The marine charged headlong into the trio of sailors. The four men slammed into the saltwater shallows, flailing and grasping at one another. Bogue clawed for a grip on their uniforms and tried to hold their faces under the water. Two of the terrified sailors released their grips on him and the Lewis gun and splashed back onto the beach, fearful that the crazed American might drown them.
The third Japanese sailor maintained his grip on the machine gun. The marine tore the weapon free and fell into the shallow water with the sailor still clinging to his back. Bogue struggled up and pulled the actuator, arming the Lewis gun, and began firing. He unloaded the full ninety-seven-round drum, killing the nearest sailor and the two racing ashore. The rapid burst of automatic fire had temporarily saved his life, but the upper drum fell off the weapon, rendering it useless.2
Bogue glanced down the beach and spotted more guards setting up another light machine gun. There was no time to lose. He ran back the other way, scanning wildly for a suitable hiding place. Spotting a crevice at the water’s edge too small for both him and the gun, Bogue tossed the gun into the salt water, forced his tattered body deep into the jagged hole, and scrunched down as low as he could.
All around him was a deafening din of pleading screams, chattering machine guns, rifle fire, and occasional explosions. The odor of dynamite drifted down to the beach as explosives finished off Americans in the trenches. The smell of burning flesh was almost more than his shriveled stomach could handle. The laughter from some Japanese guards fueled his anger, but Bogue knew there was nothing he could do to help.
The next hour passed slowly as he remained crouched in the rocky crevice. He kept his head down and stared at the blood seeping from his legs and feet. Around 1500—an hour after the massacre had commenced—Bogue heard Japanese guards approaching him. One sloshed so close to his hiding spot that he could smell the man’s foul body odor. The canteen on the soldier’s belt was close enough to touch, but Bogue remained motionless, his heart pounding, until the rifleman splashed past him.
He could not run yet. There were too many armed soldiers close by. But the prospect of remaining in the rocks was not much better. Bogue shuddered. They’re going to keep probing through these rocks, he thought. They’re going to hunt us down and kill every last one of us.
*
AT LEAST NINE men had escaped from Shelter C’s secret exit. Others had scurried through the barbed wire from the main openings of Shelter C, Shelter B, and some of the smaller dugouts. About thirty Americans made it over the bluff and were now running about on the beach. Ed Petry and Beto Pacheco, both wounded by bullets, ran along the rocky coastline until Petry spotted a small cave at the edge of the ocean. He and Pacheco quickly crawled inside and pressed themselves as deep into it as they could. Outside, they heard shouting and screaming and machine-gun fire.
Ernie Koblos had hidden behind a sandbank cove at the water’s edge. During the early minutes of mass confusion, Everett Bancroft, Robert Stevenson, and Forest Lindsay pressed into the space near him. Deciding the sandbank offered little protection, he and Lindsay made a break for two nearby large rocks. Koblos made it unscathed, but Lindsay, already badly burned by gasoline before escaping his air-raid shelter, was shot in the arm. Koblos crawled up into the rocks and pressed himself into a small cave opening along with several others. He decided to wait until darkness to move any farther.
Joe Barta half climbed and half fell down the cliff until he reached the beach. He realized he was fortunate to be alive. Orders must have come from Manila to put the Americans to death, he figured. Now, as his comrades were murdered around him, Barta sensed that it was a fouled-up operation. If they had a well-planned scheme, instead of just having gunners on the beach, they would have hit all three main holes simultaneously instead of one at a time, he thought. They had plenty of personnel to do this.3
As he scanned the beach, he saw other Americans crashing down the cliff after plunging through the barbed wire. A minute later, Japanese guards were at the top of the bluff, firing down at the fleeing prisoners. One of their bullets ripped through the left arm of Corporal Dane Hamric as he ran past. Barta stopped him long enough to fix a tourniquet around the shattered limb.
