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The souvenir program for the awarding of medals and certificates of appreciation by the New Jersey Department of Military and Veterans' Affairs on July 14, 2001 during which the author was honored for his service.
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President Manuel L. Quezon.
THE ARMY OR BUST
Without any hesitation, we decided to enlist right then and there. After our interview, Bacolod chief of police Lt. Fidel Solomon Jr. directed a sergeant to drive us to Camp Magallon in Isabela, a good two hours or so by car south of Bacolod. There, we were given a complete physical examination, but the results all but shut the door on my joining the Army: I had an "enlarged heart", according to the Army doctor who conducted my physical. At this point in my life, I was a little estranged from my father, the reason I was not too thrilled over the prospect of going back to my hometown of Calinog. After my mother had died from a strange stomach disease that no doctor in Iloilo could diagnose at the time, my father remarried and had four children by his second wife. He sold our rice lands that we had inherited from our mother without consulting with me and my two sisters. But when he looked for me after the war, all my bad feelings towards him evaporated.
At Camp Magallon, Cendring's quick thinking came to my rescue: he handed me the result of his physical examination to present as my own. As luck would have it, amid the specter of an impending Japanese assault on the island of Negros, the Army did not pay too much attention to detail. They gave us blank forms, which enabled me to pull off the ruse by writing my name on the paperwork of Cendring. He simply went for a second examination with another medical officer, one of a number of Army physicians available throughout the camp. Being young and quite naïve about medical conditions, I thought nothing of the diagnosis that I had an enlarged heart. Looking back at it now, it is clear that I had been misdiagnosed for not only did I survive the rigors of war, but I have also lived long enough to see my grandchildren. Post-war medical exams had revealed nothing irregular about my heart condition. Sadly, it was the last time I ever saw Cendring—at Magallon or anywhere else. I know nothing about his fate. Whether he had survived the war or counted as one of its casualties will remain unanswered questions in my mind.
War survivors have stories to tell, and I am no exception. Up to this point, I have avoided recalling my war experiences even to my children as it induces anxiety attacks. The mere thought of the near brushes I had with death and the unspeakable sufferings I had seen makes me feel like throwing up. But my wife has urged me to write about my war experiences for our grandchildren to understand the sacrifices of the veterans as well as of the men and women serving our armed forces to preserve our freedom.
The call to serve my country came when I officially took my oath as an Army serviceman on December 21, 1941, two weeks after the Japanese had launched a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor that almost wiped out the entire American Pacific Fleet. The day of the attack, December 7, 1941, described by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a "day of infamy", marked the entry of the United States into the Second World War. It was just a matter of time before the Philippines, a U.S. colony then, would fall to the Japanese invaders.
My initial week in the Army was spent at Headquarters and Headquarters Service Co., and then I was picked to be directly under the command of Texas native Lt. Col. Roger B. Hilsman, at Camp Barrett in the village of La Granja, La Carlota town. He was the commander of the 2nd Battalion, 101st Infantry of the Visayas-Mindanao Force, concurrently serving as Negros island commander. Proud of wearing his Army uniform, the lanky Colonel Hilsman enjoyed inspecting camp defenses on his favorite horse like a cowboy. It was fun watching him gently wield the horsewhip and treating the animal like a friend. As a non-commissioned officer, I was placed in charge of the perimeter guards tasked to secure the camp. At early morning and at sundown, I inspected the guards, making sure they were manning their posts. At the gates, I saw to it that the sentries were properly checking everyone entering the camp. My mantra was for them to keep their eyes peeled. Strict compliance with special orders of the day was rigorous and without exception. My men knew to keep an ear to the ground at all times because failure to do so had consequences. During the day, I was on duty assisting Major Menchavez, adjutant and G-1. Officers wanting to see the island commander had to go through my scrutiny. I noted the purpose of their visit , wrote down their names, company, rank, et cetera and passed on the slips to Captain Mason, aide of the island commander.
