Miss Paco and Pearl Harbor
by Fred Natividad

There was a time when my father's job as a bus driver required him and his family to live temporarily for stretches at a time all over the northern region of the Philippines. Because of this, my parents sent me to my aunt in a town called Lingayen so I can have a continuous schooling in one place.

Looking back to my Lingayen days I could still see Miss Paco: fresh-faced, so naive about world affairs, so eager to do her job, so young (probably not older than twenty), attractively dressed in the conservative fashion of those days (no body piercings, no exposed belly buttons, etc)...

She was just a kid but to me she was old because I was only eight. In those days only two years of college with a major in elementary education was enough to qualify anyone to teach in grade school. Which was how Miss Paco qualified as a teacher even if she was too young to vote. Can you imagine a nineteen year-old being addressed so formally like an adult in today's American ambiance?

She was my teacher.

It was early Monday morning. The schoolyard was full of us children, playing, quarreling, screaming, singing, bullying each other... Suddenly, but not unexpectedly, the school bell rang. With resignation our noises stopped to a deafening silence as we all formed lines ready to march to our classrooms.

But not before we stiffly stood at attention as we sang "Jose', can you you see?" (our nickname for the Star Spangled Banner) while Old Glory (with only 48 stars then) went up at one of two poles for the flag raising ceremonies every Monday morning. Then we sang the Philippine national anthem, too, and the Philippine flag also went up the other
pole.

Miss Paco led the singing of the two anthems. We felt proud that our homeroom teacher had the honor that morning to lead the singing at the flag raising ceremony. Then we marched into our classroom and stood by our school desks.

"Good morning, children," Miss Paco cheerfully greeted us. We answered in unison - all fifteen of us - "Good morning, Miss Paco." Then we sat down.

"I have good news for you, children," she said smiling. "The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and we are at war against them. There will be no classes today. Go home and come back after the war."

There was not a hint in her face that she was scared nor did she seem concerned about this war. So we thought war was only a weekend affair. All of us raced home shouting with glee because there was no school, that the war was on.

This was Monday, December 8, 1941, in this place called Lingayen. Halfway across the globe another place called Pearl Harbor was in flames where, because of the international date line, it was only Sunday, December 7, 1941.

Two days later, on December 10, 1941, swarms of well trained, well equipped Japanese invaders landed on the shores of Lingayen Gulf and chased General MacArthur's untrained Filipino troops and their relatively smaller number of American trainers into the jungles of Bataan. (The 11th Division, Philippine Army, my father's outfit, was led by an American general who was assisted by about a dozen and a half American officers
and enlisted men. The composition of that division may very well be a sample of the ratio of Filipino and American troops trapped in Bataan.)

Some agonizing years later, on January 9, 1945, MacArthur "returned" on the same shores, this time with a better equipped army of gangling, gum chewing, GI Joes who threw cigarettes and chewing gum to an adoring, hungry horde of Filipinos. MacArthur, with some aid from vengeful Filipino guerillas, some led by Americans, returned the favor of chasing the Japanese into the mountains until President Truman gave the green
light to drop atomic bombs, one each, on two Japanese cities.

World War II ended. I never knew whatever happened to Miss Paco.

© 2002 Fred Natividad