S IX HOURS HAD passed since Beto Pacheco and Ed Petry had taken to the ocean, and twelve hours since the Japanese had sparked the Palawan Massacre with blazing torches and buckets of aviation fuel. Now, in the early hours of December 15, the two Americans were still alive, despite their bullet wounds, but they couldn’t say the same for the other three Americans who had started out with them.
Bogue, Martyn, and Barta had long since fallen behind, out of eyeshot. Of the three, Joe Barta may have been by far the worst swimmer, but he was not a quitter. Hard times had defined his young life, and Barta had always found a way to get through them. When he was only three years old, his father had died in the flu epidemic of 1918. His mother had moved her sons from Utah to Nebraska, where she worked while the boys attended a boarding school. Two years later, she died from illness. Joe’s last memory of his mother was her sitting at the foot of his bed, telling him, “Joe, you’re going to make it.”
Joe and his brother were shipped to an uncle and aunt, who were unable to keep them long. The boys were then sent to live in Father Edward Flanagan’s orphanage, called Boys Town, near Omaha, Nebraska. Joe was a jokester and often found himself in trouble for the pranks he pulled on the Catholic sisters who ran Boys Town. As punishment, the sisters put him outside one night in the middle of winter. Found the next morning, he was hospitalized with frostbite so serious that the doctors considered amputating his feet. It was little wonder that Barta ran away from Boys Town when he was fifteen.
He picked up odd jobs as he moved about, and by age seventeen, he was working in a chicken slaughterhouse in San Diego, where a foster family took him in. His brother had joined the Navy and was serving as a flight engineer. Barta decided to do the same, thinking the Navy offered him the chance to finally “be someone,” and he followed in his brother’s footsteps by enlisting in the fall of 1934.
Now, exactly ten years, one month, and two days to the date since he signed those enlistment papers, Joe Barta was alone in the ocean, and he was ready to die. Halfway across the bay, he passed out from exhaustion. Somehow he had the good fortune to remain floating on his back just enough to avoid drowning. As he bobbed along in a delirious state, he had visions of his mother, and remembered how she had promised him that he was going to make it. He swore he could hear his mother’s voice again, this time saying, “Swim, Joe. Swim!”
He drifted, semiconscious, for some time. When he finally regained his senses, he found that he was floating on his back out of the mouth of the bay into the Sulu Sea. The edge of the beach was only about fifty yards away, so he pulled himself toward it with renewed hope and made it to dry land just before dawn broke over the Pacific. 1
He dragged himself up onto the shoreline and lay there, completely spent. He had no idea what to do next. For the moment, he was thankful simply to be alive.
* * *
ERNIE KOBLOS HAD given up on his bamboo pole, and after hours of swimming, his arms now felt like lead weights. He couldn’t keep going—he had nothing left. He stopped swimming and decided just to sink. At least it was better to drown here, in the depths of the sea, than to be tortured to death back in Camp 10-A. His kicking ceased, and he allowed his legs to sink down under him. He was shocked when his feet hit solid ground. He had made it!
He staggered forward on rubbery legs through the shallow water to the shoreline and collapsed. It was dawn, and examining the jagged, jungle-cloaked coast that stretched away and the soft curves of mountains in the distance, he estimated his position to be about ten miles southeast of Iwahig.
Despite the bullet he carried in his leg, Doug Bogue had completed his swim sometime before dawn, landing not far from where Koblos would soon touch shore. Lying naked in the surf, having long since lost his tattered shorts, he was so exhausted that he could not pull himself out of the shallow water for another hour. He guessed that he had covered about five miles across the bay. Once sufficiently rested, he plunged into a mangrove swamp—with no food, no water, no clothing, and no idea where he was heading.
With bullet wounds in his arm and leg causing unbearable pain, Beto Pacheco swam near Ed Petry for hours until his body felt ready to give out. Close to three years ago, he had attempted to swim all the way to Corregidor to escape falling prisoner to the Japanese on Bataan. That night, a Navy whaleboat had picked him up and taken him the rest of the way to the Rock. Now, however, no American sailors would come to his rescue.
