A Simple Slice of Pineapple

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER ONE Storm clouds approaching

CHAPTER TWO The Empire arises

CHAPTER THREE Chaperones and virgins

CHAPTER FOUR You’re in the army now, Raphael

CHAPTER FIVE Face to face with the enemy

CHAPTER SIX Tell Lingaya we’re coming home

CHAPTER SEVEN Why die for Bataan?

CHAPTER EIGHT Bataan; a rendezvous with death

CHAPTER NINE The march of death

CHAPTER TEN Surrounded by barbed wire

CHAPTER ELEVEN MacArthur returns

CHAPTER TWELVE Free at last, to seek worldly treasures

CHAPTER THIRTEEN In search of a brother

CHAPTER FOURTEEN It is not good that man should be alone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN At last, a son is born

CHAPTER SIXTEEN The St. Joseph’s trail

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN It is stuck on something…

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Rumbling

CHAPTER NINETEEN Trouble in the barrio

CHAPTER TWENTY Black Saturday

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE But, it’s not the same anymore

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO But, your God was there…

Preface

IT WAS IN the late spring of 1953 that this author, then a young sailor of but eighteen years of age, traversed Manila Bay on his way to occupied Japan to help deal with the Korean War. I must confess to being youthfully excited then about what I saw, having been nurtured just a few short years earlier with daily images of the machines of war and the flames of war. Unfortunately, I was still dreadfully naive about the less glamorous pains of war.

I stood then on the deck of a vintage LST meandering cautiously through miles of shipwrecks—hundreds of sunken Japanese ships—many still visible, with masts rising like eerie rusting tombstones and looking very much like the graves of those sunken battleships halfway across the Pacific in Pearl Harbor. Looming in the distance were the symbols of destruction: Corregidor, Bataan, a slumbering Mt. Pinatubo and a temporary, but more ominous danger—an approaching typhoon. This was an exciting moment that just had to be revisited someday. That viral moment implanted in my being over a half century ago has finally erupted, giving birth to this writing.

The Filipino peoples and their American comrades, deeply scarred from the indelible carnage of war, have not easily forgotten. Some, understandably, still hold deep seated resentment; still others seek sincere apology from the aggressors in hope of finally bringing peace to their souls, a peace that America’s eventual victory in battle failed to provide for many of them.

Compounding the years of devastation by man that was imposed upon these proud Filipino people were the brutal typhoons, tremors, and seasonal monsoons endemic to the area, all somewhat minor when compared to the more recent destruction brought about in 1991 from the deadly eruption of Mt Pinatubo. Indeed, it seemed that even nature had become their enemy, but as our story unfolds, these horrible events allowed some souls to find that such iniquity could somehow be conquered.

But, how does one conquer having to deal with atrocities and natural disasters unless one first is able to conquer oneself? Or, is it the other way around—that it is simply by dealing with the iniquities of life that we gain the ability to conquer, or, at the very least, discover ourselves? Could it be that some good could come from all the evil man must face? That is the larger question that this story seeks to explore as it meanders among the despairing shells of humanity in their marches of death, the vanquished sunken ships with their twisted and rusting steel, the animal-like abuse of prisoners of war, the smothering volcanic ashes that buried the most innocent of souls like a shroud from Hades, searching the inner lives, the very character of those who survived such events.

Just what is it about mankind that, in confronting such evils, some poor souls become despairing depressed victims, while others struggle to survive, and still others appear to be nourished, even thrive, because of such experience? Is it possible that man could discover his dignity by being subjected to such indignity? Could evil ever become a catalyst for good?

