by Tom Anthony
In Itig, the incoming rounds raked across the road and through the city center, now clogged with men dropping their weapons and struggling around the wounded to get their bicycles. It was as if the gods of the mountain had suddenly lifted the entire town up and then dropped it back to earth in a muddy clump, so suddenly had their world changed.
A quarter of a mile from the target, natives were buying rice and hardware items in a small sari-sari store when an errant round penetrated the corrugated steel roof, exploding on contact. Irregular shards of metal shredded five people buying or selling canned and dried goods, and parts of them became mixed indistinguishably with their purchases. It was one small mistake of “friendly fire” that would not be worth reporting by either side.
The Itig radio station exploded, along with huts, and the village was pulverized. People with all they owned and their animals were torn apart and thrown into the air. A man mounted his bent bicycle and did his best to navigate around bodies strewn in the street and a sobbing woman holding a dead baby.
As the smoke gradually cleared after the last artillery rounds had exploded, the ear-splitting noise was replaced by absolute quiet-not a bird left to chirp. But shortly thereafter the silence suddenly ended and the wailing and screaming started. The shrill cries of the injured were heard above the low moans of a wounded dog, and a new storm commenced as a Philippine infantry brigade, held for the last two hours in attack positions, now moved quickly into the town and toward Ali’s shredded hut, the almost-empty command post of a suddenly less proud New Peoples Army.
While the artillery attack was underway, the infantry soldiers maneuvered through the sugar cane fields, up the incline hill as fast as they could move, each soldier carrying assault packs of rifles, ammo attack gear, and their all-important water canteens. As they emerged from the field, the infantry continued the attack, and the troops formed into firing lines parallel to the road from where they could take aim at any suspected NPA. The riflemen fired well-aimed shots, hitting the demoralized NPA members almost at will.
Some women and children accompanying the NPA forces were felled during the crossfire, hit by stray or ricocheting bullets. They shared the tragic fate of the other innocents who had been caught by the artillery shelling.
The retreating NPA were too confused to stop and surrender or simply to drop their guns. Withering fire covered whatever direction they chose to escape.
The radio station in the center of Itig village, around which rebel soldiers and their supporting followers had been assembled, was a scattered stack of splinters and junk-the survivors now being eliminated one shot at a time by the pursuing AFP soldiers.
Colonel Liu had just congratulated the artillery unit commander and his headquarters staff, and Lieutenant Colonel De la Rosa was wrapping up his after-action report, when Thornton and the STAGCOM troopers emerged from the bush on the north side of the road. Dirty and dripping with old rain and new sweat, Thornton charged straight to Liu’s command post as the briefing was breaking up.
“Reggie, you killed her!” Thornton said, not thinking about the bloody cuts on his head and body.
“What the hell happened to you?” Colonel Liu stood up and grabbed Thornton, trying to push him into a chair.
“Your damn artillery, you killed Elaiza.” Thornton almost sobbed out the words.
“What are you talking about?” Liu was shocked.
“We were near Itig, trying to get close to get a look, when your artillery hit us.” Thornton faced Liu directly, “What’s the matter, Reggie, you attacked too soon again. You weren’t supposed to do that.”
“I think this is what happened.” Liu surmised. “At first, we just probed Itig with an infantry platoon, to see what was there. Then your Major Hayes, who had accompanied our troops, against my advice by the way, got hit and disappeared. So we fired a few rounds of artillery to keep their heads down while we tried to locate him. You know the old leftover artillery ammunition that Uncle Sam gave us is not so accurate anymore after all the years of being stockpiled. And we had no time to calibrate those howitzers. In any case, there will be some stray rounds from every batch of ammo, old or new.”
“Well, your second attack blew up STAGCOM, and killed a wonderful girl, Reggie. We had gotten close.” Thornton sat down. “She was on the point, with me. Blown up by your artillery! I saw it. She just disappeared.”
