'I Was Alone in Enemy Territory'

By Rear Admiral MacPherson Berrien Williams,
U.S. Navy (Retired) Adm. Williams passed away in 1990

"When Commander Macpherson Williams took off from the USS Yorktown in December 1944, he did not know that his flight would turn into a weeks long odyssey fighting through near-impenetrable jungle and avoiding Japanese patrols.  This story was submitted by his widow, Mary Williams of her husband's journey through enemy territory to return to the USS Yorktown."

It was 16 December 1944. The U.S. Navy task force was 150 miles east of the Philippines. As the air group commander in the USS Yorktown (CV-10), “The Fighting Lady,” I was leading the morning strike. We launched and rendezvoused over the picket destroyer on the starboard bow and headed west toward our objective, climbing for altitude and testing our guns on the way. We were at 15,000 feet when we topped the cloud cover of the eastern shore of Luzon and saw the wide expanse of the Manila Plain below.

Over Nichols Field, our target, we peeled off, delivered our bombs, and ducked low to Manila Bay to get under their flak. We then turned south beyond Sangley Point and the ruins of Cavite Navy Yard to join up over Laguna del Bey. The day before, on the carrier, I had complained bitterly to Commander “B,” the operations officer on our carrier division staff, about the fixed schedule of our daily operations. I had pointed out that we did the same thing, at the same time, every day of our three-day strike and joked that the Japanese were setting their clocks by our attacks. “B” told me that after we had hit our assigned targets I was on my own. With 40 minutes to spare, I released the three section leaders to browse on their own and to join me, over Laguna del Bey, in 30 minutes.

My wing man, Jake Jones, and I went north up the Pasig River to Marikina Air Field, where reconnaissance photos had shown there were hidden Japanese aircraft. The low-level attack that we delivered resulted in a small antiaircraft hit in my engine. Realizing trouble, we headed toward the hills on the eastern side of the Manila Plain. The fire in my engine got bigger and finally got into the cockpit with me. Having no choice, I bailed out. When it came I did it all wrong, despite the years of practice. I abandoned my aircraft at low altitude, high speed, and out of the wrong side. I jumped through an envelope of flame, scraped the empennage, pulled the ripcord, and was brought up with a jerk from the chute, hitting the ground on my backside.

I was alone in enemy territory and seriously burned, with my emergency pack, deployed parachute, and gun. I abandoned the parachute and started toward the hills just to the east. I burst through some underbrush and right into a Filipino lad who was plowing his fields. With my poor Spanish and some gun display I tried to entice him into helping me evade the Japanese. He was completely noncommittal, so I left him and started running toward the hills again. I stopped, exhausted, and turned to see my “rescuer” hot-footing it toward Manila. When I next saw my thoroughly singed visage in a mirror, I understood his reaction much more clearly.

As I caught my breath, I suddenly was surrounded. I had my gun and six bullets, and little else. Fortunately, they were friends. In the van of this surrounding throng was Captain Fury. Captain Fury informed me he was in charge of the rescue party, that they had observed my jump from my burning plane, that they kept every U.S. attack in their area under observation, and that they did everything in their power to succor surviving U.S. aviators. I was relieved. We marched away to the home of an elderly Filipino couple where I met Madam “C,” who was deeply involved in the guerilla movement. She gave me first aid, coffee, and sympathy, and soon we departed to the east where this band had an outlying command post. We learned later that we left this house about 20 minutes before the Japanese arrived. Somehow, from lost pilot reports or from markings on my plane the Japanese had discovered I was the air group commander, and they were most interested in my whereabouts.

We proceeded inland for about five miles to the observation post. Here I was advised I had been rescued by the ROTC “H” and that we would proceed to their command headquarters when it seemed safe. I was happy to relax. My wrist watch was particularly bothersome, because my left wrist was badly burned. I hung everything on the line to dry and dozed. When it came time to move on I gathered my gear and was surprised to find that my watch was missing. So my rescuers saved my life and stole my watch. It was an interesting war!

We moved out to the east. Captain Fury was in command of our small brave band, which included Madam “C,” various sundry guards and protectors, and me. We proceeded for 15 long, hard miles before we arrived at the perimeter defenses of the command post. My burns were a bother and my fever was high. The next day, Dr. Tomaso, a recent graduate of the Philippines’ best medical school, brought some medicine. This, along with the medicine I had, helped me to get well enough to transfer to headquarters on top of the hill.

