About halfway across, large groups of fish gleamed in the phosphorescence of the warm aquamarine water. He kept swimming, trying to remain calm. A dark fin knifed through the water near the fish, cutting a purposeful wake right toward him like a torpedo. He had almost no time to react. He estimated the sand shark that plowed into him was about six feet long. Powerful jaws clamped down on his right forearm like a vise. He flailed at the shark with his left arm, kicking and splashing frantically as sharp teeth tore through his flesh. He thrashed about, trying to fling the shark loose, and finally it jerked back. Blood poured from nasty gashes in his right forearm, but he continued to beat the water to scare it away.
It worked. The shark moved on, but the school of fish remained with him. He struck out swimming again, his arm throbbing. His movements stirred up the phosphorescent waters like a neon light, enabling him to see clearly the school of fish hovering below. He swam for short bursts, then rolled over onto his back to take brief rests. Each time he did, he glanced around anxiously for the shark.20
His fish escort stayed with him during the next half hour. Large creatures with black fins broke the surface nearby, and his heart raced each time as he prepared for another shark attack. His apprehensions eased when he realized they were not sharks but curious porpoises following his progress. They seemed to form a protective shield around him and gave him hope they might keep away any more sharks.
In the distance, he could make out the highest point of a mountain near the penal colony’s shore, and high above it, the North Star. He lined up his heading on that point and pushed on. En route, he swam head-on into an old floating fish trap, unseen until it bumped his head. Exhausted and bleeding, he clutched the bamboo cage and let his body go limp.
The penal colony’s shore was still a long distance away, and he was nearly spent. Smitty clung to the trap until his heavy breathing subsided. He needed to conserve his energy. Daylight was many hours away, and he still had a long distance to swim.
*
WILLIE BALCHUS AND Mo Deal, hidden in a cave at the edge of the beach, were now the only two men left of those who had escaped earlier from their five-man shelter. In the past hour, they had seen John Warren shot and killed by the Japanese gunboat, while Gene Nielsen had slipped away to pursue his own escape effort, followed by Ernie Koblos and several others who had gone in different directions to hide among the rocky crevices.
Suffering from burns and a bullet wound in his shoulder, Deal reflected on his own life after having watched others lose theirs. He was a lanky six footer who had grown up in a farming family in rural Cloud County, Kansas. His father had moved his clan about in search of work, from Kansas to Nebraska, then to Sutter County, California. Deal had been a hell-raiser as a teenager, frequently landing himself in trouble—though none of that trouble could compare to what he found himself in now. Before enlisting in the Army in 1940, he spent four months doing body and fender repair work in an automotive shop in Modesto.21
Now, after years of slave labor in the merciless Pacific sun, after watching friends waste away or be murdered, he would have given anything to be back there in California, toiling in that Modesto garage. As the sun lowered over Palawan Island, death and its prospects were everywhere around him. Now Deal and Balchus decided it was time they made their own escape attempt.
Five Japanese guards still combed the beach a short distance away. All was quiet, and Balchus knew that a run through the jungle would make too much noise and lead to their discovery. The bay looked too wide to swim. The two men discussed options. “If we can kill a couple of the Japanese and get their rifles, we’ve got a better chance,” Willie said.
Deal agreed. They both knew that Filipino guerrillas operated nearby, and if they could arm themselves, they just might make it north into friendly hands. Deal and Balchus started slowly climbing out of their small cave. They were still crawling forward when they spotted a group of soldiers combing the beach in a line. The Japanese moved to within easy earshot of the two hidden Americans and then suddenly froze. Balchus, with his limited Japanese, heard them talking excitedly about a coconut. He was still trying to figure out what that meant when two of the soldiers came to a halt right where he and Deal were crouching in thick brush.22
The Japanese opened fire on an American swimming out to sea. The nearest guards were standing no more than twelve inches away from the heads of Deal and Balchus. The two men lay still, counting the barks of about twenty rounds before the guards moved on to join the others who were following the escapee’s parallel swim along the coast. While the guards were preoccupied, Deal and Balchus slipped back down to the beach.
Sometime after 2000, they happened across two other Americans, Bill Williams and Pop Daniels. Both men had escaped their shelter, plunged down the cliffs, and hid near the beach throughout the afternoon. The quartet took cover and discussed their options.
Those in the group soon found they had differences of opinion on how best to make their escape. Deal and Balchus still had the idea of overpowering a Japanese guard and fighting their way through the jungle. Williams and Daniels preferred to remain near the ocean, so around 0200 on December 15, the four men decided to split up. Under the moonlight, Deal and Balchus headed for the base of the cliff, hoping to catch a Japanese soldier standing guard alone. They took cover, then began to holler to attract attention. The first guard to appear was a Japanese navy sentry, who shouted for backup. Four other sailors joined him.23
Things were not going as planned. Instead of the chance of two unarmed men overpowering a lone guard, Deal and Balchus now faced five armed men heading toward their position. Two of the Japanese were higher up on the bluff, while three others were hurrying down, torches in hand. The two Americans decided to shift uphill quickly in order to escape the trio of guards in the lead. They ducked behind a large coral rock and tried to hide their bodies from the glare of the torches.
