THE BATTLE FOR MANILA lasted for the month of February, 1945, and into March. Accompanying the heavy fighting were many small- scale incidents which served, in microcosm, to tell the story of the elimination of the Japanese forces in Manila. These bits and pieces may be classified as mere footnotes. But what footnotes!
Pfc. Cletus Rodriguez and fifteen men made the first floor of the Legislative Building. Five of their comrades were strewn around the entrance way, cut down by Nip machine gun fire. As they entered the waiting room, fire from snipers and light machine guns came at them from all the corridors and especially from the winding stairs directly in front of them. Rodriguez knew they would all be killed if they stayed in this open spot, so he jumped up from his prone position next to the stone statue of Jose Rizal, pointed his BAR forward, and yelled ‘follow me’. He dashed up those winding stairs as the Nips began throwing the kitchen sink at him. He kept his finger down on the BAR trigger, pointing it this way and that, up and down, right and left, at any and all obstacles in his race for the third floor. He was hit a few times, lightly, but he kept firing and racing upstairs as the dead enemy sprawled in front of him, fell over the banisters, or rolled down to the bottom. He reached the top, eliminated the final machine gun crew which had commanded the stairway by shooting the three gunners in the back, and then, things now quiet, he looked behind him for the men he believed had been giving him close support the whole way. Cletus Rodriguez found himself alone. The men just hadn’t started when he had . . . and were still hugging the first floor crevices and debris. Rodriguez was really scared then, and he dashed down the steps screaming at the top of his lungs: ‘‘ You sonsofbitches. You killed me’’ Sobbing, he was mobbed by his comrades, and he followed them around, sheepish and afraid, as they mopped up the rest of the Nips in that sector of the building. Our side had finally gotten a foothold, and two days later after fierce and bloody fighting, the whole building would be ours. For his heroism, literally single handedly, Rodriguez was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, one of the few going to men who had survived their bravery.
Then, there was Technical Sergeant Wren who heard funny noises in the basement of a house that had been knocked down by our own direct artillery fire. The only entrance left to this basement was a slight hole through which he could squeeze his body. He didn’t know how far a drop it was from the ground to the basement floor, so he grabbed a nearby mattress, jammed it into the hole and heard it land at the bottom. Moving his carbine off safety he jumped down into the basement, alighting gingerly on the mattress. It was hell- dark and Wren could barely make out the silhouette of a man. He called and the man jabbered back excitedly. Wren took careful aim and shot him. That really ignited things for the basement suddenly came blazingly alive. From all sides there was firing and screaming and grenade throwing. Wren backed into the farthest corner, and added to the din by firing rapidly at every noise or form he could distinguish. After twenty minutes, during which he had emptied sixty rounds in the basement and tossed five grenades into the corners farthest from where he had ducked behind iron pipes, things quieted down. He noticed one lone figure trying to crawl out of the same hole from which he had entered. He shot the figure in the buttocks, and when it dropped down onto that mattress, he shot it in the head. A few minutes later a cautious Yank called down the hole: ‘‘ For Christ sakes, Wren, are you OK? ’’ ‘‘ Sure, ’’ replied Wren. ‘‘ Where the hell were you brave guys when the fighting was going on? Bring a flashlight, and we’ll see what we’ve got. ’’ The soldier came down, sans flashlight, lit a match and whistled. Strewn about the large basement were the bloody, torn bodies of sixteen Japanese, who had thought a major attack was on . . . and who had shot hell out of each other in a vain effort to get one cool Yank ducking in a corner. Wren crawled out of the hole. ‘‘ Good to get a breath of fresh air, ’’ he drawled. ‘‘ Smelled to high heaven in that damn basement. ’’
When the fighting had died down and the cleanup started, our men were now more interested in souvenirs than Japs. An old woman ran up to two of our soldiers who had been hunting those souvenirs along the battle- scarred streets. ‘‘ Japs there, Japs there, ’’ she pointed. The boys were tired and they had heard this one before. ‘‘ If there are Japs, you come show them to us. ’’ The old woman, scared to death, stealthily led them to a large piece of tin roofing covering a small hole. ‘‘ There, ’’ she whispered. One of the soldiers quietly lifted up the tin and the other, unconcerned, pointed his carbine into the hole which he assumed was empty. The tin came up, and two pairs of eyes gleamed ominously from the hole. Jim shot twice; John dropped the tin roof. Both started walking away . . . until Jim turned around as an afterthought: ‘‘ Thank you, ma’am, ’’ he said and went back to the more important business of finding souvenirs for his gal.
