The Nugget

by P. T. Deutermann

  “First of all,” I protested, “I did not ‘allow’ them to take charge. That Magron fella was already in charge. He brought his own people when he showed up and those guys didn’t look like farmers to me.”

  Abriol sighed and tried to get more comfortable on his cot. His caretakers glared at us; they clearly didn’t approve of our even being there. “Ignacio Magron,” he said, “is at least eighty years old and is my counterpart, so to speak, in the spirit world beliefs here on Talawan.”

  “Like a shaman or high priest?”

  “Both of those things, but first and foremost he is a warrior. He’s old enough to remember the Filipino insurgencies against the Spanish and American occupiers. He claims to have fought against the American army as a young man, alongside the Moros.”

  “Wow,” Rooster said. “No wonder he wanted us to butt out.”

  “Perhaps,” Abriol said, squirming on his pallet, still trying to find a more comfortable position. He groaned when he hit a sore spot and then glowered at the two old women crouching near the fire. They ignored him.

  “No one can verify that claim, of course, since most of the Moros who fought the American army died doing so. The problem is that the Moros believed their spirits would keep them physically invulnerable. Magron was young at the time and may still believe some of that.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Rooster and I were kinda flailing, trying to think of ways to go after Tachibana without getting the whole town of Orotai wiped out. Magron’s the one who suggested doing it in stages. I think he’s as concerned for the townspeople as you are.”

  “I still think I need to talk to them,” he said, grimacing when his injured leg started to slide off the pallet.

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” I said. “One of the problems was that we don’t speak Tagalog; Tomaldo had to interpret everything, back and forth. In any event, Rooster and I will start working on how to get the POWs out. Right now we need sleep.”

  There was a basket of the ubiquitous rice balls, which this time had been dressed with soya sauce. I liked them better than the fish rice balls, now that I knew how that stuff was made. We ate some and effusively thanked the two crones, who cackled their appreciation. Rooster set up his rack down at the end of the chamber, while I set mine up nearer Abriol in case he fell out of his cot during the night. The women departed after brewing up a pot of that wonderful coffee.

  Some time in the wee hours Abriol needed to make a visit to that fissure in the floor of the tube. I helped him hobble down and back, where he collapsed painfully and then just lay there, breathing heavily and groaning occasionally. Unable to sleep, I asked him if he would tell me his history. The long story, so to speak. At first he said nothing, making me wonder if he’d even heard me. Then he sighed and began.

  “I was born on Luzon, not that far from Manila. My mother was Filipina; my father was a Spanish navy sailor who’d stayed behind after the Americans destroyed their fleet and became the new occupiers. He told us he’d swum ashore near Cavite in the chaos after his ship was set on fire. There were many Spaniards who ‘failed’ to return to Spain after the defeat at Manila Bay in eighteen ninety-eight. He was a good man, and he took good care of our family. He was the son of a blacksmith back in Spain. His entire family back in Spain were metalsmiths and wheelwrights of one kind or another. He was also a very devout Catholic, so we had strict observance of Catholic rules in our house. It was a strong family, and we were respected in our town.”

  “How did you end up becoming a priest?” I asked.

  “I of course first learned our native language from my mother and our neighbors’ children. It was my father who made it a point to teach me basic Spanish because, when I was growing up, Spanish was still important in government circles. The Church ran the town schools where I continued to learn Spanish. There was an English missionary nun at the school and she taught us English for four years because our new rulers spoke English. I did well in school and especially with languages, but I was useless as a metalworker. I could do basic carpentry and metal finishing, but I just wasn’t strong enough to work a forge and hammer out real steel. My father was very patient but the writing was on the wall. My skills lay elsewhere.

  “My parents, especially my mother, then pointed me towards entering the Church. When I applied to the San Carlos seminary in Manila, the fact that I had a grasp of three languages, especially English, led to acceptance. At seminary I added Roman Latin to my inventory, and after eight years in San Carlos, I was ordained a deacon and then, one year later, a priest. My family was very proud of me, as you might imagine. Our entire neighborhood celebrated the ordination of one of their own.”