But unknown to Pacheco, comrades in arms were indeed looking for him. Filipino residents of the Iwahig Penal Colony were on the alert, aware of the events that had taken place before dark across the bay. Rufino G. Bondad, the executive officer of the penal colony and the Palawan Underground Forces, had ordered a number of his men out in their bancas to monitor the bay for escapees. During the predawn hours on December 15, a banca manned by three Iwahig colonists—Sayadi Moro, Salip Hatai Moro, and Salimada Moro—spotted swimmers in the water. They approached, and from a safe distance determined that the men were Americans making their way onto the beach. 2
Visit bit.ly/2dfqesP for a larger version of this map.
As Pecheco and Petry reached the shoreline near the Iwahig Penal Colony sometime before 0400, still under the cover of darkness, they had been in the water for nearly seven hours. Both were naked, having kicked off any remaining clothing long ago. When Pacheco, his energy spent, felt his feet touch bottom, he said to Petry, “Stand up and see how you feel.” Petry tried but collapsed from the pain of his shattered ankle. Both men finally floundered up onto the shore and collapsed in sheer exhaustion, unable to move. 3
Eventually, they headed north through waist-high cogongrass in search of help. Still in darkness, they came upon a house and startled the family’s dog. When a man stepped out and spoke to the dog in Tagalog, the escapees scrambled to his door to explain their plight. The man spoke no English and seemed frightened that the two naked men—both darkly tanned and of average height—might be Japanese. His calls for help were answered by six other Filipinos, who approached with deadly bolo knives in hand.
Taken aback, Petry pointed to the large American eagle head and stars tattooed on his upper chest. Pacheco spoke in a mix of Spanish and English until he was finally able to convey their friendly intentions. He related the horrific details of the previous afternoon’s slaughter at Puerto Princesa and described how they had remained hidden until darkness. The colonists fed them, provided them with fresh clothing, and in short order moved them to a thatched palm hut in the forest about one and a quarter miles away, where they were allowed to rest for a few hours.
Before the two escapees drifted off to sleep, Iwahig colonist Jose Miranda tended to their various wounds. He even managed to dig out the bullet embedded in Beto’s leg. Shortly after daybreak, they were told they must wake up and begin moving, as it was not safe to remain long with Japanese guards hunting them. They were warned that they would not be safe until they could reach the guerrilla outpost near Brooke’s Point, so Miranda was detailed to remain with them to serve as their guide. 4
Petry and Pacheco were a long way from true freedom, but for the moment, at least they were out of the hands of the Japanese.
* * *
OUT IN THE waters of Puerto Princesa Bay, Smitty had rested awhile, clinging to the old fish trap, before he set out again, his curious porpoise friends still following along. Sometime later, he spotted Japanese patrol boats cruising the bay, no doubt looking for survivors. One boat turned and headed right toward him, with its yellow light waving directly over his position, no more than fifty yards away. He inhaled, went deep, and remained down as long as he could. When he resurfaced, the boat was slowly rumbling on past. He waited until it was well away before he resumed swimming in the eerily phosphorescent water, trailed by the school of porpoises. 5
Smitty swam for what seemed an eternity. When he finally turned over on his back to rest and survey the horizon, he made out trees on a distant mountain ahead of him. With renewed hope, he rolled back over and began swimming again. When he felt he could not swim another stroke, he decided to see how deep it was. He held his nose and drove himself down feet first. He struck bottom immediately. The water was only up to his armpits.
The porpoises that had saved him from the shark and followed him for hours now headed back out to sea. Smitty attempted to walk, but his legs buckled and he fell forward into the ocean, accidentally swallowing a large gulp of muddy salt water as he struggled. Retching and convulsing, he struggled to his feet, stumbled awkwardly forward, then crawled the rest of the way up onto the shore. His muscles ached and his back would not allow him to sit up, so he flopped onto the shore in the darkness and closed his eyes, too exhausted to even swat at the black clouds of hungry mosquitoes that assailed his body.
* * *
THERE WERE NO direct Filipino witnesses to the massacre. From the Iwahig Penal Colony, Jose Miranda had heard machine-gun bursts and had seen the fires blazing in Puerto Princesa from a distance, but Pedro Paje, the assistant director of prisons at Iwahig, soon learned of how the Japanese had celebrated following the disposal of their prisoners. 6
The air reeking of smoke and death within the compound, Captain Kojima gathered his men and commended them on their work. The air-raid trenches had been filled in with soil to cover the mass graves. In the morning, Kojima’s men would continue to hunt down survivors, but for now they would celebrate their success.
