Above the Thunder (42 page)

You know, it occurs to me now that such incidents as this were seldom reported to our headquarters. Many were the times Vin or I got in a lick or two against the enemy and never even mentioned it to Uncle Bud or his staff. We had no standing operating procedure covering such matters, as far as I can recall, and unless we called for fire or had been asked to look for some certain thing, it was unlikely that we'd bother to mention anything outside our own little circle of aviators.

Yamashita's troops in our front were getting to be pretty hard up for rations by this time. I recall flying around a cliff one day, looking into its caves, when I saw two or three enemy soldiers sitting up there on a ledge and gnawing the last shreds of meat off of what I judged to be the leg bones of a carabao, a draft animal similar to a water buffalo. The poor devils looked like wild animals as they crouched there, holding the bones, momentarily ceasing to chew as they watched me go by only a few feet away.

Another day, I saw in a little mountain cove something I first thought was a red blanket spread on the ground. On closer inspection, I saw that it was the laid-open carcass of a carabao, and still closer examination of the scene disclosed at least twenty Japanese troops lying in the weeds around it.

Having evaluated this as a target worth a fire mission, I was coming around just below some scattered clouds and checking my map for the location's coordinates when I became aware of a flock of tracers going by my plane, most of them a little in front. It took a second for me to realize that they were not coming up, they were going down. Just as I came out from under the edge of the cloud, a P-51 Mustang flashed downward from left to right close in front of me, his guns spraying tracers toward the “red blanket” target. I doubt he ever saw me, but he very nearly scored an aerial victory that day.

I happened to be the only pilot at the Loacan strip when Dwight Mossman phoned and said G-2 needed a volunteer for an unusual and risky mission. What could I do but volunteer? The job was to deliver some radio equipment to a guerrilla force located about forty miles north-northeast of Baguio and, at that time, nearly that far behind enemy lines. On the return trip I was to bring out a particularly valuable prisoner, an interpreter/translator from Yamashita's intelligence staff. The guerrillas would temporarily secure a small area where landing was possible and mark it with white panels. My timely arrival was critical, since they could not count on being able to hold the place very long before having to withdraw to their mountain stronghold. Because of the difficulty of communication, another rendezvous would be hard to set up.

The radio gear didn't make it to Loacan before I had to take off to keep the date, so I went without it. Carefully following terrain features on my map, I located the little field, a weedy path among low bushes beside a ravine emerging from between two mountains on the west side of the Agno River Valley. There were no buildings or other signs of life or recent activity in the vicinity—but no panels to indicate that the guerrillas were in control. I flew about in the valley for about ten minutes, trying not to draw attention to the vicinity of my intended landing, but still there was no sign from the guerrillas.

At length, I decided to go in anyway. I landed toward the mountain, slightly uphill, blasted the tail around, ready for takeoff, and sat there with the engine at a fast idle, my hand on the throttle, fidgeting, trying to look in all directions at once. After about five minutes, I was extremely uneasy and was about to take off when I saw a movement in the bushes on the edge of the ravine to my left.

The first identifiable thing I saw as a man emerged from the bushes was a Japanese field cap with a yellow star in front. I started the throttle forward, but the man stepped on out, waving his arms in a negative signal, and I could see that he was not Japanese, so I held my position.

He was unusually tall for a Filipino, spare and angular in build, and his hard, brown face below his Japanese field cap bore a long slash scar. Heavy ammunition belts were crossed over his chest à la Nelson Eddy, and at his waist hung a machete and a large revolver. He wore what appeared to be a faded American khaki shirt minus sleeves, and the matching trousers were roughly cut off at the knees. He sported a Japanese officer's brown boots. I'm not sure I correctly recall his name, but I think he said he was Lieutenant Ramos, commander of the local guerrilla band.

Ramos assured me that the strip was safe for the time being, and he apologized for being late. The prisoner would be there very shortly. He told me that the POW had been very cooperative and should be treated well, especially since he was suffering severely from malaria. I assured him that, at least while he was in my custody, he would not be mistreat ed. While we waited, I removed the front control stick and installed the rear one. I did not want even a sick and cooperative Japanese POW sitting behind me in the airplane.

Soon the prisoner appeared, escorted by about a dozen ragged Filipinos, some of them with Japanese rifles, others with only machetes. The Japanese was a stocky soldier with a heavy shock of stiff black hair. Although he was powerfully built, his movements were shaky and he appeared to be quite ill. His hands and feet were free, and he climbed into the front seat of my L-4. I fastened the safety belt for him, shook hands with Ramos, and got into the backseat. Remembering that Japanese prisoners sometimes were suicidal, I stuck my .45 in my belt in front. And off we went for Loacan.

During the thirty-minute flight the POW looked neither to right nor left, made no sound, and moved not a muscle, so far as I could see. At Loacan I turned him over to two MPs who came in a jeep to pick him up. I told them he was sick and fully cooperative, but they were peremptory and tough with him, and I could see that it made him nervous. I heard nothing more about him.

So my great volunteer mission turned out to be interesting but tame, as far as action was concerned; however, a day or two later it had a sequel that gave me the worst scare I ever had in my life, I believe.

One of the division's infantry patrols had been sent into enemy territory, had gotten involved in unexpected troubles that delayed its return, and had run out of rations. Requests for a supply drop by AAF C-47s was, for some reason, denied, so four L-4s were sent to drop cases of C rations.

We found the patrol on a very narrow spur that sloped steeply down from a high mountain ridge, and on both sides of the spur were the usual deep ravines choked with masses of vines and bushes that made them practically impassable. To be reasonably sure of getting the rations to stay on top of the spur, we had to fly parallel to it, straight toward the side of the main ridge until we dropped, and then pull up and turn away along the side of the mountain, since we could not climb over it.