  “And then…”

  “Yes, and then. Exile on Talawan. For a while I missed the big city and seeing my family, although my father turned his face from me. I missed things like refrigeration, electric lights, trains, doctors, and the like, but there was no going back. My neighborhood had been disgraced by my indiscretions, and while my mother wrote letters for a while, it seemed best to just become a memory.”

  “Did you get that church in town built?”

  “That building had originally been a godown. One day about a month after I first arrived they were having a festival celebration which involved fireworks and it got away from them. The building burned, along with several children who were caught in a stampede. I gathered the townspeople around the ruin and said Mass for the children. When some fishermen who hadn’t attended asked if I would say another Mass, I did so and then asked the elders if I could rebuild it as a church.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s how I started. Clearing away the wreckage, salvaging what materials I could. I was new, and I think the people wanted to see what kind of man I was.”

  “Did they know why you were there?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. The Manila Diocese had occasionally sent a missionary priest to Talawan Island, mostly, I think, because of the Mohammedans in the north, but they never stayed, even though the serious Catholics kept asking.”

  “So when you showed up it was ‘prayers answered.’”

  “Something like that. Anyway, when I was ready to begin building, I went out into the nearby forest and cut down a tree to make my first building post. It took me all day. Some villagers took pity on me when they heard what I was trying to do. That grew into a community effort and we got our church. It’s not much by Manila standards, but memories of what had happened there made it a special place. Until the Japs, of course. By then I was well established, but so were their instructions from Tokyo as to what to do with priests.”

  I had more questions about the local people, but he was obviously tiring. Finally I asked him if I could get him some water. When he didn’t answer I looked over and he was fast asleep. I decided it was time for me to see if I could manage that, too. I was really tired, but sleep had been evasive during this surreal experience. That one constant question rambled through my brain at all hours: What in God’s world am I doing here?

  At dawn, one of Abriol’s sentries came trotting down the lava tube. He reported in Tagalog: No Japs in the forest. Then he had more to say, which got Abriol’s immediate interest. I heard the word “Negritos.” Abriol dispatched the young man and then told me that four Negritos had appeared, which was very unusual. They were members of the Batak tribe which lived mostly on the northeast coast of the island, above the central volcano range. For them to be down here on the southwest coast was unheard of, and when the sentry brought the group in he kept his distance, clearly afraid of them.

  When they appeared I thought that they resembled African Pygmies. They were not quite five feet tall, with black skin, almost emaciated bodies, and kinked hair. They wore loincloths, sleeveless tunics, and bamboo sandals. Each had a different headdress and they carried long, thin reeds with them, along with a smaller but nastier version of the bolo. The reeds were two feet taller than they were and had a mouthpiece of some kin
d on one end. Everything about them, from their faces, to their stained, almost pointed teeth, to the charms and tokens worn around their necks, proclaimed primitive. The reeds, I finally realized, were the dreaded blowguns.

  Abriol greeted them in Tagalog but got blank looks. Then he tried Spanish, and that worked. Our sentry brought them water, which they accepted. Then they squatted down to talk to Abriol. I’d taken Spanish in high school and again at the academy, mostly because it was one way to unload the academy’s heavy engineering course load. That said, this form of Spanish had some Tagalog or other Asian dialect intermingled, so I understood only bits and pieces. When they were done, Abriol thanked them several times, and then they left, as quietly as they had come. Our sentry chose to stay behind with us.

  “As I said,” Abriol began. “They are almost never seen south of the volcano range. Not to say they haven’t been here, because if they wish to remain invisible, they surely can. They’re an ancient tribe and their news is unsettling. They came to warn us that their main village had been bombed by two of those big Jap seaplanes that fly out of Mindanao. No warning, and for no apparent reason. They appeared from the sea and everyone, men, women, and of course, children, came out to see them because they were so big. Then the bombs rained down, killing many of the tribe. They flew over twice, the first time to drop bombs and the second to use their guns. By then those who could had fled into the forest, but they’ve lost about a third of the people in that village.”