On the evening of December 14, Paje conducted an inspection of the Inagawan Penal Colony, located about twenty-five miles from the Kempei Tai’s new Irawan headquarters. Long believed by the American POWs to be a Japanese sympathizer, Paje was in fact part of Palawan’s secret underground and was a key communications link to the island’s vast guerrilla network. He had lived more than a dozen years within the Iwahig colony, which housed approximately seventeen hundred prisoners at the start of the war with forty-five supervising guards and employees. When the Japanese occupied the Philippines, President Manuel Quezon had granted Paje special authority to use his inmates to act on sabotage and intelligence. 7
Paje had started organizing his Palawan Underground Force in 1942 and further refined it into special units in late 1943. He and other officer employees of the Iwahig colony who were reserve officers of the Filipino army took charge of a combat company, an intelligence corps, a quartermaster unit, a transportation corps, and a bolo battalion—the men of each selected from the most loyal, trusted prisoners of his penal colony. About two hundred of Paje’s prisoners were Bataan veterans shipped to his colony in late 1943 due to overcrowded conditions at the central prison of Muntinlupa, Rizal.
Paje had managed to keep arms and ammunition for his prison—and, covertly, his Palawan Underground Force—only by maintaining peaceful relations with the Kempei Tai at Puerto Princesa. His spies had monitored the construction of the dual airstrips, noting when the first fighter and bomber planes landed in late 1943, and kept a close watch on the seaplane base that operated near the POW camp. Paje personally visited the new airfield in 1944, counting fighters on the ground and other warplanes hidden under camouflage in the nearby jungle, and recorded the maximum strength of the seaplane base to be eight aircraft.
Paje felt a personal connection to the American prisoners massacred at Camp 10-A. He had met Doc Mango in 1943, when the Japanese had allowed the appendectomy of Mac McDole to take place in the Iwahig hospital unit, and had witnessed the man’s devotion to his patients firsthand. Beginning in September 1944, American bombers had dropped leaflets over Paje’s colony bearing warnings concerning the treatment of American prisoners of war. Paje had dutifully delivered the leaflets to the Kempei Tai headquarters to show his allegiance, but meanwhile his underground force planted spies in the prison camp, one serving as an interpreter and another as a driver. 8
When he departed the Inagawan colony on the morning of December 15 to return to his office at Iwahig, Paje did not yet know what had transpired at Camp 10-A, or that some survivors had taken to the bay in hopes of reaching his penal colony. Nor did he know that four Americans were still hiding beneath the bluff at the Puerto Princesa compound, tucked away in the rocks and undergrowth.
* * *
MO DEAL, SHOT twice, bayoneted numerous times, and thrown off the cliff when his assailants considered him dead, was still alive. He had tumbled down into the heavy brush, where he lay throughout the night, fading in and out of consciousness. His right arm was nearly useless, slashed through by a bayonet, and the rest of his body was a mass of open wounds, but despite the pain and blood loss, he gradually collected his senses as dawn approached.
Dehydrated, starving, and bleeding heavily, he slowly pulled himself up and began to crawl. He carefully inched through the brush and up over the top of the bluff, determined to work his way past the compound and into the town of Puerto Princesa. A merciful hard rain set in, helping to mask any noises he made as he crept along. At one point, he spotted a guard patrol continuing its sweep for survivors, and he concealed himself in the brush and lay still. The Japanese passed within a hundred feet of him, but they failed to notice the wounded American in the pounding storm. 9
After hundreds of agonizing yards, he reached the local Roman Catholic church. Still crawling, he found a priestly robe inside to help cover and protect his numerous lacerations. He was careful not to linger too long in the church. The rainstorm made for a perfect diversion, so he continued crawling his way out of the town and into the edge of the jungle. There, he pulled himself painfully to his feet, staggered into the lush, green canopy, and began wandering away from Puerto Princesa. 10
Pop Daniels awoke before dawn, thirsty, hungry, and in great pain. Hours before, he and Bill Williams had encountered Deal and Balchus on the shoreline, but the four had gone their separate ways. Daniels and Williams opted to move along the beach, where they ran afoul of Japanese guards and a heavy shootout ensued. Both men were wounded, Pop in the legs. He stumbled into the brush and concealed himself as the guards continued after Williams. He never saw the marine again.
His survival instincts told him to keep moving, so as rain poured down, he slowly inched his way from the coastline back into the jungles north of the Puerto Princesa camp. He was alone, facing an uncertain future, as he crawled into the rough terrain of Palawan and its four thousand square miles of jungles and mountains.
