Five May 1942 was doomsday minus one for Corregidor, the massive island fortress guarding the main channel entrance to Manila Bay. For four torturous months its valiant defenders had been subjected to merciless poundings by unopposed Japanese bombers and, with the fall of Bataan on 9 April, a new kill factor had been introduced—artillery fire. Standing hub to hub in the hills of Bataan, upwards of 200 heavy cannon had systematically pulverized the batteries and defense positions of the “rock,” America’s last bastion in all of Southeast Asia. Three smaller island forts—Hughes, Drum, and Frank, supporting Corregidor across the bay’s southern reaches—had shared the same fate. Most of their big guns too lay silent among the rubble of demolished casemates.
That the end was near was no secret to the defenders of Corregidor and its satellite forts, who numbered about 9,145 Americans (nearly half of whom were navy men and marines), and their comrades-in-arms, 3,516 men of the Philippine scouts, army, and navy. Surrounded by the enemy and with no chance of outside help, these half-starved, battle-fatigued men doggedly fought on, obsessed with the foreknowledge that the impending end could bring only death or capture.
Anchored in Corregidor’s south harbor was the minesweeper Quail (AM-15), the last of six such ships assigned to the Asiatic Fleet. Two had gone to the Netherlands East Indies in early December; Japanese bombs had sunk three more in Manila Bay. The Quail, however, was not without her problems. Most of the bridge had been torn away by 6-inch shells, which also smashed the upper portion of her stem section. She was leaking from minor underwater damage to her hull, and two-thirds of her crew had been ordered ashore to help man beach defenses on Corregidor. Despite these handicaps, the Quail, in the face of enemy shelling, had that day daringly swept a 600-foot channel through Corredigor’s minefield to permit evacuation by launch of army and navy personnel to the submarine Spearfish, lying in wait offshore.
Four officers, including the commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander John H. Morrill, and twenty-two enlisted men were on board the Quail that night when, at 2030, Japanese artillery opened fire on Corregidor with a thunderous barrage. The continuous mass of exploding shells made the entire island appear like one vast sheet of flames. It was difficult to believe that any mortal could possibly survive that hell on earth. The crew of the Quail watched aghast as huge sections of the rock were gouged out, causing landslides which obliterated sections of the beach defenses. Soon Corregidor lay shrouded in a heavy cloud of dust and smoke. Defense searchlights were useless, their powerful beams appearing as vague yellow spots in a heavy fog. This grisly spectacle meant only one thing—the long-dreaded assault on Corregidor had commenced.
For three hours the devastating barrage continued. Then, with the bursting of a green flare over the fortress, the cannonading suddenly ceased. Those on board the Quail found the silence ominous, disquieting. It probably meant Japanese troops were storming the rock. Heavy machine-gun fire on the eastern end of the island confirmed this belief. Two and a half hours later, at 0200 on 6 May, the enemy fired a white rocket, and once again pounded Corregidor with heavy artillery. A half-hour later, two green rockets burst and the shelling stopped. Again the sounds of machine-gun and rifle fire rang out along the eastern reaches of the island.
Lieutenant Commander Morrill and his men had no way of learning what was happening on the rock. Hoping for the best, they feared the worst. Finally, at 0430, a message was received from navy headquarters on Corregidor, ordering those on board the Quail to help in the defense of Fort Hughes on Caballo Island, 3 miles south of Corregidor. All hands proceeded to the fort in the ship’s motor launch, leaving the Quail anchored midway between Fort Hughes and Corregidor.
When they arrived at Fort Hughes, Morrill and his men were appalled to find it a mass of rubble and in the final stages of collapse. Mortar pit walls, tunnels, and shelter areas were torn and crumbling. Casualties had been heavy. Enemy shells, exploding in the gun pits, had killed and wounded men in the shelter areas. Shell fragments had even smashed through the heavily protected hospital section, taking a heavy toll of the wounded and hospital personnel. All but one of the fort’s seventeen big guns had been destroyed, and that one, a 12-inch mortar, valiantly continued to fire on enemy positions.
At daylight, Japanese bombers attacked Fort Hughes, but could do little to add to the carnage already inflicted, or to knock out the remaining mortar. Only cease-fire orders from Corregidor, received at 0900 on 6 May 1942, silenced the gun forever.
