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  Clothing and hair had been burned away, leaving the POWs’ bodies raw and red, their faces monstrously frozen in a wretched, unrecognizable state. Lieutenant Yoshiwara and Warrant Officer Yamamoto ordered the dozen guards standing on the camp veranda to begin filling in the shelters. Many American bodies were piled in heaps, drenched with gasoline, and burned before their charred remains were dumped back into the shelters to be covered over with dirt. Private Tomisaburo Sawa worked on the remnants of Shelter A and one of the smaller individual shelters for the next half hour before he was ordered to move down toward the beach.22

  It was time to finish off any surviving Americans.

  15

  FIGHTS AND FLIGHT

  SMITTY WAS STILL hiding in the weeds near the top of the cliffs. Now, nearly two hours since his nightmare had started, he kept close watch on a nearby Japanese guard, who was soon joined by two others. One of them slowly made his way up the trail, coming ever closer to Smitty’s hiding spot as he lifted up weeds and peered behind each thick clump. He moved within six feet of Smitty’s place of concealment, pulled back some of the grass near him, and squinted into the fading light. Seconds passed like hours as Smitty waited for a rifle to explode with the bullet that would take his life. He could smell the man’s sweat, even his breath.

  Three years of hell, for this! Smitty thought. A steel blade, cold as death, would enter his ribs any second now, and he silently prayed that the soldier would at least do it right the first time to spare him further agony.

  But the soldier released the weeds and moved on.

  The sun dropped lower in the sky as the manhunt continued. Close to sunset, another group of soldiers approached Smitty’s position, walking in a line while jabbing their fixed bayonets into the ground every few feet. One stopped near Smitty and stabbed the sand several times within inches of him. The next soldier stepped right onto Smitty’s weed patch, and he stiffened.1

  A heavy boot came down on his right shoulder, and a Japanese soldier staggered. He caught himself, but in the twilight, he failed to realize what had caused him to stumble. Smitty held his breath until the guard slowly made his way across the rocky bluff without further investigation. He lay there for hours, unsure what to do next. He could hear the idle chatter of excited guards moving about. He understood just enough Japanese to make out some of their talk. One of them mentioned that 149 Americans had been killed.

  Am I the only survivor? he wondered. Surely they won’t stop until they can count the bodies of all one hundred fifty men.

  The guards continued patrolling the rocky beachside crevices and the underbrush along the downslope of the cliff below the charred bomb shelters. At one point, two Japanese walked perilously close to Smitty’s hiding spot before plopping down on the rocks to take a breather within ten feet of his position. He fought every urge to stretch, cough, or make any type of noise. After a while, Smitty heard something scuffling down the cliff, shuffling through the foliage toward him, and the scaly face of a large monitor lizard appeared under the brush.2

  The reptile approached, likely assuming he was a corpse, and moved its mouth closer to his left hand. Fearful of crying out if bitten, Smitty waved a finger. The animal took off through the brush, its long tail swinging about and making awful crashing noises as it lumbered downhill right toward the nearby guards. The frightened Japanese jumped aside to let the creature run past, forgetting in their excitement to consider investigating the source of what had startled the beast.

  Three times now I’ve nearly been discovered, Smitty thought. How much longer can my luck possibly hold out?

  As the sun began to set, other thoughts entered his mind. What if they start burning all this underbrush?

  The thought seemed reasonable. The Japanese might just use their fuel to light up all the bushes, debris, and weeds along the steep banks to smoke out any survivors. Maybe they think it’s too green to burn, Smitty thought. Or maybe it’s too much trouble for finding just one more American.3

  He felt certain that no one above him was still living. Throughout the afternoon, he had heard occasional rifle shots echo from the compound as the Japanese apparently finished off prisoners. He later heard explosions, and he figured the guards were using dynamite to make it look like the Americans had been killed by friendly bomb loads. He could not see what was happening on the beach, but he could hear pitiful screams as victims were executed.4

  Below him was a large rock in the edge of the water with Americans hiding behind it. He watched as a Japanese patrol boat approached from offshore. One man’s leg was sticking out far enough to be spotted, and Smitty saw the barge gunners open fire. Apparently hoping to spare his comrades, the wounded man staggered out from his hiding spot and was riddled with gunfire. The gunboat crew moved on in search of other targets, oblivious to the remaining POWs.

