The Angels of Bataan

But then again - that was what she expected. So, I put my arms around her and gently pulled her to me. My left hand was decorously at her waist, and my right hand was on the skin of her bare back. Then I bent her over in a kiss like something out of a romantic storybook.

She hesitated, confused for a second. Then she made a slight noise and began to kiss back enthusiastically. It was finally time for the endgame. I took Margarita's hand and led her gently toward the bed. She looked a little dazed -- good!

I stopped beside the bed and stared directly into her deep dark eyes. She was looking back as I gently unzipped her gown. It was like gazing into the eyes of a hungry tiger. Unspeakable forces were about to be unleashed.

I already knew that Margarita was wearing nothing but a thin pair of panties and a garter belt. Very little material was in the front of her dress, and the entire back was missing. But the sight that was revealed as her dress fell to the floor was something I'll never forget.

Margarita Santos-Marquez had an amazing body. All the proportions were perfect, not too much, not too little, just right. She had every one of the female contrasts, hard and soft, broad, and narrow, tiny, and large, smooth, and slightly hairy. At that moment, the tips of her beautiful breasts rose and fell like the Pacific in a typhoon. And she was clearly experiencing a transcendingly lustful moment.

I was shucking my clothing as she gracefully assumed the classic prone position, hips thrust forward and open, shoulders and palms lying flat on the bed, her nearest leg stretched out flat, toes pointed, the other bent in anticipation. Now she was gasping like it was a matter of life and death. I climbed between her invitingly spread legs and paused. The aim was to make her need it and want it.

She made an impatient sound as she grabbed and inserted me. The trip up her fiery passage triggered a loud groan of satisfaction. She had a hard body except those two exquisite little melons squished against my chest, and she was hot. It might have been a matter of just a couple of degrees, but her mouth and other orifice were blazing.

When I hit bottom, her eyes opened so wide that I could see the whites around them, and she shrieked. This woman definitely felt it. This was going to be a wild ride. She grabbed the back of my head and dragged me down for another blistering, open-mouthed kiss. Her incoherent noises as our tongues dueled were an auditory gauge of her arousal.

Then she wailed, slammed her arms and legs around me, and began to buck furiously while muttering in Spanish. Like most Anglos, I didn't have the Spanish tongue, but I could tell what she was saying by the emphasis on the words. The Spanish term I knew was "folar," which means fuck. That was every third word.

I was on top of her. But I had no sense that she was helpless underneath me. I had to use all of my strength just to corral her because she was throwing me around, writhing and bucking with frantic urgency. My beautiful partner was lost in the act.

We were both sweating from exertion on that hot night and her natural lubrication was so copious that I slid all over the place, trying to stay in her. She wasn't helping by her agitated movements. In fact, if you'll pardon the inappropriate analogy, it was like wrestling a greased pig.

Then she added one more novel sensation. She began to growl. It wasn't a grunt or a moan. Instead, it was a full-throated sound that would have been suitable coming from a timber wolf. That primitive noise raised some atavistic instinct, and I lost it.

I put my arms behind her knees and spread her wide. She growled deeper. I pounded on her so hard that sailors on the ships in the harbor must have heard the wet slapping. Finally, she let out an almost hypersonic shriek, and her hard body jackknifed beneath me. Her eyes were wide open, almost frightened, her mouth formed the most expansive "O," and her passage went nuts.

She put her hands against my shoulders and shoved me off with uncanny strength. Then she flopped around on the bed like a recently boated sailfish. Her face registered the distress you would see on a person experiencing excruciating pain -- or pleasure.

I hadn't gotten my cookies yet. So as soon as she stopped flopping, I opened her back up and entered her again. She lay there panting and exhibiting all the symptoms of a person in shock.

As I slid back into her, her hips made a furious up and down motion. She hyperventilated loudly and reflexively came again. I began violently pounding down the home stretch, and she started crying. It wasn't sadness. It was like she was blowing off emotional steam.

I finally crossed the finish line, and there were a couple of moments that I will never be able to recall. Margarita was making odd gurgling noises of satisfaction right next to my ear. At the same time, I was engaged in what felt like a series of life-threatening spasms.