* * *
GENE NIELSEN HAD been swimming for more than nine hours when he finally kicked sand. Though shot three times, he had survived. In the darkness, he soon realized he had not actually reached the main shore, but had instead bumped up on a small island in the bay that sat about a hundred yards offshore from the Iwahig colony. He tried to stand to walk the rest of the way, but his body was simply too weak. His speck of land was tiny enough that it was likely submerged at high tide, but for now it offered him a place to rest. 11
He crawled forward on his hands and knees into the thick brush covering the sandbar and collapsed. Curled up in the undergrowth, he drifted off to sleep. Sometime later, a strange humming, slowly growing louder, awoke him. It was still dark, but peeking through the brush, Nielsen spotted a Japanese patrol barge easing through the bay a short distance away. Soldiers were scanning the water, apparently looking for any American escapees. Nielsen lay still as the barge moved past his islet less than two hundred yards away. Once it had moved on, he decided it was time to find safer ground, and he eased off the sandbar and struggled to shore. 12
He entered a mangrove and stumbled through it in search of the river he had seen during previous visits to Iwahig. Hordes of mosquitoes beset his naked body as he staggered barefoot through the smelly water, but he was too exhausted to even brush them away. Desperate for rest, he crawled under a mass of mangrove roots and tucked his arms into the tangle to support himself. He napped there, his body submerged, with only his nose sticking out above the swamp water, allowing his skin a brief respite from the malicious insects. 13
Nielsen encountered many strange animals during the night. Starlight created a fluorescent effect on their eyes, similar to a hunter shining a spotlight across the water at night. He could not tell what they were, but merely saw their eyes shining at times—some red, some green, some yellow. Each pair of glowing eyes was only a quarter inch apart, but a larger pair, set about six inches apart, eased up from the swampy waters without a sound. Nielsen reached out with both hands and slapped the water as hard as he could in an attempt to scare the creature. It smacked the water with its thick tail and disappeared, leaving him fearful that it had been a crocodile.
He was hungry and worn out, but he pushed on in search of fresh water. He spotted a Filipino fisherman at one point, but he remained hidden, uncertain how the locals would handle him. He splashed through the swamp until morning light, when he found a house with roosters crowing. Nielsen emerged from the swamp and eased into a field that stretched about three hundred yards wide by six hundred yards long with coconut trees along the edge of the clearing. He attempted to climb up one to reach a coconut, but his wounded left leg was too numb. Instead, he found an older nut on the ground, and used a broken stick to pound off the husk. When the coconut finally burst open, he devoured the rich white pulp inside, his first nourishment in almost twenty-four hours.
He stumbled along, but soon found himself delirious and suffering hallucinations. He could see Japanese lying in the shade, and he moved around them to get away, terrified. Soon he realized the guards were illusions, but other visions tormented his weary brain. He thought he saw Mo Deal at one point. Nielsen knew the man was not really there, but he kept appearing in the undergrowth. He tried to shake off the sight by pushing forward through a field of jungle grass that stood about five feet tall, the sharp blades of grass nicking and slicing his skin. 14
Then he spotted a young Filipino walking down a trail through the field. As Nielsen hid and watched, the youth passed on through. Nielsen moved closer to the trail and soon saw the man returning. The Filipino sported a large bolo knife hanging from his side, and Nielsen decided he would jump him as he approached, grab the knife, and interrogate him. He crouched down beside the trail under thick grass and waited, but changed his mind. As the Filipino passed, Nielsen called out, “Hey, Joe! Come here! I would like to talk to you.” 15
The man stopped, afraid to move. Nielsen remained hidden, equally afraid to make the first move, but he tried to convince the man to come closer. “Don’t worry,” Nielsen said. “It’s all right. We’re friends. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The man finally spoke, and Nielsen was relieved to hear English. The Filipino explained that he was an inmate of the Philippine government at the Iwahig colony. His name was Sayadi Moro.
“Can you get me a drink of water?” Nielsen asked.
“Yeah!” Sayadi motioned for the naked American to follow him. At a spring a short distance up the trail, Nielsen received his first clean water since the massacre. He asked for food, and Sayadi ran off, quickly returning with two small roots about three-quarters of an inch in diameter and four inches in length. Gene noted the local vegetable tasted much like sweet potato as he wolfed down the roots. 16
As Nielsen finished chewing, the young man suddenly announced, “You have friends.”
