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Will I Ever See Bamban Again?

By Dr. Joyce D. Navarro

The sun shone on Bamban ferociously that afternoon, its warmth ameliorated only by the hint of a breeze blowing across the rice fields at the outskirts of the town. Insects playfully jumped here and there while dragonflies circled the busy playground like bomber planes looking for buildings to flatten. The sun bathed the green grass with its heat as the boys marched up and down the walkways of the campus. There were four younger boys, mostly sixth graders. They marched as one unit, their backs straight and their faces beaming with pride as other children turned to look at them. Beneath their feet, each fresh blade of grass bowed down as if honoring the boy who would one day be a hero Bamban could call her own. As their marching feet hit the earth, grasshoppers jumped for safety, not wanting to become ant food that afternoon. They liked to march where there were more girls grouped together, whispering, then giggling as they watched the boys at the corner of their eyes. They wanted to crane their necks and see who among their female friends was watching them, but they couldn’t, because they were supposed to be Philippine Scouts- tough, fearless soldiers- a group to reckon with and certainly not flattered merely by a bunch of adoring girls. Around them, the noise of children playing covered the playground like a blanket of innocence. Above the din, an authoritative voice stood out.

"One, two, three, four, hup, two, three, four. About face!"

"Cong Melen! Cong Melen!" Betty called from the stairs of the main building of the Gabaldon Elementary School.

"At ease," the troop leader commanded, to which the boys ceased marching and looked at where the voice was coming from.

I turned to see my younger sister walking with her friends. My younger sister, Betty, was so full of confidence as she walked down the stairs with some girls from Banaba. They would be walking home soon with me tagging behind. It was better if I walked behind them, otherwise boys would follow them from afar, hoping to get some attention from the prettiest one in the group. I quickly asked Betty if she delivered my letter to Canding, a beautiful young lady from Banaba. She nodded but when I eagerly inquired if Canding had a letter for me, she just smiled mysteriously. I smiled at Betty and her friends as I dismissed the boys. The boys were a good group, enthusiastically begging me for stories that Tatang Baring, my mother’s first degree cousin, told me on those rare occasions when he would take the Pambusco from Sta. Lucia, Capas and visit us in Bamban. Sometimes, he would come in his soldier’s crisp uniform, complete with hat. He looked so dignified that I told myself that when I grow up, I would wear the same uniform and have my portrait painted by that painter from Culiat. He had a lot of friends and “kumpares” in the Philippine Scouts, for he himself was a Scout. He knew many stories about military life and he shared them with me during these visits. In school, I taught the younger boys how to march and each of them marched better as the days went by. They learned fast. I still remember when horses in "calesas" walked more in cadence than these children could.

"Melen! Melen! Wake up!"

I had to blink my eyes several times before I could discern Anung's worried face in the dark. It took me a few seconds to recall that my fellow Philippine Scout, Romy, and I bumped into another Scout, Potenciano Aquino, as we were fleeing from Bataan. Anung was from San Fernando, Pampanga. He was only 21 and since he was a fellow Kapampangan, we decided to travel together. We tried to evade being seen by Japanese soldiers and by bomber planes that flew above our heads on their way to Bataan.

Bataan would have fallen by now and we had to swim to Corregidor Island by way of Mariveles. That was our plan. We refused to surrender in Bataan although we were ordered by the higher ups to do so but since it was dusty and there were many American and Filipino soldiers everywhere, we did not think anyone would miss us if we escaped. It was all disorderly as troops walking by the roadside waited for Japanese soldiers so they could surrender. We decided to slip through and proceed to Bataan, then swim to Corregidor Island where the combined Filipino-American forces were gathering for a last stand. Romy, Anung and I were now on foot. Gone were our horses which we had to slaughter for food in Bataan. We were the tattered but unwavering remnants of the Twenty-sixth Cavalry, the well-disciplined men of the Philippine Scouts. We were a cavalry without our horses, for horses had other purposes aside from transportation. Loyal until the last minute, our horses saved us from starving. We were very tired and hungry as we decided to rest to gather our strength for the swim. I did not realize that I have napped a few minutes after we have eaten our last piece of dried, hardened "tinape". From afar, I could hear Japanese planes bombing Bataan relentlessly. Occasionally, I would hear a sniper and a rifle shot, imagining the bullet coming home to its true target. I did not even know the date, nor did I know how I would be able to swim to Corregidor when I was weakened by hunger and lack of sleep. Anung, the oldest of us three, motioned for us to approach the water. He watched our backs as Romy and I quietly disappeared into the water. Seconds later, Anung himself swam noiselessly under water. When we were far enough from the shore, we surfaced up and looked back. It was all quiet. With determination and a prayer, we swam towards Corregidor.

