One hour before midnight on 26 December 1941, six U.S. Navy PBY seaplanes of Patrol Wing 10 took off from the seadrome at Ambon, in the Netherlands East Indies, as two, three-plane sections of “Vs.” Each plane carried one and a half tons of demolition bombs and enough fuel for a sixteen-hour flight. Their mission—to bomb a concentration of Japanese cruisers and transports anchored off Jolo, in the Sulu Archipelago. It was to be a surprise attack at dawn.
The first section to climb into the darkness was led by Lieutenant Burden R. Hastings, the second by Lieutenant John J. Hyland. They were to fly independently during the night and rendezvous near their objective just before dawn. Throughout the 600-mile flight, they navigated, of necessity, by star sights. Radio silence was imposed, and no communication between planes was permitted. During the long moonless flight, the second section passed the first, and arrived at the rendezvous point ten minutes ahead of schedule. As they waited for the first section to come on and lead the attack as ordered, they circled, and the heavy drone of their engines alerted the Japanese, who quickly manned antiaircraft guns and scrambled land-based fighters that had recently arrived.
When the first section reached the rendezvous, Hastings led his planes straight toward the target area. The sketchy intelligence available led the Americans to believe that they would encounter resistance only from ship-based antiaircraft guns. Little did they know that the Japanese had ringed the hills surrounding the city with similar guns. As the lumbering, practically defenseless PBYs approached Jolo Harbor, the sky around them was suddenly pockmarked with puffs of black smoke from bursting shells and enemy fighter planes were boring in for the kill.
Hyland, flying his section at a prescribed long interval behind the first, watched with horror the cruel fate of his squadron mates. When he saw Hastings’s lead plane plummet earthward trailing black smoke and orange flames and his two wingmen being attacked by Zero fighter planes, he correctly concluded that the mission could not possibly be completed. More Zeros, circling overhead, were about to attack and, to escape certain destruction, Hyland wheeled his section and headed, full-throttle, for home. To put it in the best possible defensive position, he dove his section to within 50 feet of the sea. This forced the Zeros to fight uncomfortably close to the water, but they nevertheless pressed home their attacks. Concentrated machine-gun fire from the PBYs shot down one of the fighters and several others appeared to be damaged. Bullets ripped into all three of the seaplanes, but they managed to fight off the attackers until, by a stroke of good fortune, they became enveloped in a blinding rain squall. Ten minutes later Hyland and one of his wingmen broke into the clear to discover the enemy planes were nowhere in sight, nor was the PBY piloted by Ensign Leroy C. Deede. Attempts to contact him by radio proved fruitless. Apparently Deede’s plane had been shot down but, having no way of knowing where, Hyland had no alternative but to keep going back to base.
It was a disheartening day. Only two of the six PBYs returned to Ambon, and they reported little likelihood of there being survivors from the downed planes. Patrol Wing 10 was composed of a group of officers and men who had shared many agonizing experiences together, and this was a crushing blow. Every man among them had lost at least one close friend in the disastrous raid.
Just as the second section neared the sanctuary of the rain squall, the Japanese fighters attacked the plane piloted by Ensign Deede. Projectiles tore large holes in his fuselage and wings, knocked out his port engine, and damaged his radio. But he kept the crippled “big boat” flying long enough to plunge into the squall and shake off the fighters. Then, his starboard engine, whose oil line had been severed, froze up. In the midst of a blinding rain, Deede skillfully made a rough, but safe, dead-stick landing in angry, wind-whipped seas. Instantly, all hands ripped up blankets, life jackets, and clothing, and plugged the numerous bullet holes in the hull. When it became apparent that the plane was not going to sink immediately, they turned their attention to repairing the radio.
The following morning, when Ensign Duncan A. Campbell was out on patrol, he intercepted faint distress signals on the wing’s operational frequency. Upon making contact, he found that the signals came from Deede, who gave him a rough estimate of the downed PBY’s position. He told Deede, who was 300 miles to the north in waters controlled by the enemy, not to transmit any more but to guard the frequency. Next, Campbell asked wing headquarters for permission to discontinue his patrol and go to the rescue. Dangerous as this mission was, permission was instantly granted. Campbell then headed north and instructed Deede to transmit the letters MO for one minute every twenty minutes. This would permit Campbell to get a homing fix and, he hoped, prevent the Japanese from doing the same.
On board Deede’s plane things were going to hell. Water was seeping through the plugged holes. All seven crewmen had been bailing without letup for almost thirty hours and, with the sea slowly getting the better of them, were on the verge of complete exhaustion. Water, 3 feet deep, sloshed around inside the hull and the battered “big boat” was about to capsize when, to the elation of all hands, they sighted Campbell’s PBY approaching at wave-top level.
While Campbell landed and taxied alongside, Deede’s crew fired their .50-caliber machine guns into their plane’s hull and, as she settled into her watery grave, dove over the side to be hauled on board the rescue plane. The joys of rescue, however, were short lived. No sooner was the heavily burdened seaplane airborne than six Japanese fighters came into view several miles away. All eyes were anxiously fixed on the enemy until, interminably long minutes later, the planes flew off over the horizon. The rest of the flight to Ambon was routine.
When Lieutenant Hastings headed his section of three PBYs toward the target area at Jolo and unexpectedly ran into heavy antiaircraft fire from land-based guns and bullets from attacking fighter planes, he must have known it was all over. He was trapped. It was too late to turn back. With grim determination, he led his section toward the targets. Just as he released his bombs, Hastings’s battered PBY burst into flames, and flipped over into a steep, spiraling dive to destruction. With their leader gone, Ensign E. L. Christman and Lieutenant (jg) Jack B. Dawley were strictly on their own. Beset with troubles of the devil’s making, both pilots frantically maneuvered to complete their mission and, at the same time, survive.