Information concerning what was happening on Corregidor was unobtainable. Rumors of surrender abounded. The men of Fort Hughes, dazed from weeks of punishing bombardment, were confused as they apprehensively awaited the inevitable word to surrender.
At 1100, Morrill received orders from the commandant of the Sixteenth Naval District, headquartered on Corregidor, to scuttle the Quail. Immediately following that, all communications with Corregidor were lost. While Morrill assembled the scuttling party, consisting of himself, his gunnery officer, and four enlisted men of the engineering department, white flags were observed flying over Corregidor, Fort Drum, and Fort Frank. The colonel commanding Fort Hughes, having received no orders to surrender and thoroughly detesting the idea, did not immediately follow suit. This delay permitted Morrill to carry out his orders.
Arriving at the dock, the navy men were disgusted to discover their motor launch, holed by shells, resting on the bottom. Another motor launch, however, rode at anchor 200 yards away. Without hesitation, all six men, determined to keep their ship from ever flying a Japanese flag, dove into the water and swam to it. This launch was in good condition, and the engine started with no difficulty. En route to the Quail, they were strafed by Japanese aircraft and subjected to machine-gun fire from enemy positions on Corregidor. Although bullets churned the water close by, no hits were scored. Once on board the Quail, they quickly opened the seacocks, and in a matter of minutes the last navy minesweeper in Manila Bay headed for her watery grave.
During the return trip, a white flag was run up over Fort Hughes. Rather than go there to be captured, Morrill and his men took refuge in the Ranger, an abandoned army tug anchored off the south shore of Fort Hughes. Here they formulated a daring plan of escape to the island of Mindanao, where they could join U.S. Army forces fighting there.
Throughout the afternoon the Japanese continued to bomb and shell the hapless forts. Time and again the white flags were shot away but, in compliance with General Wainwright’s orders, they were always replaced. This bombardment was a source of terrifying confusion to the defenders, who had been ordered to destroy all remaining big guns and to throw their small arms into the sea. What they did not know was that although General Wainwright had directed the surrender of Corregidor and the island forts to stop the wanton slaughter of his troops, it was not enough to satisfy Lieutenant General Masaharu Homma, commanding the Japanese forces. He refused to accept the surrender unless fighting everywhere in the Philippines ceased.
Wainwright argued that his authority did not permit issuing such orders. However, when Homma cold-bloodedly said that if he did not surrender the forces as demanded, all prisoners in Japanese hands would be put to death, General Wainwright had no alternative but to broadcast orders to end all resistance throughout the Philippines.
Fortunately, the tug Ranger was well stocked with firearms, ammunition, food, clothing, tools, a few charts, and other items useful for the long voyage through unfriendly seas to the island of Mindanao. These were carefully stowed in the 36-foot motor launch. It had been doctrine to keep drums of reserve diesel oil in all ship’s boats and, from several of them anchored in the area, 450 gallons were obtained and loaded on board. All was in readiness. Their only fears were that a Japanese shell might blow the Ranger out of the water, or the enemy would land on Fort Hughes before they could return, under cover of darkness, to pick up their shipmates. It was impossible to contact the rest of the crew on Corregidor.
At nightfall, Morrill and his men landed at Fort Hughes, where they hurriedly assembled members of the Quail’s crew. After outlining the plan, Morrill stressed the hazards of such an undertaking, including the fact that Manila Bay was completely surrounded by Japanese picket boats and warships. Chances of getting through were slim. If caught, they would probably be killed. This, he assured all hands, was strictly a voluntary undertaking. Two officers and six enlisted men who indicated a willingness to go appeared so mentally upset and physically exhausted that Morrill considered it unwise to take them along. The others enthusiastically volunteered to attempt the trip.
Lieutenant Commander Morrill, Warrant Gunner Donald C. Taylor, and sixteen navy enlisted men of the Quail boarded their 36-foot motor launch at 2215 on 6 May 1942 and commenced the voyage into the unknown. Their departure came none too soon. Fifteen minutes later, Japanese artillery all at once opened up on Fort Hughes with a barrage similar to the one experienced by Corregidor the night before. A green rocket was fired at 2330, and the barrage lifted. This was followed by the sound of many motors, indicating the Japanese were about to land on the fort.
