I

sat on the chair beside Hanna, catching brief glimpses of the ashen skies and the murky water hammering on the sides of the ferry boat. The ship President Manuel Quezon* boarded went ahead and Colonel Marco Deo Cariño, Hanna’s father, together with other military aids, was sent to follow. Hanna and her mother, Karen, shouldn’t be here; but the Colonel didn’t have a choice. Hanna was only seven and Karen had a weak heart. Furthermore, the Japanese started to cordon Manila, forcibly collecting food and money from civilians and private establishments. Col. Deo couldn’t leave his family alone.

Hanna leaned closer, and her dark hair strands tingled my cheeks. She was looking at the window on the other end where children of the other officials quietly sat. She was probably staring at the far land to the north east – Bataan, the island where her older brother was, together with other soldiers who had taken arms and abandoned their families at a young age.

“Hanna,” Karen hissed from behind, and Hanna settled back on her seat. I could hear her silent sobs and I wanted so badly to reach for her hand. I wanted to wipe her tears away and tell her it was going to be okay. If only I could … But even if I could, was there any healing within words?


A good twenty minutes more and a husky voice upfront called, “We are already in Corregidor. Get ready to disembark. Men, remember to check the skies for any signs of the enemy. Move fast. Guard the children and women.”

The swift and hushed movements of the people echoed anxiety, reluctance and most of all fear. Even Hanna’s usually warm hands were cold as she picked me and pulled me to a hug. I could feel the fast beating of her chest. She was nervous like everyone else. But if there was one thing I truly loved about this girl, it was that thing beating that I heard. It was her heart; I had always admired Hanna’s heart.

Up to this day, as we walked out of the boat with Karen leading us, I could still remember when Hanna chose the worn-out me amidst all the lovely dolls in that store. I was her birthday gift from Col. Deo. Imagine all those dolls with exquisite dresses and then me, with the ragged apron attire. She chose me. And from that day on, I swore I’d be with her through everything, to anywhere … Even under the dark trail of jets’ smokes.

*It was December 24, 1941 when the President of the Philippines escaped from Manila and built a temporary Headquarters in Corregidor.


At the shore, we were met by more officials, both Americans and Filipinos who shook hands with Hanna’s father. We were ushered to a bus – the families separated from the officials – with open sides, that as the vehicle sped on, we could clearly see the collapsed buildings and the huge cannons prepared for firing. With every ruins we saw, Hanna’s hug drew tighter. Karen didn’t say a thing. She merely placed her hand on top of Hanna’s as we went past men in green fatigues surveying the roads.

We stopped in front of a tunnel – Malinta Tunnel, the driver said. As Karen and Hanna hopped of the bus, another official met us at the tunnel’s entrance. He scanned all the passengers, before nodding toward the driver. I heard the sound of screeching wheels behind and we remained there, until the sound of the vehicle’s engine was out of earshot.

“Follow me,” the official said, and Karen held Hanna’s hand as they walked into the huge tunnel.

Circular lamps hang on the curved ceiling. I was amazed, realizing that the tunnel had many smaller tunnels within on both sides. I counted about five entrances. No there were six, seven, and a lot more beyond.

We were led to the second wing on the right. It was a silent stride; slow, but the steps resounding on the cemented walls displayed distraught, like the people had been running for hours. It was a just a mere five meter walk, but if felt like eternity before we reached the infirmary.

Again, I felt awe at the sight of one thousand beds aligned on the wide room. But that awe, was easily vanquished by the quivering of Hanna’s hands. Some men and women with white bandages wrapped on either their arms or legs lay on the beds on the west most portion of the room. Women in white dresses were attending to them. One of the nurses – a lady with blond, curly hair – approached us. She nodded curtly to the man that led us. The man left as the blond nurse ushered everyone to the bunks on the right corner.

“Please bear with this for now,” she said, rushing back to the opposite corner as soon as a patient groaned.

With her still shivering hands, Hanna sat me on the bed, folding my legs so that my back rested on the headboard. Karen then carried her up and settled her beside me.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Hanna asked Karen. I could imagine the young girl’s hopeful, brown eyes.

“Just for a while, Honey,” Karen said softly. “Just for a while.”

There was another loud scream from a patient and Karen, who used to be a nurse, immediately darted to help, leaving Hanna with a peck on the girl’s cheek.

Hanna sank on the mattress. She grabbed the pillow just inches from me and buried her face and her tears in the cottony object.