Without any hesitation, we decided to enlist right then and there. After our interview, Bacolod chief of police Lt. Fidel Solomon Jr. directed a sergeant to drive us to Camp Magallon in Isabela, a good two hours or so by car south of Bacolod. There, we were given a complete physical examination, but the results all but shut the door on my joining the Army: I had an "enlarged heart", according to the Army doctor who conducted my physical. At this point in my life, I was a little estranged from my father, the reason I was not too thrilled over the prospect of going back to my hometown of Calinog. After my mother had died from a strange stomach disease that no doctor in Iloilo could diagnose at the time, my father remarried and had four children by his second wife. He sold our rice lands that we had inherited from our mother without consulting with me and my two sisters. But when he looked for me after the war, all my bad feelings towards him evaporated.
At Camp Magallon, Cendring's quick thinking came to my rescue: he handed me the result of his physical examination to present as my own. As luck would have it, amid the specter of an impending Japanese assault on the island of Negros, the Army did not pay too much attention to detail. They gave us blank forms, which enabled me to pull off the ruse by writing my name on the paperwork of Cendring. He simply went for a second examination with another medical officer, one of a number of Army physicians available throughout the camp. Being young and quite naïve about medical conditions, I thought nothing of the diagnosis that I had an enlarged heart. Looking back at it now, it is clear that I had been misdiagnosed for not only did I survive the rigors of war, but I have also lived long enough to see my grandchildren. Post-war medical exams had revealed nothing irregular about my heart condition. Sadly, it was the last time I ever saw Cendring—at Magallon or anywhere else. I know nothing about his fate. Whether he had survived the war or counted as one of its casualties will remain unanswered questions in my mind.
War survivors have stories to tell, and I am no exception. Up to this point, I have avoided recalling my war experiences even to my children as it induces anxiety attacks. The mere thought of the near brushes I had with death and the unspeakable sufferings I had seen makes me feel like throwing up. But my wife has urged me to write about my war experiences for our grandchildren to understand the sacrifices of the veterans as well as of the men and women serving our armed forces to preserve our freedom.
The call to serve my country came when I officially took my oath as an Army serviceman on December 21, 1941, two weeks after the Japanese had launched a sneak attack on Pearl Harbor that almost wiped out the entire American Pacific Fleet. The day of the attack, December 7, 1941, described by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a "day of infamy", marked the entry of the United States into the Second World War. It was just a matter of time before the Philippines, a U.S. colony then, would fall to the Japanese invaders.
My initial week in the Army was spent at Headquarters and Headquarters Service Co., and then I was picked to be directly under the command of Texas native Lt. Col. Roger B. Hilsman, at Camp Barrett in the village of La Granja, La Carlota town. He was the commander of the 2nd Battalion, 101st Infantry of the Visayas-Mindanao Force, concurrently serving as Negros island commander. Proud of wearing his Army uniform, the lanky Colonel Hilsman enjoyed inspecting camp defenses on his favorite horse like a cowboy. It was fun watching him gently wield the horsewhip and treating the animal like a friend. As a non-commissioned officer, I was placed in charge of the perimeter guards tasked to secure the camp. At early morning and at sundown, I inspected the guards, making sure they were manning their posts. At the gates, I saw to it that the sentries were properly checking everyone entering the camp. My mantra was for them to keep their eyes peeled. Strict compliance with special orders of the day was rigorous and without exception. My men knew to keep an ear to the ground at all times because failure to do so had consequences. During the day, I was on duty assisting Major Menchavez, adjutant and G-1. Officers wanting to see the island commander had to go through my scrutiny. I noted the purpose of their visit , wrote down their names, company, rank, et cetera and passed on the slips to Captain Mason, aide of the island commander.
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Shortly after the start of the Second World War, Luis T. Centina Jr. joined the Philippine Commonwealth Army and was inducted into the United States Army Forces Far East (USAFFE) commanded by General Douglas MacArthur. When the Philippines surrendered to the invading Japanese Imperial Army, he joined the organized guerrilla movement. He was honorably discharged with "very excellent" ratings on March 11, 1946.
