Escape From Davao (37 page)

“Sounds like a natural.”

Shofner turned to Dyess: “Ed?”

“Okay with me.”

Around the room, heads nodded in the affirmative. Laureta cracked a rare smile—these were his kind of men. He made sure they understood that the trek would require them to travel through virgin jungle and over mountainous terrain. The fact that large sections of territory on the maps spread out before them—territory through which they would have to pass—had been ominously stamped “UNEXPLORED” was hardly comforting.

“You wil be going where few white men have ventured before,” said Laureta before clicking off the names of various native tribes rumored to inhabit the areas. “These people are headhunters. They kil for the sake of kil ing.”

“Captain Laureta,” piped up Grashio, “so do the Japs.”

It was nearly impossible to fathom such an adventure, one perhaps more chal enging than their last, and especial y one in which the Japanese were an afterthought, but they were by now accustomed to long odds. A series of gambles, taken individual y and col ectively, had gotten them this far. Perhaps one more great gamble could get them home.

There was no trail and I am wandering still

In search of something lost upon a hill …

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21–WEDNESDAY, APRIL 28, 1943

Davao and Agusan Provinces

The flotil a glided through the morning mists hanging over the

Libuganon River, the escapees watching wistful y as the Eligio David family, waving from the riverbank, receded into the distance.

In a procession reminiscent of a traveling circus, the expedition had commenced at 0800 after an emotional farewel during which the Davids were presented a curious assortment of parting gifts: a pearl stud from Shanghai; quinine pil s; some soap; a check for $40 drawn from a Quantico, Virginia, bank—al Mike Dobervich recal ed having in the account. The Americans regretted that they could not give more, but there was no way they could ever repay the Filipinos.

They had left with warm memories—and supplies. In three days Laureta’s men had assembled 300

pounds of rice and corn; six dozen eggs; nine blocks of sugar; twenty pounds of coffee; a bamboo tube of salt; pecks of tomatoes, beans, and dried peas. There was also 110 pounds of salted carabao jerky, plus twenty squawking chickens, housed in a portable coop.

McCoy had acquired a .45 caliber Colt revolver. Boelens left with a swol en jaw, thanks to the painful extraction of a wisdom tooth. And Dobervich was just plain lucky to leave. Racked with a fever and vomiting, he was quarantined in his own craft while the rest of the thirty-six-man detachment occupied the other five barotos, the twenty-foot dugout canoes that would be pul ed, paddled, or poled up the shal ow river on the first leg of their journey.

While roughly ten of Laureta’s men accompanied the expedition as soldiers, the work of propel ing the barotos was the responsibility of the Ata tribesmen who served as cargadores. Laureta, the escapees learned, had taken the Atas’ elders hostage in order to pacify their territory. And though the Atas feared Laureta, the Americans stared uneasily at the pygmies’ primitive yet deadly arsenal of spears and poison-tipped arrows.

Also along for at least part of the journey were Laureta, Lieutenants Tuvil a and Rivera, Sergeant Baguilod, and, much to the delight of the escapees, Big Boy. The sight of Big Boy cradling his BAR as they snaked along the shimmering river was reassuring. Another welcome addition was Sgt. Magdaleno Dueñas. Nearly thirty years old, yet barely five feet tal with a whistling, high-pitched voice, the hardworking Dueñas was responsible for their baggage. He wanted nothing more than to be an American soldier and citizen, so the next best thing for him was to serve alongside Americans.

At 1730, the party stopped for the night at a smal outpost cal ed Florida. “Here we were given an example of how Filipinos can throw things together. In no time at al they had built a serviceable table, served coffee, and then rice and meat,” McCoy wrote in his log. The laborious process of setting up—erecting shelters, starting a fire, and preparing meals—then striking camp would be repeated daily and the Americans would never stop being amazed at the skil and efficiency of the Filipinos.

