Chapter 1: Stranger in a New Place

Gold boom town of Baguio in northern Philippines at the outbreak of WWII. Complacent American expatriate mining community disparages threat of war.

 

December 07, 1941, Sunday evening 7:30 pm Manila time, Philippines on the western side of the International Date Line, James Novak, a 24-year-old mining engineer, cleaned up and dressed for an evening out, anticipated a cheerful evening at the Baguio Pines Hotel socializing with colleagues from the Itogon gold mine.  The mood at the hotel in the mountain city of Baguio, Luzon, in the heart of Gold mining country was unusually festive for a Sunday night. Tomorrow began the Catholic holiday, Feast of the Immaculate Conception.  While the devout may have chosen to wait until Monday to begin the merriment, the secular in spite of rumors of war were already at it in the hotel bar and restaurant.  James leaned against the polished mahogany bar, nursing a scotch on the rocks, feeling lucky to find a place at the crowded bar.

Outside in the evening air the aroma of piney balsam wafting through the city had reminded James of the pine forests of his home in Northern Minnesota more so than a scene from a tropical Pacific island.  Baguio boasted the nickname City of Pines for the stands of indigenous pines flourishing in the highlands of Benquet province.  As the scotch worked its effect, James cleared his mind of any disturbing thoughts of world affairs.  Baguio was an easy place to ignore the spread of war or its imminence sweeping the world�"Hitler’s military aggression across Europe and Japan’s jingoistic  conquests in Asia.  In the mountains of Luzon, all it amounted to most of the time was a news bulletin on a shortwave radio or headline in a newspaper.    

Forty years ago, shortly after Americans divested Spain of the Philippines, in a lop-sided naval victory against an obsolete Spanish fleet, there was nothing here but native cow pastures.  Now there was a rich, vibrant, beautiful city full of possibilities.  The Pines Hotel was proof.  Four-story wings stretched away from an elevated, pyramid shaped roof projecting 80 feet above the entry way into the lobby.  Red-striped, uniformed doormen ushered a steady traffic of carefree, self-absorbed guests through the main double doors.  James smiled inwardly; life in Baguio was good.  Amongst such expansive growth and prosperity in a once out the way place, the problems of the rest of world seemed further away than James at that moment could imagine.

A show case of native art and carvings adorned the lobby and hall walls.  Before entering the bar, James had lingered In the lobby taking in the painted murals depicting the livelihoods and rituals of the indigenous people of the Cordillera Mountains, through the changing seasons of the year.  James was acquainted, from company orientation and anecdotal experience, with the historical tensions between the Low Land, Tagalog-speaking Filipinos and the mountain tribal people.  Assured in their sense of superiority, the lowland Filipinos referred to the fiercely independent mountain tribes collectively as Igorots--Tagalog for mountain people. To the tribes who had fought each other since before prerecorded history, they had their own names for themselves; Igorot was just another example of Tagalo arrogance.

A dark, wooden, two-foot statue a Balul, the traditional rice God of the mountain tribes, stared down at James from the top of the liquor rack.  The bartender had explained it was a blessing and guardian of the family granary.  James looked at the hairless, simplified shape of a human being with minimal features.  “Not much for him to do here,” James told the bartender, “unless he can bless alcohol.”  The Filipino bartender chuckled.  James noticed a jigger of clear liquor left untouched at the feet of the Balul.  A joke or genuine reverence? he wondered.

Nursing drinks at the bar, the middle-aged couple next to James waited for a call from the restaurant when their table was ready.  They perused a brochure.  Unable to avoid eves dropping, James tolerantly soaked up their conversation.  “Can you imagine, this ‘grand old dame,’ was originally the Baguio Sanitarium for Americans in the Philippines,” the woman said. 

“I gather in the heat of the summer; the lowlands are enough to drive some of weak constitution insane.”

“Certainly not you dear but let’s not put it to the test,” his wife quipped.

“The brochure says ‘the Pines Hotel is the best prepared hotel in the Islands.’  Built in the style of a baroque European manor…nothing like it elsewhere in the Philippines.  And the city of Baguio is on a par with Simla, the summer capital of British India.” 

“Amazing!  Her husband exclaimed.  “Maybe we should visit Jolly ol’ Simila to compare impressions.  I hear it’s where the British colonials go to carry on extra-marital affairs.”

“You’re incorrigible,” She tittered.   “I am looking forward to seeing the sites.  It says here the rice terraces on the mountains of Banaue, built by the indigenous Ifugao tribes 2,000 years ago, are the eighth wonder of the world--an archeological landscape.  Listen to this, if the terraces were put end to end, they would encircle the globe. “

“Well I’m sure we can squeeze in some sightseeing between businesses.” 

“Excuse me!  I couldn’t help hearing,” James interjected, drawing the couple’s attention.  “Allow me to introduce myself, James Novak.” 

“Tom and Edith Walker,” James shook hands, a firm grip from Tom and a delicate clasp from Edith.

“I just wanted to advise if you are going to Banaue I would hire a driver who knows the mountain roads.  They’re not well paved, gravel most of the way.  Lots of steep ups and downs, and sharp bends, and the occasional livestock or native popping up unexpectedly in front of you, though an exceptional place and well-worth the view.”

Edith looked concerned.  “Well if we don’t see them this time, I’m sure we’ll be back,” Tom said for her benefit.  “The mining supplies business is still going strong in spite of the Japanese scare.  Though it is getting damn hard to enter and leave the Philippines.  The military gets first bookings on all transportation, their dependents get first berth.” 

