Escape From Davao (34 page)

The tug-of-war between their hearts and minds—they were exhilarated to be out of the swamp, yet wary of what the next sunrise would bring—and the fact that the Marines’ bunk had col apsed yet again, eliciting a barrage of expletives, made for another sleepless night. Hungry for answers, they skipped breakfast, struck camp, and set out in the predawn darkness along the railroad toward Lungaog.

“We’l be safe or dead in about four hours,” reasoned McCoy. “The sooner we move, the better.”

Slowly, fresh sunbeams poured into the emerald canyon, il uminating their narrow path north between the rusted rails. Because of the din of the waking jungle, they did not hear the sound of several feet sliding down the tapered trunks of the giant lauan trees towering several hundred feet above their heads and silently scampering into the undergrowth.

At the Marines’ suggestion, they marched in a spread-out patrol formation of twos and threes staggered over several hundred yards, ready to melt into the jungle at the slightest hint of an ambush. With Japanese footprints appearing both in front of and behind them, heading north and south toward Anibogan and Dapecol, respectively, Hawkins did not want to take chances.

They had traveled only four kilometers when they discovered the most disconcerting evidence yet: more of the distinctive footprints, plus cigarette butts, spil ed rice, and spent cartridges. The blood-spattered foliage and trampled brush suggested that they were standing on a battlefield, most likely the site of the battle they had heard on Monday evening.

“Looks like quite a fight,” said Dobervich.

“Yep,” agreed Shofner. “Wonder where the boys are who tangled with them?”

Hawkins noticed that the brush on both sides of the embankment seemed to be trampled in the direction of Dapecol, an indication of a retreat. But there were no sighs of relief just yet. “The Japs, we knew, would not give up easily in their efforts to kil or recapture us,” said Hawkins. “It was with great trepidation that we proceeded farther down the

track.”

Five hundred yards later, the escapees happened upon a smal vil age. After deploying Dyess and Jumarong as lookouts, they entered what seemed to be a typical rural barrio—smoke issuing from cooking fires, water boiling, chickens, pigs, and dogs scratching around. But no people. They cautiously peeked into each of the half-dozen bamboo and thatch huts, but were left scratching their heads.

“Wel , if this isn’t the damnedest thing you ever saw,” said Hawkins.

The bubbling cauldrons reminded them of their empty stomachs, so they decided to quan a breakfast of rice, papaya, cassava, and corn. They had just raised the food to their mouths when Dyess and Jumarong sprinted into the middle of the deserted vil age. The two lookouts were breathless and their faces deathly pale.

“Couple of armed men back there,” reported Dyess, squeezing the words between deep breaths.

“Filipinos. One of them drew a bead on me. Couldn’t have missed.”

Dyess said that he had cal ed to the men—“Americanos!”—but after one raised his weapon they disappeared into the jungle. First the battlefield, then the abandoned vil age, and now this—each successive development was proving more unnerving than the last. The men could have been guerril as, or guides for the Japanese. “In either case,” wrote Shofner, “they would be inclined to shoot first then ask questions.”

Stepping back between the rails, they could not shake the frightening sensation that they were being watched. “We could see nothing but dense jungle at each side, but hundreds of eyes seemed to be staring at us,” said McCoy. “Were we walking into an ambush? We didn’t know but we had to keep going.”

They marched about two kilometers before crossing paths with a fifteen-year-old Filipino boy, their first encounter with another human since leaving Dapecol four days ago. Both parties were startled; the boy ran, but stopped after de la Cruz and Jumarong cal ed out to him in Visayan. Staring at the Americans wide-eyed, he told them that his vil age, Lungaog, was nearby.

After three additional kilometers on the railroad and a thirty-minute hike along a muddy side trail, they entered the outskirts of Lungaog. Jumarong and de la Cruz approached some riflemen congregating in a hut in the middle of a clearing and explained that the group had escaped from the penal colony. The Filipinos initial y seemed skeptical, but soon approached with handshakes and a warm greeting: “Brave American soldiers, sir. Brave soldiers, sir.”

“At the moment, we looked like anything but brave soldiers,” wrote McCoy. “We al had four day beards.