The serpentine river’s strong current, 3 to 4 knots, made for slow progress. The barotos often ran aground in the rapids and al hands would have to splash out to push the canoes into deeper water. The first two days would prove such a struggle that they covered only about twenty kilometers. It was not surprising then that Shofner, Grashio, Hawkins, and Marshal decided to stretch their legs on shore late in the morning of the second day. In more ways than they imagined, the jungle was cal ing them. “Soon we rounded a bend and were out of sight of the barotos, savouring the feeling of being jungle explorers, treading the wild, uncharted heartland of Mindanao,” recal ed Shofner. Suddenly, a strange male voice beckoned to them from the brush: “I’m Mae West. Come up and see me sometime.”

Startled, they stopped in their tracks. For several seconds, no one uttered a word.

“Hey, Shifty,” said Grashio, breaking the silence, “am I going nuts?”

“I’m Mae West,” repeated the voice, now sounding more like a command than an invitation. “Come up and see me sometime!”

At that moment, said Shofner, “a human apparition” appeared. It was a rail of an old man, toothless and bowlegged, wearing a shawl-like robe. Though fair-skinned, his appearance bore an uncanny resemblance to the Indian leader Mahatma Gandhi.

“Hot dog!” he exclaimed. “Americans! I’m glad to see you!”

He led the bewildered Americans to the bamboo hut that was his home. After somewhat translating the man’s language—a bizarre smattering of Spanish, local dialects, and American slang, mostly movie dialogue—they deduced that he had once lived in the United States and was, in al likelihood, a fugitive from the law. Lonely and half-mad, he now lived with three old, raggedly clothed women whom Grashio referred to as his “antiquated harem.”

After politely taking leave of their host, they pressed on, joined by Boelens, who had come ashore when the barotos were beached for lunch. They walked leisurely along the riverbank with their pant legs rol ed up, crossing smal streams and marveling at the pristine beauty of the jungle as birds and monkeys perched on hanging branches noisily heralded their passing. “We were about two bends ahead of the main party when we saw him,” wrote Shofner.

Shofner was referring to an indigenous tribesman, not an Ata, but perhaps related, short in stature, bushy-haired, and with skin “as dark as mahogany.” He wore only a loincloth and carried a ten-foot spear twice as tal as himself, as wel as a bow and satchel of arrows. Ten others, similarly dressed and equipped, fol owed in single file. It looked to be a hunting party, but what these men were hunting became an immediate matter of speculation. “I thought of my bolo, but knew it would be useless if they attacked us with their long spears and bows and arrows,” recal ed Hawkins. “We did the only thing we could think of—just stood there trying to appear nonchalant until the party advanced and halted about 15 feet away from us.”

The two sides stood face-to-face, motionless, each silently sizing up the other. Though the feral glint in the eyes of the hunters was unmistakable, “they seemed to be as spel bound as we were,” said Hawkins,

“for during those few moments they said nothing, but merely stared at us with a look of wonder. No doubt we were the first white men they had ever seen.” Then, just as suddenly as the tribesmen had appeared, they melted back into the jungle.

Their lesson learned, the Americans would not stray from the barotos until disembarking at the home of Lieutenant Rivera, near the outpost of Gupitan, at dusk. There, light from an oil lantern revealed more of the incomparable hospitality of the Philippines, as wel as the incredible speed by which the bamboo telegraph operated: their names had been carved onto the bamboo cups from which they drank. As they retired, massive thunderheads unleashed a fierce downpour.

The fol owing morning, they learned that the heavy rains had raised the water level of the river, creating churning rapids. Not even the choppy waters nor the sporadic showers could dampen their enthusiasm.

Not only were they leaving Dapecol behind, they were embarking on once-in-a-lifetime journey. They paddled along, pointing in wonderment at the sight of Ata treehouses lodged high above them. Stopping near one such residence for lunch, the Marines found a bow and some arrows and, with childlike glee, took turns firing the arrows into the

brush.

Encounters with natives were few but noteworthy. McCoy did his best to limn the incredible journey in his log: “0730—met about 3 families of Atas floating downstream on bamboo rafts … the women’s breasts are no larger than the men’s. (P.S. Just passed another raft. I was wrong about the breasts.)”