James gripped his glass, nodding.  “Yes, I read in newspaper the military actually commandeered two cruise liners to evacuate military family.  Stirred up a row with eager-to-leave, civilian expatriates who thought they were unfairly getting bumped. “

“The Philippines is full of business people worried that they’ll be trapped here by a Jap invasion,” Tom said truculently. He took a big swig from his highball glass.  “I say we’re giving the Jap too much credit.  Running roughshod over China is one thing but tangling with America’s is a whole different ballgame.  May I ask what business are you in?”

“I’m a mining engineer for the Itogon mine,” James replied.  A call came over a loud speaker, “Table ready for the Walkers.”

Tom handed James a business card.  “Yes, I do business with them.  But we both work for subsidiaries of big ol’ Marsman and Company, Inc.  They own the supply companies I work for selling supplies to their mines where you work.  In other words, Marsman and Company controls both ends of the business and everything in between.  It’s called a conglomerate.”

“In geology that’s a rock formation composed of many smaller rocks--an apt metaphor.  Sounds like they got the money coming and going.”

Tom clapped James on the shoulder. “That’s how fortunes are made.  Maybe I’ll see you in Itogon.”

“Enjoy your meal.”    

As the scotch worked its effect, James reminisced about his woman Maria, the night they had spent at the Pine Hotel.  He smiled inwardly remembering how mortified she was at the thought that the desk clerk might realize they weren’t married.  “I do not have a wedding ring on my finger.  He’ll know,” she whispered urgently.  “Nothing I can do about that now,” he winked.  The desk clerk having seen it all--adulterous couples, high-end escorts, and assorted charlatans obviously not whom they claimed --pass through the doors, a young, romantically infatuated couple, one named Novak and the other, Lopez, failed to tweak his jaded indifference.  With the Pines Hotel doing a brisk business, an advanced reservation was the important criteria.  Yet the hotel did have scrupulous standards regarding decorum and nuisance behavior.  An obvious street walker asking for an hourly rate would trigger an immediate response from the hotel detective, not that any bothered.  Such amenities were available at a much lower price in the Chinese district on the other side of town.  Stepping through the door of the room, Maria had been awe struck by the elegant narra wood décor, French oil paintings above the large bed, fresh flowers roses, chrysanthemums, and dahlias and hanging ferns, immediately forgetting her qualms.

On the dance floor of the Crystal Room, James and Maria had danced among men in white diner jackets and women in evening dresses to popular jitterbug and tango tunes under dimmed chandeliers.  While some of these dances were new to Maria, she proved a quick learner, nimble on her feet with a good sense of rhythm.  The orchestra struck up Glen Miller’s In the Mood.  “My favorite!” Maria squealed excitedly swinging her hips in time with the music.  The whole wide world must know that tune, James concluded.  She wore a pinkish-white,v-neck party dress accenting her graceful neck with gause sleeves to the elbows, and flared to allow for jitterbug and the longer dance strides of the tango.  James counted out the five step tango, “Slow, slow, quick,side step quick, slow.  You’ll be ready to learn the Argentine eight step, if I can remember how it’s done.”  Maria cooed happily, as James leaned her back supporting her with his arm; her right leg spontaneously came off the floor, delighting James with a flashing glimpse her shapely thigh as her hemline cinched up her leg.

Their last dance, they swayed in self-absorbed slow rhythm and full body embrace to Glen Miller’s enchanting ballad Moonlight Serenade.  The spell had been cast--her head on his shoulder, soft breath against his cheek and the scent of her hair, the invitation in her almond eyes, and the perfect song on which to retire to their room.  Maria met his eyes and demurely turned her gaze toward the door to the hallway.  With her hand in his, James led the way down the hallway to their bedroom.  Once alone together, uninhibited from all constraints she responded eagerly to his lead, wrapping her arms around him returning his embrace and passion with deep kisses and probing caresses.  After a night of love making, James and Maria enjoyed breakfast provided by room service in their bath robes on a private balcony with a complete view of the west-facing mountains and lush potted plants offering a secluded haven from prying eyes. 

Jarringly returning James’ thoughts to the present, an obviously drunk army officer with gold cluster insignias on his shoulder straps filled the space vacated by the Walkers.  He was medium height, stocky, wide reddish puffy face, broken capillaries tracked across his nose. “Good evening,” James said.  He responded with a sullen disinterested “evenin” in response.  The officer turned away from him to face the bar, fixating on the racks of liquor bottles across from him.  Relieved that he would not have to make conversation with him, James noted with amusement the wooden Bulul appeared to be staring down at the major from the top of the liquor rack as if with a look of censor.  Perhaps he supposed he was just projecting his own point of view on the Balul.  It seemed not all military personnel were on high alert to the ambiguous Japanese scare or threat, depending on one’s point of view, and so it was safe he surmised facetiously to return to his private introspection. 

The gold industry in the Cordillera mountain region of Benquet province built Baguio into a city that epitomized colonial lifestyle in Philippines.  James learned the history on his first day of orientation upon employment as a hoist engineer at the Itogon mine.   In 1927, the Benquet Consolidated Mining Company discovered the second richest gold strike ever in U.S. History, just before the U.S. entered the Great Depression. As the depression-era dollar devalued gold values rose.  In 1933 when the Roosevelt administration took the U.S. government off the gold standard, the price of gold rose from $20.67 to $35 an ounce, and the gold rush was on in the Philippines.  Like a ray of hope, gold became one of the few viable investment options in a global bear market.   Within a few decades, the gold boom of the early 20^th century transformed Baguio, from a once remote 19^th century Spanish garrison into a place of great beauty, the service and operations center for the burgeoning mining industry and a vacation destination for colonial society.  At an elevation of 5,000 feet, Baguio was well above the 3,000-foot upper limit of the malaria belt.  Designated the summer capital of the Philippines in 1903 by the Philippine Commission, the first semi-autonomous Filipino legislature, Baguio enjoyed a moderate climate, at least eight degrees cooler than in the lowlands, offering sought-after relief from the sweltering heat of the Philippine summer and sanctuary from the low land scourge of mosquitoes. 