“What a hell of a way to die on my twenty-fourth birthday!” Hamric said as Barta tightened the rag to slow the blood flow.4
Hamric dashed off in search of shelter. Barta, unsure of which way to run, soon found himself near two other survivors, Private John Lyons and marine Don Martyn. The trio spotted a potential hiding place and ducked down into an opening in the rocks. The crevice offered enough cover to prevent their heads from being spotted, but it was not enough to prevent any guard who came close from locating them. Barta decided that swimming was not a good option—those who tried were being shot down.
Barta was peering from the rocks when he spotted another man running in their direction. He recognized Private Ken Smith, a prisoner the Japanese had used as a truck driver for the special duty company. Smith was running along the beach until he found a nearby rock to duck behind. One of the roaming guards spotted Smith, aimed his rifle, and shot him dead.5
Once the Japanese soldiers moved farther away, Barta, Martyn, and Lyons cautiously eased south along the rocks near the ocean in search of a better hideaway. They happened upon an old sewer outlet used to channel waste products down from the camp above. The smells of the waste mattered little at this point as the three men pressed their bodies deep into the cavernlike opening until they were obscured from view.
*
GENE NIELSEN HAD reached the beach without serious injury, and along the coast with the others, searched for a good hiding spot. He saw Ernie Koblos and others ducking under rocks as rifle fire rained down from above. Those who ran into the ocean were shot dead before they could begin swimming. Nielsen had never experienced such horror: The sandy shore and the shallow water were both crimson with blood.6
By his best count, at least a dozen other surviving prisoners were trying to take cover. Guard patrols were advancing, and their gunfire steadily prevented the escapees from further flight along the coastline. Nielsen had not moved far from the base of the bluff directly below camp. He quickly decided that it was unsafe to take to the water. Glancing up, he noticed the garbage chute above him that extended beyond the barbed wire fencing over the edge of the cliff. Anything not needed in camp—food waste, tree limbs, coconut husks, and other trash—was dumped down the chute to allow the high tide of Puerto Princesa Bay to carry away the refuse.
Nielsen had no desire to join the men hiding among the rocks near the water’s edge, so he plunged into the garbage pile, hoping to hide there until he could figure out a better plan. He burrowed his body under the garbage until he was well covered. Less than ten yards away, a dozen POWs remained exposed among the rocks. Once he felt sufficiently hidden, he lay still and listened, waiting to see what would happen as the Japanese guards moved in closer.7
*
SMITTY NOTICED TWO patrol boats roaming the coastline to fire on any prisoners who tried to flee. At the beach, he paused briefly to look over at Mac McDole. The two friends realized they would likely never see each other again. They clasped hands.
“This is it, buddy, isn’t it?” McDole said.8
Smitty took one last look at his friend. “Yep, Dole. I’ll be seein’ ya!”
Both men took off running. Smitty’s long legs carried him swiftly from the bottom of the bluff to the right, in a westward direction. Japanese soldiers stationed on the beach opened up with automatic rifles, while others fired down from the top of the cliff. Smitty dived into a cluster of coral rocks to hide himself and found several men already there.
“You’d better split up!” he warned. “You ain’t gonna be able to hide four or five at a time!”9
The others wanted to remain together. Smitty jumped up and sprinted back up the cliff, screening himself behind coral outcroppings as he moved. He crawled to the top. When he stopped, he noticed two Japanese guard
s no more than thirty feet from him. They couldn’t see him under a thick layer of tall grass. He spread out flat on the ground and slowly began wriggling up under the overhanging brush. The weight of the grass and the undergrowth formed a small tunnel of sorts under which he forced himself as deep as he could. It was dark there. He could see out well enough but thought that anyone standing in the bright sunlight would not be able to see in.10
Smitty rubbed his arms and face with dirt to further camouflage himself. He felt fortunate so far: He had only a scratch on his right side from running through the coral. His new vantage point allowed him to peek out and see the other men being slaughtered down on the beach. He decided to stay there until darkness.11
*
RIFLE SLUGS RICOCHETED off the coral rocks as Mac McDole sprinted. One bullet sent jagged bits of coral ripping into his right leg. He stopped to take cover and survey his surroundings. Smitty had scampered out of sight, disappearing into a small ravine partway up the cliff.
