Mike Guardia (6 page)

As the native boy led them into the village, Volckmann and the others were relieved to find that there were no Japanese in sight. Perhaps these natives could be trusted after all. Volckmann, Blackburn, and Whiteman spent the remainder of the day recovering from the week’s activities. They had barely escaped from Bataan with their lives and were buckling under the intense tropical heat. Scraped, bruised, starved, and exhausted, they were in the worst shape they had been in since the start of the invasion.

To make matters worse, Volckmann was armed with nothing more than a six-round revolver—and he had no spare ammunition. Unlike many of his comrades on Bataan, however, Volckmann had not yet succumbed to any tropical disease. For this he was grateful, but was uncertain how long he could fight it off. The jungle adventures had taken a heavy toll on his body and the tropical heat was slowly tearing down his resistance. It seemed as though maintaining his health would be a greater challenge than evading the enemy. After all, he had seen what malaria, dysentery, and the other assortments of tropical disease could do to a soldier.

Map of Central-North Luzon. Colonel John P. Horan consolidated his forces at Baguio and planned to make Balete Pass a rally point for other USAFFE units. Visible are the Benguet and Ifugao “sub-provinces” of Mountain Province, where Volckmann would base his operations as a guerrilla.

After washing their clothes in a nearby stream, the three men departed the village at dawn. Their host agreed to take them around Abucay Hacienda and, before parting ways, Volckmann heartily thanked him for his hospitality. Picking up a northbound trail, they encountered another American: Corporal Bruce, a rifleman from the 31st Infantry who had also escaped from Bataan. Volckmann invited him into the group and, shortly thereafter, they were joined by a Filipino who identified himself as a retired Sergeant of the Philippine Scouts.

As with many of the local natives, this retired scout had fled the Japanese onslaught. Seeking refuge in the jungle, he had built himself what was called an “evacuation camp” and invited Volckmann to stay with him. These evacuation camps operated on a small network throughout most of Luzon. Their inhabitants came from every walk of life: American businessmen and their families, wealthy Filipinos, tenant farmers, missionaries, school teachers—civilians who had lost their homes during the invasion and fled to the wilderness in hopes of waiting out their Japanese occupiers.

Arriving at the sergeant’s camp, Volckmann found it to be nothing more than a quaint little shack with barely enough room for five people. But nonetheless, he appreciated the sergeant’s hospitality. Surprisingly, Volckmann entered the camp to find two more Americans: a pair of Army Air Corps lieutenants named Petit and Anderson. Sitting down to speak with his newfound comrades, Volckmann learned the fates of Lieutenant Colonels Martin P. Moses and Arthur K. Noble, two regimental commanders whom he had known in Bataan.

Initially, the pair had been assigned to the 12th Infantry Regiment (11th Division) as battalion commanders. After retreating through Central Luzon, Moses and Noble respectively took command of two other regiments within the 11th Division. By Volckmann’s account, both men were competent leaders and had done a fine job during the battle. Since the fall of Bataan, they too had begun their long trek northward.
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As it were, they had been through the old sergeant’s camp a week earlier and found safe passage to the north. It was certainly delightful news for Volckmann and Blackburn.

The next morning, Volckmann and Blackburn, along with their new Air Corps friends, hit the trail northbound to Highway 7. After a few minutes on the trail, they encountered another young Filipino. This young man of no more than nineteen years old spoke English fluently and identified himself only as “Bruno.” By his appearance and his accent, Volckmann could tell that “Bruno” was not a native to this part of Luzon. Accordingly, he was a member of the Igorot tribe and a corporal in the Philippine Army. Upon hearing that their destination was his native Mountain Province in North Luzon, Bruno insisted that he join them. In exchange for joining the group, he offered his services as a guide.
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Remembering the four Filipinos who had deserted him in Bataan, Volckmann hesitated on Bruno’s proposition. Yet, if this boy really did know his way around Luzon, he could be a valuable asset. Volckmann agreed to take him on, provided he stay with the group until they reached Mountain Province.

Back on the trail, they arrived at Banban shortly before noon. A small barrio two kilometers south of Highway 7, Banban offered a pleasant respite from the group’s travels. At the behest of the barrio chieftain, Volckmann and company were privy to a feast honoring the return of a local son. While enjoying the copious amounts of rice and beef, Volckmann secured a guide to take him across the heavily patrolled Highway 7. Stretching from Dinalupihan in the east to Olongapo in the west, Highway 7 had once been the site of the 11th Infantry’s largest defensive line. Now, it was the main thoroughfare into the Japanese naval port at Olongapo.