The lure of well-paying jobs in the gold mines in Northern Luzon where living was cheap drew James at age 22 from iron range of Northern Minnesota to the Philippines.  Frustrated with Layoffs, closures, and labor strife endemic in the depression-era iron mines of Minnesota, in 1939 James answered a help-wanted ad for mining engineers in the Philippines posted in industry journal the Engineering News-Record.  After a train trip across country to Los Angeles, James interviewed with a representative of the Itogon Gold Mine.  As an experienced hoist engineer, a technology he learned on the job in the Minnesota iron range, he had exactly the right skills transferable to gold mining that landed him the interview and a job offer.  As long the miners toiled below the earth, the hoists ran nonstop delivering men and equipment between the depths and tons of ore to the processing mills on the surface.  The Itogon representative assured him it was a starting position with opportunity to eventually become a full engineer.  However, with only a two-year associate degree from the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology, James doubted he could ever become a senior engineer, requiring a four-year degree in most U.S. mines.

Before making the long journey to the Philippines, James spent three weeks back home in Minnesota with his family and fiancée Joyce Swadner.  Her ambivalence about joining him in the Philippines proved a quandary in parting.  She became tearful at the thought of leaving familiar comforts, family, and friends to live in a place so far away, foreign, and unknown.  “Look Joyce, it shouldn’t be much different than any of these Minnesota mining towns.  They’re all an odd hodgepodge of foreigners--Fins, Croats, Italians and Poles, not to mention you Swedish.”  James wondered if Joyce with her fair skin, blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and tall, slim frame would become self-conscious among the dark, diminutive Filipinos.  It was clear from when they first met Joyce had a shy streak.  His broad, winning smile and friendly, gregarious personality broke through her accustomed reserve.

“But here they’re white,” Joyce said, snuggling against him.  “I don’t have any experience with Orientals.”

“Neither do I,” James said. 

“What about schooling for children?”

“There’s a large, rich expatriate community in Baguio.  I think they would want good schools?  They’re probably better than any here on the iron range. Best of all, no more bone-chilling winters! The climate in the high mountains at Baguio is like San Francisco.”

“Now you’re tempting me,” Joyce said cheerfully.  “And I know you have to go where the work is,” hugging him as if unwilling to let go.  With their future unsettled, he promised to write to her about his travels, experiences, sights, sounds, and even the smells of the places he saw in the hope that personalizing his experiences might assuage her anxieties about living abroad. Their last days seemed to pass too quickly.  They strolled by the lakes, hand in hand, visited with friends, and made love for the first time.  Joyce stoically gave up her virginity.  “What’s a little pain if it gives you pleasure,” she said, kissing him sweetly afterwards. “They say it gets better,” she chuckled. 

Three days later James boarded a passenger ship, sailing west under the newly constructed Golden Gate Bridge into the vast expanse of the Pacific.   After crossing 7,000 miles of ocean in [blank] days, the ship sailed through the narrow bottle neck entrance into Manila bay past the rocky hump of Corregidor Island, stark against the luxurious green backdrop of the rugged peninsula of Bataan to the north and the Zambalese coast to the south.  A military fortress strategically located at the mouth of Manila bay, Corregidor guarded Manila harbor 30 miles to the east.  A passenger standing next to James at the port side railing reflected without introduction, “Looks like a tad pole on the map, aptly known as The Rock, three and half miles long--bristling with sea and coastal artillery and harbor defenses.  No ship can sail into or out of the bay without coming within range.”  With ships flying flags of many nations and registrations moving continuously past the rock into the bay and out to sea, the man explained, “These ships are the economic life blood of the far east.  Manila harbor is the beating heart ceaselessly pumping cargo in and out between the Philippines and the rest of the world. Manila harbor is central to shipping throughout Asia and the Pacific. It’s got to be defended.”

James arrived in the Philippines naively confident he could fit in anywhere English was a second language and good will overcame differences.   As one American passenger had had told him, “The Filipinos have so many dialects without English they couldn’t talk to each other.  America has extended education to even the most remote regions of this country.  English is uniting the country.”   However, nothing in his previous experience had adequately prepared him for the realities of working in the Philippines.  In the mines, where he was now employed, he quickly learned that contending with a diverse work force of Filipinos, Japanese, Indians and Chinese, with their multiple languages and dialects, English limitations, and cultural disputes if left untended could seriously hamper work efficiency and potentially cripple productivity. 

Tensions between the Tagalo miners and craftsmen from the lowlands, and unskilled Igorot-branded laborers from the mountain tribes, lurked constantly beneath the surface.  Though contemptuous of the mountain people and regarding them as primitive, as proof their tendency to favor G-string and loin cloths to trousers, the lowland Filipinos also feared them.  The mountain tribes were infamous as fierce fighters for whom the former Spanish colonial rulers had been unable to subdue during three centuries of rule, and more ominously for revenge head hunting.  The American administration, Philippine Commonwealth, and Christian missions all sought with encouraging but not complete success to eliminate this ancient warrior tradition.

