CHAPTER THREE -
In the Philippines
Olongapo was a quaint little seaport town just
outside the gates of a lush and verdant U.S. Naval Station. It was like
a tropical resort, one of the jewels in a string of great duty stations
where Marines and Sailors served. They said Frank Buck, the famous wild
animal collector, often stayed there while seeking specimens in the
Bataan jungles nearby.
The big green, two story Marine Barracks neatly trimmed in white was
home to a regular guard detachment who enjoyed good relaxed living
there. Framed among lovely palm, acacia and coconut trees, it would
have made a pretty picture post card from any direction. With the
exception of monsoon rains that came regularly each year, it was a
sometimes warm but an almost always pleasant climate. Naval stations
like this had a great reputation for being a good place to serve. The
small size of the garrison, friendly people in the area, and it’s
geography, made it one of the best stations of all.
The sudden arrival of 400 China Marines, about half of the regiment,
maybe, placed a greater stress on station resources. The “hotel” was
booked solid and there was little room for the “visitors”. Preparations
for us had begun days before and were still under way when we
disembarked. Some warehouses had been cleared out for our sleeping
quarters where we bunked on GI folding cots. Filipino workmen were
still busy constructing washrooms and heads out doors along side of
them. Our company cooks set up a field kitchen near by and began
preparing meals. They were served outside under the palm trees. Eating
out was a novelty for us. We had been accustomed to dining inside off
chinaware and glass set on tables covered with clean white bed sheets
in comfortable mess halls. Now, for the first time in my experience,
the band sat down to eat from our aluminum mess kits. Before that it
was just one more thing to keep clean and highly polished. After the
crowded ship, it was like a big company picnic; plenty of room to
spread out. Not the best food in the Corps, but there was enough of it.
The band had it pretty soft. No rehearsals, no concerts, and no
parades. It never functioned as a musical organization after arriving
in Olongapo. Most of the instruments and music were still packed so the
first few days on the station were spent on working parties handling
and storing tons of stuff we had managed to bring out of China. There
was crated furniture, belonging to the officers mostly, footlockers,
extra steamer trunks, sea bags, big black carved teak wood chests,
rations, ammo, and one little mongrel dog, named Soochow, the 4th
Marines mascot. Not very heavy duty.
There was a payday a day or two after we arrived and we bandsmen lined
up to draw money in new crisp Philippine pesos, two to the dollar. The
bugler sounded pay call, chow call and liberty call, almost all in one
breath. Half of us were given liberty “ashore” the first day and the
other half the next.
It was December 7, the 6th Hawaiian time, the last day of peace in the
Pacific, and the boys in the band got ready to go “ashore”. Barrio
Olongapo had only a few bars and night clubs, it was a far cry from the
kind of a liberty port that Shanghai was. Some of the stuff served in
P.I. bars must have been made of rotten coconuts. It left a bad taste
in the mouth, like kerosene. A few of us brought back some throbbing
hangovers, maybe more than just a few. The noise workers made finishing
the wash room next to our barracks was disturbing, like World War II
had already started. When a carpenter just dropped a nail it sounded
like the clock striking on Shanghai’s Race Course tower. Since I
couldn’t sleep in, I got up to go see what all the noise was about. One
of the contract workers had his 1928 Chevy parked next to the job site
and was sitting behind the steering wheel with the door open listening
to his car radio. He had it tuned to a Manila station news broadcast.
The announcer was making a frantic report of the terrible and
devastating sneak attack in Hawaii. No warning. Boom! just like that.
Sunday morning. Sailors, Soldiers, and Marines, some still half asleep,
Others, like us, still a little hung over, caught by surprise and not
ready.
The man said almost the whole Pacific Fleet had been completely
destroyed, or so he made it sound. At first I thought it was some dumb
joke, but then, finally, I knew it was not. Japan had really started a
war. It would come to the Philippines soon, I was very sure.