Spel bound, they floated along, dazzled by the foliage lining the palm-fringed riverbank. The chatter and songs of parrots, kingfishers, and red-beaked toucans known as
kalaw
birds provided a fitting soundtrack. “I sure would like to take a movie of this trip,” lamented McCoy.

Upon their arrival at Kapalong, an old constabulary camp fifty miles from Dapecol, the Atas were released from their indentured servitude and Laureta contacted the local chieftain to requisition more porters.

It was the end of the line for Laureta, too. The next morning—Easter Sunday—after Grashio led a prayer service and before the group, which now numbered forty-six men, set out on foot for Agusan, Laureta placed Lieutenant Tuvil a in charge of the expedition. The Americans, effusive in their thanks, were sad to see Laureta return to his command.

“We’l be seeing you later,” yel ed Dyess, “when we come back with the Yanks in the tanks!”

“Bring the Marines, too,” said Laureta. “And some Flying Fortresses!”

Regardless of the fact that the territory was marked “UNEXPLORED” on their maps, they had, metaphorical y speaking, been here before. Less than a mile into their overland trek, their wel -defined mountain path turned into a faint trail. And then it inexplicably vanished. The swamp fiasco was stil fresh in Mel nik’s mind, so he pul ed Tuvil a aside to ask if the guide knew where he was going. “Yes,” replied Tuvil a, reassuringly, “this is Main Street to him.”

Warily, they shrugged their shoulders and continued onward—as wel as upward and downward—through the Mindanao wilderness. They crawled up hil s and slid down ravines, shimmied through rock formations, tiptoed across trickling streams, and waded rivers gorged with storm water. Clinging to thorny vines, branches, and saplings, they struggled to navigate the slippery terrain—45-degree slopes were the norm—cutting and puncturing their hands in the process.

As the meandering column ascended to higher altitudes, the trees loomed even tal er, forming a canopy several hundred feet in height. These giant natural umbrel as failed to protect them from the incessant rain, which cascaded down rocks and hil sides in miniature waterfal s, threatening to knock them off their feet. The downpours and the crossing and fording of streams and rivers left the men soaked. At night, their shelters leaked, making sleeping and drying their clothes and gear impossible. On the bright side, there was little worry of encountering any Japanese.

The escapees had been impressed with the ability of their previous Ata porters to pole the heavily laden barotos through the strong currents of the Libuganon River, but they were absolutely amazed at the strength and agility of their replacements. Most of the new cargadores weighed no more than 110

pounds, yet, with the help of an ingenious harness of straps crossing their shoulders and forehead, each carried loads weighing between sixty and 100 pounds. And they did it barefoot, too. “How they managed to walk, climb or stumble al day long is beyond me,” said McCoy. “And I would never have believed it if I had not seen it.”

After supper, the Americans and Filipinos gathered around the fire for conversation and song. One of their fondest memories was that of Dueñas’s rendition of “Home on the Range.” But they were soon mesmerized by the sound of the Atas slapping out rhythms on long, narrow drums. A slow tempo steadily increased until it reached a furious, fluctuating cadence. “At that level,” recal ed Mel nik, “the wild and hypnotic rhythm touched the inner core of my being. I listened with fascination and dread as the weird messages sped into the night.” At times, it must have seemed as though they were traveling not just through a wild jungle, but through time itself.

At Binucayan, the southernmost barrio in Agusan Province, they found a curiously empty col ection of dilapidated huts. The vil age had been abandoned by its inhabitants for fear of the Japanese, a fact that struck McCoy as absurd. “No Jap would ever get near the place, it was so far into the hinterland.” Twenty kilometers north was the peculiarly named town of Johnson, where they were honored not only with tuba, coconut milk, and a young pig, but also a smart presentation of arms from the motley-uniformed guerril a garrison. Stiffening their aching backs, they returned the salute wearily.

It was the next vil age, Loreto, that made the most memorable impression on the weary travelers.

Hanging from a pole atop the tin-roofed municipal building in the waning daylight was the first American flag they had seen on display in a year. “Seldom in my life have I been so shaken emotional y as I was at the sight,” remembered Grashio. “For the first time since April 1942, I felt like an American again, rather than a prisoner of the Japanese perpetual y on the run.”