Chapter 1
Actually, we were prisoners before the Japanese captured us–Mother, Dad, and I. Our prison was Room 306 of the Bay View Hotel in Manila. Our Jailor was our fear of the Filipino and Chinese looters roaming the port area.
Room 306 was our third war-time home in as many weeks. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, we had been asleep in our rented house in Pasay, on Manila’s southern outskirts.
That Monday, December 8, 1941, the phone in my parent’s bedroom woke me at 7 AM. It was a friend with the news of Pearl Harbor.
The Japanese lost no time in attacking the Philippines, bombing Clark Airfield at noon Philippine time, that same day. On December 10 they raided Nichols Field, the fighter base just two miles from our home. That raid decided my parents that we must move to safer quarters.
My father rented a house in New Manila, where we fled with my amah, Lena, and our cook, Braulio. I had to give my pet rabbits to the lavendara, and was allowed to choose one game, one book, and one doll to take with me, agonizing decisions all, as I had a whole family of dolls and stuffed animals.
Our first day in the new house Dad stayed home from his job with International Harvester and enlisted Braulio to help dig an air raid shelter. Digging had hardly begun when the air raid siren swooped up and down it’s jarring scale. We assembled in the safest place available, under the double bed in the downstairs bedroom. The five of us just fitted under it, flat on our stomachs. It was the closest to the servants we had ever been.
We followed the sounds of the bombing around the city, trying to guess the targets. After nearly two hours, the planes seemed to settle right over us. A bullet–whether Japanese or American we never discovered–twanged through our galvanized iron roof, which whined with vibrations for almost a minute. Instinctively we covered our heads with our arms. That seemed to cap the raid. The aircraft engine noises began to fade, and soon the all-clear whistled us out from under the bed.
The first order of business was to vacate the upstairs bedrooms, which were obviously vulnerable to stray bullets. Mother and Dad took the downstairs bedroom, Lena and I were assigned the dining room, and Braulio set up his cot in the kitchen.
In the evening, when Mother and Dad thought I was asleep, they discussed the situation. They no longer talked of getting a boat or plane for Australia–there simply were none. They spoke instead of food and money and surviving a Japanese occupation. I lay on my back listening to these matter-of-fact conversations until I fell asleep, secure in my parents’ business-like approach to the war.
On December 22, the Japanese 14th Army, commanded by Lieutenant General Masaharu Homma, landed in force at Lingayen Gulf, just over 100 miles from Manila. First reports spoke of stiff resistance at the beaches.
Jack Littig, Dad’s best friend, who had been called out of naval reserve, phone with the truth: MacArthur had miscalculated the landing site, and the bulk of his tanks, troops, and artillery were forty miles from the assault beaches. The solitary Filipino Battalion on the scene was forced to retreat, and many of it’s untrained recruits fled. There were no planes to oppose the landing. The twenty-nine submarines MacArthur had counted on to sink the troop carriers sank only one.
On Christmas Eve, with a tall red poinsettia set up as a Christmas tree, my excitement was undimmed by war. I went to bed tingling with anticipation.
Later the phone woke me. Dad answered, and from his tone of voice I knew something was wrong. He rang off without revealing anything, and after a moment dialed a number.
“Hello, Van?”
I listened carefully, for Uncle Van was one of my favorite grown-ups. To my amazement, Dad asked him to get us a room at the Bay View Hotel, where Uncle Van lived with Auntie Emily. There was some incomprehensible discussion about getting out of the way of the invading army, but I went back to sleep, dreaming happily of a Christmas visit to Uncle Van.
Although I got up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, Mother and Dad were up before me. By the front door stood four suitcases, two cases of corned beef, a sack of rice, and a case of Scotch. Daddy was phoning Uncle Van, and I was instructed to dress and open my presents quickly.
Puzzled and a bit let-down, I complied. The first gift I opened was a small brown and white teddy bear with one leg shorter than the other. I fell in love with him on the spot. Next I opened a beautifully illustrated edition of Kipling’s Just So Stories, and, finally, a pale blue party dress, all frills and ruffles and delicate Filipina embroidery.
After breakfast, we said goodbye to Lena nad Braulio. “The Japanese won’t hurt you,” Daddy told them. “They think they’re liberating you from us. You’ll be safe here , but we’ll be safter in Manila, where all the British and Americans are. Stay here and use our things until it’s clear what’s going to happen. I’ll pay your wages as long as I can. The rent is paid to the end of January. If we don’t come back, use the time to decide where to go and what to do.”
