Escape From Davao (14 page)

The Death March had proven the necessity of solidarity, a message Dyess intended to convey to the men of the 21st Pursuit—if he could find them in the chaos of O’Donnel . Other than segregating the Americans and Filipinos, the Japanese had made no attempt to identify or group the prisoners according to their units or ranks, toppling the hierarchy so essential to order and discipline and thus eroding conditions even further. Although he was near a state of col apse, Dyess’s sense of military propriety stirred him to shepherd his squadron. He and Grashio had been fortuitously reunited not long after their respective arrivals and the two officers, with Bank’s help, attacked the task together. Sadly, their efforts would be too late for many.

One man had been discovered, his naked skin yel ow with jaundice and covered with sores and fecal matter, dying beneath a barracks. Dyess had the man cleaned up and instal ed inside. Procuring a tin of sardines, he plotted with Grashio to feed the man. “That our squadron leader would give away such a rare and precious commodity when he needed food badly himself, and would trust me, also half-starved, to deliver the can intact, show what kind of man Ed Dyess was,” said Grashio. The man later died, but

“the whole episode,” Grashio noted, “bolstered my own faith in humanity at a crucial time in my life.”

Though more dark days undoubtedly lay ahead, Grashio and a handful of others had begun to harness the powers of faith, solidarity, and hope, guiding forces that would mean the difference between life and death in Camp O’Donnel —and conceivably beyond. “It may seem ridiculous, but in the face of al our adversities, we continued hopeful and optimistic during the first month of our captivity,” said Dyess.

“Indeed, there were many of us who never despaired of regaining our freedom.”

Their compatriots on Corregidor, however, had yet to experience the crucible of captivity. If the distant rumble of artil ery and the formations of bombers above O’Donnel each day were any indication, their time was near.

Sunday, May 3, 1942

Corregidor

The concussions rocked the reinforced concrete recesses of Malinta Tunnel in mad, seismic tremors.

Flickering lights splashed shadows across the shuddering wal s as pieces of concrete fel to the floor.

Choking dust wafted through the crowded laterals fetid with the odor of gangrenous flesh and gasoline fumes. Men and women rushed about the steamy subterranean maze, shouting above the din of diesel generators and the beeping and gear grinding of the jeeps and ambulances crawling through the crowded corridor. Such distractions, compounded by a pounding heart and trembling hands, made even simple tasks—like writing a letter—difficult. Strangely, Maj. Steve Mel nik, struggling with a letter to his wife, Thelma, was not preoccupied with his present surroundings. It was his future that concerned him.

Mel nik, a onetime USAFFE staffer, was used to being in the know. Though currently a member of the Harbor Defenses staff, he continued his conversations and chess matches with high-ranking friends who had convinced him of the hopelessness of the situation. His own inspections of the island, as wel as other ominous events—he had recently helped dispose of several mil ion dol ars of U.S. paper currency in an

incinerator—served as additional proof. Corregidor’s “clock,” Mel nik realized, “was approaching midnight.”

As Corregidor’s fate went, so went that of Mel nik. Realizing that this letter was perhaps his last message to his wife and two young daughters, the thirty-four-year-old labored to camouflage his dread thoughts. But he did not have much time: a submarine was scheduled to dock at Corregidor shortly to evacuate VIPs and nurses, as wel as important documents and a few sacks of mail. Al he could do was steady his heart and his

hand.

3 May, 1942

Hello, darling—

Won’t have a chance to get another one of these very soon dear—so, I just want to remind
you that I love you just heaps & heaps, and that the past year has seemed like ten years….

The radio has kept you in touch with what is going on here, so there is little I need say.

Corregidor’s defenders had been living on a six-square-mile bul ’s-eye since Bataan’s fal . The daily attacks resembled a weather pattern: clouds of Japanese bombers hovered out of the reach of the Rock’s antiaircraft guns to loose torrents of bombs; thunderous hailstorms of mammoth artil ery shel s whooshed across the sky like roaring freight trains before gouging the island and tossing hunks of concrete and the barrels of Corregidor’s giant cannons about like toys. An estimated 1.8 mil ion pounds of shel s, not to mention countless bombs dropped during thirteen separate air raids, had fal en the day before. In the next twenty-four hours, 16,000 shel s would flay the Rock in what would ultimately be the heaviest bombardment of the campaign and, in some experts’ estimation, the most vicious concentrated artil ery barrage of the entire war. The bombardments had decapitated hil s and denuded Corregidor of its lush vegetation, turning the green island into a smoky landscape of craters and charred trees, and its once proud structures into knots of rebar and piles of pulverized cement.