As I forced my tired body to keep on swimming, I thought of that fateful day on March 2, 1941 when Tatang Baring, my mother’s first cousin, went with me to Fort Stotsenburg so I could enlist with the Philippine Scouts. He was in that uniform I have learned to respect and regard with awe. In just a few days, before I was seventeen, I was looking at myself in complete uniform at the full length mirror in my parents’ bedroom. I looked even better in the painting that gentleman from Culiat made for me a few weeks later. It’s a shame I only have one copy left of the picture I had taken of myself at a photographer’s studio in Mabalacat. I was in full uniform. Luckily I wrapped this remaining photograph tightly with cellophane given by an American G.I. friend. Hopefully it would not be damaged by water as we swim towards Corregidor. Right now, that is not my primary concern, rather, it is our survival in the midst of this war-torn countryside.

Anung motioned for us to rest at La Monja, a small island between the tip of the Mariveles peninsula and Corregidor. My throat was parched as I drank water from my canteen. The water was cool as it traveled down my throat and somehow eased my hunger. Romy said it was another 3 ½ miles before Corregidor. La Monja was quiet. Briefly we rested, then resumed our swim. Youth had its advantage. I was lucky to have learned how to swim when after school, my younger brother, Doming, and I brought the carabaos to the Parua River. I wonder if I will see my younger brother again. I have so many stories to tell him. From this remote island forgotten by civilization, Bamban seemed so far away. Will I ever see Bamban again?

Finally, Corregidor loomed in front of us. We actually crossed the North Channel! American troops sighted and recognized us and led us to the Middleside Barracks in the Middleside sector where we joined the 91st Philippine Scout Coast Artillery Regiment under Major General George F. Moore. We were given some rice and fish, a simple man’s food but to us, it was a feast. We have not eaten a decent meal in three days so that even half a “tuyo” was just as good as the steaks we used to have at Fort Stotsenburg.

The cot at the barracks was much, much more comfortable than the ground. When we were on the run from the enemy, we slept with the possibility of waking up looking at the wrong end of a Japanese rifle. I was asleep the moment my head hit my backpack which I used as a pillow. I fell into a dreamless sleep, the kind I usually had when I was absolutely exhausted.

The 91st had three commands: the Seaward Defense, in charge of keeping enemy ships out of the South Channel so they could not gain access to Manila Bay; the Antiaircraft Defense, who neutralized bomber planes; and the Beach Defense, who took care of safeguarding the beaches from foreign invaders. Romy and I were assigned to the latter. It felt good to have a gun once more, though we were running out of ammunition and we were instructed to make each shot count.

May 1, 1942 came. We knew it was just a matter of time before Corregidor itself would fall. We were running short of everything. We had rice porridge with a little salt at first, twice a day, and later, only once. When we were hungry, we were told to drink water to ease the discomfort. The Japanese continuously shelled the island. Day in and day out, we could not sleep. Bombs fell all around us. Our ears sometimes bled from the overwhelming noise. The constant ringing in my ears was a welcome change from the barrage of artillery and air bombardment we received from the enemy. As if this was not enough, most of us had malaria and dysentery. Due to the intense shelling, we had to relieve ourselves in superficial holes dug in a hurry and sometimes, we only had time to dart behind trees and bushes. Modesty was a privilege that was not ours in war. In my eighteen years, I have never seen anything as hellish as the daily bombardment of Corregidor from all fronts.