Christman’s first indication that he was being attacked by fighters was the sound of his own .50-caliber machine guns firing back in the waist hatches. Over the intercom he learned that two Zeros had singled him out. When one of them zoomed past his cockpit, rolled over, burst into flames, and spun out of control to the ground, Christman could have yelped for joy with the thought that his gunners were shooting true. But there was no time for that, with the antiaircraft barrage threatening to blast his plane out of the air at any moment.
PBY seaplanes similar to those flown by pilots of Patrol Wing 10, in “V” formation. Naval Institute Collection
Well aware that to continue on the slow, horizontal bombing run would be suicidal, Christman pushed the PBY over into a sharp dive toward the ships in Jolo Harbor. His “big boat” shuddered as its air-speed indicator moved past the red line. At 5,000 feet, he salvoed all his bombs on a Japanese cruiser, then pulled out of the dive to head for home. He did not have time to assess results or to look for Dawley because a persistent Zero was still hounding him.
The Zero made all its firing runs from the port side, and Christman, by manhandling the unwieldy seaplane in turns toward his attacker, managed to break up several of them. Dogfighting was the last thing in the world for which any pilot would consider using a PBY. Christman, however, managed to hold his own for about twenty minutes, until a projectile ripped a hole in one of his fuel tanks. Raw gasoline, which all on board feared would explode at any given second, gushed into the mechanic’s compartment and out along the length of the fuselage. Another projectile burst in the radio compartment, igniting gasoline in the main body of the plane. The PBY was doomed. Could they land before she blew up?
With precious seconds evaporating, Christman dove for a landing on the Sulu Sea. Flames and heat forced Radioman Second Class Paul H. Landers and Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class Joseph Banquist, manning the machine guns in the waist hatches, to jump for their lives. This was a risky thing to do because the plane was in a steep dive at an altitude of 300 feet and there was no assurance their parachutes would open quickly enough to save them. The third man in the waist hatch area, Aviation Machinist’s Mate First Class Andrew K. Waterman, could not join them. He was killed on the Zero’s last firing run.
The fire raged through the plane, spewing searing heat forward into the navigator’s compartment and the cockpit. Christman, his co-pilot Ensign William V. Gough, the navigator Chief Aviation Machinist’s Mate Don D. Lurvey (who was also a pilot), and Radioman First Class Robert L. Pettit were trapped. Although there was a hatch above the cockpit, anyone attempting to use it in flight would be chopped to pieces by the propellers directly aft of it. The four men were forced literally to sweat it out.
With his plane blazing like a meteor and destined to explode, God only knew when, Christman cut the engines and stalled it in for a landing. With their clothing on fire, the men scrambled through the cockpit hatch and dove into the sea. Ensign Gough’s life jacket was so badly burned, it was useless. When Chief Don Lurvey realized this, he unhesitatingly swam back to the blazing plane, climbed on board, and returned with a life ring. Moments later, the PBY blew up and sank.
All were burned to some extent, but Pettit was the only one in serious condition; he had severe burns on his hands, face, and neck. There was nothing to indicate any of the three men stationed in the after section of the plane had escaped, so the little band of survivors struck out for the only land to be seen, a small island about 14 miles away.
To make swimming easier, they discarded their bulky flight suits and shoes, but their progress was hampered by Pettit who, because of his painful burns, was forced to swim on his back. The others took turns keeping him headed in the right direction. After swimming for several hours, they seemed to have made little headway. Realizing Pettit was in critical condition, Christman suggested that Gough, a strong swimmer, go it alone for land and try to find a boat to rescue them. From the sun, they judged it was about 1500 when Gough left them. He was soon lost to sight, and the others continued their laborious swimming.
Toward sunset, Pettit, concerned about impeding the progress of his friends, tried swimming on his stomach from time to time. Soon after dark, however, he vanished. Christman and Lurvey called out to him, but got no answer. When they found his empty life jacket, they surmised that the pain and exhaustion had become too much for Radioman First Class Robert L. Pettit to bear, and that he had slipped off his life jacket and drowned.
Throughout the long night, as the two men swam on, Christman’s burns became increasingly painful, forcing him on occasion to swim on his back. The following morning, with the tropical sun beating down on them, they became badly sunburned and very thirsty. The island was still many miles away and Christman, nearing the end of his physical tether, told Lurvey to go on without him. Lurvey, however, refused to desert his friend, and encouraged Christman to keep swimming.
The situation, as far as Christman was concerned, was hopeless, and he was about to end it all when Lurvey had an idea. He began to talk about women, beautiful women back in the States. He stoutly maintained that Christman and he had not yet enjoyed their rightful share of thousands of sexy, beautiful women eager and ready for love. This idea hit a responsive chord and crowded all other thoughts out of Christman’s mind. He began swimming again with renewed strength.
Not long afterward, with the sun past the meridian to indicate they had been swimming for more than thirty hours, Christman and Lurvey were overjoyed to see sailing toward them a large outrigger canoe. The vinta, as the natives called it, was manned by several fierce-looking Moros, but the weary swimmers would not have cared if it carried the devil himself. Unsmiling and appearing anything but friendly, the Moros fished the two men out of the sea, and took them to a small island about 3 miles from Siasi Island. The Moros, convinced their captives were Germans, wanted to kill them, because there was a rumor that Germans, masquerading as American sailors, had gone ashore in Jolo and, before anyone knew what was happening, captured all strategic areas. This ruse, it was said, paved the way for Japanese troops to land.