Later that day I learned the station whistle sounded an alarm in the
early hours and conditions of a war alert had been set before I woke
up. Then the Fourth Marines Band became the 3rd Platoon of ‘E’ company,
2nd Battalion; riflemen now, no longer bandsmen. When there is a fight,
in the Marine Corps you were a soldier first and everything else is
secondary.
It was only a matter of hours, on December 8th, that a flight of
Japanese Mitsubishi bombers flew low over Olongapo and gave every body
their first taste of war. The bombs they dropped hit mostly in the
barrio killing and wounding many civilians and we suffered our first
casualties. Several Marines on patrol, searching for those not yet
returned from liberty and looking for any suspicious activity “ashore”,
were hit and several badly injured. The wounded were taken to hastily
established medical aid stations in the Riverside Cabaret. PFC Neil
lovino, the Colonel’s driver and one of our first casualties was
treated there. Many citizens hurt in the raid were also treated by the
Regiment’s Navy doctors and corpsmen there at the Cabaret.
The next day Japanese planes followed a flight of our PBY Aircraft in
from patrol. The big two motored seaplanes were moored to their
floating buoys in the bay near an old abandoned coaling dock, once used
for fueling ships before they burned oil. Tied to it was a big barge
load of fuel drums filled with aviation gasoline. Another man from our
company and I were detailed to guard it. When the enemy planes came I
was in the head; what served as one. It was just a makeshift seat out
over the water on the rickety old rusting structure. There was no
privacy, the place was uninhabited. “Wouldn’t you know they would
attack at the worst possible time.” I thought. We knew they were coming
and had been waiting. I chided myself, “Not now! with your pants down!
You dummy! What a rotten break.” The first Jap plane was already diving
his craft toward the PBY amphibious airplane, anchored closest to me,
and opened fire when my partner yelled, “Get the hell off there!”
I grabbed my rifle and slung it over my shoulder. Then, clutching my
trousers around me, ran off the dock getting as far away from ~5000
gallons of high test avgas as I could. Had it been set ablaze I would
have been instantly roasted alive like a wiener on a stick. Apparently
the enemy thought they would need the fuel soon and never fired a
single shot at the barge. For the moment I had no feelings of gratitude.
Machine gun bullets crackled behind me in the water as I ran off the
dock. They were being directed at our airplanes, but at first I had the
feeling that they were shooting only at me. “How could they have known
where I was, what I was doing and catch me with such surprise?”~ the
thoughts running through my mind faster than sixteenth notes in circus
time.
By the time I took cover under a canopy of trees and brush high up on
the shore above the decaying coaler, the other Marine was firing his
BAR at the Japanese planes, “zeros” they would be called later in the
war. We called them “flying meatballs” because of the red circles
painted on their wings and sides. Considering where we were, separated
from the rest of our guys, the closest troops being the poor sailors
out there in the water trying to save themselves and, uselessly, their
airplanes, right there on the dock, it seemed like it was just we two
against all the Japs.
The noise of our guns was hardly noticeable amid the din of shooting
just off shore. My comrade directed his BAR fire at the planes as they
came into view from behind the coal bunkers just in front of us. Our
planes were like decoy ducks in the water tethered to their anchor
buoys and some were already burning as I hurried to join him. Our
position would have been great had we had a little more fire power,
like twin 50 caliber machine guns. Missing them was hardly possible
being less than a hundred yards away. Tracer bullets from our rifles
were hitting the side of the enemy’s planes. We could see the smoke
trails ricochet off of them, but our firing had no noticeable effect.
They just kept coming, paying no attention to us, concentrating on
those big beautiful airplanes that burned quickly before our eyes,
seven of them. Some of the crews, still aboard securing the planes and
readying them for another flight, fired their machine guns at the
enemy’s planes until they had to jump in the water to escape the
flames. They swam ashore near us badly shaken.