Bill Brisley dropped the first case, followed by Speedy Spendlove, Don Vineyard, and me. On the rear seat I had two of the wooden or cardboard cases bound with wire, sitting one on top of the other. I opened the door, reached back with my right hand, and slid the top box over to the door ledge. I balanced it there while, with throttle reduced and the stick in my left hand, I glided in for my drop. At the right instant, I shoved the box out and pulled up and away.

The other pilots made their second drops in good shape, and I followed them in. As before, I reached back to move the box over to the door ledge—but I couldn't get it to move. In those days I only had about 140 pounds on my six-foot physique and I was not very strong. This case of rations was not on top of another, like the first one was, but was sitting down on the seat itself, and there was a slight lip at the front of the seat that prevented it from sliding. I was getting close to the drop point, and so, holding to the wire binding, I made a supreme effort to lift the box over the ledge. It came over, but not to the door ledge. In spite of my best efforts, it dropped off the front of the seat—and hit that control stick I had installed when I hauled the POW. The C rations jammed the stick hard forward, I could not move it in any direction, and the plane went into a dive toward the mountainside that was much too close below me.

As slow as I usually am, I am quite amazed at how fast I moved then. I knew the rations had to go without delay or else the war—and everything else—would end for me within five seconds. I flipped loose my safety belt and whirled around and up onto my knees in the seat, my rear end up into the windshield. I grabbed that box with both hands and heaved with the strength of desperation. The stick grip popped off, the box came up, and I hurled it out the door. It bounced off the wing struts and fell as I reached around behind me and hauled hard back on the stick. As the plane pulled out of its dive, the G-forces pulled me down onto the back of the seat, but I managed to advance the throttle and go skimming across the mountainside, barely clearing the terrain. And then I was able to sit down again and follow the other boys toward home.

Vin called me then. “What happened, Crash? That last case went into the ravine. They'll never get that.”

I didn't reply.

“Crash, this is Vin. Do you read?”

I didn't reply.

“Kadi 8, this is Kadi 7. Do you read me, Crash? Over.”

He didn't call any more. After about ten minutes, when I had recovered enough that I could keep the tremor out of my voice, I called him and explained.
¹

Back in the early months of 1942, when General MacArthur's beleaguered forces on Bataan were surrendered to the Japanese, certain American and Filipino personnel were authorized not to surrender but to withdraw into the mountains, evade the enemy, and carry out against him such irregular warfare as might be within their capabilities. Others had been cut off in the northern Luzon mountains by the swift-moving Japanese invasion of the island and remained there for the duration. Among the latter was an American infantry officer named Russell Volckmann.

By the time of the American landings at Lingayen in January 1945, Volckmann was a guerilla organizer and leader of long experience and considerable success. His numerous narrow escapes from death or capture had given rise to a saying: “Volckmann walks with God.” His guerilla
command had grown to regimental strength, and as the command had grown he had provisionally promoted himself and his subordinates to commensurate grades. Soon after the Americans returned to Luzon, Colonel Volckmann's force secured a position at Tagudin, on the west coast of the island in Ilocos Sur Province, and there received an issue of American supplies and equipment. He was given a mission of attacking inland toward the high mountain town of Bontoc, a movement that would threaten the lines of communication of Yamashita's forces opposing the American divisions pounding on the south gates of the Cagayan Valley.

With the 33d Division's responsibilities somewhat reduced after the capture of Baguio, the 122d FA Bn was detached and sent to Ilocos Sur Province to give artillery support to Volckmann's guerrillas. As a preliminary to our move, Colonel Carlson had me fly him to Volckmann's headquarters at Tagudin for a planning conference.

Volckmann already had some artillery—four mismatched Japanese field pieces and a few assorted rounds of ammunition for them. He even had a Filipino major designated as his chief of artillery. That officer and an American major, who, I believe, was Volckmann's second in command, seemed to constitute the top level of the staff, but there were a number of other officers in the headquarters, all Filipino as I recall. All these officers, including Colonel Volckmann, proudly wore U.S. Army insignia, much of which had been handmade by their own troopers.

The CP tent and the artillery officer's tent, new American issue, were neatly set up quite near the beach, but I don't recall seeing many other tents nearby. We were taken to lunch in a mess hall in an old factory building of some kind, and there Colonel Volckmann displayed considerable pride as well as pleasure in showing us that his men had not only managed to obtain but had learned to use a commercial ice cream machine. It was the first ice cream Uncle Bud and I had seen since Hawaii, except while we were aboard ship.

Volckmann and several of his officers barely touched their food in the mess hall, and they soon politely excused themselves, urging us to enjoy our meal at leisure. We finished and returned to the CP area, and soon I saw the reason for their behavior. A couple of hundred yards up on the
slope of a pleasant little hill stood a row of neat huts, and from these huts began emerging the guerrilla officers. In each doorway appeared a wife—or girlfriend—saying goodbye. A very lovely young woman walked most of the way down toward the CP with Colonel Volckmann and then returned to the cabin.

Nothing wrong with that, of course—in fact, I believe that the young woman with the colonel became Mrs. Volckmann soon thereafter—but to Uncle Bud and me, accustomed to the field army environment with its essential austerity, this seemed a pretty plush way to fight a war. I'm sure that a few years of hiding in the mountains and fighting a guerrilla-style war would have changed our outlook considerably. In retrospect, their situation seems very romantic, indeed, in every sense of the word.