Yet Mel nik was stil there. He had been aboard the
Don Esteban
with MacArthur and his family as the steamer churned away from war-ravaged Manila en route to Corregidor on Christmas Eve 1941. And nearly two months ago, on a gloomy night in March, he was one of several men to shake MacArthur’s hand before the general departed for Australia.

There would be no dramatic flight from Corregidor for Mel nik. If anything, the percussion of armor-piercing shel s echoing outside Malinta Tunnel likely persuaded him that his own life’s journey was nearing its end. He could not possibly have known that his personal Philippine epic had barely begun.

The ship carrying Tekla Mel nick and her two young sons docked in New York harbor in 1911, four long years after her husband, Maxim, a tenant farmer, had left the Ukrainian vil age of Nevir to cultivate a better life for his family in America. The family reunited in Dunmore, Pennsylvania, a town of smokestacks, company houses, and church steeples built above thick seams of hard anthracite coal in the foothil s of the Poconos. Their American dream was painful y short-lived. The influenza epidemic of 1918 took Tekla Melnick’s life, spurring both sons to strike out on their own after receiving U.S.

citizenship. Changing the spel ing of his last name, eighteen-year-old Stephen Mel nik joined the Army in 1925.

An ambitious private in the 12th Coast Artil ery Regiment, Mel nik watched his sergeant on the gunnery range and set his sights on stripes of his own. Upon gaining the promotion, he then coveted a commission, a distant dream for a noncom with a faint Ukrainian accent who had not even finished high school. The five foot seven Mel nik did not possess an intimidating command presence either, save for a scar on his left cheek from a childhood accident. West Point is your only chance, his comrades told him, half in jest. But it was Mel nik who got the last laugh. After persevering through pounding migraine headaches at the U.S. Military Academy Preparatory School at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, to win a competitive appointment, Mel nik graduated from West Point in

1932.

It was during difficult times that he fondly remembered his family’s arrival in the islands in 1939, the excitement of his first command, the festive gaiety of dances, and teaming with his wife to win Corregidor’s 1940 mixed doubles tennis championship. But those halcyon days were gone. And so was the confidence and buoyant banter of previous letters and cables he had sent home. Distracted and unable to continue, Mel nik signed off.

Don’t feel like concentrating on writing sweet—just feel a bit too far away from you. Do take
care of yourself & the children. I’d just about cry to think about anything happening to them.

By the time you get this, we will either be relieved or prisoners—

or—….

Steve

WEDNESDAY, MAY 6, 1942

Corregidor

As noon approached, news of the surrender reached the Rock’s defenders in a variety of ways. Yet no matter whether one got the word from a battalion commander or a battery mate, through the Voice of Freedom or observation of the white flags that popped up across the fire-blackened island, it hit with instant, devastating ferocity.

It took General Wainwright less than twelve hours from the moment the Japanese landed on Corregidor just before midnight on May 5 to reach the heart-wrenching decision. Though the Marines of the 1st Battalion had destroyed many landing barges and fought valiantly with a largely punchless arsenal of 37 and 75 mil imeter guns, machine guns, grenades, and Molotov cocktails, they could not stem the overwhelming enemy tide. As Japanese infantry determinedly clawed toward Malinta Hil with the aid of air and artil ery support, daylight revealed a hopeless tactical situation: three enemy tanks had also rumbled off the beach and were clanking toward Malinta Tunnel. Fearing for the safety of the 1,000 patients in the hospital laterals—his troops had no antitank weapons—Wainwright realized the futility of further resistance.

The Marines, upon hearing the code phrase “Execute Pontiac,” which instructed them to destroy their guns and surrender, took the news the hardest. One tried to shoot a runner who delivered the order to his gun position. Marines in the 2nd and 3rd Battalions, having watched the tracer bul ets and shel bursts of the previous night’s fighting with great anticipation and now denied the chance to prove their mettle, were especial y distraught. After recovering from the initial shock, Lt. Jack Hawkins and his men channeled their roiling emotions into bending rifle barrels, throwing pieces of weapons into the surf, and rol ing ammunition boxes over cliffs.