Shoeless and unimpressively clad in their GI underwear, Christman and Lurvey had a difficult time trying to convince the sullen-faced Moros that they were indeed Americans. Tactfully, but forcefully, they argued for their lives. Finally, the chief of the village decided to check out their story with the Philippine constabulary on Siasi Island.
Escorted by armed Moros, Christman and Lurvey arrived at the constabulary post on Siasi late in the afternoon of 28 December. It was deserted except for a handful of soldiers who had remained because their families lived in the area. The others, fearing death at the hands of the Japanese, had scattered. The acting post commander, Lieutenant Fernando Brilliantes of the Philippine Army, soon identified them as Americans, and the Moros departed.
Lieutenant Brilliantes had some cheerful news for Christman and Lurvey. Word had come that there were some American airmen on two other islands. He did not know how many or who they were, but said they would all be brought to the post the next day. He then did whatever he could to treat his guests’ burns and make them comfortable. After a meal of rice and boiled chicken, the two exhausted men lay down on army cots and fell into a deep sleep.
When Lieutenant (jg) Dawley, piloting the third plane in Hastings’s section, began the bombing run, his plane was hit several times by flak, but damage was minor and none of his crew was injured. On the first attack by fighters, however, his two waist gunners, Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class Earl B. Hall and Radioman Third Class James M. Scribner, were killed. The relief gunner, Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class Evern C. McLawhorn, then manned both guns to fire whichever one would bear on a target.
The instant Dawley saw his section leader shot down, he, like Christman, realized that his plane too would be destroyed before completing the horizontal bombing run, and he dove the unwieldy PBY on targets in the harbor. He salvoed bombs on the largest ship he could find, a Japanese cruiser. Because of attacking fighters, Dawley was unable to assess damage to the cruiser or determine Christman’s fate. Cannon and machine-gun bullets were ripping into his plane. Gasoline streamed from its ruptured tanks, rudder control was lost due to severed cables, and the starboard engine, hit by a cannon projectile, stopped running. Destruction of the plane by fire or explosion was only moments away, and no one could parachute to safety for they were only a few hundred feet off the water. Dawley’s only hope was to land immediately while he at least had aileron control. He managed to put the PBY down about 200 yards off the south shore of Jolo, and, as he did so, it burst into flames. It was impossible to remove the bodies of Hall and Scribner, for the crew barely had time to dive over the side and swim clear before the fighters bore in to strafe the burning plane. It blew up and sank in a matter of minutes.
The survivors found themselves directly in front of a small Moro village, later identified as Lapa. As they swam toward shore, natives armed with spears and bolo knives rushed to meet them in dugouts known as bancas. The sight of this fierce mob prompted the survivors to resort to shouting, “Hello, Joe,” a greeting commonly exchanged among natives and Yankee sailors throughout the Philippines. Once they had convinced the natives they were Americans, not Japanese, they were pulled into the bancas and taken ashore.
On the beach injuries were checked. Dawley, his co-pilot Ensign Ira Brown, and the third pilot, Aviation Machinist’s Mate First Class Dave W. Bounds, were not hurt. Radioman First Class “N” “T” Whitford had a bullet nick in his back and one on his wrist. McLawhorn had bullet creases in both arms and legs, and a metal splinter imbedded in his left eye. The Moros produced a small first-aid kit to help the wounded, but they were sullen and uncommunicative, and the Americans were worried about what fate was planned for them. Their concern increased when Dawley’s trousers, which he had shed to make swimming easier, were carried ashore by a native and returned to him—minus his watch, twenty dollars, a knife, and some papers. At the same time, he was told he would be killed if he did not surrender his .45 automatic.
They had been in the village no more than twenty minutes when a band of savage looking Moros arrived: their heads were shaved, teeth filed to points, and they were armed with spears and krises. Without hesitation they grabbed hold of the Americans and hustled them out of the village. They followed a jungle trail for about a quarter of a mile until they came to a large nipa house. Here they met a Mr. Namli Indangi, a school teacher who had evacuated his family from Jolo to this safer part of the island. With his limited command of English, Indangi acted as an interpreter. He informed the Americans that they would remain in the house until word of their presence could be taken to the deputy provincial governor who was in hiding somewhere on the island. He would decide what to do with them.
About noon, the attitude of the Moros changed noticeably for the better. They brought the Americans cool water to drink, and mats to rest on, and gave them some rice with broiled chicken. Because food seemed to be in short supply, the killing of a chicken meant quite a sacrifice for its owner, and this tended to assure them that the natives were not interested in harming them—otherwise, why waste a valuable chicken.
The mayor of Lapa arrived at the hut during the afternoon. He had conferred with a representative of the deputy governor, who informed him that Japanese patrols were working their way toward the village and were less than a day’s march away. It was imperative that the Americans leave the island quickly. A vinta and crew would be provided to sail them to Siasi, a village 50 miles to the south on Siasi Island, where a constabulary post was located. Such a move fit perfectly into Dawley’s plan. Their best chance of escaping the Japanese, he knew, lay in working their way south through the Sulu Archipelago to Borneo, where the Dutch would undoubtedly help them return to the wing’s headquarters in Surabaja. They gratefully accepted the mayor’s offer, and Dawley told him that to avoid detection by enemy aircraft, they would depart at dusk.