  That man is a true hero, thought Smitty.

  *

  GENE NIELSEN LAY still in the garbage dump, his bare legs exposed, only long enough for the guard detail to retreat up the hill. His life had been spared, if only momentarily. There was no time to lose now. He cautiously crawled from the dump, squinting in the late-afternoon sunlight as he shook off the last of the coconut husks that had partially concealed him. He looked toward the guards moving over the bluff, then ran along the beach.

  He shuffled back and forth, searching for shelter. The guards would be back soon, and he knew how he could expect to be treated. He didn’t think much better of his chances in the water, though. The Japanese gunboat was still roaming the coastline as its riflemen shot at any prisoners they could see. Nielsen ran along the edge of the water, trying to keep himself concealed from their view. A short distance away, he found a tiny shallow-water cave just on the edge of the beach.5

  When he began to clamber into the hole, he found other American escapees—Mo Deal, Ernie Koblos, Pop Daniels, Gabriel Sierra, Bill Williams, Willie Balchus, and John Warren—already squeezed into the space. The eight men tried to stay concealed completely behind the coral, but a short time later, they heard the barge returning down the beach on another pass near their position. Each man crouched in the crevice as low as possible.6

  Nielsen tried to move behind a bush. The men urged one another to keep quiet as the gunboat’s engine rattled closer, but Sierra was in agony. His entire body was burned, his hair was singed, and his flesh was rubbing off against any coral surface he brushed against. Sierra muttered continually from the pain. As the barge approached, Nielsen noticed that Warren, closest to the water, was crouching behind the coral rocks only enough to hide his upper torso, leaving his legs exposed.7

  Lieutenant Toru Ogawa’s soldiers spotted one of Warren’s legs sticking out from under the rocky overhang and opened up. Bursts of automatic fire peppered the entrance to the cavern, ricocheting lead in all directions. Warren cried out as a bullet struck him squarely in the ankle and left his foot nearly severed, dangling by tendons and bone fragments. He staggered forth from behind the rock, fully exposing himself, and was immediately riddled with gunfire.8

  As the gunboat chugged on past in search of more survivors, Nielsen stole the chance to shuffle along the edge of the water in search of a better hiding place. Sunset was approaching, but it could not come soon enough. Along the shore and higher up on the bluffs, he could see Japanese ground patrols closing in on the scene of the latest gunfire. About fifty yards from his original hiding spot, he found a small ledge of coral jutting out into the water, and he lay down in the water below it.

  Ernie Koblos and several others moved through the underbrush toward a point of land that jutted into the bay. Koblos decided to climb back to the top of the cliff through the underbrush. When he got there, he could see the gunboat moving back along the coast, as well as more guards moving down from the camp. Finding his chances slim on the high ground, he made his way back down to the beach, slipped into a tight cave filled with water, and submerged himself up to his neck, waiting until dark.9

  When soldiers spl
ashed past Nielsen’s hideout, he determined that his small coral overhang was not nearly enough to protect him. He spotted a large coconut floating nearby and grabbed it. He ducked under the water and started swimming, holding the coconut above him with one hand. He had made it only a short distance from shore when he heard shouts. Guards had spotted movement in the water and then the bobbing coconut. Rifle rounds zipped through the sea around him. He glanced back, took a deep breath, and plunged under the surface, stroking hard toward deeper water.10

  As a kid, he and his friends would ride their bicycles several miles from home to a large community pool in Logan, Utah, where he had trained himself to swim its length underwater with a single breath. His life now depended upon how long he could stay under. His lungs were bursting when he popped up for a quick gulp of air. Then he plunged back under, pulling himself hard away from the beach. Each time his head broke the surface, he heard shouts and the cracking of gunfire. When he was under, he could hear bullets slicing through the water all around him.11

  Willie Smith, still concealed on the bluff high above, watched at least ten guards firing away with their rifles, trying to hit Nielsen each time he reappeared for a breath. Smitty saw each soldier empty his magazine, reload, and resume firing.