Then the enemy planes joined those striking the facilities of the Naval
Station proper. Thirty caliber machine guns in sand bagged emplacements
had been positioned all over the area. Some in the wide shady lawns and
others along the old stone sea wall. One was even in the crows nest of
the old USS Rochester, a decommissioned cruiser once a part of Teddy
Roosevelt’s “Great White” fleet in the early 1900’s. I have since
thought that I would have preferred to have been a member of that gun
crew. If so I could sit down with my grandsons and say, “Now let me
tell you about the time I was a gunner on ....etc. etc.” Like as not
I’d have to precede such a yarn with a history lesson so, maybe it’s
just as well. Here, the rest of the battalion with its new platoon of
musician fighters fought back at the marauding airplanes with rifles
and machine guns; the former bandsman playing a much, much different
tune, about one shot at a time.
In spite of the hail of bullets thrown up at them, the Japanese bombed
and strafed the station with no mercy. The attack had not the fury of
the Pearl Harbor raid and the defenders were not caught so surprised.
Although some believed they saw smoking enemy planes disappear over the
horizon, none were shot down for sure. It was not a costly mission for
the Japanese. The attack left the once tropically elegant base reeling
and smoking. The water tower that looked the same as many in small
towns back home, spouted great leaks from enemy cannon fire like a huge
giant crying in agony.
The attack left me with some weird ideas. I began to hate doing
anything that would leave me in a ridiculous position should the enemy
suddenly attack again; changing clothes, going to the head or taking a
bath. Anything like that. I was almost superstitious about it. Like
just unbuckling my belt would invite an unmerciful onslaught. Crazy
superstition? I found out if you don’t know the real reasons for bad
things like that happening, the mind invents them.
Then we went into the field. The band’s first bivouac was the USNAS
rifle range north of the station. We spent a night or two in the
“butts”, among the equipment used to raise targets above the parapet
for the shooters. We slept on the hard concrete bases around the target
elevators or on the ground. Later we moved on up into the jungles just
above a beach front coconut grove. Here we washed and dyed our white
skivvie underwear beige in a vat of super strong coffee. It would be
harder to spot from the air while hanging on the brush to dry.
Several times we were rushed down to the waters edge and were ordered
to dig in and prepare to repel enemy landings expected there. Our
battalion commander, Lt.Col Herman R. (Red) Anderson strolled up and
down the beach urging us to dig in but not to worry, “That’s okay men,
they got nothin’ bigger than 8 inch shells to throw at us!” I thought
that to be little consolation at the time. I learned how to dig fox
holes and wore the enamel off my entrenching tool.
The most powerful weapon we had for repelling any attack was a 30
caliber Browning Automatic Rifle ( BAR), some guys had a few hand
grenades but I don’t remember being issued any. I had thrown a few
practice grenades in boot camp and remembered only that you had to pull
the pin, let the handle fly, count off two or three beats and then
heave it, something like a shot put. That might not be right but it is
what I remember, that and to duck real fast. We sat all night under our
tin pot helmets watching for Jap warships and landing craft to enter
the bay. This might have been the first battle of the last China Band
of 2nd Bat, 4th Marines if the Japanese had landed troops on our
positions that brilliant moonlit night at Olongapo. I am sure all of us
musicians turned infantry, would have given a good account of
ourselves. We certainly had a good spirit, and excellent morale. We
knew ever so well what we were supposed to do and the great tradition
we had to live up to. But we did not know that thousands of veteran
Japanese troops, the main thrust of their 14th Army were already
streaming ashore not far north of us at Lingayen Gulf. What force was
expected at Subic Bay I don’t know but someone must have thought it
might have been a fair fight, at least for a time.
The next day we moved back to Olongapo Barrio. The “band” platoon was
assigned a stretch of the beach front. I dug my fox hole in the soft
sand just above the tide line at the end of a narrow street. Sgt.