I finally rolled off and lay next to her, arm on my forehead, trying to get my breathing back to normal. She looked like she had passed out, or she was maybe deep within herself, experiencing the same sense of unreality.

What WAS that!!?? Calling it sex wasn't close to correct. It was more like the first human mating... intensely primordial and feral. I looked at her, puzzled. She was just as confused. Finally, I said, sincerely and honestly, "I have never done anything like that in my life, have you?"

I know that was an ungentlemanly question, and I would not like the answer if she'd said, "Yes - daily." But I just had to find out.

She said wonderingly, "I don't know what came over me. I know what an orgasm feels like. But this was something different. It was like I had lost control of my soul. For a moment, I wasn't sure I would survive it. It absorbed my whole consciousness."

And that was how Margarita Santos-Marquez and Erik Grayson became an item around town. I'm not sure you would call it love. It was more like we shared the same superficial values and qualities. We were beautiful people who were wealthy, over-entitled, and wholly self-absorbed. Our duty was to show the less remarkable members of the species what social and cultural superiority looked like.

We went to all the best parties and did all the expected things. Margarita's stunning beauty was as much an accessory as my expensive clothing and hot sports car. It was proof that I was the top dog. I did the same thing for her. Having a rich and handsome lover with an impeccable family pedigree and a resultant sense of upper-class style made her the woman that every other woman wanted to be.

Better yet, we had elevated sex to an art form. Margarita was gorgeous and sensual, of course, but there were women in Manila who were close to her level of attractiveness. Nevertheless, Margarita had something that separated her from conventional beauties in the same way that famous movie stars elevate themselves above merely attractive women. She could give an erection to a stone idol.

That was because Margarita really "felt" it -- right down to the tips of her bright red painted toenails. So, she could surrender herself in a way that made a guy feel like he was the most powerful man in the universe. It gave her an innate eroticism that screamed WOMAN!!

Of course, in those ridiculously egotistical days, my pride was justification alone for spending all my time and money entertaining her. I was the envy of my peers. But something else was also beginning to happen - I was getting to know Margarita, and I liked her.

She had a role to play as a society femme-fatale and played it well. But there was an elemental freshness about her, a sense of humor and joi-de-vivre that made her a great companion for day drives out to Nagsasa Cove and Malabrigo Point or just sitting and talking on a hot Manila night on the porch of the mansion.

I wouldn't call it love. That's because I only had room in my heart for one person -- myself!! And I know that was also the case with Margarita. In effect, it was more like two selfish people who enjoyed spending time with each other. But we were constantly together, and that familiarity brought us closer in ways neither of us had experienced before.

We might have eventually married and lived the moneyed life of our parents and ancestors... social climbing, discreet affairs, and all. But then the Japanese arrived and changed that.

*****

Not that we'd have ever noticed it, but the world around us was evolving in meaningful ways. There was a war in Europe, and Japan was having its way with the Chinese. The United States was still sitting on the sidelines, but the question was... when would we be dealt into the game?

The papers said not to worry. Japan would never attack the Philippines because Manila Bay was the home of the mighty U.S. Asiatic Fleet -- a line of defense that our enemies could never cross. The problem was that Isoroku Yamamoto was a daring poker player, as he'd proven during his student days at Harvard, and he was about to deal us into the game.

It was another hot and humid night in early December. Margarita and I were attending a crazy-wild party at the Manila Hotel's Fiesta Pavilion. The 27th Bomb Group threw it. They had recently arrived from the U.S.

It was typical for the era, marked by raucous laughter, off-key singing, the tinkling of glasses, and squealing girls. Margarita and I were sitting under a cascade of scarlet bougainvillea in the Hotel's Bamboo Bar when I wittily remarked, "I hope they can fly better than they can sing."

I'm such a comedian. I just kill myself...

One of the women sitting with the aforementioned flyers sniffed and gave me a disdainful look. I said under my breath, "Stuck Up Bitch!!" Margarita dissolved in laughter. The party went on into the wee hours of the morning. I remember it well because it marked the last fragile moments of my happiness.