Our uniforms were wet and dirty, our faces scratched by the sword grass of the jungle…. We weren’t certain how brave we were, but we certainly were ten relieved Americans.”

Runners were sent to notify local authorities, and food, including rice, cassava, and
baloots
, was brought out. A
baloot
is a duck or chicken egg taken after a ten-day setting. Boiled or baked, it is served cold and considered a delicacy in the Philippines. Though the sight of such a meal made their eyebrows arch, to refuse would have been in poor taste. So the escapees peeled the shel s, revealing a partial y formed bird, sans feathers, in a cloudy jel y, and hesitantly bit into their
baloots
; a ravenous McCoy was so hungry he gulped down two.

They then spied a wel and instantly gravitated toward it. Lathering up with hoarded soap, they dumped buckets of clean water on each other to cleanse four days of col ected filth. “The sensation was nearly as delightful as feeling solid ground underfoot had been the day before,” remembered Grashio.

Their guard lowered, they were mil ing about the wel in various states of undress, laughing, scrubbing, shaving, and celebrating when a sharp whistle ripped the air and a loud voice cal ed out an unsettling command: “Hands up!”

Frozen and frightened stiff, they stood like statues at the wel , dripping with water and suds as a strapping Filipino giant swaggered toward them. Brandishing two Colt .45 revolvers in his hands, with a campaign hat tilted on his head and two bul et-fil ed bandoliers across his barrel chest, he resembled a character they had seen in so many Hol ywood movies.

The stern-faced Filipino—estimated by McCoy to be in his early thirties, at least six feet tal and 200-plus pounds—demanded to know who they were and what they were doing there. Wiping the lather from his face, McCoy motioned for de la Cruz and Jumarong to join him. The others, careful not to make any sudden movements, attempted to dress and present as dignified an appearance as possible. McCoy cleared his throat.

“We are your friends. Prisoners. We escaped from the camp. We’re Americans.”

“How did you come here?”

“Through the jungle,” chimed in Shofner. “Through the swamp.”

The Filipino was visibly perplexed.

“The Japanese send many spies. I don’t like spies.”

Though it was hardly advisable for one who was being interrogated at gunpoint, McCoy could not help but laugh. After al they had been through, the suggestion seemed preposterous.

“Spies?” wailed McCoy, “Look at us, we’re Americans!”

The Filipino scanned the motley crew gathered around the wel . Though months in the equatorial sun had darkened their complexions, their Western features made for a convincing argument. Stil , the Filipino remained skeptical. Exasperated, McCoy yanked his dog tags from around his neck and held them out for inspection.

“Look at these. They say I am Melvyn H. McCoy, commander

U.S. Navy. If that’s not enough, ask our Filipino friends—they know who I am.”

The Filipino scrutinized McCoy’s dog tags and then rattled off several questions in Tagalog in the direction of de la Cruz. Evidently, the answers were satisfactory, for it was the first of many times they were to see a broad smile creep across the big man’s round face.

“I’m Sergeant Casiano de Juan of the Mindanao guerril as,” he announced, thrusting one of the pistols into his belt and then moving forward as if to embrace al of the escapees at once. “We are happy to see Americans!”

“Big Boy,” drawled Dyess while pumping de Juan’s hand vigorously, “we’re a hel uva lot happier to see
you
!” (Thanks to Dyess, a nickname had been created in those first minutes of friendship. Casiano de Juan would henceforth be known to both the escapees and through guerril a circles as Big Boy.)

“I have a surprise for you,” said the grinning guerril a, who then wheeled around, waved his pistol and let out a shril whistle. “These are my guerril eros.”

At the signal, fifty-odd Filipinos erupted from the jungle and engulfed the escapees in a celebratory melee of whoops and cheers. The escapees had heard about the guerril a movement that had arisen to resist the Japanese, but most of what they knew was hearsay. Now, they had actual y encountered some of these guerril as.

It was a most peculiar army. They were grimy and poorly clothed—some went barefoot—and carried weapons ranging from BARs, boltaction rifles, and pistols to homemade shotguns, bolos, and Japanese swords, spears, bows, and quivers of arrows. Even so, their resolute appearance made a strong impression. Once in the depths of despair, Mel nik executed an about-face as the escapees moved out with the ragtag escort.