The surrender was doubly painful for Capt. Austin Shofner. A few days earlier, Shofner had suffered burns on his face and hands while rescuing survivors after a Japanese shel exploded the powder magazines at Battery Geary. After breaking his Marine sword over his knee, he watched as men “wept like children. Stern, hard-bitten commanders threw their arms around private soldiers and bawled. The tears streamed down my own face and mingled with the grime and sweat and stubble of beard.”

• • •

History, as wel as the U.S. Navy’s new listening post at Wahiawa, Hawaii, some twenty miles north of Pearl Harbor, would record the last official message from American forces in the Philippines as having originated on Corregidor at 11:55 a.m., local time. The author of the message, Lt. Cmdr. Melvyn McCoy, probably should not even have been there.

McCoy had had several opportunities to flee Corregidor. A place had been reserved for him aboard the
Lanakai
, a 120-foot sailing schooner that had been used in the 1940 Hol ywood film
Typhoon
, starring Dorothy Lamour, but the duty-bound officer was not aboard the two-master when it departed on December 26. Weeks earlier McCoy and several col eagues had begun outfitting a smal sloop, the
Southern Seas
, for a last-minute flight from the Rock. The boat, however, was stolen from its moorings on May 4, thus marooning McCoy on Corregidor.

Having already supervised the destruction of al codes and equipment, McCoy concluded his last duty as radio matériel officer for the 16th Naval District by handing the simple written message, prepared on behalf of both himself and a fel ow communications officer, to a radioman waiting at the last functioning transmitter.

“Beam it to Radio Honolulu,” said McCoy. “Don’t bother with code.” The clock in the Navy tunnel ticked toward noon as a series of electronic clicks and beeps sent McCoy’s words out into the ether:
GOING OFF AIR NOW. GOODBYE AND GOOD LUCK. CALLAHAN AND MCCOY.

And then, as in al other places to have fal en under the dominion of Imperial Japan, there was nothing but stark silence.

Saturday, May 23, 1942

Corregidor

The misty morning air, fragrant with the smel of smoke, wet blankets, and coffee, was also tinged with excitement. Three transports were anchored off the South Dock, presumably waiting to remove the prisoners, Jack Hawkins recal ed, “to what we hoped would be better conditions.”

Any place would seem to be better than the 92nd Garage Area. The defenders of Corregidor had spent the first weeks of their captivity suffering on what was essential y a concrete skil et. Water was the biggest problem: Hawkins and several other men slaked their thirst with water drained from the radiator of a destroyed truck. Delirious from sunstroke and dehydration, many men were dragged to the surf, in which corpses floated, to be revived. The monsoon season had arrived late but now, Mother Nature had slapped them with sheets of stinging rain, turning makeshift shelters into a muddy, miserable mess. And only recently had the Japanese provided food, giving credence to the rumors heard by Melvyn McCoy that they were being held as living col ateral until the remaining USFIP forces in the Visayas and Mindanao surrendered.

The conquerors had enlisted work parties, mainly for the gruesome task of burying and cremating the thousands of corpses that littered the island, and many prisoners, Austin Shofner among them, jumped at the opportunity because it enabled them to escape the crowded compound to forage for food. Shofner did not find much food during his forays outside the wire, but he did find a new pair of shoes, perhaps an omen. Both Shofner and Hawkins had considered escaping from Corregidor. Shofner had been approached by Edgar Whitcomb, a B-17 navigator and Bataan refugee, but Shofner did not feel confident in his swimming skil s. Hawkins, too, felt that the time was not right, so he wished Marine Lt. Bil Harris, a former Annapolis classmate, good luck in the endeavor. Drying their blankets near a fire, both pondered the progress of Whitcomb and Harris as wel as their own future. (Whitcomb and Harris joined forces in fleeing Corregidor on May 22, but separated shortly after reaching Bataan. In one of the war’s strangest adventures, Whitcomb was recaptured by the Japanese, and, after enduring extreme mental and physical torture, was repatriated to the United State in a civilian exchange by pretending to be a mining engineer. He rejoined the fighting in the Philippines in early 1945. Harris made it to Borneo before his recapture in 1943. He spent the rest of the war in a POW camp in Japan.)