Wartime stories
Today is the 68th anniversary of the start of the Second World War in the Philippines. On December 8, 1941, just hours after their devastating attack on the American Navy in Pearl Harbor, Japanese planes bombed Clark Air Field in Pampanga and other selected targets. Elite naval infantry units simultaneously landed in several islands along the northern coast of Luzon and by December 22, the main body of the invasion force began its offensive at Lingayen Gulf. Unable to stop the Japanese advance, Filipino and American troops retreated to Bataan and Corregidor where they made their heroic last stand. Faced with the vastly superior forces of the enemy and reduced by hunger, disease, and death, the Fil-American forces finally surrendered on May 6, 1942.
My father, his brother Isong, and sister Guia were in a boarding house in Manila when they were awakened by frantic announcements over the radio of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. They decided to immediately return to our hometown of Alaminos, Pangasinan. Several portions of the railroad tracks had already been bombed and my father recalled having to jump onto the baggage compartment of the train. While my father and Isong were still too young for military duties, two of their older brothers had been conscripted to fight in the war. Cesar, who had just graduated from the Philippine Military Academy (PMA), was captain of a PT boat. As with many other soldiers at the time, he married his sweetheart, Ely, as soon as he heard that war had broken out. My aunt was still in her tennis shoes when they hurriedly tied the knot at Paco church on December 8. My other uncle, Oscar, was in the senior year of his Electrical Engineering course when he was drafted in the army. Fortunately, both of them survived not just the fighting but the infamous Death March as well. As soon as my grandmother found out that they were both imprisoned at the concentration camp in Capas, Tarlac, she immediately journeyed there from Alaminos with Ely and Isong. They waited outside the poblacion (town center) every morning to check the faces of the Filipino soldiers detailed to gather leaves of duhat (native grapes) and guava, which were used as medicine to fight dysentery or cholera. They hoped to see either Oscar or Cesar among them. One day, they hit pay dirt. Ely recalls, “And then when we saw him (Cesar), we raised our hands! At first patago (in secret) because we did not know if it was okay. But it so happened that the guards, thanks to our prayers, were good to us. And so when they brought the prisoners to the guava trees to relax, they told us, ‘Okay, come…’ And the Japanese also said, ‘Kissu! Kissu!’ (Kiss! Kiss!) Cesar was sick. He was thin. But his joy in seeing Mamang (Mother) and I somehow buoyed up his spirits.” Oscar was even more ill and had it not been for Tio (Uncle) Anak, another relative who had been assigned to the prison kitchen, he might have perished at the camp. They also tried to smuggle in food and medicine for my uncles. Isong, who was just a young boy at the time, once tried to throw a bag of supplies inside the truck that Tio Anak was riding. A Japanese soldier rushed towards him and menacingly pointed a bayonet at his chest as Tio Anak desperately tried to calm the soldier down.
A few months later, the Japanese suddenly announced that all the Filipino prisoners of war would be released. There was great jubilation in Alaminos as my uncles and other surviving townmates returned home. Since practically all of them were starving, undernourished, and sick from various ailments, their families took pains to feed and nurse them back to health. The town even staged a variety of plays, pageants, and other programs in order to entertain them. According to my father, the Japanese occupation of Alaminos was relatively peaceful. However, during the latter part of 1944, they sensed a change in the atmosphere as the American military forces approached the Philippines. The Japanese soldiers started imprisoning more and more people who were reported or suspected to be secret agents or couriers of the Americans. During those days, the Japanese soldiers also arrested in rapid succession some of the prominent people of the town. Many of them were our relatives and no one knew then where they were brought or what had been done to them.
St. Joseph is the patron saint of Alaminos and has been so since the time of its very first settlers in the early 1700s. At one time, when the Japanese garrison commander heard the people refer to St. Joseph as the protector of Alaminos, he reportedly said that their so-called patron saint and protector could not do anything for them in the face of the overpowering might of the Japanese Imperial Army. On the eve of the Alaminos town fiesta, which was the feast day of St. Joseph, the usual public ball was being held in the open-air municipal auditorium beside the town church. The place was packed with people. My father recalled that from the very start of the ball, there was an uneasy feeling among them that the Japanese were intending to do something terrible to them. Some Japanese soldiers were seen taking positions around the auditorium area. Suddenly, in the middle of the dance, a heavy rain fell. The people dispersed in all directions and scampered for shelter — many of them finding it in our ancestral house which stood just beside the auditorium. The rain was totally unexpected. The sky was clear and it was the middle of the dry season. Many townspeople believed that it was an act of divine intervention. As the days passed and the war drew to a close, they found out that the prominent people of the town, who had earlier been arrested, were actually killed by the Japanese. My father wrote, “Their place of execution and burial was later located; and their remains were unearthed. They provided a gruesome sight, and their appearance indicated the terrible pain they suffered before they died. Their hands and feet were tied. They bore the marks of stabbing by bayonet. Out of their mouths their tongues dangled out, pierced by their own teeth. Overcome with pity, admiration, and gratitude for their supreme act of heroism, we prayed to God for the repose of their souls. We realized our good fortune in surviving the years of war and military occupation, and particularly our deliverance from the massacre planned for us on the eve of our town fiesta. We lifted our thoughts and our gaze to heaven and uttered a heartfelt prayer of thanks to God and our patron saint, St. Joseph.”
The Spanish-born American philosopher George Santayana once famously said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” It is in this spirit that I share with you these wartime stories of my family. Yet I think that it is also significant to note that despite their experiences during the war, some of my cousins and I have long wondered why our parents, uncles, and aunts never seemed to show much hatred and resentment towards the Japanese. Perhaps it’s in our culture. Perhaps it’s in our faith. Or perhaps it just takes personally knowing one good person to put a human face to another race that then help prevent us from falling into the abyss of bigotry and racism. I lived in Japan for seven years and made many good friends there, as I had also done in other countries. For our children’s sake, I hope that we’ll all never forget each other’s faces.
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