Remembering my father

Raul Ilogon .

THE seed of my interest in history was planted at our family dinning table. It  started when I was very young. I have two older brothers and two older sisters as well. At meal time, I would notice my siblings glued to the stories told by my father — all eyes and ears gyud murag nanan-aw og sine.

Sukad pag kat-on nako ug bout, our meal time scenario has always been like that. It took me a while to comprehend what was happening. I think I was already in 2nd year high school when I was able to grasp fully what this meal time ritual was all about. But I do not remember asking a question. It was my two older brothers who were doing the questions and answers. I just sat there eating my meal — unaware that my subconscious mind was absorbing everything.

My father and olders brothers talked about the same subject matter over and over again. It was all the same, same topic, same story teller telling the same story with gusto, and same audience with same bright-eyed-all-ears attention. It was as if they were hearing it for the very first time.

I can vividly remember the glint in my father’s eyes and the excited voice as he retold and retold and retold and retold for the nth time his World War 2 experience as a young guerrilla fighter.

I remember how he admired the guerrillas passing by their house on horseback at the start of the guerrilla movement in Alubijid, Misamis Oriental.

I remember how he dreamt that soon he too will fight and die if need be for his country to get rid of the cruel and brutal enemy.

I remember how he ran for his life with policemen chasing after him because he interrupted the speech of the Japanese puppet mayor by shouting at the top of his voice, “Bakakon!”

I remember how he, at 17 years of age, ran away from home and enlisted in the guerrilla movement without the permission of his parents.

I remember how he started as a stable boy, taking care of the officers’ horses. Not long after, he was transfered to the headquarters when an officer found out that he knew how to use a typewriter.

I remember how he was chosen by some officers as bodyguard over those older and experienced soldiers because he was smart, responsible and brave.

I remember how his regimental commander became so proud of him when the Japanese attacked their headquarters because he was able to fight the Japanese twice in a day while some soldiers ran without even firing their guns.

I remember how he felt awkward because important missions were given to him instead of much older and experienced soldiers.

I remember how his youthful bravado almost put them to certain death because he was itching for a fight when they were trapped and hiding in the mangroves. Fifty meters in front of them was a very long column of marching Japanese troops. Had he not asked permission to start the fight and obeyed the order not to fire, they  would have been all dead because the Japanese were so numerous and there was no place for retreat because the sea was at their back.

I remember how he was chosen as part of 108th regiment expeditionary force for a mopping up operation in the mountains of Dipolog.

I remember how he was ordered to put reflective sheet 50 meters from the troops so that those flying American planes know where to bomb and strafe.

I remember how he relayed orders from command post to three companies at the front. There were no portable radios so he was made the runner.

I remember how he ran to each company with orders for them to move forward with bullets zipping all around and encouraging those who lagged behind.

I remember him praying like he never did before.

I remember him telling us a story of how he and his war buddy were transported back to wartime 24 years after the war ended.

He was a young supervisor of Del Monte when it had a violent and bloody laborers’ strike in 1969. The supervisor and non-striking workers were provided with a transportation vehicle they called “Pack Bus.”

The Pack Bus was rubbed with dirty grease, plus barbed wires to discourage the violent strikers from getting near. There was a riot when the Pack Bus arrived. As the guards opened the gate, the strikers threw anything at the Pack Bus.

Those who missed riding the Pack Bus had no chance of getting inside the plant.

But he missed the Pack Bus so he took the public transportation. When he crossed the street to Del Monte, hundreds of strikers were looking at him. He was determined to pass the gate, blocked by striking laborers. They grabbed and manhandled him. He tried his best to defend himself and then he heard a loud commanding voice: “Do not hurt him. Let him pass!” Moments later, he saw a familiar tall figure in front of him, shielding his body from harm.

His fellow supervisors who were looking from inside the fence were surprised that the strikers let him pass.

“They did not know that Doming Baldovino (a Tagoloanon) and I were war buddies,” he said.

Thank you, Cpl. Jesus “Jake” B. Ilogon for the stories.

We will always remember!