And They Returned: Life in Leyte during World War II

INTRODUCTION

And They Returned recounts the experiences of my Filipino-American family during the Japanese occupation of my homeland during World War 2. At the time, the Philippines was an American protectorate.

My father, Louis Chapman, was an American who remained in the Philippines after his discharge from the Army. Thousands of Americans like my father settled in the islands and married Filipinas. In 1922, when he was thirty years old, he wed my mother, then a twelve-year-old Filipina, named Hipolita. Their children would hold American and Filipino citizenships.

Nine months before the Japanese attacked my country in December 1941, and after almost twenty years of marriage, my father died. At just four years old, I was the youngest of their nine living children. When the war came, my two eldest sisters were married and lived elsewhere. And so my mother, Hipolita, was left to manage the seven children still at home. I was just a child, but I have many indelible memories of the three-year occupation that followed. Some are frightening. And some are details only a small child might remember. Besides my own, I have the memories that belong to my mother—the telling and retelling of dozens of family stories about that sad, worrisome, and fearful period. Through it all, her strength, determination, and wisdom helped us survive. I am glad I am able to pass on some of those stories. And They Returned is a tribute to her and to all brave Filipinos who endured those awful days.

NOTE ON LANGUAGE

This narrative begins in 1941, when English and, to a lesser extent, Spanish were the official languages of the Philippines, a mountainous island country then populated by some 17 million people. For almost four centuries, my people had lived under Spanish and then American rules. Most Filipinos could carry on a basic conversation in English. But on the different islands, different dialects were spoken. My first language was Waray (wuh-rye), Spanish names and words were sprinkled into our dialects. Barrio, the Spanish word for neighborhood, is one example. After we gained our independence in 1946, we developed our own national language, Filipino. Today the Filipino word for barrio is barangay (bah-rahng-aye), meaning village, district, or ward.

PROLOGUE

My mother had vivid memories of her childhood from an early age. Her family lived in a small town in Southern Leyte, one of the large islands lying midway down the thousand-mile-long archipelago that is the Philippines. Louis Chapman was a thirty-year-old American from Iowa when he married Hipolita, a twelve-year-old Filipina. They prospered financially. When Louis Chapman died, Hipolita was left to face the war alone with her young American-looking children.

Their story begins with an unusual courtship and then describes their family’s growth. Except for the tragic loss of their youngest child, life in the Philippines moved smoothly for the couple. By 1936, at the age of twenty-eight, Hipolita was a grandmother.

The war started in 1941, and the widow and her family evacuated and went into hiding in the mountains for almost a year. Later they were forced to live under the forces of the Japanese occupation in Tacloban and Leyte, their hometown. Their house had been used by the fearsome Kempetei, the Japanese secret police, as headquarters during the occupation.

This story chronicles my family’s accounts of WW2: the atrocities and degradation of war—the execution of an American captain and a Filipino sergeant after a futile escape from a prisoner war camp; the eldest daughter Emma and her husband’s death; her reluctant participation in the guerilla movement with her sixteen-year-old brother, Bill, in the jungles on the island of Samar; the torture of her loyal and trusted house boy; and her brother Bill’s first experience with love. To remain on good terms with the Japanese, the Chapman family opened a restaurant in Tacloban, Leyte, used for official functions and banquet and which ultimately kept them alive during the war. I recount the bloody assault of the US forces for the liberation of Leyte; MacArthur’s landing at Red Beach, about five miles south of Tacloban; the desperate struggle by the Japanese forces to take back the island; and our survival under the indiscriminate bombings by the Japanese on the American-held island.

This story ends with the return of my family to their home in Tacloban, finding it full of not only their memories from before the war, but also bearing scars left over from the war.

PART I

CHIPPIE

AND

HIPOLITA

CHAPTER 1

Before the assault on Pearl Harbor became a reality, the people of Tacloban began to talk about the serious threat of war, even though it was still hard to believe such a thing could happen to them. As they went about their daily business, the subject of war kept creeping into life. Some were talking about leaving their homes and hiding in the hills. But it wasn’t yet a reality, and so physically leaving was a difficult decision to make.

Hipolita Chapman, however, made plans to evacuate her family almost immediately. She had a little house built in Utap, a small sitio, a territorial enclave that forms part of a barangay, only a few kilometers outside of Tacloban at the foot of the mountain to the west, where she felt her family would be safe and far enough away from the town in the event of an air attack.

