Moonlit March

I

The platoon was scattered amongst a thin line of foxholes and fortifications. Ahead was a no-man’s land of burnt trees, water-filled craters and charred corpses. Hiding behind the nearby canopy of trees was the enemy

Silence momentarily engulfed this sordid mass of earth, flesh and metal. From my vantage point, I could hear the faint whispers of those beside me and the screams of the wounded. The last enemy artillery barrage was hellish. The very ground seemed to shake from its very foundations. There were explosions everywhere. In two hours of constant bombardment, the men had to seek cover from the deadly combination of tree bursts and shrapnel.

I scanned the area in front of me with the eyes of a hunter, even though in reality, we were the cornered prey. An enemy breakthrough could occur any minute. There was a sharp ringing inside my ears. My entire body shook with uncontrolled tremors. I was afraid of getting wounded. I’ve seen boys hardly any younger than I get their arms and legs blown off. Their ghoulish screams were ear piercing. And since the platoon and the entire USAFFE[1] were almost out of morphine, one had to wonder whether a bullet in the head to end their wretched existence would be considered a merciful act.

As the debilitating effects of the monstrous barrage started to subside, I regained control of my senses. I ignored the rumblings of an empty stomach. The rations were dwindling with each passing day. It was a minor miracle, really, that I have been spared from the malaria and dysentery that had stricken the rest of my comrades. Despite my relative good health, I felt weakened. I longed for the cozy confines of home and the warmth of parents’ presence. Night after night, I dreamt of the good old days in the University, my tight circle of friends and the simple yet peaceful way of life that was abruptly interrupted by war.

Amidst this omnipresent chaos, I paused for a while to gaze at the distant horizon, beyond the jagged outline of felled trees, beyond this man-made abyss of pain, towards an existence so distant and surreal.

II

I have always been a dreamer. As a child, I would spend my nights ceaselessly walking around our suburban home, gazing at the high heavens. Many a time, I had stumbled upon unseen bumps or the occasional passers-by. In the day, my mind often drifted off to far-away lands, to places much cooler and certainly more exciting than this lazy, tropical country of ours. Books were my constant companions. Wherever I went, I always carried a book or two. The works of Dickens, Dostoevsky and Chekhov were my personal favorites.

In my adolescence, I learned to be more outgoing, but I did not seem to enjoy the various socials and dances that punctuated the typical life of a young man. I found it far too pretentious. It was on one of those forgettable March nights when I first laid my eyes of Marita.

The dance hall was hazy with cigarette smoke, irritating my weak eyes. Since I’ve lost sight of Jaime and Miguel, my two closest friends, I decided to go outside to get some fresh air.

I saw her sitting by her lonesome at one of the benches a few meters from the dance hall. Her white dress was resplendent amidst the solitary streetlight that shone brightly nearby. Her long brown hair gently danced with the steady sea breeze coming from the bay. As I drew closer, I wanted to feel her radiant skin. My heart became a big bass drum, like the ones played in those basketball games in Rizal Memorial.

I wanted to turn back as my knees wobbled with each step. For a moment, I paused, contemplating the first moves of my so-called overture. I felt the uncannily strong urge to simply walk away. As I began my retreat, she turned to me. Our eyes met briefly. Slowly, she stood up and walked right past me. I was frozen on my tracks, unable to move or speak. Her steps were light, stealthy even. As she walked past me, our shoulders almost touched. I was motionless for a few moments, and then mustered enough courage to look back at her. With the starry night sky and a full moon as a backdrop, her silhouette was utterly majestic – in perfect harmony with this serene nighttime milieu.

I spent the next few weeks in some sort of solitary limbo. I tried to ask around about this particular girl, but I just didn’t know enough facts about her other than her immediate physical attributes. It was a futile task. My only recourse was to hope for the best, to pray to the high heavens for destiny to smile at me. I tried to fight the feeling of hopelessness by distracting myself with such menial tasks like cleaning the room and tending the yard. I attempted to drown those fantasies, immersing myself in the wealth of literature available at home. I spent long hours day and night writing letters – letters bound not to be sent - to my muse.