Nielsen did not understand. He asked Sayadi if he could find a pencil and paper so he could compose a statement. The man nodded and told him to remain near the path while he trotted off again. When he returned, Nielsen asked him to take down a letter to be handed over to the American military, including his name, rank, and serial number. He detailed how the American POWs had been slaughtered and explained that he believed he was the only survivor—and that he was sick and wounded and felt he had little chance of escaping the Japanese patrols. He told Sayadi that he wanted somebody besides the government—his family or even other Americans—to understand what had taken place. 17
Nielsen felt some relief after dictating his letter. He doubted he would live much longer, but he desperately desired some evidence to remain for the United States military as to what had happened to 150 American prisoners of war. As the men started down the trail again, Sayadi repeated, “You have friends.”
“What do you mean?” Nielsen asked.
“You have friends.”
Nielsen was bewildered. Perhaps the man meant Filipino guerrillas who were waiting for them somewhere ahead in another village. He asked again, “What do you mean?”
Sayadi pointed and said, “Off this trail, you have some friends.”
He led Nielsen down a side path through the jungle until they entered an open area where three men waited. Two of them were Americans, lying on grass mats near a Filipino man. He recognized them as Ed Petry and Alberto Pacheco. 18
For a moment, he thought he was still hallucinating. He moved closer, refusing to believe his own eyes until Petry and Pacheco sat up and greeted him. Nielsen was overjoyed. The two Americans explained that they were taking a rest, waiting for darkness to settle over the jungle before Jose Miranda, their Filipino friend, would lead them farther away once it was safe enough to continue. Nielsen learned that Sayadi had been sent to fetch bedding for Petry and Pacheco after they had been found near Iwahig. He had left them in the forest with Miranda and was heading back to his dormitory at Kamagong Station when he passed near Nielsen. 19
Relieved at his incredible luck, Nielsen dropped onto a straw mat alongside Petry and Pacheco and fell fast asleep.
* * *
THE SUN WAS just peeking over the Sulu Sea when Joe Barta wearily labored to his feet. He had hoped to reach the Iwahig Penal Colony, but after losing consciousness during the night, he had drifted far off course, and now he had no idea where exactly he was. He did not feel safe remaining on the shoreline where Japanese patrols would certainly finish off any American they encountered.
Stark naked, he reluctantly advanced into the jungle thicket. He had no real sense of direction, but the heavy growth at least afforded him some sense of protection. He walked for the next two hours until he sensed that he was not alone, and he stopped. Through an opening ahead, he could see six armed, khaki-clad Japanese soldiers on patrol. He crouched low in the underbrush, noticing a nearby gun emplacement. 20
The soldiers gave no indication they had seen him, so Barta crawled away silently. He slowly scaled a small hill. At the top, he froze when he spotted another soldier moving through the forest below. Once again, he slipped away and made his way over another hill.
Barta had just cleared the hilltop when he found himself face-to-face with another guard, a sight that shocked both men equally. Barta sprinted away before the soldier could react. He dashed through the thick green jungle like a wild man, ignoring the briars that ripped at his skin and the sharp pains as his bare feet were pierced. The pursuing soldier shouted for one of his comrades, apparently the lone soldier that Barta had narrowly avoided moments before.
He ran through the jungle for as long as his body could go before ducking down low to hide and listen. He heard the crashing of the two soldiers in hot pursuit close behind him. Barta jumped to his feet and took off. Each time he stopped, it was the same—he was still being chased. His desperate flight continued well into the afternoon, but his pursuers did not give up.
By late afternoon, his skin was a mass of cuts and bruises, and his strength was fading quickly. He spotted a nasty thicket of dense bamboo and rattan just ahead, and wriggled his way in. The soldiers ran past. He continued to work his way in as deep as he could, then lay still for the next few hours, content to let his body recover.
As evening approached, he realized he was helplessly lost in the bamboo and rattan thicket. Each direction he tried seemed to lead nowhere. He finally decided that he would try to climb up high enough to spot a suitable way into more open jungle. He made his way up a small tree and stood on one of its upper branches. He began to look around, when the branch snapped and he fell to the ground.