“Mac,” he said, confiding to McCoy, “I think we’l make Cateel in a breeze.”

“Look, Major,” whispered Spielman, nudging Mel nik. “We’re on display.”

Indeed they were. The entire barrio of Lungaog had turned out for their arrival. Adults crowded the building—a large nipa structure formerly fil ed with fighting cocks—and children crawled up into the rafters for a better view. While the Americans polished off their second, and in some cases third, helpings of cracked boiled corn, chicken, and stringbean soup, dozens of curious blinking eyes set amid the shadows watched with rapt curiosity. Many in the crowd had brought food, while others furnished their talents, such as the guerril ero who strummed “La Paloma” on his mandolin. “We were getting to see the justly famed Filipino hospitality,” wrote McCoy. “These people were poor and our presence might mean retaliation from the Japs, but they were wil ing to share whatever they had.”

“Now,” said Big Boy, as they sat in a circular formation on the bamboo floor among the shadows created by the flickering light of a coconut oil lantern, “how do you real y come?”

“I told you,” said Shofner, “through the swamp.”

Dubious, de Juan shook his head from side to side.

“Nobody goes into the swamp. Nobody comes through.”

Final y, accepting their protestations, he took their word.

“Brave Americans,” laughed Big Boy. “Lucky too, eh?”

More lucky than they would ever know.

“We thought you were Japs at first,” explained de Juan. “We were planning to kil you, but we found out you were Americans.”

“We’re certainly glad you found out in time,” replied McCoy.

“What was al the shooting back on the railroad two days ago?” asked Hawkins. “Did you know about it?”

“Did I know about it? Ho, ho,” chortled de Juan. “My men kil ed ten Japs there.”

As de Juan explained, the bamboo telegraph—a primitive though highly effective network of scouts, swift runners, and drums—had alerted the guerril as that a Japanese patrol had penetrated their territory.

This, no doubt, was the search party sent out from Dapecol.

Ernesto Corcino, then a twenty-five-year-old guerril ero who would become an astute student of American history, compared his compatriots to the Minutemen in American Revolutionary War times.

With the alarm, men from scattered farms and barrios dropped their tools, picked up their weapons, and gathered at dusk to lay an ambush near barrio Kinamayan—the deserted vil age where the escapees had eaten breakfast. Though heavily outgunned and outnumbered, sixteen to eighty-three by one account, they had the factor of surprise. Fel ing ten enemy soldiers with their first vol ey, they pulsed a shockwave of panic through the Japanese ranks.

“They fired their machine gun and the smal cannon [mortar] but hit nothing,” Big Boy told the Americans, adding that not one of his men had been injured. “They fought only a few minutes and then they tied their dead on poles like pigs and ran away.”

For the escaped prisoners, this timely intervention by de Juan’s men was freighted with fateful significance. Firstly, had it not been for the guiding light of the firefight, they might not have found their way out of the swamp. And even if the prisoners had found an exit, the Japanese, advancing unimpeded along the railroad, almost certainly would have eventual y ensnared the Americans. Instead, the Japanese were forced to retreat south, back to Dapecol, providing the escapees a smal buffer zone and enough time to enter deeper into guerril a territory. Given the circumstances and recent revelation of information previously unknown to the escapees, their safe delivery into friendly hands seemed an improbable miracle. “One would think it a God-protected experience,” Corcino would say.

According to Corcino, guerril a sentries perched high in the lauan trees had spied the Americans at sunrise, shortly after they had begun traveling north on the railroad. These scouts also detected a detachment of Japanese approaching the escape party, though stil several kilometers distant. Despite the distance, the keen eyes of the scouts could discern the differences between the groups, with Corcino noting that the more northerly one was composed of “ten tal white men” and that those trailing were

“Japanese soldiers with their identifiable hats with hanging strips of olive green cloth.” Because of the proximity of the groups, something seemed awry. The sentinels quickly descended from their lookout posts. While most of the outpost guards rushed to report the news of the intruders, two stayed behind to observe the movements of the nearer group.