Authors: John D. Lukacs
Tags: #History, #General, #Military, #Biological & Chemical Warfare, #United States
Sam Grashio, always “the most steadfastly enthusiastic member of our little conspiracy,” remembered Hawkins, was even more excited than usual.
“Boy, we’ve got our guides now,” said Grashio, breathlessly. “Two of them.”
The thunderstruck trio of Hawkins, McCoy, and Shofner, the only conspirators present for this early March conference, blurted questions in rapid-fire fashion.
“Two! What do we want with two, Sam?” boomed Shofner. “Isn’t one enough? If we don’t watch out, everyone in camp wil be in on this deal, and we’l get caught for sure.”
“Now don’t get excited, Shifty,” retorted Grashio. “Keep your shirt on. Wait ’til you have to hear what I have to tel you.”
Grashio explained that while digging camotes near the dispensary he had struck up a conversation with a clean-cut, wel -spoken colono who worked in the hospital. He made such a good impression that Grashio felt comfortable enough to broach the subject of escape.
“We just talked in generalities,” Grashio assured the others.
“Does he want to go with us?” asked Hawkins.
“You bet he does. I began to feel him out after talking awhile, and he jumped at the idea. He’s ready to go anytime.”
“What’s his name?” asked McCoy.
“Benigno de la Cruz. I just cal him Ben. And incidental y, he’s had training in first aid and pharmacy.
That might come in handy.”
“We could use a good first aid man,” agreed Hawkins. “By the way, what’s he in for?”
“Homicide—like most of the others. He says he accidental y kil ed a fel ow in a fight over a girl when he was just a kid.”
Six feet tal with dark eyes, wavy black hair, and Spanish features, Ben de la Cruz spoke English, Tagalog, and Visayan, as wel as several other Filipino dialects. Born in Bulacan Province, north of Manila in central Luzon, he was raised by a series of relatives, including a doctor who trained him to deliver babies and mend wounds. This knowledge had made him a valuable assistant to Dr. Victoriano Quizon in the Filipino hospital, where he worked with Fely Campo. Even so, he was in Dapecol because of his temper—after dodging a knife thrown by the brother of his paramour, he pul ed the weapon from a tree and stabbed his assailant. There was no love lost between de la Cruz and the Japanese, either: he had been attacked by a bayonet-wielding guard and was lucky to have escaped the confrontation with only a broken nose.
“What about the other one, Sam?” asked Shofner. “You said there were two.”
“Yes, I’m coming to him. That’s Victor—Ben’s best friend here in the colony. Ben says he wouldn’t want to go without him. He’s an expert woodsman and knows al about living in the jungle. But here’s the important thing about Victor. He knows the trail to Lungaog! He did some work clearing it before the war.”
Both men were potential y invaluable assets, but McCoy remained cautious.
“I’d like to see these boys before we commit ourselves too far.”
“It’s al arranged,” replied Grashio.
He had instructed the Filipinos to walk by the coffee patch the next day so that McCoy’s group could evaluate them from afar. McCoy liked what he saw, as wel as what he heard after conducting a fol ow-up interview. Victorio Jumarong, as it turned out, was almost the complete opposite of de la Cruz. Short, stumpy, and slightly older, the il iterate Ilocano spoke little English. Jumarong, too, had been sent to Dapecol for murder; he had kil ed two men, one in a bolo fencing bout. McCoy sensed that despite their youthful crimes, both were trustworthy. The Filipinos likewise trusted McCoy and they pledged their loyalty to the Americans. Thus the desperate, disparate outfit—consisting of a sailor, a mechanic, a priest, plus pilots, soldiers, Marines, and now murderers—became thirteen.
Despite the portentous significance of their number, Grashio’s luck was running that week. One of the plowers had contracted malaria and Shofner arranged to substitute Grashio in his place. The impish practical joker also arranged for Grashio’s initiation into the plowing fraternity. Sensing that the city-raised pilot was tentative around the balky Brahma bul s, he conspired to assign Dobervich’s bul —the friendliest, but also the most lively and unpredictable of the herd—to Grashio. During the latter’s first day on the job, the grinning plowers gathered to watch as Shofner led a wary Grashio toward the tethered beast.