Again, I wanted to reach out, to hug her. But as shrieks of pain filled the room, I realized that even if I could hug her, squeeze her as tight as possible, nothing would change. The sorrow and the hurt would still remain. Nothing would change …


Christmas, hours after, was the most agonizing moment. Exploding bombs and gun shots were our fireworks as Hanna and I sat on the open main tunnel, watching soldiers ran from one corner to another, checking if there were holes made by the bombs or if enemies had found entrance to our secret hiding place.

We remained there as the President’s prayer echoed through the cold walls. ‘This is one of the darkest moments of our lives,” he said. “How pitiful it is to celebrate the birth of our Lord amidst this battle. But with this loaf of bread, we should still be thankful. Let us keep our faith and pray for the end of this worthless bloodshed.”*


*Not the exact prayer, but a little like this. Any succeeding statements you find are also not the exact words.


Days, weeks, months were torn away from the calendar, but our condition remained bleak. Col. Deo hadn’t visited even once while Karen was busy treating the wounded. Although Hanna wouldn’t speak, I could tell she was disappointed, sad; abandoned.

Slowly, the bunks in the infirmary were being filled, that Hanna had to go around the main tunnel more often to avoid the helpless screams and the sight of dripping blood. I watched her slept on the cold floor, singing to her, hoping one day she’d hear … Hoping one day she’d realize, that though I wouldn’t be able to make any difference, I still wanted to hug her tight and tell her it would be okay.


One night as Hanna was searching the small tunnels, with me in her arms, we ended in the first family’s barracks. We could hear the sound of a quill scribbling swiftly on paper. Hanna quietly turned the knob, but it was locked. She shrugged and turned away from the door.

However, before we could leave, there came a string of loud, difficult coughs. Hanna pinned her ear on the door and listened as the coughing continued.

Wind whipped my cheeks as Hanna dashed for the infirmary. She tossed me on the bed and I watched blankly as she took a glass on the table and filled it with water. In a minute, she was out of view.

She returned about fifteen minutes later, jumping on the bed and seizing me to comb my fine, blond hair with her fingers. She then cradled me into her arms, humming the lullaby her mother usually sang to put her to sleep.

Ever since that night, she’d sneak out a glass of water from the infirmary. That kept me wondering for months and even years.


On the eve of March 9, 1942, I finally saw Hanna's smile after a long time, as Col. Deo finally visited. He sat on our bed, cross-legged and whistling nonchalantly like nothing was happening. I could make out the cut on his left hand, peeking through the sleeve of his uniform. He didn’t say anything, nor did Hanna. The girl was smart enough to understand. They simply sat beside each other, watching Karen wrap bandages on a man’s foot to cover the poor man's scraped flesh.

After a moment of silence, Col. Deo gently placed his hand on Hanna’s shoulder, pulling her closer. “I love you,” he said, planting a kiss on Hanna’s head.

And with that, he walked away. I caught sight of Karen glancing. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but she seemed to be crying.

I just watch the tears stream down Hanna's cheeks. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, staring at me, as if reading my worried thoughts. “I’ve grown without a father. It’s okay.”

The words seemed to pierce through me, making me reminisce the many times Hanna cried, searching for his father and brother who were both at the war. If I neglected to mention, I was Col. Deo’s one and only birthday gift for Hanna. It was her fifth birthday and the only one where the Colonel happened to be home. He didn’t even stay for the night. After buying me, he immediately left.

Hanna developed a tinge of hatred for his father. I was saddened by that fact. The war didn’t only take lives and territories; it took something else from this poor, little girl.


The next day, news of Gen. Douglas MacArthur, the commander of Allied forces in the Philippines’ future departure for Australia spread in the tunnel. Was the Philippines being abandoned? It didn’t seem so. Lieutenant Gen. Jonathan Wainwright had temporarily assumed MacArthur’s post as the latter left the shores of Corregidor on March 11.

Hanna and I, together with all the people in the infirmary, watched intently in the blurry television as MacArthur imparted these words, “I shall return!” referring to the Philippines in his first press conference in Australia.

Many felt glad in the affirmation of support from the American government, even Hanna was. She knew what those words truly meant. However, that statement hindered everyone from preparing for graver news.

The Japanese forces had heightened their bombing assaults through all parts of the Philippines. And on April 9, I saw Hanna cry the hardest for the two years we’d been together. We all huddled in the infirmary, even some soldiers rushing in as the biggest news of the war had come. The voice of the announcer on the radio was muffled, but three words were very clear, “Bataan has fallen.” *


*On April 9, 1942, Bataan, one of the strongholds of the Philippines surrendered to the Japanese forces. More than 70,000 American and Filipino soldiers were forced to walk, barefoot and with no water, for 98 kilometers. Many died along the way due to hunger, thirst and wounds inflicted by the Japanese soldiers. This incident soon became popularly known as the ‘Death March’ and the march lasted for six days.