James had personally intervened when one quarrel between rival lowlanders and mountainers turned hostile.  Averse to cramped proximity with the igorot miners, a group of lowland miners had objected to riding on the same crowded elevator at the start and end of their shifts.  A shoving match erupted.  Security arrived separating the miners.   Because the lowlanders considered their work more skilled, they disingenuously insisted that the Igorot miners should allow them to ride first in the elevators.   An impromptu Igorot leader shouted "Igorot muckers must clean rubble before drillers work.  Then why we not go down first.  We got a-wait so dey drink coffee."

 “A lowlander responded, "They spit momma, betel nut, all over the elevator floor.  We have to step in it.  If they in elevators with us, they spit on our shoes."

 An indignant Igorot angrily replied, “That's a lie!" And another even angrier, "If they want to go first, we happy throw ‘em head first down shaft,” receiving whoops of encouragement from the Igorots.  In Igorot warfare, taunts and threats often preceded battle, as the lowlanders well knew.  They howled in protest and demanded that the offending Igorots be fired.  James issued an order that he hoped would be greeted with the full authority of the Itogon Mining Co., first to the mining supervisors, the cogs in the system. There absolutely could be no end runs around them directly to the working men, considered profoundly disrespectful with potential for vindictive consequences, for James a maddeningly frustrating state of affairs.  He hoped what message filtered down to the working men through the bloated communications channels of the Itogon mine officialdom was entry into elevator “first in line, first in” and any more fighting about it, all deemed involved would be fired.”    James noticed encouraging change.  The lowlanders sullenly accepted mixing in elevators in defeated silence, though studiously avoided body or eye contact with the gloating Igorots on descents and ascents. 

As James's immediate manager, senior mining engineer George Barnett had summed up the Igorot condition, "Everyone's working at cross purposes with Igorots--the American government, Philippine Commonwealth, missionaries, and commercial interests--thwarting each other in trying to modernize them. The mountain tribes blame the mining companies for taking domain over their ancestral lands and disregarding their rights. A big difference between the Igorots and lowlanders is that every property-owning lowlander knows what a land deed is.  The Igorots never had the need for them. They know where their father, grandfathers and ancestors farmed.  But that doesn’t cut it in the one-sided, Tagalo courts--no title, no ownership.  And they don't quite buy it that low pay jobs doing road work, tunneling, and mucking in the mines is fair trade for the loss of their traditional way of life."  Barnett paused in his thoughts.  “And frankly what the lowlanders really can’t stand about the Igorots, they remind them that only three hundred years ago they too were barbarians.”

From James perspective in contrast to the blunt Igorots, the low land Filipinos were often unwilling to admit to the point of vexation when they didn’t understand instructions.  James quickly learned Filipinos rarely say no, considering it rude, and the non-verbal sign for no is sometimes accompanied by a verbal yes.  In another setting, other than a mine he might have found it almost comical.  Once when James had received a call over the field telephone that water was pooling in one of the shafts.  He asked his assistant, “Miguel did you switch on the sump pumps, shaft five?” “Yes,” Miguel answered emphatically, scampering to the switch board to flip on the switch, and leaving James shaking his head. 

And not last on his sundry list of grievances, James appraised the mining standards for safety and equipment maintenance comparatively lax compared to those of the unionized mines of the Minnesota iron range. Parts inventory for keeping machinery and operations running smoothly were often in scarce supply or available by shipment only from the states over 7,200 miles of ocean, which rarely sufficed as an excuse for shutdowns.  The management common refrain “Make do,” meant use your ingenuity.

 

A familiar deep voice above the din of the barroom crowd interrupted his reverie. “Hey James, over here.”  James spotted the wiry, muscular form and craggy features of his boss, senior mining engineer George Barnett.  “Come join us” he shouted, waving his arm at a table.  Four men sat at the table, the Itogon Mine general manager Dave McConnell, and two midlevel managers Pete Mason and Bill Jenks, and a fourth man James didn’t recognize.  “Most of you know our young hotshot James,” Barnett said.  He nodded to the fourth man. “Let me introduce you, James Novak meet Walter Cushing.” The men looked up from the table drinks in hand. Cushing stood up to shake hands. James guessed Cushing, a short swarthy man approximately 5’5”, was Italian, though except for his blue eyes he might easily pass for Filipino. His firm handshake projected infectious enthusiasm and eyes radiated energy.  “James my pleasure!”

 

“Walter’s manager of the Rainbow mine, wildcatting for gold in Abra province. Walt’s here in Baguio to purchase supplies and some our surplus mine equipment,” McConnell said.  James had noted a lot of recent equipment upgrades to the mines, including the hoists he operated and serviced. Surplus equipment obviously had to have value somewhere James surmised.

Barnett whistled softly, “Abra, a bit speculative up there.  Best of luck.”

Cushing smiled enigmatically, “The corporations got Benquet province sewed up like a piece of cloth.  It’s new opportunity.” James also guessed his origins South West U.S. by the ‘ois’ and ‘augh’ in his speech.

“Oh virgin territory?” said Barnett.

“Naw not quite that pure,” Cushing drawled. “If it was it wouldn’t be worth the bother. There’s  pockets of gold-bearing quartz, though not as rich as in Banquette.”

Mason said, “Well thanks for taking some of our old model stamping mills off our hands. They’re in good condition, though not adequate for our volume.  I gather you got good deal.” 

“Fair price,” Cushing blandly appraised the rock crushing machines.