In vain, I revisited the dance hall by the bayside as frequently as I could, hoping for that fortuitous chance meeting. It seemed as if everywhere I went – from the occasional trips to the Escolta or the customary weekend family dinner in some restaurant - I saw her face. Whenever I was in crowded places, a faint resemblance to her never failed to evoke a second look.

For weeks, I was stuck in this cycle of hope and despair, unable to progress. I was on the verge of simply giving up when that serendipitous moment finally came my way.

During one particularly lazy Saturday afternoon, Jaime boisterously barged into my room, rousing me from my customary afternoon nap.

“Wake up Luis!” He shouted as he wildly shook my rickety wooden bed. “Come, let’s watch Miguel’s play tonight.”

“What?” I asked, my mind still groggy from sleep.

“Have you forgotten already? Tonight’s the last show date for Tristan and Isolde.”

“Oh, yeah! Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

Miguel was a thespian, a very good one. In fact, he was a supposed to go to Britain for a scholarship at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art but the onset of war a few months later interrupted his plans. Jaime and I never really found the time to diligently watch his plays, despite his constant pleas.

We went to the Met quite early. As we walked up the grand staircase, I was frozen in disbelief at the sight of her image at one of the promotional posters for the play. How could I have been so myopic all this time? How could I have failed to realize something so obvious?

“Jaime, do you know that girl?”

“No. But she’s pretty.”

“Remember the girl by the bay?”

“Yeah,” He replied matter-of-factly. “You have been blabbering about her for weeks now.”

I could not even speak as I gazed at her photograph. She was quite different from the last time I saw her. Perhaps it was the dearth of light. Nevertheless, it was so long since the first encounter that I had almost forgotten how she looked.

“Luis?”

“She’s the girl.”

“Marita Asprilla. The name’s familiar. I think I’ve met her at one of those soirees with Assumption once.”

“Did you, really?”

“I’m not too sure. There was lots of girls pare, and all of them were head-turners!”

“You are a sucker for mestizas, Luis.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“The Asprillas are into banking, sugar planting, trading, manufacturing and whatever imaginable business there is to man.” Jaime said cynically. “Dream on, my star-crossed friend. She’ll probably marry someone who has the same skin color as hers. For now, can we just go to our seats in peace?”

“We’re in the 20th century for crying out loud.”

“Bah, say whatever it is that you want old friend. You really are an optimist.”

“Indeed I am.”

We loitered for a good half hour then went to our seats. The Met[2] was already crowded with a sizable number of patrons. Fortunately, Miguel had reserved seats for us near the stage.

The theater was neither stuffy nor chilly. The ventilation was just right for this nondescript, tropical evening. I looked around for familiar faces, but found none. There were the usual groups of giggly schoolgirls and squeamish schoolboys jostling for the others’ attention. In addition, there was the usual collection of couples since “Tristan and Isolde” is a timeless tragedy of youthful passions, predating even its better-known Elizabethan cousin.

The lights went out. The buzzing noise of the patrons gradually toned down as well. When I laid my eyes on Marita – the first time since that fateful bayside night – I was enthralled. She looked every inch the medieval maiden. Her dark brownish hair was styled neatly, each strand tenderly bouncing with the subtlest and the most pronounced of her movements.

I was completely enamored that I ignored Jaime’s sly whispers about some attractive lass seated nearby. The dialogue of the play, aside from my muse’s own lines, of course, was barely intelligible to my inattentive ears. I suppressed the desire to reach to her and touch her. It was like gazing at a genuine Monet at the Louvre, unable to look closer, much less feel the delicate combination of paint and brush strokes.

Before I knew it, the curtains closed and the lights flickered back to life.

“Pare, I have to meet her,” I said to Jaime.

“Ask for an introduction then. Want to go back stage?”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes to fix myself up.”