Barta had no clothing to protect his skin from the abrasive trunk, or the jagged splinter of a branch that gave way beneath him. The broken stub tore through his crotch, ripping open his scrotum and exposing his testicles. Blood gushed from the open wound as he writhed in agony.
* * *
WILLI E SMITH AWOKE on a narrow beach and rubbed the sand from his face and eyes, squinting in the predawn light as daybreak approached. He figured he had slept for a couple of hours. The rest was a godsend, but the sun would be up soon, and he needed to get himself into cover, rather than lying exposed on the open beach. He was so sore that he could barely pull himself to his feet, but he knew he had to keep moving. Mosquitoes were now feasting on his body, so he crawled to the edge of a mangrove swamp and coated himself, face and all, with thick mud.
He rested a bit longer before he tried to walk, but instead found himself stumbling like a drunk. He fell several times against the jagged coral rocks, scraping away chunks of skin. He picked himself up and kept going. As he moved farther into the swamp, his feet sank deeper into the black mud with each step. His shark-bitten arm still throbbed, and thoughts of crocodiles brought new fears. He pulled himself up into a tree to rest until daylight.
Under way again, he wobbled through the jungle for hours, hoping to hit the southern boundary of the Iwahig Penal Colony, where Filipino prisoners would surely take him in. Occasionally, the muck was so thick, he had to pull himself out of it with the endless ropes of vines that snaked down. Some were covered with hard, sharp spines that cut at his hands and wrists like barbed wire. Finally, he came upon a crude wooden shack—a Filipino nipa hut—on the outskirts of the penal colony, still quite a distance away up on the side of the mountain he had used for a reference point during his swim. He staggered up the hillside toward the hut, but when he finally reached it, there were no people. From his high vantage point he could see a half-dozen men at work down in the valley. Smitty had stumbled upon Binuan Station, located in the Iwahig Penal Colony Reservation, and spotted seven colonists planting root crops. 21
The Filipinos’ dogs spotted him and began barking. Smitty tried to quiet the animals, but they attracted the attention of the workers far below, and one man started up the trail toward the mountaintop shack. Smitty concealed himself alongside the trail and watched as the Filipino, clad in an orange jumpsuit, moved up the hill. He waited until the man had passed, and then lunged from the brush, grabbing him and his bolo knife before the Filipino had time to react. He whispered that he was an escaped American prisoner and added, “One false move out of you and you’re gone! I’ll kill you!” 22
The young marine carefully explained to the farmer about the massacre on Palawan and how he had escaped by swimming the bay.
“Okay, Joe,” the man said. “We’ll take you in. We’re your friends.”
The man escorted Smitty into the modest shack, where he prepared food for the bone-thin escapee. He expressed concern about the American’s obvious injuries. “I need to get the doctor down here to help you,” he said.
“Well, you get anybody you want to,” Smitty said. “But if they come in here and make one false move, I’ll kill you first.” 23
The man signaled to his coworkers to come join them. As they appeared at the shack, Smitty suspected the worst. The group of farmers included Isidro Dakany, who was in charge of Binuan Station. The men talked for a moment until Dakany spotted several men on horseback in the distance. Shouting and waving to get their attention, he stepped out of the hut, giving Smitty even more reason to worry. 24
Dakany caught the attention of the three riders, who wheeled their mounts and rode toward the hut. Smitty’s heart sank when the three men entered. He knew one of them in an instant. It was Pedro Paje, the turncoat.
Smitty had seen Paje previously in Camp 10-A, where he had witnessed the man laughing with the Japanese guards and at times even spitting on Americans. Now the traitor displayed a .45-caliber pistol on his hip. As he approached him, Smitty lunged for the weapon. Surprisingly, Paje pulled the .45 and tossed it over to him. 25
“I know what you think,” he said. “But I wasn’t working for the Japanese. I was gathering intelligence for the guerrillas.” 26
Smitty relaxed. When the food was ready—the best he had tasted in ages—he ate and listened intently as Paje explained his situation. He had long assisted the Palawan guerrillas, he told Smitty, and he was in charge of the underground resistance movement at Iwahig’s colony. When Dakany had called out to him, he had been en route to Inagawen with his intelligence officer, Lieutenant Celerino Poyatos, and another man named Dr. Simon. 27
Runners were sent to fetch additional help for Smitty, and a short time later, the Iwahig medical officer, Dr. Zoilo Bunye, arrived to assist with his injuries. Smitty was covered with thin scratches from jungle vines, his feet were a bloody mess from running on sharp coral, and his left forearm had deep lacerations from his encounter with the shark. Dr. Bunye and Poyatos patted his wounds with the only medicine at their disposal, a bottle of iodine, and helped him into fresh hospital pajamas. Smitty tried to rest as they waited out the afternoon. When another runner arrived later, his heart raced with the news he heard: Another American escapee had been picked up a number of miles away. Bunye was sent with the messenger to determine his condition. 28
Smitty remained indoors until after sunset on December 15, as it was far too dangerous for an Anglo man to be moving in broad daylight. In the dark of night, he left with Poyatos and Sergeant Modesto Padilla, who used a large machete to chop through the jungle growth. They explained to Smitty that they had to travel twenty-five miles that night to get beyond the last Japanese outpost. The Filipinos were eager to get the American escapee out of their area, for Japanese soldiers had already been through the penal colony, interrogating the inmates. Some of the locals had been arrested under suspicion of harboring runaway Americans.