As the group prepared to cross the highway, Whiteman and Bruce announced their decision to stay behind. Both had come down with debilitating fevers and were too sick to complete the hike. Volckmann hated the thought of leaving them behind, but Bruce insisted that he and Whiteman would be fine after a few days rest. Besides, neither of them wanted to slow Volckmann down. Departing with Bruno, Blackburn, and the two Air Corps lieutenants, Volckmann left the two infirm soldiers in the care of Banban’s barrio chieftain. He never saw Bruce or Whiteman again.
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On 18 April 1942, Volckmann crossed Highway 7 without incident. He was finally out of Bataan, but what lay in front of him were over 100 miles of swamp, jungle, mountains, and Japanese patrols. Spanning some four and a half months, his journey to the north would be the most painful and excruciating experience of his life. At various times, either he or a member of his traveling party—save Bruno, enjoying his native immunity—would temporarily succumb to dysentery, fever, malaria, yellow jaundice, or beriberi. Until now, Volckmann had come through five months of combat untouched by any tropical disease. Today, however, his luck ran out.

Merely an hour had passed since crossing the road when Volckmann reported feeling weak. Overcome by nausea and diarrhea, his body had begun rejecting all the unclean food he had scavenged. Volckmann’s diagnosis: “I came down with dysentery.”
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The Filipino guide who had taken them across Highway 7 diverted the group to a nearby evacuation camp, where Volckmann remained in the care of its chieftain, a man he identified simply as Guerrero. A middle-aged farmer with a family of five, Guerrero had managed a
hacienda
for an American businessman named Demson. Since the war, both Guerrero and Demson fled with their families into the jungle, taking with them only what they could carry. Now, Guerrero, his wife, and their four children resided in hastily constructed bamboo shacks with roofs of cogon grass.

In the entry for 21 April, Volckmann wrote that he remained sick despite the best efforts of the Guerrero family. Nonetheless, Volckmann notes that the Guerreros were the most generous and helpful Filipinos he had thus far met. Aside from the light meals of rice and vegetables, Guerrero’s eldest daughter presented Volckmann with a pair of Philippine Army coveralls—the first pair of clean clothes he had worn since Bataan. The family had no medicine to speak of, but the senior Guerrero was well versed in the arts of tribal healing. Brewing some tea made from tree bark, Guerrero presented it to Volckmann, indicating that it would help his dysentery. The concoction was so bitter that Volckmann nearly spit it out, but as of now, it was his only hope to alleviate the disease. Volckmann documented some improvement in his health afterwards, but his strength to perform simple tasks such as walking or standing remained feeble.
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It was also at Guerrero’s where Volckmann first learned of the Bataan Death March. The stories left him horrified: men who had been his comrades only days ago were now being forced to march without food or water. Those who stumbled were savagely beaten. Men who simply collapsed from exhaustion were shot, bayoneted, or decapitated. The few who actually made it into the prison camps were systematically starved and denied medical attention once they arrived.

Among the more horrific stories included tales of the Japanese peeling the skin from their captives’ feet and forcing them to walk through piles of salt. Other prisoners were lined up along the highway and deliberately run over by Japanese trucks racing at full speed. Yet the most frightening stories were those of the Japanese eye gouging techniques: taking a rifle with a fixed bayonet, an enemy soldier would place the bayonet inside of a prisoner’s bottom eyelid, and then let go of the rifle. Consequently, as the rifle fell to the ground, the bayonet would eject the prisoner’s eye from his socket.
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Aside from their astonishing cruelty, what angered Volckmann the most about the Japanese were their seemingly casual and indiscriminate attitudes. There was no rhyme or reason to any of their techniques. In fact, it seemed as though the Japanese were torturing Americans simply for their own amusement.

Painfully, Volckmann recalled the earlier sentiments of his comrades on Bataan—
“The Japs will treat us okay.”
How fortunate he was not to have listened.

The following day, 23 April, Guerrero announced that his old boss, Demson, remained in the area and had built a small evacuation camp about three kilometers to the north. Demson’s camp lay deeper in the jungle and was farther away from the Japanese patrol lanes.
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Given the precarious nature of his health, Volckmann would have preferred to stay put. He had, after all, been at Guerrero’s camp for only four days and saw little improvement in his health. Nonetheless, he accepted the idea that moving farther away from the enemy patrols would buy him more recovery time in the long run.

Upon arriving at Demson’s Camp, Volckmann and his men— Blackburn, Bruno, Anderson, and Petit—were heartily received by their new hosts. Greeted with a meal of rice, tomatoes, and roasted pig, it was the first full meal they had enjoyed in over a month. Demson indicated that he was moving his family—a wife and one son—into another camp near Dinalupihan around the 1st of May, and that Volckmann was free to take over this current location after the move.