Just as the Americans were about to head for the boat, excited natives raced past the house shouting, “The Mundos are coming. The Mundos are coming.” The Mundos, a savage, outlaw band of Moros, lived in the hills, but came down periodically to raid villages, kill, and plunder. With no time to lose, the Americans, accompanied by the three vinta crewmen, made a dash for the boat. Before reaching the beach, however, the crewmen deserted them to return to the village to defend their families. Dismayed but undaunted, Dawley and his crew continued along a small trail through a thick tropical jungle. Presently they came to the shore where they saw a small pier with a vinta tied up alongside. The vinta apparently belonged to a Moro fruit peddler who was about to get under way. As the Americans approached a small nipa house on the pier they were delighted to see the school teacher, Mr. Indangi, come out to greet them. When he learned of their predicament, Indangi quickly made arrangements for the peddler to take them to Siasi en route to his own island.
During the night the vinta drifted on a practically windless sea, and sunrise of 28 December found them no more than a precarious 20 miles from Jolo Island. With little or no wind throughout the morning, their progress continued to be negligible, but soon after mid-day a brisk, favorable wind sprang up. By late afternoon, they were only a few miles from Siasi when a vinta, larger and faster than theirs, was seen approaching. Up to this time, they had steered clear of other boats, because of the uncertainty of who might be in them. Now, they had no choice but to continue on course. As the two vintas passed close aboard, a man dressed in a khaki uniform jumped to his feet and began tooting on a police whistle and motioning for them to stop. As their vinta hove to, the unarmed Americans waited apprehensively. When the larger vinta drew alongside, however, they were elated to see a soldier of the Philippine constabulary, who greeted them with, “Thank God, you are alive.”
Information had been received at the constabulary post on Siasi that some American aviators were in a native village not far away, and the soldier was on his way to pick them up. Now, he believed he had found them. But Dawley convinced him that they could not possibly be the aviators in question because they had come straight from Jolo. It was exciting to think that other squadron mates might have survived the raid, so, eager to find out who, the navy men transferred to the larger vinta and headed for the village.
Upon reaching the village they learned that two Americans had been there, but only two hours before, had been taken to Siasi. As it was getting late, the soldier suggested they sail to a larger village, named Laminusa, to spend the night. They reached Laminusa just after dark, and the Americans were escorted to a large nipa house in the center of the village. There they were cordially greeted by Arasid Alpad, a first lieutenant in the Philippine Army, Isaoani Chanco, a first lieutenant in the Philippine Army Medical Corps, and Judge Yusup Abubakar from Jolo. Doctor Chanco treated McLawhorn’s and Whitford’s wounds with the limited medical supplies available. He said the dispensary at Siasi was well stocked, and he would take them there the next day to do a more professional job.
The Americans gorged themselves on rice, mangoes, and scrambled eggs, their first real meal since they left Ambon two days before. The village was jammed with evacuees from Jolo, but sleeping quarters were prepared for them in the local schoolhouse. While they slept on grass mats on the floor, two soldiers of the Philippine constabulary stood guard outside. The next morning, Dawley and his co-pilot Ira Brown, using the school’s globe and maps in a geography book, drew a chart of the Sulu Islands and the coast of Borneo. The chart would come in handy when they had to navigate those waters. Then, accompanied by Doctor Chanco and Judge Abubakar, they sailed for Siasi.
At Siasi’s constabulary post, Dawley’s group was elated to find Ensign Christman and Chief Lurvey. Although both men were very weak from their long ordeal and suffered painful burns, they struggled to their feet to greet their friends. Doctor Chanco wasted no time in opening the small dispensary and treating the wounded. He could not remove the metal splinter from McLawhorn’s eye because he did not have the proper instruments, but he gave him some drops that eased the pain.
The Americans were quartered in an annex to the main constabulary barracks, where they enjoyed the luxury of bunks. At dusk, Lieutenant Brilliantes, the acting post commander, went off to spend the night with his family who, like all other villagers, had taken refuge from the Japanese in the center of the island. Three armed constables, Doctor Chanco, and Judge Abubakar stayed with the Americans.
They had been asleep no more than an hour when all were brought to their feet by natives shouting, “Americanos, Americanos.” Hurrying to the main gate, they were amazed to see Ensign Gough and Radioman Third Class Landers being escorted to the post by Moros. Like Christman and Lurvey, they were suffering severe burns, mainly from the sun. While Chanco applied medication, the new arrivals recounted their experiences.
After striking out for help, Ensign Gough swam for more than twenty-seven hours before he was picked up by Moros. He was taken to an island where he tried to get the natives to go look for his friends, but they refused to do anything, saying the Americans had been picked up and were known to be on another island.
Landers, who was in the after section of Christman’s plane, told how he and Banquist had been forced to jump from the burning plane and how Andrew K. Waterman had been killed by machine-gun fire. Banquist was badly burned and did not live long, but Landers, after many hours alone, was pulled from the sea by Moros and taken to an island where he found Gough.
Once the excitement occasioned by the new arrivals had subsided, everyone tried again to get some much-needed rest. A half-hour later, Dawley, the senior American officer, was awakened by Judge Abubakar shaking his arm. The judge excitedly told him that a sentry had just reported the landing of five vintas carrying thirty armed Moros whom he thought had come to plunder the stores and burn the constabulary buildings. Dawley awakened the others and gave them the disquieting news. Just then another sentry reported that there were actually fifty Moros.
The constabulary barracks, a large building with many windows, seemed too difficult to defend, so it was decided to make a stand in the dispensary, a smaller structure some distance away. Since no one had firearms, the Americans picked up clubs of wood and pipe, determined to fight rather than stand passively by and be murdered. En route to the dispensary, they heard that their three armed guards had taken off for the jungle.
When they arrived at the dispensary they found it locked, and Doctor Chanco suddenly remembered that Brilliantes had the key. With no place else to go, the group returned to the barracks, placed the injured on cots in the center of the room, and extinguished all lights. The able-bodied men took stations at windows and doors, determined to bash in the head of anyone trying to take them by surprise. All was silent. The Americans stood tense and ready.