Mano Pasyo, the family cook, was at the marketplace when the news arrived: The Japanese were attacking. He took the tartanilla, a horse-drawn carriage, home, and before he could pay the fare, he grabbed the basket of food and jumped out, his fruits and vegetables falling into the street. He ran up to the house and through the living and dining rooms, dropping all that he carried as he screamed, Mana Hipolita, it has come!

His cheeks were flushed, and his large eyes were wild. Then he was out of breath and turned pale.

Hipolita became concerned because Pasyo looked like he might be having an attack of some sort, and he was already of an older age. She took him by the shoulders and sat him down. Pasyo, you must slow down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.

He took a deep breath. The Japanese airplanes have bombed Clark Airfield. He gulped another breath. And some people at the marketplace were saying that anyone who has American blood in their veins will be shot.

Fear gripped Hipolita’s heart. All her children, with their light hair and brown eyes, looked American. She sat on the bench by the kitchen table, unable to think straight. She didn’t know what to do; it had all happened so fast. Wanting to be alone, she went to her room to think. How she missed her husband then; he would have known what to do. Her mind wandered to the past and how she first met him.

H e had been building a road close to Hipolita’s birthplace. She was very young, around eleven years of age, and the eldest of four children, two boys and two girls. Being the eldest, she had to help her family by selling tobacco leaves and fruits. She carried the fruit in a basket on her head and sold them around town. Or if the family had enough money to rent a table, she sold them at the market. She was in charge of the fruit, and when she heard there was a construction crew in town, she went in search of it. Hipolita knew she could sell fresh fruit to the men. She asked questions around town, and it didn’t take her very long to find the work site. They were building a road around a mountain and using dynamite. The action and explosions fascinated her.

The men seemed hungry and thirsty all the time. She also made money by selling them tobacco leaves rolled into cigars. Her business was going much better, thanks to these men, and Hipolita was glad.

Being a regular at the camp, she got word the crew was moving farther up the hill the next day. Hipolita decided to get up early, as she would need extra time to carry her basket, and it was going to be heavier because of being filled with ripe mangoes.

She woke up very cheerful around five o’clock. It had rained the night before, and the clean, crisp air was exhilarating. She took the kimona blouse her mother had made from a cardboard box underneath her bed. It was made of pineapple material with pink embroidery around the neckline. It was cut straight down on sides and reached directly below her waistline.

She reached for her patadyong, which she laid out at the foot of her bed. She selected this particular patadyong because it made the pink flowers stand out, and pink was her favorite color.

Hipolita got out of bed very slowly, making sure her bamboo bed did not squeak. I better ask Tatay (father) to change the rattan strips. They’re loose and worn out, she said to herself.

She found her slippers under the bed, put them on, and walked to the washroom, which was next to the kitchen. The night before, she had filled the bucket with enough water to wash up.

Theirs was a small house with one bedroom and with very little furniture. Hipolita, her two brothers, and sister shared the living room. Her brothers slept on the bamboo slats and poles tied together with rattan strips. They were hard but cool. The bed became a couch during the day.

Hipolita struck a match in the washroom and lit a lamp. The washcloth from the bucket served to scrub her whole body. After she dried off, she put on her clothes.

The sun was already halfway out on the horizon after she had dressed. She went into the kitchen to start the fire. Of all the things she had to do around the house, she hated this the most. She could never get it lit the first time. This morning she was going to be especially careful. She didn’t want the ashes on her clothes. She had wanted a kimona in her favorite color for a long time.

She made sure the charcoal from the coconut shell was dry. She put crumpled paper on it and got the buri ready to fan the flames when she lit the paper.

After the water was boiling, she cut up some ginger from the cupboard and put it in the pot. Elders often said the hot water from boiled ginger can do wonders for the stomach, especially early in the morning.

While the water was boiling, she rinsed two cups of rice in a clay pot and had it ready on the side. She put water in a special pot for the hot chocolate. Then she took the dried fish and vegetables from the cupboard and put them in a pan to be warmed. She thought how nice it would be to have a place to store food for days at a time, safe from the bugs and roaches. She had heard about an ice box at the marketplace, but only the wealthy could afford them.

The hot ginger toddy was a little bitter, so she added more brown sugar to make it thick and rich. The family was just waking when she finished eating. After she washed and dried her hands, she asked her father to help her carry the basket down the steps. Then she took her bakya, wooden shoes, and with one of her hands holding her skirt, went down the bamboo steps. She put on her shoes, and her father helped her place the basket on her head. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she made sure it was tight and secure. The basket wasn’t as heavy as she thought, but then again, she was feeling good. The hot ginger toddy had done it again!