All around McDole, other Americans who had made it down the bluffs were squatting in holes and outcroppings. He knew their odds of remaining alive were not good. Where can I go that the Japs won’t look? In an instant, the camp garbage dump came to mind. Mac ran toward the huge pile of refuse that had grown taller and taller during his years of captivity.
The smell was overwhelming, yet he dived in without hesitation and forced his naked body into the slime and filth. The stench made his stomach muscles convulse, and he fought the urge to vomit. He crawled in deeper, pulling the garbage over him, wriggling in as deeply as he could before the weight of the waste pile prevented further penetration. Worms, maggots, and other creatures began creeping across his body.
He had no idea that Gene Nielsen was a short distance away, burrowing under the garbage. Mac lay still, steeling his nerves and trying not to retch. His only hope was to remain there until darkness arrived. Maybe then he could sneak out and run for the ocean.
He had been buried in the dump only a few minutes when he sensed others. Two escapees, Charles Street and Erving Evans, were clawing at the garbage nearby, hoping to dig their own hiding holes in the dump. Mac could hear the shouts and voices of numerous Japanese guards who had reached the beach. He lay still as gunfire crackled in the distance.
Evans dug in right alongside him. “Mac, what are we going to do?”12
“Just keep quiet,” McDole said. “Maybe they’ll pass over us.”
Nielsen, burrowed in a short distance away, heard shots and screams from the Americans being tortured and murdered in the compound above. He heard loud banzai cheers as the Japanese guards celebrated, seeming almost as joyful as Americans attending a football game.13
The sounds of the torture were almost unbearable. The gunshots and screams finally got the best of Street, who jumped from the trash and ran toward the ocean. He was cut down by rifle fire just short of the water’s edge.14
Now too frightened to move a muscle, McDole, Evans, and Nielsen froze. Street’s flight from the dump brought guards their way, curious to see whether others were hiding there. Nerves seemed to get the best of Erving Evans, who began squirming beneath the trash.
“Quit moving, damn it!” whispered McDole, just a few feet away. “They’re going to see us in here!”15
Evans suddenly jumped up, refuse falling away from him. “All right, you Jap bastards!” he shouted. “Here I am! And don’t miss me, you sons of bitches!”
Rifle shots rang out and Evans jerked, his body landing right on top of the garbage covering McDole. The weight of the corpse pressed Mac down tighter into the refuse until he could barely breathe. He felt the heft of a Japanese soldier as he climbed over the trash above him. Seconds later, he felt Evans’s body being pulled away.16
Mac could smell the familiar odor of aviation fuel as the corpse was doused and set afire; the stench of burning flesh was almost unbearable. Mac continued to lie perfectly still. Just a few yards away, Nielsen was doing the same.
The guards who killed Evans were soon joined by others, and the ten or so Americans squatting in the nearby rocks did not remain hidden for long. Once the guards moved away from the dump, they spotted the other exposed escapees.
One American grabbed a coral rock, swore at the soldiers, and flung it toward a guard. A quick volley of rifle fire dropped him, and the guards rushed forward. One jabbed an escapee in the groin with his bayonet. The prisoner fell to the sand, screaming as other guards fired their rifles into the bellies of POWs to incapacitate them—there was no desire to kill. The guards howled with laughter as they moved about, thrusting their steel bayonets into the thighs, hips, and bellies of the men who had once been their slave laborers.
Peering through garbage, Nielsen watched it all, furious and terrified. He could do nothing to help as he watched the Japanese soldiers torture his countrymen. Nielsen recognized medic Bancroft and Jose Mascarenas among the men being tortured in the rocky wash near the ocean. God, why don’t they just kill them and spare them the misery? he thought.17
Some men begged for a bullet to put an end to their suffering, but the soldiers just laughed and stabbed them again in their hips and stomachs. The bayonet torture continued for the better part of an hour.