An hour passed and nothing happened. Then three figures were seen approaching from the main gate. They walked straight up to the barracks door where Dawley and Dave Bounds stood ready. If the doctor had not recognized two of the figures and let out a shout, their skulls would have been pulverized the minute they entered the building. The two men recognized were Mayor Iman Lakibul Dugasan, and ex-Mayor Idris Dugasan, Moro headmen of Tapul Island who had brought Gough and Landers to the post.
Somehow the headmen had heard that the Americans were concerned about the fifty armed Moros, and had come to tell them not to worry as these men were from their own village. They had come to protect their mayor. For further reassurance, the headmen offered to spend the remainder of the night with them. But the Americans were suspicious. This could be a “Trojan horse” trick to get inside, but since they had brought Gough and Landers safely to the post, it seemed logical to assume they meant no harm. On the other hand, if trouble came, the headmen would make good hostages, so it was decided to let them stay.
The next morning, 30 December, Dawley and the others were anxious to get under way before the Japanese blocked their escape route. Their plan was to go to Tarakan in northeastern Borneo, where Dutch troops were still positioned. To get there required sailing some 300 miles southward along the Sulu Archipelago and Borneo’s east coast. Although a vinta was put at their disposal, finding a crew took considerable searching and coaxing. This was understandable because throughout the archipelago the natives were in terror of the Japanese invading their villages.
Early that morning, Lieutenant Brilliantes sent out a call for contributions of food and, throughout the day, chickens, coconuts, canned food, and cigarettes trickled into the post. The canned food and cigarettes were, as Brilliantes slyly put it, “squeezed” from the Chinese merchants who owned the only food supplies. By late afternoon all was in readiness. Equipped with food, water, and medical supplies, which included burn ointment, the Americans boarded the vinta and departed Siasi, with the best wishes of their native friends who urged them to return with more planes and bomb the Japanese.
The journey’s first leg would take them to the village of Batu Batu, about 70 miles to the southwest on the island of Tawitawi. Before putting to sea, however, they stopped at a nearby village to get additional rice. The village consisted of no more than fifty nipa shacks but, among the crowd that gathered when they tied up to a small dock, there was, surprisingly, one native who spoke good English. He introduced himself as Mr. Jesus, a Protestant preacher who had spread the Christian doctrine throughout the village, an extraordinary accomplishment in a region predominantly inhabited by Moslems.
Just before they shoved off, Mr. Jesus asked the helmsman to take the Americans past the chapel. Night had fallen. Not a breath of wind rippled the glassy, moonlit surface of the sea, as the outgoing tide drifted them slowly past the nipa hut which was the village chapel. All at once, those in the vinta were astounded to hear a chorus of voices singing a hymn to the accompaniment of a trumpet. The villagers had gathered to say good-bye with a song and a prayer. Although only three or four of the natives could carry on a conversation in English, the words of the long hymn were sung in perfect English. The warmth of this friendly gesture left nine very solemn American navy men adrift on the sea that night.
Dawn of 31 December found them with no wind, and a head tide. Since the native crewmen refused to paddle in the hot sun, the impatient Americans took turns trying to make headway. After four hours of strenuous effort with little gain to show for it, they conceded that the natives were right, rest in the daytime whenever winds and tide were unfavorable, and paddle at night. Accordingly, the vinta was anchored near a small island to await a change of tide.
In the afternoon the vinta got under way again and made good speed, thanks to a fair breeze and a following tide. By midnight, the Americans were many miles at sea, but were not unprepared for the advent of the new year. Before they left Siasi, Lieutenant Brilliantes managed to “squeeze” four small bottles of so-called brandy from the Chinese, and included them in their provisions. The stuff, a synthetic concoction, had a rancid taste, but it would do for the occasion. Having no way of telling time exactly, the men arbitrarily decided that, when the moon could be seen by sighting up the mast, it would be midnight. When that moment came, they drank to their loved ones, their shipmates, and the hope they would all be around to toast again in 1943. Then, in accordance with time-honored custom, they “dropped the hook” for 1941, and “weighed anchor” for 1942 by singing “Auld Lang Syne.”
When dawn broke on New Year’s Day, the vinta was off the south shore of Tawitawi. Approaching from the opposite direction was a lipa, an open sailboat somewhat larger than a vinta and with outriggers. The Americans hastily covered themselves with grass mats and lay still. As the lipa drew near, someone on board her hailed them in a native dialect. The Americans’ one English-speaking crewman quietly reported that a man in the lipa was asking for news of Jolo. Peering from beneath his mat, Dawley saw a white man standing in the lipa. Figuring he was friendly and wanting to warn him against going to Jolo, Dawley told his helmsman to go alongside.
The white man was Father C. B. Billman, a Catholic priest stationed in Batu Batu, whom Brown and Landers had met there during prewar, advanced base exercises. Upon learning of the dangerous situation in Jolo, Father Billman wisely canceled his trip. He was eager for news and asked if he might ride the few remaining miles to Batu Batu in the vinta. The Americans, interested in sharing the priest’s stateside cigarettes, welcomed him on board.
In Batu Batu, where they arrived in mid-morning, Father Billman’s assistance was invaluable. He arranged for beds in the public hospital for McLawhorn and the three men suffering from burns. Everything possible was done to make them comfortable. Then the priest found room for Gough and Bounds in the home of the local judge, and took Dawley, Brown, and Whitford to his house to rest.
Dawley learned that Major Alejandro Suarez of the Philippine constabulary, the provincial governor of Sulu, was due to arrive that night. Believing the governor might have important news concerning the Japanese, and wanting the injured men to get what much-needed rest and medical attention they could, Dawley decided to await his arrival.
