Escape From Davao (44 page)

According to Parsons, one burst into tears. Another simply sat, frozen, unable to tear his gaze from the sub. The third arched his arms around Smith and Parsons in communal “silent witness of what seemed to us to be a miracle.”

A shril burst from an air whistle initiated a dizzying surge of activity. Steel hatches clanked open and American sailors poured forth to man the deck gun, to lash the
General Fertig
to the sub’s hul , and to help load the fruit and the human cargo.

“Al aboard and make it lively!” came the command from a crisp, God-like voice from high up in the conning tower. Heeding the voice, Parsons and the others paused long enough to empty their pockets of quinine, ammunition, and other items they knew the guerril as needed.

Stepping aboard the sub, McCoy’s legs buckled. “The thing I remember most clearly about going on that ship is the sensation of standing on armor plate—good, hard American armor plate,” he would write.

“We were saying goodbye to bamboo and rattan.”

Dazedly, they descended from the conning tower into what Mel nik cal ed the “vaguely unreal and frightening” interior of the sub, inhaling the sharp smel s of fuel oil and sweat as they passed through dim, narrow corridors lined with gauges, valves, pipes, and switches and fil ed with the sounds of commands, whistles, and clacking heels. And then they were ushered into a quiet, “cozy” wardroom where a deck of cards and a sugar bowl rested on a green felt table and pots of coffee bubbled on a hot plate. Mel nik dropped his head onto his hands. “I closed my eyes,” he said, “to let the thought sink in.”

This floating 307-foot, 1,475-ton steel oasis was the USS
Trout
, a submarine whose decorated crew had acquired a reputation not only for bravery—the battle-scarred boat was credited with damaging a Japanese aircraft carrier, chal enging an Imperial Navy battleship, and sinking a sub—but also for relentlessly harassing enemy shipping: the
Trout
had sunk or damaged more than 100,000 tons everywhere from the Solomon Islands to the Singapore trade route. Unique, however, was the
Trout
’s special history of secret missions, including one that occurred during its second war patrol in February 1942. The
Trout
delivered 3,500 rounds of antiaircraft ammunition to Corregidor, but the mission was more important for what the
Trout
returned to Pearl with as bal ast: twenty tons of gold bul ion, silver pesos, and securities of the Philippine Commonwealth’s currency reserve worth more than $10 mil ion.

In the midst of the control ed chaos, the passengers were welcomed aboard by the
Trout
’s skipper, Lt.

Cmdr. Al Clark. They told Clark that they had heard that three Japanese transports were moored in a harbor ten miles west of their position and that an enemy warship might also be in the neighborhood.

Clark assured them that the boat would get underway at once, and no sooner had he done so than a clamor of bel s and whistles resounded throughout the ship, signaling their imminent descent into the depths of Dumanquilas Bay.

The close presence of enemy vessels was not the only reason for the alacrity with which the crew moved. The
Trout
had once again taken on some extremely valuable cargo. And someone in Australia was waiting for the delivery.

SATURDAY, JULY 24–FRIDAY, JULY 30, 1943

Perth, Western Australia, and Brisbane, Queensland,

Commonwealth of Australia

Squinting through the bright sunlight, a light-headed and confused Steve Mel nik struggled to bring the figure lying in the adjacent bed into focus.

“Where are we?” he asked, groggily.

“In an Australian army hospital in Perth,” replied Charley Smith.

Thanks to a malaria attack, Mel nik had been out for four days. He had only hazy memories of being strapped to a stretcher and carried up out of the conning tower of the
Trout
after the sub had entered Fremantle Harbor on July 20.

“Where are McCoy and the others?”

“Took off for GHQ in Brisbane two days ago. Said they wanted to see bright lights! You and I are lucky; we’re sick enough to loaf legitimately for two weeks.”

Mel nik would have no such luck. The fol owing day, a confidential telegram arrived.

DO NOT, REPEAT NOT, DISCUSS EXPERIENCES WITH ANYONE. IMPERATIVE YOU

ARRIVE BRISBANE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. HAVE NOTIFIED YOUR FAMILY OF SAFE

ARRIVAL.