  When Nielsen was about seventy-five yards offshore, the first bullet struck him in the armpit. The water slowed the velocity enough that the round did not break his skin, but it still hurt like hell. When he came up again, another bullet grazed the right side of his forehead, knocking him senseless. He nearly drowned before he came to, gasping for air and flailing about.

  Before he could swim any farther, a third shot slammed into Gene’s left leg just above his knee. It failed to hit bone, but the bullet traveled under his flesh and lodged up near his hip, about a foot from its point of impact. Nielsen’s leg went numb, and he found that he could poke his entire thumb into the bullet hole.

  Somehow, he found the strength to keep swimming in the eighty-degree water until he felt he was out of range. He knew he could not return now, so he began swimming parallel to the shore. He heard the soldiers’ voices drifting across the water and watched them follow along on the beach as they tracked his progress.12

  *

  SOON AFTER DUCKING inside their crevice, Ed Petry and Beto Pacheco decided they should block off the entrance to prevent the guards from finding them. They stacked coral chunks at the main entrance until the only clear exit to their watery cave was the side jutting out into the open ocean, and the only way in was to wade in from the oceanside.

  For hours, the two men listened in agony as murders took place outside their position, and they wondered how long it would be before the Japanese guards found their hideaway. Then they were startled to hear someone moving toward the entrance to the cave. They crouched low, trying to remain unseen. Someone fumbled with the rocks blocking the beachside entrance and began forcing his way inside.

  It was another American.

  Petry recognized Corporal Dane Hamric as he struggled into their cave, gingerly cradling his bloodied arm. He was in bad shape. A gunshot had nearly severed the limb, and he seemed half-crazed, moaning loudly with pain. Pacheco and Petry slapped him around a bit, urging him to keep quiet before he caused them all to be found by the Japanese guards moving about overhead, looking for openings in the coral.13

  The three remained hidden until about 1630, when they heard the scuffling sounds of someone approaching. The tide had receded, and the once-submerged oceanside entrance to their cave was exposed. They heard several men splashing toward them.

  *

  DOUG BOGUE HAD spent the afternoon hiding in a hole at the base of the cliffs just yards away from the ocean. From his vantage point, he could see well enough to know that it was unsafe to try to move on. Occasionally, he heard excited shouts and gunfire as guards scouring the rocks found Americans hiding. The sight of his comrades being tortured or murdered sickened him, but he opted to stay down and wait it out all afternoon. As the hours passed, he felt a sense of relief that he was still alive.

  At about 1700, Bogue finally decided it was time to take his chances. The sun was dropping lower on the horizon, and some of the Japanese soldiers were walking back up the bluffs. The tide was beginning to creep in, washing up into the rocks where he was crouching ankle-deep in the froth. It was time to move. His body stiff from hours in the cramped, rocky crevice, he eased out of his hole and began crawling among the rocks at the ocean’s edge, when he encountered another survivor.

  Bogue recognized Navy radioman Joe Barta. Two more men appeared beyond him—privates Don Martyn and John Lyons. The trio had emerged from the old sewer outlet, where they had hidden until the tide started rising. Fearful of drowning in the shallow sewer pit, Barta and his companions had scurried out toward the nearby bay. Joining with Bogue, they moved silently along the shoreline until they located a small cluster of caves. Lyons splashed through the shallow water into the opening, followed by Martyn, Bogue, and Barta.14

  Inside, they were surprised and relieved to find Ed Petry, Beto Pacheco, and Dane Hamric. The seven men huddled together, whispering about what they should do next. Bogue told them that the search along the beach had intensified, and that a barge with armed guards was moving about just offshore, shooting any prisoners the guards encountered. The group decided there was nothing to do but await nightfall. They realized things might change hours later at high tide if rising water should force them from their cave.

