I alerted my mother, ran across the room where I caught a glimpse of my sister lying helplessly in bed with the baby, rushed out of the gate and dashed across the street to my brother-in-law’s house. I met Cristobal, the houseboy and told him to go fetch the baby. He quickly reappeared with her and clumsily handed her to me.The ground floor of Renato Marcelo’s house was unbelievably packed with people. I found a spot, laid the baby beneath my body and hoped I could shield her from bullets or pieces of shrapnel. We had expected bombs to be dropped. It was first time in my life I had felt so close to death. Then the frightful staccato shelling began – it seemed endless. Why so many people rushed to this nipa-roofed house baffled my father who was in Canigaran and bewailed the fact that he missed the excitement. It was Providential that not one bullet went through the roof. Our houseboy Leong, who was frying fish for lunch in the house we left, said he heard some pelting on the galvanized roof. Bullets or empty shells? Anyway, he went through the shelling, frying fish.

When we across the street, finally got up, pale and shaken from that horrible ordeal, I gave my sister back her day-old infant, Maria Elena Marcelo, now Mrs. Edward Hagedorn. What followed was a rush of baptism and confirmation. Mother Trining Acosta, O.P. practically dragged all the children to church. At age 14, I was a Godmother to a few nieces. Our family being quite large, was scattered in different evacuation places north of Puerto Princesa. Babuyan, some 80 kilometers from town, was our first stop. My brother Alfred lived there and we moved in with him. Every so often, we’d drive back to town to gather more belongings. On one such occasion in March, we stayed overnight at our house once occupied by my uncle Renato Palanca, Sr.. The next day, I climbed a cashew tree and helped myself to some plump luscious fruit at the top. Then I heard that dreadful drone again. I clambered down the tree, called out to Mother and we both ran to the nearest grove of mango or acacia – I cannot now recall. Each tree sheltered a group of frightened people seeking cover from the fast approaching planes. Mother and I latched ourselves on to one such group and when the shelling began we moved on mass around the tree – quite like the “fox and hen” game in our grade school days. Everyone, inhis own tongue, was crying out to Heaven for help. After the air raid we beat a hasty retreat back to Babuyan.

When Japanese forces occupied Puerto, we went further north to the hinterlands of Tarabanan. With the help from pinpin palm leaves; the flooring from bamboo and for the stairs a slant pole. We had to do without walls though – a welcome privation if you were a lover of nature. Moonlight nights provided spectacular scenes of the moon climbing up behind almaciga trees on mountaintops then finally descending behind the lacy bamboos. We were in a beautiful valley surrounded from all sides with mountains. It was there that my father received a letter from Mr. Hara – a long-time Japanese friend who, in pre-war years, owned a store right where the governor’s residence now stands. Mr. Hara and his family were in Puerto as far back as I could remember but left just before the war broke out. We later were told that he was a Colonel in the Japanese Imperial Forces. In his letter, he pleaded with my father to come down from the hills and sounded genuinely concerned about my father’s health – he personally guaranteed his safety. Conditions in the hills were such that my father nearly gave in to Mr. Hara’s invitation but my mother wouldn’t hear of it – and rightly so- not long after, we heard that Mr. Hara was killed in Brooke’s Point. Then father decided to move back south to where my sister Pansy and family were. It was a rainy afternoon when he, mother, our loyal Leong and I trekked back to Beabelnan – not far from Tanabag.

On July 27, 1942 we were awakened by the sound of a motor launch, friend or foe? This always caused us some concern. Then to our relief and surprise, from out of the thicket emerged Alfred and Paul Cobb. They were very close family friends from pre-war days and we always held them with high esteem even as they later would be by the American POW escapees because of their bravery, courage and derring-do. The Cobb brothers’ presence always made one feel secure. After some conversation with my father, they and my brother-in-law, Renato, decided to go down towards the shore. Whether they were aware that a Japanese launch had come, I did not know. Before long, shots rang out from their direction. The exchange of fire seemed endless. Then a dreadful silence and the interminable wait. To everyone’s relief, they finally showed up – unhurt. Paul related to me how two Japanese were killed. He said their comrades were able to grab one before speeding away while the other was left on the beach.