“Since you’re shopping, I’m sure you’re aware of the new order from the colonial government.  All mines must have a mandatory six months’ stockpile of supplies--dynamite, machine parts, carbide, cyanide.  Until the Jap scare blows over, they see fit to tell us how to run our business.”  Again, James noted uneasily the dismissive downgrade of the Japanese threat to a “scare.”

“ Yeh, and if the Nips invade, then they’ll order us to destroy it all,“ Cushing said with irony.

Jenks said, “Right, money down the drain.  Maybe MacArthur gets a kickback.  It’s been six months since American military began sending dependents back home.  Yet still no hint of Japanese hostilities.”

“At least none that we’re aware of,” Cushing said.  The military doesn’t tell us everything.”

McConnell snorted, “What’s there to tell.”  He looked around the table and waved to the waiter.  “Another round gentleman?”  The waiter took their orders and darted to the bar.  A minute later, a barstool scraped loudly on the floor; the red-faced officer with gold clusters staggered away from the bar.  He bumped into the waiter carrying a tray of drinks to their table. He swore as the tray and glasses crashed to the floor, “Watch the f**k … you’re goin’ googoo” he roared, his voice slurred by drink, slinging the racial slur for Filipinos coined by the American occupation forces in 1898.  He shoved the smaller man to the ground. 

“Crap their go our drinks.”

The drunken major kicked ineffectively at the down waiter.  “Enough of this,” Barnett growled.  In an instant he cleared the distance between the table and the surprised major.  Barnett grabbed his earlobe and tugged hard, “Come along bad boy.  Time to go to your room,” he said, his voice icy, leading the howling, staggering major firmly by the earlobe out the door.

When Barnett returned to the bar, all the patrons turned and looked at him in amazement, to a few claps and low cheers.  McConnel whistled, “What did you do with him?”

Barnett answered with a sanguin half grin, “I got him a taxi and sent him on his way. Unfortunately he bruised his head when I shoved him in. He may be sporting a lump for a while.”James stared at his boss with newfound respect.  “Who was that?”

 “Camp John Hay second in command, the distinguished Major Everett Warner,” said Barnett.  “The Filipino troops call him Major Bottle.”

McConnell snickered, “George here seems to know all the scuttlebutt. As you’ll learn, the Filipinos have a keen sense of satire.”

“Isn’t Colonel John Horan in charge?” asked Mason.

“Yes, he is the Commandant of Camp John Hay,” answered Barnett

“How does he put up with that stumble bum?” Jenks asked.  “What’s his reputation?”

“I gather he’s an able administrator, but then again the U.S. military doesn’t assign their best officers to command a rest and recreation camp,” Barnett replied.

“No kidding!  The whole damn camp is just a country club for the U.S. military.  They come here to escape the sweltering heat and mosquitoes in the low lands,” said McConnell.  “They play soldier a few hours a week to keep up appearances.  There’s a Battalion of Philippine Army there but they’re basically domestic servants, more familiar with hedge clippers and dust mops than rifles.”

“So, if war comes, we got a paper pusher and a drunk and to lead the defense of Baguio,” Cushing remarked ruefully.  “Well sleep well all.”

“Sounds like a couple of odd birds. How do they flock together?” said Jenks.  “I hope we don’t have to find out.”

“The Japs would love the Summer Palace,” Mason said.

Laughing while speaking, the Warner incident all but expunged from his mind, Barnett said, “Pete don’t be a wise a*s.”  In his mind, the summer residence called the “Palace” at Camp John Hay represented the excesses of colonialism.  It had been built for the American High Commissioner Paul V. McNutt, the highest American official in the Philippines, at his behest after the Commonwealth President Manuel Louis Queson seized Malacanang palace in Manila for his personal residence and executive suite.  “If McNutt couldn’t stand Queson having a better Palace than him, how’s he going to feel when the Japs move in.”  The absurdity registered with belly laughs from all present.  The mansion exceeded all other constructions in the city for opulence with an ornate gate patterned after the gate at England’s Buckingham Palace.  In 1940 the U.S. congress criticized the construction as too expensive. Adding insult to injury, McNutt left the Philippines before its completion, never occupying the residence.

McConnell said, “The smart money says it ain’t gonna happen.  You can bet on it.”

Cushing replied, “Seems like Baguio is the only expatriate community in the Philippines that doesn’t take the Japanese seriously.”

McConnell shook his head.  “We are sitting on the second most productive gold field in American history; gold production for 1941 is up.  We built the mines and this town. We’re not going to be scared off by some nearsighted Nips who can’t shoot straight.”

“Hitler’s successes in Europe may encourage the Japs.  What else can you expect with their Axis alliance with Germany.  The Japs took Manchuria, a large chunk of China, and are now running rampant over Indo-China.” 

McConnell looked unimpressed.  “I know the Japanese are planning some kind of mischief, probably in the form of a naval blockade.  Lot of good that will do them.  Hell, it would take three months to find the Japanese navy and ten days to whip them.  They just have a bee up their butt because America won’t sell them no more oil.”

Cushing nodded, “Or not let them sail through the Panama Canal.  Serves em right especially after what they did at Nanking in China.  Unspeakable savagery.”  When New York Times published reports of mass rape and murder from Nanking in 1938', many Americans thought the accounts were fabricated because of the sheer, incredulous brutality of the Nanking Massacre, or they were too preoccupied with events in Europe to give it much thought. 

McConnell shook his head.  “The Japanese invaded China in 1937 defended by a poorly equipped, poorly trained Chinese army and still hasn’t defeated them.  I’m not impressed. I wouldn’t worry about them conquering the Philippines.