During the afternoon, Father Billman and a Filipino civil engineer took Dawley and Whitford on a food-foraging expedition into the interior of Tawitawi. Bouncing over dirt roads in an old truck, they told natives along the way to gather coconuts, bananas, papaya, and whatever food they could find, and deliver it to Batu Batu. They were especially fortunate to purchase from a farmer a “lanchon,” or fat young pig, which was destined to be barbecued soon. Upon returning to the village, however, Dawley learned the bad news. The vinta and boatmen from Siasi had gone home without so much as a word to anyone in authority.
Governor Suarez and two of his officers, Captain J. Celis, Jr. and First Lieutenant R. L. Flores, arrived at the village that evening. The governor had been shot in the arm by the Japanese during the invasion of Jolo and had come to Batu Batu for medical treatment. Before evacuating Jolo, he was able to obtain detailed information concerning Japanese activities there, and was anxious to pass it along to Dawley, who provided the governor’s first opportunity to get this news to the outside.
The governor stated that the defenders of Jolo consisted of 200 Philippine Army troops, only 120 of whom had rifles, and these were old Enfields many with missing or broken parts. From midnight until 0300, these men heroically resisted the landing of several thousand Japanese, armed with machine guns, mortars, and hand grenades, before being forced to retire to the hills. There, they were ambushed by the Mundos, who inflicted more casualties on them than the Japanese. Although the Mundos did not harm the governor, they robbed him and his officers of their valuables, and most of their clothing. Governor Suarez was positive that the PBY raid on 27 December sank one transport and left a warship burning.
When they awoke on the morning of 2 January, Dawley and his squadron mates were faced with a serious problem. None of the natives in Batu Batu could be persuaded to sail them to their next objective, the village of Sitankai on Tumindao Island, the southernmost island of consequence in the archipelago. The voyage was considered too dangerous. Besides, the men wanted to stay to protect their families. The Americans would have attempted to sail themselves, but no one would part with a vinta even though the governor personally offered to pay a good price for one.
When the only white man on Tawitawi, apart from Father Billman, heard of the Americans’ plight, he came to the rescue. He was an old-timer named Stratton, reputed to be a former soldier who arrived in the Philippines with the U.S. Army in 1899 and stayed there. Stratton immediately set sail for a nearby island, where relatives of his Filipino wife lived. They, he said, would be willing to make the trip. He returned just before dusk with a fine big lipa and a reliable crew, and plans were made to depart at high tide the following morning.
On the morning of 3 January, while the lipa was being loaded with provisions, including eight live chickens, Dawley and Governor Suarez talked over plans for the trip. The best way to reach their destination, it was decided, was to sail at night directly across Sibutu Passage, the main shipping route between the Sulu Sea and the Celebes Sea, to the northern tip of Sibutu Island. The darkness would help them evade the prying eyes of any Japanese in the area. Then, following the west coast of Sibutu Island, they would proceed south to Sitankai. The governor gave Dawley a letter addressed to Deputy Governor Amirhamja Japal at Sitankai ordering him personally to make certain the Americans were safely taken to Borneo. He also gave Dawley fifty pesos to use in the event the deputy governor required additional persuasion.
The injured men were carefully placed on board and, just as the lipa was about to set sail, Father Bellman presented each man with a small wooden cross and said he would pray for their safety for the next thirty days. A large crowd, including the governor and others who had been so kind to them, gathered to see the Americans off. When the lipa pulled away from the dock the natives waved and the good father made the sign of the cross.
Stratton, who insisted on accompanying them, directed the crew to put into the village of Bongao, about 2 miles east of Batu Batu. Here he hoped to find an experienced native to guide them across Sibutu Passage, and south to Sitankai. They reached Bongao about noon, and the usual crowd of natives gathered to stare at the Americans.
Dawley and Stratton went looking for a navigator and, if possible, to buy some canned food. They stopped at a small Chinese store and, when the owner learned that Americans who had been fighting the Japanese were on board the lipa, he did everything possible to please them. Out of the dark interior of his store came cigars, cigarettes, canned beef, sardines, beans, crackers, cookies, and a case of beer. A table was set and, while the Patrol Wing 10 guests ate their fill, natives stood behind them fanning away the flies. To the Americans it was a delightful meal, and the Chinese owners of the store, who refused to accept a single peso, seemed overjoyed to be helpful.
Stratton succeeded in engaging a navigator, a shriveled-up old man who came from a small tribe of Bagio fishermen. Once warlike but now rather timid people, the Bagios live in their vintas, shunning the land as they move from one fishing ground to another. They are excellent seamen, and Stratton said the man he had found was one of the best.
They departed Bongao at twilight. When the lipa moved out of the bay’s sheltered water, their Bagio navigator suddenly jumped to his feet and demanded silence from everyone. Although Dawley and his comrades thought the old man had gone bananas, they obeyed him. When all was quiet, he walked to the mast. Facing the wind, he waved a brightly colored cloth and, in a loud bleating voice, called upon his gods to send them a favorable wind. To ensure a safe voyage, he continued his weird ritual by leaning over the gunwale, patting the waterline, and giving the inside of the hull a resounding kick with his bare foot. He repeated this performance at the stern. Then, while sitting as far back on the stern as he could without falling overboard, he once again asked for absolute silence and forbade anyone to create disturbing influences while he chanted a long, eerie sounding prayer for good fortune.