There was no question about Japanese retaliation. It was decided we’d leave with the Cobbs that night for Culasian but the idea was later abandoned when father thought it better to go to Dr. Mendoza instead. He had a canker in his back that needed medical attention. So, on August 1, 1942, my brother Alfred came and we started our trip by foot along the beach. About mid-ways we were overwhelmed by the stench of death. The fallen Japanese’s bloated and sun-scorched corpse was lying on its back. Three dogs had taken over and were fiercely digging into its empty rib cage. We reached Dr. Mendoza’s place late in the afternoon. His place lay on a mountainside between Babuyan and Tanabag. Farther up was a cave called Tarao. In our earlier days in Babuyan my father and I were fascinated with it and called it Castle Rock. It’s still there today, rising majestically above a mountain slope.

In August 4, the avenging Japanese shelled the location of the Cobb encounter from a ship. On or about September 7, my father, John Tompson Clark, told me he’d gone up Castle Rock (Tarao) and circled it. Sensing that I felt left out, he promised to take me up there soon. It was not to be. After celebrating his 68th birthday on September 9, he felt ill the following day and his health worsened by the day. On October 4, 1942, he passed away. My brothers Alfred and Danny buried his remains in Babuyan. A few days later Alfred came for mother and me and took us by pumpboat north of Talabigan where Pansy was. (We zigged and zagged northern Palawan a lot during the war). That was the last we saw of him. He went back home to Babuyan where in October 22, he was shot to death by Arnaldo Toribio.

A few weeks later, Dr. Mendoza and family joined us in Talabigan. Here another member of the family was added to our family when, on December 10, 1942, he delivered my sister Pansy of a baby girl. Following a Batac tradition at the time where they named their children after trees, plants or locations where they were born, so we called her Talabigan. To this day Aida Marcelo Mayo is still Talabit (for short) to us. Here, I celebrated my 15th birthday – the first time without my father. Mother and I open the can of Jacob’s assorted biscuits my father had been saving for this occasion. They had turned stale and unfit to eat. In December 31, Dr. Mendoza’s family, my mother and I boarded a “pangco” and sailed that night for Culasian. Sea travel was always by night for fear of Japanese patrol planes – so before the break of dawn we dropped anchor at Tinitian. It was New Year’s day of 1943. The morning wore on and we could hardly believe that we were seeing fresh fish brought in from the traps. Fruits and vegetables were in abundance too. Compared to the places we had come from. Why, this was land of milk and honey. The decision to stay was unanimous.

Dr. Mendoza lost no time in organizing a guerilla movement – with headquarters in the coastal town of Tinitian. His family and the rest of us holed up further inland – a place called Jolo – about an hour’s hike from town. The guerrillas rose in number – and all dedicated to the resistance movement. Social activities became part of guerrilla life. Every now and then a dance party called “Six to Six” would be held at headquarters and it was as the title implied – 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. the next day. Everyone looked forward to this break in the humdrum life in camp. The dance music was provided by a guitar and some good and sturdy vocal chords. Life somehow, had returned to normal. We were interacting with the natives – and getting to meet old friends from Puerto – the Decolongons, Asuncions, Matros.

With spare and outgrown clothes, which the farmers preferred to “script” or legal tender, we were able to accumulate enough rice for subsistence. Then there arose a demand for thread – “unravel your socks” said the resourceful ones – and sure enough, fetched us more rice. After sundown our houses would flicker with coconut oil lamp, – they were small improvised containers fashioned with a float and wick torn off an old undershirt. A log was kept smoldering under the house to help keep the mosquitoes away, and supply us with instant fuel for cooking and provide some warmth on cold nights. We learned to eat “curot” – a poisonous root crop you didn’t mess around with unless you were prepared to call it quits with the world. The tedious procedure by the experts was to pare the dug out roots, slice them thin, place them in baskets and soak them in sea water and running river for weeks. The finished product, when cooked in coconut milk, was to me a delicacy.

Out nights in Jolo were spent thinking of home, of loved ones lost, and what lay ahead. Friends livened up the hours when they’d come to visit. Every now and then there’d be Alfred Cobb, Tony Decolongon, sone POW escapees like Bob Pyor, Bill Swift, George Marquez, Errol Glen (later shot to death in Cuyo), Sunshine Shea and Johnston. Now wherever Tony was, could music be far behind? A proficient guitar player, we’d gather around him and sing old favorites – and there never was a shortage of good old Cuyunon jokes and humor. Thus, was our time spent in Jolo until that early morning of January 7, 1944. Since we lived close by a river, I’d while my time away trying to fish with a hook and line. So there I was at the river bank with my bait waiting for some luck as I ate my breakfast of boiled banana.

