After two and a half years of occupation duty in the Marianas as a sergeant in the Marine Corps, I was more than relieved to see that day in 1945 when World War II came to an end. Up until that moment we couldn’t be sure how much longer the war would last. So we all breathed a great sigh of gratefulness. But the triumph of that day called for something special. We could let our guard down, we could relax, we could think about the day when we would be shipped back to the States. But instant repatriation was not so easily come by. Moving thousands of service men and women from around the globe took time and every one had to wait their turn.
I was so impatient I could not bear the delay. I approached my commanding officer, a colonel and asked for permission to take a leave of absence. The mood was definitely relaxed and the Colonel signed a pass the next day and off I went to the Army airfield on Guam. I approached a couple of pilots as they stood by their planes warming up. I had a choice of traveling to Japan or to the Philippines. The flight to Manila was about to leave and that sealed my decision. In no time flat I boarded the bomber and was shown the Bomb Bay area in the belly of the plane. I sat on my haunches alone in the Bomb Bay for the next four hours, flying over the Pacific Ocean which I could see through the slender opening between the two doors of the Bomb Bay. I thought to myself. “This is where the bombs would be released by the touch of a button.” I was so glad the pilot didn’t get the urge to touch that button.
I made my way to the capital; bumming rides was no problem as camaraderie was the order of the day. Celebratory elation was felt everywhere. What I saw of Manila was another story. The city lay in ruins. The center of the city was flattened out, bombed to smithereens, nothing remained standing except one building which carried a big flag with three letters: USO. The USO became my home for the next few days. The accommodations were swell; the chow was good and the service even better. The waitresses were pretty young Philippine girls. Conversation led to one thing or another and pretty soon I was invited to go home with one of the waitresses. I found myself on the outskirts of the town where simple wood structures were still standing. The huts were built on polls. The cooking and eating were done on the ground. A makeshift ladder was used to reach the sleeping quarters. I was invited to rest below and to partake of the evening meal. I was received with sweet hospitality by several women of the household.
On the following days I made my way to Baguio, the summer capital of the country. Baguio is high up in the hills about one hundred and fifty miles north of the Manila where service men could enjoy R & R in a cool area. I was also interested in the native Igorati people and their celebrated wood sculpture. Belgian nuns ran social services in the district and I rode with them on the way back to Manila. I paid a final visit to my Philippine waitress at the USO. We exchanged addresses and bid each other friendly farewells. Months and months later back in the States after I had been discharged from the Marine Corps I received a parcel from the Philippine young lady at the USO: an embroidered white shirt that is the traditional attire for men in that country. Our correspondence went on for many years. (9/1/09)