McDole fought the desire to move, especially to swat at the worms and bugs on his flesh. He finally decided it was time to take a chance to peek out, so he cautiously poked a small opening through the waste until a pocket of fresh air entered. Just twenty-five yards away, six Japanese guards had one American soldier surrounded. They were toying with him, jabbing him with bayonets, each thrust opening a new wound in the poor man’s lower extremities.
“Please, just shoot me!” he begged.
Mac saw another soldier approach with a bucket of aviation fuel.
“Please don’t burn me!” the American cried. “Shoot me! I don’t want to burn!”
Several Japanese held the prisoner in place with their bayonets while the bucket man poured gasoline on his foot. Then it was lit with a torch, causing the American to jump about, screaming in pain.
“Shoot me, you bastards!” he yelled. “You stupid sons of bitches, shoot me!”18
The Japanese splashed his other foot with gasoline and set it on fire. Then the guards doused the POW’s hands and lit them too.
“Oh God! Please! Please!” he screamed as his flesh burned.
Finally, he collapsed. The bucket man stepped forward and dumped fuel over his entire body, which was then torched. Mac could see the man flailing about, screaming as flames consumed his flesh. The guards waited for the fire to subside before dragging the smoldering corpse to a nearby tree, where they lashed the victim up to use for bayonet practice.
McDole closed the peephole in the garbage pile and lay still. An uncontrollable urge to vomit finally took over.
*
A FEW YARDS away, Gene Nielsen estimated the time to be around 1700.
He had been buried in garbage for hours, and the sounds of torture had long ceased. He peeked out. Most of the prisoners he saw were now dead, and others appeared to be near death, squirming in agony and moaning as several guards were hunkered over, digging a large hole in the sand a short distance away. Once it was large enough, they began kicking bodies into the fresh hole. Some men were still alive as they plopped down on top of one another in the grave. When the hole was adequately filled with dead and dying Americans, the guards shoveled sand over them, determined to hide their massacre.19
Once the bodies were covered, a soldier walked over to the dump and began collecting brush, coconut husks, and other refuse to pile atop the grave. As he pulled back an armful of trash, he spotted the bare white legs and lower thighs of an American. Nielsen knew he had been discovered. As he held his breath and remained as still as he could, the guard jabbered to his comrades. Nielsen had learned enough Japanese to make out the man’s statement: “His friends have given him a burial!”
They think I’m dead!
The closest soldier stood staring a
t the American for a moment. It’s hot out here, Nielsen thought. He doesn’t want to dig another hole just to bury me. I’m sure of that. The guards appeared to be discussing just what to do with this unexpected victim. The worms and insects crawling on him were maddening, and something was gnawing at a place on his bare back. Once they prodded him and saw signs of life, Nielsen knew it was the end. Perhaps a merciful rifle blast? Or worse, countless bayonet thrusts or the gasoline torture treatment?20
From the bluff above came a commotion, and a Japanese voice rang down that it was time to take a break for dinner. The guards dutifully tossed down their shovels, grabbed their rifles, and began climbing the cliffs toward the compound for evening chow. They could take care of the dead American later.
Gene Nielsen knew his good fortune was only a temporary reprieve. As soon as the guards were safely out of sight up the hill, he had to get moving.
*
IN THE PRISON yard, Americans lay in heaps, shot down and bayoneted as they had tried to flee. In the three main shelters and in the smaller ones, bodies smoldered. Some had died while tucked into protective positions. The smoky air was thick with the aroma of cooked flesh and spilled fuel.
Lieutenant Sato’s guards moved about, searching for any signs of life. Warrant Officer Yamamoto happened upon one American who was not yet dead, lying facedown but still breathing. Yamamoto unsheathed his sword, raised it high, and swung down, severing the man’s head from his body with one slicing blow.21
The massacre in the Puerto Princesa prison yard was complete. Within an hour of its beginning, not a single American remained alive inside the camp. Captain Kojima passed orders for his men to make a final count of the bodies. He needed to make sure that every American had been properly disposed of. If the count came up short, he was prepared to continue the manhunt to catch any stragglers remaining on the rocky beach below.
As Good As Dead Page 18