Whether or not the ancient Bagio was crazy, no one ever determined. But, when he had finished his incantations, he took over the tiller and, with no navigational aids, steered a beeline course for five hours through the dark of night, heavy seas, and a strong wind to the north end of Sibutu Island, which could not be seen until they were practically upon it.
On the morning of 4 January the lipa put into the village of Sitankai, half of which was built out over the water. In spite of the early hour, word of their approach had spread. Most of the male villagers, armed with bolos and Moro krises, were congregated along a small dock ready to defend their village from foreign intruders. One brave lad paddled a small banca out to see whether or not they were Japanese. Upon learning they were Americans, weapons were sheathed and shouts of “Hello, Joe” were exchanged.
With their arrival in the southernmost island of the Philippine Archipelago, the Americans’ primary concern was to get to Borneo. Their friend Stratton, having made good his promise to deliver them safely to Sitankai, would set out for home in a few hours. The old ex-GI’s courageous assistance had been invaluable, and would never be forgotten. In fact, his action probably saved Dawley and his friends from falling into the hands of the Japanese.
Deputy Governor Japal was among the first to greet them, and Dawley immediately tried to negotiate with him for a boat. Although the atmosphere was cordial and Japal was sympathetic, he was not the least bit encouraging. He said no vintas or lipas were available, let alone crewmen willing to sail them to Borneo. With this disheartening news, Dawley asked whether they might be able to use a customs service launch which he heard was in Sitankai. Mr. Dias, the customs agent, was sent for, and he soon arrived with Judge Dominador, which put Dawley in company with the village’s three leading citizens.
Mr. Dias explained that the customs launch, a 50-foot, diesel-powered cruiser, was available, but the Philippine Maritime Commission had condemned it after an inspection showed the hull to be more than 75 per cent rotten. He was expecting a letter authorizing him to destroy the boat, but it had not yet arrived. Dias was more than willing to let them look it over, and decide for themselves. The boat’s engineer was called to take Dawley, Brown, Bounds, and Whitford on an inspection. True enough, the hull was rotten, but the vessel was afloat and, there being no alternative, they decided to make it do.
The Chinese storekeepers in Sitankai were even more lavish in their hospitality than those at Bongao. Only one of the three Chinese stores in the village was open, but the owners of all three contributed generously to the cause of feeding hungry Americans. As a result, having been provided with an ample breakfast, the nine survivors were also treated to a sumptuous noon meal of duck, rice, strange but tasty vegetables, fish, and a variety of sauces.
The contentment generated by a filling meal followed by cigars and coffee was cut short, however, when Mr. Dias returned with news that use of the launch was out of the question because its compressed air tank, essential for starting the engine, had holes in it and would not hold pressure. With this depressing news, Dawley once again approached Japal and pleaded for a vinta. Even when offered fifty pesos, the deputy governor insisted there were no boats of any kind to be had. Dawley then thought of stealing a vinta but, after considering the many risks involved, quickly discarded that idea. It had to be the launch, or nothing.
At about 1330 Dawley, Bounds, Brown, and Whitford went to inspect the launch again, this time to determine what, if anything, could be done. To get it started, the engine had to be turned over by 150 pounds of pressure built up in the compressed air tank. However, not only did this tank have five small holes in it, but it was crusted with rust. At hand were brass tacks, screws, solder, and a blow torch but, try as they might, the Americans, assisted by Mr. Dias, could not get the solder to adhere to the rust. They had hoped to have made repairs before 1730, the latest that day when tide and current would permit departure. But the deadline came and went with the holes still not plugged, and the tired men stopped work for the night. After they enjoyed another epicurean treat provided by the Chinese merchants, floor space for sleeping was found for them in various houses.
Early in the morning of 5 January, the Americans and the launch’s three-man crew went to work trying to patch the tank. All morning long schemes were suggested and tried, but not until noon was the most likely fix ready for test. Wooden pegs, coated with white lead, were hammered into the holes and covered with pliable rubber from the soles of native shoes. On top of each rubber pad a wooden block was placed and secured by metal straps wrapped over them and around the tank. Wedges were driven between the tank and the straps to give maximum pressure on each block. It was a “jury rig,” but it had to work—or else.
When the air pump was activated, anxious eyes were riveted on the pressure gauge. Everyone knew it had to register 150 pounds before the engine could be started. The gauge slowly began to climb. It passed 30 pounds, and was looking good. Hopes were running high when it passed 70, but they sagged when the gauge failed to rise above 80 pounds, and several of the plugged holes began spewing air.
The pump was shut down, and more wedges driven under the metal straps to hold the plugs more firmly in place. Again the pump was started. The pressure gauge rose to 100 pounds, and continued climbing. When it reached 140 pounds, all hands prayed the rusty tank would go the route without blowing up. The air pump labored as the needle on the gauge worked its way to 150 pounds. With fingers crossed, they tried to start the ancient engine. It emitted a few heavy wheezes, coughed, kicked over twice, and stopped. Far from discouraged, the men made minor adjustments to the engine, and built up pressure for another try. This time she wheezed, coughed, and continued to run as though glad to be alive again. A shout went up from numerous bystanders as the Americans, with smiles of joy smearing their bearded faces, congratulated each other.
Food and water were hastily brought on board and the entire village population assembled to watch the launch cast off. Carefully nursing the engine to a moderate speed, the little group of survivors, assisted by the three Filipino crewmen, headed their craft out of Sitankai Harbor, Borneo-bound. Their main concern was that the leaky, rotten hull would not hold together until they reached their destination, 160 miles away. Not the least of their worries was the fact that Japanese air and naval units were operating near northern Borneo preparatory to invading that oil-rich land. For that reason, they decided to make a dash for Tawao, roughly 60 miles north of Tarakan, in British northeast Borneo. This would minimize the number of daylight hours they would have to spend on the open sea. Furthermore, they suspected there were minefields in Tarakan Harbor, and information concerning the approach to them might also be obtained at Tawao.
