Shadows In the Jungle (32 page)

The next day Nellist climbed into a small L-5 scout plane for a look-see. Gazing down at the rugged landscape, with its steep ridges and deep valleys, he saw no signs of the guns. That evening at five thirty the team boarded a Higgins boat at White Beach One, which carried them down the coastline, nearer to their target. The boat stopped three hundred feet offshore when its keel scraped the sandy bottom. The ramp went down and the men waded to shore in chest-deep water, weapons held high, with Gil Cox out in front. The landing boat backed off the sandbar and turned out to sea.

All was quiet along the dark shoreline ahead as the men waded in, except for the distant barking of a dog. Then, while the Scouts were still a hundred yards or so from the beach, the sky lit up as a flare fired from a navy ship, probably at the request of American troops onshore, burst overhead, bathing everything with a bright light. Wismer thought he had pissed his pants, but was unsure because of being in the water.

The men froze, lowering themselves so that the water was lapping against their chins. Nellist hoped the flare was not a signal for a bombardment, or he and his team would be “left with our asses hanging out.” After the flare had burned itself out, the team cautiously waded to shore.

The guns were tucked away in the mountains three or four miles inland, so once the team reached the sand, Nellist began pushing forward immediately. He wanted to close as much distance to his target before dawn as possible in order to find a suitable place to set up an OP. They were barely on dry land when they stumbled upon a footpath. Wanting to make time, Nellist decided to take it.

“What about Jap patrols?” Tom Siason asked.

“I doubt they use this trail much,” Nellist replied. “Look how overgrown it is.”

Nellist put Kittleson at point, and they began the trek. The starless night was as black as six feet down a cow's throat and Kittleson didn't even see the native village until he almost walked into it. Huts of nipa palm suddenly loomed in the darkness, and Kittleson raised one arm and dropped to a knee. The others dropped also. For the next thirty minutes the seven men remained silent as ghosts. No sound came from the collection of huts. Satisfied the place was empty, the team crept through the village like shadows in the night.

Beyond the village, the path widened into a weed-choked road. With a red-hooded flashlight, Nellist checked his map.

“The road joins Highway Three at the village of Rawis,” Nellist said. “Let's go. Kit, take the point again.”

As the team followed the empty road, the thinning vegetation on both sides told Nellist they were gaining altitude.

Daylight dawned cloudy, with a threat of rain. A gray mist clung to the mountaintops. Nearing Rawis, Nellist split the team in two, with Kittleson, Cox, and himself advancing along one side of the road, and Smith, Siason, Asis, and Wismer on the other. Smith took point. They had not gone far when Smith dropped to a knee, as did the others. Smith turned toward Nellist and drew the flat of his hand across his throat. The signal was clear: there were Japanese ahead. Nellist indicated for the team to hold, then tapped Kittleson and pointed toward the village. Kittleson nodded and moved forward. As he drew closer to Rawis, he dropped to all fours, testing each move before committing his entire weight.

Kittleson came to a tangled patch of rhododendron. Crawling through it, he reached a small rise. Ahead was a short concrete bridge spanning a trickle of water that passed for a stream. Beyond the stream, in the village, sat a Japanese truck. A small breakfast fire burned by the stream bank. By its meager flame squatted three Japanese soldiers, brewing tea, smoking and chatting, then laughing over some joke one of the men told. A soldier poured himself some tea into a tin cup and, slinging his weapon onto his shoulder, stood up. As if this were some signal, the other two also rose and walked up the slight embankment and onto the bridge. There they continued chatting, leaning their weapons against the railing of the bridge.

Kittleson went back to report.

“You just saw the three Nips?” Nellist asked. Kit nodded. “Then that's probably all there are. The Japs don't have the manpower to post large garrisons at every town.” He thought for a moment, then turned to Smith. “Andy, you, Asis, Siason, and Wismer take out the two jokers on the bridge. The rest of us will go for the third Nip. I'd like a prisoner if possible.”

