Escape From Davao (29 page)

“I didn’t feel Hozumi’s slaps anymore,” he added. “Relief made me numb.”

Hozumi final y stormed out with his entourage. One of the guards kicked at Shofner’s bag on his way out, but providential y his foot did not hit the bottle.

“How lucky can you get?” exclaimed Grashio, who himself had been working to cover gear near the jungle’s edge and had nervously watched the spectacle from afar. Father Carberry, toting two gas cans ful of blankets and other supplies to the rendezvous point just as Hozumi was departing, had also been fortunate to duck into a banana grove before being spotted.

It was the closest of cal s. Had Hozumi discovered the quinine, some type of severe punishment, ranging from solitary confinement to torture or death, would have been guaranteed. An extensive investigation, one that might have led Hozumi to uncover the escape plan, almost certainly would have been launched. “Once Hozumi’s suspicions were aroused,” theorized Hawkins, “that implacable individual could be counted upon to take relentless countermeasures.” Thankful y, the only damage Hozumi had seemingly inflicted was to Shofner’s face.

Once darkness fell, the escape party—minus Mel nik, Marshal , Spielman, and the Filipinos—gathered for one final, furtive meeting at the barber’s shed.

“Now men,” McCoy addressed the group, “tomorrow’s the day, and I guess we are al set. I think we should reach an understanding right now that if any one of us becomes too weak to carry on, or is wounded, or has to fal by the wayside for any reason, the rest wil have to continue on without him.”

Heads nodded. McCoy then suggested that they not wear their leggings the next morning so as to not draw any undue attention when they departed the main compound. He also advised that they leave their bays looking as lived-in as possible.

“Just pretend you are going to work as usual, and we can’t miss,” he concluded.

At lights out, they settled into their bunks and tried to catch a few winks. In Barracks Five, Jack Hawkins’s eyelids were locked open as raindrops noisily pattered the tin roof above his head. His mind was fil ed with “al kinds of disconnected thoughts.” He thought of his fiancée, Rhea. Was his blanket in the thicket soaking wet? Was he a fool to leave the camp and risk probable death? He had lain awake with sleepless anticipation before early morning duck hunts in the past. “Tomorrow, I would be the hunted and not the hunter,” Hawkins would recal . “The stakes were high in this game…. To be won was freedom

—a chance to live again, a chance to fight again, perhaps even a chance someday to see home again.

This was a rich prize to be won, and I was staking my life on it.”

There was something else gnawing at Hawkins. Hearing that Dobervich was restless, too, he reached over and tapped his friend on the shoulder.

“Whadaya say?” replied Dobervich, poking his head beneath Hawkins’s mosquito net.

“Say, Mike, you know what we agreed out there tonight—about leaving anybody who fal s out or gets shot? Wel , as far as I’m concerned, that doesn’t go for you and Shof and me.”

Dobervich reached his hand under the net to clutch that of Hawkins.

“That went without saying, Jack.”

While the Marines expressed their motto of
Semper Fidelis
—“Always Faithful”—a few snoring prisoners away, Ed Dyess was equal y restive. He could not shake a premonition that the cool night wind had swept through the eaves and settled upon him.

“I felt something was wrong, I couldn’t say what,” he would write. “I just didn’t believe we were going …

that’s how psychic you get in prison camp.”

SUNDAY, MARCH 28–TUESDAY, MARCH 30, 1943

Davao Penal Colony

The day began like any other Sunday—just as McCoy wanted it. The plotting prisoners were clangorously bugled out of their bunks, but it was the announcement from their barracks leaders that rang in their ears:

“This is a special order from Lieutenant Hozumi. As a punishment for disobeying the rules against the picking of fruits and vegetables, al hands wil forfeit their recreation today and wil work in the rice paddies. This means every man who is not actual y hospitalized. Fal in outside the barracks after breakfast.”

As curses, grumbles, and groans echoed through Barracks Five, Jack Hawkins’s hands froze and dropped the shoe he was putting on. He turned to look at Mike Dobervich, who, sitting beside him, beat him to the question: “My God, what do we do now?”