The war began promptly at 03:00 on December 8th. Since Manila was on the other side of the international date line, it was 08:00 Sunday, December 7th, at Pearl Harbor. But of course, we didn't know anything had happened because Margarita and I were fucking the night away.

The following day we were sipping coffee on the balcony, both terminally hung-over, when waves of planes swept low over Dewey Boulevard. They were beautiful and silver in the bright sunlight. We both thought they were American. Then we heard the anti-aircraft fire and the loud crunch of bombs coming from the direction of Clark Field.

I rushed to turn on our little Bakelite Crosley, only to find out that the U.S. was in a state of war with the Empire of Japan. That put a distinct damper on Monday morning's fun.

But I did one smart thing. I hustled down to the Bank of the Philippines in Intramuros and withdrew a sizable chunk of cash in gold double eagles and bills. It was pure instinct. But I figured the bank would run out of money if the Japanese invaded, and I wanted all the liquidity I could get.

As conditions evolved, it was the best thing I could have ever done. I stashed the money at the bottom of a fine leather Gladstone bag that I'd pretended to carry in my capacity as a not-quite doctor. The few actual instruments, wrappings, and medicines covered the fortune stuffed in the bottom.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Air raid sirens constantly sounded throughout the day, and anxious guards shot at any light source all night. The sound of one nervous volley would set off a spatter of firing all over the city.

Margarita was in a different situation than I was. She was a Filipino, not an American. Hence, she was not a prospective prisoner of war. Me? I was facing uncertainty as an enemy civilian... internment or even worse.

The city of Manila was declared open the day after Christmas, the bombing stopped, and the transport system went back to running. I was on the balcony watching the smoke rise over the Bataan peninsula. You could hear the constant roar of a battle across Manila Bay. I was wondering uneasily what would happen next.

Margarita had been away for a couple of weeks up in Makati, visiting her folks. She looked determined when she got back. I grabbed her and tried to kiss her. But she turned her head. That was a new element. I said, puzzled, "What's the matter with YOU?"

She looked at me sympathetically and uttered those four fatal words, "We need to talk." That didn't sound promising.

Margarita adopted the tone you would use to explain something to a child as she said, "It's been fun, Erik. But the Japanese are in charge now, and Papa told me they're planning to lock you, Anglos up, for the duration. It isn't going to be pleasant whatever they choose to do. So, I'm leaving."

Seriously??!! The little bitch was abandoning me. I suppose it shouldn't have been surprised since that's what I would have done to her if the shoe were on the other foot. But wait... there's more.

She took a deep breath and added, "I can stay here and take my chances with the Japanese, or I can leave for America today with Giles Pemberton."

I said, outraged, "Pemberton??!!"

She said, "Yes, him... he has a ticket on the last Pan Am Clipper out of the Philippines. It's taking off tonight from down in Santa Cruz, and I plan to be on it with him."

I was genuinely shocked. I thought that I was the center of Margarita's universe. I snarled, "Why you little slut!! Have you been fucking him?!"

She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, "Not yet, darling. When would I have had the time? But you aren't so utterly naive that you'd think I wouldn't have to give him some kind of reward for getting me out of this hopeless situation?"

I had no response. Naturally, I hated losing access to Margarita's beautiful body and, more importantly, losing out to Pemberton. But Miles could provide a way out of the current situation, and I couldn't.

That realization crushed me, but it was also my first step toward a tiny bit of self-awareness. I was finally getting the hint that the world didn't revolve around me - as counterintuitive as that might've seemed at the time.

Margarita added lightly, "We had fun, my dear. But you have nothing to offer me now. So, you simply must accept that."

I continued to stand there in utter shock. How could I BE so stupid!!

She added blithely, "I won't bother to kiss goodbye. I'll just say buena-suerte." And she turned and swept out of the room, looking exactly like a woman with a plane to catch.

Even though it was a profound blow to my self-esteem, Margarita's selling herself for a ticket on the Philippine Clipper never disillusioned me in the way you might expect. Naturally, the little whore would throw in her lot with whoever was more beneficial to her. I knew that from the beginning. Still, it WAS gratifying to think that Miles would eventually suffer the same fate because a snake is always a snake.

