Our tiny fishing village was nestled between a small tributary of the Great Amburayan river and the azure expanse of the South China Sea. There wasn’t much land to speak of – just a spit of sand and gravel covered by mostly a dense growth of bamboo, coconut and betelnut trees. But we called it home.

Basic mode of transportation.

The houses – which were pre-OFW – were small and shanty-like, some with cogoon grass roofs, while some had tin roofs, but generally,� all the houses were made with bamboo for sidings. The windows were always open to allow the sea breeze to flow freely through. My grandfather loved to take afternoon naps. When the sun is directly overhead and the heat becomes oppressive thank goodness for the sea breezes that blow by… the only work being done was the mending of fishing nets in the cool shade and in some households the operation of the blanket weaving looms. Everybody else took a nap one way or another.

During the last world war, the Americans built an intermediate ammunition depot in our village. They also created a temporary airplane landing strip along the stretch of shoreline. It was a busy munitions depot with six by six troop carriers, jeeps, and halftrucks of every size. The American GI’s were a friendly lot and would give us kids sheets of chewing gum and gobs of chocolate which we grabbed from their hands and ran. My parents would always caution us kids from taking these GI gifts freely. One never knew those could have been bribes for some favors to be remunerated at a later date. Their message to us was, “Be careful. There is no free lunch.”

Every night they showed movies at the munitions depot. There were the classic silent movies and then there were the hilarious cartoons. All of us kids would line the compound perimeter and peek through the barbed concertina wire rolls and other barricades. Every now and then, at regular intervals, the guard on duty would walk by, rifle perched on his shoulder, his helmet cocked to one side of his head. He would always say something pleasant like, “Enjoying the show, eh kids?” We would just snicker and mumble something like a yeah… or some such.

One day, one of the GI’s came by our house. He brought with him a bag of rations -� a huge can of dried apple strips, some cigarettes, and some canned ham. My aunt, who was only seventeen at the time was immediately awestruck by this handsome young soldier with blue eyes. After a few obligatory greetings he went back to the compound.

Then his visits became more regular. He would always bring goodies of some kind. My mother kept busy sewing dresses and would leave my aunt and the young soldier by themselves in the living room. Everything was going well until one day, my mother heard a scream that came from my aunt’s bedroom. Bolting from her sewing machine, she went to investigate. There on the bedroom floor lay my aunt, her dress torn and splattered with blood.

Not a single one of our elders could get anything out of my aunt. She just totally refused to open her mouth. It seemed as if she had lost all ability to speak – either that or she had gone insane, her brain on lock down. The local town doctor was summoned, his services engaged. No results. My aunt over time became a recluse and never got married. She was a dedicated spinster.

Years went by after the July 4th 1946 Independence Day celebrations. Still, my aunt, who by now had graying hair and sunken cheeks refused to speak about the event that happened that day. Later on, when my aunt lay on her death bed, she held on to something so tightly in her hand. Not long after the priest gave her last rites she died. The undertaker pried her hand open and found a couple of stainless steel dog tags. . . ANDERSON, Maurice J., US Army, B+, Prot.