FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH with Blake Melnick
FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH with Blake Melnick
Remembering Rudy
A plane held together by rope, bamboo, shouldn’t fly—yet five men bet their lives that it would. We share the true story of RCAF pilot Rudy Mendizabel and a small Allied crew who scavenged two wrecked Lockheeds on a bombed-out Java airfield and built one improbable lifeline. With a cratered runway, engines shaking, and surrender orders closing in, they chose risk over captivity and aimed for the open sea…
On Remembrance Day, this story becomes more than an adventure; it’s a lens on sacrifice, resilience, and the ordinary choices that people make in pursuit of freedom.
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Well, welcome to this episode of For What It's Worth. It's Remembrance Day Today, and I thought I would share a story that came to me from my mother about a relative of ours who served in the Second World War. It was originally published in the Toronto Evening Telegram on April 10th, 1943. I've modernized it a bit and adapted it for the show. It's a true story, and it's dedicated to the memory of Flying Officer Rudolfo Rudy Mendizable and to all those who served with honor, courage, and in defense of our freedom for what it's worth. It may well be the most extraordinary flight of the Second World War, and the central figure is a quiet Toronto-born RCAF pilot who helped build a working airplane out of two wrecked ones to make an impossible escape from Japanese-occupied Java. The pilot is Flying Officer Rudolfo or Rudy Mendizable, a University of Toronto athlete, and the son of Ralph Mendizabel, a Bolivian-born high school teacher from Sarney, Ontario. Rudy is also the nephew of Dr. Allen Roy Dafo of Dion Quintuplet fame, and of Dr. William Allen Dafo, Mrs. S. H. Henry, Mrs. William M. Martin of Toronto, and Mrs. John Marcellus of Milton, Ontario. Alongside two Australians, a New Zealander and a Dutchman, Mendizabel risked everything to flee Java just ahead of the advancing Japanese forces. Flying a makeshift airplane they had literally tied together with rope, bamboo, and a prayer, their tools included a sixpence coin used as a screwdriver. The story came to light not from Mendizabel himself, he never spoke of it, but through letters from Australia. The aunt of one of his companions, Sergeant Stuart Munro, later wrote to Rudy's mother and Sarnia, telling her that her son and four others had performed strange and wonderful things together. Munro would later be reported missing and presumed killed. The full account eventually surfaced in a New Zealand newspaper, told by Sergeant Pilot Douglas Jones, the New Zealander in the group, and it remains one of the most remarkable escape stories of the war. Jones explained that he had just arrived in Singapore, fresh from Durban, when Japanese bombers attacked the city twenty six times. There were no planes left to fly, so his unit withdrew, eventually reaching Java, where they waited hopelessly for aircraft that never arrived. As Japanese forces began their assault on the island, Allied troops were told to prepare for a last stand. But Jones and a few others, including Mendizabel, decided to take their chances elsewhere. They found a convoy of broken down trucks in Batavia, repaired them with whatever they could find, and drove back to their camp. When word came that the Japanese were advancing and that all troops were required to surrender, the small group of men made another decision. They would escape on their own. Driving along the coast, they came across an abandoned airfield littered with the wreckage of bombed out aircraft. Among them were two damaged Lockheed 10 Electras, twin engine planes once used by the Dutch Air Force. One had its tail blown off, but the engines were still operational. The other had a destroyed nose, but an intact tail section. The men saw the same possibility at once. They could build one working aircraft from the two wrecks. With almost no tools, they worked frantically. Jones used his sixpence coin as a screwdriver. Ball bearings, locking pins, and cables were tied together with rope. They lashed the tail into place with bamboo and string. Holes in the fuselage were patched with wood and cork. They even found spare fuel tanks and secured them inside the cabin with rope and bamboo, running a hose through the side to feed fuel directly into the wings. By the next morning, the Frankenstein aircraft was ready. Calculations showed that they couldn't reach Australia, so they planned to fly up the coast of Sumatra, which was still partly under Dutch control. But before they could leave, they learned that the Dutch forces had surrendered and had destroyed all remaining airfields. Their only available runway was cratered and uneven and barely wide enough for the plane's landing gear. The Dutch pilot, who had flown Lockheeds before, took the controls. With the engine shaking violently, they raced down the broken strip, dodging craters, the plane struck the edge of one and bounced into the air, clearing the fence by inches, and then they headed out to sea. The group flew 800 miles up the coast of Sumatra and landed at Madden, where Dutch troops cleared the airfield for them and treated them as heroes. After refueling, they set out again for Ceylon, which is now called Sri Lanka, tasked with delivering the critical codes to the British Admiralty to restore contact with Allied forces in the region of Kutaraja near the southern tip of Sumatra. They barely escaped another Japanese air raid. As bombers approached, they tore off the camouflage, gunned the engine, the plane lifted just as enemy aircraft came into range, missing the surrounding trees by inches. They turned towards the open sea, pursued briefly by Japanese planes before escaping out of range. Hours later, nearly out of fuel, they spotted land. Not knowing whether it was India or Ceylon, they pressed on until they saw ships in a harbor which turned out to be Colombo. The warships immediately challenged them with signal lamps, demanding an identification flare. The men had a single very pistol on board, but didn't know the correct color of the day. They chose at random two red stars and fired. By sheer luck, it was the correct signal. They landed safely with only minutes of fuel remaining. The journey from Java had taken over fifteen hours in total, and they had done it in a patched together aircraft held together with rope, hope, and ingenuity. Back home in Sarnia, the family first learned of Rudy's role in the escape through a letter from Monroe's aunt. In early 1943, official reports had listed him as missing, believed killed in the Far East. Only later did Ottawa confirm that he was alive and serving in India, and that the earlier report had been an error. Rudy had already earned distinction as a pilot, previously shot down twice over Singapore and Java while flying hurricanes with 232 Squadron, yet he survived both times. Following the daring escape, Rudy continued his service with No. 5 Squadron in India. On August 21st of that year, during a training exercise near Subinarica River, his aircraft struck a sandbank and exploded. He was killed instantly. He was only 25 years of age. Rudy's story is about more than war. It's about ingenuity, faith, and the unyielding human spirit. In that patched together plane built with rope, bamboo, and a coin, we see something essential about ourselves. Our capacity to improvise, to endure, to help one another in the darkest of times. Rudy didn't set out to be a hero. He simply did what needed to be done. That's the quiet essence of service. Rudy's story reminds us that freedom is not a given. It is protected and renewed by ordinary people who rise to extraordinary moments. And on this remembrance day, we remember them all. Those who fought, those who served, those who sacrificed, and those who carried the memories home. Service, honor, selflessness, sacrifice, resilience, remembrance, and freedom. For what it's worth.