As I walked the fifty or so steps to the ornately furnished lavatories, I felt my knees buckle with every step. Never have I felt this scared my entire life. My emotions were akin to the tense moments before Fr. Croghan’s cutthroat Latin oral examinations. To sooth my nerves, I craved for a bottle of beer. Alcohol, after all, lubricates one’s speech and makes one bold and daring.

I looked at myself in the mirror unable to believe that I was moments away from the moment I have dreamt of so fervently the past few weeks. My mind was working triple time – a bad sign since one’s verbal faculties could not keep up with such a rigid pace of thought.

I closed my eyes. The momentary calm was soothing.

“Marita, I’d like you to meet two of my closest friends: Jaime and Luis.”

“Hello there, I’m Jaime.”

“Luis. Pleased to meet you,” I said somewhat blankly as we shook hands. I smiled. She smiled back.

After a few perfunctory exchanges of words, Jaime and Miguel excused themselves. Marita and I were alone.

“Great performance,” I remarked.

“Thank you, I’m glad you liked it. By the way, you three seem really close.”

“Yeah we are. We’ve been buddies ever since we were little tots. Our parents are close friends as well.”

“That’s nice. You’re almost brothers then.”

“Almost but not quite. So, how long did you rehearse for your role?”

“Six times a week for three months.”

“Wow,” Of course I knew the answer. Miguel was practically incognito when preparing for a play. “That certainly is tiring.”

III

Before I could even recall the subsequent words of our conversation, the resumption of the enemy’s artillery bombardment interrupted my reverie. The medics and the soldiers who were out of their foxholes to tend to the wounded were the ones badly hit. It was a deliberate tactic on the enemy’s part to lure out potential targets for their big guns.

For an hour, the fires of Hades burnt everything it touched into the afterlife. Our own artillery battalions were silent in reply. The final stores of ammunition had been used up days ago.

The men ran for cover. We were unable to even fire our weapons in a meek show of resistance. Each man was down to his final reserves of bullets.

With the enemy’s barrage a relentless hail of noise and buzzing pieces of shrapnel, the soldier beside me had lost his wits. I heard Ciriaco’s screams even through all the bursts and explosions of the shelling. The young Ilonggo recruit covered his ears with his bare hands to try and drown out the monstrous noise. He tried to bury his face inside his coconut shell helmet. All these were for naught. Three months of holding out in this wretched peninsula had taken its toll. In a final attempt to rid him of these mortal pains, Ciriaco put the barrel of his rifle right into his mouth and fired.

Even through the incapacitating effects of disease, through the biting jaws of a persistent hunger that eats one up from the inside, each man in our foxhole remained speechless at the sight of such blatant desperation.

“Gomez and Villanueva,” The gunnery sergeant ordered through the chaos. “Get a blanket and cover Ciriaco. Get his dog tag too.”

“Got it Sarge,” They grunted in reply.

“Hold fast men, they’re bound to stop this shelling some time.”

Silence.

“Fix bayonets.”

There and then, I took out the silver pen Marita gave me. A deluge of memories came back.

IV

After we met backstage, Marita and I were inseparable. Since she didn’t have any plays scheduled in the next two months, she had lots of time to kill after school. Everyday, we met at this quaint Italian coffee shop in Adriatico Street near Rizal Memorial. We would talk for hours at a time, after which we took strolls by the bay as I walked her home to the Asprilla mansion in Ermita.

“Luis,” Marita asked during one of those pleasant afternoons. “What do you plan to take up in college?”

“An engineering course, definitely. I want to fix things and build cars and trains.”

“Man and his love affair with machines never fail to amaze me.”

“I’ll to the States and make a name for myself! I’ll travel the world even! What about you ‘Rita?”

“I’m going to attend the Philippine Normal School. I want to be a teacher.”

“Now that’s a noble profession.” I remarked. “Don’t you want to be a professional stage actress?”

“I do, in fact. But that career path entails leaving the country. And I don’t ever want to leave. I grew up here. I was born here.”

“Ah, but man has to set sail for the open oceans of the world to experience life.”