The first two guards walked right past the boulder. The third was rushing by when the light of his torch illuminated the two Americans. As he opened his mouth to shout, Balchus sprang, a large chunk of coral in his hand. He slammed it against the guard’s head and the man fell. As another guard doubled back, Balchus was ready, knocking him out cold as well. Neither Japanese had a chance to raise his rifle.
With a hunk of jagged coral in hand, Deal lunged at the third guard. In the darkness, Balchus grabbed up a dropped rifle and called out to Deal three times with no reply. He could hear the other two guards closing in, swearing and shouting. He had no idea what was happening with his comrade, but he was in no position to find out. Balchus sprinted down the bluff, rifle in hand. He never saw Mo Deal again.
*
DEAL HAD SURVIVED his struggle with the guard, but with a bullet in his shoulder, he had no intention of swimming out into the bay. He hoped to sneak over the bluff and disappear into the nearby jungle, but he didn’t make it far. In the wake of the scuffle, the other guards opened fire as he fled, and he was quickly cornered near the top of the cliff.
He found himself with another gunshot wound, but the guards decided against killing him outright, resorting instead to the same blood sport used against other captured Americans. He pleaded and cried out in pain as they stabbed him with bayonets, deep puncture wounds lacerating his legs, hips, and torso in more than twenty places. He tried to fend off his assailants’ blows and suffered a terrible wound to his right arm in the process.
In seconds, Deal was in severe shape, disoriented from the swiftness of the attacks and loss of blood. From below, several sudden bursts of rifle fire distracted the guards. Deciding the American was nearly dead, one soldier gave a final bayonet thrust into Deal’s body and shoved him off the cliff. He tumbled into the brush far below as the Japanese rushed downhill.24
Balchus had scrambled down the steep hill, right out to the water’s edge, before he dared to look back. Up on the bluff, the other two guards were easy to spot with their torches glaring in the darkness. Balchus aimed his captured
rifle and fired. To his disgust, he found there were only three bullets in the rifle, and worse, the flames that spewed from the barrel had clearly given away his position.
He had no choice now—he had to swim. He smashed the rifle against the coral rock and splashed out into the bay. As he moved from shore, he spotted the wreckage of a Japanese seaplane destroyed during the October 19 bombing attack. He reached the partially submerged plane about a hundred yards offshore and grabbed onto its side. Japanese guards were now moving about on the beach, shouting to Lieutenant Ogawa’s guards on the barge that was sweeping along the beach from offshore. The gunboat approached the wreckage, making a wide circle around it. Balchus eased around the broken fuselage, keeping himself out of view.
Eventually, the gunboat moved on. Gunfire erupted from the beach, but he knew the bullets were not aimed at him. The guards must have located Mo Deal, Pop Daniels, or Bill Williams. He could only hope for the best for them. The commotion made for a good distraction, so he pushed away from the seaplane wreckage, setting his sights on the far shore of Puerto Princesa Bay. After nearly three years as a prisoner of war, Willie Balchus was finally beginning his swim to freedom.
*
GENE NIELSEN WAS in excruciating pain. Bullets had struck his temple and armpit, though thankfully failed to penetrate. Another round had torn into his left leg, leaving a gaping hole. As the sun lowered behind Palawan Island, Nielsen slowly swam parallel to the coast, eyeing the Japanese soldiers who continued to follow him down the narrow beach, snapping off occasional shots until complete darkness set in. Reaching a point on the Puerto Princesa shoreline where the land cut back to the northeast, he felt he had no choice but to swim the bay under cover of darkness. He splashed about to make the Japanese guards think he was heading toward shore, then turned and began swimming as silently as possible toward Iwahig on the far shore.25
Stars and constellations stood out above him in bright contrast against the black of night. Selecting a large bright star to guide his progress, he continued across the bay. His swimming was labored due to the pain in his leg, but he made steady progress, imagining fresh drinking water from the Iwahig River on the far shore.
He had been swimming for quite some time when he paused to rest for a moment. A large sea creature was moving near him in a counterclockwise fashion, coming close enough that Nielsen could have reached out and touched it. Fearful at first that a shark was stalking him, he soon noted a round, bulbous nose occasionally breaking the surface, and realized it was a manatee, what the natives called a sea cow. The manatee seemed curious and remained close by, swimming around him in slow circles through the night.26
Nielsen continued, navigating by the bright star, which he assumed to be the North Star. He had been swimming for hours when he noticed that his guiding star had changed positions. It couldn’t be the North Star—his beacon now seemed to be guiding him out toward the open Sulu Sea. He trod water for a few moments and surveyed his horizons. In the distance, he could make out a faint outline of mountains on the far shore above Iwahig. He had been swimming the wrong way for some time. Adjusting his bearings, he used the faint ridges above the Iwahig Penal Colony as his new goal.27
His wounded body ached, but he kept a slow, steady course toward the far shore.