Using the chart Dawley and Brown had sketched back at the Laminusa schoolhouse and the antique compass with which the launch was equipped, they chugged steadily on through the night. With the first rays of the sun, all hands were delighted to see the Borneo coast lying dead ahead. When they were able to make a landfall, they had to change course only slightly to the south; crude as their navigational equipment was, they were not far off course.
The small town of Tawao existed only to serve several rubber plantations in the surrounding area. As the launch approached the dock, its occupants saw three white men and a handful of natives awaiting their arrival. It was impossible for those on shore to know what to expect of the people in the vessel, for a wilder-looking gang of white men had never before descended upon Borneo. The nine survivors, dressed in cast-off Moro clothing, their faces obscured by scraggly eleven-day-old beards, and their wounded arms and legs patched up, were enough to make the so-called Wild Man of Borneo look like a boy scout. Realizing how grotesque they looked, Dawley hailed the white men on the dock and told them that, believe it or not, they were officers and enlisted men of Uncle Sam’s navy.
Two of the men turned out to be English managers of rubber plantations, the third, a refugee German doctor. They were most cordial and quite amused at the appearance of the Americans. While the doctor examined and treated McLawhorn and the other wounded men, the plantation managers gave Dawley a chart and navigational advice for his journey to Tarakan, and cautioned him not to arrive at the minefield entrance before daylight because he might inadvertently hit a mine. After calculating how long it would take to reach Tarakan, Dawley planned to delay departure for about four hours. The plantation managers, however, grimly told him to leave Tawao as soon as possible, for a Japanese landing party was expected at any time.
News of the impending approach of Imperial Japanese forces was disquieting, to say the least, and the Americans decided to leave immediately. During the time the launch was at dockside, natives bailed large quantities of water out of the leaking hull, making her as seaworthy as she would ever be. When the pump was started, pressure built up nicely to 130 pounds, then it stopped. A plug was leaking. It took fifteen precious minutes to hammer more wedges beneath the strap and build up the required pressure. All the while wary eyes were kept on the harbor entrance for signs of the anticipated enemy. But the engine started on the first try, and the launch headed out to sea.
The voyage down the coast went smoothly as long as there was light enough to take bearings, but with darkness came trouble. Dawley decided to anchor off Bungu Island, which was as far south as they could safely venture before nearing the minefield. He calculated they would arrive at the anchorage at about 2200. However, there were indications that a strong current was moving the launch south faster than believed, and Dawley, not wanting to take any chances, now chose to anchor near the Borneo shore. Consequently, at 2000 he changed course.
With no navigational aids and riding fickle tides, it was impossible to determine in the dark, moonless night how far they were from the coast. Cautiously they groped their way southwest and occasionally west for about an hour until soundings indicated they were moving into shallow water. Soon thereafter, the low silhouette of the Borneo coast could be seen, and they dropped anchor in calm seas about a mile off shore.
Dawley stood the first watch until midnight, when he was relieved by one of the Filipino crewmen. The man was instructed not to let Dawley sleep more than an hour, but fell asleep himself. Sensing something wrong, Dawley awakened at 0300 to find the launch aground. Having planned to be under way well before that time, Dawley was furious. Now, nothing could be done but wait several hours for an incoming tide to refloat them. To add to their troubles, a rock or piece of coral had punched a hole in the launch’s bottom. Although they plugged the hole with pieces of cloth, it continued to leak and compound the bailing problem. Three hours passed before the launch was refloated and under way.
The seventh of January 1942 was one day the nine survivors would never forget. At 1100 they came alongside the lightship marking the entrance to Tarakan Harbor and identified themselves. Much too exhausted to shout, they had to let their bearded faces, wreathed in grins, express their joy at being safe at last. The lightship master, a very cordial fellow, gave them American cigarettes, up-to-date war news, which they could have done without, and a pilot to steer them through the minefield. He also radioed Dutch officials in Tarakan to report their arrival.
When the little band landed at Tarakan, it was met by the senior Dutch Army officer in the area, who announced that arrangements had already been made to fly the Americans south to Balikpapan the next morning. After enjoying the luxury of a long-needed bath and shave, the survivors, dressed in clothing contributed by Dutch residents of the city, relaxed in easy chairs on the veranda of Tarakan’s only hotel drinking gin and tonic. Somehow it was difficult for any of them to believe that what they were experiencing was real.
On the morning of 8 January, the Americans boarded a Dutch Dornier flying boat for the trip to Balikpapan, 300 miles to the south. Before taking off, they were informed that during the night the motor launch had sunk at her moorings. It saddened them to think of their old boat lying on the harbor’s bottom, for she had served them well.
With one exception, the flight to Balikpapan was uneventful. Right after takeoff, just as they were comfortably settled in their seats, short bursts of machine-gun fire reverberated through the plane. This all-too-familiar sound instantly brought nine of the passengers to their feet. Other passengers, aware that it was only the bow gunner testing his machine gun, were amused at the Americans’ knee jerk reaction.
Soon after arriving in Balikpapan, Dawley sent a message to Patrol Wing 10’s headquarters in Surabaja, Java, requesting transportation. A quick reply advised that one of the wing’s PBYs would pick them up the following morning.
On 9 January 1942, fifteen adventure-packed days after leaving their base at Ambon, the last survivors of the disastrous Jolo raid arrived at the Dutch military airfield at Surabaja, where happy officers and men of Patrol Wing 10 welcomed them back from the land of “missing in action.”