It was May 4, 1942. Romy was very weak from disease, starvation, and lack of food, rest and sleep. I left him at the foxhole at the safety of the treeline while I crept towards the strange sound at the beach. I was not quite sure what the sound was and I was curious. The shelling has stopped for about half an hour so I heard the noise. The others did not hear it for many of us were partially, if not fully, deaf. I saw a handful of Japanese soldiers landing at the beach not far from the treeline, so I took aim. Just then, I felt the worst pain stabbing me in the chest, and another at my midsection. It was so painful that I could not exhale and my breath was caught at my throat. I had to open my mouth to exhale, thus relieving me momentarily of the sharp pain in my chest.

I laid on the Southdock beach of Corregidor unable to carry myself to the safety of the treeline. Helplessly, I watched the enemy tanks and soldiers land on my beach.

The sun shone brightly and dazed my eyes as I looked up at her. I could not recognize her face as she stood before me with the light behind her. Her fragrance wafted gently towards my direction as she extended a hand towards me. I held her hand as I stood up and got a good look at her face. My heart was beating hard against my chest and I was worried that she may hear it. She had a pretty, gentle smile, and shoulder-length hair blown by the breeze. I had seen her before at the Lingayen church that Sunday but no one knew her. I could not speak, for my heart kept on pounding hard and my hands were cold. Finally, she introduced herself. Maring’s voice haunted me on quiet nights when there was not much to do at the barracks. She was only seventeen. I vowed to myself I would see her again after the war. She looked so much like my first love, a beautiful lady from Banaba named Canding. For now, we had to be wary of the enemy arriving soon on these shores. Maring’s face faded as the memory of the summer of 1941 became a blur.

I became aware of someone helping me crawl back to the treeline. It was Romy, my best friend, and fellow Philippine Scout. Everytime I used my elbows to crawl, the pain in my chest shot across my right side like a sharp knife. I understood what he wanted to do although we could not hear each other because of the shelling from all sides. My ears were ringing and I could not hear well anyhow. Slowly and painfully, I finally reached the treeline and everything turned dark.

Romy was at my side when I came to. I was inside the Malinta Tunnel with thousands of other wounded soldiers, women and children. It was dark in the tunnel but I knew I was surrounded by human anguish and suffering. The female American military nurse examined me, then asked me if I was in pain. She was carrying a hypodermic syringe with morphine.

With difficulty, I told her “Not yet. Later.”

She walked away to care for the hundreds of wounded soldiers brought in continuously. The stench of dried blood and other body fluids and the loss of human dignity filled the air. It was so thick I could stab it with a bayonet. Everywhere, people were crying, moaning, vomiting and murmuring prayers. Somewhere, a suffering soldier would call a loved one until finally, he would be silenced. The “Our Father” was heard from all sides in various languages- Ilocano, Tagalog, Pangalato, Kapampangan, and some dialect I have never heard of. Oftentimes, the words were uttered with great difficulty and the prayer cut short by the hooded specter of death. The chaplains went from body to body, from patient to patient, not distinguishing who was still there and who has crossed to dimensions not of this world.

With my good hand, I reached for my pocket and gave my bloody wallet to Romy. I tried to tell him to give it to my mother in Bamban but my breathing became worse every minute. He was crying as he took the wallet. As I lay on that cot trying to breathe, I felt strong. Romy grabbed a passing chaplain who gave me the last rites. As he prayed over my battered body, I felt a cold wave start at my feet and gradually enveloping my being slowly but progressively. I somehow knew I may never see Bamban again.

