Satellite of Love

Young Love in the Pacific War

Now I’ll tell you how my father met my mother, and how the two of them made it out alive. Ned was a foreign correspondent in Manila in the early ‘40s. My mother, Julieta, had been whoring. They met at a Cabaret on October 3rd, 1941, two weeks before the Japanese invaded.

But, for that fortnight, they were inseparable. They ate every meal together, learned words in each other’s native tongues, laughed like teenagers. They enjoyed every second of each day, every inch of each other’s bodies.

The dream ended and their lives changed forever in the dawn hours of December 8th. Suddenly, we were at war. The Imperial Japanese Army invaded the Philippines within hours of the attack on Pearl Harbor. They would reach the capital within days.

Manila throbbed in anticipation. Nervous laughter peppered the streets. More and more people wielded suitcases. Milk became scarce. Everyday a new restaurant would fail to open its shutters. The GIs disappeared from the bars and the whores sat idly in the dark with unassuming eyes.

Next came the evacuation. American civilians crowded the western road, kicking up red dust with every step towards the Army base at Bataan. Filipinos were left scratching their heads, wondering how to greet their latest round of invaders, the Japanese, following in the footsteps of the Americans and the Spanish before them. How would the people fare under a new colonial power? Few felt secure.

“I worry, Ned.” My mother cooed while my father paced around his single room.

“Japan men are no good. Americans are good. You are good.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” He answered, pausing to watch flares potmark the night sky over Manila harbor. “I won’t let the Japs get you.”

“You love me, Ned?”

He told her loved her. They were married by a Catholic priest on Christmas Day as the tanks closed in on the city. With a marriage certificate, Julieta could follow Ned onto the base, where they would await further evacuation. Seated on the last transport out of Manila, they saw smoke rising from the jungle along the western road as the Japanese burned their way towards Bataan. No one had anticipated their swiftness.

Bataan was hardly the safe haven the Americans expected. The Imperial Navy had blockaded the entire East Coast. Cut off by sea, the Americans were left stranded in the Philippines, the Air Force having been crushed at Pearl Harbor. On land, every member of the Imperial Army of the Pacific was spearheaded at the American base, paving their way in flames and flesh. Trapped outside the base walls were a million panicky men, women, and children, Americans and Filipinos both, sitting like Easter eggs to be snatched.

My parents might have died had it not been for Joson Flores. It was while Ned interviewed wounded GIs fresh from the front lines that Julieta met the man who would save their lives. Joson was a smuggler with piercing black eyes and tattoos of roses across his forearms. He was selling spots on a thirty foot fishing boat that would leave the Philippines on New Year’s Eve, slipping down the coast through the barricade, all the way to Australia.

“Two thousand a piece is too much.” My father complained upon his introduction to Flores. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

“Your call, chief.” Flores was cool. “But you only got a few days to change your mind. Japs coming soon.”

My father took my mother aside. “I’ve spoken to some of the troops,” he confided. “They said there’s no stopping these Nip bastards. We’ve got our backs to the wall, honey. Is this guy our only option?”

Julieta stroked Ned’s angry shoulders with her soft dark hands. “Maybe I can make deal with him.”

Ned agreed with a flushed face. His head pointed to the dirt while Joson Flores led my mother to the edge of the shanty town where he fucked her on a patch of grass overlooking the South China Sea. When they returned, the price was eight hundred dollars a head.

“We leave from Bagac, five kilometers west of here, okay?” He smiled. “Midnight. Don’t be late, chief.”

They had the cash. My mother escaped Manila with four hundred dollars in small bills. My father had fifteen hundred in cash bulging out of his socks. This was all money they had in the world. My father didn’t want to arrive in America defeated and broke. His wife hadn’t just fucked Joson Flores so that she could go hungry in Minneapolis.

“I need to get back to the front lines.” My father said, rubbing his temples.
“Don’t go, Ned.” My mother worried. “You get shot.”

“Don’t worry about that, baby. The front is where the money is. If I can get two more rolls of battle action, I’ll have enough to buy you a house when we get back to America.”

“America?”

“You know it, sweetheart.”

That night, my father kissed my mother goodbye and left for the front with his Nikon L41. “If something happens,” my father said to Julieta, “get on the boat. I love you.”

Ned was captured by Battalion 33 of the Imperial Japanese Army a few hours after leaving the shanty town. As he’d wandered into Japanese territory unarmed wearing street clothes, he was able to convince the enemy troops that he was a civilian, a journalist, and posed no threat. Taken to the command tent by sentries wielding bayonets, he was presented to a Colonel named Masahiro Homma. The Colonel took a liking to my father, and refused to let him out of his sight. On the morning of December 31st, my father was taking pictures of Colonel Homma in a meeting with his top advisors, on a battlefield littered with American and Japanese corpses.

Homma, standing six feet two inches, towered over the other Japanese officers. His proud chin surveyed the landscape with a confident approval. Educated at Cambridge, his English was flawless.

