Mac Arthur's
Closest
Call Ljfiy
Memorial Day recalls a great
moment in a dark time snatching Mac
from Corregidor in 1942; here is
the PT-boat commander's own account
of that daring escape
By Capt. JOHN D. BULKELEY, U. S. N.
Congressional Medal of Honor Winner
as told to lack Ryan
I waited until the four PT boats were
drawn in column formation, then
flashed a signal to proceed.
Lieut. Robert Kelly's PT 34 was first in column,
and it went scudding across the surface of Manila
Bay. If there were any mines in our path, Kelly
would take the full brunt of their deadliness. The
rest of us would live to face the next risk.
The sky was overcast, and a heavy early eve
ning mist stung our faces as we clipped over the
choppy sea. Rotten weather, I thought, and that
was the only thing that pleased me at the moment.
I wasn't at all sure this would be the most suc
cessful mission on the logs of Motor Torpedo
Boat Squadron 3. First, we would have to weave
through six lines of mines dotting the escape
route from besieged Bataan and Corregidor, then
sneak past a double column of Japanese warships
blockading Manila. Bad weather here was a God
send, cloaking our flight. But next came 620 miles
of open sea in our little mahogany and plywood
eggshells 620 miles dominated by Jap aircraft,
destroyers, cruisers, with bad weather the worst
enemy of all.
One man aboard was confident though. Below
me in the boat's pilothouse, Gen. Douglas Mac
Arthur, Supreme Allied Commander, Far East,
rode out the kidney-jarring bumps in a deep
wicker armchair, legs crossed and eyes fixed on
the wake of Kelly's boat just ahead.
Until an hour ago this March 11, 1942, I had
been one of the few persons in the embattled
Philippines who knew the General's orders from
Washington leave Corregidor and its defenders,
proceed to Australia and take command of the
Allied Forces in the South Pacific in preparation
for -a comeback offensive. Reluctantly, he com
plied. His staff urged him to make the break
through by plane or submarine.
"Exactly what the Japanese expect," he had
replied. And then with a supreme tactician's in
stinct for surprise, he had informed me, as com
mander of his only PT-boat squadron, that we
PT men must make the breakthrough and take
him to Cagayan, Mindanao Island, on the first
and most hazardous leg of his escape. From Min
danao, a plane would fly him to Australia.
His staff was shocked. A 70-foot PT boat is not
built for long-range missions. Its light structure
combined with the 3,750 horsepower of its three
V-12 Packard engines made even a short trip a
bruising grind, especially for landlubbers.
But MacArthur believed in PTs. ("Give me
200 of them," he had told me even before Pearl
Harbor, "and I can defend all the Philippines."
He had six when war broke out, and now only
our four were left.) I've thought since that sur
prise wasn't the General's sole motive for choos
ing PTs. The daring of his plan was a gesture of
defiance to the Japs poised to capture him. He
knew he had to leave his men when the second
peremptory order came from President Roose
velt, but he was determined to leave as gallantly
as his men were then fighting.
I had vistually memorized the mine-field posi
tions, and I mentally ticked them off four, five,
six. Then I flashed a signal to Kelly: "Open up."
The PTs lifted under the surge of extra power,
and we soon were hitting about 35 knots through
darkness and the columns of Jap blockaders to
ward our first day's rendezvous at tiny Cuyo.
The General had brought with him 21 officers
and men vital to our future campaigns, and these
passengers had room only to sprawl beside the
torpedo tubes of the four boats while crashing
waves drenched them and the decks jarred at them
like jackhammers.
But they were tough Army veterans. I was
more concerned for the passengers in the cramped
cabin of my PT 41. The General's wife, their son
Arthur, almost 4, and his Chinese amah (nurse)
must be taking a real shaking, I thought. When
the family had stepped aboard at Corregidor's
North Dock, I had warned: "This will be a rough
trip, Mrs. MacArthur." She appeared especially
small and delicate.
"Why, we expect it, Lieutenant," she replied.
I doubt if the youngster thought he was going on
much more than a pleasure jaunt, although he
seemed to sense the tension.
We had secured 1,100 gallons of 100-octane
gasoline on each PT deck for the long journey
enough extra fuel to send a boat up in a swhoosh
of flames if even a fragment of hot steel struck
it right. But early on March 12, the 55-gallon
drums began presenting another kind of a prob
lem. Under the heavy jarring, they shifted loose
if one tore free, it could smash men and equip
ment unmercifully.
Both PT 32 and PT 34 were forced to drop
out of formation to lash their drums tighter.
I soon lost visual contact with PT 35, under Tony
Akers, so we each found ourselves on our own,
anxious men in little boats navigating in an al
most starless night toward an island not much
bigger than some back yards.
A Case of Mistaken Identity
Yet later, when I wiped salt spray out of my
eyes and peered into the first dawn light, the
shape of Cuyo was almost dead ahead and, hap
pily, I could see PT 34 coming in, too, and then
the 35 boat. Some officers, trying to stretch the
aches out of their bruised bodies, studied the
last boat, PT 32, as she approached.
Capt. H. J. Ray, U. S. Navy, chief of staff to
Admiral Rockwell, first spotted trouble. "Say,
Lieut. Bulkeley," he shouted, "the 32 boat has
uncovered its .50 calibers and swung out the tor
pedo tubes. Looks like she's attacking!"
I saw it myself. The 32 boat was preparing for
action against us. The gasoline drums had so
changed our silhouette that 32's crew had mis
taken us for a Jap destroyer. Now they were
jettisoning gasoline drums in preparation for
4
Family Weekly. May 21, 19C2