Suddenly, a shot rang out – quickly followed by another. I looked towards the foot bridge and saw them, Filipinos and Japanese crossing toward our side! I ran to the house, picked up my clothes and, with Mother, hit the trail for the woods. Then a spray of machine-gun fire seemed all around us – we flung ourselves to the ground, and I overheard my Mother grumbling about how she narrowly missed a stinking filth. When the firing subsided, we ran to the hills, (a pig trailing us closely away from the “war zone” but we lost him somewhere along the way) and there met Pansy. All her children and good old Leong. All these started about 7:00 o’clock in the morning and we holed up in the hills til dark when we sent Leong to scout around our place. We all went back when he said all was clear and we found Trining and children at home all shaken, she suffered a bruise on her stomach when kicked by a Japanese. Dr. Mendoza, along with Renato Marcelo were taken by the Japanese to Puerto. Dr. Mendoza happened to be with his wife that day because it was their wedding anniversary.

In a nutshell, guerrilla Namia who at one time was assigned to be on guard duty at the Mendoza house, was captured by the Japanese while on patrol. He showed the Japanese and their Filipino P.C. conspirators the backdoor approach to our house. Our own houses were ransacked by the invaders. Anything of value like the typewriter and the binoculars were stolen. Even the eggs and chickens were nowhere to be found. Some weeks later, Renato came back bringing a lot of enticing goods – cigarettes, candies and anti-malaria pills. He said all was well in Puerto, that they were treated well and that it was time we went back. And with his family, accompanied by Mr. Donato Manga, we sailed back to Puerto, a few weeks later. The first thing we tried to do was contact Dr. Mendoza but he was nowhere. The Japanese officials gave conflicting and evasive answers. Some said he was in Manila, others in Japan for further medical studies. His whereabouts became a matter of conjecture and notwithstanding our concern and apprehension we tried to be calm.

We settled in Tagburos on the Marcelo property. Mrs. Mendoza stayed in town where the Japanese Commander (Sato?) would frequently stop by and give the children candies. In the mean time, our family had befriended a truly nice Japanese soldier, Mr. Sumida. He was one of those in charge of the U.S. POWs and seemed very fond of the one he referred to as “my boy Hough”. Through him, my sister (Mrs. Mendoza) would send the prisoners cakes she’d tie up in her red bandana – hence her code name “Red Hanky”. Mr. Sumida had become so close to the family, he’d sometimes prepare his dish of raw fish in the house then take a nap on the bamboo floor. In contrast was a Mr. Watanabe of the Kempeitai. They were in Mr. Benito Marcelo’s town house one night and this Captain Bonife of the Japanese P.C. took it upon himself to bring the captive Iwahig Band to do the serenading. This Japanese came along, sat on a chair, brought his feet up and then sat there stoned faced all the while. He looked fearful. One other pleasant Japanese was introduced to me by my brother-in-law, Renato as Commander Tojo – Commander of the Air Force in Puerto. We were along the roadside of Tagburos when he happened by. After some difficult conversation due to his inability to speak fluent English, he managed to ask my brother-in-law if he could visit “on Monday”. He was exceptionally tall and well-built for a Japanese and his manners were surprisingly refined.

Monday came and he arrived with an aide that rainy afternoon. With a lot of gesticulation we got our conversation going smoothly. I learned he was 22 years old, not related to then Minister Tojo of Japan and that he flew before dawn everyday to patrol the skies. When I asked if he had any encounter with U.S. Forces, he replied that he had sunk a U.S. submarine. My heart sank, I almost relished what happened next. He sat so prim and proper across the table from me and was saying something when all of a sudden a leg of his chair went through the bamboo flooring and he practically disappeared beneath the table. It took all of my will power and self-control to keep from laughing. Toward the end of his visit, he asked if I could “go out of the house tomorrow”, with a white handkerchief and wave at him as he was going to fly “very low” over the house from his dawn patrol. I thought it rather silly but why not?

Before he stood up to go, he said he’d come back “on Thursday”. Then goodbyes were said with a lot of bowing and as we walked across the clearing toward the coconut grove, he’d stopped and looked back several times to wave. True to his word, at about 7:00 o’clock the next morning, his fighter plane came into view, just a speck in the sky at first, then it approached and dived so low over the house, I could see him looking back at me as he swept back into space, circled, then dived again. It was such a thrill. I was having the fun of my life waving that white handkerchief at him. After his third dive he flew off into the clouds. I later learned that some distant neighbors were thrown into a frenzy by the buzzing and the swooping of the plane.