Our fare was meager. The basic ingredient was rice, usually soft boiled and served without salt. Occasionally a bit of carabao meat, an egg, or even a chicken supplemented our menu. Tobacco was a rare treat. Most of my new companions had malaria. I had left the Yorktown so full of Atabrine that I was yellow, so I had no problem with malaria—but did not adjust to the radical change in diet and the river water.

My wounds became a problem. My left wrist stank of infection. Johnson, who I suspected descended from the Negro regiment we stationed in the Philippines some years ago, became my nurse. Johnson had been badly burned two years before. Every other day, Doctor Tomaso changed the bandages on my putrid left arm. It was not pleasant but Johnson held me down.

On the third day of my stay with the guerrillas, Captain Fury came (in true Oriental fashion) to say, “I am a warrior, but I don’t have a worthy gun. I rescued you, you should give me your gun.” So I gave Captain Fury my gun.

The guerrillas were rugged, which was fine with me because they were on my side. I met Alberto, who was the son of a cabinet member who had taken to the hills when the Japanese had overrun Manila. Alberto’s wife smuggled cigarettes to him from Manila, and he shared them with me. Also, because we were in the hills together at Christmas, Alberto said he would ask his wife Nieves to smuggle some liquid cheer to us for a holiday drink, but it did not come. We became friends and agreed that if we both survived the war and if I ever got duty in the Philippines, we would meet in the Manila Hotel.

I had been with my guerrilla friends but a few days when I had a visitor. Lieutenant Bruce, a Princeton-type soldier, arrived, with suitable escort, to check on my health (or lack thereof). It developed that Bruce and Captain George had come into the hills of Luzon with full radio equipment, coding material, and ten Filipino technicians to sift through intelligence data and send out reliable material. I was pretty sick at this point, but appreciated this visit more than I can say. I sent back with Lieutenant Bruce a message to my ship saying Merry Christmas and that I was safe with friendly natives. This message when received on my carrier the USS Yorktown was badly garbled and they did not believe it was me. So my wife and daughter got the two-star “missing-in-action” telegram on New Year’s Day.

On that day we had adventure, too. Mortar shells fell around our command post. Scouts came running in to announce that two Japanese columns were headed up our valley and were being heckled and harassed by our outpost defense unit. I found Captain Fury and told him I needed my gun. He gave it to me, and I promised to return it to him when I departed his country. We retired under cover via our emergency escape route to the east. A day’s hike brought us to the headquarters camp of the Filipino Americans, a large guerrilla band. This was the home base of Captain George, Lieutenant Bruce, and their Filipino-U.S. Army technicians who transported, serviced, and manned the radio equipment. These two fine Army men welcomed me and promptly divided everything they had three ways and gave me a share. I was with these two gentlemen for about a month, during which time I learned their double transposition system of encoding and decoding messages so I could work with them. George and Bruce made my sojourn in the hills of Luzon much more pleasant.
 

This guerrilla band truly was an impressive outfit. It was headed up by a general, with Colonel “Y,” a newspaperwoman in Manila, as number two. This band had several sub-divisions spread over most of central Luzon; each numbered several hundred members with a colonel in charge. Colonel “Y” impressed me very much. She was high on the list of wanted people, so she took to the hills and disciplined subordinate colonels by lining them up with heavy rifles held straight out in front of them and held there until they dropped.

Having radio contact with U.S. forces was great. There came the day when my doctor pronounced me ready for evacuation. The U.S. Army, when advised that I was fit to travel, said, “Sorry, we are busy, but keep in touch.” The next day’s intelligence told us the U.S. Sixth Army had invaded Luzon.
 

I next learned that my evacuation spot was all the way across this big island of Luzon. Immediately, I began scheming to avoid that long and dangerous trip. We came to a fairly level area where I laid out my landing field. It was a beautiful landing strip, 200 feet wide, 1,100 feet long, and it pointed into the prevailing wind. It did, however, have a 10¾ slope to starboard but not nearly so steep as the cant of a carrier deck in a cross sea. I described my strip to the Army with considerable enthusiasm and requested that they pick me up in an L-5 observation plane. The Army was emphatically not interested. They said I was in Japanese-infested areas and implied they would not touch me with the proverbial ten-foot pole. But, the Army said, if I would get to the other side of the island, they would pick me up in the Infanta area by Navy seaplane.