*
WE’RE GOING TO drown in this cave. The water had risen almost to Ed Petry’s mouth, pulled by the tide into the seaside cavern where he remained huddled with four other escapees—Bogue, Pacheco, Martyn, and Barta. Two additional survivors, Hamric and Lyons, were hidden in a smaller adjacent cave, now unreachable from the main cavity.
Crabs nipped at the men’s bare skin. As the water level continued to rise, lifting the men up, Pacheco spotted an opening through the coral at the top of their cavern. Pulling himself up, he wriggled out to the rocks above and lay silent, scanning the beach for Japanese guards. Long moments passed, and down below in the flooding coral cave, Petry became anxious. The crabs pinching his arms and chest seemed to be having a feast, and he had heard nothing from Pacheco. Now he too squeezed up through the tight opening in the rock, but to his dismay, he couldn’t see Pacheco anywhere.28
Minutes later, Pacheco scurried out of the darkness to where Petry was waiting. “They’re gone!” he said. “I went back in the other cave again, and I couldn’t find them anyplace.”29 Lyons and Hamric had apparently moved out to seek other shelter. For the five who remained, there was now no other option than to take their chances in the ocean. If they could swim Puerto Princesa Bay, they could seek help from prisoners of the Iwahig Penal Colony. They could hear the engines of the Japanese landing barge approaching as its guards scanned the beach for escaped Americans. The quintet waited nervously until the engines chugged on down the coast before they moved out.30
Bogue eased out of the cave into the open water, followed by Martyn, Pacheco, and Petry. Barta was the last to leave. The group hoped to swim across together, but their plan fell apart quickly. Petry was only a short distance off shore when he found that Bogue, hampered by the gunshot wound in his leg, was struggling.31
“I can’t make it, fellas!” Bogue called. “I’m going back.”
Petry, his left ankle shattered by a bullet, was having his own doubts about swimming such a distance, but he was not about to give up. The other four men continued, the distance widening between them as they swam. Barta, a poor swimmer, was struggling mightily. “I can’t make it!” he shouted angrily. “I thought you guys were going to help me!”
Dispirited, Barta followed Bogue back toward the shore, and Martyn turned back as well. Pacheco, still bleeding from bullet wounds in his left leg and arm, kept swimming alongside Petry. The two wounded men continued doggedly ahead, determined to stay alive. Petry knew Japanese guards were still patrolling the waterline, ready to kill any American they found, and he did not intend to turn back. The other three would have to find their own way to safety.
Bogue had second thoughts as he paddled back to shore. He caught hold of a floating log, hoping it would help keep him afloat, and kicked himself back toward the open water. With a few words in the darkness, he convinced Barta and Martyn to join him. Martyn was tall, strong, and a good swimmer, but in his weakened condition, he struggled to keep up. Barta managed to keep going. When they were a mile or more offshore, Martyn was falling behind as Bogue made slow progress, clinging to his log with one arm and stroking with the other. Barta soon fell behind as well, and Bogue found himself alone in the water. Shark fins cut the surface of the bay, and Bogue wondered how long he could avoid attack.
*
NINE AMERICANS WHO had so far survived the Palawan Massacre were now swimming in darkness across Puerto Princesa Bay.
Nielsen, Balchus, and Smith had set out on solo attempts. Bogue, Pacheco, Martyn, Petry, and Barta had started out together, but they were now mostly separated. The ninth man was Ernie Koblos.
Koblos had earlier survived the gun barge attack that killed John Warren. His attempts to navigate back over the cliffs had been fruitless, so he had squeezed himself into an oceanside cavern to await darkness. His body temperature dropped as he rested for hours in salt water up to his neck. Soon he realized that he had to move in order to survive.
To hell with this, Ernie thought. Enough is enough.
He slipped from the cavern and decided to warm himself before attempting to swim across the bay. He walked east along the dark beach for two to three miles, along the way picking up a bamboo pole that he figured might offer some support during his swim. He was still dragging the pole behind him when shots rang out a short distance away, followed by the appearance of Japanese guards searching with torches. Koblos quickly slithered into the ocean with his bamboo pole and began stroking away from the narrow beach.32
He swam for hours, heading for the far shore, southeast of the Iwahig Penal Colony. His years of swimming in high school and his love for the water as a Chicago youth came in handy. During those early morning hours, he covered miles of ocean, but ev
entually the strain of his poor diet and trauma-shocked nerves overcame him, and his weakened body finally gave out. He could not swim any farther. He was all alone, and as far as he knew, he was the only survivor to make it that far. But he was beat.
I’m finished, he thought.
16
SWIMMERS AND SURVIVORS
SIX 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.
As Good As Dead Page 20
