December 5, 1941

Lt. Joaquim Dela Cruz only had one rule in a dogfight: Always check your six-o-clock. Though his aircraft was a lumbering, big barreled monoplane whose engine crackled and spouted like an old man grumping about every time he climbed an altitude, nobody ever got on his tail. For Joaquim had eyes of a hawk and a neck of an owl; habitually gawking his head in various directions. It was supposed to be an occupational hazard, but Joaquim was used to it. After hundreds of hours of flight time, his vertigo has become his friend.

Joaquim and two other pilots were on the air, with their marvelous Peashooters, doing their weekly practice drills and some reconnaissance. It was a privilege to fly planes. With the limited budget allotted for this homegrown Air Force, the supply for fuel was limited. Once a week, a gas truck would arrive in Lipa, Batangas, which took another full day to get to the airfield.

The pilots were twenty-five hundred feet upwind of Mt. Lobo when they decided to start a mock dogfight. Flying in a triangle formation, Joaquim was in between Lt. Jose and Lt. Barria. The objective of today’s game was routine. Check and follow Joaquim’s six.

Before engaging, Joaquim glanced at his fuel. A quarter of it was gone. Upon Lt. Jose’s radio signal to go, Joaquim swerved his stick left and gunned the engine to a dive that quickly brought him outside the two pilot’s perimeter zones. Lt. Jose matched the turn in an attempt to lock Joaquim on his line of sight. Lt. Barria pulled right, hoping to catch Joaquim from the opposite direction.

At that instant, Joaquim slowed to a near halt and pulled a tighter left turn that made Lt. Jose pass by him. Seeing the Lt. Barria was curving in from his three-o-clock, Joaquim jumps his plane to a higher gear, pulls back his stick, and banks to a vicious right. Immediately, Joaquim was on Lt. Barria’s tail. And just like that, Lt. Barria was out of the game.

Joaquim checks his fuel again. Almost half was left, which was more than enough to catch Lt. Jose. He spotted Lt. Jose maneuvering his plane toward him. Their planes screamed past each other. Curiously, Lt. Jose decided to disengage and barreled away. Seeing the opportunity to finish him off, Joaquim made a left turn rudder. It surprised him that Lt. Jose positioned himself for an easy kill.

It was a critical error. After two full minutes, Joaquim still couldn’t tag Lt. Jose’s six. His target kept swinging his plane from side to side, up and down, rolling and bobbing. By that time, he’s lost another quarter of fuel. In desperation, Joaquim shoved the throttle upward, hoping to get a better aim, charging him like a bull. But Lt. Jose was just baiting him, and Joaquim realized he bit like a fool.

 “I got you,” someone radioed in, alongside Lt. Jose’s and Lt. Barria’s celebratory laughs.

Joaquim looked behind him. He realized he fell for the easiest trap in a dogfight. There was their Captain, Jesus Villamor, one of their ace pilots. He was in it all along.

“Always, always, check your surroundings, Lieutenant,” the Captain said. “It’s the enemy you don’t see that gets you.”  

***

Joaquim Dela Cruz disembarked from his plane, removed his cap and goggles, and dusted himself. He was brown-skinned with black hair, black eyes, who could be a handsome fellow if not for the wrinkles on his eyes and forehead that he had accumulated over the years flying under direct sunlight. Yet he still looked his age at 26. He stood 5’9”. With that height, he was the tallest among the pilots in this airfield.

Three boys no older than 18 years old in rumpled uniforms gave him a brief salute before pulling his dark green Peashooter and carting it back to its hanger. Joaquim soldiered back to the headquarters of the 6th Tactical Fighter Squadron, where all the pilots had gone in. Their squadron was the result of the so-called Swiss formula. Douglas MacArthur, commander of the United States Armed Forces in the Far East, promoted the plan of conscripting locals, to be trained and commanded by a core of regulars and be mobilized in the event of war. Five years on, their squadron has become part of the U.S. military.

He proceeded to his locker to change. Inside, there was the blurred photograph of his wife, Clara, and daughter, Isabelle. There is his prized baseball and small trophy he won from a tournament ten years ago; there was an envelope with his name written on it sent by his father just before his passing.

The headquarters was really in a sorry state: broken windows here, a creaking door, a leaking faucet over there. With a lack of government funding, the money went to things that are most essential to them--fuel, bullets, and airplane maintenance. Other than that, they had a meager supply of everything.