A s Hipolita walked, she imagined how much money she was going to make from selling the mangoes. If she made enough during the summer, she and her family wouldn’t have to work as hard during the school year. It had been bad the previous year—they hadn’t known if they would survive. She had to help her father since her mother was unable. Her sister and brothers were still very young. She went to the market with her father and had to run a few kilometers to get to school on time. She was so exhausted at times that she would sometimes throw up when she arrived. Then she would be sent home because she’d gotten sick. This year it would be different, she promised herself.

It was around ten in the morning, and the heat from the sun was becoming unbearable. She had rested along the way, but it hadn’t helped much. She did not expect the hill to be so high and steep. She put her load down and looked around to see if there was an easier way to do it. There was only a small trail, and no one around to help her.

She placed the basket back on her head and wished she had not misplaced the piece of material she used to cushion the weight on her head. As she was walking up, she found herself falling backward. The weight of the basket was pulling her back. She put the basket on her shoulder, but it only seemed heavier. She had to think of a better way. Finally, she set it down and dragged it, not even stopping to rest.

T he dynamite blasts finally stopped. It was time for lunch.

Hipolita was hot and perspiring when she got to the site; her cheeks were flushed. When she saw the men coming, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and brow with the back of her hand and straightened her skirt and kimona. She was so sweaty that her kimona clung to her skin, and she was thankful she wore her best chemise.

The men gathered around, glad to see what she had brought. Mangoes were their favorite dessert and appetizer, even though it was believed that eating too much could cause prickly heat rash, called bunga han balhas, fruit of the sweat.

Hipolita traded her mangoes for money and did not waste any time. As she sat on a stool one of the crew had given her, counting change from the coins she kept in her handkerchief, she did not notice the American coming toward her.

A coin fell to the ground, and as she stood, making sure not to drop any more of the money, she heard a voice saying, What have we here?

The voice sounded strange, and Hipolita was sure it did not belong to any of the men. The words were in the dialect Waray-waray, but it was the way he said the words that didn’t sound right. She turned around, and when she saw him, she turned pale. Not realizing it, she stepped back and fell over the basket of mangoes.

He has the hairiest arms and reddest face, she thought. He wasn’t very tall, maybe 5-foot-9, but to her, he could have been 7 feet tall compared with her 5-foot light frame. He was the first white man she’d ever seen.

The American roared with laughter, while the other men tried not to laugh. They felt she was one of them and didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. The American came toward her and offered her his hand; she was afraid to take it. Instead, she covered her legs in bewilderment. She didn’t know who he was or what he was doing there.

One of the men whispered, "You better let him help you up, he’s el jefe, the boss."

This frightened her even more, but she didn’t want him to know. Hipolita wanted to cry, and hide.

Then she heard him saying something, Ayay kahadlok. Diri ko ikaw pag-a-anuhon, Don’t be frightened, I won’t harm you.

She was amused and amazed at his fluency in the dialect but still wasn’t sure that he wasn’t angry with her.

The American, realizing what was going through her mind, smiled and teasingly said, If you’re going to continue making money off my men, you’re going to have to talk to me. She looked up at him and smiled. He continued, I appreciate what you’re doing for my men. If you want, you can keep track of what each one gets during the week then come to me every payday so I can deduct it from their wages.

Her heart skipped with joy. She knew the heavens were on her side and everything would be all right.

T he next weekend, as she came in the house through the back door, her mother was waiting in the kitchen. Hipolita, you better wash up and change your clothes. Someone is here to see you.

She had just finished watering their vegetable garden and had a bucket of water in her hand. Who is it? she asked. I can’t think of anyone who might want to see me.

It’s the Americano, her mother answered.

All kinds of things ran through Hipolita’s mind. What did I do wrong? Everything is going to be fine. What does he want? she asked her mother.

I really don’t know. Your father is talking to him. Sensing her anxiety, her mother assured her, I think he just wants to visit with you.

I’ll go if you go with me, Hipolita said. I don’t know what to say to him.

When they came into the room, the Americano stood. He and her father had been talking by the window. She found herself hiding behind her mother, but her mother was holding on tight to her wrist, practically dragging her.

Oh, there you are, her father said. Mr. Chapman would like a word with you. Her father stood and offered her the bench.

She smiled shyly, but no words would come. How-how did you find me? she finally managed to ask.

Oh, it wasn’t too hard, he said with a smile. "I asked one of