The men moved silently into position. When they were all ready, they charged forward. Nellist yelled,
“Jishu,”
ordering the Japanese to surrender. The two enemy on the bridge grabbed for their weapons and the Scouts opened fire. One bridge guard crumpled to the ground as the other toppled over the railing and into the streambed below. The tea drinker flipped up his rifle and aimed at the Americans. Nellist squeezed off several quick rounds with his Garand. The .30-caliber slugs knocked the man three steps backward before he sat down heavily. Coughing blood, he slumped over onto the ground and died.

“Shit,” Nellist said. “Let's get these bodies out of sight. Kit, check out the village.”

As they went about their tasks, Kittleson, entering Rawis, suddenly dropped into a ditch. Ahead an old man on a rusty bicycle was peddling toward him, followed by a lumbering caraboa and a mob of waving villagers, shouting, “Americans come.” The villagers swamped the GIs and happily took over the task of dragging off the dead Japanese. The cheering went on for several minutes as Nellist, for security reasons, tried to calm them down. He had at last succeeded, when one native asked, “MacArthur come?”

“Yes,” Nellist replied, setting off another wild round of celebration.

In the midst of the hubbub, Nellist was introduced to a native named Philip, who had been forced to work for the Japanese manning the guns. He pinpointed for Nellist the location of the tunnels. All the while the revelry continued and the Scouts, growing more concerned about the Japanese hearing the ruckus, finally fled the town, pursued for some distance by their not-easily-dissuaded well-wishers.

* * *

By midday, the team was sitting on a wooded ridge. Far below them, in the valley to their rear, they could see the village of Rawis.

“Wonder if they're still partying?” Smith mused.

Ahead of them, and below, was Highway 3, along which enemy trucks and tanks could be seen rumbling. The Scouts watched for any signs of the big guns, knowing there was nothing much they could do until dark, when, should the guns fire, they could spot the muzzle flashes, and then triangulate a position.

Shortly after nightfall, near the crest of the ridge, about three-quarters of a mile away, a big gun roared, its muzzle flash lighting the night. The Scouts instinctively ducked down as the 240mm shell roared overhead like a freight train, its passage rustling the grass and leaves around them.

“Jesus Christ,” Wismer said in a low tone that reflected his awe.

The men compared notes, but were unable to come to an agreement on the gun's location. The gun fired again an hour later, and continued to fire every hour. After a few firings, the team worked up a grid location, which Nellist made each man memorize; however, Nellist fretted that there seemed to be just a single artillery piece.

“I hope to hell it isn't just one fucking Jap gun holding up the entire U.S. Army,” he cursed. “Let's go back.”

Nellist's destination was the town of Cabaroan, located on the coast. There he hoped to hire a boat to take them back to U.S. lines. The team reached the town, all right, but the only vessel available was a rickety banca, or outrigger canoe. Deciding it was better than nothing, the men boarded the boat and began to sail southward. The banca was not up to the task and began taking on water. The Scouts had no choice but to abandon the sinking craft. They swam to shore and went the rest of the way on foot.

The 158th Regimental Combat Team (RCT) was holding the line at the town of Damortis, and as Nellist and his men drew near, it occurred to them that, without a radio—it had been deemed too heavy to carry on this mission—they were out of touch and did not know the current password.

“We could just shout out that we're Americans,” Asis said.

“No,” Nellist replied. “The Japs know that trick, too.” He looked at Cox. “Gil, take off your shirt.” Cox complied, baring his pasty white chest and upper arms. “Great. You walk out in front like that yelling that you're an American.”

Cox balked.

“Go on, Gil,” Nellist urged. “You're the tallest guy on the team, certainly taller than any Nip. And with that white skin and blond hair, even if their outpost is manned by a total idiot, he'll never take you for a Jap.”

So it was that the Nellist Team arrived back behind U.S. lines, led by a bare-chested Gil Cox waving his shirt and calling out, “We're Americans.”

The position of the Japanese guns—there turned out to be two of them, made in Germany by the Krupp ironworks—was handed on by the 158th RCT's headquarters to the 43rd Division artillery, which blanketed the area in 105- and 155mm fire. Both guns were knocked out, and the way was cleared for the continued drive on Manila.

Learning that Nellist had not only been successful but had come back unscathed thrilled Krueger and swelled him with pride.