“Tom, you were not supposed to attack. It’s your own fault.” Liu felt sympathy for Thornton, but did not feel guilty. He had to tell him, “There’s more. They executed Hayes.” Liu told Thornton about the RFM broadcast of the beheading.
“Those bastards!” Thornton collapsed weakly on a chair and covered his eyes. “Reggie, I have to get them. I gotta get even.”
Colonel Liu put a sympathetic hand on Thornton’s shoulder. “We also found the Pajero in Bual, brought it here for you. The young Otaza is dead. Shot in the ear with a pistol, close range.”
While Thornton was trying to absorb all the shocking information he had just learned, Liu’s radio operator handed the colonel a message. He passed it on to Thornton. “You’ve got a meeting with Hargens in Manila. Right now. Take my helicopter. You can’t do anything here.”
Thornton didn’t think for a second before answering Liu, “No. I’m going back to Itig.”
“Then good luck to you. I thought you might do that. I had gas put in your vehicle for you. Compliments of the Philippine Army.” Liu pointed to where Thornton’s SUV was waiting. “And for God’s sake, don’t get too close to the NPA when the shooting starts again. Remember the first Rule of Combat: Friendly fire isn’t friendly.”
“Thanks, Reggie.” Thornton was already up and running toward the Pajero. On the way he grabbed Starke and turned him around, “No time to rest yet,” and motioned to the Otazas to jump into the Pajero. Wheels spun in the mud as they sped off.
Twenty minutes later Thornton drove into Itig. The village was destroyed, but they heard some sporadic firing at the far end and continued through the village, past burning huts. Thornton parked the Pajero behind a mound of rubble when he saw a group of armed men on the far side of the village.
“That must be an NPA squad. Hank, take the Otazas and circle around, cut them off. I’ll attract their attention from the front,” Thornton, angered and seeking revenge on any enemy he could find, ordered his men out of the vehicle.
Thornton fired a few shots from his carbine, mostly to make noise; he was too far away to be accurate, but it worked. The NPA squad faced him and returned his fire as he crawled forward. A burst of fire came at him, and he hit the dirt, rolled and came up behind a clump of thick grass. Now he was closer and took the time to take careful aim. This time he hit one of the enemy directly in the forehead, the man dropped the duffel bag he was carrying as the remainder of the NPA squad tried to retreat, just as Starke and the Otazas hit them on their flank and pursued them into the tree line.
Suddenly Thornton was standing alone where the NPA had been and checked the body of the man he had shot. His face looked like the photos he had seen of Kumander Ali. Thornton picked up the duffel bag, wondering. Could it be? He opened it; it was. He scooped up the bag of cash and tied it down on top of the Pajero among the other bags of equipment lashed on the roof. Just as he finished, Starke returned from behind a blown-up building, leading the Otazas past a squad of approaching soldiers of the AFP, entering the town to mop up.
The sergeant leading the patrol located another duffel bag, charred and barely recognizable as what it once was, and gave it a kick. The bag fell apart in blackened fibers and charred chunks of burnt paper that once were bound stacks of hundred dollar bills tumbled out. He ignored the bag and continued on, hurrying to rejoin his patrol.
The infantry soldiers of the Philippine Army walked through the village, itching to shoot anything that moved. As they took pot shots at barking dogs and stray chickens, a few burned and blackened bank notes swirled along the street in the wind.
Thornton finally h
ad to admit there was nothing more that could be done in Itig. There was no Elaiza to be found. He drove the Pajero back to Liu’s command post, but this time, he had new instructions for Starke. “Hank, take the Pajero. Use it to go back to Davao; there’s nothing more for us here. Park it in front of the Lady Love, and leave the keys with Morris if you’re not there. But take the long way back, and make a stop here.” Thornton pointed out a gravesite on a map and showed Starke what was in one of the duffle bags lashed to the top of the Pajero.