Colonel Delbert Schultz, who replaced Colonel White as Regimental Commanding Officer, was hard- nosed, rough, illtempered but with an uncanny ability to get things done . . . to bull them through. I accompanied him on many of his jaunts, but fortunately missed the ones that resulted in the greatest danger. He had an explosive temper, and once, while returning from the front lines in his jeep, a sniper took a pot- shot at him, hitting the windshield of his car. The firing was coming from the second floor of a house nearby, and, completely losing his cool, Schultz charged up the stairs of the house, even forgetting to take his pistol with him. He ran into the room and saw the Jap, a husky sailor, leaning against the window watching for more meat. Schultz jumped him and the big sailor put up a struggle, but Col. Schultz knocked him down, then hit him over the head with the Nip’s own weapon . . . and brought him back to camp. En route, the Nip tried to jump out, but Col. Schultz cracked him one again. Quite an experience . . . and typical of him when he was drinking heavily or got his dander up . . . which was often.
When I had been promoted to Regimental S- 1 (Adjutant) at the end of the Bougainville campaign, I had been assigned an assistant, Warrant Officer Sayre Shulter, the first professional male secretary I’d ever met, one of the kindest, gentlest, most efficient men in the Division. From a letter to Irene, here was my description of him:
‘‘ Thirty years old, married, he came up through the ranks to his present administrative job. He is by far the finest shorthand man and typist and the most meticulous person I have ever met. He is quiet, shy to a fault and very modest. Knows his administration cold, and he will do any job I give him in a superior manner. Anything. Had some journalism, went to a business college, and his mind is keen as a bayonet. Little fellow, very thin and wiry. Loyal, and never takes any credit for anything and since I am responsible for everything that comes out of this office, he makes me look very good at times. His only problem is that he cannot delegate work. If I give him a job to do that is too big for one man, he won’t think of calling on some of our very capable enlisted men to help him. Instead, he’ll stay up half the night and do it himself. Which is tough on him, and something I am trying to break him of. He and I should be able to do everything in this office but we should merely supervise the work and let the excellent and plentiful non- coms and technicians take care of the details. ’’
Shortly after my letter to Irene I had the unhappy task of writing twice to Sayre’s wife. The first was a letter advising her of Sayre’s death and informing her of the posthumous Silver Star Award honoring him for his gallantry in the Philippine action. She answered asking me some question about his records, and I responded as fully as I could. Between the lines, which I never revealed completely, were the following circumstances: Sayre and I were working in our Malacanan Palace Regimental Headquarters, readying orders for an attack by the regiment the next day across the Pasig River which bisected Manila. It was to be our final drive against the 25,000 Japanese crammed in the lower half of Manila backed up against the Pacific Ocean. As we were writing the battle plans, one of our soldiers ran into our small workroom, screaming: ‘‘ Lots of guys have been hit by Japanese shelling in the courtyard. We need litter bearers to get them back to the aid station. ’’ Sayre jumped up, running toward the door to to the courtyard, and I followed, unenthusiastically. The shelling had subsided and he and I helped a few of the wounded from the yard to the aid station. We went outside again to make sure that we had gotten all the wounded. The shelling resumed and an explosion near us knocked Sayre and me to the ground. I was only shaken up, but he yelled: ‘‘ I’m hit. ’’ I ran over to him, helped him to his feet, and did not detect any visible signs of a wound. I put my arms around him and asked if he could walk to the aid station. He replied calmly. ‘‘ I can run. ’’ Sayre, partly supported by me, and I jogged toward the aid station, about 100 yards away. I assumed he was in satisfactory shape, but as we entered the aid room, he broke away from me, dived toward the surgeon on duty and lay there, flat on his face. The doctor hurried over to him, turned him on his back, felt his pulse and said quietly to me, ‘‘ This man is dead. ’’ ‘‘ He can’t be, ’’ I yelled somewhat hysterically, whereupon the doctor opened Shulter’s closed eyes, felt under his neck and then his wrist, and confirmed: ‘‘ Dead. Dead. Dead. ’’
Later, I was told that the concussion had killed him, but a dying impulse had apparently kept him going for the few moments it took to reach the doctor . . . then he had collapsed and died.
His official title had been Assistant S- 1; Chief Clerk. He was killed 200 yards from his typewriter.