Lena nodded dumbly, tears spilling. I hugged her. Dad shook hands with Braulio. We climbed into the Hudson and headed for the city. Braulio was to be our salvation in the coming years, but Lena we never saw again.
I sat in Mother’s lap, clutching my new Teddy. Along the roadway, people were sorting through the rubble of nipa shacks or charred frame houses. Most of the way I held my nose to block the stench. I did not then recognize it as the stench of death. Progress was slow because the roads were clogged with trucks and busses loaded with soldiers, as well as private cars and horse-drawn carts carrying fleeing Europeans and Chinese. On foot, Filipinos, their bundles on their backs, streamed out of the city on their way back to their barrios, where they hoped they would be safe.
As we approached the port area, bodegas, crumbled like cookie houses, spilled into the roadway. Blackened billboards glowered down at us, and shattered windows stared emptily. Daddy had to zig-zag continually to avoid bomb craters on the street.
When we reached the Bay View Hotel, Dad left his car in the parking lot, and we entered the building, which, so far, had escaped serious damage.
In the nexy week the Bay View Hotel continued to stand unscathed as we watching the Japanese bomb and strafe the city all around it. In the lulls between air raids, we watched MacArthur’s retreat. A steady stream of small craft plied the harbor, threading their way through the mine field and dodging wrecks, some heading for Corregidor, some for Bataan.
The day after Christmas, we had one last glimpse of Jack Littig. He turned up at the hotel just after siesta. I had never seen him in his officer’s uniform before, and found him impressive in his navy whites.
I sat, awed, while he had a hasty Scotch-and-water, and talked to Mother and Dad about the progress of the invasion. “We’re retreating, as you know,” Jack said, “but oof the record, it’s touch and go whether we get to Batann before the Japs cut us off at Calumpit Bridge. Wainwright’s supposed to be holding up Homma, so we can beat it to Bataan, but Mac may have waited too long before ordering retreat.”
Uncle Jack took a final gulp of his highball, the ice clinking in the silence “I get to go the easy way, by boat to Bataan’s back door. The army have have to fight their way in. Well, I have to go, but I feel better knowing you’re here. Safety in numbers, you know.”
With a wave he was off.
During the week we visited often with Uncle Van, who spoke bitterly of the way we were being fooled. “Those supplies MacArthur says are on the way can’t possibly cross this blasted Jap lake of the Pacific. As for our winning the Battle of Lingayen Gulf, back on the 11th, wasn’t it?” He paused to gulp his Scotch. “You should hear Carl Mydans on the subject–he’s here in the hotel, you know. He says he went out there to get some pictures for LIFE, and there wasn’t a sign of a battle.”
The night of the 26th, without warning, a series of explosions rocked the hotel. Flasjes lit up our room, and a sustained rear deafened us. Unsure whether it was an air raid or not, Dad stood by the window, alternately scanning the horizon and cocking his head to listen for air craft.
No planes were visible in the now glowing sky, and nothing was audible save thunderous detonations. “MacArthur must be blowing the tanks at Oandacan,” mused Dad. “There’s supposed to be enough oil there to run the Pacific Fleet for two years. It would fuel quite a fire.”
We gathered at the window, watching the sky redden. Uncle Van phoned then, inviting us up to view the fire. Wrapped in robes, we climbed the stairs to the top floor, for the elevators were off for the night.
From Van’s suite we saw the blaze at Pandacan, less than two miles away. Flames boiled into the night, overpowering the stars. On the southern and eastern horizons, dimmer fires told of demolition teams at work at Cavite Naval Station, at the army base at Fort McKinley, and at air force headquarters at Neilson Field. MacArthur was keeping his promise to demilitarize Manila.
Later that night, back in Room 306, after I was supposed to be asleep, Mother and Dad conferred in whispers about getting ready for the occupation and setting their affairs in order, especially paying Lena and Braulio and beefing up our food stocks. Dad said there should be a few days of relative calm now that Manila was an open city–plenty of time for final preparations.
The declaration of Manila as an open city had no effect on the Japanese conduct of the war, however. We spent most of the 27th trapped in our room, watching Betties bomb and Zeros strafe the port area. Between raids, Daddy disappeared in pursuit of food. Once he returned with a case of canned salmon, then with a sack of rice, and finally with a case of Vienna sausage and a big box of raisins. Throughout the day, raids and demolition alternated. There was din enough to approximate an all-out battle for the city.