Claude Brent dug one on the other side opposite mine. His was behind a
fair sized bakery, still in operation. We augmented our rations by
buying fresh baked food. The aromas from the rolls, bread and cakes
were absolutely irresistible. The rolls were especially delicious and
augmented our C rations nicely. Our cooks were not idle though, and
prepared some hot food frequently. I don’t know how they managed it
because they kept their Springfields slung around their shoulders just
like we did, most of the time.
Once dug in, some NonComs came by and issued us a Lewis gun, a kind of
hand held machine gun. It looked like about a yard of drain pipe with a
built-in record player. I don’t recall that it had any great reputation
but it was standard arms on ships and stations. Ammunition for it had
to be inserted into drums about the size of a small stack of 78 rpm
discs. We filled them with rifle cartridges from bandoleers we carried
slung around our necks. Brent decided it would take both of us to
handle ammunition and operate the gun. So we converted my fox hole to a
machine gun emplacement and waited again for the invasion we expected
to come.
A young Filipino boy from the village joined us and let us know he
wanted to help. So we let him keep our canteens full and do some
shopping at the bakery. His family lived in the Barrio somewhere back
of the sea wall where the few civilians remaining seemed to go on
living unaware of an invasion threat. But most of the residents had
left and, along with thousands of others from all over Luzon, were
streaming into the hopeful refuge of the Bataan Peninsula.
We passed the time talking about music, photography and exchanging
stories of our home towns. Brent told me about his upbringing in the
deep south and about the black lady who raised him. It was all strange
and very interesting to me for where I had been raised no black folks
lived at all. As yet none were being recruited into the Marines. A few
infrequently visited my home town in south central Nebraska, most
coming from the old post civil war settlements of freed slaves in
northern Kansas. It was such a rare event that most kids and some of
the adults for a few miles around would come in just to see them. The
differences in our backgrounds provided much for us to talk about.
Brent told me about food the kind and gentle old lady cooked and how
she cared for him when he was ill. He loved her dearly.
One night as we were watching the colorful, fluorescent ripples in the
water wash up on the sand, he said, “When this is all over Don, yawl’
have to come to “Nawlin’s”. There we can get some mighty powerful
things to eat, like; corn bread, black-eyed peas, greens, and the best
peach cobbler in Dixie.” He didn’t call it soul food then but, many
years later I’d learn that was what he was talking about. I was to
taste it in my imagination a thousands times for many months before an
opportunity ever came. Sadly, Corporal Brent never made it back to New
Orleans, another casualty on a hellship going to Japan in 1944, but I
always think of him when I eat southern cooking.
With our Lewis gun and two fine 1903 Springfield rifles, mine with it’s
custom finished cherry wood stock (not the most powerful but certainly
one of the great weapons of the old Corps), we felt pretty safe. Our
sense of security somewhat bolstered by the knowledge that Grande
Island, the U.S. Coast Artillery’s Fort Wint with it’s big 10 inch guns
stood formidably in the mouth of Subic Bay. To get past Claude and me
the enemy would have to face them first.
During the day we watched more Jap planes fly over going toward other
targets; Cavite, Manila, and near by Clark Field. Little seemed to be
done about it by our own aircraft. Later we learned most of our planes
had already been destroyed on the ground. Why that was I’ve never
understood. Occasionally we saw a friendly plane or two, one a
beautifully shiny B-17. But there were no air battles in our area.
It was the sorriest Christmas eve I had ever experienced thus far when
we left Olongapo in trucks for the lower part of Bataan. We had
repacked everything, taking as much as we could carry; food, cigarettes
and extra clothing. Left though, was all our band instruments, blue
uniforms, books, and music to be destroyed by the engineers staying
behind to blow up the base before the oncoming enemy would get there.
Gone forever were all the wonderful horns and drums; my beautiful,
issue Conn, double french horn, Lou Curtis’ alto saxophone, Chic
Chariton’s slide trombone, everything gone. The last crashing “stinger”
note was 300 pound mines used to blast everything away. The final note,
and then only the crackling of the fire that consumed the debris, like
the sound of shimmering cymbals fading away.
|