Above all, this story is not intended to be another typical war story, documenting or detailing the atrocities of war, or sifting through the rubble of natural catastrophe, though some of that is necessary to delve into the questions mentioned above. Indeed, there have been many excellent books written by the survivors of the Bataan Death March, the POW camps; O’Donnell, and Cabanatuan, all documenting man’s willingness to abuse his fellow man in this process we call war, as well as numerous scientific accounts and news reports describing the horrors of the natural disasters to which mankind has always been subjected. This is, instead, a story created around those events and written for an entirely different purpose, for it attempts to illustrate how the human spirit reacts to being subjected to such evil, either from nature or man-made, sometimes succumbing, or like a revived burned forest, sometimes thriving.

One last matter—since this is primarily a fiction story that is based in history, the reader should be forewarned that I have freely taken license with much of the particulars, including the characters, real and created, straying occasionally from history where needed, and even creating from whole-cloth, some details, incidents, and personalities, which serve only to enhance the theme of my story and, as such, are not intended to represent the actual behavior of real people or actual events, though by necessity, the story attempts to remain, at least in appearance, fairly consistent with reasonable expectations of historic fiction.

Acknowledgements

ONE MUST NEVER miss the opportunity to show appreciation to those who helped bring any manuscript to its final publishing stage.

The usual, words can’t express, just won’t do. I do so appreciate, not only the particular skills and hard work of Kathie Tong, but her monumental patience, always sage advice, and good company during those long hours and days she spent with me editing this book.

CHAPTER ONE

Storm clouds approaching

IT WAS JUST before dawn this early December day of 1941; this was an early start, even for the crew of the minelayer Harrison. The ominous dark sky that sheltered Manila Bay from the brilliance of the early Pacific sunrise had nothing to do with the never ending rains that the recent monsoon season had brought to these islands. Those seasonal drenching rains were gone now, but even at their worst, they could not begin to cause the grief that the coming torrents of Japanese bombs would soon bring to the Philippines and its peaceful people.

Beginning one of the strangest missions in wartime history, the Harrison revved up its engines, turning westerly toward Corregidor Island and the southern tip of the Bataan Peninsula. Under the shelter of cloud-induced darkness, shadowy figures emerged from below decks and began preparing its cargo, soon to be immersed in the dark waters of the bay—hopefully to be hidden from the Japanese invader’s grasp until sanity could someday be restored.

These are the weirdest mines I’ve seen in my lifetime, remarked Second Class Petty Officer, Sal Ronaldi. Then he added, They’re also the heaviest, by far, that I’ve ever lifted.

Could it be, my lads, ‘tis gold inside that we’re tossing into Father Neptune’s treasury? joked Seth Mulligan, the one-man Irish contingent of the small crew on the Harrison. Perhaps, he continued, if we accidently dropped one of these crates onto this metal deck, instead of dropping it down twenty fathoms into the sea for the fish to enjoy, we’d be like the leprechauns, finding enough yellow metal in these boxes to make us rich enough to buy a real ship, maybe even a cruiser or a battleship?

Sethie me boy, Seaman Ronaldi reminded him, using his best exaggerated Irish brogue teasingly, if these be a new type of mine to greet the Emperor’s navy properly, and if ye drop one, you’d be peaceful rather quickly, wouldn’t ye now?

Let them go men, just drop one at a time and not too far apart, directed the Chief Boatswain Mate. Slide them in carefully, or we’ll all be in the water with them in a million little pieces.

It was over an hour later when the small ship, its mystery task completed, turned again toward Corregidor to replenish its cargo. This time, the cargo would be the more familiar mines of marine warfare to be placed strategically in Manila Bay, forming a mesh of obstacles—a deadly barrier to any Japanese warship seeking to impose itself upon the people of Manila.

What the mines wouldn’t impede, the mammoth gun batteries of fortified Corregidor would punish mercilessly, particularly any surface ships that attempted to enter the Bay. Hadn’t that remarkable fortress been made impenetrable and bombproof many years earlier? Now, with its concrete barriers and myriads of underground tunnels boasting electricity, rails, stocked full of ammunition, food, and modern medical supplies, as well as people trained to make proper use of such, it is even more impregnable. Corregidor, it was believed, could hold off any invader that dared to confront Manila Bay from the sea. This very belief would soon be tested in the most grueling battle of Corregidor’s life.