Very early, before dawn the next morning, I was awakened and shaken from sleep by an earth-shattering explosion. Mother, who was already awake said, she saw a flash of blinding light almost simultaneously. An eerie feeling came over me. Thursday came and he did not show up. My premonition was well founded. News had leaked that a pilot had left his plane in the runway that night. Unaware, Commander Tojo rammed his plane into it as he was taking off that dark morning. A few months later, with still no word from or about Dr. Mendoza, we felt certain he had been done away with. Tell-tale evidence of skeletal remains were found at the northern end of Canigaran by a Tagbanua who told my brother-in-law Benito Marcelo and my sister Aliva passed this information to me. Our apprehensions rose to high levels when we heard the Japanese were making head counts of evacuees at Mt. Sarunay in Tagburos – purportedly for medical purposes. At one time they asked Renato how many we were.

Renato started planning our get-away. Sometime about the third week of December, my sister Aliva told me in confidence that a friend, Persing Macasaet, informed her that the American POWs had all been killed – burned or shot to death. She warned me though against telling my Mother and sister Pansy – knowing they were both prone to panic. I had to live with this nightmare kept to myself – until such time when we could get away. It was agreed that on the morning of December 23, Renato, his wife and children, Mother and I would take his big sailboat from Tagburos to guerrilla-held Babuyan. We quietly hurried to the beach that dark and early morning – each carrying a load – mine was a pot of cooked rice. I was finally going to get rid of this festering secret in my chest. Forgetting the adage about the “slip between the cup and the lip”, I did. I told them of the POW massacre – just before we boarded the boat.

And of all the luck! When we all got in the boat, the water seeped in to the brim. Renato said there was no way we could sail this way. He would just have to proceed to Bacungan with our belongings while we would have to take the mountain trail and meet him there. And I had already let the cat out of the bag! On our way back, frustrated and now more scared than ever over our aborted trip, my Mother and sisters turned on me. Never in my young life had I been subjected to such verbal abuse. Why didn’t I tell them sooner? But Divine Providence always opens a door when he closes a window. This gave my Mother the chance to persuade Benito Marcelo to let his family come with us. (He has no plans of leaving Tagburos). The next day, December 24, long before sun-up, the twenty or so of us started our journey – first across the national road (frequently patrolled by Japanese soldiers in trucks) into the long stretch of rice fields. With so many small children, it took forever before the last of the long queue disappeared into the forest. We hired two guides to see us through Bacungan – one point of rendezvous with Renato. We crossed rivers, climbed hills, went up and down crags and crannies and suffered all sorts of cuts and bruises. We finally reached Bacungan Christmas Day. (Bacungan had earlier been blown up by the guerrillas). We were now in free soil.

The news reached us that the evacuees at Mt. Sarunay were slain by the Japanese. One lived to tell that tale – Domingo Aurelio. We finally reached Babuyan in a few days – reunited once more with other members of the family and friends. It wasn’t long before one of the survivors of the POW massacre arrived at Mrs. Mendoza’s place. Elmo Deal was left for dead by the Japanese – so he was so confused and shell-shocked though – we could hardly get him to talk. How he made it from prison camp, through a town full of Japanese soldiers, to freedom was an enigma – and still to this day. Some said he escaped to the Catholic Church, donned a priestly garb and sought shelter with some kindly folks who ministered to his badly infected bayonet wounds. They led him on to Babuyan. Then Benito Marcelo Sr. soon arrived – (The man who had no plans of leaving Tagburos) for once more, it seemed the hand of God intervened.

One morning, a drunken Japanese soldier came to his place, (he’d never seen him before) then asked, “you, Marcelo”? Tomorrow you . . . .” then made a gesture of slashing his throat. Benito lost no time in rushing to Isla de Cañon – then to Babuyan. On the morning of February 10, 1945 a thunderous applause and shouts of joy from the guerrilla camp broke the silence. A group of U.S. soldiers led by Capt. Pope, with Lt. Pinpkin, Sgt. Fitzerald and about four others, had come to coordinate with the guerrillas in laying the groundwork for the U.S. troop landing. Among those who went with Capt. Pope and penetrated the Japanese-held airfield was Lt. Tony Palanca. Liberation of Puerto Princesa had begun.