taken in on the escape plan, and at once proved both eager and
 
helpful. Our hope was to make a break out of the prison farm,
 
elude our guards, reach the coast, and set out in a stolen sail-
 
boat. We were not too enthusiastic about our chances for a suc-
 
cessful escape. On the other hand, neither were we too enthus-
 
iastic about our chances for staying alive if we remained in the
 
hands of the Japs.
 
     The escape plan had not yet matured, however, when there
 
occurred an event which brightened the lives of all the American
 
prisoners, at least temporarily.
 
     As I was returning from work one afternoon in early
 
January, I was met near the prison barracks by an enlisted seaman
 
who had been attached to my unit at the Cavite Navy Yard, before
 
the fall of Corregidor.
 
         "It' s Christmas, Commander McCoy'" he shouted. "It' s Christmas !"
 
          I was well aware that Christmas had already passed, practically without
 
 notice, so I asked him to explain his excitement.
 
             "Stuff from home," he babbled. "Boxes from the States.
 
Red Cross boxes."
 
     I had quickened my pace, and by now I was trotting along
 
beside him. Then I must confess that both of us broke into a run,
 
a headlong dash fo he barracks.
 
     The news was true. There were, indeed, Red Cross boxes,
 
and two for each prisoner. More than that, they meant to each of
 
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