MACARTHUR

Mel nik soon wobbled off a bumpy, 2,500-mile flight to find McCoy and Parsons waiting for him. They provided more of a briefing than a welcome.

“So far as the public is concerned,” said Parsons, “you’re a nonperson. Stay inconspicuous. We’l get you some uniforms today—those rags look like hel . Tomorrow you’l be seeing lots of brass, so get a good night’s rest.”

The rapidly unfolding series of events was overwhelming. But regardless of the cryptic warnings from MacArthur and Parsons, as far as GHQ was concerned, the
Trout
’s special passengers were anything but nonpersons. They would spend the next few days behind guarded doors at AIB headquarters in an exhaustive succession of debriefings, interviews, and conferences. The interrogations, recal ed Al ison Ind, “were pushed as rapidly as the strength of the pale, drawn-featured escapees would permit.” On July 26, Dyess and Parsons attended a morning conference with four staff officers regarding the construction of secret airfields on Mindanao. At the same time, Mel nik was being quizzed on “everything from the effects of artil ery fire on Corregidor to the availability of rice on Mindanao.”

GHQ’s appetite for information was insatiable, but Dyess, McCoy, and Mel nik were having a difficult time getting their interrogators to listen to what they felt was the most important intel igence they had brought out of the occupied Philippines: the revelation of what the Japanese had done and were continuing to do to American prisoners of war. They had not escaped to talk about tons of rice or rounds of ammunition, but those seemed to be the only statistics that interested MacArthur’s men. The thousands of corpses occupying mass graves at Camp O’Donnel , the 500 grams of rice, starvation rations, that the men in Dapecol were subsisting on seemed to be of no interest. The frantic pace of questioning slowed only when it final y came time to discuss the atrocities they had witnessed and their experiences as prisoners of war, because, explained Al ison Ind, “the stories were so horrifying that the stenographers could take it for only twenty minutes at a time.”

Predictably, McCoy’s patience began to wear thin. Like Dyess and Mel nik he was haunted not only by the men left behind at Dapecol, but by the knowledge that the other members of the escape party were stil on Mindanao, presumably running for their lives. He had given his word and was determined to get them out. He strenuously argued that any submarine operating in the vicinity be sent immediately to pick up his comrades. It was, he believed, the least their country could do for them. “These men escaped from the prison camp, not to join the guerril as, and not just to effect their own personal freedom,” he told his Navy superiors, referring to the paramount goal behind their escape.

General Whitney was sympathetic, yet offered a warning. “Though the Old Man told me to bring your friends out,” he told Mel nik, “don’t expect overnight service.” Despite the bewildering logistical buildup of Al ied forces in Australia and the fact that the United States was locked in a defensive stalemate in the Pacific, interservice rivalries were stil prevalent. MacArthur’s GHQ was an Army show. The submarines were control ed by the Navy. GHQ’s Philippine Regional Section was al owed only five tons of cargo, or five men, on subs transiting Philippine waters. “Now that we’ve demonstrated a capability to conduct safe rendezvous, we hope the Navy wil give us sub space more frequently,” added Whitney. It was not the answer that Dyess, McCoy, and Mel nik wanted to hear, but they would have to be content with that assurance for the time being.

Their feelings of powerlessness and guilt were magnified when they walked into General MacArthur’s office in the Australasian Mutual Provident Society, or AMP Building, on Edward Street at 6:05 p.m. on the evening of July 30. There, they found the famed four-star general, as wel as a phalanx of senior staff officers, standing rigidly at attention. As an adjutant read their citations, MacArthur pinned a Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest military decoration in the United States Armed Forces, on each of their chests.

The adjutant’s words—“For extraordinary heroism during operations against an armed enemy …”—troubled Mel nik. “As Gen. MacArthur pinned DSCs on McCoy and Dyess, I thought of the heroic thousands who died anonymously on distant battlefields and PW

camps…. Feeling contrite and unworthy, I silently prayed my fal en comrades to forgive me.”