Starke looked confused for a moment, then it hit him. “You think people don’t trust you, but you trust everybody. I’ll show you.” He gave Thornton his friendly frown and did a slow about-face to coordinate with the Otazas, telling them to stay at Liu’s CP but to be ready. He would be back when Thornton told him to be back.
After Starke drove away, the downtrodden Thornton walked over to Colonel Liu and told him, “OK, Reggie, I’ll take that flight to Manila now.”
35
Birds of a Feather
Where the hell have you been? All I know about your verdammte antics since you went on the job with Thornton is official press releases. Where are you now?” Wolfgang Moser asked Starke when he called.
It was good to hear Moser’s voice. “In town, on the way to O’Neil’s place. Got time?”
“Sure, about twenty-five minutes?”
“Perfect. I’ll come by your place. Be ready!” Starke was hungry for a cheeseburger and for some companionship—Moser first, for conversation, and the twins later.
From where Starke parked the Pajero, he and Moser walked together down unlit Claveria Street to the Lady Love. The city stationed two or three patrolmen on every major intersection within the city to direct traffic with hand signals because that was cheaper than installing expensive traffic lights. There were no streetlights and few traffic lights in Davao City, and with ever-higher electricity costs, streetlights were a fantasy of the future.
A barefoot woman wearing a loose, torn dress appeared out of the early evening shadows from between two buildings and approached Moser to offer, “Do you want a girl?”
“No!” Moser was disgusted to contemplate being with the old hag and walked quickly away from the woman, but she followed him, trying to negotiate. He turned back to ask Starke, “Can you imagine a woman that ugly trying to sell herself on the street?”
“Wolfgang, don’t you get it even after all your years here? She wasn’t asking if you wanted her; she was asking if you wanted a girl. She probably has a stable of teenagers or even younger girls back in the alley. Maybe her own daughters or daughters of her friends, and maybe some boys, bought in the country or in the barrios around town from parents who have too many kids.”
Moser was embarrassed he had been so naive and did not relax until he reached the familiar environment of the Lady Love, where Moser and Starke commandeered a booth for themselves. Morris O’Neil himself came over and plopped down beside Moser while a cute new waitress took their order for six beers, two for each, to save time. Moser recounted the recent street scene to Morris.
“I think you’re right, Hank,” Morris told him seriously, “there’s been some rumor about a covey of quail living on the second floor above the ink refill station. But I haven’t seen any of them. Where you lads been lately?” Morris asked as a half-dozen draft San Miguel beers in icy mugs were set down in front of them.
The twins showed up, and the direction of the conversation changed. Jade snuggled beside Starke, lightly touching thighs from hips to knees. “Do you want to see our new costumes?”
“Sure. Morris put up the money for your outfits?” Starke thought they both looked very sexy.
“No way. We had to pay for them ourselves, but it wasn’t very much.” Jasmine was standing beside Starke, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder.
“And we did a lot of the work ourselves, finishing, doing some sewing and gluing. We can make our own dresses, you know.” Jade was justifiably proud of her handiwork.
Starke pretended to be surprised, “You’re becoming industrious and yet conservative young ladies.”
“No. Hardly that. We thought we might have to take care of ourselves alone someday.” No one present believed Jasmine in the slightest.
“I suppose if it didn’t cost much, it means there were very tiny amounts of material purchased. Right?” Moser liked to kid around with the twins; they were nice girls and harmless.
“You got that right, sir,” they answered the D.J. simultaneously.
“Anyway, there’s more coverage than with the two green sleeves.” Jade turned back to Starke. “So many of the customers that come here have become regulars that we decided to change our theme. Now we’ll wear only feathers!”
“Only feathers? That’s interesting.” Starke could imagine how the clientele would appreciate their new act.
“Yes, we start with the green sleeves as before, but then slowly take them off. The end of our old act is where the new one starts. We end it wearing only feathers.”
“Yes. And the feathers are only on our face masks, winding upwards in swirls and down in spirals around our paper masks. We’ll look just like Kabayan.” Jade completed the image for the three men at the table.