  “Wow,” Rooster said. “Are they part of the resistance?”

  “No, they’re very secretive, hunter-gatherer people. They exist at a bare subsistence level. They’re skilled with natural medicines but also poisons and do not like strangers coming around.”

  “So what brought the Kawanishi?”

  He wiped his brow which I realized had become sweaty. I wondered if he had a fever. “I suspect a Jap patrol blundered into them,” he said. “And was quickly killed. Otherwise I can’t think of a reason for the Japs to bomb a Negrito village—there’s hardly anything to bomb. There are many different Negrito tribes up on Luzon, and even there, no one bothers them, and for good reason.”

  “Are they going back?”

  “Not quite yet,” he said. “They told me they wanted to see these Japs who had bombed their villages. There’s no telling what they have in mind.”

  “Why would they come to warn you?” Rooster asked.

  Abriol had to think about that. “Good question,” he said finally. “But if Tachibana thought there was an island-wide insurrection building, he might well call in those seaplanes on the villagers here, or even Orotai. We must warn the people: if they hear planes coming, run into the forest immediately. In fact, I will do it myself.”

  He made to get up and began tottering. Rooster caught him before he fell and propped him back up against the wall next to his pallet. He’s getting worse, not better, I thought.

  “Or maybe not,” he groaned. “You two please go to Lingoro at once. Danilo here will take you. Warn them, and they will send runners to the others.”

  “And how about Orotai?” Rooster asked.

  “I think if Tachibana is there, he will not bomb himself.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that those Kawanishis were perfectly capable of bombing Orotai without touching the Japs’ compound, or that they routinely carried 4,000 pounds of bombs.

  TWENTY-NINE

  When we arrived at Lingoro it became obvious that Magron had wasted no time. There were feverish preparations throughout the village for what might be coming from the Japanese. Families with young children were packing up and disappearing into the forests. Hidden food stores were being dug up and distributed. We’d seen lots of sentries on our way into the village; Magron had found a role for the village’s teenagers. Tomaldo was sitting in the longhouse drawing a map of Orotai with possible places for archers to get close to the compound without being seen. He got up and came to greet us.

  “Father Abriol sent us down here,” I said. “We had a visit this morning from a small group of Negritos.”

  He seemed surprised. “Negritos? Here?”

  I told him about the Kawanishis bombing their village. He had the same question that Rooster had had: Why warn us? Before I could answer we heard the low drone of approaching airplanes. Four-engine airplanes, from what I was hearing. I told Tomaldo to get everyone out of the village, right now. He blinked but then began yelling in Tagalog. Whatever he said worked. People dropped what they were doing and sprinted into the forest, some dragging small children behind them like rag dolls. Tomaldo, Rooster, and I joined the mass exodus as that menacing thrumming sound grew louder. More than one, I shouted to Rooster, who was outrunning me.

  We suddenly encountered a pile of rocks which looked like the spine of some buried prehistoric animal and dropped down behind it, only to find Magron and five of his archers already there. The “archers” were armed with rifles this time and they looked like they were itching to use them. Then the bombing started.

  We were only a few hundred yards from the center of the village, which was apparently the aiming point. There were two planes and they dropped eight bombs, 500-pounders from the sound of them. The blasts compressed our skin and, even behind the rocks and a couple of football fields away, we could feel the heat flash of each blast. Instantly the air was full of dirt, shards of wood, sections of galvanized tin, and parts of human beings. It rained this horror for a good ten seconds after the last plane lifted out of its bombing run, followed by the sounds of them coming right overhead.