It was the end of December in 1941 when I last saw my mother. We were retreating to Bataan as dictated by War Plan Orange 3. I got permission from my officer-in-charge to ride ahead so I could see my family in Banaba and then rejoin the unit when they passed by Bamban. It was around three in the morning on a dark moonless night when I arrived, and the whole family was in a huge foxhole at the back of the house. I missed them so much, my parents, brothers and sisters. I hugged them tightly, one by one, as I told them I just had a few minutes since my Regiment would be stopping by the Bamban Bridge so they could give the horses some water. I told them about our retreat to Bataan where we would fight indefinitely. My mother had the strange premonition that I would not come back and wanted me to lose my uniform, blend in with the civilians and go to the mountains. She cried hard and did not want me to leave. I had no desire to be a traitor to my country and had decided even when I first joined the Philippine Scouts that I would willingly give my life for my motherland’s freedom. My heart broke because I had to leave my family so I could join my comrades at arms. My father and younger brother insisted on accompanying me across the Bamban bridge while I rode on my horse. As the Regiment started moving again, my father and brother started walking briskly so they could keep up but I asked them to go home and to stay in the foxhole. I was not sure I was doing the right thing for my family but I was sure I was doing the right thing for my country.

“Our strength is in loyalty”.

Thus, I went back to the 26th Cavalry.

Now that I was not sure about seeing my family again, I wish I could tell them somehow what happened to me. The pain on my chest was getting worse by the minute and I found it hard to breathe everytime I attempted to. There was this strange bubbling noise that emanated from my chest whenever I attempted to breathe. I only took superficial breaths so as not to hurt. My shirt was damp and when I touched it with my hand, it was sticky and warm. I took one more breath but midway through, a sharp pain enveloped my body into a generalized spasm. I felt a needle stab at my left arm.


If I ever see Bamban again, I would teach my youngest brother to stand on a carabao’s back while it was walking. I would gather all my siblings and cousins and tell them how we fought the war, how we tried to drive the enemy away one foreign soldier at a time. Last December, when my father accompanied me to the Bamban bridge as I rode back to join the 26th Cavalry, Doming sat on my horse and held me tightly. He was my favorite, but of course, I would never tell my other siblings for I love them all and as the oldest brother, it was not fair to have a favorite. If I ever see my mother again, I would give her the cellophane covered photograph I have kept in my wallet all this time as we fought battles in Pangasinan down to Tarlac and Pampanga and until Corregidor. Slowly, I recited the “Our Father” so that I may see Bamban again.

“Igpa mi, ati ka banua, pasamba me ing lagyu mu…”


Epilogue:

It was May 6, 1942 and Brigida, Melencio’s mother, woke up with a start earlier than usual. She thought she heard a gunshot but then, when she listened carefully, everything was silent. She concluded that perhaps, she was only dreaming so she thought she would not wake up her sleeping husband. To calm herself, she decided to read the family Bible. She reached for the Bible on the night table next to their bed. As she opened it, a picture fell on the floor, so she sat on the side of the bed and picked it up. She read this same book only yesterday and it did not have anything between its pages. The photograph was that of a smiling Melencio in full uniform, standing next to his horse. It was then that Brigida knew.

Romy Castro surrendered to the Japanese and took part in the infamous Death March. Since the Japanese did not have the resources to maintain a prisoner of war camp in O’Donnell, they released the Filipino soldiers. Romy went home to Rosales, Pangasinan to recuperate. Months later, he went to Bamban, Tarlac to fulfill his promise to his best friend, Melencio Figueroa. He gave the bloodied wallet to Melencio’s grieving mother.

On September 23, 2006, Melencio Figueroa, represented by surviving members of his family, received not one but seven medals and an honorable service lapel button from the United States Government. The most distinguished of these was the Purple Heart, initially created by General George Washington himself to recognize military valor in times of war. Washington’s bust in gold and his coat-of-arms are in the Purple Heart medal. This is awarded to United States armed forces wounded during war by the enemy. It is also awarded posthumously to the next of kin in honor of a soldier who died in war or who died as a result of wounds sustained in war.

This awarding is unique because of a series of events involving this website and this Author, events that ultimately gave voice to a Bamban teen-ager who was buried as an unsung hero after he valiantly gave up his life fighting for his country’s freedom.

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