“Shof joined us at this time looking as he had been shocked beyond recovery,” added Hawkins. “There was a blank, dazed look on his face. His mouth was drooping.”

“It’s al my fault,” whispered Shofner, hoarsely. “The plow detail—getting caught with the fruit. It’s al my fault.”

But the natural-born leader quickly snapped out of his fugue state and dashed in the direction of Barracks Eight. His gloomy mood, though, did not improve upon his return.

“McCoy can’t figure a way out of this one and neither can I,” he said. “How about you?”

Dobervich and Hawkins shook their heads. The Air Corps contingent could not come up with an alternate flight plan, either. After some hasty yet cautious conferencing, the escape party reluctantly decided on the only course of action available: postponement. The new E-Day, they decided, would be the fol owing Sunday, April 4.

But what about the Filipinos? The thought of both colonos showing up at the rendezvous point and being discovered along with the stashed gear by the Japanese was chil ing.

While lining up to board the Toonervil e Trol ey, the Marines noticed Ben de la Cruz walking down the road toward them. In al likelihood, he had heard of Hozumi’s pronouncement and had come to investigate. Careful to avoid eye contact until he passed the spot directly abreast of where the Marines were standing, he shot a quick, inquisitive glance in their direction. Without speaking, Hawkins shook his head from side to side. Never breaking his stride, de la Cruz nodded receipt of the message and continued down the road. “He knew the plans were off,” said Hawkins.

Toiling in the rain and mud of Mactan was miserable, yet having to endure the suspense-fil ed week was worse. “The strain,” said Steve Mel nik, “was frightful. Problems fil ed my mind. Each Japanese appeared as an accuser, and each PW as an informer. I became acutely aware of evening rol cal s, the searches at the gate, and the ubiquitous sentry posts…. Did Hozumi have more surprises?”

The nerve-racking tension notwithstanding, none of the conspirators had second thoughts about their decision to participate in the plan—or at least none intimated such thoughts to the others or later documented them—but their apprehension was nevertheless evident.

Leo Boelens’s terse diary entry for March 28—”?????????”—il ustrated the dark cloud of uncertainty hanging over them.

“How far is it to Australia from here, Commander?” Marshal asked McCoy one day.

“About sixteen hundred miles to one of the nearest points—Melvil e, for instance.”

“And you mean, if we can find a sailboat, you can take us there?”

“Within ten or fifteen miles of any place on the map,” replied McCoy, as reassuringly as possible.

“Provided, of course, that we can rig up some halfway decent navigating equipment.”

“And provided, of course, that we had a lot of luck with the weather, and the Japs didn’t stop us. But I kept these thoughts to myself,” McCoy later wrote.

Even Pop Abrina’s faith was being tested. “What wil happen next?” he asked.

The hourly bel that rang across Dapecol’s fields seemed only to signal a spike in their stress levels.

Mel nik noticed that the usual y mischievous, energetic duo of Marshal and Spielman was quiet and moody. And that he and McCoy were prone to overreaction at the slightest incidents. Al of the members of the escape party took turns badgering Shofner, asking no fewer than ten times by Mel nik’s count,

“How wel did you hide the stuff?”

Their cached gear was the main source of their anguish. They wondered if it would be so waterlogged that it would be useless to them on their journey or, worse, that it would be discovered. The stockpile of that it would be useless to them on their journey or, worse, that it would be discovered. The stockpile of supplies contained food, medicine, bolos, and other items that served as conclusive proof of escape preparations. And their names were written al over this escape plan—literal y. Both their names and in some cases their serial numbers had been stenciled and stitched on their musette bags, blankets, and other personal belongings. The discovery of their supply depot was as good as an admission of guilt.

“As each day passed without discovery, each of us sent up a prayer of thanks,” recal ed McCoy. “And each of us prayed that, on the coming Sunday, we would not be punished with an order to work.” Their anxiety skyrocketed with the startling midweek newsflash (most likely originating with Lieutenant Yuki) that Dapecol’s garrison was scheduled to be reinforced by additional troops the week of April 4. Al work details would thereafter be guarded. They would have to execute their plan the next Sunday. There could be no more delays.