A month passed with not a single news from Delfin, Hanna’s brother, and there was also no word coming from Australia or the United Nations. Karen never talked about Bataan's surrender, but she would always come to hug Hanna whenever the girl cuddles on bed, sobbing meekly.

The Colonel, on the other hand, never returned since his last visit and I doubted if he still would. I knew Hanna was depressed, but one thing wonderful about her, for some reason, she could cope up fast.

One night, Hanna woke up wiping the tears on her eyes. She pulled me closer and pressed a finger on her lips, signaling me to keep quiet. She looked cautiously to the nurses and patients that had now filled three-fourths of the room. Afterward, she tiptoed down the bed, with one hand clutching mine, and the other stealing another glass of water on the table.

“Delfin will be happy with this.” She winked at me as she silently headed for the door.

We ended in the first family’s barracks where coughing sounds echoed once more.

Smiling faintly, she placed the glass at the foot of the door; but before she could knock, a man’s voice yelled from the inside, “Bullshit!”

Hanna stepped back and I felt my left hand slightly deviating from my shoulder.

“How could they do this to us?” the voice continued, pausing to cough once more. “After all we’ve done? After all the loyalty we’ve displayed? They’re just going to abandon us for the sake of helping a distant cousin!”*

Hanna gulped, but instead of running away, she proceeded to knock gently on the door. “Who’s there?” the voice asked and I heard the squeaking of chairs.

Hanna immediately tugged me. Realizing that my hand was already being disassembled, she pulled me to a hug, as she sprinted as fast as she could.


*A message from President Roosevelt eventually calmed our government officials. The letter said plans had already been made to aid the Philippines and the rest in the Pacific. To confirm loyalty and to ascertain the United Nations’ assistance to the Philippines, the first family and the President’s cabinet flew to America.


With the departure of the President, people thought things would soon flow smoothly and that the fall of Bataan already marked the darkest hours of the Philippines. Nonetheless, they were wrong.

After two months, Col. Deo appeared – nullifying my instinct – in the infirmary, but with the stern look in his now scarred face, I knew he wouldn’t be bringing smile to Hanna. As he walked in, he led Karen away from the other nurses and the patients.

I watched curiously as they woke up Hanna who once again cried herself to sleep. “Dear, you need to leave,” the Colonel said, shaking Hanna’s shoulder’s slightly.

“Papa? Mama?” Hanna responded dubiously.

“What’s going on?” Karen asked.

Col. Deo rolled his eyes to the patients. His lips curled to a faint smile, the pain reflected in his gray eyes.


The rest of the night was filled with serene melodies. A party was held at the main tunnel and Hanna watched gleefully as her parents danced with other pairs of lovers. As told by her mother, she just sat still, keeping away from the soldiers playing poker and drinking wine. It was a night to remember, a night of happiness with no pain, no anger … it was all peace.

Like a Cinderella story, things had ended when the clock struck 12. Col. Deo led all the children to the last wing on the left. When we had reached the end, we were already near the woods.

An open wooden carriage - which resembled a mini-truck - was already waiting and the Colonel instructed everybody to get in. The children objected, but a fierce shout from the Colonel made them obey, instantly. Nonetheless, Hanna remained unmoved.

The Colonel sighed, kneeling in front of her and I stared at his dejected eyes. “Remember what Papa and Mama told you before?” he said, patting a finger on my head. “This one here is your gift for a being a good daughter, a good child, for being the most obedient child in the world. And an obedient child is like?”

“An obedient soldier,” Hanna replied in between her sobs.

"And an obedient soldier is?"

"The best," Hanna paused as the Colonel brushed of her tears. "The best soldier in the world."

He took off the bronze badge on his chest and pinned it on Hanna’s dirty white dress. “And this is for the best soldier in the world.”

Hanna nodded meekly, clutching me tighter.


Once all the kids had boarded - there were about eight of them - a thin, metal screen was placed above the carriage. The many holes in the metal, showed the Colonel dumping stacks of hay on top of the screen, careful to leave the children breathing space.

Everyone stayed motionless for a while, no one bothered to speak, swallowing their own sobs and cries. As the last stack was placed, Hanna glanced up and I too, gazed one last time at the Colonel. He had lost the youth glow in his face, his black hair now turning gray and deep circles narrowed his eyes. He was no longer the man who had paid a few coins on the grumpy store manager and who had carried me gently, handing me to Hanna. He had changed, but during those time, who didn't?

The carriage swerved toward the forest, hiding within the towering mango trees, leaving behind the Colonel's shadows. That time for sure, I knew, it was goodbye.