“So, that leaves you completely hubo hvbo?” Moser knew the Visayan phrase. The girls seemed to be becoming more aware and less naive than when he had first met them.
“Yes, except for the feathers.” Jasmine laughed and continued to play with her audience.
Starke could imagine their finale. “Well, maybe later I can watch the last show?”
“You can count on seeing our last show, but not here.” Jade whispered in his ear, and then flew backstage with Jasmine to get ready for their first performance of the evening.
Moser had observed the private cabaret at their table with mild amusement, but had enough. “I’ll leave you gents to your vices, got to get ready for my own show.”
“Break a leg!” Morris said to his back as the D.J. left the bar.
After the twins’ first show they busied themselves flirting with customers, something they seemed to have gotten better at. Starke wondered about their newly found gregariousness. He finished one more beer, then left the Lady Love and walked home along the never deserted, now even darker streets, passing some of the same street people he had passed on the way in. Back in his loft, he pushed in a Willie Nelson CD and waited for the twins to come home and unfurl their feathers.
36
Old Generals and Empty Chairs
The urgency of quieting both Manila and Washington had been the reason General Hargens needed to get Thornton back to the embassy sooner rather than later. The Philippine Air Force flight out of Koronadal Airport that Liu had arranged was delayed by bad weather over the Sulu Sea, refueled in Iloilo and Batangas, and finally dropped Thornton at the Manila airport to hook up with Hargens’ chopper. Hargens liked to start early, before much of the Defense Department in Washington, D.C., closed down, which meant 6 AM Manila time. He was accustomed to talking with his home office first and getting himself up to speed before the day began in Asia. Hargens was waiting for Thornton when the helicopter deposited him onto the embassy grounds and escorted him directly to the conference room.
Hargens had scheduled this meeting, following instructions from his boss, the Secretary of Defense. The U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines was the nominal chairman of today’s meeting, but the ambassador was in trouble and he knew it. Ambassador Richardson had been quoted on Malaysian television while on a trip to Kuala Lumpur as saying that the situation in Mindanao was beginning to look like Iraq, a sensitive issue in Washington with overtones of political dissent. In Manila his quoted statement was viewed simply as condescending ignorance on the part of the Americans. The ambassador wanted to get himself out of the mess; perhaps Hargens’ ideas and the recent successes of the Philippine Army in Mindanao could help his situation.
Most of the participants who had attended the previous meeting in thi
s same venue, which now seemed so long ago, were already present. But Major Hayes’ chair was empty. His temporary replacement had arrived from the states, a young infantry lieutenant outranked by everyone. He leaned against the wall not knowing where to sit. John Robert Mundy’s place was also unoccupied; although he had not been pleasant to have around when he was alive, Mundy’s loss was nevertheless felt in some way by each of them.
Thornton arrived late, and had had a lot to think about during his delay. When he got to the conference room, he glanced at the vacant chairs and thought about what might have been for the men who once sat in them. He had seen men in combat survive terrible wounds and recover to lead valuable lives, and he had witnessed men bleeding to death from apparently superficial cuts, drowning in a few minutes or dying of fever from what started as a common cold. There seemed to be no reason why some survived.
Thornton wrestled with his conscience. Was it true that passion and ignorance were a dangerous combination? If so, it is a continuing condition in Mindanao, and here in Manila it was worse. Even the embassy staff seemed to have succumbed to a global pandemic of ignorance, his buddy Hargens and a few others excluded. Hargens had the ability and the vision to see truth, or at least truth the same way Thornton saw it. Revolution and continuing threats of revolution in the southern Philippines would happen again and again as long as there were too many people chasing too little useful work. Thornton sat next to Hargens, and allowed himself to philosophize somewhat more than usual. What he said was, “Luke, I was wrong about thinking I was doing this all just for the money. I don’t need it; I miss what I lost.”