Dyess, Grashio, and Boelens focused their nervous energy into practical pursuits. While Boelens labored in the machine shop, the two pilots performed an exhaustive ground-level reconnaissance. They observed the tendencies and movements of tower guards. They noted the schedules of patrols, timed their own movements, and measured distances.

Hawkins coped in his own way. “I think what happened to me in the Philippines, which psychological y was a real y good adjustment to make,” he said, “was that I thought I probably was not going to survive at various times. And so I just resigned myself to that and didn’t think about it. You just went ahead and did whatever you had to do.”

But that did not mean that Hawkins had completely switched off his survival instincts. He and Dobervich were returning from the fields late one sultry afternoon when they heard rifle shots emanating from the direction of the hospital compound. Soon, bul ets buzzed over their heads and they instinctively dropped to the dirt.

“What’s going on?” said Hawkins, lifting his head ever so slightly from the ground.

“Don’t know. But that was close!”

When the shooting had stopped, they rose to their feet and saw a congregation of prisoners and Japanese mil ing about the hospital compound. Getting closer, they saw the lifeless body of an American at the base of a guard tower just outside the fence line.

“What happened?” Hawkins asked one of the prisoners.

“Jap in the tower shot him. Tried to shoot another fel ow inside the compound, too, but missed.”

Slowly, the details were pieced together. According to eyewitness accounts, the dead prisoner, Sgt.

John H. McPhee, had been digging camotes directly below the northeast corner tower just outside of the hospital stockade. McPhee had tossed his canteen back over the fence into the compound to be fil ed by one of his buddies. When it was returned to him, he raised it to his lips, an action that infuriated the tower guard. Unable to understand the commands being shouted at him, McPhee tilted the canteen and spil ed a few drops onto the ground to show the guard that it was only water. Incensed at this innocuous gesture, the guard unshouldered his rifle and opened fire. The first bul et struck McPhee between the shoulder and the neck. He staggered forward, screaming, “My God—don’t shoot me again!” The guard—Superior Private Osenaga, aka “Liver Lip”—ignored the plea and pumped several rounds into McPhee’s body before turning his rifle on the POW who had tossed the canteen to McPhee. The latter zigzagged for his life as bul ets ripped through some hospital structures—thankful y, no patients were hit—and ricocheted out of the compound.

By the time the compound gates were locked for the evening, the camp was seething. Random, senseless acts of violence on the part of the guards had been on the rise in recent weeks. In February, an enlisted prisoner was struck with a hoe by the guard known as “Fishface.” The attack left a deep gash in the POW’s leg, necessitating a four-month hospital stay. And in March, the Army lieutenant colonel in charge of the sugar-cutting detail had attempted to bring in some cut cane for the hospital patients. The guards caught the officer and tied him to a stake where he was severely beaten for twenty-four hours.

This latest act, however, was nothing short of cold-blooded murder. But that’s not how the Japanese saw it. At evening announcement time, the barracks leaders read a message from Major Maeda: “The Japanese commander regrets that it became necessary to shoot an American prisoner today to prevent his escape. Let this be a warning to other prisoners, that any attempt to escape wil meet with the same action.”

“Those miserable stinking bastards,” someone snarled within earshot of Hawkins in Bay Ten. “They’l pay for this someday.”

Muffled by the roar of revulsion, Hawkins turned to Dobervich.

“Maybe someday before long we’l be tel ing the folks at home about this and al the other thousands of men murdered out here,” he whispered.

Or maybe, they began to wonder, they wouldn’t. Maybe McPhee’s shooting had been a preemptive warning. Maybe the Japanese knew something.

“ ‘Are
[
the Japanese
]
playing cat-and-mouse?”
Shofner asked himself as he lay in the darkened barracks on his crude bed, fighting insomnia and wakeful nightmares of a looming Japanese trap.
“Will it
end in the thunder of machine gun fire?
I fought the visions that came rising up, of a dozen bodies flopping like dying chickens in the dirt.”