José was my guide. Our escort was a 15-year-old boy, hardly as big as the rifle he carried, but ready and very willing. Fortunately, the Argus River was nearby and running in our direction, so we did quite a lot of our trip by the banca or dugout canoe. Our trip was very hurried. Every time we stopped to rest a Filipino would run up shouting “jarpon!” (which in Tagalog means Japanese), so we would take off again and press on. We spent the two nights of our river trip with Filipino friends. José had increasing problems because of me. As we got closer to the east coast and deeper into Japanese-occupied country, I became hotter and hotter. The Filipinos were sympathetic but increasingly fearful of Japanese reprisals. Just west of Infanta we had to pass through the Japanese lines. We ran the gauntlet late at night, in the dark of the moon, down the river between the enemy campfires on either side. At the narrowest point, between the fires, a Japanese called out in very poor Tagalog, demanding we take him across the river. We wanted to shoot him but he had too many friends nearby, so we continued.

José led me into the town of Infanta in the early morning hours. This was heavily occupied country. We approached the house of friends of his and entered almost forcibly. These poor people, though completely in sympathy with the Americans, were very afraid to have me in their house. We moved in anyway and slept on the floor—with husband, wife, grandmother, and two children—for a few hours.
Before dawn, José and I went on our way to the coast. At daylight we reached our objective. The guerrillas had established a small-boat facility there and I parted with José.
 

I embarked in a 25-foot rowing craft, manned by guerrillas, and we proceeded north to Major “A”’s headquarters, about 15 miles away. This amazing man ran the finest resistance outfit I saw during my sojourn in the Philippines. He was an Army Air Forces officer who escaped from Bataan just before our surrender, took to the hills, gathered some followers, hijacked a radio somewhere, and made first contact with General Douglas MacArthur in Australia. His was the first receiving point on Luzon for money, arms, food, medicine, and people. At first all shipments were by submarine, but later they arrived by Navy seaplane. Major “A”’s position was very much in Japanese country. Apparently they had a healthy respect for his defenses, because they let him completely alone.
 

Since my trans-island trip had been so hurried, I arrived a day-and-a-half ahead of schedule. My evacuation flight was set up for two days later from the Polillo Islands, 15 miles to the east.
 

Three weeks earlier Major “A” had evacuated an Army Air Forces flier who had been shot down in the area. The day before my arrival this grateful pilot had parachuted a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of gin to the major. Celebration was in the air when I arrived. Major “A” said he had not had a drink in two years. Toward the end of the second glass we decided to take action. Together we encoded a message to the U.S. Headquarters, Philippines, in the difficult double transposition coding system. I requested that my evacuation aircraft come a day early, and Major “A” requested permission to come to headquarters in the same plane. Our encoding effort must have been good, because the answer was affirmative to both requests.
Major “A,” the boat crew, and I set sail for Polillo Island, 15 miles upwind to the east, in an outrigger sailing canoe. A very old Filipino was our skipper and he was without compass or other navigation aids. Fifteen hours later, at 0230, we reached our destination.
 

Early the next morning the best looking Navy PBY I ever saw roared over our island and landed in our sheltered lagoon. In 50 minutes we flew across the island of Luzon, over the combat zone, and landed in Lingayen Gulf. Commander Pops Rigsbee, my old friend and Naval Academy classmate, who commanded the USS Orca (AVP-49), the rescue squadron’s home base, met us here. Old-home week ensued with hot showers, steaks, and sleep in a bunk.
 

On board the Orca I received a message from Lieutenant Bruce. When my gun reached Captain Fury, he was dead! He had been knifed in the back, in a hospital bed, by a Japanese sympathizer.
 

Three days later I was on a Navy seaplane flying south to Leyte Gulf. When we passed well to seaward, Manila and Corregidor were burning. I reported to Rear Admiral Frank Wagner, Commander Naval Air Seventh Fleet. This fine gentleman told me that my air group was even then on its way to engage in the first carrier strikes on the Japanese homeland. For me the war was over.

Eighteen months later my wife, daughter, and I departed Naval Air Station Quonset Point, Rhode Island, for duty in the new republic of the Philippines. Suspicion ran high in this war-torn country and it took us some time to find Alberto and Nieves. When finally our identity was established we met in the Manila Hotel for a long-planned reunion. I thanked Nieves for the cigarettes she smuggled to Alberto, and asked her about the alcohol we had waited for that Christmas. She looked at me intently and said, “the Japanese had taken over my house and they were being so mean to me I drank the jeen myself.”
 

Admiral Williams was a 1930 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy.
He served on board the Saratoga (CV-3), Enterprise (CV-6), Yorktown (CV-5), Essex (CV-9), and Yorktown (CV-10). He passed away in 1990.