I'm ashamed to admit that I took Margarita's abandoning me rather hard. It might have been because I missed the scintillating sex. Maybe it was because she'd beaten me at my own game. Anyhow, I spent the next two days in an intoxicated haze, throwing recently emptied liquor bottles at the framed picture of the two of us at Tagaytay. The frustrating part was that I was too drunk to hit the picture.

I thought that that was the lowest point in my life. But of course, that just shows you how silly and naive I was back then. The Japanese entered Manila early the following day, Friday, January 2nd, 1942, less than one month after their sneak attack on Pearl Harbor ended any chance of the U.S. reinforcing us.

I was sitting upstairs in the Manila Hotel playing cards with Skipper and a few of our other American friends We'd been going at it all night when somebody poked their head in and shouted, "They're here!" We all rushed out to the street to view our conquerors.

The Japs came up the boulevard in the predawn glow, riding on bicycles and tiny motorcycles. Their little flags with the one red ball looked like children's pennants. They came without conversation, and in tight order, the ridiculous pop-popping of their one-cylinder engines rang loud in the silent city.

They were short and stocky, strutting along with closed cruel looks. As an Anglo, I had never really paid attention to the Asians around me. The sight of the endless waves of alien faces, people who were not like me, was chilling.

A Japanese officer detached himself from the marching horde and approached those of us gathered in front of the Hotel. He was a little banty rooster wearing a long sword that looked like it was always in peril of tripping him. He stopped, surveyed us with contempt, and announced in perfect English, "All American, British, and Dutch citizens will remain in this place until they are registered."

He gestured, and four nondescript little fellows with bayonet-tipped rifles detached themselves from the marching waves and began to poke at us to drive us indoors. Skipper, who was one of the more entitled of our elite set, objected strenuously, "I say, old man, you can't do this to us. We're American citizens."

The officer growled a word in Japanese, and one of the soldiers drove his bayonet into Skipper's midsection. Skipper got an astonished look on his fat face, gurgled something, and blood erupted from his mouth. Then, my witty and decadent friend simply crumpled and lay there... jolly and full of life one minute - dead meat the next. It was my introduction to the horrors of war.

I was shocked. That could easily have been me. The officer nudged Skipper's body with his toe and said, "Dispose of this." The fact that he said it in English hammered the point home. This was an alarming new reality.

We weren't considered prisoners of war, like the poor souls who marched seventy miles from their surrender on Bataan to Camp O'Donnell. But we were citizens of the countries that the Japanese were at war with. Thus, we were potential security risks. As a result, they wanted to put us in one place to keep an eye on us.

Japan's easy conquest of Manila had surprised everyone, including the Japs. Now that they were our masters, their immediate problem was where to house us. It had to be a site big enough to hold every American, British, and every other Allied resident of Luzon, which was upwards of seven thousand folks.

Over the next several days, the occupying troops worked to collect the people they termed "enemy aliens." We were a diverse bunch - business executives, mining engineers, bankers, plantation owners, seamen, waiters, beachcombers, prostitutes, and even old-timers from the Spanish American War.

Once we'd all been cataloged and tagged, they transported us across the Pasig to intern us. The Japanese called the site the "Santo Tomas Internment Camp," also known as the "Manila Internment Camp." It was, in reality, the sixty-acre campus of the University of Santo Tomas. That name still evokes nightmares.

*******

It was nearly a hundred degrees on a sunny day in Manila when my group stumbled through the front gate of the walled compound. This would be our new home for the near future. A surprisingly small number of Japanese guards escorted us. It's hard to be heroic when you're beaten for any indiscretion. Added to the shock of our sudden reversal of fortune, it made us all quite docile.

About four thousand persons would eventually live in Santo Tomas. But the people from the Manila hotel were among the earliest to arrive. So, the campus was still relatively open and pleasant. But more importantly, I got my pick of living quarters in the university's classroom buildings.

I staked out a nice corner spot near a window on the third floor. It gave me a slight breeze. The average space allotted for internees was twenty square feet, but I appropriated closer to twenty-five. I waited until it was pitch black the first night to cut a hidey-hole through the plaster behind my things. Then I spent the entire night stashing coins and bills between the walls.