They covered several miles in quick fashion. With no time to rest, weary and suffering on rough terrain with bare feet, Smitty did his best to keep pace with the Filipinos. During the early morning hours of December 16, they neared their destination. Smitty brought up the rear, trying to remain optimistic but still fearful his Filipino friends could be leading him right to a waiting Japanese patrol.
* * *
PEDRO PAJE COULD well understand the American survivor’s belief that he was a turncoat, a fact that only reinforced how well he had maintained the cover of his Palawan Underground Force. But he was furious, trying to comprehend why the Japanese had decided to kill off the helpless prisoners of war. Upon departing Binuan Station, he rode to the Kempei Tai headquarters at Irawan to voice his disapproval. 29
He tried to maintain his composure as he talked with Sergeant Deguchi. He shared the findings of his latest inspection of the Inagawan colony, then inquired about the increasing number of air raids made by U.S. warplanes. He asked what the military police planned to do with the American POWs, since their camp and its adjacent airfield were a prime target of the bombing attacks. Deguchi casually informed him that there was no further worry—the Americans had been taken away to a more secure location.
Paje knew the truth, but he could do nothing to tip his hand. He could only politely excuse himself and return to his own business. The true nature of that business was now an intense desire on his part to do anything in his power to have his underground network offer aid and escape to any American who might remain alive.
* * *
WILLIE BALCHUS FINALLY reached solid ground during the early morning hours of December 15. He rested, then ambled through the mangroves until he could move no farther. Around 1000, he was still resting when he spotted two men moving through the swamp. He was terrified that he was about to be recaptured, but he was too weak to resist. As the strangers moved closer, one called out to him in English. Filipinos!
The men introduced themselves as Juan de Gracia and Apolonio de las Alas, members of the Iwahig Penal Colony whose underground leader, Captain Paje, had detailed them to be on the lookout for American survivors of the Palawan atrocity. Gracia and Alas helped Balchus through the rough terrain toward their camp, where he was cared for during the afternoon by their in-charge official, Mazimino Liwag. Then a small group of guides led him to Malinao Station, where he was finally provided with food, medical attention, and clothing. 30
The Filipinos told Balchus that he must keep moving to reach the safety of the guerrilla zone. He was escorted out that evening to rendezvous with Poyatos and Padilla, two men who were in the midst of a hectic night in the jungle locating American escapees. Balchus was introduced to the two during the early morning hours of December 16, before they summoned a third member of their party forward. Out from the darkness appeared another tall, thin American.
Smitty greeted Balchus like a long-lost brother. The two escapees had scarcely been reunited when the underground members began chattering about another American who had been found nearby. Poyatos had the group stay put while runners were dispatched into the jungle to confirm the intelligence.
* * *
LIKE GENE NIELSEN, Ernie Koblos, beset by fever, dehydration, and malnutrition, soon found himself in a haze of hallucinations: A rooster crowed, and two beautiful Filipino girls appeared out of the jungle. He beckoned to them, then lurched after them as they disappeared back into the rain forest. Soon he began to see Japanese soldiers. 31
I’m losing my mind! he thought. This isn’t real.