Finally, on a lighter note: almost a year after the war had ended, I read in a Chicago newspaper a story announcing that Dr. Jose Laurel, puppet premier of the Philippines during the Japanese occupation, had been granted a thirty day leave from the prison where he was being held awaiting trial for collaboration so that he might visit his home in Manila, Malacanyan Palace.
On reading the story, I wondered what he might find when he returned to The Palace. I knew it well. During the early stages of the battle for Manila, before the fighting crossed the Pasig River, it has been the command post of our regiment.
A sturdy, massive stucco building, the Palace had withstood the shelling of the previous days and when reached by our troops still housed some of Laurel’s Palace Guards and a few hangers- on relatives.
Both the guards and the relatives were passed through our lines to the rear, and the reluctance of the guards to leave their job was quickly dissipated by a few dirty looks. Our troops were in no mood to bargain. Once inside the Palace systematic operational planning and systematic looting proceeded apace.
First spied was a large, brown safe. Outside the safe were stacks of Japanese occupation money . . . which revealed Laurel’s state of mind. When the engineers blew open the safe they found 40,000 pesos in good, old Filipino money . . . the kind backed by American gold . . . which Laurel obviously valued a bit more than his Japanese Mickey Mouse paper.
The counter intelligence boss took over the currency . . . but from then on, it was every man for himself. No warm meal was on the fire when our troops arrived, but everything else was pretty much undisturbed. Hundreds of beautiful dresses, children’s toys, shoes, bottles of perfume, and trinkets were picked up by the searchers. Later, Filipino girl friends paraded around Rizal Street in dresses which had last been viewed at Presidential balls, and a lucky Filipino man strutted around Fortuna Street in the top hat and tails which Laurel had worn to his inauguration.
In another room we spied a stack of new books. Fresh off the press, called ‘‘ Man of Destiny’’, written by a Filipino writer who was of little honesty and much hunger. Laurel was extolled as the savior of the Filipino people, and fascinating pictures dotted the chapters of our boy, in palsy poses with General Homma and other slant- eyed notables. Laurel’s Declaration of War against the U. S. was hailed as brilliant, and the Japanese were publicly thanked by Laurel for bringing to his people the freedom which America had promised and postponed for so long.
In all fairness to Laurel, several photographs mentioned that he had stood up to the Japanese in their demand that the Filipinos be drafted into an Axis army. ‘‘ No, ’’ said Laurel, ‘‘ we do better by working on the farms. ’’ Later when intrafactional disputes and Filipino military inexperience destroyed the GI’s faith in the Filipino’s fighting ability, Laurel was proved correct. Better stay on the farms.
His study was plastered with diplomas and degrees, and one we recalled particularly was from Columbia University, New York. A photo album showed him with American senators and American generals, with Laurel wearing the same grim smile with which he welcomed Homma. In short, Laurel was ecumenical. A stamp album of American and Asiatic stamps was readily claimed by a philatelist carrying a tommy gun in his right hand. Some of the stationery with his impressive imprint found its way into the homes of the Smyzikis from Chicago and the Goldbergs from Brooklyn.
A large bin next to the study was packed full of bags of rice and cans of salmon and sardines, a bit unworthy of a president but indicative of Laurel’s realism. People were starving and he naturally laid in a store of food. The rice and salmon were soon passed out among the Filipinos who grabbed it happily, and the sardines spiced up the meat and vegetable stew of our own GI’s.
Altogether great quantities of cheap jewelry, furniture, pictures, vases, typewriters, electric light bulbs, combs, chairs (and even a couple of radios and Frigidaires) were spirited to the rear lines.
The most fun among all the denuding was the wall tapping. One evening, a special service officer with little to do during the fighting, began shadow boxing the walled panels. A couple of good knocks on one panel resulted in its opening up. He immediately reached in and came out with a quart of Canadian Club. Further excavation in that treasure chest brought forth more liquor, boxes of Corona cigars, and some tinned caviar and Del Monte peaches. That find initiated an intense wall- knocking search, but we must admit that some of the boys were not so subtle. When they suspected the walls of treasuring more scotch, or more cigars, they didn’t dally long with the light tap of their knuckles; they just butted the hell out of the wall with the stock of their rifles. Much of the prospecting was fruitless, but some of it brought forth riches, not in gold or silver, but in liquor and cigars, which at that stage of uncertainty meant more to a GI than a bankful of dollar bills.
After our regiment vacated Laurel’s home to move across the Pasig River, a rear echelon headquarters moved in. I never heard what happened to it after that, but for our regimental officers it had provided an interesting change from our typical field headquarters.