It had a mess hall that didn’t have food. The supply room contained firearms that barely had ammunition. But at least it had a dozen bolos and knives. The Captain’s office had a radio and a telegraph. Everything they need to know about orders from Manila and everywhere else came from these instruments.

Still, the headquarters was far from a boring place. At any given time of the day, three or more personnel would hang around here for some lively chatter. Because you see, what they lack on supplies, they compensated with stories. That is, basically, half of the pilot’s job. If they’re not in the air, they’re here on the ground, enjoying each other’s camaraderie, digesting each one’s jokes and confessions.

Of course, alcohol was not allowed. So the next best thing was to sip a mug of barako while listening to stories. Because he’s been to many of these sit-downs, he’s heard almost all of it: What Lt. Basa did the first time he earned his license to fly; the story of Lt. Barria stealing chickens from his neighbors when he was ten; how Lt. Jose here ran off with the landlord’s daughter and has been hiding ever since; how Captain Villamor may have a secret amulet stacked somewhere, how Gregorio’s grandfather was a katipunero who disappeared in Cavite, and so on.

On this day, as he and several other pilots waited idly about in the mess hall, there was a particular topic of interest that went about. The Americans got their back. Since they’ve heard reports of the Japanese fleet anchoring on the island of Formosa, there had been a growing rumor that the Philippines were next on their hit list. But that can’t be possible, as most of them assured themselves. The Japanese won’t dare try. The Americans had better planes, better ships, and better-trained soldiers. Lt. Barria recalled what Douglas MacArthur, said that it would take the Japanese half a million men, ten billion dollars, tremendous casualties, and three years to capture the entire archipelago.

It was a popular opinion and one that was often used as a shtick on the radio, relaying the message like a comedy routine. 

“The U.S. can defend anything, even if it’s thousands of miles from us,” a U.S. official in Washington told reporters. “The U.S. would not let the Philippines go by default to Japan.”

Another went on to mock the Japanese pilots. “They can’t dogfight. They can’t do aerial acrobatics. They’re all near-sighted. If they make a loop, their glasses fall off.”

Every pilot in the 6th Squadron delighted to hear such commentaries. It raised their spirits to be assured that the Japanese didn’t look so tough after all, and they might not go to war.

Captain Villamor arrived at the mess hall carrying several booklets and was distributed to the pilots. It was the “Identification of Japanese Aircraft” manual published by the American War Department.

Joaquim spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing the literature. In it, the writer described the Japanese air power as laughable. Their planes were slow on the uptake and made of tin cans, duck soups for the P-40s. Pictures of Japanese fighters showed they were only armed with .30 caliber machine guns.

He flipped the manual to the last page, and there he read about Japanese fighter cited only as “Fighter 100”. The item was photographed only as a charcoaled silhouette.

Joaquim didn’t know what to make of this one. In general, no one took this plane seriously because it came from an unreliable source (an anonymous eyewitness) with an unreal report, which might be exaggerating. It said that this plane was extremely maneuverable; it had a narrow turning radius and nearly doesn’t stall, it can fly at speeds capable of touching 380km/hour.

“Baloney,” the Americans said of this report.

Because of this, the homegrown armies of the Philippines were anything but ready for combat. Because they believed so much what MacArthur said, they had been complacent. There was more concern about their Christmas expenses than war. 

Except for Joaquim. The American superiority is a damn myth. We’re all fools to believe it. Anything that MacArthur says is bollocks. He’s become delusional, enjoying too much his flights of fancy.  

The truth was Filipinos are on the brink of war.

We’re not ready.  

***

December 7, 1941

It was a Sunday. Joaquim had taken his wife and 4-year-old daughter to attend mass in San Martine de Tours Basilica. Outside, the weather has become pleasantly colder for the tropical countryside. It was mildly comforting to stay indoors despite the thick crowd. They sat under the Baroque-inspired enclosure, with windows positioned to beam pencils of lights on specific spots, creating shadows on painted ceilings and intricate arches. Father Stanley, the parish priest, stood impeccably on an ornately designed pulpit, as his voice echoed across the great hallway. Joaquim could hear the sermon clearly, but his mind was somewhere else. Still very much concerned about the war and, perhaps, the only one who couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be the last time he’d be here. His eyes scanned and looked across the curved, flowing lines and decorated walls of this magnificent church. He found a statue of an unnamed saint on the corner and asked for an intervention, a miracle of some kind, to prevent Japan from doing something stupid.