Managing to clear his head, Koblos retraced his steps back to the beach where he had washed ashore. He spent the remainder of the day walking the waterline, trying to find food and fresh water. When darkness fell, he climbed up into a tree to avoid both jungle creatures and enemy patrols. The next day, he wandered aimlessly until he reentered the swamp and found a spot to sleep. When he awoke, he found that his fever had returned, so he went back to the beach and headed for a coconut grove to rest again. He knew he needed to make his way toward the Iwahig Penal Colony, but the mangrove swamps looked too foreboding to penetrate. He finally decided it would be easier to swim around to a point near the colony, and then search for an easier entry point through the jungle.
Koblos was resting in a tree near the edge of the swamp when the sound of splashing water startled him. A native banca was easing across the bog toward him. He slid out of the tree and prepared to flee, but as it moved closer, he was relieved to see four Filipino faces on board. The men shouted to him in English, saying they were friends, colonists of the penal colony, and explained that they had been ordered to patrol the shorelines in search of any Americans who had escaped the Palawan Massacre. 32
The Filipinos helped Koblos to their local camp, treated his wounds, and allowed him to rest throughout the dangerous daylight hours. Once nightfall set in, he was put on the move with two guides, Paterno Gomez and Olimpio Valenzuela. They were detailed to guide him through the jungle to Malinao Station, where other Americans were waiting. There, Koblos was reunited with Smitty and Balchus. The trio had little time to celebrate their reunion before they noticed their guides conversing with another runner who had just reached them. He had traveled a great distance to inform them that three more Americans had been picked up farther away.
Pedro Paje sent word that Koblos, Smitty, and Balchus were to continue moving south and rendezvous with the other three survivors. They traveled with Sergeant Catalino Santos, who would lead them through the jungle to the Inawagan Penal Colony until they were able to rejoin the Iwahig underground movement intelligence officer, Lieutenant Poyatos. The latter had moved out ahead to verify the intelligence of the other Americans who had been found.
They were not yet completely in the clear. To reach Inawagan, they had to first slip past a Japanese guard post, and do it at night.
* * *
BETO PACHECO AWOKE to a gentle shake and a whisper. Jose Miranda stood over him. Nearby, Petry and Nielsen were waking from several hours of rest on the jungle floor near the Iwahig Penal Colony. They were informed that Miranda had sent for further instructions from his boss, Captain Paje, who sent back word that two of his men, Sayadi Moro and Jalaidi Moro, were to take the three Americans on to Malinao Station that evening to be received by the underground’s intelligence officer. 33
The bullet wound in his leg still burning with pain, Nielsen asked if the Filipinos had any kind of medicine to treat the injury. One of them left and soon returned with a fifth of rice whiskey, and used it to wash out the gunshot wound, which was steadily looking worse. 34
Under cover of darkness, the Americans moved through the jungle with Sayadi and Jalaidi. Nielsen struggled with his lame left leg, finding that he had to keep it straight or else it would give way. But doing so meant that each step forced him to come down heavily on the heel of his other foot. Walking barefoot on rough gravel brought fresh pain with each step. Nielsen tried stepping on the smoothest rocks, but each stride left behind a bloody footprint, a crimson splotch that he realized was leaving a dangerous trail.
His comrades were in equally poor shape. Petry and Pacheco were also leaving faint blood trails from their bullet wounds and shredded feet for any potential trackers to follow. The men suffered in silence, limping along the jungle trail through the night. Their guides allowed brief breaks but kept them on the move. They made steady progress until their trail opened up into the village of Malinao Station. There, Lieutenant Poyatos greeted them, assuring the Americans that they were in good hands and that his people were more than willing to continue guiding them toward the main guerrilla headquarters at Brooke’s Point.
The Americans were provided with proper civilian clothing, as well as much-appreciated food and water. Dr. Bunye, sent from the Iwahig colony to tend to them, treated their wounds. They were still resting at Malinao Station when they received the news that three other Americans had been found a short distance away. The other group had just been preparing to move out again when Petry, Pacheco, and Nielsen arrived in the village. Smitty, Koblos, and Balchus stepped forward with wide smiles and hearty handshakes to welcome three more of their own.
Poyatos was eager to get his men going again, but he reluctantly allowed the newly arrived Americans a brief rest. Soon he told them that they must keep moving to stay ahead of the searching Japanese. He and Sergeant Modesto Padilla would escort them on to what he called the “guerrilla zone,” located outside the area occupied by the Japanese. All six Americans now had decent civilian clothing, they had been fed, and their wounds had received medical attention. Staying put to rest and relax might mean recapture and certain death. They had to press on.