The office emptied after the ceremony, leaving only MacArthur and the escapees seated around the general’s desk. Typical y, a “conversation” involving MacArthur and a guest consisted of the general doing most of the conversing and the guest doing most of the listening. That was not the case on this evening. MacArthur inquired about the fates of mutual friends and then listened intently as Dyess told his firsthand account of the Death March and as McCoy and Mel nik added the horrific tales of their respective prison camp ordeals. MacArthur was revolted by what he heard. A lone photograph taken during the occasion shows a different MacArthur, without the characteristic theatric regality. Instead he appears tight-lipped, uncomfortable, even grim. Despite MacArthur’s wel -chronicled narcissism, he was, in al likelihood, haunted by the thoughts of the price that his men had paid—and that those in captivity continued to pay—for his failure in the Philippines. MacArthur may have left the Philippines, but the Philippines and memories of his men had never left him.

When the former POWs finished their informal debriefing, the typical y eloquent general’s reply was unusual y brief, yet threateningly powerful.

“The Japanese wil pay for that humiliation and suffering,” MacArthur promised them in a grave voice.

After al of the meetings and conferences with seemingly uninterested subordinates, it was reassuring for the escapees to know that MacArthur, at least, was on their side.

“It’s a story that should be told to the American people,” said MacArthur, singling out Dyess as the person to tel that story, much as Father Haggerty and others on Mindanao had. “But I am afraid, Captain, that the people back home wil find it hard to believe you.”

MacArthur did not specify to whom he was referring in regards to “the people back home.” The American public? The top military brass who were running the war from Washington? Or was he referring to the U.S. government?

But that mattered little to Ed Dyess. After al , whether it was a stage performance at John Tarleton Col ege in Stephenvil e, Texas, a briefing at Bataan Field, or a fiesta in the middle of the Mindanao jungle, he had yet to encounter an audience he could not win over.

You say I’m jesting, talking like a fool?

Perhaps you’re right, here in your crowded hive

Safe in your comfort. The misguided tool

Who earned that comfort now returns alive …

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1943

White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, United States

On this morning Ed Dyess awoke in a bed in the high-security wing of a military hospital secluded in the Al egheny Mountains of West Virginia. Fol owing his homecoming journey to the United States from Australia, Dyess had suffered a physical col apse that was as dizzying as any malaria bout. A cargo plane had transported Dyess, McCoy, and Mel nik across nine time zones in a mere thirty-six hours.

Back home they discovered a nation firmly on a war footing, military personnel wearing new styles of helmets and uniforms and so much else. Dyess must have been especial y bewildered at the sight of unfamiliar new aircraft adorned with new logos and new names, “fighters.” To top it off, a chaotic routine of conferences and debriefings left the men little time to catch their breath, much less adjust to the bizarre new surroundings.

Dyess had not been admitted to Ashford General—formerly the luxurious Greenbrier Resort—entirely for physical recuperation. Anyone with enough security clearance to read his fourteen-page Pentagon deposition would have realized the significance of his words. There were those in the upper strata of the U.S. government who were deeply concerned by his revelations, so Dyess was sent to Ashford until the government could figure out what to do with him. In the meantime, a gag order was enforced. If Dyess spoke of his experiences to anyone but authorized personnel, he risked his commission and possible criminal proceedings. His only outlet was his deposition, which revealed his deep feelings about the consequences he and his comrades suffered from fol owing orders: “Had the Americans and Filipinos of Bataan known the fate in store for them … never would they have surrendered to our dishonorable foe.”

Despite his officer’s oath, he knew that he also had a duty to those left behind, and he ended his deposition with an expression of his strong personal convictions. Though he had no intention of being insubordinate, these words had probably been enough to land him at Ashford: “In my opinion, it is not only advisable, but absolutely necessary that al civilized people of the world know the conditions of the Japanese prison camps and the atrocities against American prisoners of war…. It was my idea when I escaped from the prison camp that if I could bring conditions before the American people we could force the Japanese into … giving us better treatment.”