“Ned, my new friend,” Homma bellowed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Though I don’t consider you to be a spy, I must concede that I could be mistaken. Should you stroll back into American territory and walk straight into your General MacArthur’s office to share intelligence, I should feel rather a fool. Wouldn’t you agree?”

My father agreed. Sweating under the tropical sun, he thought of his wife. “I don’t care about MacArthur, sir. I don’t care if Bataan falls after the New Year.”

Colonel Homma nodded. “You worry about your Juliet?”

“Julieta, sir.”

“No, Ned, my friend. She is your Juliet.”
My father smiled weakly. “I just need to get to Bagac, Colonel Homma. If you let me go to Bagac tonight, you will never see me again, I promise.”
Homma scanned a unit of young soldiers heading for the front. Their skin was black with smoke and dirt, their uniforms torn at the seams. Some of them glanced quizzically at the Westerner speaking with their commander. Colonel Homma nodded as the group filed past. “I will take you to Bagac.”
Battalion Thirty Three veered west of the battlefield, cutting around Mount Samat to attack Bataan from the North West. This gave them the element of surprise, as the Americans were concentrating their dwindling firepower on the Japanese troops heading due South. For Battalion Thirty Three, Bagac was on the way. My father left at noon on the first truck of the convoy, sitting in the front seat between Colonel Homma and Private Katsu, the driver.

The road to Bagac had been shelled mercilessly by the Japanese Artillery Divisions in the early stages of the campaign. As the truck bounced towards the coast, my father took pictures of the Colonel. To the south, Mount Samat rose from the lush jungle, and gracefully sloped towards the indigo sea.

When night fell, flares illuminated the countryside in yellows and reds. My father worried that he was too late. As the truck neared the sea, he scanned the sunken faces shuffling down the road. When they came to a wooden dock, my father asked Colonel Homma for permission to leave the truck.

“Certainly, Ned.” said the Colonel. “I just need to see your transport. You understand, don’t you? I want to be sure you’re not going to escape on a US Navy submarine.” Homma laughed at his own joke.

My father scanned the single vessel at the sleepy dock. “Alright, sir. Would you excuse me if I go and find out where my boat is?”

“Certainly.”

My father slowly walked away from the Imperial Japanese Army trucks towards a man sitting on the dock smoking a pipe. “Joson Flores?” He asked. Taking one glance at the convoy behind the American, the pipe smoker pointed south. My father thanked him in Tagalog – Salamat – and jogged back towards the Colonel.

“It’s waiting just down the beach, Colonel Homma.” My father explained as he looked up. “But, sir, would you mind terribly if we walked the rest of the way? I hate to trouble you, but I think that my being seen with this truck might jeopardize my spot on the boat.”

Colonel Homma stared at my father from the window of the front seat.

“You see, sir, it might leave me behind. I would never see Julieta again.”

Colonel Homma’s eyes held steady, seeming to pierce into my father’s heart. Gently, his chin began to lift. “Certainly, Ned.” He spoke to Private Katsu in Japanese, opened the door, and hopped to the ground with a thud.

Joson Flores was guiding people onto his boat, two hundred meters down the beach from the dock. Rich civilian Americans and Filipinos clutched leather suitcases and wobbled aboard the brown timber vessel. My mother waited on the beach, her eyes darting down the road in both directions.

My father pointed at the boat. “That must be it. I can feel it.” As they inched closer, he caught sight of his wife. Her sad eyes glowed in the moonlight, her cheeks pinched by uncertainty.

Colonel Homma nodded in approval. “Just a fishing boat.” He sighed. “You know, Ned. This is a terrible violation of Imperial Army Policy.”

“I know that, sir.” Ned looked at his feet. “But you’re doing a great thing, Colonel Homma. You’re bringing me back to my wife. Do you see the girl standing on the beach, there, with her back to the tide? That’s my Julieta.”

The Colonel squinted. Then his eyes erupted. “She’s gorgeous, Ned.” He placed his hand on my father’s shoulder. “She’s stunning. But, as I was saying, yes. This is a terrible violation. I could be executed for this, you know? I need something in return, Ned.”

My father swallowed a lump in his throat. “What do you mean, sir?”

Colonel Homma pursed his lips, his eyes still on the beach. “I need a gift from you, Ned.”

“Sir.” His voice cracked. “Sir, please don’t ask me for my Juliet.”

Homma stared at my mother. A crimson flare burst in the south and bled across the beach. “Don’t worry about your Juliet.” He looked into my father’s eyes. “Kiss me, Ned.” Said the Colonel. “Kiss me like it’s the end of the world.”


My father walked down from the shelled out road and caught my mother’s eye. She ran for him, kicking sand behind her in bursts. Their lips met, their arms enveloped one another, and tears dropped in the moonlight. Joson hollered as he untied his vessel, and the newlyweds came running. As the ship cast away from Bagac, my mother and father clutched each other’s hands. A hush came over them as the vessel motored south past Bataan. Flares exploded overhead and heavy artillery echoed off the mountainside. As the Battle for the Philippines raged on the shore, my mother and father floated along under cover of night, smiling the smiles of young love.