Morrill headed for the Luzon coast, seeking to remain as inconspicuous as possible in its shadows. Hugging the shoreline, he headed the launch out of Manila Bay on a southerly course. Two and a half hours after leaving the fort, a brilliant moon came out and, to their consternation, disclosed two Japanese destroyers, about 1 mile away, patrolling to seaward on a north-south course between Fortune Island and Olongapo. Worse than that, another destroyer and a patrol boat blocked their escape route to the south. Because of her overloaded condition, the motor launch could make no more than 3 or 4 knots, and Morrill decided to seek refuge in Hamilo Cove, a scant 10 miles from where they started.
They ran the launch up on a sandy beach and hurriedly camouflaged it with green branches cut from palm and other trees. When that was done, the men, physically exhausted from the long siege of Corregidor, lay down on jagged rocks in a small ravine and fell sound asleep.
At dawn, while attempting to improve on the boat’s disguise, all hands were startled to hear low-flying aircraft rapidly approaching. Instantly, everyone dove for cover as two single-engine seaplanes flew overhead at treetop level. Fearing they might have been sighted, the men clung to the ground, not daring to move. When the planes failed to return for a closer look, life once again became beautiful. Their camouflage job had passed the first test.
All day long the little band of men remained concealed in the thick brush watching with concern Japanese destroyers and patrol boats moving back and forth a mere half-mile off the entrance to their hiding place. Once during the morning, the rolling thunder of artillery could be heard as, for some unknown reason, the Japanese seemed to be pounding Corregidor. If such were the case, this cruel shelling, they knew, was unnecessary, for the defenders of the defenseless forts were finished. They thanked God to be away from it all.
Plans to shove off that night were shattered when, at dusk, a Japanese destroyer steamed slowly into Hamilo Cove and anchored a few hundred yards from their hiding place. They knew that from a not-too-distant vantage point the boat’s outline was clearly discernible, but it was now too late to do anything about it. Fearing a Japanese landing party might investigate, they lay hidden with rifles and automatic weapons at the ready. Darkness came to hide the boat from prying eyes, but later, when the moon came out, their fears were renewed. Fortunately, Japanese lookouts failed to detect the boat, and at dawn the destroyer got under way, leaving behind eighteen very tired, but happily relieved navy men.
Throughout the day, 8 May 1942, enemy warships continued to patrol just beyond the cove’s entrance. Obviously the waters off Luzon were alive with Japanese ships. To pass undetected through them was bound to be difficult. In spite of the inherent dangers, Morrill and his men were anxious to get going. The last thing any of them wanted to delay their movements was another destroyer anchored near them overnight. Near sundown, however, a Japanese destroyer slowly headed for the cove. With that, the atmosphere turned indigo with curses, the likes of which only furious sailors of the old China Station could conjure. At the last moment, though, the tin can veered off to enter Looc Cove, a mile to the south.
When it was dark and the area was considered clear of enemy ships, they stripped the camouflage from the motor launch and got under way. Their plan was to move south cautiously, hugging the Luzon coastline, and anchor before sunrise in another cove east of the shipping lanes. Although all eyes searched for the enemy, lookouts were specifically posted to insure coverage in all quadrants. Stealthily they passed Looc Cove. In the darkness, the enemy destroyer anchored there was not visible, but uncomfortably close to seaward lookouts reported four enemy destroyers steaming in formation on a southerly course. These ships passed on without incident. A half-hour later, another destroyer was sighted entering a cove dead ahead. To prevent discovery, they were forced to detour to the west and away from the Luzon coast.
No sooner had they disposed of this danger than numerous patrol boats appeared ahead. Three of them were patrolling directly across their route between Fortune Island and the town of Nasugb on Luzon. There was no alternative but to change course to pass seaward of Fortune Island and hope to circumvent the enemy line. They rounded the island without incident and set a southerly course only to discover three high-speed patrol boats roaming back and forth between the western shore of Fortune Island and the Luband group of islands farther west. The situation now was desperate, for they had to get past these boats and back close to the Luzon coast before daylight, or all was lost.
