In the plaza two thousand of us were being
shoved around by soldiers. The men to the left and women and children to the
right. The Jap shoved me to the left, my dad knowing something was going to
happen pushed me into the side with the women and children. Hey! I'm the
kind of guy who would have put on a dress and scarf on the Titanic. My dad
later said the men were walked to the Manila Hotel, and
later taken out in groups of 30 and killed -- the human stack was baled with
wire, gasoline thrown in followed by a grenade. Subsequently I have read
that this technique was used in China. Not as efficient as the Nazis, but not
so impersonal.
Now we women and children were driven down
the walkway of the Bay View Hotel each side of which was lined with soldiers
-- fixed bayonets, pointing to us, our frightened herd double timing to
shouted orders.
In the Bay View Hotel, which had been used as
a garrison and was empty of all furniture we were shoved into rooms. Sat on
the floor all night, the American artillery continuously pounding against
the outside walls. The building shook, noise deafening, flashes of light all
night. The building stood thanks to pre-war American earthquake
construction.
No food no water. Drank toilet water,
rationing out a few gulps a day. Then the tanks ran dry. (come to think of
it no one used the toilets, maybe we were scared shitless}. My mother, who
pretended to be crazy complained to an officer so much, that he grabbed my
10 year old sister and me. Handed buckets and accompanied by a soldier, ran
to the Manila Hotel swimming pool. Filled the buckets. The shelling was
deadly. When it got too close the three of us would duck into a Japanese
bunker. I remember soldiers sitting there, they would look up startled at
the two children and then when the soldier entered it seemed to me they were
bemused. I don't think his presence saved them from us, but I know it saved
us from them. By then the lulls in the American shelling were predictable. I
don't know why but we could count on an absolute cessation of fire after a
heavy barrage. With each lull we darted towards the Bay View.
Not all rooms were unfurnished, the Japanese
officer in charge had a nicely furnished room, great furniture, food, drink
and his mistress, Nadja. Nadja was a White Russian woman
who lived near us. We passed by their pad on one occasion, she saw us and
being a friend invited my mother and her three children to stay with them.
My mother declined this kind invitation. Again the Gods were with us,
because this act saved our lives. My dad told us that when the Americans got
close the survivors of the Manila Hotel massacres ran towards the lines.
Nadja lay shot on the ground. Alive and begging for help. The men ran around
her, no one stopped. Probably wasn't anything they could have done even if
they had been so inclined. Her beau had shot her as he took off for his last
Banzai.
All along I knew that these murderous
bastards were going to fight and die to the last man. They were determined
that none of us would live to enjoy it. My personal opinion is that the
Filipinos had been a great disappointment to them. Sure there were the usual
traitors and collaborators seen in any war, but the puppet government never
raised an army to join the "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere" to fight
against the Americans.
Overall guerrillas and graffiti fought
against them during the occupation. The former were constrained, because
anytime a Japanese was killed, innocent civilians were executed in
retaliation. This made it most difficult to support guerrilla activity. The
puppets ran civil affairs only and were later pardoned by my dad's uncle,
Elpedio Quirino, when he became president of the Republic. A remarkably good
deed for a man whose family, including a two year old who was thrown in the
air and impaled on a bayonet by a skillful Jap, were directly attacked
because he would not collaborate during the occupation. It was preferable
during the occupation to have a civil government than direct Japanese
martial rule. In other words there were no Quislings or Lavals.
A twist of fate. Our family was going to hole
up at uncle's house, where we had hoarded salt pork and water, but didn't
make it there. My mother told me that uncle called and said the streets were
too dangerous for us to hazard the trip. I know that the reason we did not
go was because one of our servants had come over, we gave him food for his
family. He opened the front door, took a few steps and was shot dead. We
tried to re-open the door to pull him in. Our attempt brought a hail of
bullets. I tried to peek out a second story window to see if he was alive. A
few bullets through the window had me on my belly.