A boy and a girl – Tacio and Annie, if I remembered correctly – crawled on each side of Hanna. Hanna released me from her hug and seized the hands of the other children who were evidently younger than her. Annie then started mumbling something. I caught the words, “I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord …”

“What are you doing?” Tacio asked.

Annie smiled feebly. “Let’s pray.”

Upon mention of this, our carriage halted. A voice of a man screamed in Japanese, which I didn't understood. The children cringed, cramming together, away from the source of the voice. My left arm fell as Hanna moved swiftly with the rest.

“He was conceived …” Annie continued, being echoed quietly by some of the children.

The haystacks above us rose and I felt Hanna’s heartbeat came to a stop. Two pairs of narrow black eyes, peeping through the holes in the screen, locked into my blue, glazed ones. Then, the screen was replaced to its position. The children exchanged shocked, but relieved sighs, as the Japanese yelled something like, “Go!’ and our carriage moved on.


*The next day, on May 6, 1942, Wainwright signed an agreement with the Japanese forces, yielding Philippines’ last stronghold, Corregidor. The Japanese commander insisted he wanted the entire archipelago and Wainwright succumbed to the enemies.

As the Japanese flag was raised, the Allied soldiers marched out of the Malinta Tunnel with no weapons and with both hands raised. But as Wainwright’s letter for Roosevelt said, ‘We surrender our firearms but not our will.’

Nonetheless, we are proud to brag that though the Japanese assumed that the Philippines would fall within 50 days, Bataan and Corregidor stood strong for 5 months even with minimal support from the United Nations.


Hanna and I successfully escaped to Leyte down south through an American ferry boat. From there, we flew to Australia where more of the Allied Forces were situated.


Twenty years after the end of the battles, Hanna and I finally returned to Corregidor. Two years after Corregidor’s surrender, we heard of President Quezon's death of tuberculosis in New York. He died still seeking help from the US and UN.

Although he wasn’t able to witness this today, his long fought battle was fruitful. And now, we were back here.

The past years were difficult for Hanna, starting a new life, leaving the harsh memories behind and trying not to look at the badge, and at me, with tearful eyes.

She cradled me gently, humming the same lullaby, as she walked the bridge on the shore which miraculously still stood with just a couple of holes in it. She examined my shoulder and caressed the portion where my left hand used to be connected. She then removed the badge on my small apron. I felt alleviated. It was heavy. Funny, wasn’t it? A doll actually feels. But it wasn’t heavy because of its weight as an object. It was heavy … the weight of the pain it contained was heavy.

She clutched the badge and kissed it. “This is for the best soldier in the world.” There was a soft plop of water as she threw the badge as far as she could.

She squeezed me once more before stretching out her arms, making me feel the breeze coming from the sea. My hair flew gently with every surge of the wind; it was bliss.

I felt myself falling freely; with a splash, sinking deeper into the waters. The water was warm on my skin. The sweet warmth of freedom. Did I long for my freedom? No, Lord knows I never did. But this freedom wasn’t for me, it was for her …

I stared up to the disappearing light above, a bright circle, a guiding light from the blazing sun. Hanna was far away, but I could see her smile. For the first time in twenty-two years, even without a voice and even with plastic single-hand, I believed, I finally reached the thing of hers I loved the most … I finally reached her heart.

THE END

*As for the title of this story, “A Circle Below the Sun” actually refers to the altar built in Corregidor. It serves as a monument for the heroes of the war and every year, somewhere on the week of May 6 (the day Corregidor surrendered), the rays of the sun, lights the entire circular surface of the altar.

(Caution: The succeeding is already a brief opinion from me. Don’t read if you’re not interested :))

You might find this story weird or just a mere display of historical events. But I would just like to point out that in every war; a soldier’s life doesn’t only belong to the battlefield. Some may insinuate that once a soldier has given an oath, his life belongs to the country; true. However, I believe a life is a life whatever scenario it is situated. Beyond a battlefield, a soldier has a life to live not just for himself but for his children, for all the people who loves him.

I would also like to clear that it is not true that we have developed biases against the Japanese people. We condemn the Death March, we condemn the entire World War II; but I hope the inclusion of the Japanese soldier in the end of the story settles this issue. I believe, whatever a soldier is fighting for, not all of them wants war. I don’t think a person, though I will not discount the possibility, wants to hold a gun just for the sake of firing it.

Many children have grown and survived the wars in the past and countless soldiers have died fighting many battles. Now a question, how many more need to live in suffrage and how many more need to die with glory or in vain?

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.11.2010

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I would like to offer this story as an ode for all the soldiers, most specially to my fellow men who have fought bravely on the World War II and for the families who have lost their loved ones for the sake of liberty.