Morrill maneuvered the launch as close as he dared into the dark shadows of the island. Here they waited and intently studied the intervals between patrol boats. With luck, they just might slip between them, but split-second timing was a must if they were to escape discovery. Finally Morrill was ready to make his move. When the innermost patrol boat completed its turn and headed away from the island, he immediately ordered full speed ahead, which was all of 3 knots. The timing was perfect, and they inched through the picket line undetected.
At daybreak they were some 20 miles down the west coast of Luzon. A treacherous reef prevented them from finding a hidden anchorage close to shore, and forced them to anchor in the open. Now it was imperative they disguise the boat. To make it look more like a nondescript native craft, the taffrail was removed and, with paint courtesy of the tug Ranger, the launch’s GI issue battleship grey gave way to black. Although they were a considerable distance from the shipping lanes, the exposed position was cause for great concern throughout the day. But their luck held, and the only signs of the enemy were the masts of ships hull down over the horizon and several bombers, which passed on high overhead.
At nightfall, they cranked up the engine and headed south, then turned east through Verde Passage. In transiting the passage, Morrill had planned to take the shortcut north of Malacaban Island, but numerous suspicious-looking objects in the area forced a change of course to the south of it, to pass midway between Malacaban and Mindoro Islands.
They were not long on this course when a line of anchored picket boats was spotted strung between the southwestern end of Malacaban Island and Mindoro. Thanks to heavy clouds, which blotted out the moon, and the fact that the Japanese were smugly content in the knowledge that they controlled all the waters in Southeast Asia, they eased gingerly through the line of boats.
The joys of this successful maneuver were short-lived, for several miles farther along, a second line of picket boats confronted them. Moving ahead as before, they were midway through this line when the launch became locked in a strong current which stopped all forward movement. For three terrifying hours the launch remained hung in the same position, while the engineers worked feverishly to squeeze a few more turns out of the engine. Just as success seemed to crown their efforts and the launch began to move ever so slowly but surely ahead, the overtaxed engine conked out, and they drifted back through the line of pickets.
After much frantic tinkering by flashlight underneath a canvas hood, they got the engine to kick over once again, and the motor launch recrossed the picket line, unobserved.
Through all of this, the little boat, and her go-for-broke crew, had been surrounded by the enemy, who for some blessed reason failed to perceive it. Off the southwestern end of Malacaban Island a tanker and a large auxiliary, both lying at anchor, had been clearly identified. A little to the east lurked two destroyers and, at the eastern end of the island, they had somberly noted the black silhouettes of two very large submarines. Continuing on, they passed Verde Island, at the southwestern end of which a destroyer lay at anchor. Looking astern to the north of the island, they could see numerous other vessels. It was nerve-chilling and at the same time heartwarming to think that somehow they had passed safely through that deadly maze.
No ships could be seen ahead as they moved between Verde Island and the Luzon coast. With every reason to believe the worst was behind them, all hands breathed easier. But they were in for a shocker. The darkness masking them was suddenly shattered when two powerful searchlights, one on Verde Island and the other on Luzon, flashed on, centering the little craft in their beams. Attempting to look as innocent as possible, all but the helmsman ducked below the gunnels. Caught in the blinding lights and powerless to do anything about it, the eighteen men awaited some terrible end to their cherished dreams of escape. At an agonizing 4 knots, the launch kept chugging along on course with the cursed lights following its progress. It seemed an eternity until they passed around a point of land, and out of range of the prying fingers of light, once more to be blanketed in beautiful darkness.
At daylight on 10 May they put into the small barrio of Digas on Luzon and were delighted to find the natives friendly. No Japanese had ever been in Digas, but small garrisons of six to ten men were reported stationed in nearby towns. The men purchased rice and fresh fruits and were able to enjoy a much-needed rest after their harrowing night.
The launch departed Digas at dark and arrived the next morning near the barrio of Bondoc on the Bondoc Peninsula. Here the natives were also friendly, perhaps more so because all of the pro-Japanese had been eliminated by patriotic Filipinos. The Japanese had yet to visit Bondoc, but small garrisons were known to be stationed in towns to the north.