“I hope you’re right.”  Cushing glanced down at his empty glass.

Barnett looked for the waiter.  “Another one Walt?”

Cushing waved his hand dismissively, “After Major Bottle, one punch drunk rummy tonight is enough.”  A round of hearty laughter rocked the table.  He offered a languid smile.  “Dave, I can’t leave without saying how very impressed I am seeing your Itogon mine.  Hard rock mining at its best!  Got me thinking big.”

“Great if I can be of any encouragement but can’t exactly say it’s my mine. I think our CEO Jan Marsman would have something to say about that.” Everyone at the table laughed; James was pleased he was in on joke, thanks to Tom Walker, the Marsman salesman. 

Jenks raised his glass,” A cheer for the old Dutchman Jan Marsman.” Reciprocating, everyone raised their glasses, empty or not.  “To whom we all owe our jobs.  May he be in Heaven before the Devil knows he’s dead.”

 “Or the Japs!  Might as well be the Devil” Cushing said.

Masson half-raised his hand palm up. His solemn monotone voice shut the tap on the jollity.  “Marsman left the Philippines on a business trip for Hong Kong two weeks ago.  He owns interest in a Tungsten Mine across the bay from Hong Kong, through Marsman Hong Kong China Ltd.   It’s a risky time to go!  The Japs are sitting just outside Kowloon. I hope he gets the Hell out soon.”

“Absolutely, though got to give him credit for cahones!” Cushing said to the agreement of all. 

“Well, Walt glad you enjoyed the tour,”McConnel said.

“I am very impressed. All those those new model Koepe drum hoists?” Double-drum mounts, diesel driven, hydraulic braking, 6500 feet of steel cable.  Would like a couple of them myself�" you guys got a whole array of them.

“A recent addition,” McConnell said. “When fit with double drums, the hoist can reel and unwind cable simultaneously raising and lowering loads. James here oversaw the installation and is in charge of operation.”

"Impressive job James! Must keep you hopping busy.”

“Yes Sir, the way I like it,” James said, wondering if that sounded too hackneyed.

“We’ll have to keep in touch.  If you ever get urge to move on, talk to me. I could use a good mine engineer.  Profit sharing included.”

McConnell eyed Cushing critically, “You can’t have him!” he roared.  “The nerve of this guy!  Ha what profits?”

“Sorry, meant it as a compliment.  On the level, if I was sitting on a rich vein in Abra I’d be a fool to mention it at this table.  The way the Benquett mining companies gobble up the little guys, you’re worse than a den of thieves,” Cushing guffawed, winking and receiving muted laughs.  The mining laws enacted by the colonial government favored the corporate mining companies and before long the native mine operators, with their crude alluvial placer mining techniques, panning, sluice boxes, and shallow dog hole pits, were considered simply squatters. The gold boom fueled rampant speculation. Fabulous bonanzas created inflated demand for gold mining stocks. Gold speculators eagerly snapped up gold claims.  A frenzy of fraudulent claim staking fleeced more than a few unwary investors. 

“You seem to know your equipment,” James said.

“James I was born into mining.  My father was a mining engineer for a mining company headquartered in El Paso Texas.  He worked the company mines in Mexico, where he met my mother.  My father is Irish and she’s Mexican.  Conditions were tense south of the border.  One time Pancho Villa’s men commandeered our train on the way back to Texas.  My dad made me hide under the seat, though that time proved unnecessary.  There had been a massacre of Americanos on another train when some smart mouthed Texan called the rebel captain a greaser. Everyone was on edge after that.”

Cushing’s smile went wan.  “After the Tejano border violence of 1910 to 20, Texas passed anti Mexican “Juan Crow” laws.  With Pancho Villa probing the border then and Germany courting Mexico, Texas Anglos had become deeply suspicious of Mexican Americans.  My father decided Texas was no longer a good place to raise a mixed-race family and moved us to Los  Angeles.  My brother’s and I were getting into too many fist fights.”

“My father was a miner too.  I was born and raised in Hibbing, Minnesota, the iron range!” James replied. “I’m Croatian.  East Europeans were not too popular with some our neighbors.  Sometimes the American melting pot produces some off flavors.”

“Here, here!  Sounds like we see things in common.”

For an instant McConnell bunched his fist.  However, then he smiled at James, “Say what’s a young buck like you hanging around with a bunch of old duffs like us.  The dance floor is twitchin’ with the crème de la crème of Baguio.  If I was your age, I’d be out there tryin’ hitch up with the daughter of a wealthy mine investor.”  The men at the table roared with laughter. 

At 35, Cushing did not consider himself old, and did not like being lumped together with McConnell, whom he guessed his senior by 20 years.  “Old Duffs! Speak for yourself.  Maybe I should be out prowling the dance floor.”

The other men at the table hooted derisively.  “Now Walt, no need to scare the young ladies.” 

The evening ended with the five men joking and ribbing each other like jolly good fellows.  That night the expatriate community of Baguio went to bed with no premonition that the next day would be any different from the last.

 

As James had expected, Maria had let herself in to the house that night and found her waiting in bed for him.  The sheet draped over her naked body revealed her rounded hip and graceful form.  A glance sideways from her dark, almond eyes was all the invitation he needed.  Soon they were making love oblivious to anything but their pleasure and urgent need for each other.  “It is fate we found each other,” she purred, kissing him deeply afterwards.  “Perhaps,” he mumbled.  “We belong with each other.”  He had barely uttered these words then he was fast asleep. Maria snuggled contentedly against his sleeping form, feeling blessed by this kind, exceptional man. 