“Now, Sam, there’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said, nudging Grashio. “Al you have to do is watch his horns. They take a pass at you sometimes, but just keep away from the horns.”
“He’l kil me!” shouted a worried Grashio.
Shofner, of course, had neglected to tel Grashio that Dobervich usual y began each day by giving the bul a smal pinch of salt. The bul , desiring its treat, eagerly trotted toward Grashio, who howled as he executed an about-face and raced through a camote field with his new friend lumbering after him. The plowers convulsed on the ground in laughter.
What little free time the men had was devoted to the same leisure pursuits as in previous prison camps. When not talking about food, they held Bible classes, debates and lectures. Bridge, poker, and cribbage tournaments were popular. Chess, too. After 187 consecutive losses, Spielman final y bested a head-scratching McCoy.
The prisoners’ library was off-limits to nonworkers, and since the prisoners who worked al day had no opportunity to use them, the books went largely unread. There was also a smal commissary where the prisoners could purchase peanut brittle or moldy tobacco with the token pay they received for their labors. Field officers received 40 pesos; captains and lieutenants, 30 pesos; noncoms and privates received 15 and 10 centavos, respectively. Dyess recal ed receiving the equivalent of $10 in occupation currency, but only after signing a statement certifying that he had received $250 in cash, plus food and clothing.
Dyess daringly exacted a smal amount of revenge fol owing an event that would be rivaled in the minds of the Dapecol POWs only by the Christmas celebration. On one memorable day, the long-abused prisoners lived vicariously through one gutsy colono, a smal Igorot with a long memory who had been flogged for sel ing tobacco to the Americans. After brooding for several days, he nearly decapitated a napping guard with an ax. As stunned POWs watched, he then diced the body with a bolo, took the guard’s rifle, and leapt into the jungle.
Fol owing an impressive funeral, the Japanese gathered the guard’s ashes in an urn, which, in keeping with their burial ritual, they placed in a shack along with some rice, meat, sweet cakes, and beer, sustenance for the departed’s spiritual journey to the afterworld. When the Japanese returned, however, they were astounded to find the food gone, and empty beer bottles. “It was the first beer I had had in many a day,” Dyess later confessed.
• • •
On Sunday, March 14, Boelens, Father Carberry, Marshal , and Spielman remained in the compound while the Marines went out to tend their bul s, this time with Grashio alongside. Almost simultaneously, Dyess, McCoy, and Mel nik departed for the coffee fields. Despite avoiding the main camp thoroughfares and doubling back through the banana and coconut groves to avoid roving patrols, they reached the rendezvous point—the plowers’ shack on the opposite side of Dapecol—shortly after the plowers, out of breath but in high spirits, their dispositions congruent with the sunny morning.
“Wel , boys, it’s going to work,” said McCoy. “We had no problem getting here. No trouble at al !”
Grashio and the Marines brightened when McCoy fished two chickens from his musette bag. Preparing lunch was Dobervich’s responsibility. “Mike was an enthusiastic cook,” said Hawkins. “In fact, enthusiasm was about his only qualification for the culinary art.”
Dobervich’s pots had just begun to boil when de la Cruz and Jumarong arrived. Grashio made the introductions. It was the first time that the Americans and Filipinos had a chance to become acquainted face-to-face. Their appearances, Hawkins noted, were as dissimilar as their dress. The angular, twenty-five-year-old de la Cruz “was neatly dressed in immaculate blue duck trousers and a blue poplin shirt to match. He had that appearance of utter cleanliness peculiar to the Filipino people.” Jumarong stood out with his bright orange Dapecol pants and “look of serious determination in his oval Malayan face.”
Leaving Dobervich to cook, the party skulked, one at a time, across the road that led to the nearby guardhouse. After wading through the thick cogon that choked the neglected banana grove bordering the jungle edge for nearly a quarter of a mile, they stood at the imaginary fence line, the invisible boundary separating them from Dapecol and freedom. It did not take Jumarong long to find the mouth of the trail.