Because the boat’s engine had been acting erratically and the men felt relatively safe in this area, they decided to overhaul the engine there before attempting the next leg of their perilous journey. Besides, with four automatic rifles, six standard rifles, eleven pistols, and plenty of ammunition, the navy men were determined to make life miserable for anyone trying to stop them.
During the two days it took to overhaul the engine, a trading banca arrived with a copy of the Japanese-controlled Manila newspaper. From this they learned the terms under which General Wainwright had been forced to surrender. Not only had he surrendered Corregidor, but all Filipino and American forces throughout the Philippines had been ordered to cease fighting. This was a foul blow to Morrill and his men. Their plans to join American forces fighting on Mindanao were all at once knocked in the head. There remained only one way to escape the Japanese. Sail to Australia, a distance of almost 2,000 miles through Japanese-controlled waters, without adequate charts or other navigational aids. This would be a wild and dangerous undertaking, but not a man dissented. All hands were eager to “give it a go.” Because diesel oil might be difficult to obtain en route to Australia, the natives made them a bamboo mast and boom and supplied them with cordage to rig a sail.
The night of 13 May, Morrill and his men bid goodbye to friends at Bondoc and, with their overhauled engine working perfectly, headed southward through the Sibuyan Sea. Continuing on through 14 May, they passed around the southwestern end of Masbate Island, and on the morning of the fifteenth found themselves off the northern coast of Cebu Island. Although they had experienced grave misgivings, not an enemy ship or plane had been sighted since traversing Verde Passage. But now, as they headed on an eastward course from Cebu, they were alarmed to see a large Japanese tanker bearing down on them. She was on a southerly course between Cebu and Leyte.
Everyone but the helmsman hid as best he could on the bottom of the boat. Clutching their weapons, the cool, battle-hardened men waited to sell themselves dearly should the worst happen. As the tanker passed within 1,000 yards of the launch, Japanese sailors lined the rails to look it over. Seeing only the helmsman, dressed in a native straw hat and old civilian clothing, his face, hands, and bare feet darkly suntanned, the Japanese evidently considered the launch a harmless inter-island trader and passed on.
Early that afternoon they put into the town of Tabango on the northwest coast of Leyte. Here again, they were glad to encounter friendly natives. A Chinese merchant sold them canned goods, and from Filipino sources they were able to purchase a drum of diesel oil and 10 gallons of urgently needed lubricating oil. They learned that several detachments of Japanese troops were billeted on the north coast of Cebu, and a rather large one was at Tacloban, a city on Leyte’s northeastern coast. The enemy was also known to be at Catabalogan on the nearby island of Samar. In both Tacloban and Catabalogan, Philippine and American troops were said to be surrendering in compliance with General Wainwright’s orders. The governor of Cebu, however, had refused to surrender and was leading guerrilla forces based in remote provinces.
Obviously Morrill and his men were in an extremely dangerous section of the Philippines. Loyal Filipinos warned that defectors probably had already spread the word of their arrival and affirmed that Japanese troops could be expected at any time. Even so, it was suicidal to set out during daylight. To mask their true intentions from possible informers, the Americans acted as though they were preparing to spend the night. When darkness came, however, they made a hurried departure. They had left none too soon, for as the launch slowly worked its way out of Tabango Bay, hugging its dark shoreline, a fast, unidentified powerboat entered. In all probability it was manned by Japanese troops looking for them.
Lieutenant Commander John Morrill, standing in the stern sheets by the tiller, and his seventeen crewmen on board their camouflaged 36-foot motor launch. Courtesy Rear Admiral John Morrill
All that night and the following day, the launch moved southward through the Camotes Sea, heading for Surigao Strait. Under cover of darkness, they entered the strait using the passage south of Binegat Island. By hugging the east coast of Mindanao they hoped to remain clear of Japanese patrol boats and areas in the straits which might have been mined. If they did happen upon a minefield, the men trusted that their shallow-draft, wooden-hulled craft would see them through unharmed. By dawn of the seventeenth they had traversed Surigao Strait without so much as seeing anything that smacked of Japanese.
Early that morning, well down the east coast of Mindanao, they put into a small unnamed cove in the vicinity of Tandag. Natives in a nondescript barrio provided them with fresh water and a few provisions, mainly fresh fruits. When they learned that no Japanese forces were known to be near the area, the men, exhausted from their nerve-racking all-night vigil, rested until dark.