After the mass, Joaquim enjoyed a short stroll with his daughter, Isabelle. Their unica hija. Their beaming bundle of joy. She had round, brown eyes, black flowing long hair, and a face that playfully a myriad of emotions. She was looking to pick some flowers from the garden in front of the church. They walked past through the plaza, already intricately decorated by boughs of holly. Christmas lanterns already hung on lampposts. Some children were already singing carols. Later, his wife, Clara joined them in the garden. She wore a bright yellow dress and a hat that barely contained a mass of long black hair. She was twenty-five, with a lively, intelligent face and sparkling eyes that could change from black to a bluish hue, and a trim athletic figure. She spotted that Joaquim and Isabelle had picked up dozens of various colored flowers.

“Oy, didn’t Father Stanley tell you not to pick flowers here anymore,” she lectured.

“We can’t return them either, can we?” Isabelle said, grinning with joy.

“Then we better scurry off before he sees you two again.”

“Better do what your mama tells us, sweetheart,” said Joaquim.

Because it was the feast day of the Immaculate Concepcion, residents from the city had come to Taal to enjoy a long weekend. Colored banners were strung across the street. It was meant to create a festive mood. Visitors the eateries enjoying a variety of dishes: Bulalo, Goto, Adobo sa Dilaw. The seafood market was flocked by people buying Tulingan, Alimango, Tilapia, and Tawilis. Meat vendors proudly display Longganisa strewn in ten feet strings. Young boys playing Patintero and Tumbang Preso in the town square. Sounds from a marching band were being played somewhere.  

It was hardly the best day to tell your wife and child of the realities to come. But Clara had sensed her husband’s pale face since morning. Even with all the celebrations around them couldn’t change his low disposition.

“What’s wrong darling?”

Joaquim let out a sigh. For weeks now, he has been planning for his family to get out of Taal and settle somewhere else—somewhere hidden—somewhere no one can find them. He’s been holding out on this, hoping that the Japanese threat would subside. But things seem to be getting worse by the day, despite what MacArthur and the Americans were saying.

“Better sit down,” he drawled. “Need to tell you something….”

A look of concern flashed through Clara’s face. They let Isabelle play in the plaza before Joaquim began. He told her war was imminent. That the Americans were lying to their teeth and, in reality, will be unable to defend the country against Japan. He told her the Philippines will be overrun by enemy forces quicker than their standing armies could defend.

Surprisingly, Clara wasn’t shocked by all of this, but her eyes turned blacker than dark blue. “So what are you saying?” she said almost in a whisper.

“We should leave Taal and hide where no Japanese can find us.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” she replied, raising her voice. “And what are we to do when we settle in the jungle, huh? It’s no paradise. And what of my students? I can’t leave them. What happens to the school?”

“The school must be the last thing you should be worried about.”

Joaquim went on about the risk of a Japanese-occupied country. “Just look what they did in Manchuria. They are ruthless. They abuse their captives. They force women into prostitution. If they come here—and they will—they’ll grab people they believe as insurgents, and then torture and execute them—and that can an everyday routine.”

“No,” said Clara firmly. “Whatever happens we shouldn’t leave this place. We have our friends here. We should band together with the people we know and trust. This town can protect us... Believe me.” She was clasping her talisman while she spoke.  

“What is this faith you have in this place anyway?”

“Just trust me on this, darling. We’ll be fine if we just stay put.”

After being married to Clara for five years, knowing her beliefs, her convictions, Joaquim knew he had no way of changing her mind about this. 

That being said, if her wife insists on staying in Taal, if she has this unwavering faith that somehow gives Taal a cloak of protection, then fine. Then and there, Joaquim resolved, or try with his best, to turn every damn Japanese back where they came from. It was a foolish thought. But he believed in it anyway.

***

By afternoon, Joaquin returned to base. He would never forget that trip because this was December 7, 1941. Hours later, at the break of dawn, they were called in by Capt. Villamor to assemble in the mess hall. He showed us a telegram, delivering a new we didn’t want to hear: Imperial Japan made the first strike against the Americans. They bombed Pearl Harbor.

The room went dead silent.