Behind the Harrison, the cascade of heavy wooden crates, each receiving a new blanket of the same ocean sand that was disrupted by their brusque arrival, had already settled into their new home twenty fathoms below in Manila Harbor. How very close Seth Mulligan was to having had actually guessed their great value. Cradled safely inside their wooden walls was approximately five million dollars worth of Philippine coins. These were now silent companions of the sharks and sea-urchins, buried, lest this marvelous treasure be used to fund the imperial war machine that was already encroaching from across the sea. The silence from the sharp-eyed gulls floating softly above assured that they would keep the secret, having no interest in boxes of coin; it was the garbage that was thrown overboard daily from the Harrison that was their treasure.

As was common on fortress Corregidor and the bases around the bay, several young Filipino boys were helping the navy reload the small ship with food supplies and other non-military provisions. One, a spindly, bronzed young man from Bataan, less than sixteen, was intensely curious about what he had just seen. His was a curiosity that was disguised perfectly by his well honed habit of joking.

What, exactly, were you brave ‘sea-dogs’ doing out there earlier? I saw you throwing all those strange boxes into the sea. Tell me Jersey Sal; are the Navy sea-rations that bad?

Never missing a chance to tease the boy, Seaman Mulligan responded before Sal could answer. We’ve just been feeding old man Neptune a pile of gold, Bayani me lad, thinking maybe he’ll then be kind enough to help us sink those Japanese ships soon to be heading this way. Maybe it is that he’ll whip up a typhoon or two and at least slow them down long enough for MacArthur’s reinforcements to arrive? Mulligan was just kidding, but his evasive answer seemed to further increase the curiosity of young Bayani, rather than mollify it. It just wasn’t like the United States military to be sneaking about at the crack of dawn, dumping strange looking boxes into the bay; not without a good reason, he thought, promising himself to someday investigate the matter further.

Mulligan’s joke about tossing away gold would not be the only time in Bayani’s life that he would hear such talk. It wouldn’t be until several years later, during the Japanese occupation, that tales of large sums of coins being retrieved from the bay would begin to be whispered among the peoples of Manila Bay—whispers that would alter this young man’s life for many years to come and become a malignant obsession, complete with accompanying hordes of demons that would torment his soul with promises of an earthly paradise.

If we don’t get the rest of this bay cluttered with these mines soon, the boatswain’s mate reminded them bluntly, you swab-jockeys will be wishing you had boxes of Japanese yen instead of the gold that you keep imagining we just dropped to the bottom of the Bay. While you guys are joking about gold, we’ve got real trouble brewing. Yesterday, I heard Lieutenant Phillips say that the skipper received a new classified report that our top brass thinks this war is coming here fast, days away at most, and we all know what that means for these islands.

Those Japanese will never take us, boasted the youthful Bayani. With MacArthur leading us and all those new troops and planes he’s got coming, it’ll cost them dearly to try. Besides, why would they want to die fighting over our rice? We’ve got nothing else here but rice, lots of jungle, a few volcanoes, and too many lazy carabaos.

I’m afraid it’s not about your water buffalo, Bayani. Since Roosevelt started that oil embargo, they’ve seen big trouble. Unless they can get fuel soon for their economy and their rotten war machine, they’re doomed. They’ve got their sights on that oil in Dutch Indonesia, me lad, but they can’t get it home safely without taking us out of these islands first. Our B–17 bombers here at Clark are far too close to Tokyo for their comfort, so controlling these Philippines is the only way those sons of Hirohito can ever hope to win a war. You can believe these islands are in their war plans—right on the front page. They’re coming alright, plenty of em, and with everything they’ve got, counseled the Irishman. Why else would ye be thinking we’ve all been put on alert the past few days and had all of our liberty cancelled?

"My brother Rafael’s an air