Leaving the sanctuary of the cove that night, they were soon faced with a serious problem of natural origin—heavy weather. Sailing down the east coast of Mindanao in the vast Philippine Sea, they were suddenly drenched by furious rain squalls. The little craft pitched and wallowed in the angry waves, which at times broke over the boat and threatened to capsize it. When daylight came on the eighteenth, they hastily sought refuge at Port Lamon on Mindanao.
The docks and the lumber camp of this small town had been demolished only the month before by a furious typhoon. Although Port Lamon boasted a radio receiving and transmitting station, it too had been knocked out by the storm. The residents, short of food, readily shared whatever they had with Morrill and his men. They also provided lumber to deck over the forward section of the launch to make it more seaworthy. These Filipinos assured Morrill that no Japanese had ever come to Port Lamon, but many of their troops were known to be in the city of Surigao—a place Morrill had fortunately chosen to bypass two nights before.
The navy men planned to remain in Port Lamon another day to rest, but at about 2200 a Filipino came racing to the boat shouting that the Japs were heading toward the harbor in power launches, and everyone in town was taking to the hills. No sooner was this message delivered than the ominous rumbling of motors became clearly audible. Quickly, the men picked up their weapons and took stations along the beach. Grimly, they waited as six large patrol boats nosed into the harbor. This could blast all their dreams of escape, for if such a large force discovered them, their only recourse would be to make a run for the hills.
The Japanese patrol boats, slowly feeling their way, came ever closer, the noise of their engines shattering the stillness of the night. Midway into the harbor, the boats abruptly reversed course and departed, heading south along the coast. This had been too close for comfort, and the navy men decided to get under way immediately.
The launch had gone only a short distance when men shouting in the water attracted their attention. Concerned that more disquieting news was in store for them, Morrill backed the launch down to find out. The Americans were happily surprised to find several Filipinos swimming toward them pushing a drum of diesel oil, which they previously had promised to provide. These brave, nameless men had done this in spite of their fear of the Japanese, and the fact that their own oil was in very short supply. After hoisting the drum on board and profusely thanking the Filipinos for their kindness, Morrill and company once again headed out to sea. To avoid enemy sea and air patrols, they sailed due east to put at least 100 miles of open Philippine Sea between them and the enemy-infested coast of Mindanao.
Late on 19 May, they set a southerly course for the island of Morotai in the Halmahera group. Taking care to cross the possible air lane between Mindanao and Pelelieu at night, they sailed on through a desolate sea to arrive off the northeastern tip of Morotai on the morning of 22 May. Here they planned to land at the village of Berebere, but as they approached the beach, a large motor launch flying the Japanese flag was spotted lying at anchor. Immediately they changed course and continued southward until the next morning, when they put into the tiny island of Sajafi in the Netherlands East Indies.
The natives on Sajafi spoke no English, but by using deftly contrived sign language the men were able to barter articles of clothing or other odds and ends for needed fresh water and provisions. The inhabitants of Sajafi were not overly friendly, nor were they openly hostile. They seemed indifferent to the war and apparently favored neither side. They made it quite evident, however, that the Americans’ presence bothered them, and they wanted them to get the hell out of town as of yesterday.
The navy men left Sajafi that night and headed southeast to pass north of Gag Island, then headed south through the islands of the Jeff Family group. The next morning, just after sunup, lookouts shouted the alarm—two power-driven launches flying no flags were some distance to the east. All but the coxswain quickly vanished below the gunnels and unlimbered their guns. Fortunately, the launches held their course and were soon out of sight. This close call prompted Morrill to put into a small, uninhabited island in the Jeff Family group, where they could remain out of sight for the remainder of the day.
That night, they moved out on a southeasterly course to pass Pisang Island, and then head due south. During the afternoon of the next day, 25 May, in order to relax for a few hours ashore, they put into an uninhabited island just to the north of Tioor Island. When they decided to leave, they were beset with serious trouble. The starter battery was too weak to turn the engine over. When numerous exhausting attempts to start the engine by hand cranking failed, it became apparent that they would now be forced to continue on, as best they could, under sail. Such a prospect was most discouraging, for with no center-board the heavy motor launch was an exceedingly poor sailboat. Adding to their problems was the fact that the prevailing winds roamed from south to southeast, which would permit them to make no better than Portuguese Timor, far west of their intended course. Having come so far through so many dangers, it was frustrating to think that they just might not make those last tantalizing miles to freedom.
