toward the river. As he did, the man told him how the Japanese had made them work the fields, even when sick, and beat them if they looked up from the ground.

  Many of the prisoners wore the tattered remains of uniforms, but some were clad only in white underwear. This drew sporadic Japanese fire, so Kittleson told the men to remove the underpants, which they did, continuing the trip naked until they reached the river and were out of range.

  At the river, as promised by Pajota, twenty-five caraboa carts were waiting. The weakest and those who had to be carried were gently loaded onto the carts, lying on the grassy bedding of rice straw, until the carts were filled to capacity with five or six men apiece. Then, as a red flare fired by Prince arced up into the sky to signal the end of the raid, the caravan, which included 516 prisoners, headed for Balincarin.

  The Scouts, meanwhile, covered the withdrawal by setting up a defensive perimeter, laying out their ammo clips and grenades in case they were needed. Waiting there in the dark, the river to their front, the Scouts, less Rounsaville and Alfonso, who were being treated by medics at Platero, watched the glow of the fires from the camp.