  Barta, crouching in deep water beside Martyn, grew anxious as he heard voices approach a crack in the coral directly above. A Japanese officer shined his light down into the opening and swept it about as he peered into the space below. As the beam swerved toward them, Martyn and Barta ducked under the water. Barta pinched his nose and remained submerged until his lungs burned. Only when the light disappeared did he resurface.15

  The danger, however, had not yet passed. Lyons was ill, struggling with an incessant cough, and his hacking soon caught the attention of the guards. His comrades did their best to help stifle the noise as guards gathered topside, but the Japanese chattered away, believing they had heard something. They probed and prodded, but no one came down to the waterside to find the cavern opening. They spotted the barrier erected earlier by Pacheco, decided there was no way into the rocks, and finally moved on down the beach.16

  The seven Americans breathed easier for the moment. They had nearly been found, but there was still too much daylight to leave their hiding spot. Pacheco, Petry, Lyons, and Hamric were squeezed into a small crevice that was farthest from the ocean while Bogue, Martyn, and Barta remained in a somewhat larger, adjacent cave closer to the water. Once it became completely dark, Pacheco and Petry decided to take their chances and investigate the situation outside. Lyons stayed behind to look after the wounded Hamric.

  “The tide is coming in,” Petry said. “We have to get out. Me and Pacheco will search around up there. If it’s all right, we’ll come back down here and get you two.”

  Petry and Pacheco had to duck underwater to swim into the adjoining larger cavern. There, they conferred with Bogue, Barta, and Martyn. Before they could slip outside, the men heard the sounds of Japanese guards overhead once again. They lay still for about a half hour, not daring to talk as excited voices and footsteps resonated above. There was no chance to slip out of the oceanside exit now without being shot.

  The five men glanced nervously at one another. High tide was inching in, and the water inside the larger cavern was already up to their chests.

  *

  SMITTY HAD BEEN so frightened all day that as the sun disappeared over the horizon, he felt numb to emotion. Wearily, he crawled from his hideout and eased back down the cliff toward the coral rocks where he had first taken shelter. The path he had traversed earlier made for an easy return. The guards who had sat near him for so long were long gone, and he could not see anyone else.17

  As he approached the ocean, he spotted a soldier standing on a tall hump
of coral. Smitty hunched down perfectly still, waiting until the man turned his back to the bay to look up toward the cliff, then eased down into the water, where the tide would wash away his bloody footprints. He waded silently into the warm sea, ducked his entire body under, and stroked hard, away from the island.

  He had contemplated swimming for freedom in the past. In just the past week, he had overheard Army brothers Hugh and Rob Hubbard discuss making a break for it by swimming the bay. Smitty had stepped in, telling them, “You’re going to wind up getting all of us killed.” He told them that he was in better physical shape than they were, and he did not believe he could swim the bay and survive the currents. He had convinced them to give up their idea. Now he was faced with making the dreaded swim on his own.18

  Smitty had never been a particularly good swimmer. His only previous experience had come back home in Texas, helping to maneuver hundred-foot fishing seines through deep creeks, and he spent most of his time just trying to stay afloat. During Marine survival course training, he had done well enough to pass the swimming test.

  He popped up for air and ducked under again. Once he had moved a fair distance from the shoreline, he looked back. The guard had not noticed his escape, so he began swimming harder on the calm surface. From what he knew, the nearest beach was five miles across the bay. He was wearing only his loose tattered shorts, which created extra drag as he swam. Somewhere along the way, they slipped off, leaving him completely naked. Now the swimming was at least a little easier, and during the next hour, he alternately stroked and paused to rest. Gradually, the Palawan camp and its bluffs receded. He hoped to remain within sight of the shoreline, but the tide pushed him farther into Puerto Princesa Bay than he wanted to go. He became frightened when he could not see the shore, but he pushed on.19