They were obliged to remain in their rather exposed anchorage overnight. There, with the boat rolling and pitching in the rough seas, they prepared to rig sails in the morning. By sunrise, however, several ingenious sailors had devised a tackle-leverage system which permitted the engine to be cranked and started by using the propeller shaft. At the sound of the engine revving up, the spirits of all hands moved into high gear, and course was set for the island of Tioor.
They reached Tioor by mid-morning on 27 May. Through a native who could speak Pidgin English the men were able to barter for water and provisions. Bartering was the only way of conducting business with the natives of the Netherlands East Indies, who had been thoroughly brainwashed by the Japanese and would not accept American or Philippine currency. Through this native linguist it was learned that for about six weeks no Japanese ships or aircraft had been seen in the area. Encouraged by this information, Morrill and his men put to sea just before sundown.
During the night, seas became increasingly wild, forcing the men to take refuge in the lee of Kur Island on the morning of 28 May. As they approached a native village, the men were perplexed to see a white flag hastily run up a pole. As the launch moved deeper into the harbor, a 50-foot native lugger was spotted alongside a rickety dock; it too ran up a white flag. Then the flag of surrender was suddenly lowered and a Japanese flag raised in its place. The navy men, their loaded guns at the ready, cautiously approached. When the launch closed within 10 yards of the lugger, its crew, noting they were white men, hauled down the Japanese flag. Boarding the vessel, Morrill’s men found only a handful of very frightened natives.
An English-speaking school teacher at Kur told the Americans that only two weeks before he had heard on the radio that Japanese forces occupied the entire island of New Guinea, as well as the islands of New Zealand and Tasmania. This, of course, was a Japanese pipe dream, but Morrill and his men, with no radio of their own to verify this information, were concerned about their chances of escaping the ever-victorious Japanese.
Departing Kur that afternoon, they proceeded on a southerly course, but heavy weather forced them to take refuge at a village on the island of Fado. Here the natives were a bit more friendly than in the previous East Indies Islands, and readily provided water and coconuts. They too indicated that during the preceding six weeks no Japanese ships or planes had been sighted.
At this juncture, the launch’s stern tube bearing, which had become badly worn, needed to be replaced before serious damage was done. There was no place at Fado where the boat could be beached, so on the morning of 29 May it was moved a short distance away to the island of Taam and beached. Now a stern tube bearing for a U.S. Navy 36-foot motor launch is not something easily come by, especially in the remote little islands of the Netherlands East Indies, but without a replacement further use of the motor would be impossible. As so often is the case in dire emergencies, the ingenuity of American sailors surfaced to solve the problem. From a piece of hard driftwood, the engineer had painstakingly whittled a new bearing, which was inserted to replace the defective one made of lignum vitae.
The natives at Taam were quite antagonistic, and obnoxious in many petty ways. They vehemently expressed their desire to have the Americans leave. Morrill believed this was not so much because of the war, but rather that Taam was a center of Mohammedanism. Christians in their midst were not acceptable. The eighteen rugged navy men had been tolerated while they worked on their boat only because they were armed to the teeth.
With the makeshift bearing working perfectly, the Americans, with no desire to remain any longer than necessary among the surly natives, put out to sea at sunrise on 30 May. Heavy weather once again forced Morrill and his men to seek refuge, this time on a small island off the leeward side of Molu Island. Here the natives appeared to be of a different race than those encountered on other islands of the Netherlands East Indies. They were lighter skinned, seemed more nearly like Filipinos, and were very friendly. No Japanese had ever visited their island, although some had camped on nearby Molu Island, but were no longer there. The navy men made no mention of the fact that they were Americans, yet the natives seemed to know and indicated that they were well-disposed toward the Allied cause. One of the natives confided that he intended to go to Darwin, Australia, soon on a trading vessel, but fearing he was attempting to draw them out, no one gave him so much as a clue to their destination.