“Look around you, Luis.” She said gently. “There’s so much life here already. Think of me as a modern-day, female Immanuel Kant.”

“Who never went beyond 100 kilometers away from his birthplace all his life,” I said, completing her sentence.

It was about a quarter past five. Since Marita had to be home by six, we paid the bill and walked towards the bay area. We were silent the entire time. Perhaps it was the prospect of a future intruding upon the present that made us so contemplative.

The sun had almost set. The sky was an orange canvas of light, dashed with the occasional grayish black brush stroke and random sprinklings of white. There were quite a few ships at the bay, ranging from the large ocean-going liners to small fishing boats. The palm trees that lined Dewey Boulevard swayed with each gust of the strong, afternoon breeze. The sounds of the dancing leaves and the serene waves continuously crashing to the shore evoked a certain sense of tranquil hypnosis.

I caught a glimpse of Marita. Her brown eyes were glowing as it reflected the sun’s mellow rays. Her mouth was suspended in an expression of wonder she usually made whenever she was in deep thought. Her skin had a certain likeness to an ancient Ming vase – smooth and round – and tinged with her innate warmth.

My thoughts were broken as the wind blew her hair into my face. Her fragrance was truly that of woman’s. It reminded me of that safe feeling of being home – of being at ease.

Noticing my sideward glances, Marita beamed then blushed when she realized how uncomfortably flushed I was. Without hesitating, I took her hand and held it in a delicate, intimate grasp. Our touch lingered as we gazed into each other’s eyes. The loud blaring of a ship’s horn shattered the peace of this little, shared paradise of ours.

“Let’s get going, Luis,” She said. “It’s getting late.”

We walked hand-in-hand for the hundred paces to her house. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. We strolled by the tree-lined pavement, invigorated by salty air. As we drew closer to Ermita, the skies began to darken; the Sun gave way to the Moon and the Stars.

V

The sergeant’s slap awakened me from the daydream.

“Snap out of it Private!”

“Sorry sir,” I apologized, my senses in full alert yet again.

The entire platoon was silent. We knew for a fact that the line was spread too thin and held by men half-dead from disease. From a distance, I noticed a rustling of shrubs – signs of a mobile, heavily camouflaged enemy. The men held their fire. Suddenly, a sharp retort of a rifle broke through the fragile silence. A loud, fierce scream of “banzai!” resonated through the jungle, preceding the mighty charge.

The enemy’s first wave was mowed down by heavy firing from our lines. Soon enough, the determined attacks took its toll on the famished defenders. By the forty-fifth minute, the defenses were breached in various places, but the attackers were repelled with heavy loss of life. The fighting became too close for the use of guns. What transpired was a brutal, hand-to-hand bloodbath.

I felt a sharp burst of pain pierce in my left thigh. An enemy soldier had just stabbed me with his bayonet. With my eyes blind with rage, my mouth drooling with a carnal desire for blood, I aimed for the antagonist’s throat with my own bayonet. I tasted the saline, slimy broth of death – a fate my own hands had inflicted. As a rifle butt hit me squarely on the temple, I passed out.

VI

Through college, Marita and I never drifted apart. Even though we had different circles of friends and somewhat distant set of interests, we still found the time to meet in the Italian coffee shop in Adriatico as often as we could. In those pleasant afternoon sojourns, it was as if we were carefree younglings once again, albeit without the youthful school uniforms and heavy rucksacks.

“How’s college?” asked Marita.

“Nothing remarkable,” I replied. “Except for the fact that Christmas is just around the corner!”

“Oh yeah! I have something for you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“C’mon, ‘Rita.”

“Wait until Christmas!”

“But that’s almost two months away!”

“Just wait for it, Luis.”

It was getting dark, so Marita and I stood up from an old, wooden bench for the walk home. On the way, we came by a young family of three. The little boy was playing a game with his father, as the mother sat nearby reading a book. They were so happy and seemed really content.