  We’d clamped our hands over our ears, but even so, I could barely hear anything and all of us were sporting nosebleeds. A human hand had landed on Rooster’s back as he tried to become one with that odd ridge of lava rock; one of the archers swatted it off his back. All five fingers began to curl in when it landed on the ground. Then one of the archers shouted something and pointed up. Both of the seaplanes were circling back, bent on making another pass. They’d used their bombs; this would be the 20mm cannons on a strafing run, hoping to catch any survivors who were standing up after the bombing run.

  One of the Filipinos, aghast at seeing those moving fingers, dropped his rifle and ran into the deep woods. Magron yelled after him but he was gone. Rooster grabbed up the man’s rifle.

  “C’mon,” he yelled. “Let’s fight back.”

  With that he went down to the lower end of that rocky spine, sat down, rested the barrel on the rock, and aimed it into the air while inspecting the rifle’s works. Magron and the four remaining men did the same, creating a firing squad of crouching men. By then the Kawanishis were making their final turn to come back for a second run at the village. Rooster, with Tomaldo translating, showed the others how to lead the target and to shoot high rather than fire right at it. I looked at the rifles, which were more bolt-action antiques, except that they had clips hanging from under the action. I took one final up-periscope look as the Kawanishis made their final inbound turn and throttled back to descend. Definitely a strafing run, I thought, having done the exact same thing.

  “Shoot at the second plane,” I shouted to Rooster, who understood and told Tomaldo. If we shot at the first plane, the second one could make a slight turn and treat us to a hailstorm of high-explosive 20mm rounds.

  Even throttled down we could hear the distinctive up-Doppler sound of reciprocating engines coming at us, and then the ground around the village erupted in a thousand puffs of smoke and whining projectile fragments. The sound of the guns themselves followed an instant later. The Kawanishis were really low this time and now it was my turn to make love to that rock. I never heard the rifles go to work, but I could see hands and arms working furiously as the second plane flashed by.

  To my total astonishment, they hit the damned thing, for there was now a bright yellow fireball trailing the inboard engine on the plane’s right side. We stood up and watched as it disappeared over the trees. At the last second in which we could still see it, th
e plane’s right wing tore right off. Moments later we heard the sound of a plane crash, followed by a black and orange mushroom-shaped cloud rising above the forest. The bottom of the cloud was illuminated by a huge gasoline fire somewhere below it. Despite knowing what we would find in the remains of the village, there were fierce grins all around at the sight.

  The lead Kawanishi had turned around and was circling the crash site at about 1,000 feet, perhaps a mile away from us. It did two orbits and then straightened out and headed back north toward Mindanao. The boiling black smoke of a gasoline fire continued to pump into the tropical air before a breeze finally caught it and bent it toward the sea. I grabbed Tomaldo’s arm and told him we needed to get to the crash site, leaving Magron and his shooters the grim task of going back into what was left of the village. He nodded, informed Magron of what we would be doing, and then we headed west along an existing trail. We didn’t exactly run but we did hurry, conscious that the Jap garrison would be coming out as well. Rooster asked me why I wanted to go to the crash site.

  “I thought I saw the tail come off right when the wing flipped up and over the fuselage,” I said. “If it’s not in that fire I want to find it.”

  Rooster looked puzzled but then he understood, gunner that he was. The Kawanishi HK-8 model carried a twin-barreled .50-cal. machine gun in a blister on the tail. If that had survived the crash, we might finally acquire a weapon which would go a long way to leveling the playing field when we attacked the Jap compound. Anyway, it was well worth a look-see.

  It was no problem to find the main crash site, given the size of the fire, which had also managed to set several bamboo trees ablaze as well. The engines were recognizable through the flames but not much else. The smell of roasting bodies was startlingly vivid. It took us another forty minutes to finally find the tail section, which had landed upside down in a small stream. And there, sticking up in the air, were the twin barrels of the Kawanishi’s stinger, embraced by the still and bloody arms of the plane’s tail-gunner. Only the arms, though—the rest of him was gone.