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CHANCE ENCOUNTER WITH HISTORY
On March 17, 1942, a remarkable event took place in the sleepy village of La Granja, but it was contained within Camp Barrett so that no one in the village could ever believe that it ever happened when word spread about it later. It was about seven o'clock at night and already pitch-black as could be expected in areas near the equator where night and day have always the same duration. The darkness was made more pronounced by a standing order for a total blackout to avoid detection by the enemy. It must have been around seven o'clock in the evening when a convoy of several cars of various types arrived, their headlights turned off. The special order of the day said no car must be allowed to enter the camp, except car Number 1, the colonel’s car. When the convoy arrived, the driver of the lead car disregarded the guard’s order to halt. Upon seeing this breach in security and not knowing who were in the convoy, I ordered the guard to thrust his rifle with mounted bayonet at the front tire of the lead car on the driver's side. I could hear it burst as it started to deflate. The car, which looked like a Cadillac if memory serves, came to a stop, and when its backdoor opened, a good-looking officer got out, his two-star silver insignia gleaming in the dark. An interior car light enabled me to espy a Spanish mestizo with a finely chiseled face sitting with a woman in the backseat. He appeared to be gasping for breath and coughing as he held a handkerchief to his mouth in an obvious effort to muffle the sound. Despite his apparent distress, he looked dapper and handsome. Recognizing the uniformed man who had just emerged from the car as a high-ranking Philippine Commonwealth Army officer, although unaware how high up in the hierarchy, I froze at attention and rendered a snappy salute. At that point, he gave me a quick wave of his right hand, not quite forming a salute, and announced, his voice booming, “General Valdes and His Excellency President Quezon and party!”
It was indeed President Manuel Luis Quezon, the consummate political leader and nationalist whose familiar face had dominated Philippine newspapers and newsreels and whose voice had filled the radio airwaves for years. That realization staggered my mind like it had been hit by a ton of brick. Although I did not know it at that moment, he was there to make an unannounced visit to the island commander before embarking on a perilous journey to the United States to escape the tightening noose of the invaders. If the Japanese had captured him, it would have dealt a big blow to the morale of the Philippine defenders.
On March 17, 1942, a remarkable event took place in the sleepy village of La Granja, but it was contained within Camp Barrett so that no one in the village could ever believe that it ever happened when word spread about it later. It was about seven o'clock at night and already pitch-black as could be expected in areas near the equator where night and day have always the same duration. The darkness was made more pronounced by a standing order for a total blackout to avoid detection by the enemy. It must have been around seven o'clock in the evening when a convoy of several cars of various types arrived, their headlights turned off. The special order of the day said no car must be allowed to enter the camp, except car Number 1, the colonel’s car. When the convoy arrived, the driver of the lead car disregarded the guard’s order to halt. Upon seeing this breach in security and not knowing who were in the convoy, I ordered the guard to thrust his rifle with mounted bayonet at the front tire of the lead car on the driver's side. I could hear it burst as it started to deflate. The car, which looked like a Cadillac if memory serves, came to a stop, and when its backdoor opened, a good-looking officer got out, his two-star silver insignia gleaming in the dark. An interior car light enabled me to espy a Spanish mestizo with a finely chiseled face sitting with a woman in the backseat. He appeared to be gasping for breath and coughing as he held a handkerchief to his mouth in an obvious effort to muffle the sound. Despite his apparent distress, he looked dapper and handsome. Recognizing the uniformed man who had just emerged from the car as a high-ranking Philippine Commonwealth Army officer, although unaware how high up in the hierarchy, I froze at attention and rendered a snappy salute. At that point, he gave me a quick wave of his right hand, not quite forming a salute, and announced, his voice booming, “General Valdes and His Excellency President Quezon and party!”
It was indeed President Manuel Luis Quezon, the consummate political leader and nationalist whose familiar face had dominated Philippine newspapers and newsreels and whose voice had filled the radio airwaves for years. That realization staggered my mind like it had been hit by a ton of brick. Although I did not know it at that moment, he was there to make an unannounced visit to the island commander before embarking on a perilous journey to the United States to escape the tightening noose of the invaders. If the Japanese had captured him, it would have dealt a big blow to the morale of the Philippine defenders.
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