Two years before Maria came to Baguio from the city of Legaspi in the Tagalog speaking region of southern Luzon, her parents had died, victims of a cholera outbreak.  Their sunken eyes and grayish, blue skin as they lay dying intruded painfully in her memory.  By then it was too late for rehydration therapy, for which she had unduly felt responsible.  She could not reconcile why she alone did not also contract the disease.  They shared everything, the same water, dishes and kitchen ware, and toilet facilities.  

  After high school, she completed a one-year secretarial program at a local business school, pumping out qualified increasingly female clerks and secretaries for the needs of the Philippine Commonwealth, U.S. colonial government, and commercial interests.  With mining considerably responsible for economic wealth of the Philippines, Baguio became a magnet for Filipino job-seekers from other parts of the country.  With only a referral from the school, she arrived in Baguio on her own at loose ends in an unfamiliar city where she knew no one.  But at age 20, possessing good English, office fundamentals, typing skills and classic Filipina beauty, Maria on her first interview landed a clerical position at the Baguio head office of the Itogon Goldmine, one of top three most productive goldmines in the country.  

With mining considerably responsible for economic wealth of the Philippines, Baguio became a magnet for Filipino job-seekers from other parts of the country.  With only a referral from the school, she arrived in Baguio on her own at loose ends in an unfamiliar city where she knew no one.  But at age 20, possessing good English, office fundamentals, typing skills and classic Filipina beauty, Maria on her first interview landed a clerical position at the Baguio head office of the Itogon Goldmine, one of top three most productive goldmines in the country. 

Her friendship with James had begun almost immediately upon her employment as an office clerk.  Her oval face with a fine edge to her jaw line accentuated her dark almond eyes and sensual, fullness of lips.  She wore her jet-black hair shoulder length ending in a styled inward flip.  Upon first meeting, James struggled to resist staring rudely at Maria.  Before coming to the Philippines, James had heard the tales of dusky Filipina beauty. Maria pretended not to notice his discomfit but found his self-conscious attempts at deference amusing and his dark hair, sensual brown eyes, broad forehead, straight jaw pleasing.  Before long she looked forward to his presence at the office and cheerful banter.  He impressed her as a gentleman in a profession known for rough men. Once she asked him what his last name Novak meant.  He told her, “It’s Croatian for a stranger in a new place.”

Originally from the town of Legaspi 300 miles away, Maria had replied, “Then I am also Novak.”

 

Her relationship with James started a year after they had first met.  By then Maria had seen the Dear John letter lying open on James’s desk from his fiancée Joyce in Hibbing, Minnesota informing him their relationship was over. She had noticed a change in his mood, more withdrawn, less conversant, his cheerful demeanor subdued.  Her curiosity overruling her better instincts, she read the letter.  It struck Maria as a list of platitudes--“irreconcilable direction in their pursuit of life,” “never forget what we shared,” and “how dearly she would cherish the memory of their time together.”  Suffering the pangs of a guilty conscience, she later acknowledged her prying to her priest at confession.  The priest said her prying stemmed from the sin of envy, said “not let thine heart envy sinners,” and prescribed 12 Hail Marys.  

Together James and Maria found solace from their past sorrows and disappointments in friendship. Their relationship blossomed. Nearly two years had passed since Maria now 22 and James had first met April 1939.  She resolved that the upcoming anniversary should be special.

 

On Monday, 8:15 am December 08, 1941, James awoke late to translucent light through pines shading the east facing window of the bungalow.  He draped his arm over Maria’s slender waist enjoying the warmth of her bottom spooning against his groin, reflexively stimulating him to arousal.  As she wriggled happily in his arms, he cupped her supple breast   ”Maria I can feel your heart beat.”

“Our hearts beat as one,” she said.  She lay there, content enjoying the masculine strength of his embrace enfolding her, though cognizant of time passing.

“Oh my,” she said coquettishly.  “I will be late for church.”

“Don’t they have two services, early and late?” James responded.

“No silly.”

“Oh well, better late than never,” James said.

“Not today!  Have you forgotten?  December 8^th is the Feast of Immaculate Conception.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” James said, gently massaging the back her thighs.  “It’s not often that I get a three day weekend.”  

Maria sighed pleasurably.  “There will be a parade, food, and festivities.  You said you’d come.”

“Well if there is free food I’ll join you.” 

“Your stomach!  Is that all you think about?”

“That’s not all I think about,” James said playfully in a roguish voice, tracing his fingers over her hips, his hand lingering on her inner thigh.  “First one pleasure and then another.”

Maria rolled onto her other side, her breast pressed to his chest, with James enjoying her every breath.  James pressed his erection now throbbing urgently against her warm stomach “Oh dear, I will have much to confess for,” she said, arching her back in response to his embrace.  Though she said this lightheartedly, James knew Maria wrestled ambivalently in conflict between her deep Catholic faith and the conservative sexual mores of her society and her growing longing and love for James.  In the urgency of youthful desire, she had set aside her qualms and became his lover.  It had been nearly a year.  “Just don’t call me your mistress,” she had admonished him. 

“No, I’ll leave that to the gossip mongers,” he had responded.

James smiled impishly, “Maybe you should keep some secrets to yourself.  We don’t want the Priest to know what a sweet honey pot you are.” 

“You are so bad!” Maria feigned reproach slapping him playfully across his shoulder.

“And besides this kind of thing is a bit out of his league.”

“League?” Maria asked quizzically.

“It’s baseball talk and the priest doesn’t play.  So maybe it would be unkind to remind him what he is missing.”