“My Alamo Scouts always come back,” he boasted. “I can send them anywhere—
any damned where
—and know they'll accomplish their missions.”

* * *

For Nellist, the success of this mission, coupled with his participation in the hostage rescue at Cape Oransbari in New Guinea back in October, made him the first choice to lead what would become the Alamo Scouts' most famous raid.

CHAPTER 13

 

 

 

 

G
alen Kittleson and Wilbert Wismer were lounging in the afternoon sun in front of their tent at 6th Army headquarters near Calasio, south of Lingayen. In was January 26, and they had been back just eight days from their last mission to spot some large Japanese guns holding up the American advance on Manila. As Wismer lit a cigarette and blew the smoke lazily into the air, he noticed a strange apparition. A reed-thin American major in a well-worn uniform and mounted on a bay horse was riding into camp and making straight for them. He poked Kittleson and the two enlisted men rose to attention as the officer drew rein. They saluted him.

“Can you fellas tell me where the HQ tent is?” the major asked, returning the salute with a very informal flip of his hand.

“Straight down this street, sir,” Wismer said, pointing. “You can't miss it.”

The officer nodded, turned his horse's head in the direction indicated, and moved on. The two Scouts watched him go.

“Who in the hell was that?” Kittleson asked.

“You don't know?” Wismer said. “That was Major Lapham. The guerrilla leader.”

* * *

Robert Lapham had been twenty-four when the Japanese invaded Luzon in 1941. In April 1942, Lapham, then a lieutenant, and thirty-five other men volunteered to infiltrate fifty miles behind Japanese lines and blow up enemy planes parked at Clark Field. They had made forty of those miles when they received the news that Bataan had fallen. With that, the men opted to split up and filter into the hills to avoid capture. Lapham made his way to Nueva Ecija Province, near Cabanatuan City, and began to recruit guerrilla fighters. When the number of recruits hit two thousand the army promoted Lapham to major.

Shortly after the fall of the Philippines, the Japanese established a large prisoner-of-war camp just a few miles east of Cabanatuan City. Made up of men who had survived the infamous Bataan Death March, the camp encompassed about twenty-five acres in the midst of an open plain. Inside, at its peak, it housed about seven thousand prisoners, a number that began to slowly dwindle as men forced into slave labor died either of disease or at enemy hands, or were shipped to Japan to work in servitude.

Throughout this whole time, Lapham had kept close watch on the camp, and burned with a desire to set his suffering comrades free. He had made friends inside the wire, and managed to smuggle in food and even a few weapons that were stockpiled for eventual escape.

In June 1944, he made MacArthur's headquarters aware of the prisoners and their plight, and requested that several submarines stand to offshore while he and his guerrillas attempted to free the approximately three thousand prisoners left in the camp. He even relayed his plan of attack. MacArthur refused, saying the men in the camp would be too ill and weak to make the trek over the Sierra Madre mountains to get to Debut Bay. They would be recaptured and, quite likely, executed by the Japanese. Lapham's reply was that if a rescue was delayed too long, all of the surviving prisoners could be carried out in one caraboa cart.

It would be the first of several such pleas he would make, and all were rejected.

Then came the grim news from Puerto Princesa prisoner camp on Palawan, an elongated island that marks the western border of the Sulu Sea. There, on December 14, more than 150 prisoners had been herded into crude air-raid shelters on the pretext of an incoming American air strike. Once the prisoners were in the shelters, Japanese guards doused them with gasoline and set them alight. Men who crawled from the blazing, hellish infernos were gunned down. A few, however, managed to escape and, with the help of friendly Filipinos, make their way across the Sulu Sea in bancas, and told their stories to horrified listeners.

While the Americans viewed this act as one of intense cruelty, the Japanese were, in fact, following an army edict that the prisoners, already disgraced by their very act of surrendering, were not allowed to fall back into American hands. Lapham knew this, and he feared the men in Cabanatuan would soon be targeted for similar elimination, especially as MacArthur's forces drew ever closer. Even Gen. Masaharu Homma, the “Poet General” who loved American movies and whose pro-democratic, pro-Western leanings often got him into trouble with his superiors, would not be able to ignore the order.