“Have you been over this trail before?” McCoy asked.
Jumarong’s response was channeled through de la Cruz: “Yes, sir. I know the way.”
Wanting to be sure that there was more to the trail than just a beginning, they pressed through the undergrowth. They had penetrated only about 300 yards into the jungle, but the penal colony seemed miles—and hours—away. “Although it was a sunny morning, the darkness in the jungle gave the il usion of approaching nightfal ,” said Hawkins. They peered up at the dense tropical foliage and with each step, the spongy, puddled jungle floor swal owed their feet. Squadrons of mosquitoes dove upon them and squirming leeches suckled at their legs.
As the others optimistical y retraced their steps back to the plowers’ shack, Hawkins and Shofner lingered behind to pick the leeches from their legs. Though accustomed to long marches through difficult terrain, the Marines had not seen anything like this.
“It’s going to be rough, Jack,” said Shofner.
“You said it. This won’t be any picnic.”
Cat-and-Mouse
All night I lie with eyes that ache to close
And fight my mind which cannot find repose …
MONDAY, MARCH 15–FRIDAY, MARCH 26, 1943
Davao Penal Colony
The POWs, so deeply immersed in their secret preparations—which, up until now had gone astoundingly wel —were probably unaware of the date. The Marines, to have so brazenly, yet unintentional y, tempted fate, surely were not. They were tying up their bul s for the evening when Mike Dobervich turned a hungry gaze toward the onion patch.
“Go ahead, Beaver,” said Jack Hawkins. “Get us a couple. There are no Japs around.”
“May as wel ,” said Dobervich. “The Japs wil eat ’em al anyway if we don’t get ’em.”
Dobervich plucked a handful of green shoots and the Marines had no sooner started down the road toward the main compound when a red-haired American officer emerged from the coconut grove, his arms flailing as he charged toward them.
“Put those onions down, you thief. What the hel do you mean going in my onions?”
“Whadaya mean,
your
onions?” retorted Dobervich. “They’re just as much ours as they are yours or anybody else’s. After al , we’ve been working here al day to plant more.”
“Hand ’em here, Goddamn it,” shouted the officer. “I’m in charge of these onions and if anybody pul s
’em, I’l pul ’em.”
“Wel here, take ’em,” growled Dobervich defiantly, tossing them at the man’s feet.
It was cal ed chickenshit. The exchange was typical of the behavior in prison camp that sickened Hawkins. Though they were prisoners of war, Hawkins thought that men should stil act like soldiers. And officers, he believed, should be held to a higher degree of accountability. In order to provide an example for the men, they needed to conduct themselves with discipline and dignity. Onion picking was not a court-martialable offense and should not be treated as such. Hawkins believed that there was a reason why the Marines had fared better in captivity than prisoners from other services. “They retained their military customs, their discipline, and their honor in dealing with each other. They tried to do the best they could, and I was proud of them,” he would say. Unable to endure the absurdity any longer, Hawkins joined the argument.
“Control yourself. I don’t like your language. That’s no way to talk to your brother officers and you’d better calm down.”
“Who’s talking to you?”
At that point, before blows were exchanged, Shofner intervened.
“Come on Hawk, Mike,” he reasoned, pushing his two fuming friends down the road.
“You’l hear about this,” the officer shouted in the distance.
They did. That evening, they were summoned before the camp’s commanding officer, Army Lt. Col.
Russel J. Nelson. Finding their antagonist present, they arrived to learn that they had, for al intents and purposes, already been tried for their “crime.”
“It has been reported to me that you pul ed up five dozen onions from the onion field today,” announced Nelson. “As you know this is against the Japanese regulations and I shal have to punish you. We cannot risk getting in trouble with the Japanese in such a way. Have you anything to say?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Hawkins, scowling at the informant. “Our reporter here, in addition to being guilty of indecent language and improper conduct, seems to be unable to tel the truth. There were five onions pul ed, not five dozen.”
“That is immaterial,” snapped Nelson. “The Japanese rules were stil broken.