Maria wrapped her arms around his neck, “Poor man.”

As Maria pressed herself against him, giggling happily, his firm caresses stirring her, James reached for a condom on the nightstand.  He hesitated.  A low rumble of approaching airplanes in the distance came from the sky and grew louder.   The sound of explosions reverberated across the city from the direction of Camp John Hay.  “What the Hell,” James exclaimed; both James and Maria leaped from bed grasping for bathrobes.  Stepping through the door they looked east toward Camp John Hay, where dark clouds of smoke and dust rose above the tree tops.  The explosions lasted for only a few minutes. By then the Japanese planes were no more than retreating black specks in the sky.  Seventeen Mitsubishi Japanese bombers had just dropped a total of 97 bombs on Camp John Hay killing eleven soldiers, American and Filipino, and several civilians in the town of Baguio.  The engine hum of the planes faded to the south.  Air raid sirens throughout the city sounded uselessly after the raid was already over.  Up and down the street, faces appeared at windows. People rushed from open doors, conferring anxiously with their neighbors.

“I’m turning on the radio.”  James and Maria ran back inside.  Over a crackling frequency, Manila radio broadcasted a terse report that Pearl Harbor had just been bombed.  James and Maria sat transfixed to the radio.  Over the next few days, the enormity of the Japanese attack on Hawaii would filter sporadically through the radio transmissions.  Japanese naval aircraft sunk or badly damaged twenty American warships at Pearl Harbor, destroyed most U.S. aircraft on the ground, and killed 2,403 American servicemen and left 1,178 wounded.  President Franklin Delano Roosevelt would declare December 07, 1941 “A day which will live in infamy.”   The only good news was too secret to share with the public.  The American aircraft carriers were safely at sea, beyond location by the Japanese.

From the news broadcasts, it soon became clear the Japanese air raids were a two-pronged attack.  While Japanese air planes were returning from Pearl Harbor to their aircraft carriers, on the Japanese occupied island of Taiwan, bombers were being fueled for attacks on Luzon 450 miles due south.  The Japanese attack on Baguio was a sideshow on the way to their principle targets, the American B-17 bombers at Clark Field northwest of Manila and the P-40 fighter planes at nearby Iba field facing the China Sea.  The Japanese intelligence suspected General Douglas MacArthur, Commander of United States Army Forces in the Far East (USAFFE), was vacationing at Camp John Hay and intended their first bombs to fall on him. 

Radar at Iba field picked up a formation of Japanese planes near the fortified island of Corregidor guarding the entrance to Manila bay.  The B-17s were launched to avoid attack on the ground; the P-40’s, to intercept the Japanese planes near Corregidor but by the time they reached the area, the Japanese planes were gone, having turned inland on route to their principle targets.  At both Clark Field and Iba, planes low on fuel began landing leaving them vulnerable to attack on the ground, the very situation they had earlier been sent aloft to avoid.  At Iba field the P-40’s failed to prevent the bombing but managed to prevent strafing that proved so devastating at Clark Field.  At the end of the day, the Japanese had won a major victory, destroying offensive American air striking power in the Far East and seriously reducing defensive fighter strength in the Philippines.

 

Within hours of the Japanese bombing attack, Camp John Hay commander Colonel Horan angrily ordered the roundup of all the several 100 Japanese male civilians in Baguio where ever found and their internment in vacant troop barracks at Camp John Hay.  Throughout the city, rumors of Japanese spies and treachery spread rapidly. A Japanese shopkeeper supposedly had a powerful short wave transmitter in the back of his shop, which he used to direct bombers.  Other Japanese civilians reportedly were creeping around Camp John Hay at night flashing signal lights.  An attractive Japanese women reputedly seduced American officers, plying them with sex for information on potential bombing targets.  With each fresh rumor, the alarmed civilian population became increasingly agitated.  Residents directed angry glares and taunts at Japanese civilians they had lived in amicable coexistence with for years. As reports of enemies within became more lurid, the internment proved necessary as much for the protection of Japanese civilians as to prevent fifth column activities. 

At Camp John Hay, American military trucks full of Japanese civilians unloaded their occupants with only the possessions they could carry in front of two barracks.  On the two facing sides, the walls were partially chard and splattered with dirt and windows were blown out.  A bomb crater lay in the lane between the two buildings.  The Japanese looked at the buildings in dismay and refused to budge.  An American sergeant shouted “Go on move chap chap!”  He waved his hands in frustration.  “Sambadi tawkie English.”

A disheveled, middle-age Japanese man looked at him.  “You savy English.”

“I speak Engrish,” he replied wearily.

“You tell them not so bad.  Put blankets over the broken windows.”

“Please excuse, that not the prob’em.  We are afraid Bombas come back again.  If they Bomb hea’ once, maybe they do so again.  Then we die.”

As they spoke Philippine Army (PA) troops worked to erect an eight-foot compound of barbed wire fence around the barracks, casting malevolent stares at the Japanese internees.  One soldier drew his finger menacingly across his throat.

The sergeant bawled out instructions as his impromptu interpreter translated.  “You stay here.  No argument.  Water there, latrine over there,”

The Japanese internees exchanged tense questions but without answers.  “How long will our internment last?”What are the charges?  The sergeant had made no attempt to alleviate their anxieties. “We are supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.  This is not American justice,” an internee muttered.

Another internee replied, “Just tolerate it for now.  Reminding them of our rights only seems to infuriate them.  Have you noticed the PA guards?  I think they hope we will cause trouble.”

Author's Note

(c) 10/25/2018