The 28th day was the twin of the 27th, except that Daddy decided it was now or never to pay Lena and Braulio, who, he hoped, were still taking care of our house in New Manila.
When he announced his intentions, Mother broke down. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. Fear knotted my stomach.
Straining to control her tears, Mother argued that even if Daddy got through the raids and the demolition, there was no way to tell whether Lena and Braulio were still at the house. Dad would be going towards the Japanese lines, and who knew but that advance elements hadn’t already reached the suburbs. I shrank into a corner of my chair.
“You’re exaggerating the danger,” Daddy replied, remaining outwardly calm. “But danger or no, I’ve got to pay Lena and Braulio. They need money and food, and they’ll never leave our things without my say-so. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
Daddy left with a case of Salmon and the wages, then returned for a sack of rice. Mother and I waited. Mother paced, wiping her eyes. I sat hugging Teddy and my doll, Gwen. Mother said it should take two hours.
Two hours crept by. Then another. And another. Mother began wringing her hands. I clutched Teddy.
Toward the end of the fifth hour, Daddy burst into the room, calling for Scotch. The knot in my stomach dissolved and I relaxed my grip on Teddy.
Over his drink Dad recounted his adventures. When he was going through the lobby with the rice, he had been accosted by Mr. Burns, a newspaper man whom Dad disliked. Burns had inquired what Daddy was up to. On learning he was going out to New Manila, the journalist had demanded a ride.
“I had to take the blister,” said Daddy, “and not only him–but his wife. I dropped them at their house and promised to pick them up on my way back.”
All had gone smoothly at our house. Lena and Braulio were pleased to have their pay, grateful for the food, and were reassured by Daddy’s advice to return to their families, taking ant of our things they wanted.
“Better you than looters,” Dad had told them, when they demurred.
On his way back, Daddy stopped for the Burns. They had heaped a mountain of stuff in front of the Bennet’s house, “Enough for a truck or two, let alone one car,” said Dad. “So they began their decision-making all over again.‘We must have this. Maybe we can do without that,’” mimicked Dad.
“To make a long story short,” concluded my father “when the car could hold no more, and the three of us were crammed into the front seat, I was just about to shift into first, when the Mrs. Yelps, ‘The parrot!’ So out climbs Burns and fetches the wretched bird. Finally, with the parrot added to the front seat, off I drove...and here I am.” He drained his glass.
The last three days of December marked the beginning of our incarceration. It was too dangerous to go out. Air attack was always a possibility, and so was being caught in a demolition operation. The thumping of advancing artillery grew ever louder, and no one knew when Japanese shells or soldiers might arrive. Above all, looters posed a threat. Emboldened by the absence of any authority, civil or military, they swarmed everywhere, their frantic greed making violence likely.
On the 29th we sat beside the window of Room 306 watching the looting of Pier 7. Men, women, and children, singly or in teams, were carrying off anything and everything portable, which the ships had disgorged on the docks before making a run for the relative safety of the open sea in the early days of the war.
Looters jostled one another, cursing and fighting over choice crates of food or appliances or spare parts. One enterprising group of youths pried open a huge crate and found a mildewed grand piano. The three of them tried to life it, but it wouldn’t budge. They tried pushing it, but it’s legs caught fast in the dock’s rough planking.
The trio stood around their prize, “Arguing strategy,” Dad decided. Finally the leade trotted away, leaving the two to guard the Steinway from other looters scurrying past with lesser burdens. Within thirty minutes the leader returned with reinforcements in the form of seven more youths. He assigned the smallest to carry the piano bench, the positioned himself and his cohorts around the piano. On signal, they all crouched and angled a shoulder under the instrument, lifted as one, and staggered perhaps ten yards before collapsing to rest. They repeated this process again and again until they were out of sight, and we turned our attention to the more conventional looters.
On the thirtieth, we listened to the demolition of the four bridges over the Pasig River, which flows through the heart of the city into Manila Bay, and divides the North from the South Port Area. That night we watched the flames spawned by the demolition licking up the oil spilled on the river from the ruptured tanks at Pandacan.
On the thirty-first, local radio stations went off the air, and so we had no word of what was happening or what to expect. San Francisco, which we still got on short wave, was hopelessly out of touch with the situation in Manila. One thing we could tell from the ever louder artillery barrage: the fall of Manila was immanent.
We spent much of New Year’s Eve day staring over the deserted bay who calm waters were cluttered with the masts and superstructures of sunken ships. That even the flickering flame-light of still-burning fires cast ominous shadows over the shoreline. We went to bed early with no toasts to 1942.
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