“Hi there, little boy,” I said with a childish smile, as the basketball they were playing with hit my foot. “Is this yours?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After I handed the ball to the exuberant youngster, I gave a friendly nod to the father, but he didn’t seem to notice my subtle, affable gesture.

Over the horizon, rain clouds loomed. Flashes of lightning preceded the deep thunderous roars of an impending storm. It became even darker, as the nimbus clouds obscured whatever sunlight was left. Rain started to fall in trickles, at first, and then into an unceasing torrent of water and wind.

Marita and I walked amidst the deluge like kids frolicking in an unexpected downpour. Every inch of our clothing became soaked. Fortunately, the Asprilla mansion was a short distance away. As soon as we stopped our childish horseplay, our bodies drew closer for warmth. When we were in front of the imposing steel gate, Marita gave me one of her innocent, radiant looks.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go in?” she asked.

“No, I’m fine.” I explained. “I should get home myself.”

An awkward silence loomed.

I wanted to make the first move. I longed for one of those melodramatic embraces one only sees in theatres. I wanted to be her Tristan, even if there was no such thing as a “happily ever after” in their tragic anti-thesis of a fairy tale. Our hearts gravitated around each other. Our eyes met and our lips intertwined. We were locked in a tight, passionate embrace. I felt a deluge of warm, pleasant emotions amidst the environs of gloom.

Neither of us wanted to break off.

We held on to each other for as long possible, impervious to our surroundings. When we finally drew apart, I noticed a certain redness in her cheeks – she was blushing. I kissed her again, this time a tender peck on the forehead as I held her hand still, not wanting to let go.

Could this be the beginning of something wonderful? Everything seemed so perfect, the timing opportune. I began to picture the future, five or ten years from that point in time. The prospect of change was scary, but then again, it was something to look forward to. It was a future worth working hard for, especially if the portrait’s focal point is Marita.

But life, it seemed, had another vision of what lay ahead. Man, after all, is but a speck amidst the greater scheme of things.

A few weeks later, I received a letter from the government: I had been drafted into the army.

Marita and I wrote to each other as often as possible, since vacation leaves were a rarity to a lowly recruit. There came a point where I received many letters from a single date – all from Marita. I cherished her handwritten messages. I read it constantly as I felt the soft texture of her personal stationery. Her penmanship was rhythmic and a joy to read again and again.

At the onset of December, Marita sent a parcel containing food, books, more letters and a small innocent-looking, rectangular box. It was an early Christmas gift from her – an elegantly simple silver pen.

When war broke out a few weeks later, the letters stopped arriving as the army scattered to man defensive positions along the route to Manila. The ferocity of our oriental foe was shocking. Soon enough, the army retreated to Bataan, to hold out until outside help could arrive.

But none ever did.

VII

I woke up to the sounds of death. All around me, men were screaming in pain. The few who were left unscathed and fit enough to bear arms waited calmly for the next onslaught.

A hail of bullets fell on our positions. High-pitched shouts signaled the commencement of another episode of this long-drawn bloodletting. The enemy was so superior and aggressive that, soon enough, there was not any semblance of a front line anymore. My body felt so tired and heavy that I could have instantly fallen asleep if not for the fighting. All around me, fellow soldiers were being stabbed and shot en masse.

I felt a sharp pain in my chest and heard a dull thud as I fell prostrate to the ground. The pain was excruciating. I could hardly breathe as I choked on my own blood. Desperately, I took out Marita’s letters and the silver pen from my chest pocket. Her one hundred letters became stained with blood. I tried to read them, but I could hardly see what was written, though I knew each line’s content by heart. Everything became a hazy blur as the horrid sensations began to subside.

Through the darkness I saw an endless white light.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself by the bayside again on a quiet moonlit March evening. I saw a girl with long brown hair and porcelain skin, and walked towards her.


[1] United States Armed Forces in the Far East – The combined Filipino-American force formed to defend the Philippines against Japanese aggression shortly before the 2nd World War.

[2] The Manila Metropolitan Theater – A renowned Art Deco building located in Padre Burgos St., Manila.