The heavy weather modified somewhat by 2 June, and the navy men, prodded by the knowledge that only a few hundred miles of open Arafura Sea separated them from their cherished goal, eagerly got under way. This leg of the journey, if they could complete it, would take them to Melville Island, less than 100 miles north of Darwin. But this portion of their journey was not destined to be easy. The weather turned grim. Shrieking rain squalls and rough, pounding seas plagued the little craft. She pitched and rolled like a thing possessed, making life for the eighteen men on board anything but comfortable. Nevertheless, they took the pounding stoically, for they knew that every determined chug of the engine and the passing of each tedious hour brought them ever closer to friendly territory.
About midday of 4 June, surrounded by calmer seas, all hands strained to catch the first glimpse of the fabled “land down under,” which was almost within reach. Long minutes of searching dragged on into agonizing hours. Then, suddenly, there it was—the landfall they sought. There, lying low on the horizon, barely discernible from the cresting waves, was the north coast of Melville Island. It was difficult to believe this was sanctuary at last, that their long ordeal was almost over and from then on it was going to be all downhill. Only those who have experienced the fearsome moments of such an adventure can know the pure, unbridled elation these navy man shared together on that occasion.
Moving through the Straits of Apali, they went ashore to a Catholic mission on Melville Island, where they were welcomed with open arms. Exhausted from battling angry seas, Morrill and his men basked in the generous hospitality thrust upon them at the mission and, to regain strength, rested during the daylight hours of 5 June. But eager to reach Darwin, they set out that night on the last leg of their journey.
The little motor launch, with its jubilant crew, arrived off Darwin harbor at 0900 on 6 June 1942, to find the harbor’s entrance blocked by an antisubmarine net. Anxiously they waited for a challenge and instructions from harbor craft, but there were none. Undaunted, they searched until a gap was found between the net and shoal water through which the launch was able to pass and slowly chug into the harbor.
No brass band or cheering throng was on hand to greet these courageous adventurers. In fact, no one even challenged or acknowledged the presence of the weather-beaten motor launch until it pulled alongside the inner harbor control station dock, and Morrill shouted for instructions.
Deliriously happy to be safe at last among friends, the sun-bronzed, bewhiskered navy men, who, in their ragged, nondescript clothing, could easily be taken for Sulu Sea pirates, were in for a rude surprise. Having destroyed all means of identification in the event they fell afoul of the Japanese, they were unable to convince Australian authorities they were actually American escapees from Corregidor. Everyone on Corregidor was believed to have been either killed or captured, and the distance alleged to have been traveled in such a small boat seemed impossible. So Morrill and his men, suspected of being German spies, were tossed in jail to await positive identification.
Before long, Lieutenant Colonel Wurtsmith of the U.S. Army Air Force came to interrogate the strangers and try to determine if they indeed were Americans. Although the motley group answered his questions about life in the United States correctly, he was not absolutely certain until he suddenly looked Morrill straight in the eye and asked who won the previous year’s (1941) Army-Navy game. Morrill, a Naval Academy graduate, promptly replied that Navy beat the hell out of Army, and gave the score. That did it. The colonel right away gave them his stamp of approval, and the Australians released them to a rousing welcome.
Thus, the eighteen navy men happily concluded their incredible 2,000-mile odyssey. They had managed safely to traverse enemy-infested, unfamiliar seas in their little 36-foot motor launch at an average speed of 5 knots, using a jury-rigged sextant to plot their way on inadequate navigational charts. This daring, seemingly impossible escape from Corregidor to Darwin, Australia, by Lieutenant Commander John H. Morrill and his men must surely stand tall among the all-time great achievements attributed to men of the United States Navy.
The Officers
Lieutenant Commander John H. Morrill
Warrant Gunner Donald C. Taylor
The Enlisted Men
Lyle Joseph Bercier
Philip Martin Binkley
Ralph William Clark
Nicholas George Cucinello
Harold Haley
George William Head
Ralph Waldo Newquist
Raid Ortumas Rankin
Bruce Roland Richardson
James Howard Steel
John Samuel Stringer
Glen Arthur Swisher
Earl Belvin Watkins
Charles Ernest Weinmann
Edward Stanley Woslegel