Volckmann and Blackburn were deeply impressed by Demson’s camp. It was much more elaborate than Guerrero’s and consisted of a main house and a cooking hut on the bank of a nearby stream. As with Guerrero’s, the Demson compound was made of bamboo with cogon grass roofs. As none of the main trails passed by the camp and the bordering stream offered no easy means of navigation, Volckmann felt relatively secure.

Despite the serenity of the camp, however, his health remained unstable. The tea he had gotten from Guerrero made his dysentery somewhat tolerable, but it did nothing to improve his overall strength. What little food he did consume came only at Blackburn’s insistence, who himself was battling a high-grade fever. The Demsons promised to keep Volckmann and his men supplied for as long as they stayed in the area. The family departed to their new camp on 29 April, leaving behind a generous ration of supplies and another roasted pig. With as much strength as he could muster, Volckmann heartily thanked the family for all they had done.
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As his body nursed the symptoms of dysentery, Volckmann succumbed to yet another disease: beriberi. In the course of his travels, Volckmann’s fare had not included any grains, greens, or native fruits— starving his body of essential Vitamin B. Sensing the change in his condition, the Guerrero girls supplemented his diet with a medley of bread, vegetables, and a delicacy known as
bagong
, or salted fish.
Bagong
was an unappetizing dish that tasted nearly as bad as it looked. Begrudgingly, Volckmann crammed the concoction down his throat, gagging every step of the way.

While Volckmann tended to his own ailments, Blackburn’s fever became progressively worse. At times, Blackburn felt as though he would simply explode from the heat building up inside of him. Both men had lost a significant amount of weight. Arriving in the Philippines, Blackburn weighed a healthy 180 pounds. By the day of the surrender, his weight had plummeted to 150 pounds.
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Petit and Anderson, despite fatigue and nausea, remained relatively healthy. Bruno, however, continued to enjoy his native immunity.

On the night of 1 May, heavy gunfire startled the men from their sleep. It sounded as though a firefight had erupted somewhere to the southeast. Could it have been another Japanese patrol? It was possible, but Volckmann heard nothing to indicate the use of automatic weapons— which the Japanese were wont to use. Whoever these combating parties were, it sounded as though they were exchanging fire from single-action rifles. Though curious as to the source of the firing, he could tell that it was a great distance away, and thus drifted back to sleep.
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The following morning, Guerrero arrived at the camp with a chilling explanation behind the previous night’s gunfire:
the Demsons had been robbed
. Bandits had raided the camp and, in the process of stealing the family’s valuables, killed Demson’s wife and wounded his son. In his diary, Volckmann provides no further detail about the incident but it is obvious that it angered him immensely. The following day, Guerrero came back with even more disheartening news: a nearby Japanese garrison had heard the same gunfire and was now conducting a search of the surrounding area.
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Deciding to hide during the day and return to the camp by night, Volckmann and the others settled into a creek bed a few hundred yards beyond the house. Throughout the day, Japanese gunfire punctuated the long hours of silence. None of the firing came close to their hiding spot, but Volckmann noticed something peculiar about the firing patterns: each flurry sounded as if it were coming from a different direction than the last. It was as though the Japanese were aimlessly circling the countryside, firing their weapons every so often.

Back at the camp by nightfall, the men listened to Guerrero relate what had happened. As part of their effort to investigate the bandit gunfire, the Japanese went down the main trails and fired into every house and evacuation camp they passed before retreating to Dinalupihan. Not a very coherent strategy, Volckmann thought, but at least the Japanese were gone for now.

It remains unclear what became of Mr. Demson and his son after the robbery. Volckmann never mentions him again beyond the entry for 5 May 1942—saying that Demson discontinued sending supplies on this date. Guerrero, in the meantime, supplied the group with whatever useful items he could find. By this time, malaria had settled in alongside Volckmann’s dysentery and Blackburn became sick with malaria as well. Nighttime offered no solace as disease-ridden mosquitoes came out in droves. Neither Volckmann nor any of his men had any mosquito nets, and the surgical gauzes with which they improvised were largely unsuccessful. The rats, however, were far worse—hiding during the day, they would scavenge the camp at night, running across Volckmann as he tried to sleep. Often, he woke in the morning to find that they had eaten holes into his socks, shoes, and extra clothes. To correct the problem, he began suspending these items from the ceiling. Undaunted, the rats began targeting smaller items which they could carry away. They even ran off with Blackburn’s toothbrush.
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